Strong

Every detail of the castle seemed to watch you in silence. The volcanic stone walls barely reflected the flickering torchlight, casting shadows that stretched across the floor like claws. The air held the familiar scent of sulfur and sea, carried by the wind that slipped through the narrow windows overlooking the cliffs. From time to time, the distant roar of a dragon reverberated through the very rock of the castle, making the ground tremble beneath your boots. You continued walking without haste, seeking only to pass unnoticed among the multitude of unfamiliar faces, many of whom shared the same silver hair and violet eyes that bore witness to an ancient blood, though diluted by time.

That was precisely your intent, to blend into the crowd until the moment of the trial, without drawing unnecessary attention or feeding expectations. No one knew what fate awaited them in the Dragonpit, and you were no different from the others. And yet, fate seemed to have decided otherwise.

When Grey Ghost emerged from the shadows of his cave, the murmur ceased almost instantly. The dragon observed everyone present with his large pale eyes, maintaining the natural wariness that had earned him a reputation as a shy and solitary creature. For long moments, no one dared move. Then you stepped forward, slowly, without sudden gestures, allowing him to decide the distance between you. You felt the warmth of his breath brush your face as his snout approached your hand. When your fingers touched his cold, smooth scales, Grey Ghost did not pull away. On the contrary, he slowly extended his neck and lowered himself before you, offering you his back. Around you fell a silence so deep it seemed unreal. Every face turned in your direction, every gaze fixed on the scene, unable to comprehend what was happening.

Grey Ghost had always been considered the most elusive of the dragons of Dragonstone. He avoided men, shunned even the company of his own kind, and rarely allowed himself to be seen for long. No one had ever managed to get close enough to touch his scales, let alone mount his back. And yet that day he recognized you as if he had been waiting for you his entire life. There were no chains, no commands spoken in High Valyrian, no displays of force, only a silent recognition between dragon and rider. That gesture alone was enough to dispel all doubt. From that moment on, you were no longer just one of the many dragonseeds who had come to the castle. You had become the rider of Grey Ghost.

Thus, on that very same day, you were officially welcomed by Queen Rhaenyra into her ranks. The news spread through the castle with surprising speed, passing from mouth to mouth among soldiers, servants, and knights. Some offered you sincere smiles, others simply observed you with respect, while a few did not even try to hide a hint of envy. To be chosen by a dragon was a privilege that no man or woman outside the royal family could have even dreamed of. It was the dragon who chose, and that choice could be contested by no one.

Among all the looks you soon learned to distinguish in the days that followed, there was one that seemed to seek you out persistently, even when you would have preferred to go unnoticed. It lacked the naive curiosity of the servants and the veiled suspicion of the lords gathered in the queen's council. It was a hard, stern gaze, almost irritated by your mere presence, as though every time your paths crossed you reminded him of something he would rather forget.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon observed every new dragonseed with a coldness that was difficult to ignore. Hugh received reprimands for his arrogance, Ulf was constantly called out for his loose tongue and inability to respect court etiquette. You, on the other hand, gave him no reason to criticize you openly. You behaved with respect, followed orders without complaint, and never sought to draw attention to yourself. And yet, every time the prince met your gaze, his expression seemed to stiffen ever so slightly.

You were, after all, a woman, and Jacaerys never addressed you with a direct insult, never raised his voice to you, and certainly never laid a hand on you. His conduct remained impeccable by the standards of the court. And yet, a simple greeting was enough for him to respond with a barely perceptible nod or with a silence so heavy it bordered on offense. At times his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, with an intensity capable of making you tense without understanding why. Anyone observing from the outside would probably have thought the prince merely ignored you. You, however, came to believe the exact opposite. No one observed with such consistency something that truly meant nothing to them.

More than once you searched for an explanation for that apparent hostility. You wondered if, without realizing it, you had spoken out of turn during one of the councils or training sessions. You asked yourself whether Grey Ghost might have awakened an unpleasant memory in the prince, or whether the simple fact that such a reclusive dragon had chosen you represented, in his eyes, something difficult to accept. Every hypothesis seemed as plausible as the next, yet none found confirmation. Jacaerys remained as inscrutable as the ancient stone statues that adorned the castle. In the end, you gave up searching for answers no one seemed willing to offer. If the prince truly had a reason to look at you that way, it would be up to him to reveal it, not for you to guess.

So you simply continued to live your days, following the discipline you had imposed upon yourself from the moment you arrived at Dragonstone. Each morning, when the wind from the Narrow Sea swept through the courtyard and made the black and red banners of House Targaryen billow, you trained with Baela. The princess fought with remarkable speed, alternating precise thrusts with movements so fluid they seemed like a dance. Every bout forced you to improve, to correct the position of your feet, to make each strike more solid. The sound of wood against steel blended with the distant calls of dragons soaring above the cliffs and the crash of waves against the rocks. At the end of each training session, your arms were heavy and your fingers sore from the constant grip on your sword hilt, yet a genuine smile almost always appeared on your face without you noticing. Baela had a way of turning every fight into an engaging challenge, and as the days passed you found yourself appreciating her company more and more.

When training ended, you devoted long hours to studying High Valyrian. You sat in the quietest rooms of the castle, far from the bustle of soldiers and the murmur of the court, repeating words and phrases until your tongue finally began to move with ease. At times you corrected your pronunciation again and again, refusing to settle for approximation. You understood the importance of that language for one who rode a dragon, and you were not willing to appear unprepared.

On quieter afternoons, when the sky above Dragonstone was covered in gray clouds and the rain forced many to remain inside the castle, you sought refuge in the library. There, time seemed to pass more slowly. Yellowed parchments, worn maps, and leather-bound volumes filled shelves so old they seemed part of the very walls. The scent of paper, dust, and aged wood mingled with the salty air drifting through the half-open windows. Within those pages, you found a peace the rest of the castle rarely offered, as though the weight of the coming war remained, at least for a few hours, shut out from that silent room.

Without your knowledge, the prince was present in nearly every one of those moments that had come to shape your days.

He did not seek your company, nor did he ever find a pretext to speak to you, and yet he always ended up wherever, by chance or not, you happened to be. At times he lingered on the upper gallery overlooking the inner courtyard, a vantage point from which it was possible to observe every training session without being easily noticed. He would lean against the stone balustrade, his face turned slightly toward a guard with whom he pretended to discuss shifts, patrols, or military matters, but his eyes constantly betrayed the act.

Every time your sword crossed with Baela's, his gaze followed the clash of blades, studying the way you shifted your weight, how you corrected the position of your feet after a mistake, how stubbornly you rose each time the princess managed to throw you off balance. He watched you take the blows without complaint, wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, and immediately resume your guard, as though fatigue were nothing more than an inevitable companion to be embraced with discipline. There was no arrogance in your movements, nor any desire for display. That, more than he was willing to admit, seemed to unsettle him.

At other times, it was the library that made him a silent observer of your days. He would enter with one or two volumes tucked under his arm, walking slowly through the narrow aisles between shelves filled with parchments and manuscripts, pretending to search for a particular text. The scent of worn leather, candle wax, and aged paper filled the air, while the silence of the hall was broken only by the rustle of turning pages and the quiet crackle of the fire in the hearth. You, seated by a window through which a pale light filtered, seemed entirely absorbed in the study of High Valyrian. Your fingers traced the faded lines of ink, while your lips moved softly, repeating words, shaping their pronunciation with patient care. At times you would pause, your brow furrowing slightly at a more difficult passage, only to begin again from the start, without showing the slightest sign of frustration.

Jacaerys always continued on his way when he passed by your table, yet he never failed to turn his head slightly in your direction when he was certain you were not looking. It was a gesture as quick as it was unintentional, and yet it repeated itself with a consistency even he could no longer ignore.

Then there were the simplest moments, the ones no one would have thought worth noticing. He saw you laugh with Baela after a particularly grueling training session, when both of you, still breathless, let your swords fall and allowed yourselves a brief moment of rest seated on the low wall of the courtyard. He watched you shake your head at one of the princess's provocations, or smile faintly when you finally managed to understand a difficult passage during your studies. He even saw you climb toward the highest terraces of the castle, those from which Grey Ghost would take flight over the Narrow Sea. From a distance, your figure appeared small against the vastness of the sky, your cloak whipped fiercely by the salt-laden gusts rising from the cliffs, while the dragon emerged slowly from the mist, silent as a specter. Even then, the prince remained still, watching, unable to turn away before both dragon and rider vanished beyond the horizon.

Each time, it was the same. His chest would seem to tighten, a subtle yet persistent tension gripping his stomach and making his breathing heavier. He tried more than once to convince himself it was nothing but irritation. It had to be. It could be nothing else. You represented what he, despite the blood that ran through his veins and the title he bore, would never possess. Every time his gaze fell upon you, that feeling returned, as relentless as the sea crashing against the island's rocks. He tried to smother it with duty, with council obligations, with the study of military strategies and maps, but the mere glimpse of you from afar was enough for everything to resurface with the same force.

Your hair fell over your shoulders like threads of silver, reflecting the light of the sun or the colder glow of the moon. When the wind lifted it, it seemed almost to merge with the clouds that wrapped around the tall towers of Dragonstone. Your eyes were pale, carrying that violet hue so often celebrated in the chronicles of the Targaryens. They were the same eyes described in tales of Aegon the Conqueror, of Visenya, of Rhaenys, of the ancient lords of Valyria who had ruled the world upon the backs of dragons. You embodied that image effortlessly, as though time itself had chosen to bring back a fragment of that ancient lineage through your very existence. No one, looking at you, would ever doubt your heritage.

He, on the other hand, knew all too well the weight of a gaze.

He was the prince of Dragonstone. The heir chosen by Queen Rhaenyra. The one who would one day claim the Iron Throne, if the gods and war granted him the time. And yet all of that seemed to fade every time someone looked upon his face. It was enough to see his dark hair, so unlike the silver of the Targaryens, or those brown eyes that bore nothing of ancient Valyria, for doubt to once again find the courage to rise to people's lips. No one dared to speak that word openly before him, at least not at court, but Jacaerys had learned as a child that silence could wound as deeply as an insult. Bastard. A short word, yet one capable of following him all his life like a shadow he would never escape.

No crown would ever change the color of his hair. No dragon would transform his eyes into those the world expected of a Targaryen. Not even the oath of a thousand lords would be enough to erase what his enemies continued to consider undeniable proof of his birth. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he studied the history of his house, how relentlessly he trained with the sword or spent entire nights beside the queen's councilors discussing war and politics, there would always be someone ready to remind him that his face told a different story from the one the realm was meant to accept. It was an old wound, long since scarred over only in appearance, that kept reopening each time the past found a new way to stand before his eyes.

And you had become one of those ways.

You had possessed since birth what he had spent an entire lifetime trying to make up for through duty, sacrifice, and merit. No one would ever question the blood that ran in your veins. No one would ever lower their voice while looking at your face to wonder who your father truly was. It was enough for you simply to exist for the world to see a daughter of ancient Valyria. He, on the other hand, had been forced to build his legitimacy day by day, like a man compelled to raise a castle stone by stone while knowing that someone would try to tear it down all the same. Perhaps that was why he continued to look at you more than he should. Because, without meaning to, you had become the reflection of everything that had been denied to him before he was even born.

One afternoon, the sky above Dragonstone turned a pale, almost milky blue, veiled by thin streaks of cloud that let through a soft, gentle light. The air still held the chill carried by the sea, and the wind brought with it to the gardens the salty scent of waves breaking against the high cliffs. Those gardens did not possess the richness of those in King's Landing, nor the abundance of the strongholds of the Reach. They were small, sheltered by walls of volcanic stone and shaped with patience to wrest a few patches of green from a harsh island battered by storms. Few flowers managed to grow in that dark soil, yet those that survived seemed to do so with stubborn resilience, bending to the wind without ever breaking.

You walked slowly along the gravel path, letting the rhythmic sound of the waves accompany the thread of your thoughts. You had no particular destination. You simply followed the path winding between the flowerbeds, breathing deeply that sharp air that tasted of sea and rain. At last, you stopped before a small cluster of flowers, their pale petals seeming almost out of place on that island of stone and ash. You bent down naturally, studying their delicate form as though you wished to understand every detail. Your fingers brushed lightly against one of the slender stems without bending it, tracing its outline. At that very moment, a cloud gave way to the sun, and a blade of golden light poured over you, igniting silvery reflections in your hair.

A stronger breeze from the sea lifted a few loose strands, carrying them across your face. You smiled faintly, with that unguarded expression that appeared only when you believed yourself entirely alone, brushing them behind your ear with a slow, absent gesture. Then, with great care, you picked a small flower that had already bloomed, brought it close to your face, and breathed in its faint fragrance, unaware that, from one of the loggias overlooking the gardens, a pair of chestnut colored eyes had remained fixed on you far longer than their owner would ever have admitted.

Anyone watching you from afar would have seen only a young woman gathered in the quiet of a garden, intent on appreciating the fragile beauty of a flower that had bloomed against all odds on an island of stone and fire. Nothing in that scene would have drawn more than a passing glance. Any lady might have paused in the same way, bent with the same delicacy, breathed in the scent of a flower before continuing on her way. It was a simple image, almost insignificant, and for that very reason it would have escaped the notice of most. Jacaerys, however, saw far more.

His eyes did not linger on the flower, nor on the garden or the light filtering through the clouds. They settled only on you, and remained there with a constancy he himself could not explain. He noticed the way your fingers brushed the petals without tearing them, as though you feared breaking something so fragile. He noticed the calm with which you breathed in the salty air, the slight movement of your shoulders, and that quiet serenity that seemed to belong to you. In that moment, you were not the rider of Grey Ghost, nor one of the new dragonseeds welcomed by the queen. You were simply the woman who, without intending to, had awakened in him feelings he would have preferred never to know.

He remained motionless beneath the garden's entrance arch for long moments, unaware of time continuing to pass. He seemed to hear and see nothing. His hands hung relaxed at his sides, his face impassive as he had been taught since childhood, yet within him every thought seemed to have come to a halt. It happened to him rarely. He had grown up learning to observe every detail, to anticipate his opponents' moves, to reflect before speaking, and to maintain control over his emotions at all times. And yet it was enough to find you there, unaware of his presence, for that discipline, built over years of study and duty, to suddenly show a crack.

There was nothing studied in your movements. No gesture seemed crafted to draw anyone's attention. You did not tilt your head as many court ladies did when they knew they were being watched, nor did you let your lashes blink an excessive amount of times. Every movement seemed to arise with the same natural ease as the wind passing through that garden. You bent because you wished to observe a flower, you smiled because the moment genuinely stirred something within you, you breathed deeply because you enjoyed the sea air.

Jacaerys had spent his entire life surrounded by men and women who weighed every word and every gesture, who turned even a smile into a political instrument. You, on the other hand, seemed incapable of pretending. Even when you tried to go unnoticed, you ended up drawing his attention.

The smile that appeared on your face was small, barely there. Your lips curved, your eyes softened almost imperceptibly, and your expression, until a moment before composed in the quiet focus with which you had been observing that small flower, seemed to brighten. It was not the open, carefree smile he had sometimes seen during your training with Baela, when one of the princess's provocations finally managed to make you laugh. This was something much smaller, more fragile, born spontaneously and destined to vanish within moments. It was precisely that fleeting nature that made it impossible to ignore. For an instant, Jacaerys had the distinct impression that the entire garden had changed along with your expression. The golden light of the afternoon seemed to fall more gently upon your face, the wind stirred the silvery strands of your hair, and even the sound of the sea felt more distant.

You are more beautiful than you should be, he thought with irritation, more beautiful than many of the ladies he had known at court. More beautiful than the young noblewomen who had tried to capture his attention during feasts.

The realization struck him with the force of a blow. His jaw tightened at once as an inexplicable irritation spread through his chest. How could that have been the first thought that came to his mind? Why did his gaze linger on such insignificant details? Why did he remember the shade of the color of your eyes, the way you smiled, or how the wind lifted your hair, instead of focusing on matters of far greater importance? He was the Prince of Dragonstone. He was the queen's heir. Every day of his life should have been consumed by the war drawing ever closer, not by a girl who paused to smell a flower.

He drew in a slow breath, trying to regain the control that seemed to have slipped from him without warning. Perhaps this was the punishment the gods had chosen for him. All his life he had borne the weight of accusations, whispers, and suspicions about a birth he had never had the power to choose. He had learned to live with the judgment of others, with their looks, and with that word murmured behind his back since childhood. Was that not enough? Did the gods truly need to torment him with thoughts as absurd as they were unwelcome? Why you? Why the very woman who reminded him most of everything he would never be? Why had the gods decided that his eyes should continue to seek you even when every rational part of him commanded him to look elsewhere? He inhaled once more and composed his face into its usual stern expression, the one that had become a second skin over the years. No one must suspect the turmoil stirring within his chest.

His boots sank slightly into the gravel path, producing a soft sound, yet enough to break the silence of the garden. The small stones crunched under the weight of his step, and you reacted at once. You lifted your head naturally, letting the flower slip slowly from your fingers back among the others. For a moment your eyes met, then, as soon as you recognized the prince, you straightened with that composure that now seemed to define your every gesture. Your hands folded neatly before you, your head inclined in a proper bow, and your voice broke the silence with that calm that never seemed to leave you. "My prince."

Jacaerys stopped at your side without replying. Following a habit learned from watching Daemon during the years they had trained together, he placed both hands upon the hilt of his sword. The gesture, now almost instinctive, gave him a sense of steadiness, as though the mere contact with the weapon reminded him of who he was and the role he was meant to fulfill. For a few moments he kept his gaze fixed on the sea, following the slow crash of waves against the rocks, for he found it infinitely easier to look at the horizon than to meet your eyes directly.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out steady, controlled, devoid of any inflection that might betray what had crossed his mind only moments before. "My mother has summoned you to the Painted Table."

You lifted your head slightly, nodding with quiet acknowledgment. You did not seem surprised by the news, nor intimidated by the queen's summons. "Thank you for informing me, my prince." Your voice was gentle, measured, without hesitation. There was no attempt to prolong the conversation beyond what was necessary, no unnecessary question, no polite smile. It was the respectful tone one reserved for a prince, and nothing more.

Jacaerys hated it.

For a brief moment, however, you seemed on the verge of adding something. Your lips parted slightly, your gaze lifting slowly to his face. Jacaerys had the faint impression that you were searching for the courage to voice a question you had held back for too long, perhaps about his constant coldness, perhaps about the reason for those glances he continued to cast your way without ever offering an explanation. He waited without realizing it, hanging from your lips. But the moment faded before it could take shape in words. Whatever thought had brushed your mind, you chose to let it die there. You closed your mouth again, gave a faint shake of your head as though reproaching yourself for the hesitation, and lowered your gaze once more.

Then you moved past him with quick steps, brushing lightly against him as you resumed the path leading back toward the castle. Your cloak swayed softly behind you, carried by the sea breeze, while a faint trace of your scent lingered in the air for a moment. You did not look back even once. You kept walking with the same calm with which you had entered the garden, leaving him standing motionless behind you.

Jacaerys followed your figure with his eyes until it disappeared beyond the stone arch that marked the entrance to the castle. Only then did he slowly release the breath he had, without noticing, held for most of the encounter. His fingers tightened slightly on the hilt of his sword as his jaw hardened once more. It irritated him that you avoided his gaze with such determination, as though his presence were something to be endured only for as long as strictly necessary. And more than anything, it angered him that inexplicable desire that continued to grow within him, the desire to force you, at least once, to look him in the eyes. Not with the respect owed to a prince, not with the caution reserved for a superior, but the way one looks at a man.

The days that followed passed slowly. The island continued to live according to the unchanging rhythm of the tides crashing against the cliffs, the salt-laden wind that swept endlessly across the battlements, and the beating wings of dragons that, at irregular intervals, darkened the sun as they flew over the castle. The sentinels changed shifts at the same hours, the blacksmiths continued their work in the forges heated by the mountain's fire, the servants moved through the corridors with the same discreet steps, and the queen carried on her war councils without granting herself a moment of rest. To an outside observer, nothing seemed different from the day before. And yet, beneath that reassuring semblance of normality, something had changed. It was a subtle sensation, almost imperceptible, like the moment when the wind shifts direction before the sea begins to ripple. No one spoke of it. No one seemed to notice. Only Jacaerys came to feel its weight each time he crossed those same halls that, until a few days earlier, had seemed unchanged for as long as memory could reach.

You were simply no longer there.

Your absence crept slowly into his days, at first as a negligible detail, then as something impossible to ignore. You no longer appeared in the long corridors, where he would sometimes pass you as you held a few volumes against your chest or walked calmly through torchlit galleries. You were not in the library, seated by the windows overlooking the Narrow Sea, where you used to spend hours surrounded by timeworn chronicles and manuscripts in High Valyrian, so absorbed in study that you forgot even the passing of time. Not even the courtyard echoed anymore with the sound of your sword crossing with Baela's, accompanied by the brief laughter that sometimes escaped you after a particularly intense clash. Even the upper terraces, from which Grey Ghost would take flight among the currents rising from the cliffs, now appeared suddenly deserted. It was as though someone had erased every trace of your presence from the castle without leaving any explanation, turning you into nothing more than a memory.

To anyone else, that absence would have gone unnoticed. Dragonstone housed dozens of knights, ladies, servants, advisors, and soldiers. Every day someone left, someone arrived, and someone else remained occupied with duties that kept them out of sight. One less person within those walls would hardly have raised any questions. For Jacaerys, however, your absence became a detail so persistent that it crept into his thoughts even when he tried to ignore it. On the first day, he paid it little mind. He simply thought your paths had not crossed. After all, the castle was vast, and the demands of war now consumed most of his time. On the second day, however, he began to notice the void left by your presence in the places you had made your own. He even found himself glancing toward the table in the library where you used to sit, inevitably finding it empty. By the third day, that simple observation had already turned into a question that, however absurd, kept returning insistently to his mind.

What if you were avoiding him?

The thought struck him as so senseless that it irritated him immediately. Why would you avoid him? There had never been any argument between you, no quarrel, no openly spoken harsh words. True, his behavior had never been particularly warm. He was well aware of that. He had maintained a constant distance, had greeted your every salutation with coldness, and had allowed his gaze to speak far more than the few words you had exchanged. But all of that had always seemed sufficient to keep the relationship purely formal. He then thought back to your last encounter in the gardens. He saw again the moment when you let that small flower fall among the others, your composed bow, the kindness with which you had thanked him. Above all, he remembered that hesitation. For a moment, you had seemed as though you wanted to say something, perhaps a question, perhaps a remark long held back. Then you had changed your mind. You had lowered your gaze, chosen silence, and walked away without looking back. The more he tried to dismiss that memory, the more it returned.

Perhaps you had truly misinterpreted his coldness. Perhaps you had decided that the prince of Dragonstone preferred to have nothing to do with you. It was a conclusion that, observing his own behavior, he himself might have found reasonable. If that were the case, the simplest choice for you would have been to keep your distance, limit yourself to strictly necessary interactions, and spare yourself the discomfort of crossing paths with someone who seemed to greet your presence with a stiff expression. That thought should have left him completely indifferent. Indeed, it should even have been a convenient solution. If you had truly stopped seeking his company, he would have no reason to question his own behavior or to struggle against those emotions that kept surprising him. And yet, instead of relief, he felt an inexplicable irritation rise within him. A discomfort difficult to ignore, directed as much toward you as toward himself.

The answer came a few days later.

The small council was gathered around the Painted Table. The carved surface of Aegon the Conqueror's Westeros reflected the light of the many candles, while lords, maesters, and commanders discussed the progress of the war, troop movements, and the ravens that had arrived during the night. Jacaerys listened in silence, speaking only when asked for his opinion. It was in the middle of a conversation regarding the distribution of dragonriders that one of the councillors made a brief reference to you. No one seemed to attach particular importance to the news. The queen had entrusted you with a mission a few days earlier. You had departed on Grey Ghost, and the success of your task depended largely on the discretion with which it would be carried out. For that reason, neither the destination nor the purpose of the mission had been disclosed. The matter was dismissed within moments, and the discussion immediately returned to issues deemed more urgent.

Jacaerys remained motionless for the rest of the meeting. He continued to nod when addressed, offered his opinions on military strategies with his usual clarity, and did not allow a single emotion to show on his face. Only he, however, noticed the faint sense of relief that had passed through his chest the moment he learned the truth. You were not avoiding him. You had not chosen to vanish from his sight. You were simply away, engaged in serving the queen as any dragonrider would. That simple awareness was enough, at least for a moment, to ease the weight that had been pressing on him in recent days.

It was only later, as he walked through one of the long corridors, that he realized something. His hands had remained clenched with such force during the meeting that deep reddish marks had been left in his palms. He slowly opened his fingers, observing the imprints his nails had carved into his skin, and a flicker of irritation immediately crossed his thoughts. He forced a rational explanation upon himself before any other interpretation could take shape. He was not worried about you. No. There was no reason for him to be. You were one of the queen's dragonriders, one of the most valuable assets the Blacks possessed. Grey Ghost represented considerable strength, and its loss would inevitably weaken his mother's forces. That was the only reason for his tension. A commander had a duty to be concerned for his riders. Nothing more. He repeated it to himself several times, as though by repeating it he could make it true.

Nothing more.

From that day on, he made that sentence his conviction. He repeated it every morning while studying with the maesters. If his thoughts strayed to you, he cut them off immediately, reminding himself that he was merely assessing the strength of the queen's forces. He repeated it during training in the courtyard, when every strike of his sword felt heavier than the last and his focus slipped with unusual ease. Baela eventually halted their sparring more than once, watching him with growing perplexity and asking where the precision that usually defined his movements had gone. He dismissed every question with a brief answer, attributing his distraction to the fatigue accumulated over recent weeks. Even in the evening, when the castle fell quiet and only the sound of the sea rose through the open windows along with the steady breath of the wind, he continued to repeat the same explanation, as if it were an oath capable of silencing any doubt.

But the days kept passing, and no word came from you.

No raven reached Dragonstone bearing your name. No messenger reported having encountered you along the road. No sentinel announced having seen Grey Ghost flying over the cliffs with his characteristic silent glide. The sky above the island continued to be crossed by dragons, but none of the great shadows cast against the clouds belonged to yours. And, as the days passed, the silence you had left behind began to weigh far more heavily than Jacaerys was willing to admit, even to himself.

The days continued to flow with the same unchanging rhythm, until no one truly noticed the exact moment when they ceased to be merely days and became an entire week. Time, at Dragonstone, seemed to wear away differently than in the rest of the realm. The tides continued to rise and fall with the same regularity, dragons crossed the sky leaving behind immense shadows that raced along the black walls of the castle, and the wind never ceased to blow through the towers, carrying with it the acrid scent of sulfur and the sharper tang of salt. And yet, as the hours passed, the silence left by your departure slowly began to fill with words.

At first, they were only whispers exchanged between two servants while changing pitchers in the kitchens, or among guards sharing a watch along the walls. Then those voices began to spread, passing from mouth to mouth with the swiftness typical of fortresses besieged by uncertainty. Some claimed that the mission entrusted to you by the queen had ended in the worst possible way, and that you had fallen far from Dragonstone, dragging Grey Ghost into death with you. Others, more inclined toward suspicion than compassion, preferred to imagine a different story. They said that dragon's blood was not enough to guarantee loyalty, that power changed the hearts of men and women alike, and they insinuated that you had simply turned your back on the queen, fleeing with your dragon toward lands where no one could claim your obedience or force you to fight a war that was not yours.

Jacaerys heard those words only once, and it was more than enough. He was crossing one of the corridors leading to the western terraces when a knight, convinced he was far enough from prying ears, casually voiced the possibility of betrayal. The prince stopped without saying a word. He did not raise his voice, did not draw his sword, and did not utter a single rebuke. He simply turned slowly toward the man. The look he gave him was so cold it seemed carved from the same volcanic stone as the castle itself. There was a hardness in his eyes that was enough to extinguish any further words before they could be spoken. The knight visibly paled, lowered his head at once, and found no courage to add anything more. The corridor fell silent within moments, as if that conversation had never existed. Jacaerys resumed walking without turning back, but within himself he rejected that possibility with conviction.

He did not truly know you. He had spoken to you only a handful of times, always briefly. He did not know your story in detail, did not know what fears had accompanied you growing up, nor what dreams you held when the world fell silent. And yet there were things that did not need to be told to be understood. He had watched you long enough to recognize the discipline with which you faced every task entrusted to you, the seriousness with which you approached even the most exhausting training, and the respect you showed toward the queen and anyone above you in rank. But above all, he remembered the way your face changed whenever someone mentioned your family in King's Landing. It was not an obvious change. It was enough, a slight softening of your gaze, an almost imperceptible pause before answering, or a smile that appeared for the span of a breath. They were details so small that no one else would likely have noticed them. He had. For that reason, he dismissed without hesitation the idea that you might have chosen to disappear of your own will. No. You would never have abandoned the people you loved. If Grey Ghost had not yet returned to Dragonstone, it meant only one thing. Something had prevented you from doing so.

So he waited. He waited without realizing it, until that waiting became part of his days. He waited in the morning, when he stepped onto the highest terraces of the castle and the first light of dawn gilded the waves of the Narrow Sea. He waited in the afternoon, unconsciously interrupting the games with which he entertained his brothers whenever a shadow crossed the windows of the Painted Table. He waited above all in the evening, when the sky blazed with shades of red and orange and every distant shape seemed as though it might belong to a dragon returning to its home.

More than once, he found himself lifting his gaze toward the horizon for no particular reason, as if some part of him were constantly listening for a beat of wings that never came. Every time a dragon flew over the castle, his heart would quicken for a moment, only to slowly return to its rhythm when he recognized Vermithor, Syrax, or one of the others. Grey Ghost never appeared.

That afternoon, the sky was covered by an unbroken stretch of gray clouds, so low they seemed almost suspended above the sea. Jacaerys had taken refuge on the beach at the foot of the fortress, a place he often returned to when the weight of his thoughts became difficult to bear. Far from the council chambers, from the constant strategic discussions, and from the expectant gazes of the court, the ceaseless sound of the waves managed, at least in part, to bring order to his mind. He walked slowly along the shoreline, letting his boots sink slightly into the damp sand. The wind lashed his cloak against his legs and carried with it the sharp scent of salt and approaching rain. Before him, the sea seemed endless, stirred by dark waves that crashed violently against the black rocks of the coast. For a moment, he stood watching the horizon without thinking of anything, allowing the sound of the water to fill the silence.

A sudden shout shattered that fragile stillness. One of the guards raised an arm, pointing toward the sky, indicating something beyond the clouds. "Dragon!" The word was almost immediately swallowed by the wind, but it was enough.

Jacaerys lifted his gaze at once. At first, he could make out only a dark shape struggling to emerge through the clouds. It was too far away for him to recognize with certainty, but a few wingbeats were enough for the silhouette to become unmistakable. Grey Ghost.

His heart leapt violently in his chest before reason could form a coherent thought. For the briefest instant, relief struck him so suddenly it nearly stole his breath. He was alive. He was returning. You were returning.

Then the distance closed, and relief gave way to terror.

Grey Ghost was not flying as it should. One wing dipped noticeably with every beat, forcing it into constant corrections to keep from losing altitude. Its body wavered in the sky with unnatural, labored movements, as though each stroke of its wings tore through unbearable pain. The closer it came to the shore, the clearer its wounds became. Deep gashes tore across its flank, blackened by blood that had long since dried and crusted over its scales. In places, the armored hide had been completely stripped away, exposing the flesh beneath. A long wound ran along its neck to its shoulder, and even from that distance its breathing appeared strained.

The guards immediately began running toward the place where the dragon seemed intent on landing. Jacaerys did not wait for orders.

His legs moved before his mind had time to think. He ran along the beach, feeling the sand give beneath his boots and the wind tearing the breath from his chest. Around him, the sound of the waves vanished, replaced by the thunder of Grey Ghost's massive wings cutting through the air as it drew ever closer to the ground.

The dragon struck the earth with a force that made the beach tremble. Its claws sank into the sand, carving deep furrows, while its enormous body skidded forward for several meters before finally coming to a halt. Grey Ghost lowered its long neck slowly and let out a hoarse, broken sound, so far from the powerful roar it was known for that it resembled a lament. Its nostrils flared in an attempt to draw breath, its flank continuing to rise and fall with difficulty.

That was when your body slipped from the saddle. There was no attempt to hold onto the straps. No instinctive movement. You fell heavily onto the damp sand like a lifeless doll, your body completely limp.

For a moment, time seemed to stop.

Jacaerys reached you first. He dropped to his knees beside you so quickly he did not even notice the sand staining his clothes. His breath caught in his throat the moment his gaze fell upon your face. It was smeared with dried blood, dust, and salt. Strands of your silver hair clung to your cheeks, partly concealing small cuts scattered across your skin. Your clothing was torn in several places, and deep wounds crossed your arms, shoulders, and side, some still wet with blood. Your hands, worn from gripping the reins, were covered in abrasions. He called your name immediately, his voice one he scarcely recognized as his own. He searched for a response. A deeper breath. The flutter of your eyelids. Anything. When none came, he placed a hand upon your shoulder with extreme care, giving you the faintest shake, as though afraid you might break.

Nothing.

Fear surged through his chest, making him tremble. Without allowing himself another moment of hesitation, he slipped one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees, lifting you from the ground with a gentleness he would never have thought himself capable of. He held you tightly enough to keep you from slipping, yet every movement was measured, careful not to worsen wounds he could not yet count. You felt impossibly light in his arms, too light, and that sensation unsettled him more than the blood staining your clothes.

He rose to his feet and began running toward the castle without slowing once. He crossed the main courtyard, completely ignoring the stares of soldiers, servants, and nobles who turned as he passed. Some stepped aside immediately at the sight of your condition; others remained frozen, unable to comprehend what was happening. Jacaerys did not care. In that moment, there was only the ragged sound of his own breathing, the weight of your body pressed against his chest, and the hope that it was not too late. When he finally reached the fortress entrance, his voice rang through the stone halls with a force that silenced all other conversation.

"The maesters!" he shouted, not breaking stride. For the first time, desperation openly fractured the usual steadiness of his tone. "At once!"

The doors to your chamber burst open with such force that they struck the stone wall, making the iron hinges shudder. Jacaerys crossed the threshold without slowing, still holding you in his arms as behind him the corridor filled with hurried footsteps, urgent orders, and the rustle of the maesters' long robes as they gathered at the sound of his cry.

He laid you down with the utmost care upon the bed, as though even the softness of the mattress might cause you further pain. Only when he was certain your body was supported by the cushions did he step back, finally allowing the healers room to work. Within moments, the room, until then silent, transformed into a place of ordered urgency.

Some servants brought basins of boiling water, from which thick steam rose to veil the air. Others arranged clean bandages, linen cloths, and carefully sterilized iron instruments on the table beside the bed. The acrid scent of blood quickly mingled with the sharp smell of crushed medicinal herbs, lavender, artemisia, and the alcohol used to cleanse the wounds. Needle and thread were prepared with practiced hands, while the maesters bent over you, exchanging quick instructions, layering one command over another until a constant murmur filled the room. Your wounds were washed one by one, the dried blood patiently loosened by warm water, the lacerations examined carefully before being stitched. At times, one of the healers would shake their head slightly at the depth of a cut, but no one wasted time on unnecessary words. They simply kept working.

Jacaerys never left the room. He could have waited outside like anyone else, entrusting your fate to the skilled hands of the maesters and returning to the duties that called him elsewhere. No one would have found such a choice unusual. And yet he remained, unmoving, almost oblivious to the presence of anyone else. He stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back in an attempt to maintain, at least in appearance, the composure expected of him. From that position, he could see the sea churning beyond the castle walls, the waves crashing violently against the black rocks, and the gray sky slowly giving way to sunset. He saw none of it.

His eyes kept returning to the bed, following every movement of the healers, every fresh bandage, every stain of blood replaced with clean linen. More than once, he realized he had been holding his breath without noticing. Each time, he forced himself to inhale slowly, reminding himself that this concern was not truly about you. He repeated it stubbornly, as though it were a formula capable of restoring order to his thoughts. You were one of the queen's dragonriders. The war was being fought thanks to men and women like you. To lose Grey Ghost would mean depriving the Blacks of one of their most valuable weapons. That was all that unsettled him. It was the fate of the realm weighing on his chest. Duty, nothing more. And yet, every time your face tensed faintly as a wound was treated, that explanation seemed suddenly far less convincing.

Time seemed to slow within the room. No one spoke more than necessary. Only the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth could be heard, along with the faint clinking of metal instruments and the sound of bandages being slowly unrolled. At last, when the final wound had been treated and the last stitches completed, the eldest of the maesters straightened with visible exhaustion. His hands were still stained with blood despite repeated washings. After studying your face for a moment, he gently placed two fingers against your wrist, as if seeking further confirmation. Only then did he turn toward the prince. In a calm voice, he explained that you had lost a considerable amount of blood and that your body had endured a strain that might have killed anyone else. "The wounds are deep, but none appeared to have reached any vital organs. If infection did not set in and if the gods showed mercy, she will recover. It would require time, rest, and great patience, my prince."

Jacaerys listened without interrupting, merely nodding once. It was a small gesture, yet the slight drop of his shoulders betrayed a relief he did not allow himself to acknowledge. "I understand."

When the last Maesters left the room, silence returned to fill every corner. The door closed slowly behind them, and suddenly it was only the two of you. The fire continued to burn in the hearth, spreading a gentle warmth, while the orange light of the flames cast uneven shadows across the stone walls. Jacaerys remained still for a moment, as if uncertain what to do, then slowly dragged a chair beside the bed and sat down. He rested his forearms on his legs, clasping his hands so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He continued to watch you without a word. Your face, finally cleansed of blood, appeared paler than usual. Bruises were already darkening along your jaw and beneath your cheekbone, while bandages wrapped your shoulders and arms almost entirely. Your breathing was slow and steady, yet so faint that more than once he found himself checking to be sure your chest was truly rising.

Time passed. Perhaps a few minutes, perhaps an hour, during which Jacaerys never took his eyes off you. Then it happened.

The fingers of your hand moved faintly above the covers. A movement so slight it might have seemed an illusion if the prince had not been watching you so intently. Your eyelids trembled weakly, as if the light of the fire had suddenly become too bright, and after a moment they lifted with visible effort. Your gaze was still clouded by exhaustion and pain, unable to focus immediately on what surrounded you. Jacaerys rose so quickly that the chair scraped sharply against the floor. In two strides he was at your side. "Easy." His voice, unexpectedly, came out much softer than he intended. There was none of the usual hardness that always accompanied his tone when he spoke to you.

When you instinctively tried to sit up, a grimace crossed your face at once. Pain seemed to stiffen every muscle in your body, forcing you to stop. Jacaerys reacted before you could fall back. One hand slipped behind your shoulders, the other gently supported your arm, helping you slowly sit upright against the cushions. Every movement was careful, as though he feared applying too much pressure to your still-fresh wounds. He did not withdraw his hands until he was certain you could keep your balance on your own. Only then did he step back half a pace, though he continued to watch you with that severe expression that seemed to return to his face almost by instinct.

A long, motionless silence fell between you. You breathed slowly, trying to adjust to the pain that every movement seemed to awaken. He remained standing beside the bed, unable to find a position that felt natural. In the end, it was Jacaerys who broke the quiet. "What happened?" he asked. He had tried to keep his voice calm, but the words came out harsher than intended, as though tempered by the anxiety that had built over those long days of waiting.

You slowly bit your lower lip as you studied his face. For a moment, you seemed to search his expression, as if trying to understand which of the many emotions hidden behind that mask of severity was the true one. Then you lowered your gaze slightly. "I did not know you cared."

Those words struck him more than he would have admitted. The prince remained still for the span of a breath. Who does she think me of?

Then he rose so abruptly that the chair scraped loudly across the stone floor. He closed the distance between you in a few steps and stopped before you. Slowly, he lifted a hand toward your face in a spontaneous gesture. His fingers hovered a few inches from your cheek, where a deep bruise stood out sharply against your skin. For a long moment, he truly seemed on the verge of touching you, of confirming with his own hands that you were real, alive beneath his reach, warm and breathing. Then something held him back. His fingers twitched, slowly curling into themselves, closing into a fist as his arm fell back to his side. "An attack against you is an attack against the Crown." The words came out rigid, almost rehearsed, as if he had grasped desperately for the first explanation that could conceal everything else. Even to his own ears, they sounded hollow.

You let out a slow breath. "There was a fight." Your voice was low, strained. You closed your eyes for a moment, as if the mere act of returning to that memory was nearly as painful as the wounds still crossing your body.

His face remained still, his eyebrows twitching sightly. "With whom?"

"With Prince Aemond." The name fell into the room with the weight of a blade. Jacaerys did not move. Only his jaw tightened visibly. "I managed to escape only because Grey Ghost was faster. But he pursued me, for hours." You paused to catch your breath, lowering your gaze slowly to your bandaged hands. "I had to hide for days before he finally gave up. If I had returned at once, he would have followed us to Dragonstone."

Jacaerys continued to look at you in silence. In his mind, the image of Vhagar pursuing Grey Ghost through the sky formed with stark clarity. It was enough to know Aemond to understand that he would not have abandoned the chase until one of them had fallen. The wounds that covered your body told the rest of the story better than any explanation. After several long moments, the prince drew a slow breath, forcing the tension tightening his chest to remain hidden behind his impassive expression. That wretched cunt of a kinslayer had not only killed his brother, now he meant to take you as well. At last, he gave a single nod. "You did what you had to." he said.

He remained still for another moment, studying each of your wounds as though he wished to imprint them upon his memory, then slowly turned toward the door. His hand reached the wood, but hesitated before grasping the handle. Without looking at you, he added in a voice that had returned to calm, though threaded with a weariness difficult to hide. "We will speak when you have regained your strength, until then, rest." He waited just long enough to be certain you had heard him, then left the room. The door closed slowly behind him with a soft sound of wood and iron. Only when he found himself in the empty corridor did he allow his eyes to close for a moment, drawing a deep breath.

For the first time in many days, the weight pressing upon his chest had grown slightly lighter. Not because the war had changed. Not because the danger had passed. But because he knew you were still alive.

In the days that followed, something in Jacaerys changed. At first, it was only small details, subtle enough to be mistaken for simple courtesy: a glance that lingered on you a moment longer than necessary whenever he thought you weren't paying attention, an unusual attentiveness to your movements, an almost involuntary need to make sure you weren't putting too much strain on your still-aching leg. No one else seemed to notice the change. He felt it every time you entered a room and his gaze sought you out before his mind was even aware of it, every time the sound of your footsteps made him lift his head automatically, interrupting whatever he had been doing. It was as if a part of him had begun to orient itself toward you instinctively, like the needle of a compass incapable of pointing anywhere but north. He constantly sought reassurance that you were well, that the pain was easing, that some color had returned to your face after the injury. And whenever his eyes finally met yours, an inexplicable relief would sweep through his chest, leaving him confused each time by the intensity with which his own heart reacted to something so simple.

That concern, however, did not remain confined to small gestures. Day after day, it turned into a constant presence. During your rehabilitation sessions, he was always there. He would sit at a distance, pretending to be absorbed in military reports or studying a map, but his attention was entirely fixed on you. Every time you clenched your teeth to endure the pain of a movement that was too sudden, his shoulders would stiffen unconsciously. When you faltered even slightly, he would rise before your balance was truly compromised, ready to catch you if needed. He rarely intervened, knowing how much you valued your independence and how much you hated feeling fragile, but the tension with which he followed your every movement was impossible to hide. And that same presence extended throughout the rest of the day. He would accompany you along the corridors of Dragonstone even when you insisted you could walk on your own, keeping just enough distance not to suffocate you, but never enough to lose sight of you. He was discreet and silent, constant as a shadow the sun could not erase. Even the servants had begun to grow accustomed to the sight: the prince who, with any excuse, always seemed to end up wherever you were.

Every day he found a new reason to knock on your door. Sometimes he claimed he needed to deliver documents that could not wait until morning; other times he said he wanted to report a decision made during council or inform you of developments along the coast. Occasionally, the excuse was to ask if you needed anything, whether the maester had already visited, to make sure your fever had not returned. The pretexts were so transparent that neither of you truly believed them. Least of all him.

Every time he left your room, he convinced himself it would be his last visit of the day, that he would finally stop looking for reasons to see you again. And yet, after only a few hours, the desire to see you returned with stubborn persistence. All it took was the memory of your smile, your voice, or the way you tilted your head slightly when listening, for another reason, another seemingly plausible justification, to form. And when he finally stepped out of your chamber, closing the door behind him, he was always left with that strange sense of incompleteness, as though he had forgotten something important inside. No amount of time spent with you ever seemed enough. It was an inexplicable emptiness that opened within him the moment he walked away, compelling him to long, almost unconsciously, for the next time he would see you.

That constancy frightened him. The more he tried to ignore it, the more evident it became. Jacaerys had always trusted in his discipline; he had been raised to control every emotion, to place duty above personal desires, to never allow his heart to interfere with his judgment. And yet now that certainty was wavering. He began to doubt himself, wondering when everything had changed and, more importantly, why. He tried to convince himself it was only a sense of responsibility. You had been seriously injured during a mission entrusted to you by his mother, it was natural to feel involved, to worry about your recovery, to make sure nothing worsened. He repeated it to himself like a prayer, seeking comfort in reason. But that explanation grew weaker with each passing day. Because responsibility did not explain the relief he felt when he saw you smile. It did not explain the tightness in his chest when he saw you in pain. And above all, it did not explain why his mind continued to seek you out even when he was occupied with matters of far greater importance.

He began to notice impulses that were increasingly difficult to control. He wanted to touch you. Every time you sat beside him, he felt an almost irresistible urge to reach for your hand, just to intertwine his fingers with yours and confirm whether your warmth was truly as reassuring as he imagined. When a loose strand of your hair slipped free and fell across your face, his fingers would move unconsciously, driven by a natural instinct to brush it aside with infinite gentleness so he could see you more clearly. The slightest accidental brush of your shoulders during a conversation, or the fleeting contact of your hands when passing an object, sent a sudden shiver through his entire body, leaving him motionless for a brief second. It was a new sensation, intense, almost destabilizing. To prevent himself from giving in to those impulses, he had begun, almost unconsciously, to clench his fists behind his back or cross his arms over his chest whenever you were too close, as though he could contain his desire simply by preventing his hands from moving. But the struggle grew harder each day, because the need to touch you never diminished, instead, it grew quietly within him.

Then came even more dangerous thoughts. He caught himself looking at your lips far more often than was appropriate. It would happen suddenly, in the middle of an ordinary conversation. You would be speaking, telling him something with that effortless naturalness he had grown so accustomed to, and he would realize too late that he had stopped listening, his gaze caught in the way your lips moved. They looked so soft, slightly parted when you smiled or said his name, and for no logical reason he found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss them. He would immediately try to banish the thought, almost frightened by its boldness, but it was already too late. The image had taken root. He told himself it was only curiosity, a fleeting whim destined to fade. And yet it returned each time with greater clarity. He even remembered the mornings at breakfast, when you would absentmindedly gather a drop of honey that had slipped from your bread with the tip of your finger and bring it to your lips in a simple, mesmerizing gesture. From that moment on, whenever honey appeared on the table, his mind would recreate that scene. He was inexplicably convinced that your lips must be as sweet as that honey, as soft as they appeared to his eyes.

That image began to haunt him at the most unexpected moments. It surfaced during council meetings, forcing him to reread the same reports over and over because he could not focus. It followed him while studying maps of the war, when his attention should have been on naval routes and enemy armies, yet his thoughts kept returning to you. It reached him even in flight, astride Vermax, when the wind should have cleared his mind of all distractions. All it took was closing his eyes for a moment, and your face would appear with startling clarity, your smile, your eyes, the sound of your laughter, the way you said his name. The more he tried to suppress those thoughts, the deeper they rooted themselves within him, spreading into every corner of his mind with relentless persistence. He was like a moth unable to resist the pull of light, fully aware of the danger yet irresistibly drawn to what might consume him. And the most unsettling truth was that, despite the fear it stirred in him, a part of him did not want to stop following it at all.

He had always believed he knew himself. He had grown up convinced that discipline was the most important quality a prince could possess, the foundation upon which to build every choice, every word, every action. From childhood, he had been taught to master fear before facing it, to never let emotions interfere with duty, to maintain control even when everything else seemed to collapse. He had learned to ride a dragon long before becoming a man, and over the years he had come to understand that true strength did not lie in imposing one's will through force, but in mastering one's deepest impulses. He had always believed the same applied to the heart. Emotions could exist, of course, but they had to remain in their place, silent, incapable of bending reason. He was certain he could do it. Certain he knew every corner of his soul, every limit of his will.

And yet you had shattered that certainty with ease, without doing anything extraordinary, without even realizing it. You had not tried to win him over, had not spoken words meant to seduce him. You had simply been yourself. And that had been enough. Your presence, your courage, the way you faced pain without letting it define you, the smile you still offered others despite your wounds. Without realizing it, his heart had ceased to belong to him. It had happened slowly, day by day, until the moment he understood he was no longer master of it at all.

He tried to fight that feeling with all the determination he possessed. He forced himself to treat you exactly as he always had, without allowing even the slightest change. He continued to address you in the same composed tone, to maintain a distance that felt more unbearable with each passing day, to avoid any gesture that might betray what he truly felt. Every morning, as soon as he opened his eyes, he told himself he would stop searching for you with his gaze, that he would spend at least one day without finding an excuse to come to you, without inventing new reasons to knock on your door. He tried to convince himself it was only a passing phase, a restlessness born from the fear of having nearly lost you. He clung to duty as though it were a shield capable of protecting him from his own feelings. War loomed over the realm. Each day brought new reports of the Greens' movements, new losses, new villages destroyed, new oaths broken. He was the eldest son of Rhaenyra Targaryen. His duty was to prepare to lead men into battle, to forge alliances, to make decisions that would shape the fate of the realm. He could not afford weakness. He repeated it to himself every day. Love, or whatever name could be given to the feeling that tightened his chest whenever he saw you, was a luxury that did not belong in his life. Not now. Not ever.

So he tried to suffocate it. He pushed it deep into the furthest corner of his heart, where he hoped time might slowly consume it until it disappeared. He convinced himself that if he ignored it long enough, it would fade into nothing more than a distant memory, a passing moment destined to close on its own. But the opposite happened.

Every day spent by your side made those feelings stronger, deeper, more deeply rooted. It was enough to see you cross the courtyard of Dragonstone for his breath to slow. It was enough to hear your voice among dozens of others for every other sound to fade away. It was no longer just attraction, nor simple affection. It was something far greater, something that had begun to intertwine itself with every thought he had of the future. And there came a moment when he had to face the truth. He would rather face certain death than live to see the day you left his life. The idea that you might live far from him, that one day your smile might be meant for someone else, that you might build a future in which he had no place, filled him with unbearable pain. It was a selfish thought, unreasonable, unworthy of a prince raised to put the realm before himself. And yet it was what he felt. The more he tried to deny it, the more he recognized its truth. He could no longer imagine his future without you in it. Every plan, every hope, every victory he envisioned suddenly seemed meaningless if you were not part of it. No, he would not endure losing you. Not after coming so close to watching you die.

It had been just under a week since your return to Dragonstone. The castle had slowly resumed its usual rhythm, but anyone who crossed your path could not fail to notice how your body still bore the marks of the battle. The deepest wounds had finally begun to close, but they left thin reddish lines along the skin of your face and neck, silent promises of scars that would remain. The bruises, now faded into shades of purple, yellow, and green, testified to the violence of the impact from your fall. Every breath drawn too deeply stirred the dull ache of your cracked ribs, forcing you to inhale with care. Your burned and torn shoulder protested with every sudden movement, reminding you in sharp flashes just how fragile your body still was.

The maesters insisted every day with stubborn persistence, prescribing absolute rest, compresses, potions, and weeks of inactivity. They repeated over and over that you had survived your clash with Vhagar by a miracle, and that forcing your recovery would risk undoing all the progress you had made. But their words seemed to bounce against an invisible wall. You had never been capable of remaining still while the world moved on without you. The thought of spending entire days shut inside your chamber, listening to tales of battles fought by others, felt far more unbearable than the pain itself. So that morning, when the sunlight barely filtered through the windows overlooking the sea, you were already on your feet.

You wore your riding leathers, heavier than usual, reinforced in the places where the material could better protect you in flight. With quick, efficient movements, you filled a sturdy leather bag with everything you deemed essential: spare clothes, rolls of clean bandages, a flask full of water, a small sharp-bladed knife, medicinal herbs, vials of painkillers, and anything else you might need far from the castle. Every bend pulled at your still-fresh wounds. Every movement made your body protest with sharper, more insistent pain. But you continued without so much as a complaint, gritting your teeth each time the pain threatened to slow you down.

When Jacaerys knocked lightly and stepped into your chamber, your heart lurched. He remained frozen in the doorway, unable to take even a single step forward. For a long, endless moment, he simply stared at the scene before him as though his mind refused to understand it. His gaze drifted slowly over your face, still marked by bruises, over the thin bandages visible beneath the collar of your tunic, over the stiffness with which you moved your injured shoulder as you tried to ignore the pain. Then he noticed the nearly full bag, the bandages, the knife, the medicines carefully arranged, and everything fell into place at once.

He felt his stomach tighten instantly. His heart dropped violently in his chest, stealing his breath. For a moment, he hoped he was mistaken, that there was another explanation, something simple his mind had not yet grasped. But deep down, he already knew the answer, and that certainty made everything far more terrifying.

"What are you doing?" he asked at last, breaking the silence. His voice sounded calm, almost controlled, but beneath the surface lay a tension so strong it made it just slightly lower than usual.

You did not pause for even a moment. You continued arranging the contents of the bag with precision, fastening one of the straps with a firm motion before answering, without even turning toward him. "I'm going on a mission."

Those three words were enough to make his blood run cold. His brows drew together immediately as he stepped closer, unable to take his eyes off the wounds that still marked your body. He stared at you in disbelief, struggling to understand how you could even consider mounting your dragon again when even breathing seemed to cost you such effort.

"You're not healed yet." His voice came out harsher than he intended, strained with concern he could not hide. "Your wounds will reopen. You can't go."

You placed more bandages into the bag with the same calm as before, without sparing him a glance. "Aemond burned a village last night." Your voice remained surprisingly steady. "After an attack like that, he'll have to rest. He's vulnerable. If we move now, we can strike."

Jacaerys felt something inside him snap the moment you said those last words. You spoke so naturally, as though the possibility of facing danger again carried no weight, as though the memory of your clash with Vhagar had already been pushed into some distant corner of your mind. He, on the other hand, could not forget anything. Every image of that day still haunted him with brutal clarity, even at night. He saw again the sky darkened by the vast wings of Grey Ghost, heard the deafening roar, relived the moment he had feared he would never find you alive again. All it took was closing his eyes for it to return with the same violence as before. And so, as he watched you calmly preparing that bag, a sudden anger rose within him.

It was not directed at you. It never could be. It was anger at the war that seemed to demand everything from you, at Aemond for reducing you to this state, at fate for continually placing you in the path of death, but most of all at your stubborn determination that drove you to sacrifice yourself again and again without granting any value to your own life. It felt unbearable. Before reason could stop him, his body had already moved.

He crossed the room in a few strides. The sound of his boots echoed across the stone floor, quick and decisive, filled with tension. When he reached you, his hand rose instinctively and closed firmly around your wrist. His fingers wrapped around your skin, stopping at once the motion with which you were placing the last bandage into the bag. It was not a violent grip, there was no intention to hurt you, no desire to impose himself by force. Quite the opposite. Even in that moment, he was careful with you. His hold was firm enough to stop you, secure enough to keep you there before him for at least a moment longer, but never painful. It was as though, if he let go of your wrist, he knew he would watch you walk out of that room and head straight toward a danger from which you might never return.

At last, you stopped what you were doing and slowly lifted your gaze to him. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence that filled the room seemed almost tangible, broken only by the distant crash of waves against the cliffs of Dragonstone and the wind slipping through the half-open windows. Your eyes remained locked on each other, unable to look away. Jacaerys felt his breathing slow, while his heart continued to pound hard against his ribs. Jace's eyes were filled with conflicting emotions: fear, frustration, exasperation, and something far deeper that he could no longer hide. His fingers, still wrapped around your wrist, trembled slightly. It was a barely perceptible tremor, but enough to betray how fragile the control he was desperately trying to maintain truly was. The mere thought of letting you go had become unbearable.

"No." The word came out slowly, low, almost hoarse. He held your gaze without lowering it for even a moment, shaking his head faintly as though even imagining what you had just said was unacceptable. "You're not going anywhere." His voice grew firmer, more resolute, yet beneath that firmness something trembled that he could not conceal. "Not until those wounds are completely healed."

For the first time since you had known each other, those words did not belong to the heir prince issuing an order to one of the queen's riders. He was not speaking as the son of Rhaenyra Targaryen, nor as the warrior accustomed to giving commands during war councils. He was simply a man who had known the terror of losing you, and who was not willing to face it a second time. Everything he had tried to suppress over the past weeks now surged to the surface all at once, turning that simple sentence into a plea disguised as an order.

You stared at him for another moment, unable to fully understand what you were reading in his eyes. Then, without a word, you reacted on instinct, wrenching your wrist free from his grasp in a swift, abrupt motion. Jacaerys's fingers opened immediately, devoid of any intention to hold you by force, and remained suspended in the air for a few endless seconds, motionless, as though they had suddenly forgotten what they were meant to do next. For a moment, he stood there, his hand still slightly raised between you, staring at the empty space where your wrist had been. That simple gesture sent a sharp pain through his chest, far more painful than he would have ever admitted.

You looked at him, your eyes still burning with the stubbornness that had always defined you, but this time something else was mixed into it. Anger. A slow-building anger, born from a sense of inadequacy you had tried to ignore for far too long. You felt your heart pounding against your still-aching ribs as you struggled to keep your breathing steady despite the tension filling the room.

Since your return to Dragonstone, you had the constant impression that you could no longer take a single step without sensing his presence. Wherever you went, he was there. Always close enough to watch you with that concern you had come to find suffocating. Always ready to intervene at the slightest sign of strain, to notice even the smallest grimace of pain you tried in vain to hide. If you stepped into the courtyard, he would appear shortly after. If you attended a council meeting, he would find a place beside you. If you spent time in the library or on the castle terraces, your paths would inevitably cross. At first, you had thought it a coincidence. Then you began to realize it was not at all. That constant presence had begun to suffocate you. Every one of his attentions, every question about your condition, every concerned glance seemed to remind you constantly that you were injured, that your body was no longer what it had been. You, on the other hand, desperately wanted to forget. You wanted to feel free again, strong, capable of making your own choices. And he, without realizing it, seemed to be taking even that from you.

You inhaled slowly, trying to suppress the agitation that threatened to crack your voice. When you finally spoke, you kept your eyes fixed on his. "Why do you care so much?" you asked calmly, without looking away. "Ever since I came back, you've been constantly hovering over me. You're always in my room, always behind me, always ready to tell me what I can or cannot do. It's almost as if you're afraid to even let me walk on my own." You shook your head slowly, letting a loose strand of hair slip behind your ear, while with an almost unconscious gesture you pointed to the still-visible bruises on your face. "I'm not made of glass. I'm a dragonrider. I chose this life. This is my duty."

Your words struck him with the force of a blow straight to the chest. Jacaerys stood still, unable to respond. He lowered his gaze slightly for a moment, drawing in a deep breath in a futile attempt to regain the control slipping through his fingers like sand. He felt the blood pounding in his temples, his breathing growing heavier, while inside him weeks of fear, sleepless nights, restrained silence, and unspoken feelings surged all at once, pressing hard against the last fragile barrier he had built. He tried once more to suppress them. He tried to remind himself who he was, what he represented, what he was supposed to say. But that fragile calm held only for a few seconds before cracking completely under the weight of everything he could no longer contain.

"Your duty?" Jacaerys repeated, and for a moment disbelief, bitterness, and a kind of anger that had never been directed at you mingled in his voice.

Those words suddenly felt devoid of meaning. He had spoken them himself hundreds of times throughout his life. Duty came before everything, before desire, before fear, before happiness. He had built his entire existence upon that principle, sacrificing without hesitation any part of himself that might stand in the way of the destiny imposed upon him. And yet, hearing you use that same word to justify a mission that, in his eyes, amounted to a death sentence, stirred something dangerously close to rebellion within him.

Without even realizing it, he took a decisive step toward you, closing the distance between you. His gaze never left yours, as though he feared that if he looked away even for a second, you might truly walk out of that room and disappear forever. "Your duty is not to walk straight into certain death!" he burst out at last, his voice, usually controlled, filling the chamber with an intensity that made the silence itself tremble. The stone walls seemed to echo his words, amplifying the desperation behind them. "You can't just pack a bag, mount your dragon, and leave as if nothing happened! You've seen Aemond fight, and you're injured! You know what Vhagar is capable of, you'll never prevail in this state!" Each sentence came faster than the last, as though he feared he would not manage to say everything before it was too late. His chest rose and fell quickly now, his breath unable to keep pace with his racing heart. For a moment, he seemed to try to compose himself. He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white, drew in a deep breath, and lowered his head slightly, as though speaking the next words required far more courage than facing any battle. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry, before lifting his eyes to yours again. "If you face him alone..." His voice faltered slightly. "You will die."

Those words hung between you, and they were what finally shattered the fragile control you had been holding onto until that moment. You felt something explode inside you, an emotion that had been building for days. All the anger, all the fear you had refused to acknowledge since returning to Dragonstone, all the pain your body continued to inflict with every breath, all the guilt that gnawed at you every time you thought of the villages reduced to ash and the people you had failed to save, everything fused into a single sudden flame, so intense that it burned away every trace of restraint.

You looked at him, your eyes shining, filled with determination. You could feel your heart pounding so hard against your injured ribs that every breath was painful, yet you did not take a single step back. "Then I'll die trying to kill him!" you shouted with all the strength you still had left. Your voice trembled slightly under the weight of the emotions you were finally allowing to surface. "Every day we wait, more innocent people are burned alive! Every day Aemond flies over defenseless villages, and every day someone loses their family, their home, everything they had! If there's even the slightest chance I can stop it, I'll take it!" You drew in a strained breath, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through your chest. "I do not care what happens to me."

The world seemed to stop for Jacaerys. All that remained was the weight of those last words, echoing mercilessly in his mind. I don't care what happens to me. He had truly heard them. They were not a product of fear or imagination. You had said them with conviction. He felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him suddenly pale. His breath caught for a moment, as though a hand had closed around his throat. Until that instant, he had desperately tried to convince himself that his fear was exaggerated, that in the end he would find a way to protect you, that he would somehow stop you from putting yourself in danger again. But now he understood. The greatest danger was not Aemond. It was not Vhagar. It was you, with your willingness to sacrifice yourself without hesitation, with your complete indifference to your own survival. For the first time, the possibility of losing you ceased to be a distant fear and became something terrifyingly real.

He closed the short distance between you in two strides, and before you could step back or turn away, his hands came to rest on your shoulders. The contact was firm, but not rough. He held you with both hands as if afraid you might vanish before his eyes at any moment. He turned you fully toward him, forcing you to meet his gaze, and gave you a slight shake. You could feel the warmth of his hands through the thick fabric of your tunic, the faint tremor in his fingers, his unsteady breathing as he tried in vain to steady it. Your faces were now very close, so close that you could see every trace of tension on his features, every muscle tightened along his jaw, every emotion he had tried so hard to conceal.

"Do you even realize what you're saying?" he asked, his voice breaking. Nothing remained but a frightened man, watching the person he cared for most slipping away before his eyes. "Do you hear yourself?"

You looked at him without answering. For a few seconds, silence claimed the room again. Jacaerys drew in a deep breath, desperately searching for words that seemed to slip through his grasp every time he reached for them. He lowered his gaze slightly, unable to bear the weight of your eyes any longer. He seemed to be fighting something within himself, a war that had begun long before the one consuming the realm. His lips parted more than once, yet no sound came out.

"Have you... have you thought about me?"

You frowned slightly. For a moment, the meaning of his words escaped you entirely. You looked at him in confusion, unable to understand what he meant. "Why would I think about you?"

Those few words left him breathless. He went still. Every muscle in his body seemed to tense at once. His hands, still resting on your shoulders, gradually lost their strength, though they did not pull away. His lips pressed into a thin line as he slowly lowered his gaze, unable to meet your eyes any longer. His eyes fell, almost involuntarily, to your lips, not to avoid your gaze, but because they seemed the only point on your face close enough to give him the courage he so desperately needed. The silence that followed became almost unbearable. Neither of you moved. Beyond the windows, the wind continued to howl between the towers of Dragonstone, carrying with it the distant sounds of dragons in flight, while inside the room there remained only the uneven rhythm of your breathing.

When he finally lifted his eyes to you again, something had changed. The mask he had worn his entire life was gone. There was no longer the heir prince measuring every word, controlling every emotion, placing duty above himself. Standing before you was simply Jacaerys, a young man, terrified and vulnerable. "How did you..." he whispered, sadness lacing his voice, his eyes glistening faintly with unshed tears. "How did you not notice?"

The question hung between you for an endless moment. Then he drew in a slow breath, as though it were the last before stepping into the void. You furrowed your brows, your stomach fluttering with nerves. "What?"

"I love you."

The words left his lips barely above a whisper, so soft that the wind itself seemed ready to carry them away. And yet, the instant they were spoken, they carried the weight of something immense. They filled the entire room, erasing every distance, every misunderstanding, every silence that had stood between your hearts until that moment.

You remained completely still, as though time itself had stopped. You felt your heart skip a beat as your eyes widened in shock. Instinctively, you searched his gaze, almost hoping to find uncertainty there, a hint of a smile that might reveal it as a joke, some sign that those words had been spoken in anger or fear.

But you found none of that.

Only sincerity, so deep it stole your breath away.

Time seemed to come to a halt at the exact moment those three words left Jacaerys' lips. For a long moment, neither of you was able to add anything more. The room, which only moments before had been filled with raised voices, anger, and fear, was suddenly swallowed by a deep silence. Even the wind that blew beyond the open windows, threading its way through the ancient walls of Dragonstone, seemed to have grown more distant. You simply continued to look at each other, motionless, now separated by only a few inches. Your breaths intertwined in the space between you, slow and uneven, still broken by the emotion of the argument that had just ended. You kept staring at him, your eyes wide, unable to look away from a face you knew so well and that now, suddenly, seemed to reveal a completely different person. The surly prince you had known was gone, before you stood only a young man who had finally torn down every defense and placed his heart in your hands, without knowing whether it would be shattered.

It was Jacaerys who broke the silence. "Don't go, my love.”

His voice was barely more than a whisper, so soft it seemed almost afraid to break the fragility of that moment. There was no authority left in those words. No command. No imposition. All the firmness with which, only minutes before, he had tried to stop you from leaving had vanished, leaving space only for something infinitely more vulnerable. It was only a plea. A request spoken by someone who had finally stopped hiding behind his role, his title, the duty that had guided every moment of his life. He was asking you to stay not as a prince, but as a man. Not for the good of the realm, not for a military strategy, not because your wounds still needed time to heal. He was asking it for himself. Because by now he could no longer imagine a world in which you might disappear from his life.

Slowly, as if afraid that any sudden movement might shatter the delicate balance that had formed between you, he raised both hands. For a moment they hovered a few inches from your face. He hesitated. It was unusual for him, he had never been afraid to act. But this was not about fighting an enemy. This was about you. Only when he convinced himself that you would not pull away did he let his palms rest gently against your cheeks. The contact was incredibly light, almost hesitant. His hands were warm, but they trembled slightly against your skin. You could feel that faint tremor clearly, a tiny detail that, more than any words, revealed everything he had tried in vain to hide in the days before.

His fingers lightly traced the line of your cheeks, brushing with infinite care even the thin, still-reddened scars that time had not yet erased. He did it with the same attention one gives to something precious and fragile, as though he feared that even the slightest rough gesture might make you vanish before his eyes. He drew you a little closer to him, without forcing you. The movement was so slow that you would have had all the time in the world to step away, to retreat, to end that moment before it even began. Jacaerys seemed almost to expect your refusal. He watched you with an intensity that revealed all his uncertainty, as though his heart were beating so hard it kept him from even breathing properly. But you did not pull away. You remained there, motionless, allowing the distance between you to slowly disappear.

That was when his lips met yours.

The kiss began slowly, as if even he could hardly believe he had found the courage to close the distance he had respected for so long. It was a kiss that spoke far more than words ever could. Within that gesture was all the fear he had carried through nights spent imagining you lost to him. There was the relief of knowing you were still there before him. You felt the slight tremor of his lips against yours, the same tremor that still ran through his hands as they gently held your face. It was a warm, shy contact, sweet as candy.

After a few moments, he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead gently against yours. He stayed there, eyes closed, breathing deeply in a futile attempt to calm the heart that seemed ready to burst from his chest. Your foreheads remained pressed together, your noses brushing lightly, and his lips seemed reluctant to leave yours, chasing them gently. For a long moment, he said nothing. He breathed in your scent slowly, as though trying to etch it into his memory, almost afraid he might forget it.

When he slowly opened his eyes again, he looked at you with desperation. "Please, ñuha jorrāelagon..." he whispered, his voice now completely broken. "Don't go."

Those words came out with a vulnerability you had never seen him show to anyone. Almost without realizing it, he sought your lips again, kissing you a second time with the same softness, but with a more evident hunger. The kiss lasted slightly longer than the first, as if every moment spent so close to you helped calm, at least in part, the chaos stirring in his heart.

"Please..." he murmured again, his breath breaking against your lips.

When the silence continued to offer him no answer, fear immediately tightened around his chest once more. He drew you a little closer with extreme gentleness, never holding you tightly enough to take away your choice. There was an almost obsessive care in every movement, as though he feared even an embrace too strong might hurt you. He kissed you again, with the same slowness, savoring every moment as if it were the most precious of his life. Then again, and again, and again. Each time his lips left yours, his eyes immediately searched for yours, desperately hoping to find in them an answer that still did not come. He kept whispering barely audible pleas, small please’s, while his voice betrayed his fear.

He was desperate, aching to feel your lips once more, longing to hold you and plead into your ear. Every fiber of his being urged him to keep you, to convince you to stay, to protect you from a fate that had already taken too much from his family. He had already seen the pain Aemond was capable of inflicting. He had already known the emptiness left by the loss of a brother, an absence that could never be filled. He did not want, he could not, lose you to the same man who had taken his brother from him. If necessary, he would challenge anyone, cross the sea, bend the sky itself to prevent it. He would not allow your blood to be spilled as so many others had been. He would not endure another loss.

His pretty girl.

At last, the weight of the stubbornness you had carried on your shoulders for days seemed to slowly melt away. You let out the breath you hadn't realized you had been holding, as the tension gradually left your body. You lifted your chin slightly until your forehead rested gently against his. You closed your eyes. "I won't go."

Jacaerys drew in a deep breath, as though until that moment he had been living without air, his head beneath water. He felt his chest finally fill with a full, free breath, as all the tension that had built over the past days slowly dissolved. His shoulders relaxed, his fingers stopped trembling, and a small smile, disbelieving and full of relief, appeared on his face.

He remained looking at you for a long time in silence, as though he wanted to memorize every detail of your face. The curve of your lips, the light in your eyes, the small scars that time might one day soften but that, to him, would never diminish your beauty. He brushed his forehead against yours once more, closing his eyes for a moment and breathing in the scent he loved so much, treasuring that instant as something irreplaceable. Only then did he seek your lips again, drawing you into one last slow, silent kiss.

“Yes Ormund we’re bringing all of them.” Gwayne responds with an eye roll, finding his cousin ridiculous. Willing to put up with your father’s comments to have a brake from his cousin. “All the children and their dragons.”

“Including Daeron and his beast?”

“He is my son is he not?” Gwayne says, referencing the rumours of Daeron being you and Gwayne biological child. You both not paying it any mind, Daeron is your son anyway.

“Brilliant, it shall smell nicely again, even if only for a while.” Ormund nods already planning on having the dragon enclosures deep cleaned while you’re away. “Don’t hurry back.”

“We’ll miss you too.” Gwayne says sarcastically as his cousin walks off, already planning all the cleaning that can be done with you all gone.

-

“Daughter, Ser Gwayne.” Daemon greets, nodding to your husband and giving you a hug with a kiss to the cheek. Him having missed his eldest daughter. Him meeting you outside to lead you in.

“My prince.” Gwayne nods back, holding your two youngest children. Daeron holding Rhae while Baelor, Alerie and Lorcas stood to the side waiting for their grandsire to greet them.

“Who’s this?” He asks, noticing another child from last time you saw each other two years ago at the birth of Bryden. The man staying for a few weeks to spend time with his grandchildren, Aerion loving the man.

“Oh, Kepa meet Layton, your grandson.” You say smiling, knowing he’s just being annoying as you and Rhaenyra write often and your father likes adding bits to the end of some of her letters.

“What number is he?” Daemon asks giving Gwayne a look that the man doesn’t notice to focused on the children.

“Pardon?” You ask, your father deliberately being a dick.

“How many children do you have now?” He asks clearly already knowing the answer and disapproving.

“Nine.” You say smiling, knowing he won’t be happy when he finds out your with child again. You and Gwayne having found out a few days ago, your husband having suspected for a few weeks before you finally agreed to see the maester.

-

“Right little hatchlings time for bed.” Gwayne says to the children, daemon choking on his wine at what the man called his children. “Daeron, Aerion and Lynesse you can stay up a little longer.”

“Why do they get to say up?”

“Because they’re older.” Gwayne responds picking up Baelor and Rhae, the two clearly tired, you already having left to put Bryden and Layton to bed.

“That’s not fair.” Lorcas complains, him being two years younger than Lynesse the boy having just turned 6.

“Yeah not fair!” Alerie agrees, her and Lorcas not liking they’re younger than the ‘big kids’. Your eldest three allowed to stay up later and the boys both old enough to start riding their dragons.

“You can stay up, but you won’t get any stories.” Gwayne say, used to this argument.

“No stories!” Both children exclaim in disbelief, story time being the most important time of day.

“No stories.” Gwayne confirmed, knowing that Lorcas and Alerie love story time. “Come on hatchings.”

“Can we have three?” Lorcas asks trying his luck, them normally getting two anyway.

“I’ll think about it.” Gwayne says leading the children out, lorcas listing off all the stories he wants as they go.

-

“So Daeron, how do you feel about having so many siblings?” Daemon asks his eldest grandchild once Gwayne has left with the young children. Daeron playing cyvasse with Jace and Aerion, both boys having to team up against Daeron so they have a chance. Luke and Lynesse playing a card game on the floor with Baela and Rhaena. Baela occasionally helping Jace and Aerion.

“I like it, I do get a bit nervous when the labour’s start but I like having a big family. It makes me feel wanted.” He say moving a piece on the board.

“Oh, Aerion what about you?” Daemon asks, knowing his second grandchild is more opinionated than Daeron.

“Well Rhae is annoying she keeps hiding my toys.” The silver hair boy responds, looking at Baela for help. Him and Jace not sure what to do next.

“That’s because you do the same to her.” Lynesse says giving her brother a look. Knowing that he loves teasing his younger siblings, Rhae being his favourite.

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” He says innocently, smiling at Baela when she moves a piece for them. Jace telling her ‘thank you’.

-

“He calls them hatchings.” Daemon vents to Rhaenyra later that night as they get ready for bed. All the older children having a sleepover in the library. All knowing that they won’t sleep to exited to all be together again.

“Who?” Rhaenyra asks, taking off her jewellery knowing this was going to happen. Daemon always complaining about your husband, not liking that he’s a Hightower.

“Hightower, he calls the children hatchings.”

“Well they are.” She responds raising an eyebrow at him, the man doing the same with their children.

“He’s defiling my poor girl.” Daemon scoffs moving to help Rhaenyra untie her dress, him having dismissed the servants. Wanting to complain to his wife in peace.

“What?”

“Hightower, he won’t get off her.” He stresses, loosening the dress before dramatically flopping on the bed. “Nine children!”

“Well it’s only nine if you include Daeron.” She smirks, knowing that your with child again. You two having spoken after putting the children to bed.

“So Nine!”

-

“I’m with child.” You announce to your father a few days later. Rhaenyra asking you to tell daemon before she gives birth. You and Gwayne planing on telling the children soon anyway.

“Again?” Daemon asks in shock. You only having given birth 10 moons ago. Him hoping you were done with babies.

“Yes again.” You reply rolling your eyes at your father.

“But, that’s baby number ten.” He says as if you didn’t know.

“Well done Kepa you can count.” You respond sarcastically, knowing a part of his dislike is after what happened to Laena but finding his reaction annoying. Him only being happy when you announced you were having Aerion and even then he glared at Gwayne as he congratulated you.

-

“He’s corrupted her.” Daemon complains storming into his and Rhaenyra’s chambers. The woman laying in bed reading, her needing a rest after flying with you some of the children.

“I think you mean she corrupted him.” Rhaenyra corrects closing her book knowing she won’t get the peace she wanted.

“What? No, before him she was a perfect angel.”

“A perfect angel who would drag Gwayne out of balls to kiss him before they even announced they were courting.” She says, knowing daemon ignores all the scandalous things you got up to, blaming most on Gwayne.

“What?” He asks, shocked at the thought. “I didn’t know that!”

“That’s because you had already snuck out to kiss or fuck someone.” Rhaenyra responds, knowing that once him and Laena married it was her he was sneaking off with. “And before you go fight him, Gwayne refused to have sex until they wed. Not from a lack of trying on her part.”

“Stop talking.” Daemon says flopping on the bed and covering his ears, not wanting to hear about what you and your husband got up to.

“So is it not the best time to mention the times that Harwin and I would join them?” Rhaenyra asks smirking, deciding it best not to mention that you don’t know who Lorcas’s biological father is. It being a toss up between Gwayne and Harwin. You only knowing that Joffrey is harwins given the boys looks.

“Rhaenyra!”

-

“Hightower, we need to talk.” Daemon say cornering Gwayne while you are with Rhaenyra and the children.

“Of course my prince.” Gwayne responds with a sassy tone, daemon not picking up on it. “What do you want to discuss?”

“Get off my daughter.”

“Pardon?” Gwayne asks voice dropping in anger but not showing it, clenching his fist to calm himself.

“Stop fucking my daughter, she hasn’t had a brake in years.” Daemon hisses, trying to intimidate the man. But failing.

“She wants it.” Gwayne responds tightly, trying to control his anger.

“Of course she does.” Daemon say rolling his eyes giving Gwayne a disgusted look. “I know you’re religious but I didn’t expect you to force her to have so many children.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Gwayne snaps, furious at the accusation.

“Stop mounting my daughter!”

“She’s the one who mounts me!” Gwayne shouts back going to storm off. “Talk to your daughter, but you even accuse me of forcing my wife to do anything again I will hurt you. I don’t care if you’re a prince and her father, you don’t get to disrespect us like that.”

-

“He what?” You ask furious, no one allowed do disrespect your husband like that. Your father included. You storming off to find your father before Gwayne can even attempt to stop you.

“Father!” You shout, making his stop in his tracks. The man on his way to the dragon pits. “There’s some thinks you need to know.”

“What is it?” He asks impatiently, wanting to go for a ride to clear his head.

“I’m the one who’s ’mounting’ my husband all the time. The reason we have so many children? I want them. I love all my children and I also love when my husband fucks them into me!” You shout grateful that the children are all in the library with Rhaenyra so they can’t hear this conversation.

“Daughter-.” He tries, you interrupting him fed up with is treatment of your husband.

“No! I’m fed up with your attitude! I’m a grown woman! And if you keep disrespecting my husband I won’t speak to you again!”

-

“I fucked up.” Daemon says later on after his ride, even sliverwing upset with him as she grumbled when he flew past her and Vermithor.

“I know.” Rhaenyra replies having just spoken with you about everything.

“What do I do?” He wines, wanting things to go back to normal.

“Have you tried apologising?” She offers, knowing that he’ll have to make it up to Gwayne before you even think of speaking to him.

“I’ll apologise to her tomorrow.”

“Not just her.” Rhaenyra tells him firmly, wanting you all to get along. “Daemon, she loves him. She won’t forgive you until you apologise to him and start treating him with respect.”

“Do I have to?”

“Do you like having her as a daughter?” She counters raising an eyebrow at the sulky man.

-

“Gwayne, come walk with me.” Daemon say the next day, finding you and Gwayne sat cuddling by the fire. Some of the children playing around you. Jace and Aerion practicing Cyvasse Daeron having beaten them once again.

“Father-.”

“It’s fine, my love.” Gwayne says reassuring you that all will be well. Kissing your cheek before standing up and flowing the man out.

“I’m sorry.” Daemon say a while later, gwayne fine walking in silence.

“Thank you.” Your husband responds, not bothering to say anything else.

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

“What would you like me to say? You disrespected my wife and children.” Gwayne tells him, willing to put up with the comments made about him but drawing the line at you and the children being insulted. Even if it was meant to just insult him. “I don’t like you. I know you love her and worry about her safety but all your comments just push her away.”

“I don’t like you either.” Daemon agrees. Not liking the man entirely because of the man’s father.

“I know you’ve made it obvious, the difference between us is that I keep my comments to myself for the sake of the women I love.” Gwanye says, not caring about insulting the man anymore and just deciding to speak his truth. “I don’t like you, I never have and never will but I know that my wife loves you and my children deserve one grandparent in their life so don’t fuck it up.”

“What about Otto?” Daemon asks, having assumed that the man was active in your lives. Him still believing that Otto orchestrated your whole relationship.

“We don’t talk.” Gwayne says simply him having cut contact with his father a few years before. Him only speaking with Alicent every so often to update her on Daeron.

“Why?”

“He called my wife a whore and Lorcas a bastard given the boys hair.” He responds still angry about it.

“He has his grandmothers hair.” Daemon says in slight confusion, the boy having dark hair like your mother.

“We know that, but he thinks he’s Harwins.”

“Is he?” Daemon asks curiosity, having been wondering since Rhaenyra mentioned you all sharing a bed.

“Is that important?”

“No.” Daemon relents, Lorcas being his grandchild either way. “How many times have you slept with my wife?”

“I’m not answering that.” Gwayne says, smile appearing on his lips when he sees Joffrey and Lorcas playing hide and seek together.

-

“Are you alright?” You ask as soon as Gwanye appears back in the room. The older children having run off to get food from the kitchens. The younger playing on the floor, not paying attention to you and Gwayne.

“Stop panicking my love.” He says joining you on the large chair, arm going over your shoulders to bring you closer. Kissing your head as he does so. “He’s apologised.”

“Really? My father apologised?” You ask, not believing the man. Daemon only having apologised to 3 other people you included.

“He did, he also asked how often we’ve slept with Rhaenyra.” He whispers into your ear, smirk on his lips, finding the question hilarious.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” You sigh before looking into your husband eyes. Not feeling like you show him you love him often enough despite you telling him daily. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He says giving you a soft kiss placing his hand on your stomach. “Now, what are we going to name this one?”

-

Bonus

“No!” Ormund shouts Gwanye having just told his cousin the news. You all arriving back home a day ago, Rhaenyra having a little boy a few days before that.

“Ormund.”

“Eleven dragons!” Ormund interrupts, having enjoyed his time without smelly dragons and sticky children. “Eleven fucking stinky dragons! That’s not even including the other one that comes to see your wife’s one! I was happy you’re continuing the Hightower line but I refuse to have more dragons!”

“No.” You say looking at both men, despite for when you can all be together again. You and Gwayne arriving back in kingslanding only the night before. “I want to lick them.”

“Darling.” Rhaenyra whisper hisses with a laugh, her also having the same thoughts but more self control. “Oh gods you’re actually drooling.” She laughs wiping your lip with her thumb, you kissing it before anyone can notice. “Later.”

“Why do we have to wait?” You whine, feeling like you’re being tortured. Not having touched her or Harwin since your last visit over a year before.

“Because it’s the middle of the day.” She says raising an eyebrow at you. Her and Harwin having planed the night ahead, both having been looking forward to it.

“You’re no fun.” You pout going back to watching your men train. Licking your lips when Gwayne throws some water over himself to cool down.

-

“How come gwayne doesn’t have to wait?” You whine, Gwayne having pounced on Harwin as soon as the doors locked. Rhaenyra not letting you do the same to her, making you go slow.

“Because he knows how to wait.” She smiles giving you a quick kiss, pulling away before you can even attempt to deepen it.

“So do I.” You pout, everyone knowing you’re lying. Whimpering at the sight of Gwanye pushing Harwin down onto the sofa and straddling the man while Rhaenyra moves behind you, kissing your neck while she loosens the ties of your dress. “Please nyra.”

“Wait.” She says giggling, loving how desperate you are. All your lovers having been deliberately teasing you all day. Gwayne starting the day by waking you up with kisses then running off before you could go any further. Rhaenyra having been sneaking kisses all day while Harwin has just been giving you looks and calling you princess.

“Have some patience Ser Gwayne.” Harwin mumbles against his lips, Gwayne having already removed both the men’s shirts and starting to undo the guards breaches. “We have all night.”

“So it’s not just you who had an issue with patience.” Rhaenyra teases, all going to plan as she pushes your dress of you, leaving you naked in the middle of the room. “You naughty girl.” She says, lightly slapping your arse at the fact you're not wearing anything under your dress. Both men looking over at the sound.

“Really my love?” Gwayne asks with a laugh, knowing you’d do something like this. The knight moaning when Harwin grinds up against him. The dark haired man looking you up and down while Rhaenyra runs her hands over you. Stopping at your breasts to squeeze your nipples, loving the gasp that leaves your lips.

“Do you want to join me in bed and leave the boys to it?” She asks, hands still playing with your nipples.

“Yes please.” You sigh out, leaning into her slightly.

“Good girl, you’ve found your manners.” She coos, taking your hand to lead you to her bed. “Lay down for me.”

“Please kiss me nyra.” You beg, loving kisses.

“I always forget how desperate you are.” She teases looking at you while you lie on the bed waiting for her. The silver haired woman undoing her robe and leaving her as naked as you. Her smirking when you bite your lip and look at her up and down.

“Please my queen.” You beg, desperate for her. Despite for any of your lovers.

“That’s treason my love.” She says lightly, climbing on the bed to join you. Moans coming from the other side of the room but you to focused on Rhaenyra to care.

“No it’s not.” You deny pulling her down into a kiss. Her hair down and covering the two of your faces.

“Isn’t it?” She asks biting your lip, and moving you so her thigh to between your legs.

“No, you’re my queen.” You say whimpering when she stars moving her thigh your already wet cunt making a mess on her. “Please nyra.”

“Please who?” She asks kissing down your throat, nipping at your sweet spot.

“Please, my queen.”

“Good girl.” She mumbles, you whimpering as she kisses down you. Stopping at your breasts, her having been wanting to suck on them all day. Taking your perky nipple in her mouth she runs her tongue over it before giving it a suck. Making you moan when she plays with the other, her mouth still on you. “Fuck I’ve missed these.”

“Fuck Gwayne.” You hear Harwin moan out, the man groaning. You able to tune out their noises until you hear your husbands name. Gwayne on his knees sucking on the man’s cock, looking so beautiful as he does so.

“Eyes on me.” Rhaenyra says taking your face in her hand and bringing it back to looking at her.

“But-.” You’re cut off by her sticking her thumb in your mouth, you immediately sucking on it.

“Princess.” She says firmly, wanting you to herself for a while. “Good.” She smiles tapping your cheek before going back to work, this time skipping your breasts and moving down between your thighs. “Oh you poor girl you're dripping.” She coos, hands on your thighs while she looks at your dripping cunt. Teasing you further by kissing around where you need her.

“Please.” You beg needing her.

“As you wish.” She says pressing a soft kiss to your pearl before sucking it making you moan. Slipping two fingers in without warning making you gasp at the sensation of it all. “You taste so good.”

“Fuck.” You moan hand going to her sliver hair, tugging it lightly.

“Good girl.” She murmurs into you, the vibrations of her voice making you whimper. While she sucks at your pearl fingers exploring to find your spot. Smirking against you when she finds it, you just moaning in response.

“Nyra.” You whimper, clenching around her. Feeling your orgasm build, her being mean by removing her mouth from your pearl to blow on it making you squirm, not only the loss of her but also the cool sensation. Her then licking at you again. “Fuck please.”

“Can I have a taste?” Harwin asks, making you and Rhaenyra jump. You whining at the loss of her. Nether of you noticing your men appear by the bed. Gwanye dramatically flopping on the bed next to you. Making you laugh at the look on his face, him just kissing you in response. Mumbling about how much he loves you, the taste of Harwin still on his lips.

“Fine.” Rhaenyra fake huffs, moving away from your thighs to pull Harwin into a kiss letting his taste you on her lips. “You can have her now.”

“Thank you, my love.” He says softly, giving her another kiss before taking her place in between your thighs.

“Gwanye make yourself useful.” Rhaenyra says tapping the man so he stops kissing you, Harwin immediately pulling you further down the bed as soon as your lips part. Making you gasp when you legs get moved to his shoulders the man not wasting any time before he starts licking at you. Groaning at the taste.

“Sit on my face princess.” Gwanye says not wanting to move and also loving having his face ridden. “I shall be your throne.”

“Shut up.” She says rolling her eyes while doing exactly as he asked. Stradling his face, the man immediately pressing his tongue against her. “Fuck.”

“Fuck Harwin.” You moan, him finding the perfect rhythm of tongue and fingers, the man making you see stars. “I’m going to cum.”

“Cum for us.” Rhaenyra commands through gasps and moans Gwanye being annoying good at oral. Your husband moaning against her when she pulls his hair.

“Oh shit, fuck.” You pant your orgasm crashing over you. Harwin slowing to help you through the after shocks. “Fuck.”

“Gwayne if you stop I’m going to kill you.” Rhaenyra threatens when she feels his tounge slow. Him mumbling some unintelligible against her but continuing.

“Are you alright princess?”

“More than alright.” You say smile on your face. “I’ve missed you both.”

“I’ve missed you both too.” He says moving off the floor and onto the bed to give you a soft kiss. “You’re husband is getting hard again.” He whispers into your ear sharing a smile with you when you move over to your husband. His half hard cock red and dripping.

“Oh fuck.” Rhaenyra moans when Harwin kisses her, his hands on her breast as he moves behind her to help her keep rhythm. “I’m close.”

Gwanye just making noises from under her when you kiss his tip, him bucking his hips in response. A groan running through him as you lick along a vain pulling away from him when Rhaenyra cums. Making his whimper at the loss.

“You alright nyra?” You ask, her hair a mess as Harwin helps her lay down on the bed.

“I’m fine, just give me a moment.”

“Good.” You smile before pulling Harwin into another kiss and straddling him, his hard cock nudging at your entrance. His hand guiding it into you. Making you gasps as you forget how thick he is. Gwanye being longer but not as thick.

“Wait what?” Gwanye asks whining at the sight of you on Harwin instead of him. “Why?”

“If you’d of fucked me this morning like I asked i’d be riding you, but you didn’t so.” You tease, moaning when you start riding. Knowing that gwayne isn’t actually upset or annoyed, him loving to watch Harwin fuck you just as you like the same.

“I love you, you evil woman.” He sighs massive smile on his face kneeling to give you a kiss.

“I love you too.” You mumble against his lips, moaning against him when Harwins cock hits your sensitive spot.

“Less talking more fucking.” Rhaenyra says pulling Gwayne towards her. Her refusing to admit she’s missed him.

“And I thought you didn’t like me Rhaenyra.” Gwayne teases before kissing the woman, her biting his lip in punishment. “So bossy.”

“Fuck.” Rhaenyra moans when he pushing into her, letting her adjust for a moment before fucking her.

“Shit.” You whine, orgasm building as he plays with your pearl still sensitive from your first orgasm.

“You feel so good.” Gwayne groans into Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

“Can I?” Harwin asks when he notices you struggling to keep your pace, you wanting hard and fast.

“Please.” You whine, gasping when he moves so quickly next thing tou know you’re on your back and he’s fucking into you. “Oh fuck.”

“Gwayne, fuck.” Rhaenyra moans, his thumb on her clit bringing her closer to her second orgasm. Harwin bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. Your clenching bringing him with you.

“Fuck I’m going to cum.” He groans, not letting up on his pace. “Where do you what it?”

“In her.” Gwanye answers for you. You both having spoken about it before hand.

“You sure?” Harwin checks, not wanting to cross any lines despite how much he wants to fuck you full.

“Fuck her full of you.” Gwanye pants out, fighting his own orgasm. “Fuck nyra let me cum in you.”

“Please.” You and Rhaenyra beg as your orgasms hits you, Harwin fucking you thought it when he cums. Gwayne doing the same before both men pull out. You and Gwayne whimpering at the loss, Rhaenyra and Harwin sharing a look as you do so.

“Oh fuck.” Gwanye groans flopping back on to the bed between you and Rhaenyra. Harwin getting up to collect some cloths to clean you all up when you cuddle into your husbands side. Cum leaking out of you.

“That was…” Rhaenyra starts to say but unable to think of a word able to describe that.

“Incredible?” Harwin offers, passing Gwanye a cloth to clean you up while he does the same to Rhaenyra.

“We’d all make brilliant whores.” Gwanye muses kissing the side of your head while moving closer to you so Harwin could fit.

“Gwanye!”

-

Taglist

@constantlyscreaming123

@or-was-it-just-a-dream

@sam2007sstuff

@distinguishedvoidlady

“How so?” Your husband asks kissing your shoulder.

“I want to stand with my sister.” You say, knowing she’d do the same for you. But not willing to risk your son’s life. “But Daeron will be a risk to her claim so I don’t know what she’ll do with him.”

“What of Aegon?” Gwayne suggests half heartedly, not liking his nephew’s. Him thinking them both the furthest thing from how prince’s should behave.

“You know as well as I he will be a cruel king, especially with Aemond by his side.”

“So we need to think of something that will keep all the children safe.” He says, voicing your thoughts. Also wanting to find a way Daeron will be safe from all possible harm.

“I have an idea, a terrible idea but an idea nonetheless.” You say turning around to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His still on your waist.

“What is it?” He asks up for any suggestion. The children meaning the word to him.

“We claim he’s ours.” You say quietly, not wanting to risk anyone possibly overhear your idea.

“What?”

“We say that the real reason he was send to ward was because I had him out of wedlock and Alicent and my father covered it up.” You elaborate, it being an incredibly risky idea.

“Everyone would think you a whore.” Gwayne rebuttals thinking it a good idea otherwise.

“They think that anyway.” You quip with a sad smile, your husband’s incredibly religious family having never liked you. “It would keep him safe.”

“We could ask your sister to legitimise him as our son.” He suggests, continuing on knowing you won’t change your mind.

“We can claim he’s is mine alone.” You offer, not wanting to affect Gwayne’s reputation.

“My love, I say this with all the love and care in the world.” He says with a smile, brushing some of your hair out of your face. “That boy is the spiting image of a Hightower, even removing the hair.”

“He does look like you and Alicent.” You admit reluctantly, normally loving how much Daeron looks like Gwayne. Now finding it inconvenient.

“Exactly, so I’m going to be necessary for this scheme.” He says, thinking of the next steps of your plan. “How are we going to get anyone to believe it?”

“I was sick.” You say in shock, remembering that you kept coming down with the flu that year. The maesters unable to find the reason, it clearing up not long after Daeron’s birth.

“What?”

“When Alicent was with child I was sick a lot.” You say in excitement never more grateful about being sick. “I was hardly seen in court and I was confined to my chambers.”

“You’re a genius.” Gwayne say softly, pulling you into a kiss.

“I’m only a genius if this works.”

-

“Come on Kepa is riding with Daeron on Tessarion.” You say to the girls one you reach the dragon pitts. You all having to sneak away in the night so Ormund can’t stop you. “You’re with me.”

“But I want to ride Skrykos!” Rosie pouts, not understanding why you’re leaving. Let alone in the middle of the night and have to be quiet about it.

“She’s coming with us but we need to leave quickly.” You say, adjusting the baby carrier you’re wearing. You youngest child sleeping against you.

“Why?”

“We just do sweetheart.” Gwayne says checking you’ve got everything. Helping Rosie and Lily onto your dragon. “We’ll explain once we’re there.”

“I’m sorry.” Daeron whispers to you while you give him a once over to check he’s alright.

“What are you sorry for sweetheart?” You ask, knowing he hasn’t done anything to warrant giving an apology.

“It’s my fault we have to leave.”

“We would have to anyway as I’m Rhaenyra’s sister.” You reassure him, cupping his face in your hands as you give him a forehead kiss. “Now just follow me and fly close, your father will pretend he’s not terrified but he hates flying so you’re in charge.”

“Ok muña.” He says a soft smile on his face. Grateful that you and Gwayne chose to raise him. Him aware Ormund was supposed to.

“I love you.” You say firmly, needing him to know.

“I love you too.” He responds pulling you into a hug, carful not to squish his brother, before going over to his dragon.

“Come on Rosie, lily hold tight.” You say to your girls before you take flight.

-

“Why are you here?” Daemon demands watching you and your family climb of your dragons. Rhaenyra and Jace stood behind him. Jace having grown so much since you last saw him.

“I’m here to speak to my sister.” You say stepping forward, ignoring Gwayne’s look of worry when you pass him your young son.

“You mean the queen.” Daemon corrects, not trusting you as you’re now a Hightower.

“I mean my sister the queen.” You clarify know how your uncle is.

“Sister.” Rhaenyra pushing past daemon, ignoring his look. You both meeting in the middle of your family’s. Gwayne stood infront of the children wary about the whole thing, having passed Baelor to Daeron.

“Rhaenyra.” You say softly, having missed your best friend and sister. Before remembering yourself and curtsying to her. “I mean your grace.”

“What are you doing here?” She asks softly, having been worried you would betray her.

“With the Hightower as well.” Daemon interjects glaring at your husband, Gwayne just rolls his eyes at the dig.

“I’m here with my husband and our children for asylum.” You say ignoring daemon and giving all your attention to your sister.

“What of the Hightower prince? Daeron isn’t it?” Daemon interjects once again, clearly desperate to be included in the conversation.

“That’s what I want to discuss, in private preferably.” You say giving your uncle a look before looking back at your queen. “Please.”

“Come.” She say wanting you to follow her back to the castle. “Jace can take your family to the throne room while we talk.”

“Rhaenyra.” Daemon hisses not trusting you.

“You have my protection, for the time being.” Rhaenyra says ignoring her husband.

“Thank you.”

“Come, we shall speak.” She says taking your hand to lead you away. Gwayne greeting Jace with respect. Daemon following you after threatening your husband.

-

“I have a confession.” You announce, once the doors shut behind you. Hoping this is the right decision. Allowing your anxiety to show on your face as you know it will help you.

“What is it?” Rhaenyra asks, scared you somehow had something to do with her being usurped.

“Daeron isn’t father’s son.” You say blurt out, not looking at your sister while you say it.

“So Alicent had a bastard.” Daemon laughs flopping into a chair after pouring himself some wine. “How has the boy got a dragon?”

“He’s my son.” You ‘admit’ playing with your wedding ring in discomfort. Praying they believe you.

“What?” Rhaenyra asks in confusion, never thinking that would be your confession.

“You remember that I was sick and had to be isolated in my chambers when Alicent was with child? That’s because she wasn’t, I was.” You explain, taking the wine your sister offers you before she sits downs in shock.

“Why does he look like Hightower then?” Daemon asks, the most untrusting of the two.

“Because Gwayne is his true father.” You responded giving him a look as though it’s obvious. “Do you remember that tourney? The one that was for Jace’s nameday that Gwayne competed in?”

“Why didn’t you marry?” Rhaenyra asks, unsure of why you didn’t drink moontea or marry to cover it up.

“He wanted to, he kept apologising for ‘stealing’ my virtue.” You say with a slight laugh, actually quoting your husband. Him having kissed you before your betrothal and then feeling guilty for it. “But father was trying to marry me off to the Lannister’s and Gwayne had to leave back to old town the next day. I didn’t know I was with child until it was too late, so father made Alicent pretend he’s was hers.” You explain, looking at the floor as if in regret. “And well, you know the rest.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Rhaenyra asks, believing you. Having known how much you’ve cared for the boy since his birth. This being the best explanation for it as you never cared much for Alicent’s other sons, Helaena being different.

“Because it’s the best way to keep him safe.” You say, actually telling the truth. The realm viewing him as your son instead of your father’s would make him a lot safer. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Daemon asks, believing you. Him knowing he’d to the same for his children.

“You don’t.”

-

“Muña!” Lily shouts running over to you when you enter the throne room after Rhaenyra and daemon. Her agreeing to declare Daeron as your true born son. You picking up your youngest daughter and giving Gwayne a nod, letting him know everything has gone to plan. “Baelor bit me!”

“Oh no, that not good.” You say knowing your girl is being dramatic as he doesn’t have teeth yet. “How was it with your cousin?”

“Fine.” She says resting her head on your shoulder. “He talk with Kepa for ages.”

“Is it true?” Jace asks his mother, having been informed by Gwayne what you’ll of been talking about.

“Is what true?” Rhaenyra asks, looking at your family with a smile on her face. Wishing she had gotten to spend more time together with you before all this started.

“About Daeron?” Jace clarifies, not sure what to think but having a feeling it’s the truth. Why else would you go through all this trouble?

“That he’s my sisters true son? Yes he is.” Rhaenyra confirms, noticing the confused look on your eldest’s face.

“What?” Daeron asks looking between you and Gwayne. “What is she talking about?”

“We’ll explain everything later darling I promise.” You say gently, knowing you’ll have to lie. Your boy being too kind and soft for deceit knowing he deserves better.

“You have pledged your loyalty to me, so you may go to the Vale.” Rhaenyra declares, knowing Jeyne Arryn will allow it given your dragons. “You’ll be safe there, on the condition you look after my sons and when I ask you fly back and fight for me.”

“As long as it’s just me, we have a deal.” You say not letting your son partake in war.

“Deal, I’ll write you a letter to give to lady Jeyne. She’ll accept you.”

“Thank you Rhaenyra, truly.” You say to you sister wanting to give her a hug. Her notacing your hesitation and makes the first move, pulling you into her arms and holding you tight. “I’ve missed you.”

The rain had come and gone several times throughout the day. It was relentlessly pelting the top of his head now, as his men prepared to continue the march toward Tumbleton. He should not be thinking of your face, but you persist. You have only now just begun to leave him.

He cannot remember the shape of your nose well enough, nor the exact inflection of your voice. It comes to him in moments then promptly slips away. Soon, the rest of your features will be sentenced to the same fate, and if he survives the war, he will only be able to remember you as a fleeting figure deep in the crevices of his mind.

He hopes he does not survive the war.

Worst of all, he cannot escape the dream of a life with you.

You could be a sellsword, and I a scribe—I your wife, you had said. He had brushed you off thereafter, told you that you should not worry yourself with eventuality, and then he had distracted you with his mouth.

His decisions regarding you had only sealed the truth of his character. He cannot escape the fact that he is a coward, and the fact that he deeply abhors himself for what he let happen that day, and for what he did not do—but nothing will change now. He will continue the trek to Tumbleton, and he will continue the loop of war, like the dishonorable man he is.

He will continue to think about you. Of your smile, only brought on by the simplest of things and the most surprising of things, nothing in between. And of your unwavering loyalty to your mother—the thing he would never truly have for his own cause. And the fact that you loved him, you truly loved him—the fact that you said it, and the fact that he said nothing in turn.

He and his men were soon overwhelmed by enemy bannermen wearing black and red before he could cease in his reflections. And just as he had at the gates of the Keep, he had given up without a fight when they tried, letting himself be thrown to the ground without even reaching for his sword.

It had been a small ceremony, your coronation as Princess of Dragonstone. There were no high lords, and none of your siblings either. It was just your mother, her husband, and her council members, as well as the Dowager Queen and her own daughter. It was over quickly.

You begged and pleaded with your mother the day before to choose anyone but you. To choose Joffrey, as he was still young and learning—that you were too old and too overwhelmed with the war and with your duties “as a young maiden” to learn anything about ruling over the Seven Kingdoms.

They were all feeble excuses, but they were all you could think of in the moment your mother proclaimed you as heir. You never wanted to be queen of anything, and your mother knew it, which was why she had named Jace as Prince of Dragonstone despite your precedence over him.

She had apologized, and you could see sympathy in her eyes as you argued against it, but her decision was final. You were to rule as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms someday, probably with some noble house’s lord as your husband. Perhaps the son of your former betrothed—you believe his name is Benjicot. He was young, but closer in age to you than his father was.

Would you get to choose your husband? Perhaps your mother truly would force a marriage between you and one of the Dowager Queen’s younger sons as a way to secure peace. You hope not. One is mental, the other you know nothing of except that he is a Green.

The thought brings you back to many moons ago, when you had committed treachery with one of them. Not just any one of them, but the uncle of the usurper.

You find yourself thinking about him more as the nights grow restless—the day he had taken your maidenhood, the days following, and just how little you regret it. You hate yourself for worrying about him, but the heavy hum of nervousness persists. You have long already loathed yourself for your disloyalty.

The idea that Jace would understand brings you comfort in your dread only for moments before it is overtaken by the fact that he wouldn’t. Just like how your mother wouldn’t understand, nor your cousins. Not even your ladies-in-waiting.

Your kin would probably name you a traitor, and if they would not put your head to the sword, they would marry you off to some elderly lord, and your life would be squeezing out heirs until you died in the pursuit. You believe you deserve as such.

You wonder if he has already taken another lover. Perhaps he is already dead. His head rotting on a pike somewhere, body having been used as meat for hounds. You’d prefer that to it being used in pursuit of another’s pleasure.

If he is alive, he has probably forgotten all about you by now. The only thing on his mind must be survival.

“Open the gate!” a gold cloak had yelled, and the gates screeched against the gravel as they parted.

You had been called forward by your mother to view a gift from some bannermen on the roseroad. She had instructed a different gold cloak called Ser Manfred to accompany you to the King's Gate, the same spot where Gwayne had been taken from you weeks ago.

Something sudden and unfamiliar washes over you, worse than the chill—something indescribably dreadful, as if your entire life as well as your future had flashed before your eyes, and you see him for a split second behind your eyes. Him, Gwayne, the only man you have ever truly loved, there in your head and gone the next.

It comes back to you, in that moment, what you had said to him. You had told him you loved him in the haze of intimacy, and you hadn’t been in possession of your thoughts enough to see how he reacted, if he even reacted at all. Had he said it back? You cannot remember. If he did, you did not notice.

A little voice in your head whispers to you. You will see him soon enough. He will tell you then.

You squeeze your eyes shut a moment, as if to ease the voice away. It works for only a moment.

Two men on their horses amble in. You breathe a sigh, somewhat relieved yet all the more disappointed that he is not with them, and let your head drop to your chin.

He is, the voice whispers again, and your head jolts right back up.

A third horse has trudged in behind them in the time you had been recollecting your scattered thoughts. There he was—your man, Ser Gwayne Hightower, a thick rope tied around his middle and another binding his hands to each other.

He was thinner than you remember him being, and much more disheveled. Prickles of hair had begun to sprout on the lower half of his face. And his limp, restrained body was slipping off of his horse.

“He is going to fall.” You step forward, voice heightening as his frame curls further off the mount. “He is going to fall off his horse.”

At that, his body gives, and he drops to the ground with a heavy thud. It knocks the wind from his lungs and he heaves weakly, using the rest of his strength to try and flip himself over, to no avail. His throat is scratchy and you cannot make out what it is trying to say, but he attempts to speak nonetheless. All that comes out is slurred and nonsensical.

“What is this?” you ask the bannermen, who you now notice to have been letting out stifled chuckles at Gwayne’s peril with wide grins on their faces.

“Well…” one of them glances over to the other, the smile having been wiped from his face as he searches for a good enough answer for the sorry display. “It’s a Hightower, Your Grace.”

The other takes a single step forward, holding a proud finger up to get your attention. “Not just any Hightower—Otto Hightower’s eldest son.”

“And why haven’t you killed him?” you question.

The first bannerman shrugs. “We thought you might want to do it.”

You look back down at Gwayne. He has made it to his knees, torso curled toward the ground, but he cranes his neck up to look at you.

Your brows furrow and your pupils dilate, despite the sight before you. His brows are equally as downturned—more so, even, and you look away.

“I will not have him killed. Ser Manfred—” you turn to face him. “Take Ser Gwayne to the dungeons. Have him fed. I shall discuss the terms of his apprehension with my mother.”

Ser Manfred nods, moving forward to lift Gwayne up to his feet. Your eyes track the pair of them as they trudge across the yard, until they finally pass through a doorway.

“Your Grace—” one of the bannermen says. He clears his throat. “We were hoping—both of us—if there might be a… reward for our services—”

Your eyes haven’t left the doorway which Ser Manfred and Gwayne had disappeared into, and the bannermen’s speech does not draw your attention away from it.

“There shall be no reward,” you state.

You take off to re-enter the castle, heading in the direction of the small council chamber—where your mother had been meeting with her privy council.

Normally you would be with her—since you had been since being named heir—as a cupbearer for the council. You’d assumed they had been discussing something both incredibly important and incredibly confidential, and that was the reason why she had sent for you to attend to the arrival of the bannermen. Now, given who was with them when they arrived, you are unsure of her intentions.

You remember fragments of the day you returned to the Red Keep, but none of it is certain in your mind. You cannot recall the exact words you desperately uttered to your mother as you watched the gates lock you away from Gwayne, but you know whatever they were, they were much too honest. You cant remember what she said in turn, if she said anything at all.

You seem to have buried much of the last few months deep in your head. The fact that you have disappoints you, as most of it includes what happened on the roseroad with Gwayne. All you can recall is what you felt. The feelings you felt for the first time, and those you felt for the last time.

Now he is here. Here, as a prisoner of war, much like you were up until just weeks ago. Surely, you can protect him the same way he protected you. At least for a few moons. Until someone powerful enough calls for his death.

Once you make it to the small council chamber, the few of its members are already pouring out. You peek through the half-opened door, and sure enough, your mother sits at the head of the table. Judging by her strained figure that seeks to push itself further back into the chair than humanly possible, she seems vexed. You can only hope you don’t push her further.

The final council member files out, one you’ve yet to have seen before, and you slip inside. Hushed conversation dies down as the eyes of both her husband and her Mistress of Whispers fall unto you.

You step forward and replace your disconcerted expression with a calmer one. Your brows settle back over your eyes, and the corners of your lips turn up.

You offer her Mistress of Whispers a polite nod, and glance over to the man across from her. “Stepfather.” He nods back at your acknowledgement.

Your mother burns holes into you. She attempts the same, a happier face, but it comes out as a swift breath of air from her nose and a closed-mouth grin which is no doubt artificial.

It depresses with each second of silence on your end. You shake your head once to get the thoughts back to you—Gwayne—

“Gwayne,” you blurt. The faces of the White Worm and the Prince before you curl into something you can only recognize as amusement.

You lift your chin up anyway and clear your throat. “Ser Gwayne Hightower, Otto’s eldest. He has been captured by our men. He is currently held in the keep’s dungeons.”

“He escorted you from the Reach, did he not?” Daemon interjects, a finger pointed up and at you.

You look between him and your mother. She offers you a small nod, so you proceed. “That is correct, my Prince.”

“Wandering back into the dragon’s jaws, has he? The gall must run in the family.” He looks over to your mother, letting a smirk inch over his mouth. At her blank expression, he pushes himself into an upright position, intertwining his fingers together.

She exhales. “As Princess of Dragonstone, the choice is yours to make,” she begins. “The prisoner is yours to dispose of.”

“He must live, mother.” You find yourself wringing your hands together, unable to stop. Your mother leans forward. “To execute Otto Hightower’s eldest son just weeks after you did he, it serves their narrative of you, that you are cold-blooded, and merciless.”

Daemon’s mouth opens before your mother can reply. “Perhaps it serves us better to be seen as merciless—”

His words are cut off by the White Worm very loudly clearing her throat. You notice her head shake gently in his direction.

You clear your throat once more. “Lord Ormund Hightower already believes Targaryens to be a savage race. If we slaughter the Protectors of the Faith to near extinction, that would send a message to the—”

“Okay.” A tight smile strains your mother’s lips. She rises swiftly from her seat.

You think she might be leaving, so you open your mouth again. “We hold him, and let him rot in the cells under our watch, where he can be useful.” It is that last word, useful, that halts her.

Her chin drops to her chest. “If he stays in the dungeons, you will handle his confinement, and you will ensure he surrenders the…” her head shakes as she searches for a good word, “intelligence we require.”

She makes her way around the table and situates herself in front of you. Her hands rise to your arms, and then one brushes your hair from your temple, ignoring how it falls right back into place after. “Does that sound suitable to you, daughter?”

You nod, and she smiles sincerely. Her hand cradles your cheek for just a second more, and she departs. Her husband and the Mistress of Whispers disregard your presence as they follow after her.

The dungeons were empty, save for Gwayne. Your mother had all the prisoners “taken care of” throughout the week she had come back to power, you had soon discovered, the first of which being Gwayne’s own father.

Your loyal lady-in-waiting, Cissy, had told you it was a gruesome sight—one she was not even supposed to see, but she had been looking to see if you were with your mother when she had come to take back the Keep. You hadn’t seen her since the start of the war, as she had been forced to remain in the castle while you were away with your family on Dragonstone, becoming one of your cousin Helaena’s handmaids.

Cissy continued, describing in detail how your mother had been crying as she lifted Dark Sister, and first delivered a strike to his back instead of his head. The second blow had been the one to behead him, and she had ascended onto the Iron Throne, leaving footsteps of his blood on the path to it.

You had always thought your mother to be capable, and hearing the story of how it happened had left you somewhat satisfied. You were proud it was not her husband to do it.

Not only were the dungeons empty, but they were dusty all the more. Dusty, and with the stench of sweat, from the countless other prisoners held for nearly a century-and-a-half before you—the now-dead prisoners.

In spite of all you were taught as a child, even what you were told by the most exceptional of maesters in the entire realm, you cannot recall ever learning of a prisoner who ever survived the dungeons of the Keep. Or, of a prisoner who has ever escaped. Did anyone love that prisoner, though? Did they have someone to feed them hope while they rot?

Two white cloaks stand guard beside his cage. He’s been placed alone in one of the celled blocks, and thankfully not the one with the heavy steel door that truly confines you from any outside life. You recall Cissy telling you that Otto was held there.

“Leave us,” you instruct the guards. They hesitate for a moment, and share a glance between each other, but depart eventually.

Gwayne looks worse in the candlelit dim of the dungeons. He has not touched the food that has been provided to him, and it instead sits as food for insects.

His eyes are shut, you quickly find, and his head leans against the wall. You do not think he has ever looked so peaceful. But his eyelids peel open, and the natural scowl returns to him as quickly as his vision does.

You straighten your back and cease the staring.

“My princess,” he mumbles. His voice is still hoarse, but he can get the words out now. He uses seemingly all of his strength to push himself up from the ground.

You feel an urge to correct him, despite your insistence on the truth being anything but. “Your Grace.”

“Your…” His brows pull together. “What?”

Your hands are wringing again. “Jace is gone. I have been named Princess of Dragonstone. The Iron Throne is my birthright now.” The words feel like glass as they come up your throat. Your head bows to look at the dirt floor, instead of at his puzzled expression.

“I…” he mutters. “You remain my princess.”

You cannot bring yourself to look him in the eye for long. He finds it as easy as breathing. It must be why his gaze seems to pierce through you.

Your pointer finger begins picking at the skin around your thumb. “To be perfectly truthful, I’m not sure what to do with you.” On your other hand, your thumb runs against the backside of all the other fingers. You keep your eyes fixed firmly onto the floor.

He chuckles. “What does the Queen reckon you do?”

“The Queen and her council think it best that I kill you.” You inhale, and the softening of his features goes unnoticed. “Do you believe it? Me, killing you. It is madness, Gwayne.”

“If I must die, I am ready,” he murmurs, leaning his head against the cold metal of the cell.

Your hand has found a place on your sternum, rubbing back and forth, attempting to calm yourself. The thought of killing Gwayne was never certain in your mind—it would never be certain—and it brings you immediate distress. His brows knit together at the sight.

There is offense in your voice, alongside tremble. “I will not be your executioner.”

He looks up at you, genuinely pleading, as if you would not defy the stars to bring about his being. “But if it must be so, let the last thing I feel be your touch.” His fingers curl around the cell bars. “Even if it brings about my death. That is all I ask.”

You take a step closer, gently placing your hands overtop of his. “You will not meet the Stranger as long as you are down here.” Your forehead, wavering in its effort, lies against his. Gwayne shudders at the contact. “Besides, I’ve already discussed the terms of your confinement to my mother.”

You let your eyes shut, unable to look into his.

“I must go now,” you whisper, yet you do not move. Unsurprisingly, neither does he.

When you finally pull back, you see a single tear fall from the corner of his eye. Your hand comes up to swipe it away, and it lingers on his cheek for a moment longer, before you breathe a shuddery breath and push yourself away from him.

You were never particularly close to your grandsire, Lord Corlys Velaryon. You had only strayed further from him since the war begun, in both relations and distance—in fact, you do not think you have had a single conversation since long before you flew off to fight the Hightowers yourself.

It was a foolish decision. You realized that when you hesitated to rain fire upon their army, and directly after when you and Silverwing had been pelted with arrows—and as your body met the ground—and as the Hightower belligerents advanced to your position. It was certain as you watched your dragon fly away on your instruction, and as you began bleeding profusely from a shot to your shoulder.

The next few moons came and went, and throughout most of them, you were not conscious. You remember a man, a kind man, wearing green and protecting you from the danger that are men with fury. His face slips from memory. You remember all but that.

“I will not have her killed,” he had said. “I will not let her be a martyr for the Black cause.” And then you were out again.

You wonder if your sympathy for Gwayne comes only from your love for him, or also as a deeply-rooted need to requite that man for saving you. You reckon it is both. If not, he had certainly taught you something valuable about negotiation. The idea to keep Gwayne alive for such a reason wouldn’t have come to you if not.

Your grandsire was there in the Gullet when your brother was shot down a similar way. Only he did not live, and neither did Vermax. You find that the gods have a curious way of letting someone such as yourself live over someone so brave and steadfast.

Cissy tells you Corlys can be found wandering around the castle these days—that he does not seem to like it on the water very much. It is just your luck to find him in the gardens overlooking the Blackwater Bay.

“Grandsire,” you chirp, and he turns to face you. A smile washes over his face, certainly most curious as to why you are here, instead of attending to some other matters.

He steps closer to you, his hands linked behind his back. “Princess.”

You find it simpler not to correct him. “It is peaceful out here, is it not?” you look to the bay, and he mirrors you. It is not just idle talk. It truly is peaceful. It is enough to make the feigned smile on your face falter.

“Indeed,” Corlys murmurs. “I find myself out here more often than not these days.”

You take a step forward, so that you are standing next to him instead of behind. “I was pleased to hear of Ser Addam’s knighthood. It is most wondrous news.”

He nods. “The Queen does not find it suitable to acknowledge him, nor his brother Alyn, as trueborn seed.” You look to him, and there is a subtle scowl on his face.

Good, you note. You can use that.

You look back to the sea and lessen your tone. “It is a cruel thing, grandsire.” He turns his head slightly toward you. “To watch men fight and die for the throne, just to be slighted by the council in return.”

The words, treasonous to anyone but the two of you, flow naturally. You yourself have been slighted in being named heir, and so has your grandsire with his own bastards—it is foolish of you to think your mother would understand your love for someone forbidden just because she has experienced such herself.

Lord Corlys looks through you to find no traps, but unfamiliar sincerity in its place. It frightens him. “What is it you want of me, child?” he demands.

Your lips press together. There are endless risks to practically unveiling your fondness of Ser Gwayne to the Lord of the Tides. You will give the crown away—no, you will give yourself away if you have made the mistake of telling the wrong man of your necessities.

The risks, however, seem so small over the benefits. Gwayne is the benefit. Knowing you saved an honorable man—one of the few honorable men you have ever known—is the benefit. There is not much for you to lose at this point, except him.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower, the eldest son of Otto Hightower, has been captured by our men.” Your nails dig deep into your palms. “He sits in the dungeons now, where he will rot away unless I do something about it.”

His jaw twitches. “He is the enemy. The usurper’s uncle—” he stops himself, realizing the irony of his words. He does not have to feign in your presence.

“On each side of the war there exists those both principled and unprincipled,” you continue. “Most seem to lose their honor as time goes on, but he has not. I have seen it myself, for weeks on the roseroad and while in capture, and I know I am correct in saying he does not deserve to lose his life behalf of the throne.”

You let your tone soften, as to appeal to the weary man before you. “We have both known many who have died in the pursuit of war. Surely there are those on the opposing side you wish were not our enemies.” Your hand finds a place on his forearm. “If you assist me with this, grandsire, I will ensure that when the crown is mine, Driftmark will have its due.”

He looks into your eyes. Your brows are pivoted upward, and it feels as though they are touching your hairline.

What you see in his are those that have seen death—much death. The lines that etch onto his forehead in defeat have felt the pain of losing a brother, losing his children, losing his wife, losing his grandchildren, all for it to culminate in the ascent of your mother to the throne. You can sympathize with him. He can see that.

He takes your arm into his. “Walk with me, my girl.”

The two of you proceed further into the gardens, to a secluded area, where you will secure Gwayne’s fate as the first prisoner you know of to escape the dungeons of the Red Keep.

You find lingering around the dungeons as your grandsire seems to find himself around the sea. Some days you do not enter, some days you do, and stand out of view of Gwayne, instead settling to bask in his presence.

It is surprisingly difficult to lay under the weight of his heavy gaze. The last time you did, you could not handle it for long, and excused yourself before you could even speak a word to him.

You must inform him of what you have planned. It will take place just two moons from now—a commotion large enough and near to the dungeons will occur, and Gwayne’s newly-replaced guards will be called to help. Someone will guide him through the hidden passages of the Keep, and he will meet Corlys to be escorted to one of the trade vessels that will then be shipped off to Essos. He will survive, and he will live the life you had planned together, with or without you.

You do not know yet whether or not to follow them. You are unsure if you could just leave your life and your kin behind—you think you could, but in the moment, you might stray away like you had in battle.

Gwayne perks up at the sound of your voice, as you order the guards away. Your body, clad in only your shift and a cloak over it, unveils itself. Your hair has been braided—he presumes you have snuck out before bed to visit—and you smell sweet and flowery, a stark contrast to what Gwayne has been used to in the days since his capture.

In turn, he has only grown more unkempt since you have last seen him. You deeply pity him, all while you assume he has anything and everything but the stress of how he looks on his mind.

You hope the news you bring to him will ease the thoughts that must be swarming through him constantly. He is, no doubt, incredibly lonely—especially as he is being guarded by two men incredibly resolute in both silence and dedication.

“Sit.” You point to the pallet hanging by chains to the wall. He obeys almost immediately, watching you as you unlock the cell door, and as you find a place beside him.

In your hands, you hold a bowl of soap, a blade, and a small cloth. You turn your body to him, putting your leg up onto the pallet and letting the other hang, and shift closer.

“I haven’t seen you for many moons, my princess.” His voice comes out hoarse. That seems to be normal for him now.

“I apologize.” You take the cloth into hand, dunking it into the soapy water. “I’ve had many duties to attend to.” A lie. You’ve spent much of your time hovering around the dungeons and considering whether or not to enter and see him, all to decide not to.

The cloth is gentle as it passes over his jaw, which you notice to feel considerably sharper. “Have you been eating, Gwayne?” you mutter, watching as his grime dissolves onto the material.

He sighs, his head dropping and forcing your touch to cease in its ministrations. “What they give me is fit for hounds, not humans,” he murmurs, a faint smirk touching his chapped lips. “So, no.”

You bring a hand to his chin and force it back up, continuing to wipe away at the filth on his face. In spite of it all, he remains as beautiful as the day you realized it such in the flower field. You would tell him, but he seems to not want to hear it.

“You must get your strength up.” Your cloth passes over his cheek, and he winces. “You are a knight, after all.” You find a blueish bruise under all the grime, no doubt from the bannermen.

His brows knit together. “What are they going to do with me, my princess?” he questions, truly concerned and all the more desperate. His self-destructive exterior seems to have fallen.

“I’ve already told you. You will not die here, not under my command.” You swipe the cloth over the other cheek, softer this time.

“But what after?” he says.

You do not falter in your movements. “What do you mean?”

“If you manage to trade me to Ormund, what then?” he begins, voice cracking slightly. “Am I to stand in the Reach and fight a war I do not believe in? Away from you, never knowing if I will see you again?”

“Gwayne, I do not plan for you to be given back to Oldtown.” You take his hand and put the cloth into it. “Wipe your face.”

He obeys, and you ready the blade to shave the stubble from his lower face. You mix the soap and the water once more until it foams.

“What do you plan to do with me, then?” he questions, flipping the cloth over to the unsullied side to scrub his face harsher than you had. Painful as it looks, it is more effective than what you had done, and takes nearly all of the dirt off in one fell swoop.

You lather his face in the foam, and grab the blade from beside the bowl. He flinches back.

“I used to watch my brother when he would have it done by the maesters. I know enough.” You smirk, pressing the blade against his skin. He settles, letting the fine material scratch against his jaw.

“Do you remember what we talked about—escaping to Essos together?” you ask, and his eyes seem to brighten. Yours only falter at his reaction, and at your uncertainty to truly do what the two of you promised. “In two moons, you will. I have planned with my grandsire to get you on a ship headed there. You will be provided with just enough coin to live until you find a suitable trade—”

“What about you?” he interjects. You hadn’t noticed how his gaze has softened into something sad since you have continued speaking—since you have been focused on the scrape of his stubble against blade.

You pause. “As of this moment, I am more focused on your escape rather than mine.”

“I want you to come with me.” He takes your free hand into his. It makes you freeze again.

You shake your head, continuing to shave his face. “I cannot leave Silverwing.”

“She can come,” he pleads.

You scoff. “Gwayne, you’re amusing.” The blade against his skin presses harder as it drags down. “A dragon on a merchant ship—one that just so happens to carry an escaped Hightower?—”

Gwayne suddenly recoils backward, the hand that had just held yours now gripping onto the area you had just shaved down on.

You look at the blade in your grip. The tip is covered in red. “I apologize,” you mutter, nearly curling in on yourself and preparing for him to berate you.

“Nothing I haven’t felt before.” His thumb swipes the blood away. You look back up at him.

He looks like a different person, you realize, being clean and shaved with cuts and bruises all over his face. His eyes, though, are still the same. They still hold that deep, heavy sadness in them, as if he has been holding the weight of the world on his back.

Your head moves forward before you can get the sense to stop. Your lips are on his before you know it and it feels immoral, but you do not stop.

His lips are dry but pliable and they do not fight for power over yours. He lets your mouth almost entirely envelope his, and he lets your tongue find a place in his mouth. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

You let your cloak fall from your shoulders and onto the pallet before you, and without releasing his lips from yours, you straddle his hips.

Your linen shift has dragged up to your waist with the movement, leaving your bare cunt to rest on his clothed crotch. The noise that comes from your mouth and rings through him at the contact is humiliatingly desperate, but still, you do not waver.

Your hands come down to the edges of the cloth, and you pull it from your body, leaving yourself entirely bare before him. If the guards were to walk in, you would be in the most compromising of appearances, but it is the last thing on your mind.

You kiss him again. “I’ve missed you.” You kiss him. “So much.”

His hands finally rest on your hips, subconsciously dragging them forward to grind onto his bulge.

The two of you moan loudly together, and your hand comes up to smack over his mouth. Beneath it, he only pants harder as you take over in rocking against him. His head hits the wall once he lets it fall back, and his eyes squeeze shut as you persist.

He brings a hand up to your lips, and two of his fingers brush over the bottom one before pushing inside. You welcome them, sucking down and bobbing your head unto them. The thought of how dirty they must be—what they must be dirty with—does not even disconcert you in the moment.

Your hand covering his mouth comes to grip his wrist, using it to guide his fingers further past your lips. There isn’t much of an objective to it—you simply want to feel him everywhere, to taste him, to love him.

He watches you while you do it, blue eyes all big and glossed over, never moving from your face as you take his digits with such a desperate vitality.

The lack of physical contact you’ve experienced since returning home and the overexposure of it now with Gwayne paired together provide a brisk approach to your climax. You pull his fingers from your mouth and mash your lips onto his once more, all while rocking back and forth onto him, chasing the feeling you’ve forced yourself to forget in fear you’d never experience it again.

But you are feeling it again. And it could very well be the last time. So you let it wash over you, your unrestrained sounds being muffled by his mouth. He begins to grind up into you and you mirror his movements.

It comes over you quickly and washes away at the same pace. Like it does not want you to savor it, because perhaps it would be the last time, and you should be weaned off from his touch. Nevertheless, your body spasms and shakes overtop of his, and you can still feel bliss—even as it leaves your body and replaces itself with something similar to shame—coursing through you.

You pulled away from his mouth at some point, your lips sheen with his own saliva, and let your head drop to his shoulder. He pants against your ear all the same, trying to catch his breath, despite not even reaching his own climax. Still, he does not ask for anything in return.

“You told me Silverwing is large enough to saddle two.” His breath returns to him, slowly, though you still feel his chest jumping up and down when you push yourself from it to look him in the eye.

You shake your head after a moment’s silence. “The arrangements for your departure have already been made.” The floor is cold and rough against your bare feet, attached to weakened legs, but you do not let it show. “They will remain unchanged.”

“Then follow us,” he offers, reaching forward to tug your shift back down over your legs, letting his hands linger there for a moment before pulling back.

“It is not safe.” You grab your cloak, placing it over your shoulders.

He scoffs. “What are men compared to dragons?”

You let a heavy sigh come from your mouth, trying to communicate your weariness to him. “I shall consider it.”

“You must.” He steps forward, reaching a hand out to gently hold your wrist. “You will die if you do not flee your place here, if you do not relinquish your titles—”

“How can I be sure this is not just a ploy to weaken my mother’s rule?” you interject, and let your wrist jerk away from his grip.

His jaw clenches at your words. For a heartbeat, his brows jump to his hairline in pure disbelief. “You do not think my love for you to be genuine?”

You cannot deal with the arguing, not now—so you turn to leave, pulling your cloak hood over your head. Perhaps he can settle his own thoughts in the time you are gone. You might be gone for a long, long time. You might even be gone forever, and he may never see you again, so he’ll be able to do a lot of thinking without you there—

“I love you,” he says, and every muscle in your body hardens, rooting you to the ground which you stand.

From the corner of your eye, you see him standing there, hesitating to take even a single step further. He hesitates even to continue speaking. You notice it, when you finally look back to him, in the way his lip quivers.

“Must I say it a million times? I love you. I have loved you since your dragon fell into our encampment. I will love you until I meet the Stranger, and if there exists a life after death, I will love you there too.”

You move back slightly as you shuck your arms into the sleeves of your cloak. His fingers instinctively twitches toward your hand when it comes back down to your side.

He takes another step until he stands right beside you. “I would like you to live out the rest of your days in rest and tranquility. I shall swear myself as your protector if that is what it takes. I shall swear fealty to your mother. Whatever it is, I shall do it. Just come with me.”

You press your lips together. The glint in his eye that grows the longer you look at him is almost depressing, because you know what must happen.

It takes your entire will to break your gaze away from his, and you shake your head. “It’s too late, Gwayne.”

He does not move. Not as you look back at him just once more before leaving the threshold of his cell block, not when you close and lock the door. He does not move a single inch. His expression remains the same, blank and dissociated, even as you walk off and out of his view.

An entire day had passed since you had last spoke to Gwayne, though it felt more like an eternity. You had not been so impatient since you were a child—since you did not have to be anything but.

You did not want for that to be the last conversation the two of you would share. It very well could be, since you do not have the courage to go down there and break your vow of silence, and because he has metal bars that confine him from doing so.

You’re still unsure of what to do. You do not think you should go with him, but you want to. And you are a princess—so what you want, typically, you get.

There was a small voice in your mind telling you that you did not know him well enough, that you should not go with him, and it would be unsafe, you would not be happy after just a few months, and you would miss home with no way to get back to it—but they were all silenced whenever you were tasked with another “duty” or whenever you had to serve as a cupbearer for your mother’s council.

They were silenced when you remembered how your brothers died—young and desperate and on dragonback. If you went with him, should you even bring Silverwing? She could be killed in Essos. It wouldn’t be the first time they have killed dragons there.

You did not need to add a number to the countless dragon deaths the war has produced already. Arrax, then Meleys, and most recently Vermax. The number should be zero, but battle still rages on. And Vermax will most certainly not be the last. Listening in on your mother’s council meetings has set that fact in stone.

Murders of gold cloaks in the streets throughout King’s Landing. The occupation of Tumbleton by Lord Ormund Hightower and his men. Aemond and Vhagar’s disappearance, a bounty to pay for his head. No word of the usurper’s body. These were only the recent tellings, and your mother has her own worries and petitions to deal with—Cissy tells you that she isn’t dealing with them very well.

Would you die if you did not follow Gwayne to Essos? The odds are higher with each passing day—even higher now that you have been named as your mother’s heir. You would not be leaving just for Gwayne’s sake, but for your own too. Possibly even your mother’s. Perhaps it would ease her to know that if she does not win the war, you would not be dead.

You loved her and you loved Gwayne and you loved the Red Keep to some degree, but above all, you loved living more. Your uncertainty regarding the gods had only grown since your mother had her throne taken from her. Even if there did exist some life after death, you would certainly be cycled through the seven hells, the sins you’ve committed.

You were not interested in the idea of death. Not until you’ve had children, at the most. Until you’ve left some legacy, something other than being Princess of Dragonstone, and even then—who knows? Your name might be erased from history if Aegon takes the throne once more. There is nothing to tell what he might do.

If you died now, your legacy would amount to nothing. In Essos, you could do something. Be something. You might not be remembered in Westeros, but you would be remembered somewhere. That mattered. Gwayne mattered. Your own opinion on what you should do in your life mattered.

You should not rule over the realm. You should not inherit the throne. You should live a life of peace. The life you dreamed of as a child in the Keep.

The night before Gwayne’s departure—and yours as well, you had decided—you find yourself outside your mother’s chambers. It was beyond late, and your body was exhausted, though your mind was restless and prevented you from dreaming.

The white cloak posted outside her door nods at the sight of you and lets you enter immediately.

Ahead, you see your mother lying on her featherbed. You cannot tell if she is feigning sleep, trying to catch it, or if she is truly awake. You step forward until you are beside her, fingertips grazing the quilt lying on top of her.

“Mother?” you murmur. Her eyes shoot open, and you nearly flinch back.

Her gaze softens when it reaches yours. “What is it, sweetling?” she questions.

It takes you a moment to find the words. “I cannot sleep.” You haven’t spoken them for over a decade, not since you were a child.

Instead of sending you back to your own chambers, or fetching a maester to make you some sort of tea like you had assumed she might, she slides over to make room for you.

You scurry under the sheets, her body warm and comforting as it lingers behind you. You pull the quilt up to your chin. Her arms wrap around your middle, and you take her hand into yours, squeezing your eyes shut.

You love her more than anything, in a way that is completely different to how you could ever love a man.

Someday, she will understand why you did what you are about to do. Perhaps she will not accept that it was you who did it, and that it was not some Green belligerent seeking to pain her further. You know what she suspects, though it is up to her to acknowledge the truth.

The words slip out. “I love you, mummy.”

You are so quiet, you do not even hear yourself. It is entirely possible that you did not say anything at all, and your mind is simply playing tricks on you.

Her breathing has already returned to a calmer state. She must have fallen back asleep. Your own fatigue hits you then, enveloped in her familiar hold, and you let yourself fall into dream. When you wake, Gwayne will have already gone, and you will follow him.

You dream about him that night, of him and all his beauty. He is not unclean like he has been the last few days, but polished in such a way one could only be by living a life of peace. The sun rises slow, but it illuminates his skin, and he looks to you.

You hear your mother’s voice somewhere distant. “I love you too, sweet girl,” she says.

Her grip around your waist tightens.

You had snuck from your mother’s chambers early that morning, before Gwayne had been set to leave. The cloak that Cissy had placed unto your shoulders was heavy, but you presume it is the pit settled in your stomach that weighs you down as opposed to the cloth itself.

She had fit managed to fit numerous bags of assorted coins, golds, and jewelry up your sleeves, “in case you needed them,” she had said. Her hands had held to yours for a moment too long, and then she had hugged you so tight and so sudden it nearly knocked the wind from your lungs.

You wrapped your arms around her just as firmly. You had known her since you were just girls, and she was essentially the closest friend you ever had. She let you go at some point, or you let her go. You’re unsure which is true.

The walk to the Dragonpit was long and grueling, but you made it without being spotted. Nobody would notice the Princess of Dragonstone out so early.

Silverwing was more than joyous to see you—to feel your touch against her silver scales.

The idea finds you as you watch her and Vermithor bring their snouts together with something you can only describe as affection.

Who would not notice a dragon as beautiful and luminous as she to be flying the skies? There is nothing to guarantee her safety in Essos. Sure, she could protect you, but it would essentially be torture to force her away from her mate and from her own kind. You are her kind, too, but there would be another with the blood of the dragon, another who Silverwing would accept as hers.

Some dragonriders that had survived the Doom had come to Essos, and then their people killed them and their dragons. There is nothing to say the same would not happen the moment you set foot in their realm. You would be even more of a target if you brought her with you.

You make your choice spontaneously. With a heavy breath, you press a parting kiss to the scale over her cheek, and immediately push back.

You have never run so quickly in your life to the seaside. It reminds you of when you were a child with your brothers, racing to the end of the courtyard and back. You will never be a child with them again, but they will live in your memory. You will live for them because they could not.

Your grandsire was a blur as you ran past him, but you could see for just a heartbeat the shock on his face which froze him in place as he watched you go.

The dock was pungent with the scent of salt and fish. You could not focus on it for too long—only the thought of which ship Gwayne was on, and how you would get onto it. Would he be glad that you decided to come with him? You’re certainly disappointed you cannot bring Silverwing, but the sadness has not hit you yet. You expect it will once you are with him.

You know it is the right thing to do. She would not be safe—you and Gwayne would not be safe. It aches, the more you think about it. You wonder how it feels for her. You wonder how it will feel for your mother once she finds out you are gone. What are you doing?

You’re already on the docks, mindlessly looking around at the countless ships around you. The wind blows your cloak hood from off the top of your head. You scramble to conceal yourself back, but you hear your name from behind you and you turn.

The person calls your name again, and you look up to find Gwayne.

He has his own cloak around his head. When you make eye contact, he immediately breaks it to speak to one of the shipmen beside him. The shipman nods at his indiscernible speech, and Gwayne looks back down at you again.

And he smiles.

You do not think you’ve ever seen such pure delight on his face. As the ship’s ladder is put back over, he does not look at it. There is not anything in the world he would rather look at than you. You are the only thing in the world now. You are his world now. He will protect you with his life, and he will be your husband if you so desire it, he will give you children if it is what you want.

Above all else, you will live a life of rest and tranquility like he had promised you would. He would never break a single one to you again. He will vow anything as long you stay willingly by his side. He cannot bare to see you go—never again.

He meets you halfway, pulling you up onto the ship with him when you make it mostly up the ladder. And he holds you by the waist for just a moment—just a single moment, a heartbeat, to see if you are real, to feel if you are real—and he kisses you. Gently. With chivalry. As an honorable knight should.

Essos was more than you dreamed it would be. You were safer without Silverwing by your side, though that deep emptiness often came to you as if you weren’t your natural self without it, and you missed her so desperately.

You missed your mother, your brothers, your father, Cissy, your grandsire, your grandmother. Sometimes even your cousin Helaena and her mother too. You missed sparring in the courtyard as children, you missed living the moments that are now just stories in your head.

But they are stories. Stories you will remember and cherish forever. You wonder how you will be remembered. If your mother would spread the word that you were perhaps killed, or if her anger would prevail over her devastation and she would tell of how you betrayed her. She would never, but the shame of your disloyalty often prevails over the truth of her character, and you begin to think untrue things.

In spite of all of it, you know it was best for you to leave. You did it to rid yourself of the weight of your mother’s rightful golden crown, to prevent your own and your love’s death, and to live how you hoped you always might be able to live.

Your life now reminds you of one you dreamed of as a child. It reminds you of the songs and stories you heard then, the ones that fed your fantasies of your future—the tales of honorable knights sworn to protect fair maidens, who would fall in love with them against their own vows. They would run off together and live in peace for as long as their hearts should beat.

Gwayne had proven to you that those knights truly exist. He had proven it in his devotion, and in his affection, and in the way he would chase your pleasure before his own—like now, as the two of you stir in the early hours of the morning atop your featherbed.

His lips placed a kiss onto the nook between your jaw and your neck, hands wandering down where they had originally held your body close to his.

He pulls your shift up to your waist, letting the fabric pool there, and his fingers graze the area right below it. You shudder once they find a place on your cunt, cupping and caressing it all while he breathes heavily onto your neck.

Your hips instinctively grind back onto his, and his forehead drops to your shoulder. You crane your neck back and press a kiss to the top of his head, and he lifts it so that he can look you in the eye then join your lips together.

As his mouth mashes onto yours, a finger breaches your folds, and you breathe a sweet little mewl into him. It starts to pump, albeit languidly, back and forth, forcing out gasps and whimpers from the depths of your throat—and he adds another digit.

His other hand glides up beneath your shift to grope at your breast, and his mouth finds its way back to your neck and up to your jaw before settling near your ear.

“What would you like to do this morning?” he drawls. His pace quickens, two fingers in and out, over and over.

You can’t quite make out any words to respond with. You manage to breathe out his name, earning from him a breathy chuckle, and another kiss pressed to the highest point of your cheekbone.

His fingers suddenly curl and press against the spongy spot inside of you. “Gods,” you mewl.

“No,” he murmurs, and kisses your jaw. “It's only me.”

His fingers begin to piston in and out of your cunt and your thighs press together, but the hand you had forgotten was on your breast swiftly comes down to pry them apart.

You feel it come to you, building slowly and ready to break like a gate against a Northern army, and you can’t find the voice to warn him.

He must sense it, though. He’s grown accustomed to your body over these few weeks, just as he had on the roseroad—only this time, there is no castle to return to, no limit to how much time you would be able to spend together.

“I know, sweet girl. I know, let go—“ he says, and you obey.

You’ve felt it many times for the many moons you have already spent together, but it feels incredible nonetheless. The heat courses from your loins up to the tip of your head and back down again, past your cunt and to your feet, and you feel bliss.

You spasm and writhe beside him, and his fingers do not stop—they only slow. Your moans turn strangled as you ride it out, languidly grinding yourself down onto his digits.

You do not notice how his eyes watch you, how his lips part in awe. His brows gently furrow at the sight of you falling apart from his touch. Nothing would take you from him again. Not the gold cloaks, not the Greens, not those pesky figures they call gods.

He was yours, and you would be his. One day you should find something close to a septon, if they have those in Essos, to certify that fact.

Once your body calms, he pulls his fingers from your cunt. You whimper, and he chuckles before rising from the bed.

You reach for him. “Indulge me a moment longer.”

When he turns, you notice the bulge beneath his smallclothes.

“I must prepare us a morning meal,” he utters, seemingly oblivious to how hard he is.

You shake your head. “We can eat later.” You reach for him again, holding out a hand. “Come back to me.”

He seems to consider disobeying you for a moment, but when his hand grips your own, you know you have him.

You pull him back toward you, and smash your lips onto his. Your hands move to hold his face against yours, and his keep him upright over top of you.

He swings a leg over your waist, lowering himself to his elbows so that his body touches yours. He shifts his weight to one of his arms so that he can take your breast into his warm palm once more.

You remove your own hand from his cheek to slide down his covered torso, and beneath his undergarments, gripping the base of his cock.

He inhales sharply at that, swallowing your breaths down his throat. Your lips curl up as much as they physically can.

“I’d like you inside,” you say after you manage to break apart from his mouth. He freezes for a moment, then nods. Sometimes, to him, it is still a wonder that you are real, that you are truly asking him to do these things.

His linens are shed within moments. When he presses into you, you feel it too. Awe, and astonishment, that you are together. That you genuinely made it to Essos with him. That this is only the beginning of the long life you will live together.

It feels odd that just months ago, this was only a dream. A far-fetched and idealistic dream, one that would never come true. Though now, as he thrusts into you and you soon enough feel that familiar tight coil start to unravel inside of you, you can truly accept the fact that it is real.

You truly should marry him. The concept of it does not matter much to you any longer, not when you have this life together in exile, but it seems a nice idea.

He spills his seed inside of you, but it does not occur to you to mind. Perhaps one day you will give him children. Perhaps you wont. You will not worry yourself with eventuality.

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Cregan watched the Prince, a man he had come to respect for his earnestness and his quiet strength—rare commodities in the courts of the South, where smiles were currency and oaths were spent as freely as copper stars. Jace bore the weight of his mother's cause with a dignity that belied his years, and that dignity stirred something in Cregan. Kinship, perhaps. Or simply the recognition of a fellow soul burdened by duty.

"You ask much of me, Jace," Cregan said, his voice a low rumble. His fingers, calloused from a lifetime of gripping a sword hilt, drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm on the worn oak of his table. It was the only sign of the turmoil coiling in his gut—a wolf caged, pacing, testing the bars. Duty and instinct warred behind his grey eyes, and he let neither win. Not yet.

Jacaerys—Jace, as he insisted—met his gaze steadily, the firelight dancing in his dark eyes. He did not flinch from the weight of the Lord of Winterfell's scrutiny. "I ask for an alliance, Cregan. A pact of blood, the oldest and strongest kind." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of a crown his mother had not yet worn. "My mother, Queen Rhaenyra, offers you something more binding than any oath sworn on a sword or sealed with wax. She offers you her daughter."

It was a curious thing, the way Jace spoke of his sister. A flicker of genuine affection softened his features, a warmth that contradicted the formal title he used. He called her "the Princess," a word that felt both distant and impossibly heavy, laden with the weight of a crown and the fire of a dragon. But Cregan caught the way Jace's voice gentled on the word daughter, the way his eyes grew distant and fond, as though he were seeing her not as a political piece on a cyvasse board, but as a girl he had grown up beside. A sister he loved.

A marriage with a Targaryen princess—the blood of the dragon, fire made flesh—would be a monumental match for the North. A tie to the Iron Throne that generations of Starks had dreamt of but never truly sealed. It would bind the North to the realm's destiny for a hundred years, perhaps more. His children would carry the blood of Old Valyria in their veins; his grandsons might ride dragons. The thought should have filled him with ambition. Instead, it sat heavy in his chest.

His duty was harsh, unavoidable, and cold as the stones of Winterfell. And yet, a knot of resistance tightened in his stomach, a wolf's instinct balking at a cage. He had seen the Southron courts on his rare visits, had witnessed the scheming, the glittering masks, the games where words were weapons and promises were as fleeting as summer snow. He had seen lords smile into their cups while plotting their host's ruin, had heard ladies whisper sweet nothings while their daggers were aimed at spines. Marriages of convenience were the cold currency of the South—a transaction to be negotiated, a price to be paid in lands and titles, a seal on a parchment that meant nothing once the wax was cracked.

For a Stark, marriage was more than that. It was the joining of two souls before the heart tree, a sacred pact whose roots ran deeper than any political treaty. He had watched his father kneel before the weirwood with his mother, had seen the way they looked at each other—not as allies, not as negotiators, but as two halves of a whole, bound by something older and more enduring than any crown. To make a vow before the Old Gods, whose weeping eyes in the weirwood trees saw all, and seal it with a kiss for nothing more than political gain... it felt like a desecration. A lie whispered in a sacred grove. He would sooner swear a false oath on his own sword and let the blade turn in his hand.

"I am honoured by your mother's offer, more than you can know," Cregan began, choosing his words with the careful deliberation of a man approaching a frozen river. One wrong step, and the ice would crack beneath him. "Your friendship is a treasure I hold dear, Jace, and I would not see it splintered on the rocks of misunderstanding." He leaned forward, the firelight carving deep shadows into the hard lines of his face. "But to marry a stranger... a Southron princess, no less... for nothing more than a binding of crowns..."

Jace's face, usually so open and earnest, grew a fraction more serious. He pushed himself from the fire, the warmth of the flames a sudden absence that left a chill in its wake. The shadows stretched long across the solar as he stepped closer, and Cregan caught the flicker of something fierce in the Prince's dark eyes—not anger, but something nearer to protectiveness. A wolf's instinct, he realized with a jolt. The same possessive fierceness that stirred in his own chest when he thought of his pack.

"It is not a mere transaction, Cregan." Jace's voice, usually so measured and diplomatic, took on a firm, sincere edge. "It is an act of trust. She is not just some princess to be bartered like a parcel of land. She is my blood, my sister." He said the word with a weight that made Cregan's chest ache with an unexpected kinship. "And I would not offer her hand to a man I did not respect. I have seen you lead. I have seen your honour." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as if imparting a secret that the very stones of Winterfell might covet. "She is not like the others. She is... unassuming. You would be surprised."

Cregan almost smiled. Unassuming. It was not a word one often used to describe a daughter of the dragon. He had heard tales of their arrogance, their silver hair and violet eyes that looked down on the rest of the world as if from a great height—as though the rest of humanity were merely ants scurrying beneath their dragon's shadow. He had imagined a spoiled princess, accustomed to the luxuries of King's Landing, who would wilt at the first frost, who would weep for lemon cakes and silk gowns while the North starved and froze around her. He had imagined a girl who would look at him—at his rough hands, his weathered face, his ancient keep—and see only a barbarian lord, useful for his swords and nothing more.

He held his tongue, however. He would not be swayed by sentiment, not even by the earnest pleas of a friend. His decision had to be made from the unyielding rock of Northern pragmatism. His people looked to him for survival, not for the indulgence of his heart. But he also could not offend his friend, and by extension, the Queen who held the fate of the realm in her hands. The realm that would soon bleed, if the whispers from the South were true. The realm that needed the North's swords, and the North's snow, and the North's stubborn refusal to bend.

He rose from his chair, the wood groaning in protest beneath his weight, and walked to the narrow window. The glass was thick and rippled, distorting the world outside into a blur of white and grey—a world of ghosts and half-seen shapes, where the boundary between earth and sky dissolved into an endless pallor. He could just make out the top of the weirwood tree in the godswood, its pale bark and blood-red leaves stark against the snow like a wound in the whiteness. The face carved into its trunk was watching, he knew. The Old Gods were watching. They saw all, judged all, and they did not forgive oaths made lightly.

"The North is a harsh place, Jace," he said, his back to his friend, his voice a low murmur that barely rose above the wind's lament. "The winters are long and dark, and the cold is a hunger that is never sated. It gnaws at you in the night, steals the warmth from your bones while you sleep, and whispers to you in the dark that you will never feel the sun again." He pressed his palm against the frozen glass, feeling the bite of winter seep through the pane. "The summer that graces the South is a fleeting dream here, a story told by old men to frighten children with tales of warmth. Your sister's dragon would be of little use against a blizzard, and her silks would be a death sentence."

He heard Jace shift behind him, the soft rustle of velvet and wool. When the Prince spoke, his voice was quiet but unwavering, carrying the same stubborn faith that had made him fly north against all counsel. "She is more than her dragon and more than her silks, Cregan. She is a woman who knows her own mind. I promise you this." There was a pause, a charged silence filled with the crackling of the fire and the howl of the wind battering the battlements like a living thing seeking entry. "I have a strange feeling about this. Perhaps it's the Northern air, but my gut tells me... you and her will get on."

Cregan turned from the window, the cold still clinging to his palm like a ghost's touch. He studied Jace's face—so open, so earnest, so young despite the weight he carried. The Prince believed what he said. That much was clear. And there was something in that belief that tugged at Cregan, a thread he could not quite name.

"Your gut," Cregan repeated, a hint of something almost like amusement flickering in his grey eyes. "You speak of a woman you have known your whole life, and you reduce her to a feeling in your belly."

He shook his head slowly, but there was no cruelty in the gesture, only the weary pragmatism of a man who had learned that feelings were treacherous things. "I have learned not to trust my gut, Jace. It has led me into storms I should have avoided, into battles I should have walked away from. It is a poor compass for a lord."

And yet, even as he spoke the words, he felt the faint stirring of something beneath his ribs. A curiosity he had not expected. A crack in the ice he had built around himself.

Jace stepped closer, close enough that Cregan could see the faint flush of cold on his cheeks, the determination in his eyes. "Then trust me," he said simply. "I have never given you reason to doubt my word. I am not asking you to love her at first sight. I am asking you to meet her. To see her as I see her—not as a princess, not as a bargaining chip, but as a person. And if, after that, you still find her wanting..." He spread his hands, a gesture of surrender. "Then I will return to my mother and tell her that the Wolf of the North is not to be tamed."

Cregan felt something shift in his chest—a loosening of the knot that had tightened there since the moment Jace had first spoken of his sister. It was not trust, not yet. But it was the beginning of something. A thaw. A crack in the permafrost of his heart.

"You speak of her as though she is a gift," Cregan said slowly, his voice a low rumble that seemed to fill the room. "But you have not told me what she wants. You have told me what your mother wants. What you want." He met Jace's gaze, grey eyes holding dark. "But what does she want?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than the smoke from the hearth. Jace was silent for a long moment, his expression shifting through a series of emotions—surprise, then consideration, then something that might have been respect.

"She wants..." Jace began, then stopped. He seemed to be searching for the right words, the truth beneath the diplomacy. "She wants to be seen. Not as a princess, not as a pawn, not as a dragon's daughter. She wants to be seen for who she is." He looked at Cregan, and there was a vulnerability in his eyes that he had not shown before. "I think she wants to be loved. Truly loved. The way the Northerners love—with loyalty and devotion and the kind of fierce commitment that does not waver when the snows fall."

The godswood of Winterfell was a different creature in the hours before dawn. The snow lay deep and undisturbed, a pristine blanket that swallowed sound and softened the world into something dreamlike—a realm suspended between night and day, between waking and dreaming. The hot springs that fed the pool at the heart of the grove sent up tendrils of steam that curled through the skeletal branches of the ancient trees, turning the air into a veil of silver and grey. The weirwood stood at its centre like a sentinel, its pale bark glowing faintly in the half-light, its carved face weeping red sap that looked almost like blood in the gloom. The eyes of the Old Gods seemed to follow him as he walked, ancient and knowing, weighing his soul in scales he could not see.

Cregan had come here to think. To escape the endless negotiations, the maps and letters and the weight of a war that had not yet begun but already pressed upon his shoulders like a stone. Jace's words had burrowed beneath his skin like a splinter, and he could not shake them. She is not like the others. You would be surprised. I have a strange feeling about this. The Prince's voice echoed in his mind, earnest and unwavering, carrying a conviction that Cregan found both admirable and unnerving.

He had not slept. The fire in his chambers had burned low, and the cold had crept in like a thief, stealing the warmth from his bones and replacing it with an unease that would not let him rest. So he had wrapped himself in his heaviest cloak—a mantle of thick grey wool trimmed with wolf fur—and walked through the silent halls, past the sleeping guards and the dying embers of the great hearth, until he had reached the godswood. Here, beneath the watchful eye of the Old Gods, he could think without the walls pressing in on him. Here, the weight of lordship seemed lighter, and the voice of the North spoke in the rustle of leaves and the whisper of steam.

He’s not alone.

At first, he did not see you. You are bundled so thoroughly against the cold that you might have been mistaken for a pile of furs abandoned by some careless hunter. You sit on a fallen log near the edge of the hot spring, your back to him, your breath misting in the air like a ghost's sigh. A hood of dark wool obscures your face, and your hands are tucked into a fur muff that looks far too fine for a servant but far too practical for a lady of the South – a contradiction that piques his curiosity.

Cregan pauses, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword—a reflex born of years of vigilance, of sleeping with one eye open and one hand on a blade. But there is no threat here. Only a woman, alone in the godswood at dawn, watching the steam rise from the water as though she had never seen anything so beautiful.

He should announce himself. He is the Lord of Winterfell, and this is his godswood, his keep, his domain. The words are already forming on his tongue, a formal greeting that would remind this stranger of her place. But something stays his tongue. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the strange, unaccountable feeling that he was witnessing something private—something that does not belong to him. 

You turn your head slightly, as though you sense his presence. The steam from the hot spring curls around you, and for a moment, you look like a figure from an old tale—a spirit of the grove, half-hidden in the mist. And then you speak, your voice muffled by the furs but carrying a warmth that seems to cut through the cold like a blade.

"You can come closer, you know. I don't bite."

Cregan blinks. It was not the voice of a servant—too educated, too assured. The words carry a confidence that speaks of someone accustomed to being heard, to being taken seriously. And yet it was not the haughty drawl he had expected from a Southron lady, not the sharp edge of entitlement he had heard so often in the courts of the South. It was... ordinary. Pleasant. Almost teasing. It is the voice of someone who does not feel the need to prove herself.

He steps forward, his boots crunching in the snow, each step a deliberate breach of the silence. "I did not mean to intrude," he says, his voice gruff with the chill, rough from disuse. "The godswood is usually empty at this hour."

You turn to face him fully, and he catches a glimpse of your face beneath the hood—young, with features that are striking rather than beautiful, a face that might be overlooked in a crowded hall but would linger in the memory. Your eyes glitter in the dim light like chips of dark glass, catching the faint glow of the steam and the first pale rays of dawn. You smile, a quick, unguarded expression that transforms your face entirely, softening the sharp lines and warming the coolness of your gaze. "I imagine it is. Most people prefer their beds to the cold." You gesture to the log beside you, a casual invitation that seems to cost you nothing. "I don't mind the company, if you're inclined to sit."

Cregan hesitates. It is foolish—dangerous, even. He knows nothing of you, not even your name. You could be anyone: a spy, an assassin, a player in the great game that is being played across the realm. And yet there is something in your manner that puts him at ease, a lack of pretence that is as rare as summer snow in the North. You do not simper or flutter. You do not look at him with the calculating eyes of a woman who sees only a title. He finds himself sitting before he has fully decided to, the damp wood creaking beneath his weight.

"I am Cregan," he says, offering his name as a peace offering. It was not a lie; it was simply incomplete. He did not add Lord of Winterfell, because he did not want to see the mask of deference slide over your face. He wants to see you—the woman who sits in the godswood at dawn, watching the steam rise as though it were the most beautiful thing in the world.

You tilt your head, studying him with an openness that is almost disarming. "I know who you are," you say simply. "Everyone knows who you are." You do not curtsy or bow. You do not simper or flutter. You simply look at him as though he were a man, not a title—a man who happens to be Lord of Winterfell, but a man nonetheless. "I'm..." You pause, and for a fleeting moment, something flickers in your eyes—hesitation, perhaps, or calculation. A shadow of a decision being made. Then it is gone, replaced by that same easy smile. "I'm a guest of Prince Jacaerys. He brought me here to see the North."

Cregan's brow furrows. A guest of Jace's. The Prince had arrived with a small retinue, but Cregan had not been introduced to any woman among them. He had been too consumed with negotiations, too preoccupied with the weight of Jace's offer, too distracted by the war that was brewing in the South to pay attention to the faces in the Prince's entourage. "He did not mention you," Cregan says, and he did not mean it as an accusation, though it came out sounding like one.

You laugh—a soft, warm sound that seems to belong in a different world entirely, a world of sunlight and laughter and easy joy. The sound echoes through the frost-laden trees, startling a bird into flight from a nearby branch. "He has been rather busy, I imagine. Talking to you." Your eyes sparkle with something that might have been amusement, or perhaps mischief. "I don't mind being overlooked. It gives me a chance to see things as they truly are, without all the... ceremony."

Cregan finds himself studying you more closely, his gaze tracing the lines of your profile, the curve of your shoulder, the way the steam curls around you like a living thing. Your hands, which have emerged from the muff to warm themselves by the steam, are slender and pale, the skin almost translucent in the grey light. But there are calluses on your fingers—faint, but unmistakable. He knows the feel of them, the look of them. The hands of someone who has held reins, perhaps, or a bow. The hands of someone who has done more than embroider and pour tea, who has worked and trained and earned the marks of labour. Not the soft, idle hands of a court lady, smooth and unblemished from a life of leisure. He files the observation away, puzzled, adding it to the growing list of contradictions that make up your presence.

"The North must be quite different from what you are accustomed to," he says, probing gently, his voice low and careful. The words feel clumsy, inadequate, but he cannot think of a better way to ask what he truly wants to know. "The cold, the silence, the..." He gestures vaguely at the snow-covered trees, the skeletal branches reaching toward the grey sky like the fingers of the dead. "Endless grey."

You laugh again, and this time there is something almost wistful in the sound—a longing that seems to come from somewhere deep and unguarded, a place he suspects you do not often show to strangers. "It's not so different as you might think. Where I come from, there are plenty of grey skies." You pause, your gaze drifting to the steam that rises from the pool. "And the silence..." You look up at the weirwood, your gaze thoughtful, tracing the lines of the carved face as though reading an old, beloved story. The red leaves seem to glow in the dim light, and the weeping sap looks almost like tears. "The silence is a gift, I think. In the South, there is always noise. Always someone talking, someone scheming, someone trying to sell you something." You turn to him, your eyes meeting his with a directness that makes his breath catch—a gaze that seems to see past his walls, past his titles, to the man beneath. There is no guile in your eyes, no calculation. Only a quiet, steady honesty that unsettles him more than any lie could. "Here, the silence is honest. It doesn't try to deceive you."

Cregan is silent for a long moment, turning your words over in his mind like stones in a river, feeling their weight and shape. They are too perceptive, too knowing, for a simple guest. You speak of the South with the weariness of someone who has lived in its shadows, who has seen the ugliness behind the gilded masks, who has been burned by the games played in the courts of power. He has the unsettling feeling that you see more than you reveal—that you are reading him as easily as he might read a map, that you are cataloguing his reactions with the same quiet attention he is giving you. It is a strange sensation, being seen so clearly. He is not sure if he likes it or fears it.

"You speak of the South as though you have no love for it," he says carefully, the words a gentle probe, a test. He watches your face, looking for the telltale signs of a lie, the flicker of a mask.

You shrug, a gesture that is almost too casual, too practised. But he catches the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands still for just a moment before relaxing. "I love certain people there. But the place itself..." You shake your head slowly, and he sees something flicker in your eyes—a shadow of pain, perhaps, or loss. A memory that still aches. "It wears on you. The masks. The games. Everyone pretending to be something they are not." You look at him then, and there is a strange intensity in your gaze, a weight that seems to press against his chest. You are not just speaking of the South, he realises. You are speaking of something deeper, something personal. "You don't pretend, do you, Cregan?"

He feels an unexpected warmth rise to his cheeks—a flush that has nothing to do with the heat of the springs. It is a strange sensation, one he has not felt in years. He is not a man who blushes, not a man who is easily disarmed. He has faced down enemies on the battlefield, stared into the eyes of men who wanted him dead, and never flinched. And yet, under your steady gaze, he feels exposed in a way that is both unsettling and strangely welcome. "I don't have the patience for it," he admits, his voice rough, almost reluctant. "Pretending takes too much effort. And the North has little use for artifice."

"No," you agree softly, your voice almost lost in the whisper of the wind. "I can see that. "You smile again, and this time it is softer, almost tender—a smile that seems to hold a promise, or perhaps a hope. It is the kind of smile that makes a man want to be worthy of it. "I think I would like the North, if I stayed long enough. I think I would like the honesty of it."

You sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the steam rise from the pool and curl into the grey sky like whispered secrets carried away by the wind. The only sounds are the soft gurgle of the hot springs, the distant call of a bird, and the occasional creak of snow-laden branches settling in the cold. Cregan finds himself stealing glances at you, trying to piece together the puzzle of your identity. You are not dressed like a noblewoman—your cloak is thick and practical, your boots sturdy, your hands calloused from work. And yet your speech, your bearing, speaks of education and privilege, of a childhood spent in halls where words were sharpened like weapons. You are a contradiction, and he finds himself wanting to unravel you, to discover the truth beneath the layers.

"Tell me something," he says at last, his voice low, almost hesitant. "What do you fear?"

You turn to him, your expression unreadable—a mask so smooth he cannot tell if it is hiding pain or amusement. "That is a very personal question."

"You do not have to answer," he says quickly, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. He is not a man who asks personal questions, not a man who pries into the hearts of strangers. "I only meant—"

"No," you interrupt, and there is a hint of a smile playing at your lips—a small, knowing curve that makes his heart skip. "It's a fair question. I would rather be asked this than the usual pleasantries." You pause, considering, your gaze drifting to the steam. When you speak again, your voice is quieter, more thoughtful. "I fear... being trapped. Being forced to become someone I am not." Your voice drops, and for a moment, you look almost vulnerable—a crack in the armour you wear so well. "I fear being a piece on someone else's board."

Cregan feels the words like a blow to the chest, a blade slipped between his ribs. They are too close to his own fears, too close to the knot of resistance that has tightened in his stomach when Jace had made his offer. He looks away, staring at the weirwood, its ancient face watching him with eyes of red sap. He tries to find his voice, but the words are lodged in his throat.

"I understand," he says at last, and the words are rougher than he intended, scraped raw by the truth of them. "I have the same fear." He laughs, a hollow sound that echoes through the frost-laden trees. "I am Lord of Winterfell, and I cannot even choose my own wife."

You are silent for a long moment, and when you speak, your voice is gentle—soft as snow falling, warm as a hearth fire. "You should choose someone who makes you feel free," you say. "Someone who does not see a lord when they look at you, but a man."

Cregan turns to you, his heart pounding in a way he does not fully understand. The words seem to hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning. "And what do you see?" he asks, the question escaping before he can stop it, raw and unguarded.

"I see a man who is tired," you say softly, each word a balm on a wound he did not know he had. "A man who carries too much on his shoulders. A man who deserves..." You hesitate, and something flickers in your eyes—something that looks almost like longing, a mirror of the feeling stirring in his own chest. "A man who deserves to be seen."

Cregan's throat tightens, the words lodging there like a stone. He does not know your name. He does not know where you came from or why you are here. He does not know if you are friend or foe, ally or enemy. But in that moment, he knows—with a certainty that defies all reason, that cuts through the walls he has built around himself—that he does not want to let you go.

The Great Hall of Winterfell is alive with firelight and the low murmur of voices. The long tables are laden with roasted meat and dark bread, and the air is thick with the smell of ale and woodsmoke. Torches flicker in their iron sconces, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls, where the banners of the Northern houses hang like silent witnesses to the proceedings. The hall is crowded with lords and ladies, knights and retainers, all of them eager to feast and celebrate the alliance that is being forged between the North and the Queen's cause. But Cregan feels none of their enthusiasm.

He sits at the high table, his fingers drumming against the arm of his chair, his gaze roving restlessly over the assembled guests. He should be paying attention to his bannermen, to the negotiations that are still ongoing, to the weight of the war that looms on the horizon. His lords are watching him, waiting for his lead, for a sign of the strength they have come to expect from their Wolf. But his mind is elsewhere, caught in a web of memory and longing.

He has not seen the woman from the godswood since that morning. You had disappeared into the keep before he could ask your name, leaving him with nothing but the ghost of your voice and the memory of your smile. He had searched for you in the corridors, in the courtyards, in the kitchens—anywhere a guest might wander. But you had vanished as though you had never existed, as though you were a figment of his imagination, a dream conjured by the cold and his sleeplessness. He has spent the day in a state of restless distraction, his thoughts circling back to you again and again, replaying every word you had spoken, every glance you had shared. He feels like a man possessed, haunted by a ghost he cannot name.

Jace sits beside him, looking far too pleased with himself. The Prince has been in an insufferably good mood all evening, smiling into his cup and exchanging knowing glances with one of his retainers. He has been humming under his breath, a tune Cregan does not recognise, and every time Cregan glances at him, he finds Jace watching him with a look of barely suppressed amusement. Cregan has half a mind to demand an explanation, but he is too preoccupied with his own thoughts to give the matter much attention.

"My lord," Jace says, leaning close enough that his voice would not carry. There is a note of barely suppressed excitement in his tone that makes Cregan's instincts prickle with warning. "I have someone I would like you to meet."

Cregan turns to him, his brow furrowed. "Now?" The word comes out sharper than he intended, but he cannot help it. He is tired, distracted, and in no mood for surprises.

"Now," Jace confirms, and there is a gleam in his eye that Cregan does not trust—a mischievous light that reminds him that this man is not just a diplomat, but a brother, a man who has spent his life playing games of court and crown. He gestures to the far end of the hall, where a figure is approaching through the crowd.

Cregan's heart stops.

The torchlight catches your hair—dark and thick—which falls in waves around your shoulders, and your face, no longer hidden by your hood, is striking in its quiet beauty. A gown of deep blue, the colour of the sea at twilight, flows around a figure he would recognise anywhere. The face he has been searching for all day, the face that has haunted his thoughts, the face that smiled at him in the godswood and told him he deserved to be seen. You walk through the crowd with the quiet grace of someone who does not need to announce their presence, your gaze steady and your head held high. You are no longer bundled in furs, no longer a mysterious stranger in the shadows. You are radiant, a figure of quiet power and unmistakable presence. And your eyes—those dark, knowing eyes—find his the moment you step into the torchlight.

The noise of the hall seems to fade, the murmurs and laughter becoming a distant hum. Cregan's breath catches in his throat, his heart pounding against his ribs like a caged animal. He sees the faint smile on your lips, the glint of something in your eyes that might be amusement, might be triumph, might be something softer.

He rises from his chair, the wood scraping against the stone floor, but he cannot find his voice. His mind is a storm of questions, of dawning realisations, of pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. 

Jace stands beside him, his voice carrying across the hall with the easy confidence of a prince who has waited patiently for this moment. "Lord Cregan Stark, may I present my sister, the Princess—"

The words wash over Cregan like a wave of ice water, stealing the breath from his lungs. The woman from the godswood. The woman who spoke of the South with such weary knowing.

He stares at you, his mind reeling. The noise of the Great Hall fades to a distant hum, the firelight blurring at the edges of his vision. You hold his gaze steadily, your expression unreadable, and he realises with a jolt that you had known. All along, you had known who he was—and you had chosen not to reveal yourself. You had let him speak freely, had let him bare his soul, and you had said nothing. You had sat beside him in the godswood and listened to his fears, his doubts, his longing for something more, and you had kept your secret close to your chest.

"Your Grace," Cregan manages, his voice rough, scraped raw by the effort of speaking. The wood of his chair scrapes against the stone floor as he stands up straighter, a sound that seems to echo through the sudden silence of the hall. "Forgive me. I did not realise..."

"Forgive me," you say, and your voice is the same—warm, teasing, utterly disarming. It cuts through the tension like a blade, melting the ice that has begun to form in his chest. "I should have introduced myself this morning. But I confess, I wanted to meet you as myself, without all the..." You gesture vaguely at your gown, your title, the weight of your name. "Ceremony."

Cregan's jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck straining. He should be angry. He should be furious. You had deceived him, played him for a fool, let him speak of the marriage as though you were not the very woman being offered. And yet, as he looks at you—at the faint flush on your cheeks, the hint of vulnerability in your eyes—he finds that he cannot summon the fury he should have felt. The anger that should be burning in his chest is instead a dull ache, a confusion that leaves him grasping for words.

"You let me speak of matters that were not meant for your ears," he says, his voice low, barely above a growl. "You let me—" He stops, unable to finish the sentence. The words are lodged in his throat, tangled with emotions he does not want to name.

Your expression softens, the teasing edge fading from your eyes. "I let you speak the truth," you say quietly, your voice carrying a sincerity that cuts through his defences. "And I honoured it by not revealing myself." You step closer, close enough that he can see the flecks of gold in your dark eyes, the faint tremor in your lips. "I wanted to know the man behind the lord.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning. Cregan feels the weight of them pressing against his chest, and he does not know whether to step closer or step away.

A throat clears behind them, and Cregan startles, having forgotten that they are not alone. He turns to find Jace standing a few feet away, his arms crossed, a knowing smile on his face that suggests he has been enjoying this far too much. Behind him, Cregan is dimly aware of the hall slowly returning to life—the murmurs resuming, the servants moving, the lords pretending they had not been watching the exchange with barely concealed interest.

"I hate to interrupt," Jace says, his voice dripping with false innocence. The glint in his eyes is pure mischief, the look of a man who has been waiting for this moment all evening. "But there are several hundred people watching, and I believe some of them are starting to place bets on whether the Wolf of the North will actually breathe again, or whether he has been rendered permanently stunned."

Cregan feels a flush creep up his neck—a sensation he is becoming far too familiar with tonight—but he does not let go of your hand. He is not even sure when he had taken it, but your fingers are warm in his, and the contact grounds him, anchors him in the midst of the storm. He levels a look at Jace that would make lesser men quake, but the Prince only smiles wider, utterly unrepentant.

"You planned this," Cregan says, the words a low accusation. "You knew she would be in the godswood. You knew I would find her—"

"I knew you would be honest with a stranger," Jace interrupts, his voice softening just slightly. "I knew you would not wear your masks. And I knew that if my sister saw the man I have come to know, she would see what I see." He glances at you, and there is a warmth in his gaze that speaks of deep affection. "And I was right."

Cregan looks back at you, and despite everything—despite the shock, the confusion, the weight of the revelation—he feels the corner of his mouth twitch. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a fraction, and he realizes that the anger he has been trying to summon has faded into something far more complicated. 

Jace clears his throat again, this time with a note of exaggerated impatience. "If you two are quite finished, there is a feast to be had. And I believe my cup is empty." He waves his goblet in the air. "A prince should not have to pour his own wine. It is against the laws of the realm."

Cregan looks at you, and for the first time that night, he allows himself to smile—a small, tentative thing, but genuine. "It seems I have no choice," he says, his voice carrying a warmth that surprises them both. "Will you sit with me? At the high table?"

You tilt your head, a teasing glint in your eyes. "I suppose I could be persuaded." You glance at Jace. "If my brother can behave himself."

Jace gasps in mock outrage. "I am the picture of decorum! I am a prince of the realm! I am—"

"You are going to get yourself thrown out of the hall if you keep talking," his retainer calls out, and the hall erupts in laughter once more.

Cregan leads you to the high table, his hand still wrapped around yours, and for the first time in what feels like years, the weight on his shoulders feels just a little bit lighter.

Nonetheless, it was not your problem. Your hands clasp together, fingers interlinking tightly. Then you redirect your gaze forward, towards the altar where the fire burns bright. Your eyes linger for a moment, watching the flames dance in the wind, then you bow your head while raising your hands to meet it halfway.

You try to refocus, to allow your mind to focus on praying. Life. You’re asking R’hllor for life; for the soil to be fertile. Because that will lead to a good harvest. A good harvest means better bread and crackers, as well as thicker livestock. Thicker livestock means the citizens of Myr will be well fed. If the citizens are well fed then they become more fertile, and coupling results in more human life being brought forth.

This is normal. The prayers are ones that any followers of R’hllor know. Yet your thoughts keep being drawn towards the body resting on the shore. 

On its dark curled hair.

On the darkness of its doublet and trousers.

On the glinting pommel of the sword at its side.

Did you see sticks protruding from his body? That was nonsensical. It would need to be a sharp stick, and the barbarians who used weapons like that were not near Myr. 

Perhaps they were arrows. Arrows would make sense because those had a sharp end. But that would mean he was attacked; or that he attacked someone else who was provoked to protect themself. 

You were not getting back to your prayers, this boy has thoroughly distracted you and he has not moved an inch since appearing. Perhaps the boy would be wearing a sigil, something, anything that would define where he came from. You rise, the silks of your dress cascade around your legs as you walk your way to the shore. 

Where could he be from? Whom in the region had problems with one another; and at that, problems enough to draw fire? You rack your brain for any answers on the short walk. Very few come, but it does not matter.

You will look upon the boy's right chest and see the sigil of his house and you will know. And if he does not have a sigil, then he is simply not important enough to worry about; one of many who lost their lives over something trivial. 

He is lying on his back, but it is jagged–his left shoulder somehow higher than his right. You kneel next to him. It gives your eyes a better angle to assess him. He is wearing a cloak, and it is attached to the front of his doublet. But there is no sigil where it is clasped. Your eyes move lower, perhaps he is haughty and has it on his belt buckle. 

Again no sigil. Lower again, this time to his boot clasps. It is an odd place to have a house mark but it is nothing you have not seen before. Your brows furrow when there is once again no sigil in sight. There is one last place, one last hope to know who this boy is. 

You look at his sword. Eyes rove over the pommel, up one side and down the other. You unsheath it, it’s heavy in your palms. You assume this to be because you do not wield swords, it seems too slim and too small to truly be something of great weight. The thought almost brings you to laughter because how could a boy who looks so strong and so worthy wield a light sword?

The only thing that stops the laugh from bubbling through your chest was the fact that you once again didn’t see a damned sigil. So this boy was truly no one. Simply a casualty of unknown grievances. 

Why then, did you feel as if you could not leave him? 

You willed your legs to move, for your feet to fold under themselves and push you to stand, but they did not. Willed your hands to press against the sand as leverage, but they simply fisted the grains until they fell from your palms. Your eyes tried to move back towards the temple, back to the fire that you can barely see from the shore, but they stay locked on this boy. 

They rove over his body, briefly locking onto bits of him. The broken arrows you can see in the back of his left shoulder – the ones that are making him lean a little off kilter. The blood on the right side of his face and the bruises that accompany it. 

However, they stick on his neck. On the Myrish bolt, that is deeply lodged into it. Is that what is drawing you to him? The fact that a bolt made by your people is the one that likely ended his life?

Instinctively, your fingers move towards it. You don’t think anything of it; you just want to touch the metal, to confirm it's something you’ve felt before, that your people crafted this. Your fingers burn when you touch the metal.

A full body jerk takes over you. First recoiling at the fingers, then everything else falls after. A hiss leaves your lips and your fingers stroke against your palm as a primal attempt to assess the damage. 

You can still feel everything though, and the skin between your brow gains a crease. Your eyes dart to the tips of your fingers, expecting to see them flushed and pulsing from the burn. There is no visible damage however; you turn them every which way, and nothing changes. But, a  tingle has settled in them.

At first you try pressure, squeezing your fingers to your palm to cease the sensation. When that doesn’t work you put the tip of each finger between your teeth and gnaw at them. It’s primitive and very much below your station, but you cannot think of anything else that may help. You drop your hand when that does not work either, it’s then that the tingling fades a bit. 

It goes from fireworks in your capillaries, to simple twinkles. You have an idea, a thought that seems very otherworldly and stupid. But, perhaps, it is linked to this boy.

So your fingers drift back to him, back to the bolt in his neck. The twinkles fade into a slight hum. When your fingers slide off the bolt and to the thick, clammy skin of the boy's neck the sensation finally stops. 

At least it stops in you. You can still feel it faintly. Thrumming under the boy’s skin like war drums. It must be magic!

Magic that is calling you to him. Magic that is demanding the presence of R’hllor in this boy's blood. Magic that is demanding you to perform the kiss of life. 

You've never done this before. Never seen it successfully completed in front of you either. But it feels like R’hllor himself is calling to you; commanding you to reignite the fire in this boy's blood.

You know the idea. The concepts run through your mind manyatimes since you’ve learned of its existence. You still take care to remove the arrows. One from his back, one from his chest. Then a Myrish bolt from his neck. 

What if he wakes and the wounds are still open? You cannot think of any words in the ancient scrolls that speak of it. So you tear the silks of your dress and wrap them around the wounds to stem any bleeding.

Your right hand places on his chest, where his heart should be beating. The skin is cold and clammy, devoid of any signs of life. Well, at least you can rest assured he cannot be harmed more from your experimenting, cannot be more dead.

Ancient hymns and prayers leave your lips. They're spoken softly at first – because you truly cannot believe you're trying to bring back someone from the dead. But how can you expect R’hllor to bring him back if you do not have faith? So it becomes louder, more confident in the fact that it will work, that this boy will live again.

You take some oil into your mouth from a vial at your waist, just enough to coat it before taking one of the sticks that was supplying the fire into your hand. 

R’hllor, what were you doing? You were going to get yourself killed – mangled at the very least – for some boy you did not even know.

You think about it for a moment, but ultimately the urge to prove you could do it outweighs your fear. The fire is brought to your lips igniting the oil, then as quickly as you can you press your lips to his. Breathing the fire into his lungs and urging his blood to warm once again. 

When you pull back you realize you are not burnt. It seems that the fire has extinguished itself in the process. Your inner cheeks and lips are simply warmer than usual but no harm has befallen you. But what of the boy?

His chest is not rising. His eyes are not open. You must be mistaken, your eyes deceiving you, so you lean closer. Your ear is pressed closely to his lips, your head angled to allow your eyes to wait for a rise and fall of his chest, and your hand rests on his chest.

It is warm, still clammy, but warm. That is good, it must be good. You’ve done it correctly–you’re sure of it. But why is he not breathing? Why have his eyes not snapped open? 

Maybe R’hllor didn’t want to resurrect this boy. Maybe you misinterpreted the pull in your chest. Maybe it was for the steel that rested on the boy's waist instead of the boy himself. 

He must have simply gotten warm because he was out of the sea and his sopping clothes. A sigh of disappointment sneaks past your lips. Your hand moves off his chest to the ground, preparing to be used as leverage to stand. Before you can, a rough, garbled breath is inhaled.

Your eyes snap to the boy's chest, watching the rapid and deep inhale. Watching it heave as he coughs up water. After a minute or two the heaving slows, returns to what you will accept as a normal rate, and your eyes snap to his face. 

His eyes open – he’s already been watching you. They’re wide, his pupils dilated to take in as much information as possible. There's a quivering in them, an unsteadiness that makes you feel worse for him than you already had. 

“Who are you?”

You try to keep your voice soft. Light. Untensed. The boy's eyebrows furrow ever so slightly but he does not respond. Maybe he was highborn and too full of himself to learn the language of commonfolk.

“Qilōni issi ao?”

His face morphs at that. Brows raise on his forehead, mouth drops open just a fraction. He is shocked? Surprised? That you know Valyrian? Sure, you look common, but he does as well, who is he to judge?

His mouth moves, and he finally speaks. You’re stuck on the sound of it. How rough it is, how distorted it sounds, how painful it seems. After a moment you see his eyes narrow a bit, brows creasing in confusion once again, it’s then that his words register.

“Qilōni issi ao?”

You would think that he is repeating your sentence in confusion of the language. That he is curious to know what you meant. But he speaks it so well. His vocal chords, tongue, and lips, all accustomed to speaking Valyrian already. He also has such an emphasis on the last word, there's a mix of emotion in it. Confusion, anger, distaste. 

“Aōha kaerīnio,” (Your savior) You will not give him your name, if he hadn’t been so audacious in his asking you might. You try again, “sir qilōni issi ao?” 

“Jace.” He mumbles, lips barely opening to form the syllables. 

You save him, give him live again, and he refuses to be amicable. You’re beginning to get irritated. It’s evident in your voice, losing your softness you speak again, “Ȳdragon bē.” (speak up.)

“Brōzio ñuha iksis Jace.”(My name is Jace.) It is spoken louder now. 

You break eye contact, gaze drifting as your thoughts have. “How uncommon,” You say it dismissively. The words slip out and do not require a response.

The boy says something about how it's not uncommon, but you cannot bring yourself to care. Jace. Jace. Jace. Where have you heard that name before?

Was it a highborn son you had considered marriage with? The son of a magister in the south perhaps?

No. You would have married him if that was his truth. 

Was he a blacksmith you commissioned a dagger from? One that had amethyst embedded into the handle because you thought it was beautiful. 

No. His hands weren’t calloused enough for that.

“Who are you?”

“I ought be a Priestess.”

“Ought be? So you are not a Priestess. What is your name?”

“Yes, ought be, R’hllor does not simply grant this ability to anyone.” 

A silence settles over the two of you. The boy, Jace, is probably still stunned that he is breathing again. You, similarly, are stunned that you performed such a miracle. You’re too pleased to notice Jace shifting-thinking about how you’re going to inform the Head Priest of your feat, and how by the end of the week you’ll be named as a Priestess. 

“You are from Essos.”

Your eyes blink back in his direction. “I am.”

You watch the way he swallows. Assess how his pupils have dilated again in fear. How his fingers now seem to tense a bit.

“Which part?”

“You are in Myr.”

Jace’s face falls. It falls so quickly that it seems inhuman. A deep frown settles on his face, his brows crease and you think you can see a tear or two brought to his eyes. He seems like a man who has accepted his fate. You don’t get to ask what fate that is.

Once again his face changes. A stone mask hiding his true thoughts and feelings on the current situation. You watch as the gears turn in his head. Watch as his hand tries to subtly inch towards his sword. Watch as his eyes harden with what he believes he must do. 

“Why do you wish to harm me when I have saved you?”

He blinks at you.  “I do not wish to harm you.”

“You reach for your sword,” Your eyes flick to where his hand is resting on the hilt, pointedly raising your eyebrows, “Do you not?”

“I simply wish to…” His gaze flicks around. To your eyes, to the sand, to his boots, to the arrows that still rest beside the two of you, then finally back to you. “To protect myself.”

You run your tongue along your teeth. Before smiling and rising to a stand. “You needn’t worry about that.” Your palm extends towards him, “Come, you may recover in my fathers manse.”

You do not parade Jace around the temples as you wish.

The first day he claimed exhaustion. That his body was sore from the time at sea being pushed and pulled by the current. How it must have been twisted uncomfortably while his soul was with the stranger.

The second day it was nausea. You assumed it was something spoiled or raw that the cooks had served. Before you could go ream them for their incompetence, Jace told you that he simply ate too much. That his eyes sampled everything and his stomach got jealous so he consumed much more than he should have. 

The third day Jace finally became plain with you. You had followed the same routine as the first two days; waking, directing your handmaids as to how you’d like your hair, dabbing your oils behind your ears, then sauntered your way to Jace’s chambers. 

Your knock was a light rap of your knuckles, barely enough pressure behind it to be heard. He always answered promptly – as if he had been waiting on the other side just for you. 

“Come, we must go to the temples today. Just briefly–the Priests and Priestess’ will lose their belief in me if I do not show you off soon.”

You watch as Jace steels himself. It’s a subtle shift in his demeanor, but you’ve been watching him since you brought him back to this world, so of course you notice it. His eyes harden and the bright brown of his eyes darken to a deeper hue. 

“I do not wish to be paraded around like a trophy,” His eyes have fallen to your feet–or to the floor, you cannot be certain. But you know this is a way of showing submission, that he does not want to seem ungrateful for the hospitality you’ve shown him thus far.

You probably could force him, call for your guards to grab him by his arms and drag him forth to the temples. But you believed everyone deserved some sense of autonomy. You suppose you don’t need to show anyone that you’ve successfully performed the last kiss. A sigh leaves your lips.

“Alright.” You extend a hand towards his arm, prepared to loop it through and grasp his bicep should he allow you to do so, “Will you meander through the gardens with me?”

Jace steps out of his room and allows you to hold onto him. As you walk through the lavish gardens of your fathers manse you notice a curiosity gleaming in Jace’s eyes. He does not ask you what any plant is, but you take to explaining them anyway, pointing with the hand that is not secured on his arm.

His intrigue in the information you gave never stopped. Not on the tiny miniscule vines that climbed their way up the manse walls. Not on the lilies, or the bougainvillea, or the oleander bushes. 

You have believed him to be from Essos. From somewhere you have not had the privilege of traveling to. Perhaps a wealthy son from a smaller village up north. His status was clear by the pristine leathers he was wearing when you had found him – yet you could not get a family name out of Jace no matter how much you questioned. 

It had been fine. Privacy and secrecy were allowed in some senses. You couldn’t understand why he would not want to have word sent to his father and mother of his livelihood though. Surely they would have sent for him, at the very least demanded that he return home so they could confirm his safety themselves. 

Two days you spend thinking of this. Trying to create scenarios in which he would not want to return home. But you cannot think of any strong enough to justify not returning home–at least not when someone is highborn as he clearly is. 

A wide array of different delicacies to choose from are set in front of the two of you. A servant is cutting a large juicy piece of roast duck for you when you ask, “What of your parentage?"

Jace looks up from the plate of stuffed squash he was assessing. He blinks deep enough that his eyelashes brush the apples of his cheeks. 

“What of it?”

“Who are they? What house do you hail from?”

His posture goes straight. Muscles rigid and he sets his utensils back onto the table. His gaze floating around the room at all the extra eyes. If he wishes for privacy then he will receive privacy. “That will be all, leave us.” Your voice does not hold much weight, but the command is clear. The servants try to disagree, mumbles of still having plates to divide and serve at their lips, but you raise your hand dismissively and shoo them away. 

“I will not judge you, I am only curious.” Your voice is even softer now.

Jace clears his throat. His eyes stubbornly on your plate instead of your face when he finally speaks, “I am a bastard.”

If he thinks that would shock you, he would be wrong. Many in Essos are bastards–it only matters if you make it so. “So it is your mother who is highborn?”

“No, no. None of me is highborn.”

A hum leaves your throat, a whores son perhaps?

“Where did your fine leathers come from then?”

“My father gifted them to me. I believe he is trying to gain my favor as the older I get the more I look like him.”

Ah. So his father is highborn. Or at least someone with enough coin to commission fine clothes. You try to imagine the man, imagine Jace a bit older, and think of if you have seen a similar man walking through the streets before.

No recognition comes to mind, so you continue with your questions. “And your mother?”

“She is of Valyrian descent.” 

You laugh at that, “Everyone here is, be a bit more specific.”

Jace has fallen back into comfort, now slicing into a piece of boar on his plate as he speaks. “She has long silver gold hair, it is straight in nature, but curls easily after being braided.” You nod in acknowledgement so Jace continues, “Her eyes are purple, but not one of the dark purples that may be mistaken for blue. A lighter purple, akin to the lilacs that you have in the garden.”

You could think him to be lying, for he has just described nearly every woman of Valyrian descent in the entirety of Essos. You let the thought bounce around your head as you chew, it was not uncommon for someone to be born with plain features even if they had Valyrian ancestors. But he is so guarded and gives you so little that it almost brings a pain to your chest. You’ve brought him back to life and it seems that he cannot trust you. 

Then again, you suppose if she is a whore, then mayhaps he does not know much more than what he has told you. Mayhaps he left and became a servant for his father. 

“What of your parentage, My Lady?”

You glare at him from under your lashes, “I have told you not to refer to me as such, we are friends enough that you may call me plainly by name.”

He should know of your parentage. Paintings of your mother reside over many of the halls in the manse. Her plain–but beautiful–features on display for any and all visitors to see. Her dresses are silks and satins, never any heavy fabrics for it is too warm here. And she always had some bit of Myrish lace upon her; it could be embroidered on the bodice and neckline of her dresses, a shawl made of it, or sometimes even a cardigan. 

“I am sure you have seen the paintings of my late mother. Her mother was also of Valyrian descent, but she got all of the plain features of her father. I imagine you could have bonded over that.”

You inspect a sugar filled date as you speak, trying to assess if it is too early into the meal to indulge in sweeter tastes.

“Your late mother?”

“Yes, late. She passed many years ago.”

“I am sorry –”

“Do not be. My father is a Magister. You have not met him because he is occupied in Tyrosh.”

Jace’s fork stops an inch from his plate, nearly impaling a charred sprout, “He has business in Tyrosh?”

Your lips closed around the date, humming as you bite into it. You chew for a moment before shoving it into the side of your cheek so you can speak, “I suppose you could call it that. He is aiding in devising plans for the Triarchy.” You sigh, “One of the lucky eleven–at least that is what everyone says.”

The atmosphere shifts. 

From outside the room it would be unnoticeable. You and Jace are still positioned the same, still slicing through meats, and spearing vegetables. Servants who have reappeared are still attentively pouring more wine into your goblets and offering to serve another portion onto your plates. The flames of the candles still flicker in the slight gusts of wind.

But inside you can feel the tension explode. It did not grow; stemming from a small comment and engorging based on a continuation. It erupted the moment you mentioned the Triarchy. The air grew thick, swallowing felt like a chore, eyes darted back and forth attempting to understand where the displacement came from. 

When Jace sliced through his boar softer than before. Barely enough pressure in his forefinger to push the knife into the protein. His wrist shifting in the slightest of motions, sawing at the meat instead of cleanly slicing through it. 

He had not graced you with even a semblance of a laugh. Not a huff of air. Or a charming smile. 

Taking a look at his posture you could see the change. His shoulders hunched inwards and he almost slouched forwards, his chest rose and fell shallowly, his knee began to jerk a rhythm. But most importantly he had scooted to the far side of his chair.

Away from you.

Why was he trying to make himself small?

“Does my fathers position offend you?”

His head snaps at that. Eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. “No. No of course not,” His voice is not the same timber that it usually is. It’s a pitch higher, just enough off that you notice it. 

“I must have then, for you have gone stiff and sparse in your chair.”

Jace is silent for a moment longer. His eyes lift from his plate to your face when your cutlery is set down with a soft clang. “I simply do not… favor, speaking of Magisters.” The words are small when they come out of Jace's throat. Spoken in nearly a whisper, as if he is ashamed of the fact.

Oh!

His father must be a Magister. Perhaps even one of the ten others with your father. That's why he's so uncomfortable. His father does not claim him, yet he is able to do such great things in raising the Triarchy. Embarrassment clouds your memory, but you vaguely recall apologizing.

Despite your swift change of conversational topics and insistence to speak of anything else, Jace stays closed off for the remainder of dinner. He also disregards your request for a late night stroll in the gardens. You must have truly upset him.

Since that night, you refuse to ask about parentage again. You like hearing Jace’s voice–the timber, tone, and cadence of it–and he tends to speak less when you bring up parentage. So if he does not wish to speak of it then you have no desire to speak of it either.

Instead you ask other things.

His favorite color? Purple; specifically the lilac hue, like his mothers eyes. He says he likes blues as well, but he prefers wearing reds and blacks over anything. 

The next morn servants bring him doublets made of various shades of red silks and satins, and trousers made with deep black linens. When Jace thanks you, you wave him off dismissively. 

His favorite meal? Salted and seared cod, with spinach and onions in a dragon pepper sauce served on a bed of rice. 

The dragon peppers run you a heavy cost at the market, but you think it worthwhile when you see the smile on Jace’s face. Not the respectable smile from you simply trying to recreate his favorite. But the true, elated one that overtakes him like a wave when the flavors dance along his tongue. 

His favorite book? One of Westerosi history. Of Aegon the Conqueror. But Jace says he does not care for Aegon, that he truly fancies the story of Visenya. That her passion was such an inspiration and he could only hope to be the slightest bit like her one day.

Westerosi history is not a common book to keep in libraries in Essos, so you doubt that your father has it among his rows of books. You check anyways; late when even the servants have gone to sleep and only the guards remain awake. You stand atop chairs and raise your chamberstick to every book on the high shelves. Sink to your knees to check the lowest shelves as well.

The book is not there. 

Most would have ceased searching. They would have been too anxious to allow the swords of the city see them interested in Westeros. But you were the only child of one of the richest Magisters of Myr–your wish was everyone else's command. 

You go to the market again for this find. Cloaked and protected by one of your guards, you head to the darker parts of it. To the alleys that don’t have torches lining them. You find a man there, one known to deal in contraband.

You give him the coin on a promise he will retrieve the book. It’s too much for a single book; you know this, your guard knows this, the man knows this. But you still drop the pouch into his hand without much concern over the price. For Jace’s delight, you believe it to be worth it.

Three nights later your guard delivers the book to your chambers. You wrap it delicately in a light purple silk and tie a knot with ribbon.

You keep it tucked behind your back as you stalk towards Jace. He is in the gardens, in an alcove with a bench and table fit for gossiping. The table has been fitted with breads, cheeses, grapes, baked sweets, a pot of tea and two cups. When he sees you approaching he begins to pour the tea; yours first so it may cool and you can drink as soon as you sit. 

He looks up, brown eyes finding yours before falling to the downturned smirk that adorns your lips. Some heat rises to your cheeks when you notice where his gaze has fallen. You wonder if he thinks them plump, if he wonders how plush they'd be against his own.

Jace calls your name softly, “What are you hiding?” 

Your smirk widens to a full blown smile and you bring the wrapped book forward.

“What is this?” 

You press the book into his palms, “Open it.”

Jace does as you instruct. He unties the ribbon by its curled edges, then carefully unwraps the silk.

The cover of the book is plain. A simple brown leather that has not been oiled in many moons if you had to guess. The edges are frayed and lightened with age. Jace lets his fingers glide over it for a moment before looking at you with confusion in his eyes.

You jut your chin at him gently, encouraging him to continue with his present.

He opens the cover and flips to a random page–why he does not start from the beginning, you do not know. His eyes rove over the words, scanning the page like a hawk, then the flick up to you. 

“This is the book–the history of the Six Kingdoms.”

You nod, a pleased grin on your face.

Jace continues, “Where did you procure this?”

A small, mischievous laugh leaves you, “A woman must keep some secrets.” Your fingers twist together in anticipation, “Do you like it?”

“Yes. Yes, I like it.” Jace swallows deeply and you can see his adams apple bobb before he sniffs a bit, “I may even love it.”

“Will you read it to me then?”

It is Jace's turn to laugh, “Can you not read, My Lady?”

“Of course I can read,” you scoff in mock annoyance. Jace has seen you read–perhaps he's flirting with you and disguising it as a joke. “I simply wish to hear your voice.”

If that was too bold Jace does not tell you. He simply opens the book and begins the recount of Aegon the Conqueror. He continues for a long while, until one of the maids comes to alert you to the midday meal being ready.

It becomes routine; you eat breakfast together before separating for a few hours, then you reconvene in the gardens. Jace begins reading where he left off the day before and you grow more bold everyday.

At first sitting an appropriate distance. Then inching closer, and closer until your shoulder brushes his. And it's just oh so wide, surely he could allow you to rest your head. For a time that's enough to satiate you.

Unfortunately the closeness only makes your hunger grow.  You know then that you are infatuated with him. 

With his brown curls that somehow perfectly framed his face. His matching brown eyes that had just the slightest hits of amber and gold flicking about in them. The bridge of his nose, the natural pout that his plush lips seemed to fall into.

Over the days your head shifts lower and lower down his frame. At first just small distances down his arm, where it’s more muscle and less bone; where you can claim comfort from the shifts. You continue with this until one day, you simply forgo the theatrics and place your head in his lap. 

A slight raise of Jace’s brow is all the reaction you receive. No formal comment is made from either of you. No acknowledgement of the shift in atmosphere or change in course of whatever relationship you’ve been curating. 

Some days you’re flat on your back, gaze flicking from the sky to Jace's face. Others you’re curled on your side with his large palm and fingers stroking your head and scratching at your scalp. Occasionally on those days, you fall asleep to the timber of Jace’s voice and the repetitive motions.

Every once in a while, the conversation drifts. Back to things you originally cared about. Things that help you learn about his person–what musics he likes, what toys he used to play with, what other hobbies he had besides reading. And Jace, in turn, asked you similar questions–what your lessons were like as a child, if you stole sweets from the kitchens, if you embroidered and what the subjects were.

Intimacy grows between the two of you like a cluster of zinnia; quickly, resulting from the continuous attention and time spent in the sun. Seemingly endless hours spent on that same bench either reading from a book of histories that you frankly could not care less about or learning about a man you could not get enough of.

You shouldn’t have to tell him of your fondness; it ought to be obvious. Your maids have noticed a constant sparkle in your eyes and how the apples of your cheeks are always raised in smile. The guards have noticed from your constant meandering in the training grounds. The chefs have noticed from the increased gold you’ve rationed them so that they can easily purchase the strange western cuisine your guest prefers. 

At dinner you had invited Jace back to the gardens. He believes it to be so that you may finish the chapter you were in the middle of. You want to take the opportunity to see if he is as entranced with you as you are him. 

Your thoughts had drifted from the story being told. Away from the conquest and back to the man whose thigh your head rested on. The firm muscle under your cheekbone doing less to bring you back to reality, and more in dragging you deeper into the vast ocean your mind has created. 

Despite the moon of whatever this was, Jace himself has yet to make a move. Has yet to do anything more than you’ve instigated. He does not place a hand on the small of your back as you pass him. He does not lean in, as to create a bubble for only the two of you when you speak to him at dinner. He does not ask for your hand to dance when you have the musicians play his favorite tunes. 

Besides opening himself to you, he does not give you anything. You do not need a grand gesture, only a simple sign. It feels foolish to believe that him simply speaking to you is one. But you delude yourself anyhow. 

He does not speak so willingly about himself to anyone else. He does not allow others to rest on his lap. He does for you and that must–must–account for something.

There are very few things you have not gotten in your life. Not enough that you could count on your hand, and honestly, none of them of importance enough where you truly remember what they were. Jace was a person however. He was not something to be bought or won, and even if he was, you would not want him if his affections were not real. 

Jace’s voice catches in your brain. You work over the words before they truly begin to make sense. Something about Aegon and his wives. Not wife. Wives. Plural. That’s right. Aegon, despite typical Westerosi traditions, took two wives. Mayhaps this was your opening.

“What do you think of it?” 

Your head turns the slightest bit so that you may catch Jace’s gaze. He’s already looking at you of course, eyes snapped in your direction the second you cut him off. 

“Think of what?”

“Aegon having two wives.”

“Well, he took one for duty and the other for love.”

“Do you think it was honorable?” You shift once more, up onto your knees. Close enough that they press into Jace’s thigh. “That the people did not shame him in the streets?”

Jace’s lips purse, thoughtfully considering your remark towards this story he loves so dearly. “The smallfolk have found reason to dislike anyone who has come to power. But I think the unity between all three was equally as visible, and it aided in the smallfolks acceptance.”

“Would you have–if you lived all those years ago and across the narrow sea–would you have accepted him?”

“Yes, I would have.” Jace nods along as he speaks, doubling down on his statement. 

You had inched forward when he had finished his declaration. Miscalculating the way his head was moving and only catching his top lip in your kiss. It was awkward, but he did not move away. 

You lingered for a moment, allowing the realization to settle in before attempting to move back. Once you backed up you could assess how Jace took it. If he was blushed in excitement, or ruddy with rage. If he finally understood how badly you wanted for him, and if he accepted or declined.

But you never got that far. You could still feel Jace’s exhales on your upper lip when he rushed forward. His lips met yours in a proper kiss. One that he was able to put pressure behind and add motion to. 

Something wet slides across your lips, and they part by instinct. Allow Jace’s tongue to snake into your mouth and map the area. Over your teeth at first, because your lips aren’t parted enough. A bit of the cheeky flesh behind your lip. Then finally, it glides across your own tongue. 

You can feel the bridge of his nose pressing into your cheek. It feels like he’s trying to nudge you back. To inch you until your back rests against the armrest of the bench and he can situate himself between your hips. But you initiated this kiss, so dominance should be yours.

Without parting, you begin to shift. A hand on the nape of his neck, tilting his head back in fragments only millimeters wide. Rising on your knees to a high kneel so you can swing a leg across Jace’s lap. 

His hands fly to your hips, fingers flexing and caressing at whatever bits of you he can grab. The new angle allows you to fully steal control. For your tongue to slide into his mouth. For you to learn the taste of him straight from the source. 

Your lungs begin to tighten. Lack of airflow causing them to strain and search for more. You have to part from his lips. Oxygen rushes into them like a tide returning to the ocean. Rough and unstoppable. 

Your eyes flutter open, blinking rapidly to try and clear the fog from your head. Instead of looking at his face, your eyes fall to Jace’s chest; it's rising and falling rapidly, greedily attempting to take as much oxygen as possible from the atmosphere. Up and down. Up and down. Up, down.

Through your transfixation you hear Jace clear his throat and your eyes rise to his lips. Watch as his tongue tries to clean some of the spare slick saliva from them. Watch as a flush comes into them, and as a slow quirk accompanies the color. “We cannot do this.”

“Why not?” 

A pout has found your lips, and a furrow in your brow. Why would he be smiling if he was against allowing this to progress?

Jace’s hands have begun caressing your body; one moving up and down your spine while the other caresses your hipbone. Trying to soothe you as one would an angered housecat. “I cannot debauch you. It would be uncouth to do so in the open.”

“No one would come near, they are well trained.” You think him foolish for believing your servants would willingly interrupt you during such an intimate time. 

“Still. I will not risk having your honor sullied.”

A huff leaves your lips.

Stubborn, stubborn man.

You begin to rise from your position, moving to dismount from Jace’s lap. But his hands trap you in place, their grip suddenly going iron at the idea of you leaving him. Now his brow is furrowed in confusion.

Before Jace can actually voice his displeasure at your sudden movements, you move again. Hands grasping at his wrists, squeezing them just enough for him to release his grip on you. Once standing, you slide your fingers down his wrist, across his palm, and lace them through his fingers.

He simply said he would not debauch you here, not that he would avoid it entirely. You lead him back through the maze of your gardens. Through the long marbled hallways of your fathers manse. All the way back to your apartments. You drag him through the entryway, and nearly fling him upon the bed.

Perhaps fling was an overstatement. For Jace simply sits at the edge of your bed, awaiting for you to mount his lap again so he can restart his prior ministrations. 

“Is this the proper place to partake in debauchery?” You’re standing in front of him, just out of reach. Tapping your pointer finger to your chin in faux thought. Bottom lip jutting out as you begin to seemingly mull over perfect spots for improper things to take place.

Jace’s hands once again find your hips, hauling you back to your proper place on his lap. “Yes, a perfectly proper place, My Lady.”

His lips are back on yours before you can retort. Once again encouraging you to open your mouth and allow him to lick into it. 

You’re hot. Abnormally so. And your skin feels like it's tingling. Little sparks going off under the surface whenever Jace does…well, when he does anything. 

His fingers scratching at the base of your neck? Sparks. His tongue gliding across yours and nudging it to remind you that you can be an active participant? Sparks. His other hand roaming your hips and thighs, squeezing and groping the fat? Sparks. The muscles of his thighs tensing against the insides of yours in what you can only believe to be restraint? Sparks.

It's overwhelming. Too many sensations that are all causing something warm to begin to pool low in your belly. Perhaps it was simply strain–you had been nearly levitating on his lap. Not even allowing the slightest bit of your bottom to rest since you reached your apartments. 

You sit, rest your full body weight on the boy below you, as you did in the gardens. This time, however, something hard meets you. Jace groans into your mouth, and you don’t have to guess what you’ve just sat upon. 

Halfway through a courtesy apology, Jace speaks again. “Are you tired?” He’s barely pulled away and you can feel his lips move against yours with every word.

All it takes is a nod from you, and then the whole world has shifted. Your back now resting on the plush of your mattress. His hands are still on you, one on your neck and the other on your hip, positioned to stabilize you from the flip.

Jace’s hand slides to your mid thigh, dragging the appendage up to wrap around his hip, inadvertently hunching your dress around your hips. He kisses you again, his tongue slicking against yours out of pure instinct. Then he presses against you, grinding himself into your smallclothes. 

The sparks turn into full blown explosions. Starting from your core and causing a chain reaction up through your chest until it bursts out of you in the expression of a moan.

You'd be embarrassed at how it came up on you, leaving you with no other option but to voice your pleasure. But Jace wasn't in a better state, groans and whimpers falling into your mouth as well.

He breaks away, one of his hands leaving you so he can grasp at the buckle of his belt. “You're sure?” He asks softly, like requesting such a thing may break the fragile orb the two of you are consumed in.

You’ve never gotten this far. Never had the desire to with any of the other Magisters' sons, nor the Lyseni courtesans or local boys of pleasure houses. None of them ever ignited such a fire inside your blood.

Never made it feel like you were burning from the inside out. 

You nod, a soft mhm, coming from your throat before you reseal your lips to his. Surely he could unbuckle himself without looking upon the clasp. 

You've never had a real prospect like this: one that you reciprocate the desire for. A childish, girly, glee fills your chest along with the growing fire. The joy slithers around the fire and serves to further fuel it. 

Skin is scorched anywhere Jace touches and you break from his lips to whine something insignificant about taking your dress off. He obliges with little reluctance, splitting from your lips only to lift the silks over your head.

The night blurs a bit from there. Your only hope is that the promiscuous noises don't drift too far down the hallway. That they fall flat before any curious ears of servants or guards can hear them. You wish to bask in whatever this is that you’re cultivating with Jace–not to have your father hear of it because of a raven sent from a scullery maid.

Fifteen days later your dressmaker comes to you with a finished piece.

It is one that you’ve highly anticipated. One you’ve spent weeks fleshing out the details of. One that you wanted to be perfect, more than any of your other commissioned pieces.

The dress was made from silks dyed with lilacs to give them a nice purple hue. You had it fashioned like many of your other dresses; in only the most flattering ways for your body. It accentuated on the parts you found desirable, and drew attention away from whatever you did not.

By itself, it was something simple. You did not have it embroidered, or embossed. Simple, soft, swaying silk would encase your body. However that would not be befitting of your station, so you accessorized with golds and jewelry made of opal. 

The white stone to symbolize the white of Jace’s mother’s hair–if he would notice such a fact, you did not know. You hoped, because he had been nothing but attentive since you met him, but men have a tendency to disappoint. Golds because they were expensive and complemented the purple color much better than a silver could.

Your lady in waiting, Eliana, dressed you with much excitement. She murmured on and on about all the different small details she noticed. Layered your jewelry to make sure each piece perfectly complemented the next. Pulled back your hair just slightly so that every feature on your face could be properly looked upon. 

And then you were on your own. To face a storm of your own creation. Hopefully, Jace would see this as a declaration of your affection. Understand that you made certain decisions based solely on stories you’ve heard him speak fondly of. 

You meet Jace in the foyer of the house, prepared to leave for the street of sales. Your breath stalls in your chest when his eyes first land on you. His eyes rove over you for a good few moments, taking in the dress for every detail that it has, before finally lifting to your own.

“This is…” Jace speaks slowly, because he is processing. He does not want to assume and be embarrassed if he is wrong. “For me?”

“No, I had it made because I favor the colors.” You sass, “Of course it is for you.”

It was possible that even with the night the two of you had spent, and the others after it, Jace would see this as moving too fast. That you having a dress made from scratch specifically to his preferences was something only a betrothed woman would do, or perhaps something you’d only do once fully wed. It is very possible that Jace was simply biding his time, returning to full health while devising a way to return home, wherever that was. 

Equally as possible that he had a lover there, someone to go home to, someone to call his own. That he was just warming himself in your bed because he had missed whomever he had before his unfortunate event. 

Despite your typhoon of thoughts and corresponding emotions, you decide to commit. Twisting into a delicate spin that shows off the faint shimmer in the silk of the dress. You would at least have Jace accept your beauty before he turned you down.

“It is beautiful–you are beautiful.” His flattery brings a flush to your cheeks. 

“You really think so?”

“Yes,” Jace seals his admission with a light peck to your lips. A sweet lovers kiss to seal the truth he is admitting. 

You begin tugging him towards the entrance of the manse, “Come, I wish to shop before the day is gone.”

Biarves hen vēzos was in a few days time. 

The Celebration of the Sun, as the non Valyrian speakers knew it.

Merchants have made their way in from all regions to try and sell goods in preparation. Dyed silks and satins–made to be orange, yellow, reds, and pinks. Gemstones, some in casings to make necklaces, others just the stone themselves so you may fashion it how you please–rubies, topaz, garnet, and opals. Wines–sweet reds from Volantis, pale ambers from Pentos, sours from Andalos, pear tastings from Tyrosh, and whites from Lys. 

Anything you could possibly need for a celebration could be found. Threads for tapestries, spices for meals, beads for embroidery. You would be attending a celebration instead of hosting, so Jace was thoroughly confused when you insisted on coming today.

While some may have only wanted to indulge in the colors of the sun during the festivities, you would wear them any day. This was the perfect time to collect any and everything you desired for the upcoming year.

Your hand is ghosting over a deep blush colored satin. The cobalt beads you picked up a few stalls ago would contrast it perfectly. Now what pattern would fit? Ah. It did not matter, your dressmaker would figure it all out. 

Absently you hand the merchant a few gold coins. When you see the fabric in your handmaids grasp, your mind drifts. You’re finally nearing the end of that damned book. Despite how much you feigned interest, the story lingered in your mind even when you didn't want it to. Only a few mere chapters to wrap up the conquest of Aegon and his sisters. 

“I am excited to hear about how they conquered the North. I've heard stories of how the Northerners are savages–beasts that cannot be tamed.”

Jace's bicep flexes a bit in your hold. A short, small tense and untense of the muscle.  “I believe you may be disappointed in the battle.”

“Why is that?” 

You pull Jace to a halt in front of a jewelers stand. An intricate garnet piece has drawn your attention. 

“There is considerably less dragonfire than you’d prefer.” As if sensing your bubbling curiosity Jace speaks again before you can open your mouth, “But you will have to wait.”

Your fingers trace the necklace. Feeling the dips and curves, the way the silver curls around the gem, before you ultimately decide to pass on it. “I do not know why. If I had a dragon, everything would be burned in my path.” Anyone would think the same if they had a dragon, a beast with unstoppable capabilities.

“They are magnificent creatures.” 

When you look up at him Jace has this far off stare in his eye that you cannot understand. Like he’s transported himself from the street of sales to an entirely different realm. His imagination must be vivid after reading and rereading this history so many times.

“Are they?” Your voice lilts gently in question. “Tell me how so.”

“Well, for starters, they are temperamental. Usually only allowing their rider to close any sort of distance between them.”

You hum, encouraging him to continue.

“Dragonfire is hot, hotter than any forge could ever be. Some legends say that it had melted stone before.”

You laugh, “Stone, truly?”

“Yes. And the riders tend to smell of cinders after a ride because the dragons use the fires to form their nests and the scent lingers. Cinders and scorched leather oils if their dragon has breathed fire on the ride.”

Where would Jace have heard of such a thing? Surely history books don’t indulge in all these little details. But they must, for your boy still seems to have more to say. You continue to egg him on, “Mm, anything else?” 

“Their scales are rough–almost like tree bark. If you manage to retrieve one it's sharp as well, enough to where it could be repurposed into a blade.”

Jace speaks of Dragons as if he knows them. As if he has physically run his fingertips along their scales, as if he has slid down them on his way back to the ground. As if he has felt the flames produced from them on his very skin, and smelt like cinders after a long flight.

There's only one remaining family with Dragons though. And they do not reside anywhere in Essos. In fact–they've personally terrorized your people in the stepstones. Daemon Targaryen did, upon his mount Caraxes. 

Was this.. Prince Jacaerys? You suppose you could shorten it to Jace, but the commonfolk would never risk disrespecting a child of the crown in such a way. And his hair was different from a Targaryen’s. 

Then again, you'd heard the stories of how Rhaenyra Targaryen birthed bastards. Of how her three oldest children all had brown hair despite both her and her husband's silvery gold strands.

Nonetheless Prince Jacaerys died in the battle of the Gullet. His dragon shot down into the sea and the Prince assaulted with Triarchy arrows. 

That was how you found him, was it not? Two arrows lodged deep into his shoulder and a bolt of your own people's creation secured in the muscles of his neck.

The realization does not hit you like a wall. Not like a slap, or a tidal wave. It reaches you with a primal sense of dread; one that sends ice through your veins and makes it difficult to breathe. As if he was a predator, simply biding his time with the prey.

Your hand tightens around Jace's–Prince Jacaerys’–arm before realizing your mistake. This is not a friend, a companion, someone you could be besotted with. 

This was the enemy.

One that you wrapped in your silks. 

One that slept in your walls. Who has slept in your very own bed.

One that you revived because you could not quench your own curiosity. 

Your hand slips from its perch at the acceptance of these facts. Your face falls into a carefully crafted picture of indifference as your steps falter.

Jace–Prince Jacaerys, not Jace, Jace would not have deceived you in such a way–notices the second that your hand begins to move. His eyes dart to yours, and he's able to watch with startling attention as you school your expression.

“What is it?” Jace's voice is tight and low, reserved only for you. His eyes are frantic, searching the area for what could have possibly caused you such distress.

You don't respond automatically and your eyes aren't fixed on someone or something in the distance. So Jace raises a palm to your cheek, tilting your head so you're forced to gaze upon him.

“What is wrong?”

“You–you are a Targaryen.” The words tear through your vocal chords. They bring you a physical pain from the center of your lungs all the way to the tip of your tongue. Despite that, they're quiet – well aware of what would befall Jace if anyone were to find out.

Time seems to freeze for a bit. 

A few moments that may seem sweet to outsiders. A young couple so lost in each other that they cannot be bothered to move from the center of the market. Trying to avoid public indecency, but too entranced with another to step away.

You know you should kill him, or more likely, have him killed. Should return him to his previous state. Bolt through his neck and all. His family has caused your people much distress. Your own father fights against his parents and grandsire.

The thought is pushed aside, just barely as it fights for the stage that is the forefront of your brain; R’hllor would not have called you to him if he wanted you to simply kill him again. He would not have let the boy be revived no matter how hard you tried if he did not wish it to happen. But why? This boy was from Westeros. He did not worship R’hllor, nearly no one in that region did. 

Jace's face falls in complete dejection. As if he is accepting his fate, accepting that either you will attempt to kill him or you will hand him over to someone who will. Your heart squeezes at the realization.

“I will not have you killed,” Now you watch as he falters. As his hand stutters in its descent from your face. How his eyes constrict again and allow you to see the brown of his irises once more. 

Jace remains skittish. Eyes darting between you, your guards, and handmaids–attempting to assess how much they’ve heard and if they’re already conspiring against him. Then back to you. A seeming calm in the middle of whatever storm is coming for him. Then to the citizens surrounding you, and the merchants, trying to determine if any of them had overheard your realization.

“Why?” One simple word is all Jacaerys can muster. 

You’ve moved back a few more inches. To give both him and yourself personal space. You wish to say it is because of your traitorous heart, but, you are unsure if that is the reason anymore. You inhale a deep, shaky breath before continuing, “R’hllor wanted you alive for a reason, I will not see you killed while under my care.”

You can see a thousand thoughts swirling in his mocha eyes. Watch as his lips twitch, attempting to speak before his mind has found the words. But whatever he has to say, you have no desire to hear.

“We should retire.” You command, turning your attention to those who serve you. “The sun has exhausted my energy for the day.”

At your words your small group retreats from the street of sales. The entire way back to your fathers manse you can practically feel the energy radiating off of Jacaerys. By the time you push the doors to the foyer open you can only assume that his skin must be buzzing with the urge to speak.

His fingers ghost over your palm–attempting to ground you for a second. You do not give him the opportunity though, rushing past and ignoring his faint ‘wait’. You need a moment.

A moment to process.

A moment to breathe.

Hell, a moment to grieve.

Just a moment with your thoughts, by yourself.

Jacaerys avoids you the next day. Well, not particularly you, but he avoids the gardens, the library, even the kitchens. He takes detours through the halls to prevent even catching a glimpse of your silks.

He does not know if it was for your sake or his. If he is so fearful that you would call the guards on him at the first sighting. Or if the carefully placed mask you wore yesterday struck him so deeply with the urge for solitude.

The second day continues similarly. He avoids the gardens and the library. Only heading to the training grounds to practice his swordwork. Even taking supper in his rooms so that you may have the hall to yourself.

But the whole day is filled with a pit in his stomach, one weighted by dread. 

At night, tucked into the soft linens of his bed, Jacaerys allows himself to truly elaborate on his inner thoughts. Head on his pillow and fingers fisting the sheets. 

He feels pathetic. Ashamed even. Him a Prince of the realm, heir to the Iron Throne. Smitten with an opposer's daughter. 

So far gone in his emotions that he let his guard slip. That he truly allowed himself to believe that she felt as deeply for him. That once she knew of his real parentage, she would still care for him. That after four moons you would have imagined a future together that you could not bear to part from. 

Stupid. Naive. Childish.

Of course you would care more for your people, for your fathers cause. It was only right. He probably would do the same if he was stuck in your position. 

He tries to ignore the tears stinging on his lash-line. Tries to ignore the stinging that rests there even when he closes his lids. Bites his bottom lip until he's sure he can taste the metallic of blood on his tongue to prevent a sob from ripping through his vocal chords.

When he wakes on the third morning Jacaerys chooses to ignore the salt that has crusted from his tears the night before. He reasoned before he fell asleep that this avoidance was on purpose. 

That you were carefully crafting your schedule so that you did not run into him. Or simply avoiding places you knew he knew you enjoyed. Hiding in alcoves you've never shown him and slipping around corners at the tiniest sound of his boots.

Perhaps you were trying to tell him of your disgust without actually having to speak to him. Keeping true that you would not see him killed, but you would not help him anymore. 

If that were true, he would have to find a way home. A way out of Essos. A way out of Myr at the very least.

But Jacaerys had little of his own. The silks, satins and linens he wore? Supplied by you. The jewels that adorned his hair, neck or wrists? Supplied by you. 

His eyes drift to his sword, resting near the balcony in its holster.

It was the only thing he had that was his anymore. No dragon. No family. Not even a spare bag of coin on his person when he had been found.

He supposes he could try to work. Head into the city and offer his strength in exchange for passage. Make use of himself as a sellsword and make his way back to Westeros on a ship for hire. It wouldn't constitute as ‘safe passage’ but it would still put him in the general location of home.

Or, Gods, he could sell the sword itself. 

It had to be worth something. Definitely enough to get him a space on a ship back to Westeros. Possibly with enough extra to pay for a new set of clothes to hide himself behind. 

But it was a gift from his mother. The only thing remaining from his life before–from the life he was trying to return to. He could always get another one, have the blacksmiths curate him a new piece, something more beautiful, or more merciless, whatever his heart desired.

It would not hurt to simply have it appraised. To see how much coin he could procure, and while he was already out of the manse, assess how much passage to Westeros costed.

He dons a simple black cloak to at least slightly obscure his person on his endeavors. He leaves the hood down as he leaves the manse–it'd be stupid to act as if the servants and guards didn't know him. As if they didn't know his posture and his particular saunter.

He gets through the foyer fine. Out into the forecourt and through the front gates before a guard begins to flank him.

Someone less on edge most likely would not have noticed. Not have heard the shifting of the metal armor plates, missed the added set of steps behind them. But Jacaerys has been nearly ready to pounce since the moment you went cold with him four days ago on the street of sales.

He turns back to look upon the guard. It is Thane, a man who he has sparred with many times. He knew every one of Jacaerys’ moves, knew better than anyone in this city how he fought, surely he was preparing to strike Jace down.

Jace tries to wave him off, “I do not need chaperoning today Thane,” his tone dismissive.

“Apologies Jace. Orders from the Lady.” Thane rests his hand on the hilt of his sword casually. Nearly as relaxed as Jace is tense. If he notices the tautness in Jace’s muscles, he chooses not to mention.

Why though, would you not simply have him killed in the manse if you wanted him gone? Did you simply not want to deal with the blood staining your marbled floors? Did you send Thane to murder him if he tried to leave? Were you going to hand him over to your father, to the Triarchy?

Too many possibilities. The variables that he had previously written off all came back tenfold. He needed to get out of here, out of Myr.

So with a shadow, a man matching his steps prepared to slay him whenever the moment arose, Jace charges to the market. He whispers with merchants, assessing who would help him, who was overcharging and who was worth the coin. He needed to know who exactly he was going to run to when night fell.

After he had established a decent enough understanding, Jace made his way to the first blacksmith he saw. 

“You can wait here Thane, I will only be a mere moment.” Jace tries once again to dismiss the guard you've imposed upon him. 

“No can do.”

Jace steps up the stairs, retching the door open, still trying, “I want to commission a surprise piece for the lady.”

“My lips are sealed.”

Fine. Jace could speak quietly. Bring his head in close and whisper to the blacksmith about his proposal. He knows it won't matter when he unsheaths the sword to have it appraised, but some semblance of privacy is nice.

Jace speaks for a few moments of the details of the sword. The gold on the pommel, the type of steel it was crafted from. Anything to try and increase the value before the blacksmith demands to actually lay his eyes on the piece. It's only when Jace reaches for the hilt that Thane steps in. 

“Don't think you need'ta be doin’ that.” His hand pressing Jace's back into the sheath, “Bout time we be gettin’ back anyhow.”

Well. He supposes going back to the manse was not the worst thing ever. He could be slain, but he is not. His lungs still inhale, pressing oxygen into his muscles. His head could be rolling on the wooden floors, but it still rests upon his shoulders. His heart still beats a steady, fast but steady, rhythm in his chest. 

Jace was clever; he could figure an escape plan out as soon as he was alone. Six hells, he could cultivate one now as long as he stayed silent. 

On the fourth day Jace voices his concerns. To him it is as if you have implemented a self imposed exile to the four walls of your apartments. Certainly his presence was not daunting enough for you to ignore him so?

Where might the Lady of the manse be?

Would she like to go out to the market?

He tries to keep his voice light and curious. To seem as if he simply missed your presence. 

Yet he does not get a response from the servants sent to help him dress. Does not receive a response from the guards who are dispersed throughout the manse, nor the ones in the training yard. Eventually, though, around midday, your handmaid comes to find him.

He’s sweaty, face and forearms caked with dust, panting from the exertion when Eliana approaches. “The Lady wishes for you to join her for dinner.” 

Jace knows it must be the truth–you wouldn’t send your handmaid otherwise. So was this it? Would tonight be where he met his cruel end?

He supposes he should look nice at least. If it was the last time you would lay your eyes upon him, the smallest, most selfish bit of him hopes to haunt you with his image. That the browns of his hair and eyes, along with the bridge of his nose and plush bowed lips will linger in your mind long after his flesh rots from the bones.

Jace washes his face, scrubbing until there are no signs of obvious stress visible. He combs and styles his hair, and dresses in his house colors. A fine deep red satin shirt, paired with trousers so dark they look like a void.

Before he knows it, it's time for the show. He can only hope that it is a quick, merciful end.

You're already seated when Jace makes his way into the dining hall. You're sitting at the far head of the table–a little unusual, because you'd normally be sitting to the right of the head, but it does not make Jace waver. His step does falter for a split second when he notices his seat far from yours. He'd prefer it to be next to you, no matter how improper; he'd settle for adjacent, so he could at least gaze upon your features.

Instead it is directly across. At the end nearest the entrance. As far away as possible. This is most definitely what he believed it to be. You’re final goodbye before you have him slain somewhere in the streets of Myr. 

“How are you, My Lady?”

He can see the faintest bit of a smile on your face. From this distance it seems like a polite, political smile; one that you’ve learned and practiced since you were a young girl. 

“Well, I hope you are too. Please,” You make a faint gesture towards his seat, “Sit.”

Jace sits as you ask. It is a bit janky however. His leg catches on the arm of the chair before he finally slips into a seated position. Truthfully, you hoped Jace was distracted. Distracted by you–but you were not going to ask. Instead you motioned for the meal to be served.

Tonight, your dress is made in Westerosi fashion. A deep red velvet for the fabrics, along with a corset back to tie you deeply into the fabrics. The sleeves just barely hold onto your shoulders, but they're tight enough on your upper arms to secure them into place. At the elbow the fabric opens into nearly a cape along your forearm of black Myrish lace.

Rubies are sewn into the center of your chest, helping accentuate the fatty tissue there. The jewels trail down your torso and ends just above your belly button. Another singular rubie rests above your navel amongst intricate stitching. 

You purchased the velvet for cheap because the merchants usually cannot sell such heavy fabrics in the warm regions of Essos. It leaves you feeling suffocated from the inside out, but you know that velvet is proof of nobility in Westeros and you're hoping to give Jace a taste of what could have been.

You’ve felt his eyes on you since he walked into the dining hall. Felt them rove over your face, your hair, your bust, and the dress. 

“Do you like it?” You ask, far too immersed in your plates for Jace to be sure what you’re speaking of.

Jace chews and swallows the remaining venison in his mouth, “Like what?”

“My dress.”

You take a deep sip of Dornish wine, swishing it around your cheeks as you wonder if he understands. If he grasps the implication, or if he forms it to be what he wants in his mind.

This is acceptance of his heritage. You saying in a different language that you see him as he is, a Westerosi man, and that you welcome him anyway. Maybe he sees it as proof that you’d cross the narrow sea with him–proof that you would adapt to the ways of his people; dress how they dress, eat how they eat, read what they read, sleep how they sleep.

Is he thinking of the future? Of you wearing similarly fashioned dresses as you walked the halls of the Red Keep or Dragonstone?

Were you round with child? Was there one running around your legs and clinging to your skirts? Perhaps he saw both at the same time. Or maybe a few years flashed in his mind, he saw the progress of your life together in bits until it settled on a favored image of your could be family. 

Unfortunately for him, this was not that.

This was your, unintentionally, cruel way of sneaking deep into his brain. 

If he thought of you–when he thought of you– he would see this. What could have been. You in his house colors, in the finest fabrics that his homeland had to offer. Slicing into meats spiced to his liking even if it wasn’t traditional here. The fruitage of your love clear and abundant.

“Yes, I think I favor it. Though you did look delightful in the other piece.”

Good. At least you knew he would look happily upon the memory. It meant you too, could look back on this day without regret. You also could imagine a future of what could have been without feeling guilty.

The two of you make small talk as you eat. You speak of new blooms you’re planning on adding to the gardens, Jace mentions practicing his swordwork with some of the guards. Typical, boring, mundane conversations. Simply had to fill the space.

Your mind drifts throughout them all. Back to the idea of being with Jace. Marrying him. Living in a place unknown to yourself just for him. 

In the moons since you've rescued him, you've become undeniably close. You think you love Jacaerys Velaryon. Cannot be sure because you’ve never been in love before, but you’re nearly sure this is it. When you think back on your parents, when your mother was alive, you see parallels. Thinking of the love you’ve read about in fictional novels, you see parallels. 

It wouldn’t happen, couldn’t happen, even if you both desired it. 

“I have found you safe passage back to Westeros.” You reveal with a carefully blank expression on your face. Would Jace revel in this information, barely able to hide his excitement? It would hurt, but you imagine he has been wishing for an opportunity like this to arise.

“How?”

“I am very persuasive, My Prince.”

“Don’t-don’t do that.” Jace stammers, clearly taken aback at your use of his title.

He has stopped pretending that he is enjoying his meal, stopped pretending to eat at all actually. Clearly thinking the idea over. You can see a flurry of emotions fly across his face. But mainly confusion that eventually fades to elation.

You speak to him of the logistics. Whom he will be sailing with, how long the journey will be, what alias he must hold until they arrive in King’s Landing. Answering any questions he might have had along the way as well. 

“You could come with me.”

Blinking up at him, you squint trying to assess if Jace was being serious or not. Surely he did not interrupt your ramblings to present such a foolish idea. “What?” The word leaves you breathlessly.

“Come with me. To Westeros.”

There is this frenzied look in his eyes. Wide enough so that you can see all the whites of them, You can see the blacks of his pupils wider than they should be, and they certainly should not be visible from this distance. They’re moving erratically, fixing on certain points of your face for a mere second before moving to the next feature. 

“I cannot.”

“You can. You’ve already found safe passage!”

You stand, making your way towards Jace before sitting yourself atop the table next to his plates. Your hand rises to cup his face and he leans into your palm. Calmly you begin to explain, “I cannot go with you Jacaerys. We both have our roles in this life–Yours in Westeros and mine here.”

“But–”

“However, I can give you one last night before your voyage.” Your fingers begin to stroke simple patterns into the curve of his jaw. “Something to remember me by if you will.”

Jacaerys was a strong man. A good man. A thoughtful man. So he knows he would be stupid to deny himself this. Knows that he will be heading home to Westeros, to wed Baela, and to be Lord of Dragonstone with her as his Lady wife. But with this, he could at the very least have fresher memories of your love.

Jace stands, grabbing your other hand to bring it to clutch at the other side of his face. He situates himself between your legs before slotting his lips to yours. 

He kisses you slow. Relishing in the pressure of your lips and the smoothness of them before even thinking of trying to part the seam with his tongue.

He tastes you slow too. Sliding his tongue against and across yours in miniscule movements, like he wants to lave over every individual tastebud. Like he wants to steal the taste of dinner off of them until there's only you, you, you.

He would not ravish you on the table, it was improper, so instead he hoists you up. Hands stopping their constant meandering over the planes of your dress to secure on the underside of your thighs while Jace rushes through the hallways to your apartments.

Jace thinks of all the ways he will bed you as he unties your corsets. He does not believe that he will rest tonight; there are too many things he wishes to try. Too many sounds and pleasures he wants, no needs, to tear from you before he is stripped of your presence forever.

You return his fervor tenfold, of course. Eagerly tearing at his trousers and doublet, preparing to memorise the planes of muscle that were usually obscured. Something to think about when you eventually married some Magister’s son that you could only barely care for because you were stuck with him all day.

You allow yourself to be as loud as possible, moaning and whimpering Jace’s true name into the night air. The servants could send all the ravens they wanted, Jacaerys would still be gone before anything could be done. 

The next morn you wake to a rhythmic beating below your ear and a warm palm caressing your arm. You shift, digging your cheek deeper into the lean place of muscle beneath it, you can feel Jacaerys inhale in a slight laugh.

“You know, I meant what I said.”

Blearily, you blink up at him. Trying to get your eyes to focus on him through the slight crusts at the edges. As you wipe them away you hum in confusion, egging him to explain his statement.

“You can come with me. Back to Westeros.” His eyes have lost that crazed look from the night before. Instead swimming with hope, “I will not see you harmed for your parentage, and you would live as lavishly as you do here.”

You know he's telling the truth, earnestly holding eye contact for as long as you'd allow him before you blink away. His breathing never changed, nor his repetitive motions. If he were lying something would have changed.

“You know I cannot.” You break your statement with a press to his lips before continuing, “I would love nothing more, but I cannot.”

Your last moments together are spent tenderly. You help Jacaerys dress, attach the hilt of his sword to his waist, and sweep some of his crazed curls back behind his ear. All gentle touches and soft words. 

A perfect bubble that’s only bursted when you see him off in the forecourt. 

Tears brim at your lashline and you have to swallow back a sob more than once. This was Jace’s last vision of you and you would not have it sullied because of some emotion that you could not reign in. 

Perhaps you would meet again. Perhaps R’hllor would reunite you in whatever came after death as a thank you for saving his life. 

Or perhaps not. Perhaps you had simply completed a thankless miracle, and your paths would never cross again.

You’d simply have to wait and see. 

epilogue

Nearly a full year has passed since you saw Jacaerys off from the gates of your forecourt. Eleven moons spent twisting and turning at every boy around his height with curly hair, presuming them to be him. Foolishly believing that he has come back to you.

His mother, Rhaenyra, had spent the time fully establishing herself as Queen. Jacaerys was by her side, of course, learning the proper ways of court and preparing for his future. 

You still ask of him, from traveling merchants and storytellers. What is he doing? Are the smallfolk taking to him nicely? Do they believe him fit to be King or do rumors mull about?

You try your best to ignore thoughts of him when with your father.

Yet even now, as you sit poking at salted cod, your mind drifts to him. The meal was one of his favorites and instead of desiring to devour it you wish to save it. As if the meal alone will draw him back into your arms.

Your father clears his throat, taking a deep gulp of wine before speaking.

“A raven came today.” An unpeculiar thing, and your brow creases in confusion as he continues, “With no house seal, simply a piece of twine to hold it together.”

He extends his hand to give you the letter, and you take it from him as if it may burn you. Why is he not revealing more information? Unease sets in your stomach as you unroll the parchment.

The war for the Iron Throne is long won. Rhaenyra Targaryen sits upon it as the God's intended.

I am sure this is tragic news for you, as tragic as losing much of your fleet in the Battle of the Gullet. However I write with the hope of peace. 

My betrothed has found someone, someone she loves, and cherishes. In a true way, not one forged out of political necessity. So I have had our betrothal renounced, I could never prevent one from being with the person they truly love. 

I am sure you question what this has to do with you. I am told you have a daughter, and that she remains unwed. The crown suggests offering me her hand–as a show of good faith. Showing the Triarchy’s submission in their losses, and their willingness to cooperate with nearby lands.

Know that she will be treated well. Future Queen is the second best position a woman can hold in Westeros after all. 

Take a few days to mull over your options. But do make haste, these peaceful terms will not be available forever.

- Jacaerys Velaryon

A grin has overtaken your features while reading the short letter. Before meeting your fathers gaze you school it back to indifference.

“I am to be Queen of Westeros?” You ask, as if not believing the writing before you.

“Only if you desire, I am sure that we can discuss other appeasable terms.”

You don an assured smile, trying to hide the glimmer of excitement in your eyes, “It is all right Father. We all have our parts to play.” 

Dividers by @cafekitsune

rhaenyra's brows pinched together in what could only be irritation as she retired to her chambers at the end of a very long first day. if having rats roaming her castle wasn't enough, she then had to deal with being deceived by alicent's cousin, ser corlys and his illegitimate-turned-legitimate heirs, and of course daemon and mysaria bickering ontop. who knew finally taking on the iron throne would bring this much stress?

a slow sigh escaped her lips as she stared ahead into the reflection of her mirror, hands smoothing down her nightgown. hands that weren't her own.

"are the silks to your liking, your grace?"

rhaenyra spared a hum, glancing to you in the mirror. "they are. where have you dug these up, mm?" her eyes, despite being tired, give a small playful glint in their amethyst hue. "have you stolen them, perhaps?"

your cheeks flush at the accusation. "of course not, your grace!"

your queen chuckles, turning around and shaking her head. "be calm. I only jest," her eyes flit over you, and she murmurs. "you served while I was gone, yes?"

you nod very gently. "er, yes."

rhaenyra hums, reaching forward and tracing a bit of your attire, watching you tense like prey. "did you serve alicent faithfully, too?"

"I.." your hands tremble a bit as hers work at the tie of your gowns apron, flimsy as it was, and your breath hitches when it slowly falls apart. "...yes, your grace." you speak honestly.

rhaenyra's eyes flit to yours, and then she nods ever so slightly to her bed. "lay."

"your grace-"

"lay."

your fumbling to her bed in a matter of seconds, weakly laying down on her bed. but before that, your simple loose dress slips down your shoulders, and rhaenyra aids in tugging it away slowly and tossing it aside. she circles, watching you closely as you lay on your back in just your simple underskirt, and a flimsy piece of cotton encasing your breasts and hiding your sex.

but your queen has the nose of a dragon.

"you're aroused." she muses, slipping into the bed.

your chest hammers at the sight alone. her braid was undone, leaving those pristine white locks cascading down her side like the fog of a waterfall. she leans in slightly, thumbing the fabric binding your chest. "you will do what your queen asks of you, yes?" a weak nod, and she hums with a low cock of her head. "words."

"yes..your grace.."

"good. clothes off."

the fabric around your chest is tugged off, along with the remainder of your small clothes - leaving you barren on her bed. your queen licks her lips slowly, sighing and glancing up to you. "I shall see that you a heavily rewarded for this...gift, you've so graciously bestowed upon your queen."

and you barely push out the syllables of words before her lips descend like searing blades across your skin, kissing down your collarbones and nippling lowly at the buds of your breasts, before eventually settling between your legs. a heavy flush takes over your face, and your hands are quick to shyly cover your face as you peek down at her. "y-your grace.."

"yes?" rhaenyra speaks, parting your legs ever so slowly. this time, when she puffs out warm hair - similarly to that of her dragon - you shiver as it hits your sex. "look at you, barely touched and already dripping like a good little maiden for your queen..." you gasp breathlessly, hips raising dangerously closer. "p-please, your grace.." "hush now," she tuts, leaning and pressing kisses along your thighs, dangerously nearing your lips with each slow brush. the ripples of arousal shoot through you like sparks from a fire, and you weakly push closer to her again - though this time, you're met with rhaenyra's lips slowly closing around the small pearl at the top of your cunt, making a slow sucking motion on it before her tongue gives it a low swirl, and dips fully into you.

with a whine, your hips raise instantly, begging for more the second she begins to explore your folds with an expertise she must have only gotten from years of practice.

the thought alone spurs the hot coil in your tummy.

your queen's tongue laps slowly through your cunt, her own eyes slipping shut as a groan of pleasure elicited from her throat - feeling like a low rumble as she continues to lap at you like a dog cleaning its chops. you shiver at the noise, weak noises leaving you in an instant, hips sputtering weakly. her hands reach to wrap around, nails diffing into your hips as she holds you down, taking her time with her meal.

your arm weakly raises to hide your gaze as you lean back deeper into her pillows, mixed in the throws of ecstasy at your queens command.

she pulls off slowly, licking her lips as her hand shifts just a bit, thumb rubbing your clit with slow persecution. "does it feel good? being ravaged by your queen?" she sighs appreciatively. "you respond so well.."

a weak moan tumbles as your hips raise up further into her touch, pressing against her thumb and practically grinding your clit on the pad of her thumb.

rhaenyra's eyes darken at the sight, and she doesn't wait for a reply as she leans back in, moving her thumb and sucking the ball into her mouth as her fingers reach, parting your folds a bit. her ring and middle press together, rubbing the rim of your entrance slowly, feeling as your walls flutter in wanton. she half wondered if alicent touched your sweet body like this too - but oh, it didn't matter now.

your body belongs to your queen now.

with renewed strength, she moves her hand up, slowly pushing inside of you. you whine, back arching as your hips raise and your head tilts back, accepting her fingers greedily.

rhaenyra purrs, continuing to lick your clit as you thrash about, her fingers fucking into you quickly and desperately, pushing you quick to your release. your whines come out sharper, louder, and your queen makes a noise of approval - fingers scissoring inside of your wet heat and making you moan abruptly as she presses a particular part of you, and makes you cum with a jolt.

rhaenyra's lips pull off your cunt, her tongue darting out to wet them as she moves back up your body, swatting your arm off your eyes and kissing you greedily.

you melt into the searing kiss, whimpering lowly as your arms loop lazily around her neck, body all boneless. and rhaenyra simply leans in deeper, her jaw shifting as she slips her fingers out of you and focuses now on pouring her attentions to you.

finally, with a slow breath - she pulls back, panting and looking down at your wrecked form. those beautiful eyes narrow slowly.

"...you belong to me," she rasps. "my...head maid. alright?"

and weakly, you nod.