Summary: You find a missing cat that belongs to a certain Targaryen. During the time which takes you to find the owner, Vhagar becomes attached to you, so now Aemond must deal with sharing her with you. See part 1 here.
The bandages came off on a Tuesday.
You weren't there for the removal, that happened at the surgeon's office, a sterile room full of equipment you couldn't name, with Aemond's mother in attendance and you very pointedly not invited. But you were there when he came home, walking through the door of the penthouse with his left eye uncovered.
The scar was still there, a pale silver line cutting through his eyebrow and disappearing into his hairline. But the eye itself, the eye he'd kept hidden behind patches carefully arranged hair, was visible now. Clouded, yes. A milky blue where his right eye was sharp violet. But open, and looking at you, or at least in your direction.
"How did it go?" you asked, setting down the book you'd been reading.
Aemond didn't answer immediately. He set his keys on the console table by the door, then walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. His hands were steady, but there was tension in his shoulders.
"Mother is optimistic," he said finally, his back still to you. "She's already talking about the next surgery. The one after this one. The specialist in Geneva she's been corresponding with."
"That's not what I asked."
He turned then, and you could see it: the exhaustion, the resignation, the carefully contained disappointment of someone who had hoped against hope and been proven right the first time. "The surgery went as expected. The eye is healed. The nerve is not."
"Oh," you said softly. "Aemond."
"Don't." His voice was sharp, then immediately softened. "Don't look at me like that. I told you. I made my peace with this years ago. It's my mother who can't let it go."
Vhagar, who had been sleeping in her cardboard box by the window, lifted her head and made a creaking sound of inquiry. Aemond crossed the room and bent to scratch behind her ears, and for a moment he looked almost normal, just a man petting his cat, the pale afternoon light catching the silver in his hair.
"There are exercises," he said, straightening up. "Vision therapy. They want me to do them twice a day, just in case." He said just in case the way someone might say just in case the dead rise from their graves. "I'm supposed to test whether I can distinguish shapes. Movement."
"Do you want me to help?"
He looked at you, his good eye assessing, his bad eye fixed on some point slightly to your left. "You don't have to."
"I know I don't have to. I'm asking if you want me to."
The pause stretched long enough that Vhagar meowed impatiently, demanding continued attention. Aemond's mouth twitched.
"Yes," he said. "I want you to."
The vision therapy kit was a sad little collection of objects that looked like they'd been stolen from an optometrist's office: a handheld eye chart, a patch to cover his good eye, a series of cards with increasingly small letters and shapes, a penlight that seemed unnecessarily clinical for a penthouse apartment. Aemond laid them out on the coffee table with the same grim efficiency he probably brought to board meetings.
"This is humiliating," he said, fastening the patch over his right eye. "I haven't done this with anyone since I was a child."
"You were a child once?"
"Briefly. It didn't take."
You sat across from him on the couch, the eye chart in your hands. With the patch on, his face looked different: more vulnerable, the scar more prominent, the clouded blue of his left eye the sole focus of his gaze. He was looking somewhere in the vicinity of your left shoulder, his pupil fixed and unmoving.
"Okay," you said, holding up the chart. "Can you see any of the letters?"
Silence. He squinted, or tried to, the left eye didn't move quite in sync with the right. "No."
"What about the big one at the top? The E?"
"No."
"Can you tell how many fingers I'm holding up?"
You raised your hand. He stared at it for a long moment, his jaw tight.
"None," he said. "Or possibly all of them. I can't tell."
You lowered your hand. "Okay. What about light? Can you see the window? The difference between the window and the wall?"
He turned his head slowly, his blind eye tracking across the room. "I can tell there's a light source. It'sâŚbrighter over there. But I couldn't tell you it was a window. It's just light and dark. Like looking through frosted glass at the bottom of a lake."
"That's something, though. Right? The surgeon said..."
"The surgeon said there was a thirty percent chance. That was before they opened me up and found the nerve damage was worse than the scans showed." He pulled the patch off with more force than necessary, his right eye blinking rapidly as it readjusted. "This is a waste of time. Mother's surgeon can bill her for the therapy kit and the follow-up appointments and the flight to Geneva she's already trying to book, but it won't change anything."
"Maybe not," you said carefully. "But you're doing it anyway."
He looked at you, and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. "I'm doing it anyway."
You ran through the exercises again and again. The second day, Aemond reported that he could distinguish the penlight when you shone it directly at his left eye, a faint brightening, like sunlight through thick curtains. The third day, he thought he might have seen your hand move, though he couldn't be sure it wasn't just his brain filling in the gaps. The fourth day, he could reliably tell you whether the lights in the room were on or off, which felt like a victory until he pointed out that he could do that before the surgery too.
"It's not going to come back," he said on the fifth day, setting the eye chart aside with finality. "I've accepted that. I need my mother to accept it."
"Have you told her?"
"I've told her every time. She doesn't listen." He rubbed his right eye, a gesture of fatigue you'd come to recognize. "She thinks acceptance is the same as giving up. That if she just tries hard enough, wants it badly enough, she can fix me."
The word fix landed heavily between you. You thought about all the things you'd learned about Aemond over the past months: the careful way he held himself, the defensiveness that masked something rawer underneath, the way he offered devotion to people who gave him scraps in return. You thought about his mother, who loved him enough to find surgeon after surgeon but not enough to let him grieve what he'd lost.
"You're not broken," you said quietly.
He didn't answer. But he looked at you, and his expression cracked open, just a little, like a door left slightly ajar.
"Now you," he said on the sixth day, pushing the eye chart across the coffee table toward you.
"What about me?"
"Your vision. You mentioned it the other day, the astigmatism. Let me test you."
"You're not an optometrist."
"I have an eye chart. That makes me qualified."
You laughed, but he was already standing up, the patch dangling from his fingers, his expression set in that particular way it got when he'd decided something and would not be dissuaded. He positioned you against the far wall of the living room. "No, further back", and handed you a plastic spoon to cover first one eye, then the other.
"Read the third line," he commanded.
"I can't see the third line."
"What do you mean you can't see it? It's right there."
"It's a blur. I can see the big E. The rest is justâŚfuzzy shapes."
He stared at you, the eye chart forgotten in his hand. "How long has it been since you had glasses?"
"I have glasses. They're at home. The prescription is justâŚ" You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious under the intensity of his scrutiny. "Old."
"How old?"
"A few years?"
"A few years." His voice was flat. "You told me the sight in your right eye is at eighty percent. Your left eye is at sixty percent. You're straining your right eye constantly to compensate, which is why you need the drops. And you haven't updated your prescription in a few years."
"It's expensive," you said, crossing your arms. "Eye exams, new lenses, the frames, it adds up. My old glasses work fine. I can see well enough."
"'Well enough' is not the same as seeing." He was pacing now, the eye chart rolled into a tube that he was using to gesture emphatically. "You've been squinting at your computer screen. You've been holding your phone six inches from your face. You couldn't read the street sign yesterday when we were walking back from the park."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything." He stopped pacing and faced you, frustrated. "Why didn't you say something?"
"Because it's not a big deal? Millions of people have outdated prescriptions. It's not like I'm going blind."
"You're straining your eyes daily. That causes headaches. Fatigue. Decreased quality of life." He was listing the symptoms like he'd memorized them from a medical textbook, which he probably had. "And you've just been...what? Ignoring it? Hoping it would go away?"
"I've been managing it. With the eye drops. Which I told you about."
"The eye drops are a stopgap. You need proper corrective lenses."
"Aemond." You held up a hand, cutting him off mid-tirade. "I appreciate the concern. Really. But glasses are expensive, and I have other things to prioritize right now. It's fine."
"It is not fine," he said, and the words came out almost fierce. "You've been here for a week. You've been helping me with my exercises, ordering food, keeping me company at three in the morning when I can't sleep. You've done all of that without being asked, without expecting anything in return, and you won't even let me..."
He stopped abruptly, his jaw clicking shut.
"Let you what?" you asked.
Silence. He looked away, his profile sharp against the window light.
"Let me help you," he said finally, his voice quieter now. "In return."
"You don't owe me anything."
"I know I don't owe you. That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
He turned back to you, and there it was again, that expression you'd seen flickering across his face for weeks now, the one you'd been too afraid to name. "I meant that I want to. I want to help you. Not because you've earned it or because I'm compensating you for services rendered, but because I..." He stopped, swallowed, started again. "Because I care about you. Because the thought of you walking around with a four-year-old prescription and pretending it's fine makes me want to..."
"Have an affronted meltdown?"
"Don't tease me. I'm being sincere."
"I know you are." You stepped closer. "That's what makes it so funny."
His mouth twitched. "It's not funny."
"It's a little funny. You're standing there with an eye chart in your hand, lecturing me about my astigmatism, looking like you're about to call an optometrist and have them dragged here by force."
"I'm considering it."
"I know you are."
The tension broke. He was standing very close now, close enough that you could smell his cologne, clean and expensive, like cedar and cold air, his good eye was fixed on your face.
"How much do I owe you?" he asked, his voice lower than before.
"What?"
"For this week. For the catsitting. For staying here. For..." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the eye chart, the penthouse, the entire improbable situation. "All of it."
"You don't owe me anything," you repeated, this time the words came out sadder than you intended. "That's not why I stayed."
"Then why did you?"
"Because you needed someone. And I wanted to be that someone." You looked down at your hands, unable to hold his gaze. "You don't have to pay me for that. I'm not your employee."
"I know you're not."
"Then stop trying to make this transactional."
The silence that followed was heavy, charged, the air in the room suddenly too thick to breathe.
"That's not what I was doing," he said. "I wasn't...I don't see you as an employee. I haven't for a long time. I justâŚ" He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging strands of silver-blonde from their careful arrangement. "I don't know how to do this. Any of this. I don't know how to say stay without offering something in return. I don't know how to ask for what I want without making it a transaction. I've never..." He stopped, breathed, started again. "You're the first person in a very long time who's stayed without being asked. Without being paid. Without expecting anything from me. I don't know what to do with that."
"You could say thank you," you suggested softly.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
He laughed, a short exhale that was half surprise and half relief. "That's it? That's all I had to say?"
"That's all anyone has to say. The rest is justâŚshowing up. Being there. The stuff you've already been doing."
"I've been doing it badly."
"You've been doing it like someone who's never been shown how."
He reached out and took your hand, his fingers cool and slightly unsteady against your palm.
"I want you to get new glasses," he said. "Not because I owe you. Not because you're my employee. Because I want you to be able to see. Because I want you to stop squinting at your phone and getting headaches and pretending it's fine. Because I want to do something for you that you won't do for yourself. Is that acceptable?"
"I can't afford..."
"I know. That's why I'm offering."
"Aemond..."
"Please." The word came out desperate. "Let me do this. Let me do something for someone who actually wants to be here. Who isn't waiting for me to fix something or become something or stop being something. Just let me buy you a pair of glasses. It's the least romantic gesture I can think of. It's practically medical."
A laugh bubbled up in your throat, surprising you. "You think this is romantic?"
"I think I'm trying very hard to tell you something, and I'm doing it badly, and I'm hoping you'll meet me halfway before I make an even bigger fool of myself."
"What are you trying to tell me?"
He stepped closer. His hand was still holding yours, his thumb tracing small circles against your knuckles.
"I'm trying to tell you that I've ended things with Alys," he said. "I did it the night before the surgery. I told her I wasn't coming to Riverlands anymore. She said she'd send the salve anyway, because she'd already made it, and I said okay, and that was it. Three years, and that was it."
"I'm sorry," you said, because you didn't know what else to say.
"Don't be. I'm not." His grip on your hand tightened. "I thought I would be. I thought I'd feel...hollow. Instead I felt relieved. I felt like I'd been holding my breath for three years and someone had finally let me exhale."
"What does that have to do with my glasses?"
"Nothing. Everything." He was standing so close now that you could see the flecks of darker violet in his iris, the faint lines around his eye that only appeared when he was tired or worried or feeling something too big to contain. "I'm trying to tell you that I want you here. As you. Just you. However you'll have me."
Your heart was beating so hard you were sure he could feel it through your hand. "Aemond..."
He kissed you. It was the kiss of someone who had been holding back for months and had finally, catastrophically, run out of restraint. His free hand came up to cup your jaw, his fingers sliding into your hair, and he kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he was making up for lost time, like you were the first good thing that had happened to him in years and he was terrified of letting you slip away.
You kissed him back. Your hands found the front of his shirt, the crisp cotton crumpling under your grip, and you pulled him closer, closer, until there was no space left between you. He made a sound low in his throat, something between a sigh and a groan, and his arm wrapped around your waist, anchoring you against him.
"You have no idea," he murmured against your mouth, "how long I've wanted to do that."
"How long?"
"Since you told me to give Vhagar a cardboard box."
You laughed, he kissed the laugh right off your lips, and somehow you ended up pressed against the back of the couch with his hands in your hair and his mouth trailing down the line of your jaw. Vhagar meowed loudly from her box.
"Your cat is judging us," you managed.
"Vhagar judges everyone. It's her primary hobby." But he pulled back just far enough to look at you, his expression soft in a way you'd never seen before. "Stay. Tonight. Not in the guest room."
"Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything." He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Stay. Let me buy you glasses. Let me cook you dinner and lecture you about your eye health and kiss you until neither of us can breathe. Let me be terrible at this and learn how to be better."
You kissed him again instead of answering, but he seemed to take that as a yes.
You didn't stay in the guest room. One moment you were kissing him against the back of the couch, his hands in your hair and his mouth warm and insistent on yours, and the next he was leading you down the hallway past the guest room door without even pausing, his fingers laced through yours.
His bedroom was exactly what you'd expected and nothing like you'd imagined. Minimalist, yes, pale walls, pale linens, a huge bed, but there were books stacked on the nightstand, three of them with spines cracked and bookmarks protruding. There was a glass of water on the coaster. There was a gray cat hair on a pillow, which Vhagar had apparently claimed despite having her own climate-controlled tower in the living room.
"She sleeps here," Aemond said, noticing your glance at the hair. "I've tried to stop her. It's impossible."
"I wouldn't expect you to succeed. She's very determined."
"She's very spoiled." He said it with the same gruff affection he always used when talking about the cat. "I should warn you, I've been told I'm not an easy person to sleep next to."
"By whom?"
The question slipped out before you could stop it. He didn't flinch, but something flickered across his face, there and gone. "Alys. Among others."
"Well," you said, sitting down on the edge of his enormous bed and trying not to think about Alys in this room, in this bed, "I've been told I steal the covers. So we'll be even."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Noted."
You woke several times in the night, you always did in unfamiliar places. The first time, the clock on the nightstand read 1:47 a.m., and you were cocooned in blankets with Aemond's arm draped over your waist and his breath slow and even against the back of your neck. You smiled into the darkness and let yourself drift back under.
The second time, it was 3:22 a.m., and you were freezing.
The blankets were gone. All of them. You were curled on your side in the fetal position, your arms wrapped around yourself, and somewhere in the vast expanse of the king-sized bed, Aemond Targaryen had apparently constructed a fortress and was sleeping soundly inside it.
You tugged at the nearest corner of blanket. It didn't budge. You tugged harder. Somewhere in the darkness, Aemond made a disgruntled sound and rolled over, taking the blankets with him.
"You're a blanket thief," you whispered accusingly.
He didn't respond. He was deeply asleep, his face half-buried in the pillow and his silver-blonde hair spread across the pillowcase like spilled moonlight.
You gave up on the blankets and shuffled closer to him instead, pressing yourself against his back for warmth. He stirred, murmuring something unintelligible, and his arm reached back to pull you closer. A moment later, the blankets descended over you again, tucked carefully around your shoulders by hands that were still mostly asleep.
"Thank you," you whispered.
"Mmph," he said, and pulled you tighter against him.
The third time you woke, it was 5:14 a.m. and his mouth was on your shoulder.
He was still mostly asleep, his breathing deep and regular, but his lips were pressed to the curve of your shoulder where the collar of your borrowed t-shirt had slipped down, and they were moving slightly, not kissing, exactly, just resting there, warm and dry and strangely tender.
You should have been annoyed. You'd been asleep. You'd been comfortable. But instead you felt a slow, honeyed warmth spreading through your limbs, your sleep-fogged brain registering the sensation as something pleasant rather than intrusive. You made a small sound of acknowledgment and tilted your head, giving him better access without really meaning to.
His mouth moved to the side of your neck. Still not quite kissing, just resting there, his breath warm against your pulse point. His hand, which had been curled loosely at your hip, slid up your side in a slow, absent motion, like he was petting a cat in his sleep.
"Aemond," you murmured.
"Mmph."
"Are you awake?"
No answer. His lips pressed a little firmer against your neck, then relaxed. He was definitely still asleep. You closed your eyes and let yourself drift again.
Proper consciousness arrived with the gray light of dawn and the insistent yowling of a cat who had decided that 6:30 a.m. was a perfectly reasonable time for breakfast.
"She's your cat," you mumbled into the pillow.
"She's your alarm clock now," Aemond replied, his voice rough with sleep. He hadn't moved away from you. If anything, he'd gotten closer, his chest pressed against your back and his arm still wrapped around your waist. His mouth, you noticed, was still somewhere in the vicinity of your shoulder. "I should feed her."
"In a minute."
He huffed a laugh against your skin, and the sensation sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with cold. "You're a terrible influence."
"I'm a great influence. I'm teaching you to relax."
"Vhagar will destroy something if I don't feed her. Last time I was late, she knocked a first edition off the shelf."
"Was it valuable?"
"Very."
"And you still keep first editions on shelves she can reach?"
He paused. "That's a fair point."
Vhagar yowled again, louder this time. Aemond sighed and extracted himself from the tangle of blankets and limbs. You immediately missed his warmth, the solid weight of him behind you, you burrowed deeper into the pillows to compensate.
"I'm going to feed the terrorist," he said, and you felt his hand brush your hair back from your face. "Go back to sleep."
"Mmkay."
You were already half-gone when you felt his lips press to your temple, brief and soft. "I'm glad you stayed," he murmured, and then he was gone, padding out of the room with Vhagar's yowls leading the way.
That morning consisted of coffee, breakfast and a shower that had taken longer than strictly necessary because Aemond's bathroom had heated floors and water pressure that felt like a massage.
You were sitting on the couch in the living room, attempting to read the book you'd abandoned the day before. Aemond was beside you, ostensibly reviewing documents on his tablet but mostly just scrolling with an expression of vague disdain. Vhagar was in her box. It was, you thought, the most peaceful you'd felt in months.
Then Aemond reached over and pressed his thumb into the space between your shoulder blades, and you flinched so hard you nearly dropped your book.
"What are you doing?"
"What are you doing?" He was staring at you, his hand still hovering in the air. "Are you injured?"
"I'm not injured."
"Then why did you wince like I caused you pain?"
You shifted uncomfortably, trying to angle yourself away from his probing fingers. "It's nothing. I just...I exercise. Sometimes you get knots from exercise."
"That's not exercise tension." His voice had taken on that particular clipped quality it got when he was on the verge of diagnosing a problem and would not be dissuaded from solving it. "Exercise tension is distributed differently. This is concentrated in your upper back and shoulders. It's the kind of tension you get from..."
"From what, Dr. Targaryen? Did you get a degree in sports medicine I don't know about?"
"From poor sleep posture," he finished, ignoring your sarcasm entirely. "Or from stress. Or both."
"I sleep fine."
His good eye narrowed. "You tossed and turned all night. I had to put the covers back on you three times."
"You counted?"
"I count everything. It's a habit." He set his tablet aside and turned to face you fully. "How long have you had back pain?"
"I don't have back pain."
"You flinched when I touched you."
"Because you surprised me."
"Because you have knots in your shoulders that shouldn't be there." He was looking at you the way he looked at reports that didn't add up, like there was a discrepancy somewhere and he was going to find it. "What kind of bed do you sleep on?"
The question was so unexpected that you laughed. "What?"
"Your bed. At your apartment. What kind is it?"
"I don't know, a normal one? It's a bed. It has a mattress. What does that have to do with anything?"
"What kind of mattress? How old is it?"
You could feel heat creeping up the back of your neck. "It's fine. The mattress is fine."
"Every time you say the word 'fine,' I become more convinced that something is very much not fine." He leaned closer, his gaze unnervingly intent. "Tell me about the mattress."
"Why do you care about my mattress?"
"Because I care about you, and you're in pain, and I want to know why."
The directness of it knocked the air out of your lungs. You stared at him, your carefully constructed deflections crumbling around you, and he stared back with that unwavering violet gaze. You realized with a sinking feeling that you weren't going to be able to avoid this conversation.
"It's a foldable bed," you said quietly. "Okay? It's a foldable bed with a thin mattress. I've had it since I moved to the city. It was cheap, and my apartment is small, and I can fold it up when I need more space. It's practical."
"A foldable bed."
"Yes."
"Like a futon?"
"No, not a futon. A foldable bed. LikeâŚa cot, basically. But with a mattress. A thin mattress."
"How thin?"
"I don't know, a few inches? It's fine. I've been sleeping on it for years. My back is used to it."
"Your back is not used to it. Your back is screaming for help and you've been ignoring it." He stood up abruptly, paced to the window, paced back. "You've been sleeping on a foldable bed. For years."
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"That thing where you have an affronted meltdown about my life choices."
He stopped pacing and turned to face you. The expression on his face was so genuinely distressed that your irritation softened into closer to guilt. "I'm not having a meltdown," he said, very clearly having a meltdown. "I'm simply trying to understand why you would...how you could...you told me your glasses prescription was outdated because it was too expensive, and I thought, fine, that's a one-time expense, people put things off...but you've been sleeping on a cot? For years? While you were here taking care of me and my cat and refusing to let me pay you?"
"It's not that bad..."
"It is that bad. It's objectively that bad. You have tension in your shoulders that I could feel through your shirt with one touch. You wake up multiple times a night. You..." He stopped, his jaw working. "I bought Vhagar a custom orthopedic cat bed. It cost more than a human mattress. And you've been sleeping on a cot."
"To be fair, Vhagar is a very spoiled cat."
"Vhagar is a member of the family. So are you."
You stared at him. He stared back, his chest rising and falling a little too fast, his hands clenched at his sides.
"I didn't mean..." he started.
"Aemond."
"I meant it," he said, quieter now. "I know it's too soon to say things like that. I know we've only just...but I meant it. You've been part of my life for months now. You've taken care of my cat, you've taken care of me and you've done all of it without asking for anything in return, and the whole time you've been going home to a foldable bed and a three-year-old glasses prescription and Gods knows what else you haven't told me about." He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it completely. "It's not acceptable."
"It's my life," you said, but the protest sounded weak even to your own ears. "I've been managing."
"I know you have. You've been managing brilliantly. You've been surviving on very little and making it look easy, and I admire that, I do, but..." He crossed the room and sat down beside you on the couch, close enough that his knee pressed against yours. "But you don't have to anymore. You don't have to manage alone. You have me now. If you want me. I have more resources than I know what to do with, and it would make me genuinely happy to use some of them to make your life easier. Not because I think you can't handle it. Not because I'm trying to buy your affection. Because I care about you and I want you to be comfortable. That's all. That's the whole reason."
You looked down at your hands, twisted together in your lap. "It's embarrassing," you muttered. "Telling you these things. I don't like you knowing how close to the edge I've been living. I don't like feeling like a charity case."
"You're not a charity case. You're the person I've been falling in love with for months."
Your head snapped up. "What?"
"Too soon," he said immediately, a flush creeping up his neck. "That was too soon. Forget I said it."
"You're in love with me?"
"I said forget I said it."
"Aemond."
"I have a habit of becoming attached to people too soon when they don't feel the same. I'm aware of this. I'm working on it."
"You think I don't feel the same?"
He didn't answer, which was an answer in itself. You reached out and took his hand, threading your fingers through his. His grip tightened like he was afraid you might pull away.
"I stayed," you said. "When you had surgery. I stayed when Alys wouldn't even visit. I stayed in your apartment for a week and ate takeout only from approved restaurants and helped you with your vision exercises and eye pains at three in the morning. Does that sound like someone who just tolerates you?"
"I don't know," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know what it sounds like. I'm not good at reading these things. I always assume the worst."
"Then let me be clear." You lifted his hand to your mouth and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, feeling them flex beneath your lips. "I stayed for you."
He pulled his hand from yours, and for a terrible second you thought you'd said something wrong, but then both his hands were cupping your face, tilting it up toward his, and his mouth was on yours.
"I'm going to buy you a mattress," he murmured against your lips.
"Aemond."
"A proper mattress. And new glasses. And whatever else you need. And you're going to let me, because I can't concentrate on kissing you if I'm thinking about the knots in your shoulders."
"That's emotional blackmail."
"It's practical concern."
The optometrist's office was aggressively beige, the kind of institutional neutrality that made you feel like you were inside a waiting room for purgatory. Aemond sat in the chair beside you with rigid posture, his arms crossed and his good eye fixed on the wall chart like it had personally offended him.
"I don't understand why this is taking so long," he said, for the third time in twenty minutes.
"It's an eye exam. They're thorough."
"They're inefficient."
"They're looking at eyeballs. You want them to rush?"
His mouth tightened. "No."
"Then be patient."
"I'm being patient."
When the optometrist finally called your name, Aemond stood up with you. The optometrist glanced between the two of you with professional curiosity.
"Husband?" she asked.
"Something like that," Aemond said before you could answer. The casual possessiveness of it sent warmth blooming through your chest.
You emerged with a new prescription that was significantly stronger than your old one, a trial pair of frames that made the world look unnervingly sharp, and a receipt that Aemond plucked from your hand before you could even look at the total.
"This is mine now," he said.
"It has my name on it."
"Administrative error." He was already walking toward the checkout counter, his long coat sweeping behind him. "Pick out frames."
The shared calendar was your idea.
You'd missed a text from him, three hours buried in a work project, your phone on silent and your attention elsewhere, and when you finally surfaced, there were five messages waiting, each one progressively more restrained in that particular way Aemond got when he was trying not to seem worried.
Checking in.
Hope your day is going well.
Let me know when you're free.
No urgency. Just checking.
I'm sure you're busy. Text when you can.
The last one had been sent two hours ago. You called him immediately, your stomach tight with guilt.
"I'm sorry," you said before he could even say hello. "I was working. My phone was on silent. I didn't mean to disappear."
"I know." His voice was carefully neutral, the way it got when he was trying to hide something. "It's fine. You're allowed to be busy."
"I don't want you to think I'm ignoring you."
"I don't think that."
"Aemond."
A pause. Then, quieter: "I might have thought that. Briefly. But I know it's irrational."
"It's not irrational. We should have a system."
"A system?"
"I'm making a shared calendar. Color-coded. You'll be able to see when I'm working, when I'm free, when I have appointments. That way if I don't answer, you'll know it's because I'm in a meeting, not because I've decided to flee the country."
"That seems like a lot of effort for..."
"Blue is work. Green is free time. Red is appointments. Yellow is maybe-free-but-probably-napping." You sent him the invite link. "Accept it."
He did. A moment later, his voice came back, softer than before. "You're doing this so I won't worry."
"Yes."
"You don't have to manage my anxiety."
"I'm not managing it. I'm working around it." You added a block of blue for the following Monday. "See? Now you know I have a project deadline on Monday morning and won't be reachable until noon."
He was quiet for so long that you checked the screen to make sure the call hadn't dropped. "Aemond?"
"I'm here." His voice was rough. "I'm just not accustomed to people anticipating my needs before I've expressed them."
"Get used to it."
"I'll try."
The first time you had sex, he gave you space afterward.
He wasn't dismissive. He didn't roll over and go to sleep or check his phone or do any of the things people do when they were trying to signal that the encounter was over. But he did get up. He did disappear into the bathroom for what felt like a very long time. And when he came back, he sat on the edge of the bed with his back to you, his shoulders tense, like he was waiting for something.
"Are you okay?" you asked.
He turned. "I was about to ask you the same thing."
"I'm fine. Great, actually. Why are you all the way over there?"
He blinked, his good eye shifting from your face to the rumpled sheets to the bathroom door and back again. "I assumed you'd want space."
"Did I ask for space?"
"No, but..." He stopped. Started again. "In my experience, people usually want space. After. It's an intense experience. I thought you might need time to recalibrate."
You propped yourself up on one elbow, the sheet slipping down your shoulder. "Did Alys want space?"
His jaw tightened. "We're not talking about Alys."
"Okay. Did other people want space?"
"I don't want to talk about other people either."
"I'm just trying to understand. You gave me space. I didn't ask for it. I'm still in your bed. I haven't moved. What does that tell you?"
He looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, very slowly, he lay back down beside you. Not touching, but closer than before. His hand rested on the pillow between your heads, palm up, an invitation.
"I'm not good at this part," he murmured. "The after. I never know what's expected of me."
"There's nothing expected. You just stay."
"Just stay."
"Mm-hmm." You reached out and traced the line of his collarbone with your fingertip, feeling the tension in his muscles gradually ease. "And maybe bring me water. I'm thirsty."
He was out of bed before you finished the sentence, returning thirty seconds later with a glass of water and a plate of something that looked like expensive crackers. "You should eat something too. Electrolytes. Protein."
"Did you have snacks prepared?"
"I like to be ready for contingencies."
You took the water and drank half of it in one go. He watched you with an expression that was somewhere between satisfaction and relief, like he'd completed a task correctly and was waiting for feedback.
"Now come back," you said, patting the bed beside you. "You're still too far away."
He came back. He lay down beside you, closer this time, his arm tentatively settling over your waist. When you didn't pull away, he pulled you closer.
"This is okay?" he asked.
"This is perfect."
"I can stay?"
"You can stay as long as you want."
He pressed his mouth to the top of your head and didn't move for a very long time.
The second time, he brought you water and food without being asked, and when you made grabby hands at him from the bed, he climbed back in without hesitation. The third time, he didn't even get up; he just reached over to the nightstand where he'd already placed a glass of water and a small plate of fruit, his foresight so thorough it was almost comical.
"You're getting good at this," you told him, eating a strawberry while sprawled against his chest.
"I'm a quick study."
The fourth time, you woke in the middle of the night to find his arms wrapped around you and his face buried in your hair, holding on even in sleep. You didn't pull away. You pressed closer, fitting yourself into the curve of his body, and he made a sound of contentment so deep you felt it vibrate through your bones.
The thing about Aemond Targaryen was that he didn't know how to do anything by halves.
You'd suspected this early on: the caviar for the cat, the custom leather carrier, the way he'd offered you a weekly retainer instead of just asking if you wanted to grab coffee sometime. But it wasn't until he started reorganizing your kitchen cabinets that you realized the full scope of what you'd signed up for.
"What are you doing?" you asked.
"Your plates are in the wrong cabinet," he said, as if this were a perfectly normal thing to be doing on a Saturday morning in someone else's apartment. "They should be next to the dishwasher for efficient unloading. Also, you have four mismatched mugs and one of them is chipped."
"That's my favorite mug."
"It's a health hazard."
"It's a mug."
He held up the chipped mug, his expression that particular blend of affronted and resolute that you'd come to recognize as his default setting. "You could cut your lip. I'm replacing it."
"You're reorganizing my kitchen."
"The spice rack is also a disaster, but I'm pacing myself."
You leaned against the doorframe and watched him for a moment. He'd already fixed the dripping faucet last week, you'd mentioned it once. Before that, it was the wobbly leg on your coffee table. Before that, the drafty window that he'd re-sealed himself, his sleeves rolled up and his hair falling in his eyes.
"Aemond," you said.
"Hmm?"
"You're acting like you live here."
He paused, a plate in each hand, and turned to look at you. His expression was guarded, the way it got when he wasn't sure if he'd overstepped. "Is that a problem?"
You thought about it. Thought about the way he'd cleared a drawer in his penthouse for your things two weeks ago without asking, just pointed to it and said "yours" like it was the most natural thing in the world. Thought about the way he'd added your work schedule to his own calendar, the blue blocks of your meetings appearing alongside his boardroom appointments. Thought about the way he'd started saying "we" instead of "I" without seeming to notice.
"No," you said. "It's not a problem."
"Good." He went back to the plates. "Your silverware drawer is next."
The key appeared a few days later.
It was on a simple ring, no fuss, no ceremony. He slid it across the kitchen counter toward you while you were eating the breakfast he'd made: poached eggs on toast, because he'd decided your usual breakfast of cold cereal was "nutritionally inadequate" and had taken it upon himself to rectify the situation.
"What's this?" you asked, though you already knew.
"A key. To the penthouse." He wasn't looking at you; he was focused on the eggs, nudging them onto your plate with the precision of a surgeon. "You're there often enough that it makes sense. The doorman knows you, but this is more efficient."
"A key to your apartment."
"Our apartment," he corrected, still not looking at you. "If you want. I know you have your own place. I'm not suggesting you give it up. But you spend most nights at the penthouse anyway, and Vhagar misses you when you're gone, and I..." He stopped, swallowed, started again. "I sleep better when you're there."
You picked up the key. It was warm from his hand. "Our apartment."
"Only if you want."
"Aemond."
He finally looked at you, his jaw set in that particular way it got when he was bracing for rejection. You reached across the counter and took his hand, threading your fingers through his.
"I want," you said.
The tension went out of his shoulders. "Good. That's good. There's also a parking space in the garage if you ever get a car, and I've added you to the building's approved guest list permanently, and there's a form you need to sign for the concierge service..."
"Aemond."
"I'm doing it again."
"You're doing it again."
"I don't know how to take things slowly." He confessed. "I don't know how to do this in stages" He lifted your joined hands and pressed his mouth to your knuckles. "I've already told my mother about you," he said against your skin. "I hope that's not too fast."
Your heart stuttered. "You told your mother?"
"She's been asking why I seem less miserable than usual. I told her it was because of you."
"What did she say?"
"She said she wanted to meet you. I told her you'd probably find that terrifying, and she said that was a reasonable response, and then she asked if you had any dietary restrictions for dinner."
"Dinner," you repeated.
"Sunday dinners are a family tradition. They're usually terrible. My brother will be there, and my sister, and probably my grandfather, who will say something offensive, and my mother will pretend he didn't, and I'll spend the whole evening wanting to leave." He paused. "But it would be better if you were there."
You stared at him. He stared back, his expression so earnest and so anxious and so completely, utterly sincere.
"You want me to meet your entire family at Sunday dinner."
"Not if you're not ready. We can wait. We can do it in stages. I can introduce you to my mother first, separately, or we can start with Helaena, she's the least intimidating, although she'll probably want to show you her insect collection..."
"Aemond."
He stopped. You stood up, walked around the counter, and kissed him. His hands came up to cup your face automatically, his body relaxing into yours like he'd been waiting for this exact reassurance.
"I'll come to Sunday dinner," you said against his mouth.
"You will?"
"Someone has to defend you from your grandfather."
He laughed. "You have no idea what you're signing up for."
Vhagar, for her part, seemed entirely unimpressed with the new living arrangements.
She had accepted your presence in the penthouse with the same regal indifference she'd shown when you found her on the concrete outside your building, which was to say she acknowledged your existence primarily by sleeping on whatever surface you'd just vacated and yelling at you when her food bowl was empty. But Aemond had apparently decided that Vhagar was not just his cat, but their cat, and he referred to her as such with a casualness that made your heart do strange things.
"Vhagar missed you today," he'd say when you walked in the door. "She was waiting for her mother."
"I'm not her mother."
"You found her on the street. You fed her boiled sausages. You introduced her to cardboard boxes. You're her mother."
Vhagar, who had indeed been sitting by the door, meowed and wound herself around your ankles.
"Traitor," you told her.
She blinked slowly and walked toward her food bowl, her message clear.
The first time you heard him say "we should enroll her in something," you thought he was joking.
It was a lazy Sunday morning, the Sunday before the Sunday dinner, in fact, and you were curled up on the couch with coffee and a book while Aemond read the news on his tablet. Vhagar was in her box, which had been upgraded to a deluxe model with a memory foam cushion that Aemond had special-ordered from a pet boutique.
"We should enroll her in something," Aemond said, not looking up from his tablet. "She needs enrichment. Mental stimulation. There's a feline agility course. It's supposed to be excellent. They have an obstacle course and everything."
"She's fifteen years old."
"Age is not a barrier to physical fitness. I read an article."
You set down your coffee and turned to face him fully. "Aemond, you're talking about our cat like she's a toddler who needs extracurriculars."
He looked up from his tablet, his expression completely serious. "She's very intelligent. She needs challenges."
"She needs naps. That's what she needs. Naps and boxes."
"I'm just saying we should consider it."
"We are not enrolling our elderly cat in feline agility."
He looked like he wanted to argue, but Vhagar chose that moment to let out a particularly loud snore from her box, and he deflated slightly. "Fine. But I'm getting her the puzzle feeder."
"The what?"
"It's a bowl with obstacles. She has to solve puzzles to get her food. It promotes cognitive health."
"You're going to make our cat solve puzzles for her dinner."
"She'll enjoy it."
Vhagar snored again. You looked at Aemond. Aemond looked at you.
"She's going to hate it," you said.
"I'm getting it anyway."
He did. Vhagar hated it. She sat in front of the puzzle feeder for ten minutes, staring at it with the particular disdain she usually reserved for Aemond's brother, then knocked it off the counter with one deliberate paw and meowed until Aemond gave her regular bowl back.
"I told you," you said.
"She just needs time to adjust." He looked at Vhagar, who was now eating her caviar from her regular bowl with the air of a queen who had successfully quashed a rebellion. "She's perfect," he said, with such genuine affection that you couldn't bring yourself to tease him about it.
It wasn't just the cat he started sharing with you. He'd schedule his business trips around your availability so Vhagar wouldn't be alone. He'd consult you on decisions that had nothing to do with you: a new investment, a dispute with his brother, whether he should fire a board member who'd made a comment about his eye. He'd listen to your opinion, weighing your words.
"People are going to think we're married," you said one evening, after he'd introduced you to a business associate as "my partner" without a flicker of hesitation.
"Good," he answered.
"That wasn't a suggestion."
"I know." He was making dinner, he'd decided your cooking skills needed improvement and had started giving you what he called "practical demonstrations," which mostly involved you sitting on the counter while he cooked and explained techniques you'd forget immediately. "Is it a problem?"
"People thinking we're married?"
"Mm." He added something to the pan that sizzled and smelled incredible. "I know we haven't discussed it. The future. What this is. But I'm not interested in being casual about you. I don't know how to be casual about anything."
"I've noticed."
"If that's too much..."
"It's not. It's not bad," you said. "It's just fast. You don't do anything by halves."
"I told you. I don't know how."
"I know." You took the pan from his hand and set it on a cold burner, then stepped into his space, your hands resting on his chest. "I'm not complaining. I'm just observing. If I had a problem with it, I'd tell you."
"Would you?"
"Yes. I told you the puzzle feeder was a bad idea."
"That was about the cat."
"This is about us. Same principle." You rose on your toes and kissed him. "I don't mind the husband thing. I don't mind the key or the fact that you've apparently decided Vhagar is our child. I'm still here. I keep staying. What does that tell you?"
He exhaled slowly, his hands settling on your waist. "That you're either very patient or very foolish."
"Or both. Or I love you. Take your pick."
He kissed you again before you could say anything else, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you tight against him.
"We're going to ruin the sauce," you murmured against his mouth.
"I don't care about the sauce."
"You always care about the sauce."
"I care about you more." He said simply, like it was the most obvious truth in the world.
The clock on the nightstand read 12:47 a.m. when you accepted that sleep wasn't coming.
It was the complete absence of sleep, your mind as clear and alert as if it were noon. You'd been lying in the dark for nearly two hours, listening to the distant hum of the city and the steady rhythm of Aemond's breathing beside you, and your body had simply decided that tonight was not a night for unconsciousness.
You turned your head on the pillow. Aemond was on his back, his profile sharp against the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. In sleep, the perpetual tension in his jaw relaxed, and he looked younger. Softer. Like the man he might have been if the world had been gentler with him.
You watched him for a while. The way his chest rose and fell. The way his fingers twitched occasionally, as if he were reaching for something in his dreams.
Carefully, you leaned over and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose.
He made a small sound, something between a grunt and a murmur, and his hand moved toward you in his sleep, reaching. You stayed perfectly still until he settled again, his fingers brushing your arm and then going slack.
Your phone was on the nightstand. You picked it up and dimmed the brightness as low as it would go, then opened your reading app. Vhagar, who had been sleeping at the foot of the bed, lifted her head and gave you a look that clearly said why are you awake at this ungodly hour.
"Can't sleep," you whispered.
She blinked slowly and tucked her head back under her tail, dismissing you entirely.
You scrolled through articles you wouldn't remember. Checked the weather. Read half a recipe for something you'd never make. The clock ticked forward: 1:23 a.m. 2:15 a.m. 2:58 a.m. Your eyes didn't feel heavy. Your mind didn't feel foggy. You were as awake as you'd been at breakfast, which was deeply unfair given that you'd done nothing all day except lounge on the couch with Aemond and Vhagar, reading and napping and eating the elaborate lunch he'd decided to make.
A lazy Saturday. That was probably the problem. You hadn't expended enough energy to be tired, and now your body was exacting revenge.
At 3:42 a.m., you heard the first bird. A single tentative chirp, somewhere beyond the windows. By 4:00 a.m., the sky had begun its slow shift from black to charcoal, and the birds were singing, a chorus of tiny optimists announcing a dawn you hadn't earned.
You looked at Aemond. Still asleep. Vhagar hadn't moved.
With exaggerated care, you slid out from under the covers and padded across the bedroom. The balcony door was in the living room, floor-to-ceiling glass that opened onto a terrace overlooking the city. You slipped through the door and into the cool pre-dawn air, pulling it mostly shut behind you so the sound wouldn't carry.
The streets below were nearly empty, the traffic lights cycling through their patterns for no one. The sky was a watercolor wash of gray and pale blue, the first hints of gold bleeding up from the horizon. You leaned your forearms on the railing and let the cold air settle against your skin, your thin sleep shirt doing nothing to keep out the chill.
Maybe this was fine. Maybe you just weren't tired tonight, and that was okay, and you'd be tired tomorrow instead. Maybe you could watch the sunrise and make coffee and let Aemond sleep, and by the time he woke up you'd have been productive, you'd have answered emails or read a book or done something useful with this strange, stolen time.
The cold was starting to seep into your bones. You didn't move.
Behind you, the balcony door opened.
You turned. Aemond stood in the doorway, his hair disheveled and his eyes still heavy with sleep. He was wearing only his pajama pants, his chest bare, and he was looking at you with an expression caught between confusion and concern.
"You're outside," he said, his voice rough.
"I'm getting fresh air."
"It's four in the morning."
"I know. I couldn't sleep."
He processed this for a moment, his good eye blinking slowly. "How long have you been awake?"
"Since we went to bed. I never fell asleep."
"You never..." He stopped, rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand, and stepped onto the balcony. The cold hit him immediately; you saw the goosebumps rise on his arms, but he didn't flinch. "It's freezing. You're not even wearing a coat."
"I'm fine."
"You're shivering."
You looked down at your arms. You were shivering, you realized. You hadn't noticed.
"Come inside," he grumbled.
He held the door open and you walked through it, suddenly aware of how cold you'd gotten, how stiff your fingers were, how long you'd been standing out there without moving. The warmth of the apartment wrapped around you like a blanket, and you shivered harder, your body finally registering the temperature change.
Aemond disappeared into the bedroom and returned with the charcoal gray cashmere blanket, the one that smelled like his cologne. He wrapped it around your shoulders, then steered you toward the couch and sat down beside you.
"You've been awake all night?"
"I don't know why. I'm not tired. I didn't have any caffeine. We didn't do anything yesterday, so maybe my body just wasn't ready to sleep."
"That's not how sleep works."
"I know how sleep works. It's just not working on me tonight."
He studied your face for a moment, then reached out and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, the way you'd seen him do to Vhagar when she was lethargic. "You don't feel warm."
"I'm not sick."
"Stressed?"
"No more than usual."
"Racing thoughts?"
"Not really. I was justâŚawake. Completely awake. Like my brain decided it was morning."
He leaned back against the couch cushions, his arm coming around your shoulders and pulling you against his side. His skin was still cool from the balcony, but he was warming up quickly. "You should have woken me."
"You were sleeping. You looked peaceful."
"I don't care about peaceful. I care about you." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "Next time, wake me."
"There might not be a next time. This has never happened before."
"Then it's even more important that you wake me. If something unusual is happening, I want to know."
You didn't argue. You leaned into him and let the blanket cocoon you both. Vhagar wandered out of the bedroom, meowed once at the sight of both humans on the couch, and jumped up to settle on Aemond's lap.
"It's almost six," Aemond said quietly.
"I know."
"Still not tired?"
You took stock of your body. Your eyes didn't feel heavy. Your limbs didn't feel leaden. Your brain was still chugging along at full speed, cataloging the sounds of the morning, the texture of the blanket, the warmth of his arm around you.
"No," you admitted. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Nothing's wrong with you. Your circadian rhythm is temporarily disrupted." He said it with the confidence of someone who had definitely read several articles on the subject. "It happens. We can fix it."
"How?"
"Melatonin. I have some in the bathroom."
You shook your head. "I don't want to take anything."
"It's not a drug. It's a hormone your body produces naturally."
"I know what melatonin is. I still don't want to take it." You didn't know why you were being stubborn about this. Maybe because sleeping was supposed to be a natural thing, something your body just did, and the idea of forcing it felt like admitting defeat. "I'll just stay up. I'll be tired tonight."
"You have work tomorrow. You can't go to work on no sleep."
"I'll manage."
"You'll be miserable."
"I've been miserable before."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he shifted, gently displacing Vhagar, who meowed in protest and relocated to the armchair.
"There are other ways to induce drowsiness," his voice had dropped into a lower register.
"Like what?"
His hand found your knee under the blanket, his thumb tracing slow circles against the bare skin. "Physical exertion. Relaxation. A combination of both."
It took your sleep-deprived brain a moment to catch up. When it did, you felt heat rise in your cheeks. "Are you offering to tire me out?"
"I'm offering to help." His hand slid higher. "Unless you'd rather try counting sheep."
"I don't think sheep are going to work."
"No," he agreed, and leaned in to kiss you.
His hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the angle, and you made a small sound against his lips.
"Let me take you back to bed," he murmured.
"I'm not tired."
"I know. That's the point."
He stood and offered you his hand. You took it and let him pull you to your feet, the blanket sliding off your shoulders. He led you back to the bedroom, his fingers laced through yours.
"Lie down," he said.
You did. The sheets were still warm from his body, and the pillow smelled like him. He stretched out beside you, propped on one elbow, and looked down at you with an expression that was equal parts tenderness and intent.
He kissed you again, deeper this time, and his hand slid under your sleep shirt to rest against your stomach. His palm was warm, his touch firm but gentle, and you arched into it without thinking.
"Relax," he murmured against your mouth. "This isn't a race. We have time."
He took his time. His mouth traced a path from your lips to your jaw to the hollow of your throat, lingering at each stop like he was memorizing the taste of your skin. His hand moved higher, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast, and you gasped.
"Still not tired?" he asked, and you could hear the smile in his voice.
"Not even a little."
"Good. I'd hate to think I was boring you."
He pulled your shirt over your head and tossed it aside, then his mouth was on your collarbone, your sternum, the curve of your breast. His tongue traced a slow circle around your nipple, and your hips bucked involuntarily.
"Aemond."
"Mm." He didn't lift his head. "I like when you say my name like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're already halfway gone." He moved to your other breast, giving it the same thorough attention, and your fingers tangled in his hair. "Let go. I've got you."
He worked his way down your body. His mouth on your ribs. His tongue tracing the line of your hip. His fingers hooking into the waistband of your pajama shorts and sliding them down your legs. By the time his mouth found the inside of your thigh, you were trembling, your hands fisted in the sheets.
"Please," you breathed.
"Please what?"
"Please...I need..."
"I know what you need." He pressed a kiss to the crease of your thigh, maddeningly close to where you wanted him. "I'm getting there."
He got there. When his mouth finally found you, your back arched off the bed and you made a sound that was half moan, half sob. His hands held your hips steady, his tongue moving in slow, precise strokes that had you climbing higher and higher until you weren't thinking about sleep or birds or the strange wakeful night, you weren't thinking about anything at all except the heat of his mouth and the pressure building at the base of your spine.
"Come for me," he murmured against you, and you did, your body arching and shuddering and finally going limp against the mattress.
He kissed his way back up your body, pressing his lips to your stomach, your ribs, the valley between your breasts. When he reached your mouth, you could taste yourself on his tongue.
"Tired now?" he asked.
"Mmph."
"That's not a word."
"Tired," you managed. "Very tired. Your fault."
"My plan worked, then." He pulled the covers up over both of you and settled beside you, his arm wrapping around your waist.
You wanted to say something: thank you, or I love you, or you're absurdly good at that, but your mouth wouldn't cooperate. The drowsiness that had eluded you all night was rolling over you in waves, heavy and warm and irresistible. You tucked your face against his chest and let your eyes fall closed.
The left side of the bed was the problem.
You'd established the sleeping arrangement early on: you on the right, Aemond on the left. It made sense. His left eye was blind, and having you on his right meant you were always in his field of vision. When he woke up in the morning, you were the first thing he saw: your face on the pillow beside him.
He loved that. He loved it more than he knew how to say. He'd spent so many years waking up to an empty bed, to silence and solitude and the cold knowledge that no one was waiting for him. Now he woke up to you, warm and real and there, and it felt like a gift.
But the bed was vast, king-sized. And you were a restless sleeper, prone to migrating across the mattress in the night, chasing dreams or warmth or whatever invisible thing pulled you from one side to the other.
The first time it happened, Aemond woke up to an empty right side of the bed and felt his heart stop.
He was still half-asleep, his brain sluggish with the remnants of whatever dream he'd been having. His hand reached out automatically, searching for you, and found only cold sheets. The pillow beside him was empty. The space where you should have been was vacant.
Panic hit him.
He sat up so fast his head spun, his right eye scanning the room, the bathroom door, the path to the living room. Were you gone? Had you left? Had something happened, some emergency, some...
He turned, twisting his whole body to compensate for his blind left side, and there you were.
You were on the far left edge of the mattress, practically falling off, one arm dangling over the side. You'd migrated across the entire bed in your sleep, a journey that had left him alone on his side and you precariously balanced on his bad side, completely out of his sight.
He exhaled, his heart still hammering. Then he reached over and pulled you back toward the center of the bed. You made a sleepy sound of protest but didn't wake, your body curling automatically toward his warmth.
"Don't do that," he whispered to your sleeping form. "Don't go where I can't see you."
You didn't answer. You were already dreaming again.
After that, it became a recurring problem. Not every night, most nights you stayed on your side, draped over him or curled against his shoulder, but often enough that he developed a morning ritual: wake up, check right side, panic briefly if the right side was empty, twist around to check the left side, exhale in relief when he found you there.
He hated the split-second of terror when he thought you were gone, the way his body remembered all those years of waking up alone and assumed the worst.
"I'm sorry," you said one morning, after you'd woken up to find him staring at you with an expression of barely-concealed relief. "I did it again, didn't I?"
"You were on the left side."
"I don't even remember moving."
"You never remember moving. You sleep like a migrating whale."
"A whale?"
"A very graceful whale. With excellent sleeping habits aside from the migration."
You sat up, rubbing your eyes. "Does it bother you? The left side thing?"
He hesitated. "It's not your fault. You're asleep. You can't control it."
"That's not what I asked."
He looked at you, at your sleep-rumpled hair and your concerned expression, and felt the familiar urge to deflect, to minimize, to pretend it didn't matter. But this was you, and you'd told him he was allowed to want things, and so he told the truth.
"I don't like it," he admitted. "When I wake up and you're not on my right side. I can't see you. I have to search for you. And for a moment, I think..." He stopped, swallowed. "I think you're gone."
"Gone where?"
"Just gone. Left. Disappeared." He tried to make it sound casual, but it came out strained. "I know it's irrational. I know you wouldn't leave without telling me. But I spent a very long time waking up alone, and my brain hasn't caught up to the fact that I don't have to anymore."
You reached for him, your hand cupping his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I know. I just want you to stay where I can see you."
"Then I'll try harder. Maybe I can build a pillow barrier or something."
"A pillow barrier."
"To keep me from rolling. Like a bumper lane at a bowling alley."
"That's absurd."
"So is waking up in a panic because your girlfriend rolled over. We're both absurd."
He couldn't argue with that. So he let you build your pillow barrier, a long bolster that ran down the center of the bed, theoretically preventing you from crossing into his blind spot. It worked about half the time. The other half, you somehow circumvented it in your sleep, climbing over or burrowing under or simply teleporting to the other side in a way that defied physics.
"You're a witch," he said on one of those mornings, after finding you on the left side despite the barrier. "That's the only explanation."
"I'm a very tired witch who needs coffee."
"I'll make coffee. You stay on the right side."
"I'm not even asleep anymore."
"Still. Stay."
You stayed. You stayed on the right side of the bed, and on the right side of his body, and in the right place for him to see you every morning when he opened his eyes. It was such a small thing, really, which side of the bed you slept on. But it mattered to him.
The morning after the pillow barrier failed for the third time, you woke up before him. You were on the right side, your head on his shoulder, your hand on his chest.
When he woke up a few minutes later, his eye opened and found you immediately. You watched the moment of recognition cross his face: the relief, the softening, the way his whole body relaxed when he confirmed that you were still there.
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
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Summary: You find a missing cat that belongs to a certain Targaryen. During the time which takes you to find the owner, Vhagar becomes attached to you, so now Aemond must deal with sharing her with you.
a/n: I had this in my drafts waiting for Aemond to come back in the show and him down and his dragon flying away was perfect for this!
The first time you saw Vhagar, she was a lump of storm clouds curled against the concrete base of your building, so still you almost mistook her for a discarded sweater. It was late autumn, that particular gray hour when the sun gives up and the streetlights havenât quite decided to take over, and you were fumbling for your keys with cold-stiff fingers when the lump moved.
Not a sweater. A cat. A massive, ancient-looking cat the color of woodsmoke and iron, with a face like a disappointed dowager countess who had seen empires rise and fall. Her fur was thick and slightly ruffled, the way old velvet gets when itâs been stored wrong, and she was watching you with enormous yellow-green eyes that seemed to hold entire centuries in their depths.
âHello,â you said, because you were the kind of person who talked to animals automatically, even when they looked at you like that.
The cat opened her mouth and yowled.
It wasnât a meow. It wasnât even a proper cat sound. It was a declaration, a demand, a rusty hinge of a noise that seemed to ask where you had been and why you hadnât brought tribute. She stood up, stretched with the deliberate slowness of a creature that had never needed to hurry for anyone, and padded directly toward you.
âDo you belong to someone here?â you asked, looking at the entrance to your apartment building. The cat wound herself around your ankles with surprising force for something so elderly, nearly knocking you off balance. Her fur was cold from the outside air, and when you bent down to touch her, you felt the frail architecture of age beneath the thick coat, shoulder blades too prominent, a spine like a string of beads.
She had a collar. Good leather, emerald green, with what looked like real gold hardware. But there was no tag. No phone number. No name.
âSomeoneâs looking for you,â you murmured, scratching behind one ragged ear. The cat closed her eyes and leaned into your hand with the air of someone accepting their due. âCome on, then. Letâs get you inside.â
You opened the door and she walked in ahead of you like she owned the place, which was probably how she walked into every room sheâd ever entered. The lobby was empty. You expected her to head for one of the apartment doors on the ground floor, to indicate somehow where she lived, but instead she sat down in the exact center of the lobby and began grooming her flank with the meticulous disdain of someone who had been terribly inconvenienced.
âRight,â you said. âNot helpful.â
You waited. The cat groomed. The elevator went up and came back down empty. Someoneâs mail was sticking out of box 3B. The radiators clanked.
âOkay,â you said finally. âI have to go up. If youâre still here tomorrow, weâll figure something out.â
She paused mid-lick to give you a look that said she had never been dismissed in her life and wasnât about to start now.
She was still there when you got back from work the next day. Not in the lobby, outside again, on the same patch of concrete, curled into the exact same shape as if sheâd never moved. The November dark had settled in thick and cold, her fur was beaded with the beginnings of frost, it made your chest clench.
âAbsolutely not,â you told her, scooping her up before you could think better of it. She was heavier than she looked, a dense warm weight in your arms, and she made a sound like a creaking door as you carried her inside. âYouâre coming upstairs. Youâre eating something. Weâre figuring out who you belong to.â
She didnât struggle. She settled against your shoulder like sheâd been doing this for a thousand years, her purr starting up low and rough like a motor that hadnât been run in a while. Her claws kneaded gently into your coat, catching on the wool.
Your apartment was small. One bedroom, a galley kitchen, a living room that doubled as a dining room that doubled as an office. The cat surveyed it from the threshold with an expression you could only describe as politely appalled.
âItâs not much,â you said defensively, setting her down. âBut itâs warm.â
She sniffed the baseboard. She investigated the corner where the radiator met the wall. She walked into the kitchen and sat down in front of the refrigerator with the clear expectation that it would open for her.
âWhat do you even eat?â you muttered, opening the fridge and scanning your meager contents. You didnât have cat food. You didnât have anything that seemed cat-appropriate. But you did have milk, and you did have a package of those cheap hot dogs from a supermarket.
âThis is probably terrible for you,â you said, boiling one anyway and cutting it into small pieces, pouring a bowl of milk. âBut you look like youâve survived worse.â
She ate like sheâd never seen food before. She drank the milk in laps. She looked up at you with a milk-white mustache on her gray muzzle and made a sound that resembled approval.
âYouâre welcome,â you said, and sat down on the floor beside her.
You put up posters in the neighborhood: FOUND CAT, with a photo that didnât do her justice and your phone number at the bottom. You posted in the local lost pet groups. You took her to a vet to check for a microchip, but there was nothing, which the vet found strange given the obvious quality of her collar.
âThis is full-grain Italian leather,â the vet said, turning the collar over in her hands. âAnd the hardware is eighteen-karat gold plated. Someone spent a lot of money on this cat.â
âBut no tag,â you said.
âBut no tag,â the vet agreed. âSome people just assume their animals will never get out. Especially indoor cats. Howâs she been eating?â
âEverything,â you said. âAnything. I gave her the crusts from my grilled cheese yesterday and she acted like it was a five-star meal.â
The vet laughed. âAt her age, thatâs a good sign. Sheâs healthy, just old. Very old. Probably fifteen, maybe older. Keep doing what youâre doing.â
So you did. You bought proper cat food eventually, the decent mid-range kind from the grocery store, and she ate it with the same enthusiasm sheâd shown for the hot dogs and the milk and the leftover tuna salad. She slept on your bed every night. She sat in the window and watched the street below. You started calling her Lady, for lack of anything better, she ignored it with the same regal indifference she showed to everything else.
âYouâre someoneâs, arenât you?â you said one evening, scratching under her chin while she purred like a broken generator. âSomeone filthy rich.â
She closed her eyes and leaned into your hand, offering no answers.
You found the flyer on a Tuesday morning in early December, taped to a lamppost two blocks from your work office. The paper was thick and slightly glossy, the kind of paper that cost money, and the photo printed on it was clearly professional, the same gray cat, the same yellow-green eyes, but photographed against a dark background with studio lighting that made her look like a painting.
MISSING: VHAGAR, the flyer read. $7,000 REWARD FOR SAFE RETURN.
There was a phone number. That was all. No name. Just the catâs name, the reward, and a number.
Vhagar. You tested the name in your mouth as you walked home, the flyer clutched in your cold hand. It sounded ancient. Mythological. Exactly the kind of name someone would give a cat who wore eighteen-karat gold on her collar and had professional photographs taken of her.
âYour name is Vhagar,â you told the cat when you got home. She was sprawled across your pillow in a pose of magnificent indolence, one paw draped over her eyes. At the sound of the name, her tail twitched. âThatâs you, isnât it? Vhagar.â
She lifted her head and looked at you, and for the first time since youâd found her, she let out a proper meow, short and declarative, as if to say finally, youâve figured it out.
You sat down on the edge of your bed. Seven thousand dollars. That was two months of rent. That was the dental work youâd been putting off. That was breathing room, actual breathing room, the kind you hadnât had since youâd moved to this city with its brutal rents and its casual cruelties and its complete indifference to whether you sank or swam.
But it wasnât the money that made you pull out your phone. It was the way sheâd been shivering on the concrete. The way someone had loved her enough to buy her that collar and take those photos and offer seven thousand dollars no questions asked, but not enough to put a tag on her. Not enough to think she might ever leave.
You typed the number into your phone before you could talk yourself out of it.
He answered on the second ring.
âYes.â
Not hello. Not who is this. Just yes, flat and dry as old paper, a voice that expected the world to get to the point and not waste his time.
âHi,â you said, suddenly aware that you hadnât planned what to say. âIâm calling about the cat. The flyer. Vhagar. I think I have her.â
A pause. Just long enough to make you check if the call had dropped.
âProof,â the voice said. âSend me proof.â
âWhat kind of...â
âA video that shows sheâs alive and unharmed and actually in your possession.â
The demand was clipped, almost cold, and you felt a spike of irritation. You were doing him a favor. You could have kept the cat. You could have ignored the flyer entirely. But you swallowed your pride because seven thousand dollars was seven thousand dollars, and youâd already decided.
âDo you have Whatsapp or something with this number?â you asked, âIâll send a video.â
He said yes and hung up without saying goodbye.
âCharming,â you muttered to the cat. Vhagar yawned, showing a pink mouth.
You recorded a thirty-second video of Vhagar on your bed, demonstrating that she was indeed alive and unharmed and being gently scratched behind the ears by someone who was not a cat thief. You sent it to the number. Thirty seconds later, your phone buzzed.
Thatâs her. Where can we meet?
You looked up the name attached to the number, of course. You werenât stupid. You were about to meet a stranger from the internet to return a cat worth seven thousand dollars, and you wanted to know what you were walking into.
His name was Aemond Targaryen. The social media profile that came up was locked down tight: private, no profile picture, just the name and a cover photo of what looked like a dragon from some fantasy series. You scrolled anyway, finding nothing, until you thought to try LinkedIn.
His LinkedIn profile was not private.
The photo hit you first: a man in his twenties, maybe, with sharp cheekbones and jawlines like cut glass and hair so pale it was almost silver, pulled back from his face. He was wearing a dark suit and looking slightly to the left of the camera with an expression of controlled impatience, like heâd been forced to sit for the photograph and was counting the seconds until he could leave.
Below the photo was a wall of text. Degrees. Certifications. Projects. Internships at companies youâd seen on the news. A masterâs degree. A bachelorâs from some private university in Oldtown. Fluent in four languages. Currently serving as Vice President of Strategic Operations at Targaryen Industries, which a quick search revealed to be a multinational conglomerate dealing in everything from real estate to renewable energy to defense contracting.
Old money. Very, very old money. The kind of money that had its own Wikipedia page and several unflattering investigative journalism pieces.
âYou belong to him?â you asked Vhagar, who had climbed onto your laptop keyboard and was slowly erasing several paragraphs of an email youâd been drafting. âYou belong to a billionaireâs son with a dragon fixation and cheekbones that could cut glass?â
Vhagar purred smugly and stepped on the delete key.
The meeting place was outside a high-rise in city center that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated poor people. All black glass and angular steel, a lobby visible through the ground-floor windows that contained more marble than the average museum. A doorman in a uniform stood at attention by the revolving doors.
Aemond Targaryen was waiting on the sidewalk.
He looked exactly like his LinkedIn photo and nothing like it at all. The photo had captured his bone structure but missed everything else: the way he held himself like a blade, the way his one visible eye tracked movement with unsettling precision, the way the left side of his face bore a long, pale scar that cut through his eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline. He was wearing a long black coat that probably cost as much as the catâs reward, and he was looking at the cat carrier in your hands with an expression you couldnât quite read.
âVhagar,â he said, and his voice was different now, still dry, still clipped, but with something underneath it that you recognized. Youâd made that sound yourself, sometimes, when you came home to find Lady waiting for you on the pillow. Relief, maybe. Or something close to it.
âSheâs fine,â you said, setting the carrier down. âSheâs been eating well. Sleeping a lot. Sheâs veryâŚopinionated.â
He crouched down, actually crouched, in his thousand-dollar coat on the sidewalk, and opened the carrier door. Vhagar emerged with the slow dignity of a dowager queen descending from her carriage, and when she saw him, she made a sound that was almost a chirp. She headbutted his hand. She allowed him to pick her up, tucking her massive gray body against his chest like sheâd been doing it all her life. Which, you supposed, she had.
âWhere did you find her?â he asked, not looking at you. His attention was entirely on the cat, his long fingers stroking through her fur with a gentleness that seemed at odds with everything else about him.
âOutside my building. She was sleeping on the concrete.â
His jaw tightened. âHow long?â
âAbout three weeks ago.â
He didnât say anything. His hand stilled on Vhagarâs back. Then he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and your own phone buzzed in your pocket.
âThe reward,â he said. âThank you for returning her.â
You checked your banking app. Seven thousand dollars, transferred and pending.
âRight,â you said. âWell. Take care of her. And maybeâŚput a tag on her collar next time.â
He looked at you then. Actually looked at you, his single visible eye, the other was covered by a swoop of hair but seemed to be a glass prosthetic, you werenât sure, fixing on your face with an intensity that made you want to step backward. His eye was violet. A pale, impossible shade of purple that you had assumed was contacts until you were standing three feet away from him and could see the way the light hit it.
âShe has never run away before,â he said, and it sounded almost like an accusation. As if you had somehow lured his ancient cat away from her penthouse and convinced her to live on hot dogs and milk.
âWell,â you said again, because his stare was unnerving, âsheâs home now.â
He didnât thank you again. He turned and walked into the building, Vhagar draped over his shoulder like a fur stole, the doorman holding the door for him with a murmured âMr. Targaryenâ that you caught on the wind.
You stood on the sidewalk for a moment longer, the December cold seeping through your coat, and then you went home.
You assumed that was the end of it. You had your money, he had his cat, and your worlds had brushed against each other for exactly long enough to complete a transaction. You unfollowed the lost pet groups. You washed Vhagarâs fur off your pillowcases. You tried to ignore the way your apartment felt quieter now, emptier, the absence of her rumbling purr leaving a gap in the dark that you hadnât expected to miss.
Four days later, your phone buzzed with a message from an unsaved number.
What did you do to my cat?
You stared at the screen. You had not saved his number but you had not deleted the chat.
Sorry?, you typed back.
The response came immediately. Vhagar. She wonât eat. She refuses her food. What were you feeding her?
You tried to remember. Milk? Boiled sausages? Some tuna. The vet said she was healthy.
The typing indicator appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then your phone started ringing.
âMilk,â Aemond Targaryen said when you answered, his voice flat with barely contained outrage. âYou fed a fifteen-year-old purebred Persian cat milk and boiled sausages?â
âShe liked them,â you said defensively. âShe ate them right up. Whatâs the problem?â
âThe problem,â he said, âis that Vhagarâs normal diet consists of sustainably sourced Beluga caviar, free-range quail eggs, and a fish broth reduction that my familyâs private chef prepares fresh every three days. She has never eaten processed meat in her life. She has certainly never consumed grocery store milk. And now she is sitting in front of her bowl looking at me as if I have personally betrayed her by serving her the same food she has happily eaten for fifteen years.â
You sat down on your bed. âShe ate Beluga caviar? Like, the stuff that costs hundreds of dollars an ounce?â
âThatâs not the point.â
âIt kind of feels like the point.â
He made a sound of pure frustration, not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. âThe point is that sheâs refusing to eat. Sheâs refusing to eat and sheâs refusing to come when I call her and she spent the entire morning glaring at me from the top of her custom-built cat tower, which, I might add, has three separate levels and a water feature.â
You tried to picture Vhagar, your Lady, who had slept on a spare pillow and eaten crusts off your plate, in a climate-controlled cat tower with a water feature. The image wouldnât resolve.
âHave you triedâŚplaying with her?â you asked.
âShe doesnât play,â Aemond said, as if youâd suggested she do her own taxes. âI throw her the toy mouse from Hermès and she demolishes it. Thatâs not playing. Thatâs destruction.â
âWhat about cardboard boxes?â
Silence. Long, profound silence, broken only by the faint sound of Vhagar yowling in the background.
âCardboard boxes,â he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.
âYeah. You know. The things stuff gets shipped in? Cats love them. She went absolutely feral for the box my Amazon order came in. I put an old towel in it and she slept there for three days.â
âYou want me,â Aemond Targaryen said, each word precise and clipped, âto give a member of my family, a cat who has been passed down through three generations, who has her own room in our estate, who has been photographed for Architectural Digest, a cardboard box?â
âI mean, it canât hurt?â
Another long pause. The background yowling grew louder.
âThis is absurd,â he said, and hung up.
The cardboard box apparently worked, because two days later he messaged you again. Not a call this time, a text, long and oddly formal, like a business proposal that had been written through gritted teeth.
Vhagar has been eating again. The box wasâŚeffective. However, she seems to have developed an attachment to your presence during her time away. She has been restless. The veterinarian suggested she may benefit from continued exposure to you as a source of environmental enrichment, which is a phrase I cannot believe I am typing. I am prepared to offer you a weekly retainer to visit and spend time with her. The compensation would be commensurate with your trouble.
Attached was a number that made your eyes water.
You read the message three times. You thought about the seven thousand dollars already sitting in your savings account. You thought about the way Vhagar had looked at you when you handed her over, that yellow-green stare that had seemed to say this isnât over. You thought about Aemond Targaryenâs voice on the phone, dry and furious and somehow, despite everything, deeply concerned about a fifteen-year-old cat who missed you.
âThis is insane,â you said to your empty apartment.
But you typed back: When do I start?
The first visit was awkward. Aemondâs apartment, if you could call a space that occupied nearly an entire floor of a high-rise an apartment, was a cathedral of minimalist wealth, all pale wood and pale stone and pale furniture that looked like it had never been sat on. Vhagar greeted you at the door with a yowl that seemed to say finally, youâve arrived, and immediately led you to her custom cat tower, which was indeed three stories tall and featured a tiny chandelier.
âSheâs been waiting by the door since this morning,â Aemond said. He was standing in the doorway of what appeared to be a library, dressed in a dark sweater that did nothing to soften the angles of his face. âI donât understand why.â
âSheâs a cat,â you said, sitting cross-legged on the heated marble floor while Vhagar climbed into your lap. âTheyâre mysterious.â
âSheâs never sat in anyoneâs lap but mine. And my motherâs. And occasionally my sisterâs, though that ended badly.â
âWhat happened?â
âMy sister is allergic. She found out when Vhagar sat on her face.â
You laughed. You couldnât help it. Aemond was watching you with an expression that wasnât quite a smile but wasnât not one either, a slight softening around his mouth, a tilt to his head that made him look more like a person.
âTea?â he asked, and it sounded almost reluctant, like the offer had escaped without his permission.
âSure,â you said. âTea would be great.â
Every Saturday, you took the train and spent the afternoon in Aemond Targaryenâs penthouse, ostensibly to entertain a cat who spent most of her time ignoring you in favor of her cardboard box. But Aemond was always there, hovering, appearing with cups of tea that grew progressively more elaborate, then plates of food that started as simple snacks and evolved into full meals.
âYou said youâve been eating bread and cheese for dinner,â he said one evening, setting a plate of something that looked like it belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant on the coffee table in front of you. âThatâs not nutritious.â
âIâm aware,â you said, but you ate it anyway, and it was the best thing youâd ever tasted.
He started finding reasons to extend your visits. A new toy for Vhagar to try. A documentary about Chartreux cats he thought you should watch. An outing to a cat cafĂŠ that he claimed was for research purposes but that mostly involved him standing in the corner looking deeply uncomfortable while cats climbed all over you.
âYouâre not a cat person,â you observed, as a calico tried to scale his leg.
âIâm a Vhagar person,â he corrected, gently removing the calico and placing it on the floor. âThereâs a difference.â
âIs there?â
âIâm beginning to think there might be,â he said, and then he turned away before you could ask what he meant.
Winter turned into spring. Your Saturday visits turned into Saturday visits plus occasional Wednesday dinners plus a standing invitation to a Sunday morning walk in a park, which Aemond claimed was for Vhagarâs benefit even though Vhagar never actually walked. He texted you articles about cat behavior and screenshots of Vhagar doing mundane things with captions like She sat in the box again. I donât understand and The chef wants to know if she can have the sausage recipe.
âThereâs no recipe,â you told him. âYou boil them.â
âI told him that. He didnât believe me.â
He started asking about your life. Your job. Your family. The things you cared about and the things you were afraid of and the things you wanted but had never let yourself reach for. He listened carefully, his pale eye fixed on your face, his sharp features softening in increments so small you almost didnât notice them until one day you looked at him and realized you couldnât remember why youâd ever found him cold.
Vhagar, for her part, seemed entirely unimpressed with the whole arrangement. She spent most of your visits asleep in her cardboard box, a new one now, because Aemond had his assistant procure them weekly, and only occasionally deigned to acknowledge your presence with a slow blink or a rumbling purr.
âShe likes you,â Aemond said one evening, watching the cat knead her claws into an old towel.
âShe tolerates me.â
âNo.â He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on Vhagar. âShe likes you. Sheâs particular. She doesnât tolerate anyone she doesnât like. She bit my brother once. Drew blood.â
âWhat did your brother do?â
âBreathed too loudly, I think.â
You laughed, Aemond glanced at you, and the expression on his face was something youâd never seen before, open, almost unguarded, his mouth curved into the ghost of a smile that transformed his severe features into startlingly beautiful.
âIâm glad you found her,â he said quietly. âThe cat. Iâm glad you found her.â
âMe too,â you said, and you werenât entirely sure you were talking about the cat anymore.
Vhagar yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep, indifferent to everything but the warmth of the room and the comfort of her box.
You learned the layout of his penthouse the way you'd once learned the streets of your neighborhood, by heart, by instinct, by the slow accretion of familiarity that turns the unfamiliar into home.
You learned other things, too. That Aemond took his coffee black but would drink tea if you made it. That he read three books a month and annotated them in a spidery, elegant script. That he had a brother he never mentioned and a sister he mentioned only in passing and a mother who called him every Sunday at precisely eleven in the morning, which he answered without fail even if he was in the middle of a sentence. That his left eye, the one always covered, the one the scar bisected, was a wound he carried with him everywhere, a quiet grief he never spoke about directly but that shaped the way he moved through rooms, always keeping his right side to the door.
You learned about Alys by accident.
It was a Saturday in late March, the kind of day that pretends to be spring but still bites with winter's teeth, and you had arrived at the penthouse to find Aemond already pulling on his coat.
"Something's come up," he said, and his voice had that clipped quality it got when he was trying not to show frustration. "I have to go out of town. I'll be back Monday."
"Okay," you said, hanging your own coat on the hook he'd cleared for you weeks ago. "Do you want me to come back then, or..."
"No." He paused, his hands stilling on his scarf. "I was hoping you could stay with Vhagar. She getsâŚunsettled when I'm gone too long."
The last time he'd gone out of town, a business trip to Westerlands, three days, he'd called you twice a day with updates on Vhagar's mood and appetite. You hadn't minded. The money was good, and honestly, you'd grown fond of the old cat's cranky companionship.
"Sure," you said. "Where are you going?"
"Riverlands."
You waited for elaboration. None came.
"That'sâŚspecific."
He didn't meet your eyes. "Alys lives there. She doesn't like the city."
The name landed in your chest like a stone hurled. Alys. A woman's name, spoken with a familiarity that suggested it had been in his mouth many times before. You realized, with a strange hollow feeling, that he'd never mentioned her. Not once. In all those afternoons and evenings and Sunday walks, he'd never said a word about a girlfriend waiting for him in some small town hours away.
"I didn't know you were seeing someone," you said, and you were proud of how neutral your voice came out.
"It's complicated." He adjusted his scarf, still not looking at you. "We've been together for a while. She prefers her independence. I preferâŚ" He trailed off, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "It works."
"Right," you said. "Well. Go. Vhagar and I will be fine."
He finally looked at you then, something unreadable flickering across his features. "Thank you," he said, and left.
The penthouse felt different without him. Larger, certainly, all those minimalist rooms spreading out around you like a museum after hours. But also quieter in a way that felt less peaceful and more hollow. Vhagar seemed to sense it too; she followed you from room to room with more persistence than usual, her ragged meow punctuating the silence.
You did what you always did when you were catsitting: you sat on the heated floor with Vhagar in your lap, you watched your shows that Aemond pretended to disdain but always ended up commenting on, you ate from the refrigerator that his private chef kept stocked with things you couldn't pronounce. But your mind kept circling back to the name. Alys. The way he'd said it: flat, contained, like a fact he'd long since stopped examining.
On Sunday morning, the house phone rang at half past eleven. You let it ring. The answering machine beeped. A woman's voice which you assumed belonged to his mother, given the time, came through:
Aemond, I've spoken with the surgeon. He has an opening in April. Answer your phone.
Surgeon. April. Cold settled in your stomach.
When Aemond returned on Monday evening, he looked tired in a way that went beyond travel fatigue. His coat was rumpled, his hair escaping its usual careful restraint, his mouth set in a thin line that softened only slightly when Vhagar waddled over to greet him.
"Good trip?" you asked, gathering your things.
"Fine."
"How's Alys?"
The pause was a beat too long. "Fine."
"She must be something," you said carefully, "to keep you driving hours every time you have a free weekend."
He didn't take the bait. He just bent down to scratch Vhagar's chin, his expression shuttered. "She's very busy. Her practice takes up most of her time."
"Practice?"
"Traditional medicine. Herbalism. Holistic healing." He said it without irony, without skepticism, as if a woman who made her living selling tinctures and salves was the most natural thing in the world for a man with multiple advanced degrees and a vice presidency at a multinational corporation. "She's very skilled."
"I'm sure she is," you said, and left before you could say something you'd regret.
After that, you started noticing things.
The way Aemond's phone would buzz and he'd check it immediately, his expression flickering. The way he'd disappear into his study for hours, his voice a low murmur behind the closed door, emerging with that same tired look he'd worn coming back from Riverlands. The way he never texted Alys, or if he did, she never texted back, because every communication seemed to require a phone call, a ritual, a set-aside block of time he guarded fiercely.
"She doesn't like texting," he explained once, when you'd commented on the absurdity of him scheduling a two-hour call in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. "She finds it impersonal."
You thought about the string of unanswered texts on your own phone: friends from college, coworkers, the guy you'd gone on two dates with last month before he'd ghosted you, and wondered what it would be like to have someone so devoted to you that they'd carve out hours of their day just to hear your voice, while you couldn't be bothered to send a single line of text back.
"She must be very special," you said.
"She is." But he said it the way someone might recite a fact they'd memorized rather than a truth they felt in their bones.
The pieces assembled themselves slowly over weeks. Alys was older than him. Alys had a practice in a small town hours from the city. Alys refused to move, refused to visit, refused to integrate herself into his life in any way that required effort on her part. Alys gave him just enough to keep him coming back: a phone call, a weekend, a jar of something homemade that he'd place on his kitchen counter and stare at with an expression that made your chest ache.
He was too smart for this. That was the thing that got you, the thing that lodged under your ribs like a splinter. Aemond Targaryen, with his degrees and his four languages and his portfolio of accomplishments that would have been impressive for a man twice his age, was being strung along by someone who couldn't even be bothered to answer a text message. And he accepted it. He accepted it like it was all he deserved, like affection was a currency that could only be earned through suffering, like love was something you had to bleed for. You suspected he was taught to fish out flirts and gold diggers easily, but he hadn't been taught to examine his emotinal needs.
You saw it in the way he was with Vhagar, too. The cat tolerated him at best: she allowed his attention, accepted his offerings of caviar and quail eggs, but rarely sought him out the way she sought you. And yet he adored her. He planned his schedule around her meals. He commissioned custom furniture for her comfort. He spoke about her like she was a revered ancestor, which, in his family, she practically was.
And you. You, who had been hired as a catsitter and somehow become something more: a fixture in his home, a recipient of his cooking, his concern and his increasingly frequent glances that lingered just a moment too long. You, who he'd started looking at like you were precious, unexpected, something he hadn't known he was allowed to want.
The pattern was right there, written in the architecture of his life: Aemond Targaryen attached himself to people who barely tolerated him, and he called it love because he didn't know what else to call it.
The call came on a Thursday in late April.
"I need you to take Vhagar," Aemond said, his voice strained in a way you'd never heard before. "For several days. A week, maybe. Can you do that?"
You were at work, hunched over your desk with a spreadsheet blurring in front of your eyes. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I just...I have a procedure tomorrow, and I won't be able to care for her."
"Procedure?" Your stomach dropped. "What kind of procedure?"
A pause. You could hear him breathing, slow and controlled, the way he breathed when he was trying to keep himself together. "My eye. My mother found a surgeon. Another one. He thinks there's a chance."
The word another hit you like a punch. How many surgeries had there been? How many times had he gone under the knife, hoping for something that never came?
"I'll come to pick her up," you asnwered.
When you arrived at the penthouse, the doorman let you up without question, you were on the permanent access list now, a fact that still felt surreal every time you thought about it, and Aemond was waiting at the door.
He looked terrible.
His face was pale. His left eye, the one that was always covered, was visible now, hair finally brushed back. He was holding himself very still, very straight, the posture of someone who had learned long ago to carry pain without showing it.
"Before you say anything," he said, "I'm fine."
"You're having surgery."
"Another surgery. They're all the same." He stepped aside to let you in. "My mother is optimistic. She's always optimistic. The surgeon says there's a thirty percent chance of partial vision restoration, which means there's a seventy percent chance of nothing at all. I've made my peace with it. She hasn't."
You followed him into the living room, where Vhagar was sprawled in her cardboard box, a new one, large and rectangular, with a towel that had been arranged just so. She blinked at you slowly and didn't get up.
"When is it?" you asked.
"Tomorrow morning. Early. I have a car picking me up at five."
"You're going alone?"
The question seemed to confuse him. "Yes. Who else would go with me?"
You thought about Alys, somewhere in Riverlands, mixing her herbs and ignoring her phone. You thought about his mother, who had arranged the surgery but apparently not her schedule to be there for it. You thought about his siblings, who he never spoke about.
"I could go with you," you said, before you could stop yourself.
Surprise flickered across his face. "That's not necessary. You're here for Vhagar."
"Vhagar can come. She's a cat. She'll sleep through the whole thing."
"Vhagar in a hospital waiting room?"
"Fine, not in the waiting room. But I can still go. You shouldn't be alone."
He looked at you for a long moment, his good eye searching your face. "Why?" he asked finally. The question sounded genuine, as if he truly couldn't fathom why anyone would offer him comfort without being asked.
"Because that's what people do," you said. "They show up for each other."
"Ah." He turned away, busying himself with a stack of papers on the kitchen counter. "I appreciate the offer. Truly. But I've been doing this alone for a long time. I know how to handle my own treatment. Take Vhagar. I'll call you when I'm home."
You took Vhagar. You packed her into her carrier, which was, of course, custom-made leather with a monogrammed cushion, and you carried her down to the lobby and out to the street, and you stood there on the sidewalk for a full minute before you turned around and went back inside.
Aemond was still in the kitchen when you walked back in, Vhagar's carrier swinging from your hand. He looked up, his expression shifting from surprise to confusion to what that looked almost like relief before he shut it down.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm staying," you set the carrier down and opened it. Vhagar emerged with an indignant yowl and immediately headed for her cardboard box. "You shouldn't be alone, and I'm not letting you send me home just because you're too stubborn to admit you need help."
"The guest room is made up," he said, his voice was very quiet.
"Good. I'm ordering takeout. What do you want?"
"I have a list of approved restaurants in the drawer."
"Of course you do."
The surgery happened. You didn't go with him, he insisted, and you could tell it was important to him, this one last bastion of self-sufficiency, but you were there when he came back, pale and shaking and trying very hard to pretend he wasn't. The bandage was fresh, the swelling worse, and he walked through the door like a soldier returning from a battle he'd already known he would lose.
"Thirty percent," he said, lowering himself onto the couch carefully. "We'll know in a few weeks."
"The guest room is very nice," you said. "Also I made breakfast."
"You made breakfast?"
"Don't sound so surprised. I can cook some things. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. The basics."
He ate the eggs and the toast. He drank the coffee. Then he fell asleep on the couch, his head tilted back against the cushions, his bandaged eye turned toward the ceiling, and you covered him with a blanket and sat in the armchair across from him and watched the afternoon light move across his face.
Vhagar jumped onto his lap and settled there, a warm gray weight, he didn't wake up.
You stayed longer. Aemond was supposed to be resting, but resting turned out to mean pacing the penthouse at odd hours, staring out the windows, picking at the meals you ordered from his list of approved restaurants because apparently your culinary skills didn't extend past breakfast.
"I can make pasta," you offered on the third day, when he was eyeing a container of takeout Thai with the expression of someone who had eaten too much takeout Thai. "It won't be good pasta, but it'll be pasta."
"I don't trust your definition of pasta."
"It comes from a box. You boil it. You put sauce on it."
"Sauce from a jar?"
"Sauce from a jar," you confirmed.
He looked genuinely pained. "Order from the place on 57th. The one with the green awning. They know my order."
"Of course they do."
That evening, as you were eating pasta that had definitely never seen the inside of a jar, you decided to ask the question that had been sitting in your throat for days.
"Does Alys know you had surgery?"
Aemond's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "I mentioned it."
"You mentioned it."
"We talked last night. She's sending a jar of her salve. For the inflammation." He said it matter-of-factly, as if this were a perfectly normal response to your partner undergoing eye surgery. "She says it's very effective. Arnica, mostly, with some other herbs. She grows them herself."
"She's not coming to visit?"
He set his fork down. "She doesn't like the city. I told you."
"She doesn't like the city enough to visit her boyfriend after surgery?"
"It's not that simple."
"It seems pretty simple from where I'm sitting."
His jaw tightened, the familiar muscle jumping beneath his skin. "Alys isâŚshe's not like other people. She has her own life, her own practice, her own way of doing things. I knew that when we started this. I accepted it."
"What does she accept about you?"
The question landed harder than you'd intended. His good eye fixed on your face, sharp and suddenly very violet, and for a moment you thought he was going to snap at you, tell you to leave, remind you that you were just the catsitter and this was none of your business.
Instead, he muttered, "I don't know."
You ate in silence after that. Vhagar, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, climbed onto the table and tried to stick her face in Aemond's pasta, and he let her.
At three in the morning, you found him in the living room, sitting in the dark with Vhagar in his lap and the lights of the city spread out below him like a carpet of stars. His bandage glowed white in the dimness, he didn't turn when you came in, just kept staring out the window with an expression that made something twist painfully in your chest.
"Can't sleep?" you asked, settling into the armchair beside him.
"The pain medication wears off around two. I'm used to it."
"That's not what I asked."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I keep thinking about what you said. At dinner."
"I said a lot of things at dinner."
"About what she accepts." He turned to look at you, even in the darkness, even with half his face covered in gauze, the intensity of his gaze made it hard to breathe. "I don't think she accepts anything about me. I think she tolerates me. And I've spent so long thinking that was the same thing."
"It's not," you said.
"No. It's not." He looked back out the window. "Vhagar tolerates me. But she chose you. When she ran away, she found you, and she stayed. She doesn't do that for anyone."
"She stayed for the hot dogs."
"She stayed for you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I think I understand why now."
Vhagar purred in his lap. The distance between your chair and the couch felt impossibly vast and impossibly small all at once, a gap that could be crossed in two steps or two years depending on whether either of you had the courage to move.
"She's not coming," Aemond said. "Alys. She's not coming, and I don't think I mind as much as I should."
"How do you feel about it?"
He was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, scraped raw, the voice of someone admitting the truth against his will.
"Relieved," he said. "I feel relieved."
You sat in silence, keeping him company in the small hours of the morning until the sky began to pale and Vhagar yawned and stretched and demanded her breakfast.
Part 2: see here
a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to this series' taglist.
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Rhaenyra has been busy running around the Red Keep, meaning she couldnât pay attention to her wife all day. They sleep in the same room ofc so when Rhaenyra is finally going to bed, she sees her wife waiting there for her.
THE CANDLES scattered throughout your chamber had long since burned down to half their length. The wax, softened by the steady heat of the flames, dripped slowly along the sides of the silver candelabras, forming small glossy droplets that hardened one upon another like white petals. The flames flickered stubbornly, bending ever so slightly whenever a draft managed to slip through the cracks of the tall windows, making the heavy dark red velvet curtains sway with a faint rustle. Everything was bathed in a warm, golden, subdued light, almost drowsy, but that cozy atmosphere was not enough to soothe the restlessness that had been tightening in your chest for hours. It was late. Too late. Beyond those walls, the castle had fallen silent; even the corridors seemed to have slowed their breath. And yet, she still had not returned.
You kept waiting for her. Seated at the center of the large canopy bed, your legs tucked beneath you and your back resting against the many embroidered cushions, you let your fingers absentmindedly toy with the edge of the heavy blanket, brushing its fabric without even realizing it. Every now and then, you lifted your gaze toward the closed door, almost expecting it to open at any moment, but each time you found nothing but the same still silence. After the umpteenth fruitless glance, a small pout appeared on your lips.
âOf course⌠the realm comes first.â you muttered under your breath, pressing your lips together slightly, even though no one was there to hear you.
You had spent the entire day without managing to see Rhaenyra for even a few minutes. You had woken up hoping to have breakfast with her, but she had already been summoned to council. Then came messengers, disputes between lords, urgent requests, decisions to be made, letters to read and replies to send. Every hour seemed to place a new weight upon her shoulders, a new responsibility demanding all her attention. You knew it well. You knew what it meant to wear a crown, how every choice could alter the fate of hundreds. You truly understood it. But understanding it did not make the waiting any shorter, nor the bed any less cold without her. Every moment spent alone seemed longer than the last, and the emptiness left by her absence grew more and more evident.
With a long sigh, you let yourself fall backward, sinking into the multitude of soft cushions that still faintly smelled of lavender. Your eyes rested on the canopy above you, embroidered with golden threads that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. You remained like that for a few minutes, motionless, listening only to the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the distant sound of the wind beyond the windows. The silence of the room was almost irritating. Too different from the one you had grown used to, the one filled with the rustle of Rhaenyraâs clothes, the sound of her voice as she read some document seated beside you, or simply the rhythm of her breathing.
Eventually, you slowly turned onto your side, pulling the blanket up to your chin. You could have closed your eyes, let yourself drift into that comforting warmth. You probably would have fallen asleep within minutes. The day had been long for you as well. And yet, you didnât want to. You stubbornly remained awake, because falling asleep before her return would have meant giving up those few moments that would finally be yours alone. She still owed you attention, and you were determined to remind her of that.
When the door to the room finally opened, the faint creak of the wood and the muffled sound of the hinges made your heart race so suddenly that you had to hold back a smile. For a moment, your first instinct was to turn immediately toward her, run to her and hold her tight. But the small pride you had nurtured all evening got the better of you. You stiffened slightly, gripped the blanket more tightly between your fingers, and closed your eyes, stubbornly pretending to be asleep.
Rhaenyraâs footsteps were incredibly quiet. She moved with the natural elegance of someone who had grown up within those corridors, barely brushing the stone floor. And yet, you would have recognized them anywhere. There was something different that night, though. Slower. Heavier. Each step seemed to drag along the fatigue of an entire day spent bearing the weight of the realm.
âAre you still awake?â her voice asked, low and slightly hoarse, finally breaking the silence.
You refused to answer.
A few seconds passed. Then you heard a soft sigh escape her lips, faint, almost amused rather than annoyed.
The mattress dipped slowly as she sat beside you. Her warmth reached you immediately, familiar and reassuring, while the delicate scent of leather, wood, and a faint trace of incense lingering on her clothes enveloped you completely. That alone was enough to make you want to turn immediately and hide in her arms, as you did every night.
But no.
You clutched the pillow tighter against your chest, even exaggerating your pout, though she couldnât see it.
âReally?â she murmured, a hint of amusement clear in her tired voice. âAre you pretending to be asleep?â
No response.
Her fingers gently brushed your arm, almost hesitantly, tracing a slow caress along your bare skin. It was the lightest touch, and yet it was enough to make you shiver. âLoveâŚâ
The way she spoke that single word was incredibly tender. It held all the exhaustion of the day, but also all the affection she had held back until that moment. And you hated how little it took to make you waver.
But you held on for a few more seconds, just out of stubbornness, then you huffed softly, turning toward her with an unmistakably offended expression. âYou took forever.â
Rhaenyra smiled faintly, though the fatigue in her eyes was unmistakable. âI know.â
âYou know?â you repeated, propping yourself up on one elbow and looking at her with an unconvincing scowl. âAnd thatâs supposed to make me feel better?â
She remained silent for a moment. She didnât make excuses, didnât even try to justify herself. She simply looked at you with that calm that seemed to belong only to her, studying your face as if every detail deserved to be remembered, as if, after a day spent staring at maps, parchments, and councilors, the only thing she truly wanted was to find your eyes again.
âI missed you.â she said at last, softly.
Your pout faltered dangerously. âThatâs not enough.â you replied, though your voice had already lost most of its conviction.
Rhaenyra moved closer, enough for your knees to brush beneath the covers. âThen tell me what I should do.â
You crossed your arms stubbornly, trying to maintain your offended demeanor. âYou could have come earlier.â
âI would have liked to,â she answered without hesitation.
âYou could have sent for me.â
âI should have.â
âYou could haveââ
âLoved you better today.â she finished, her voice barely above a whisper.
Those words erased every reply. You simply stared at her. Only then did you truly notice how exhausted she was, the faint dark circles beneath her striking violet eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way she seemed to hold herself upright only out of habit, never allowing herself weakness. Her expression still held the pride that had always defined her, but behind it you recognized a fatigue she rarely allowed herself to show.
And your heart softened, despite everything. ââŚYouâre tired.â you murmured.
âVery.â she admitted with a faint smile.
You remained in silence for a moment, eyes locked on each other, simply looking, until you sighed and let your arms fall to your sides.âYouâre still late,â you added more quietly, letting out a small laugh.
Rhaenyra smiled faintly. âI know.â
You hesitated only a second before reaching out, grasping the fabric of her tunic and gently pulling her toward you. âCome here.â
She didnât need to be told twice. She slipped beneath the covers, settling beside you. The moment you felt her warmth wrap around you, it was as if all the tension of the day slowly melted away. You instinctively curled against her, resting your head on her chest, while her arm slid naturally around your shoulders, holding you close. âI should have stayed mad longer.â you murmured, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your cheek.
âYou can still do that tomorrow.â she replied with a hint of irony.
âItâs not the same.â
Her fingers began to move slowly along your back, tracing gentle, steady caresses, following the rhythm of a song you knew all too well. It was one of those gestures she had learned without realizing it, one that always managed to calm you, no matter your mood. âTo make it up to you, Iâll get you many dresses as your heart desires, along with a mountain of jewels and silks. What do you think?â
You slowly closed your eyes, letting yourself relax against her. You breathed in deeply, filling your lungs with her sweet scent of vanilla, and sighed, allowing yourself to be lulled by her voice and the warmth of her embrace, finally letting go of all resistance. âAlright⌠I forgive you.â
Her fingers moved up into your hair, gently stroking your scalp with slow, steady motions, a gesture she knew well, one she knew would always make you melt. âSo easily?â she murmured, amused.
âDonât get used to it.â you replied, though you held her even tighter.
Rhaenyra chuckled softly, pressing a light kiss into your hair. âGoodnight, love.â
âGoodnight, and donât move.â
âI wonât.â
That simple promise was enough to make you smile.
Wrapped completely in her embrace, with her warm breath brushing your forehead, the steady beat of her heart beneath your ear, and her fingers continuing to lull you with slow, soothing caresses, you finally let all the waiting, all the melancholy, and your small evening sulk dissolve. Sleep came gently, sweetly, carrying away every thought. And as you slowly drifted into dreams, with her still holding you close, you realized that, for the first time since the sun had set, you no longer felt alone.
Or; Jace knows that in order for his mother to win the war, he has to make sacrifices. He just never thought the sacrifice would be you.
Plot Point; a twist to the original story, where instead of Jace, it's the reader that falls in the Gullet, aged up characters (they have kids, they're ocs).
Warnings; death, angst, wounds, violence, grief.
One-shot; 4.1k words.
A/N; I've mixed book and show canon.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.
The waves crashed with fervor against Dragonstone's cliffs, leaving only salty water at their wake. At their touch, small pieces of rock detached, taking for the sea, a typical journey which always ended up being the same; they turned to sand, clinging at the bottom of the ocean, where no one could ever see them again. At least that was what the sea men said.
It felt eerily like an omen of death. Much like human beings, even the mighty rocks eroded, ultimately fading into insignificance.
âYou supposed you found truth in the sayings of the sea men. Gazing out from the stone window of the castleâs main entrance, you felt as though you could sniff the very scent of mortality intertwined with the fragrance wafting from the sea.
The situation was dire. Rhaenyra was deeply shaken, harboring grave concerns both for her realm and for the safety of those who surrounded her.
âYou could share this exact sentiment with the Queen. Having lived by her side for so long as the betrothed, and later wife of her eldest son and heir, Jacaerys, you had been profoundly influenced by her.
âYet, in all honesty, you possessed no real power. You were no warrior; you were a lady of the court who had spent the better part of her life mastering etiquette and diplomacy befitting a future queen. And in spite of your brother's archery lessons, you weren't really a master in the art, since you were forbidden from ever pursuing them. Furthermore, lacking Targaryen blood, you possessed no dragon of your own. Your sole encounter with these majestic creatures was when Jace introduced you to Vermax. Consequently, you were utterly powerless and helpless to offer any aid.
And the truth was, you loathed it. You despised remaining idle, watching everyone expose themselves to peril while you stayed sheltered behind the walls of Dragonstone.
âStill, on numerous occasions, you had sought to assist in your own way. It was your patient entreaties that had swayed your brother, Cregan Stark, convincing him that it was wise to join the war alongside the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Furthermore, you had accompanied Jace to the Freys, eloquently detailing not only the financial incentives but also the renown they would attain by enlisting in Rhaenyraâs army.
âYet that was the extent of the aid you could offer.
âNow, you were merely confined to your chamber, desperately trying to conjure up something useful.
Your thoughts were revolving around the general state of affairs when the door to your chamber opened, and your husband walked in.
â"Jace." you uttered softly, a wave of relief washing over you at his sudden appearance.
âYet, that solace evaporated almost instantly.
âIn Jaceâs eyes, you could discern a sudden frenzy, an unsettling madness you had never witnessed before. His brown irises had dilated, consuming nearly the entirety of the sclera, while the inner pupils seemed to have constricted into pinpoint dots, if such a thing was even possible.
â"Y/N." he greeted you tersely, closing the distance between you.
âYou rose from the chair where you had been seated and approached him cautiously.
â"What is the matter?" you inquired hesitantly. "Is everything alright?"
Your husband shook his head, implying that nothing bad had happened.
"We can win this war. Put an end to it." he said, and a maddened smile appeared on his face. "Y/N, I found a way, I have the means. The time has come."
Turmoil washed over you, and as Jace moved closer to you, you took a step back, leaving a small gap between you.
"This is madness." you said, making your displeasure immediately obvious. "You can't just announce to me that you're about to solve a war that has ruined our lives. At least not without explaining your plans first."
If he was disheartened by your words, he didn't show it.
"Listen to what I'm planning before you set yourself against me." In his words, there was a sense of humor, but the circumstances didn't allow you to laugh.
âSeeing the look in your eyes, a gaze filled with fear and anxiety, Jace tried to reassure you.
â"Corlys' ships are gathering at the Gullet. They intend to fight the Triarchy and crush the usurper's fleet, while also getting my younger brothers to safety in Pentos." He paused and looked you in the eye, trying to convey the importance of what he was saying. "I will fly with Vermax to help the Velaryon fleet from the sky. Baela has already agreed to come with me on Moondancer."
âWidening your eyes, you looked at Jace, the man you had learned to love for so long, as if you had never known him at all.
â"What does your mother have to say about this?" you asked him, trying to slow down any reckless move he might make.
This made him a bit more sober; it brought a gravity to his face. The mention of Rhaenyra not only brought him back to the present, but shook him enough to make him reflect on the weight of his impending actions.
â"You know my mother would never agree to me putting myself at risk." he said with a frown. Indirectly, however, he betrayed that the Queen had no knowledge of his plans.
â"Jace." you breathed, though it was difficult and required a great deal of effort. "I am just as against this as your mother will be when she finds out you intend to disobey her."
âYou were there for a recent incident, where Rhaenyra had forbidden him from flying into battle and facing his uncles. The outcome had been predictable; Rhaenys died fighting atop her dragon, but selfishly, you could say you were glad it wasn't Jace in her place.
â"She won't find out." Jace said hesitantly.
âYou raised your eyebrows. "How come?"
"Because I won't tell her." he answered, determined. "No one will tell her."
â"So, you mean to disobey the Queen? Go against her wishes?"
âHe made a sound as his tongue clicked against his teeth, and it seemed to you like he was about to roll his eyes at your questions.
âHe didn't even answer; he simply nodded.
âIt was your turn to scoff. "She only means to protect you, Jacaerys. And frankly, I'm on her side." You looked at him pointedly. "You are the heir to the throne, next in line to be king. You can't act recklessly just to prove yourself to whoever you aim to please."
âHe glared at you. "I don't want to prove myself to anyone. I owe it to my Queen to serve her in the best possible way. It just so happens that this way is through battle, and it is my duty to sacrifice myself for her."
âTears began to blur your eyes, and you felt the moisture like a threat.
â"And what about our children, Jace?" you tried to reason with him, your voice breaking. "What about Aerea and Aerys? What about me? Am I to be your widow, weeping and regretting the moment you left our hearth? The moment I let you go?"
It seemed that your tears moved him, because in the very next moment he came right up to you and held you tightly, as if there was no tomorrow. And right there, in his arms, his comfort warmed you for a little while.
â"You have to understand." he spoke to you softly. "In times of war, it is understandable and required that we make certain sacrifices. Yes, I can't deny that it's dangerous, and that there's a chance I could meet my end out of nowhere. But, Y/N, it's worth it. If I manage, together with our fleet, to crush Aegon's forces, everything will be resolved. Our children will live in a world with peace. Think about it."
âAnd you did think about it.
âAnd when his lips met yours, you inevitably agreed.
°ââ.ŕłŕż*:ｼ°ââ.ŕłŕż*:ｼ
However, even though you promised Jace that you would stay behind to take care of the twins and ensure the queen's safety, you knew that you could not leave the only man you ever loved to put himself in the worst danger.
And it was true. Your heart burned at the thought that your husband would sacrifice his skin while you would sit once again idle, motionless and inactive.
And so, you approached Baela and begged her to take you with her.
âI can shoot with a bow.â You pleaded. âCregan has taught me the art of archery and he is the best in this field in the North." You didn't mention that you weren't an expert. You couldn't. "Please. I can't lose him. And I can't let you carry the equivalent weight alone in case he falls in battle. I need to be there.â
Baela tried to discourage you, but it was in vain. You had already persuaded Daemon's daughter, while you yourself had taken your decision so seriously, that no one could make you back down. You wanted to be present.
And so it happened. Wearing the suit with dragon scales that you borrowed from Baela, you mounted Moondancer with her, after Jace had departed. Holding her tight, and with your bow tied to your back and your shield in your right hand, you headed to the Gullet to fight against the Triarchy.
As you had planned, Jace hadn't noticed you for most of the flight. Baela had risen high enough, and was flying directly above him, so that he wouldn't be able to realize that you had gone along with them.
When the dragons faced the enemy fleet, however, everything changed. Relentlessly, you tried to find members of the enemies and hit them.
Your previous words had been proven true. Indeed, Cregan had taught you the ways of the bow and almost none of your arrows missed their target. One after another, the enemies fell unexpectedly and took their final breath.
But every good thing comes to an end sooner or later. The ballistae of the Triarchy launched huge wooden bolts that thrust under the scales of Vermax, and began pulling him down. The green dragon began writhing in pain, resulting in you and Baela abandoning your post and rushing to help Jace.
And that was when he noticed you too. Narrowing his eyes, he observed your figure hanging from Baela's back and giving her orders on how they could best help him.
Anger was the least of what he felt. He waited just a moment for the time when his fury would wash over him at the sight of you, at the thought of returning back so he could remind you how foolish your choice was to follow him onto the battlefield, but the only thing he felt was sadness. Indescribable, endless sadness and emotion at the image of your sacrifice for his salvation.
He watched helpless your attempt to cut with your slender arrows the rope that joined his dragon to the bottom of the sea and felt such warmth, that sweat began running down his temples, not for the thought that he could die, but for the one reflecting your unconquerable spirit.
On the other side, you attempted again and again to hit the thin fabric, but it seemed that luck had abandoned you. All your previous successes seemed pointless, as if it didn't matter the least that you helped suppress a large part of Aegon's fleet.
And as if that wasn't enough, your missed shots resulted in reducing the number of your arrows very quickly. Before you even realized it, you had almost run out. It didn't help much either that in your attempt to free Jace, the shield that protected you slipped from your hands and fell with fury into the sea.
In the end, Baela decided to have Moondancer cut the ropes with his teeth and free the other dragon. Vermax rose with a cry of anger and continued to burn the enemy's ships.
Despite the tragic situation that prevailed a few minutes ago, everything showed that Viserys and Aegon, your husband's brothers, would finally manage to leave. Corlys was fighting too in the best possible way, and the numbers of the Triarchy constantly seemed to be increasing.
âY/N!â you suddenly heard from your left and turned to see Jace looking at you with surprise.
Immediately you thought he was angry with you and opened your mouth to explain to him, but yet another spear flew upwards, forcing him to move to avoid it.
You thought he wouldn't try to talk to you again during the operation, but he was persistent.
Approaching Baela's dragon from the right this time, he shouted to you so he could be heard through the wind.
The moment he was about to talk to you though, unprotected after the fall of the shield and having no other arrows, you received a strike to your side.
For a moment everything blurred. You lost the grip you had on Baela and felt yourself slowly falling from Moondancer's back.
Quickly, you looked towards Jace, but all you could distinguish was the eyes of the man you loved, the love of your life, full of tears and fear. So much fear.
You never did comprehend when you received a second strike. Another arrow protruded from your back when you finally fell into Jace's arms.
Your prince held you tightly in his warm embrace, stroking your hair, which was full of water and sweat, having come undone from the braid in which you had tied it.
âWhy?â he begged with sobs. âWhy are the gods so evil, so cruel as to take from me the one thing, the only thing I ever craved in my life? Why did you have to be so brave, yet so stubborn?â
You tried to smile but the pain threatened every part of your body, making the act difficult.
âThey are not cruel.â You reminded him. âThey made me worthy to help you. And that is what counts. That is my own wish.â
His voice cracked in his next words. âI would have made it. Damn it, Y/N, I would have made it. I would have wiped out the fleet, I would have sent my brothers to Pentos, I would have returned to our family. Why couldn't you just stay home?â
With difficulty you answered him. âI couldn't let you risk your life while I would be behind the walls of Dragonstone, secure. I needed to help you.â
The ships were now retreating. The enemies knew that they had lost.
But for Jace, the only one who had lost was himself.
âAnd what of our children?â he asked, hugging you closer. âAerys and Aerea? What will I tell them when they ask about their mother? That I let her die while in the process I saved my own skin?â
What of our children? you had asked too, some hours ago.
This time, despite the pain washing over you, you smiled, even with bloody teeth. âYou will tell them that their mother died protecting the one thing she loved as much as them. The one human. You will tell them that I was fearless and that whatever I did, I did it for them.â
Your beautiful, tragic husband continued to cry, and in truth, you had never seen such a beautiful sight before. It was the best way to die.
Hesitantly you raised your hand and wiped the wet matter away. Without hesitation, Jace leaned into your palm and began to calm down.
âI love you.â He whispered to you with affection, placing his forehead against your own. âMy mind and my heart, my whole body shatters at the thought of what is about to happen in the next few moments. You are the sun of my day and the moon of my night. You are the blossoms that fill the meadows, the snow that calms me down when I slowly die inside. You are my everything.â
A tear rolled from your eye. âAnd you are mine.â
Jace bent down and captured your lips between his with passion, as if he was never going to see you again. And the truth was, he wasn't going to.
When he stood up, all he faced was your empty eyes.
°ââ.ŕłŕż*:ｼ°ââ.ŕłŕż*:ｼ
The flight to Dragonstone was silent, the echo of victory forgotten.
âBaela rode ahead, unable to speak to Jace. She held herself responsible for what happened to you, for your unfair loss, and for her step-brotherâs grief.
âNot that he would have answered, lost in thoughts of your sudden death. He was thinking of your children, the 4-year-old twins you both loved more than anything. Aerys, who was so much like you, calm and sweet, yet strong at the same time. Aerea, who had your eyes, your beauty, and your purity.
âHe was thinking of your brother, Cregan. He had promised him that he wouldn't let anything bad happen to you, that no obstacle would stand between you and a long life. Your early death symbolized his failure to keep his oath.
âHe thought of his mother, who had refused to give her approval for the operation from the very beginning.
âHe thought of himself, who despite winning, should have listened to you and stayed home.
âBut above all, he thought of you. How you smiled at him every morning, lying in the soft sheets of your bed, your hair scattered over the velvet pillow you refused to part with. How every morning you left quickly to make sure you were the first to say good morning to the twins when they woke up. How you loved his own siblings, how you wept for Luke's unfair death, how you even felt sad for Aemond's downfall, who had treated you kindly when you met him at a young age. How openly you loved him, as if he were the pinnacle of life on earth.
âThe thoughts nearly suffocated him, but they stopped abruptly when Vermax set him down on the castle's parapet. He climbed down slowly from his saddle, holding you tightly in his arms.
âThe first thing he saw was Rhaenyra.
âHis mother hadn't noticed your body in his arms and was heading furiously toward him.
â"Are you mad?" she shouted at him, and Jace could hear both indignation and relief in her voice at the sight of him. "You disobeyed my orders, you left without my permission, you attempted to-"
âSuddenly, her voice left her. Jacaerys assumed she realized that what her son was holding in his arms was the empty shell of the woman she considered her daughter.
â"Jace." she said tentatively, looking at him from a distance.
âHe looked at her too and saw that her eyes were welling up with tears.
â"She is dead." he said, shame overwhelming his throat. "She is dead because of me. When I announced my plans to her, I never expected she would go behind my back and try to follow me."
âThe castle courtyard was empty, not a single echo. Not even when the rest of the help came out was the slightest sound heard.
âOnly when the maesters approached Jace to take you from his arms did he start shouting angrily. "NO! LEAVE HER TO ME. SHE WAS BETTER THAN ALL OF YOU." He paused briefly. "And I failed her."
°ââ.ŕłŕż*:ｼ°ââ.ŕłŕż*:ｼ
After his outburst in the courtyard, all he wanted to do was take your body and leave. To leave, to go far away to Pentos, Tyrosh, Lys, or Yi Ti, and find someone who could bring you back, someone who could restore you to how you were just a few hours ago.
âSafe and in his arms.
âBut that would be improper and against your wishes. You were someone who believed in the laws of nature, in the belief that the human body is mortal and will soon return to the place it came from.
âYou never agreed with the dark magic promised by shadowy figures of other continents. You had been clear about this during the countless conversations you had shared.
âEntering your room, he laid you down on the bed and began removing the arrows that had pierced your soft skin. He wouldn't allow the maesters to steal the few remaining minutes he had in your presence.
âTo his dread and surprise, your wounds were still bleeding. The blood fell onto your bed, staining your white sheets. They were your favorites, and he cursed himself for taking even that away from you.
âAs he was tending to your wounds, the room's door suddenly burst open.
âStartled, he turned toward the deafening sound of the wood and came face-to-face with your children.
âAerea popped out, full of joy, and ran to her father, opening her arms wide to embrace him. Even though he felt a bit numb, Jace lowered himself to her height and held her in his arms.
â"Kepa." said your reflection, her black curls freshly washed. Jace cursed himself for noticing this, because the oil she used smelled just like yours. He forced himself not to break down in tears.
â"My love." Jace replied, trying his best to smile. If Aerea noticed the red circles inside his eyes, she didn't mention it.
â"I'm so glad you're back. I got tired of playing with Elinda all the time. I missed you." She raised her small hand and pushed back a strand of hair that fell into her eyes.
âThe gesture was an exact copy of yours too. His eyes blurred, and he bit his tongue hard to hold back the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.
â"I missed you too." he said, his voice choked. "Now that I'm back, I plan on never leaving you again. Nor your brother."
âAerys remained silent near the door.
â"That's what I hoped for." his daughter said with a smile, before turning her gaze past him. Jace followed her eyes before looking back at her.
â"What are you looking for, Aerea?" he asked, even though he was dreading the answer.
âJace withered. He didn't know how to lie; he had never been good at it.
â"She is." he admitted, and this time he could not restrain a tear that hung from his eyelids.
Aerea looked upon him with utter wonder. "What do you mean? Gone where? Gone to the North to see uncle Cregan?"
Jace almost sobbed.
"She is dead." whispered his son, and Aerea turned to behold him. "I saw it in my dream. The shafts pierced her armor."
His little girl remained frozen, motioning not within his arms. "I understand not." She said softly. "Where is mother?"
Jace knew he must prove strong. "Sheâs in a much better place. Her body is still here with us, but her soul has left for the heavens."
Aerea began to weep, and Aerys approached to hold her hand, giving his other to his father. Jace squeezed it.
"Why did she go to the heavens? And why did she not take us as well? Did she not love us?"
Jace willed himself literally to perish. "No, no, she loved you very much. So greatly that she chose to depart to the heavens to protect you."
Aerea sobbed. "Why protect us from there? Why not stay here with us?"
"She was bound to, do you understand? She was bound to be there, to watch over you and everything that happens to you both from above and remove from your path every malevolent obstacle. Now, she can see everything. And for this, you shall always be safe and sound."
"But I want my mother." She wept with all her soul, and Jace held both his children against his chest so that they might release their sorrow. It was the sole thing he could do, and he knew it was not enough.
A little time elapsed, until Aerea fell asleep. Jace summoned one of your ladies to take her to her chamber. Yet Aerys remained.
"Donât worry, father. It was her choice." said his son comfortingly.
Jace looked upon him miserably. "Was it?"
The little one nodded. "She visited me in my sleep when I saw the dream of doom. She made me swear that I would mention none of it to anyone, save only to tell you after it came to pass. She knew you would blame yourself. Yet it was the last thing she desired. Mother loved you. Her spirit continues to love you through us."
And these very words were what impelled Jace not to abandon the struggle. To continue living for your children and for you, who sacrificed yourself for your family.
He would live for you. He would laugh for you. He would prevail in this war for you.
Summary: Tensions arise during a Targaryen family vacation, which prompts Daemon to step up as a husband and agree to relocating. Warnings: family drama, humor, angst, fluff, smut.
a/n: In honor of Daemon's comeback in ep2. He's so maniacal but he made me laugh so many times.
The first time you mentioned divorce, Daemon had laughed. Not a cruel laugh, more like the sound someone makes when a child insists theyâre running away to join the circus. Dismissive. Almost fond. Heâd kissed your forehead and told you to spend the weekend at the spa, his treat, and the next day a black card arrived by courier with a note in his sharp, slashing handwriting: For whatever you need. âD
That had been four months ago. The card was still in your wallet. Youâd used it exactly once, to pay the retainer for a divorce attorney.
Now you stood on the balcony of the hotel suite in Pentos, watching the Narrow Sea churn itself into a gray-green froth as a storm rolled in from the west. Behind you, through the open doors, you could hear the muffled sounds of your sons arguing over a video game and the lower, smoother cadence of Daemonâs voice as he settled whatever dispute had arisen. Aegon, at six, was already developing his fatherâs talent for theatrical indignation. Viserys, barely four, just wanted to be included.
The Targaryen family vacation. Two weeks in a luxury resort that Daemonâs brother Viserys, the elder Viserys, had booked for the entire clan. A chance to âreconnect,â Viserys had said in that ponderous way of his, as if family bonds were something you could schedule into a Google Calendar and tick off like a board meeting.
Youâd tried to get out of it. Youâd tried to tell Daemon that going on a family holiday while you were actively meeting with lawyers was absurd, farcical, the kind of thing that would make you the villain in a made-for-TV movie. Heâd listened with that infuriating half-smile of his, the one that said youâre adorable when youâre worked up, and then heâd informed you that the flights were booked, the boys were excited, and heâd already told Viserys youâd be there.
âIâm not discussing this with you,â youâd said, standing in the kitchen of your King's Landing townhouse, hands braced against the marble island. âIâm telling you. Iâm filing for divorce.â
âYouâre not.â
âDaemon...â
âYouâre not filing for anything.â Heâd crossed the kitchen with that predatory grace heâd never lost, even in a cashmere sweater and trousers. His hands had settled on your hips, his thumbs pressing into the small of your back in a way that made your body betray you with a shiver. âYouâre tired. Youâre stressed. Youâve been dealing with my brotherâs wife and her...â Heâd paused, searching for a word that wouldnât quite cross the line into outright insult. âHer ambitions. Let me handle it.â
âYou canât handle this, Daemon. You canât throw money at me until I forget Iâm unhappy.â
Something had flickered in his eyes then, a flash of genuine confusion, perhaps even hurt, before it was swallowed by that practiced Targaryen hauteur. âUnhappy,â heâd repeated, as if tasting a foreign word. âIâve given you everything.â
âYouâve given me things. Thereâs a difference.â
He hadnât answered. Instead, heâd done what he always did when a conversation veered into territory he didnât want to explore: heâd withdrawn, not physically but emotionally, the drawbridge coming up behind his eyes. âWeâll talk about this later. The boys need to be put to bed.â
And that had been that. The next morning, suitcases had appeared in the foyer, and Daemon had been all brisk efficiency and paternal warmth, directing the children, consulting with the nanny, and youâd found yourself swept along in the current of his will, as you always did, as you had been since the day you met him at an event ten years ago.
The storm was moving faster now. Lightning split the sky to the west, a jagged white scar that illuminated the darkening sea. You started counting automatically, a habit from childhood: one, two, three, four, five, and the thunder rolled across the water, a deep, bone-rattling growl. Five seconds. About a mile away.
âStormâs getting closer.â
You didnât turn. Youâd felt him before youâd heard him, that particular awareness youâd never been able to shake, the way your body seemed to know when Daemon Targaryen was in a room. He stepped onto the balcony beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, and you saw that he was holding two glasses of wine.
âRed,â he said, offering one. âThe Pentosi varietal the sommelier recommended. Viserys ordered twenty cases for the cellars.â
âOf course he did.â
Daemonâs mouth twitched. âHeâs planning a gala for the autumn. Apparently, Alicent has been nagging him about entertaining more. Networking.â He pronounced the word with a particular disdain, the way another man might say vermin.
You took the wine, mostly because you needed something to do with your hands. âAlicentâs networking is called âsecuring her position.â Sheâs smart.â
âSheâs a social climber with a spreadsheet and a prayer book.â
âDaemon.â
âWhat? Itâs true. You know itâs true. Even Rhaenyra knows itâs true, and Rhaenyra is pathologically incapable of thinking ill of anyone her father deigns to marry.â He took a long drink of his wine, his eyes fixed on the horizon. âI still donât know what Viserys was thinking. Otto Hightowerâs daughter. Itâs like bringing a fox into the henhouse and handing it a napkin.â
You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but you were too tired. Three days of enforced proximity to Alicentâs brittle smiles and Viserysâ oblivious paternalism and Rhaenyraâs increasingly desperate attempts to play peacemaker had worn you down to a nub.
Rhaenyra was the only one of Daemonâs family you genuinely liked, she was fierce and funny and surprisingly self-aware for a woman whoâd been raised to believe she was the center of the universe, but even she had been grating on you today. Sheâd cornered you at breakfast to ask if everything was âokayâ between you and Daemon, her violet eyes too knowing, too sympathetic. Youâd deflected, but barely.
It was Daemonâs fault. All of it. If he hadnât insisted on moving the family back into the Targaryen ancestral pile, if he hadnât dragged you into his obsessive crusade against Alicentâs influence, if he hadnât treated your unhappiness like a software glitch that could be patched with shopping and sex and those devastating smiles he deployed like weapons...
âYouâre thinking very loudly,â Daemon observed.
âIâm thinking about divorce.â
He didnât flinch. Didnât even blink. âThe stormâs getting worse. We should go inside.â
âDaemon.â
âThe boys are waiting for dinner. Viserys wants to eat at eight, which means Alicent wants to eat at seven-thirty, which means if weâre not in the dining room by...oh, the look on her face.â He grinned, sharp and wicked. âIt might almost be worth being late.â
âIâm serious.â
âSo am I. Her face goes all pinched, like sheâs sucked a lemon. Rhaenyra and I used to have a drinking game around it.â
âDaemon, I want a divorce.â
This time, he did react. A tightening around his jaw, barely perceptible. The way his fingers flexed against his wine glass. But his voice, when he spoke, was perfectly even. âWeâre not having this conversation on a balcony in Pentos while our children are inside.â
âWeâre not having this conversation anywhere. Thatâs the problem. You refuse to engage with it. You act like if you ignore it long enough, Iâll forget.â
âWill you?â
âWill I what?â
âForget.â He turned to face you, and there it was again, that flicker of something raw beneath the arrogance, gone so fast you might have imagined it. âWill you forget that you love me? That we have a life together? That we have two sons who adore you and a home and a history and...â He stopped himself, jaw working. âNo. Youâre right. Weâre not doing this here.â
He drained his wine and walked back inside, leaving you alone with the storm.
Dinner was excruciating.
The dining room was all white tablecloths and soft candlelight and sweeping views of the coastline, the storm pressing against the windows. Viserys sat at the head of the table, beaming benevolently at his assembled family as if heâd personally arranged the weather for their entertainment. Alicent was at his right hand, her auburn hair pulled back in an elegant twist, her expression one of careful serenity that you knew from experience masked a constant, low-grade anxiety.
Rhaenyra and her husband Laenor were visiting from their place in Spain, their three boys seated between them in various states of restlessness. And then there was your family: you, Daemon, and the two small boys who were currently attempting to build a fort out of bread rolls.
âAegon, stop that,â you said quietly, removing the roll from his hand before it could be added to the precarious structure. âWe donât play with food.â
âUncle Laenor said the Pentosi build forts to keep the sea monsters away,â Aegon protested.
âDid he.â
âItâs true,â Laenor said, his expression perfectly solemn. âAncient maritime tradition. Very sacred.â
Aegon turned to you with the triumphant expression of a child who had just been validated by an adult, and you made a mental note to have a word with Laenor later. Probably with a heavy object.
âHow are you finding the resort?â Alicent asked, her gaze fixed on you with an intensity that suggested she was already composing a report for some internal database. âThe spa here is supposed to be excellent. I booked a hot stone massage for tomorrow morning, if youâd care to join.â
âThatâs kind of you,â you said, âbut I think Iâll pass.â
âOh, you should go,â Rhaenyra said, leaning forward. âI went yesterday. Thereâs a sauna and everything. Very relaxing.â She caught your eye and added, with just a hint of emphasis, âGood for stress.â
You smiled tightly. âIâm sure it is.â
Daemon, seated beside you, had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meal. Heâd exchanged a few barbed pleasantries with Alicent, agreed with Viserys about the superiority of Westerosi wine, and otherwise devoted his attention to his plate with the air of a man who was planning something. You knew that look. Youâd seen it before board meetings, before confrontations with business rivals, before the night heâd decided to move your family into Dragonstone Manor without consulting you. It was the look of Daemon Targaryen marshaling his forces.
It made you nervous.
âI heard the most interesting thing today,â Alicent said, and something in her tone made the entire table go quiet. âAbout the Ashford deal.â
Viserys looked up from his lamb. âMy dear, perhaps business at the dinner table...â
âItâs just that I understood we werenât pursuing Ashford anymore. The board voted on it, I thought. And yet I received a rather curious email from our legal team this afternoon suggesting that Daemon had reopened negotiations.â Her smile didnât waver. âOn his own authority.â
Daemon set down his fork very carefully. âThe board voted to table the discussion, not to abandon the acquisition entirely. Thereâs a difference.â
âIs there?â
âThere is to anyone who actually understands corporate governance.â
âDaemon,â Viserys said, a warning note in his voice.
But Daemon was already leaning forward, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. âThe Ashford portfolio is worth forty million pounds. Their logistics network alone would give us a foothold in three new markets. I wasnât about to let it slip away because the board is too risk-averse to see past next quarterâs earnings report.â
âThe board is risk-averse because weâre still recovering from the Dornish expansion,â Alicent said, her voice cool. âWhich you also championed. And which went significantly over budget.â
âIt went over budget because we were sabotaged by incompetents you personally recommended for the project.â
âI recommended no one. I suggested a shortlist of candidates, which Viserys approved.â
âAfter youâd spent three months whispering in his ear about how essential they were.â
âThatâs enough,â Viserys said, and for a moment he sounded like the patriarch he was supposed to be, his voice carrying the weight of decades of authority. âWeâre not discussing this here. Weâre on holiday. There are children present.â
Everyone looked at the children. Aegon had abandoned his bread fort and was now trying to teach Viserys the younger how to balance a spoon on his nose. Neither of them had appeared to notice the adult tension crackling around them.
âIâm just saying,â Alicent said, her tone now one of wounded reasonableness, âthat it might be wise to keep the family informed of major business decisions. For the sake of transparency.â
âTransparency,â Daemon repeated. âRich, coming from someone whose father just happened to acquire a significant stake in the shipping company we use for all our Narrow routes. Purely coincidental, Iâm sure.â
Alicentâs face went stone cold. âMy fatherâs investments are his own business.â
âAre they? Because from where Iâm sitting, it looks an awful lot like a conflict of interest. Or would, if anyone were looking.â
âDaemon.â This time it was Viserys, his voice heavy with disappointment. âWe talked about this. Ottoâs investment was vetted by our ethics committee. Thereâs no conflict.â
âThe ethics committee that reports to you. And that you appointed. After Alicent suggested the members.â
The silence that followed was the kind that made you want to crawl under the table. Rhaenyra was studying her wine glass with intense fascination. Laenor had developed a sudden interest in the storm outside. Even the children seemed to sense something was wrong; little Viserys had stopped his spoon-balancing attempts and was looking at his father with wide, uncertain eyes.
You reached for your wine and took a very long drink.
âI think,â you said, into the silence, âthat we should perhaps change the subject.â
Alicentâs gaze snapped to you, and for a moment you saw something ugly there: resentment, perhaps, or suspicion. It was no secret that she considered you an extension of Daemon, his ally in whatever Valyrian power struggle was currently consuming the Targaryen family. The fact that youâd spent the last several months trying to extricate yourself from precisely that role was not something you could exactly explain over lamb and roasted vegetables.
âYouâre right, of course,â Alicent said, her smile returning like a curtain falling back into place. âI apologize. This was entirely inappropriate dinner conversation.â She touched Viserysâs arm with practiced tenderness. âIâm sorry, darling. I let my concerns get the better of me.â
Viserys patted her hand. âNo harm done. Daemon, weâll discuss the Ashford matter tomorrow. Privately.â
âCanât wait,â Daemon said, in a tone that suggested he would rather have oral surgery.
The rest of dinner passed in a haze of forced small talk and barely concealed hostility. By the time dessert arrived, some elaborate chocolate confection that you ate without savoring the taste, you had a headache building behind your eyes and a desperate longing to be anywhere else. Alone. Away from Targaryens and their endless, exhausting drama.
You caught Rhaenyraâs eye across the table, and she gave you a small, sympathetic smile. She, at least, understood. Sheâd grown up in this family. She knew what it was like to be caught in the crossfire.
But even Rhaenyraâs sympathy couldnât pierce the cold knot of resentment that had settled in your chest. Because this, this dinner, this family, this entire suffocating situation, was exactly why you wanted out. Not because Daemon was a bad man. Not because he didnât love you, in his way. But because being married to Daemon Targaryen meant being constantly, endlessly embroiled in Targaryen affairs.
The feuds, the power plays, the ancient grudges dressed up as business disagreements. Alicentâs machinations. Viserysâs willful blindness. The way the entire family seemed to orbit around some invisible sun of their own making, pulling everyone else into their gravitational field.
And Daemon, for all his talk of protecting you from it, was the worst of them all. He didnât just participate in the drama, he was the drama. He generated it, cultivated it, fed on it like some kind of chaos vampire. And now heâd dragged you back to the family estate, back into the heart of the storm, and expected you to justâŚendure it.
You couldnât. You wouldnât.
After dinner, you put the boys to bed in the adjoining room of the suite. Aegon went down with minimal protest, exhausted from a day of swimming and running and terrorizing his cousins with a water pistol. Viserys was fussier, clinging to you with sticky fingers and demanding a third bedtime story, but eventually even he succumbed to sleep, his small face slackening into that angelic expression that always made your heart clench.
You stood in the doorway between the childrenâs room and the master bedroom, watching them sleep. Aegon had kicked off his blankets already, sprawling across his bed like a starfish. Viserys was curled around the stuffed dragon he refused to sleep without, the one Daemon had bought him when he was born, its silver wings worn soft from years of clutching.
They were the reason youâd stayed this long. The reason youâd tried so hard. Every time youâd been ready to walk out the door, youâd looked at their faces and thought: I can endure a little longer. For them.
But you were starting to wonder if enduring was actually doing them any favors. If growing up in a house with parents who were slowly, silently falling apart was any better than growing up in two houses with parents who were, at least, honest about what they were.
Behind you, the door to the suite opened and closed. You didnât turn.
âTheyâre asleep,â you said.
âGood.â Daemonâs voice was quiet, stripped of its usual sardonic edge. âIâm sorry about dinner. Alicent has a talent for getting under my skin.â
You turned then, leaning against the doorframe. He was standing in the middle of the room, his jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos that snaked up his forearms, dragons, of course, and something in High Valyrian that heâd gotten in his twenties. His silver-gold hair was disheveled from running his hands through it, a nervous habit heâd never been able to break.
âShe gets under your skin because you let her,â you said. âYou seek her out. You look for fights.â
âSomeone has to. Viserys wonât.â
âItâs not your job to protect your brother from his own wife.â
âItâs not about protecting Viserys. Itâs about protecting the family. The company. Everything our forefathers built.â He moved closer, and you caught the scent of his cologne, woody and dark and infuriatingly familiar. âAlicent and her father are parasites. Theyâve been trying to sink their hooks into Targaryen holdings for years, and Viserys is too besotted to see it.â
âAnd what does that have to do with us? With our marriage?â
He stopped. âEverything. Youâre part of this family. What affects us affects you.â
âI donât want to be part of this family.â The words came out harder than you intended, but you didnât take them back. âThatâs the point, Daemon. I donât want to spend the rest of my life watching you wage war against your sister-in-law over business deals. I donât want to raise our sons in the middle of a battlefield. I want a normal life.â
âNormal.â He laughed, but there was no humor in it. âWhat does that even mean? A house in the suburbs? A nine-to-five job? Bake sales and PTA meetings? Thatâs not who we are. Itâs never been who we are.â
âMaybe itâs who I want to be.â
âNo.â He was close now, close enough to touch, his eyes burning into yours with that intensity that had first drawn you to him all those years ago. âYou think you want that, but youâd be bored within a month. Youâd miss this. Youâd miss me.â
âYou arrogant...â
âIâm not being arrogant. Iâm being honest. You married me knowing exactly who I was. You knew what my family was like. You knew what you were getting into.â His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. âYouâre just tired. Itâs been a long year. Let me take care of you.â
âI donât need you to take care of me. I need you to listen to me.â
âI am listening.â
âNo, youâre not. Youâre waiting for me to stop talking so you can tell me why Iâm wrong.â You pulled away from his touch, stepping back into the childrenâs room and pulling the door partially closed behind you. âIâve been trying to tell you for months. Iâm done, Daemon. I want a divorce.â
His expression shifted. The mask slipped, just for a moment, and you saw what lay beneath. Fear. Then it was gone, and he was the Daemon Targaryen everyone saw, the charming rogue, the untouchable prince.
âWeâre not discussing this tonight,â he said. âThe boys are right there.â
âTheyâre asleep.â
âI said, weâre not discussing this.â And then, softer, almost a plea: âNot tonight. Please.â
You had never heard Daemon Targaryen say please before. Not like that. Not as if the word had been dragged out of him against his will.
The storm was directly overhead now. Lightning flashed outside the window, bright enough to cast the room in stark white relief, and you started counting instinctively, one, two, and the thunder cracked so loud and so close that the windows rattled in their frames. Two seconds. Right on top of you.
In the childrenâs room, Viserys whimpered in his sleep. You slipped back inside to soothe him, stroking his silver-blond hair until he settled, your heart pounding from more than just the thunder.
When you returned to the master bedroom, Daemon was standing by the window, watching the storm with his hands in his pockets. He didnât turn when you approached.
âDo you remember our honeymoon?â he asked quietly. âThe villa in Myr. There was a storm like this on the third night. You said youâd never seen lightning so beautiful.â
You remembered. You remembered everything, the way the rain had hammered against the shutters, the way the candles had flickered every time the thunder rolled, the way Daemon had pulled you onto the bed and made love to you until the storm passed and the sky cleared and the stars came out like scattered diamonds. Youâd thought, lying in his arms afterward, that youâd never be happier than you were in that moment.
Youâd been right.
âThat was a long time ago,â you said.
âIt was eight years. Thatâs not so long.â
âIt feels like a lifetime.â
He turned then, and the look on his face made your breath catch. He looked older, suddenly. Tired. The weight of all those years pressing down on him, on both of you.
âI know Iâm difficult,â he said. âI know Iâm notâŚeasy. To be married to. I know I drive you up the wall.â A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. âYouâre not the first person to tell me that.â
âDaemon...â
âLet me finish. Please.â He took a breath. âI know Iâve beenâŚdistracted. The situation with Alicent, with the company, itâs consumed more of my attention than it should have. More than you deserved. I can see that now.â
âItâs not just the company. Itâs everything. The way you handle things. The way you handle me.â
âI know.â
âYou throw money at problems and expect them to go away. You treat my concerns like theyâre inconveniences to be managed. You make decisions that affect our entire family without consulting me.â The words were pouring out now, a dam finally breaking. âYou moved us to Dragonstone Manor without even asking me. You just...announced it. Like it was a done deal. Like my opinion didnât matter.â
âI was trying to protect you. All of you. Viserys was already changing, Alicent was already getting her hooks in, and I needed to be closer. I needed to be able to watch what was happening.â
âAnd what about what I needed? What about what our children needed? Aegon had just started at his school. He had friends. I had a life in London. And you ripped it all away because of your paranoia about your brotherâs wife.â
âIt wasnât paranoia. Everything I suspected has turned out to be true.â
âThatâs not the point!â You were almost shouting now, and you forced yourself to lower your voice, acutely aware of the children sleeping in the next room. âThe point is that you didnât talk to me. You never talk to me. You justâŚact. You decide whatâs best and you do it, and Iâm supposed to just fall in line.â
Daemon was silent for a long moment. The storm was moving past, the thunder growing more distant, the lightning flickering further away. Rain drummed steadily against the windows.
âYouâre right,â he said finally.
You blinked. âWhat?â
âYouâre right. I should have talked to you. About Dragonstone. About everything.â He ran his hand through his hair again, and this time the gesture seemed less nervous than helpless.
âIâm not asking you to stop being who you are. Iâm asking you to include me in it. To treat me like an equal instead of an accessory.â
âI know.â He moved toward you, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. âI know. And Iâll try. I swear to you, Iâll try.â He stopped in front of you, close enough to touch but not reaching out. âYou want to leave Dragonstone? Fine. Weâll leave. Weâll move back to London, or anywhere else you want to go. You want me to step back from the family business? Iâll step back. Viserys can handle his own mess. You want me to stop antagonizing Alicent at every family dinner?â A wry smile. âThat one might take some practice. But Iâll try.â
You wanted to believe him. You wanted it so badly it was a physical ache in your chest.
âIâve already spoken to a lawyer,â you whispered.
Something flickered in his eyes, but he didnât look away. âI know.â
âYou...how?â
âThe retainer on the new black card. Iâm not an idiot. You think I donât check the statements?â He shook his head. âIâve known for months. Iâve just beenâŚhoping youâd change your mind.â
âDaemonâŚâ
âIâm not going to make this easy for you.â His voice was steady but hollow. âIâm not going to sign papers and smile and pretend this is what I want. Itâs not. I want you. I want our family. I want to grow old with you and watch our sons become men. I want all of it. Every messy, frustrating, complicated part of it.â
âThen why didnât you say that? Instead of just...ignoring me and hoping Iâd give up?â
âBecause Iâm a coward.â He laughed shortly. âI was terrified. Terrified that if I actually talked about it, if I actually acknowledged what was happening, it would become real. And I couldnât bear that.â
Another flash of lightning, further away now. This time you didnât count the seconds.
âIâm not saying Iâll withdraw the petition,â you said. âIâm not saying everything is fixed. Thereâs too much damage for one conversation to repair.â
âI know.â
âBut IâllâŚthink about it. About whether thereâs something left worth saving.â
His eyes lit up. âThatâs all Iâm asking.â
The storm was dying now, the thunder reduced to a distant grumble, the rain softening to a gentle patter against the glass. The room felt different than it had an hour ago. As if the lightning had cleared something in the air.
Daemon reached for you, and this time you let him. His arms came around you, pulling you against his chest, and you felt the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. He was warm and solid and so familiar it made your eyes sting.
âCome to bed,â he murmured against your hair. âWe donât have to sort out everything tonight. JustâŚcome to bed.â
You should have said no. You should have slept in the childrenâs room, or on the sofa, or anywhere that wasnât wrapped in Daemonâs arms. But you were tired, and you were sad, and despite everything, you still loved him. You had never stopped loving him. That was the problem.
âFine,â you said. âBut Iâm still angry with you.â
âI know. You should be.â
âAnd Iâm still thinking about divorce.â
âI know that too.â He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. âLet me try to change your mind.â
The hotel bed was vast and soft, dressed in linen that smelled faintly of lavender. Daemon undressed with his usual careless grace, tossing his clothes onto a chair in a way that would have annoyed you if you hadnât been so tired. You changed into your nightgown in the bathroom, taking longer than necessary, staring at your reflection in the mirror and trying to decide if you were making a terrible mistake.
Your reflection stared back, offering no answers.
When you emerged, the room was lit only by the intermittent flashes of lightning and a single lamp on Daemonâs side of the bed. He was already under the covers, propped against the pillows, watching you with an expression you couldnât quite read.
âGet in,â he said. âYouâre letting the cold in.â
You climbed into bed beside him, keeping a careful distance between you. The sheets were cool against your skin. Outside, the storm was circling back, the thunder growing louder again, the lightning more frequent.
âRemember how we used to count?â Daemon asked quietly. âBetween the lightning and the thunder. When we were first married.â
âI still do it,â you admitted. âI canât help it. Itâs automatic.â
âMe too.â He turned onto his side, facing you. âWhat do you think? How far away is this one?â
As if on cue, lightning split the sky, illuminating the room in stark white. You counted, one, two, three, and the thunder rolled, a low, grumbling bass note that vibrated through the windows.
âThree seconds,â you said. âAbout more than half a mile.â
âI think itâs closer. Two seconds at most.â
âYouâre wrong.â
âWeâll see.â Another flash, brighter this time. One, two, and the crack was immediate, sharp and loud. Daemon smiled. âTwo seconds.â
âThat one doesnât count. It was a different bolt.â
âLightning moves. Itâs getting closer.â
âYouâre insufferable.â
âYou love me anyway.â
You didnât answer that. You couldnât. Because he was right, and you both knew it.
The next flash came almost immediately, and this time the thunder followed so fast it was nearly simultaneous, a tremendous crash that made you jump despite yourself. Daemonâs arm came around you, pulling you closer, and you didnât resist.
âRight on top of us,â he murmured. âThe hotel probably has lightning rods.â
âThatâs not as reassuring as you think it is.â
His hand was moving on your back now, slow circles that were probably meant to be soothing but were doing something else entirely. You could feel the heat of him through your nightgown, the familiar geography of his body, the way you fit against him.
âDaemon.â
âHmm?â
âThis doesnât mean Iâve forgiven you.â
âI know.â His lips brushed your forehead. âThis doesnât mean anything. Weâre just two people in a bed, waiting out a storm.â
âIs that what weâre doing?â
âFor now.â
His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your spine, and you shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. You knew what he was doing. Youâd always known. Daemon Targaryen had many weapons in his arsenal, and seduction was one of his favorites.
You should have stopped him. You should have pulled away and reinforced your boundaries and reminded him that nothing was resolved, that you were still furious, that sex wasnât going to paper over the cracks in your marriage.
But his hand was on your hip now, his thumb pressing into the hollow there with expert precision, and you were tired of fighting. Tired of being angry. Tired of the endless, exhausting distance between what you wanted and what you had.
âCome here,â he said, and it wasnât a command but a plea, raw and honest in a way Daemon rarely allowed himself to be.
You went.
His mouth found yours in the darkness, and it was like coming home after a long, lonely journey. Familiar and strange all at once, the taste of him, the way his hand cradled the back of your head. Youâd kissed him thousands of times, millions, maybe, but this kiss felt different. Desperate. As if he was trying to pour everything he couldnât say into the press of his lips.
âI love you,â he breathed against your mouth.
âDaemon...â
âLet me finish. Please.â He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes dark in the dim light. âI know Iâve failed you. I know Iâve been selfish and arrogant and dismissive. I know you have every right to walk out that door and never look back. But Iâm asking you, begging you, to give me a chance. Not because of the children. Not because of the family. Because of us. Because what we have is worth fighting for.â
Thunder crashed outside, shaking the windows, but neither of you flinched.
âIâm so tired of fighting,â you whispered.
âThen stop. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting this.â His hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadnât realized youâd shed. âLet me take care of you. Let me love you. Let me prove to you that we can be better than weâve been.â
âAnd if we canât? If we try and itâs still not enough?â
âThen Iâll let you go.â The words seemed to cost him a lot. âIf we try, really try, and youâre still unhappy, I wonât fight the divorce. Iâll sign whatever you put in front of me. Just please, let's strike a truce for now.â
Part 2: see here
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đ â đ ࣪ Ö´â INTRO TO SWEETLING READER !
sapphires sleepless đights in the library lilac and pinks moon crystals queen of love and beauty dragon jewelry horse riding rings lemon cakes furs voice of an angel dornish silks harpist the realms beauty
â ďš đď¸ ďš
Sweetling reader ! who is beloved by everyone, she truly is the peopleâs princess. She is renowned for her beauty and her kindness to the court and Smallfolk. Tales are told and songâs are sung about her all across the regions. The Red Keep etc., is constantly receiving ravens and scrolls asking for the princessâs hand in marriage. She truly has everyone wrapped around her finger; her light touches all over the regions.
Sweetling reader ! who struggles with dragon dreams. She tries to figure them out, but the harder she thinks about them, the more it takes a toll on her. When she does get a dragon dream, itâs extremely hard for her to fall back asleep. Sometimes they get so bad the maesters have to give her a sleeping tonic. She hates talking about them; it makes her feel drained and not herself, as if she wasnât in her body.
Sweetling reader ! whoâs first love was her lady in waiting, Lady Arsa Dustin, a brown-haired and brown-eyed beauty who was 2 years older than the princess. She introduced sweetling into a lot of things; she helped her learn how to command court with her softness and shyness, and how to use it to manipulate others. Arsa truly was Sweetlingâs safe place; she would stay up and help her calm down from her dragon dreams. But she sadly had to be sent back to her household in the north to be wed, breaking both of their hearts.
Sweetling reader ! who is spoiled with the prettiest dresses, the finest jewelry, and the most lavish silks and accessories. She is always brought gifts by people. Sheâs always so grateful and kind about it, not bratty or entitled. She always looks her best and moves with grace and composure. The perfect princess. She loves helping the smallfolk when she can, advocating for them and trying to find ways for their livelihood to improve. When she goes to the markets, she always pays extra for the things she buys and spends extra time at the orphanages.
Sweetling reader ! who tries to hide it, but sheâs a very emotional and sensitive person, which can lead her to be dramatic at times. As she got older, the better she handled it, but sometimes it still gets her. When she is too stressed or upset, she likes to train with her sword and bow to let off some steam. She is skilled at both but prefers her bow. If she is too emotional, she will play her harp.
đ˛đ˘ đžf she was in house of the dragon...
Sweetling reader ! who is the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Born a year after her older twin brothers Jacaerys and Aerion. (Or just a year after Jace if we are following the actual hotd plot) She is such a mamaâs girl, was always at her side and following her around, hiding behind her skirts and holding her hand. She would have her Maids do her hair like her momâs. She was also very close with laenor, she loved to listen to his tales, he loved to read stories to her before bed.
Sweetling reader ! who is the rider of silverwing, she didnât seek out to claim her, silverwing was the one to come to her when the princess was age 10. she was with daemon when silverwing came to her, and ever since then the two of them have had an inseparable bond. They spend so much time together, they try to go on flights every day. She loves to sit next to Silverwing and read a book, the dragon curling around her protectively. Silverwing feels her emotions strongly, itâs written that their connection is the strongest a Targaryen and dragon has ever been. They are one.
Sweetling reader ! who was the closest to helaena growing up. She had a fear of bugs and crawlers but she would go along with helaena, helping her collect them, helaena smiling at her dramatics when she touched them. They also had many sleepovers, finding comfort in each other when they had their dragon dreams. They also just understood each other better than anyone else can. They loved to match dresses and hair styles, having tea parties and walking the palace with their arms looped or spending hours under the trees reading. They would send each other letters as much as they could when she left to dragonstone. sweetling loves to send her pressed flowers.
Sweetling reader ! who has been the object of Aemondâs obsession since they were little. she was always so kind to him, and they bonded over not having a dragon of their own. Aemondâs obsession with her only grew stronger when he overheard a betrothal offer between the two of them, but the obsession turned unhealthy after the incident with him losing his eye. He wants her all to himself.
đ˛đ˘ đžf she was in a knight of the seven kingdoms...
Sweetling reader ! who is the eldest daughter of Maekar Targaryen. Born a year after her older brother Aerion. As the eldest daughter, sheâs really taken the responsibility of taking care of her siblings, sometimes to a point where sheâs not getting enough care herself. Sheâs a big daddyâs girl; as a child, she would follow him around and hide behind his legs, holding onto his pinkie. She is very close with her father; they are each otherâs safe place.
Sweetling reader ! who was sent to stay with her uncle Baelor for several years, and she grew up very close with him and her cousins Valarr and Matarys. Maekar was worried for his daughter, so he sent her to his brother, he knew Baelor would keep her safe and help her grow without being under the influence of her elder brothers.
Sweetling reader ! who has been having the same recurring dream since she can remember. It always starts with her walking through a dark cave, her dress dirty and ripped, and her hands trembling as she searched through the cave passages, falling to her knees with a gasp when a loud, deafening roar shakes the cave. But she didnât stop searching; she kept going, getting more panicked. The dream always ended with a large silver blue dragon appearing in front of her, stopping her from leaving through the cave entrance. The dragon pressed its snout to her chest with a hot breath that would have her waking up with a loud gasp.
đ˛đ˘ đžf she was in game of thrones...
Sweetling reader ! who is the younger sister of Daenarys Targaryen. She was separated from her siblings when she was little. A trusted guard had taken her to the north; all she had was her blanket and a silver dragon egg. She grew up under the protection of the Starks and the North, becoming one of them. The north loves her, calling her their own princess and delicate winter flower. The beauty of the north. Ned thinks of her as his own daughter, raising her as his own but being truthful about who she is and where she came from. The Starks and people of the North are all very protective of her.
Sweetling reader ! who âran awayâ from Winterfell at the age of 14 after an argument with Theon and Robb at breakfast. Robb noticed something was wrong with her, and she mentioned her dragon dream and how she felt something was wrong, and Theon made fun of her, calling her crazy. She then yelled at them that sheâs not crazy and stormed off. She went to her chambers and packed a satchel, her brush, some jewelry, and her dragon egg. She then snuck off on a horse and headed to the woods. She rode for a while, crying and singing to herself. She came across an injured deer and got off the horse to help it, but the horse ran off when it got spooked. Leaving her in the cold woods with an injured deer and only her satchel she had on. The deer ended up dying, making her cry and try to find her way back, but ending up getting even more lost. She found a hot spring and ended up falling asleep next to it. She woke up to the feeling of her satchel moving and opened it to see her dragon egg cracking open. It was only late into the night when Ned and Jory found her, the smallest little campfire lit next to her curled-up body, holding a silver hatchling close to her chest.
Sweetling reader ! who only got to meet her sister several years later when Daenerys came to the north to find her and strengthen her alliance with the north before she rightfully and successfully claimed the Iron Throne. The two of them became instantly close, making up for the years they unfairly lost. She stayed safely in the north until Daenerys sent for her, letting her know that itâs finally safe to be with her. When she did arrive at the Red Keep, her sister named her as her heir⌠She can also be requested with the original Game of Thrones plot.
đ â đ ࣪ Ö´â SWEETLING WORKS !
⡠commonly paired with twins Jace & Aerion for my au here !
⡠can be paired with anyone from asoiaf
âŕż ââ continue on to myâŚmain masterlist ââ
roro's note. she is genuinely my favorite reader of mine , like I am so in love with her and I hope you guys are as well 𼚠pls pls fill my inbox with thoughts for her , this is a interactive reader so your guyâs thoughts, ideas, and opinions are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !! đ¤
{Daemon Targaryen x f!Reader}
You find yourself held for ransom by a minor lord and his idiot son, and the only thing worse than your current situation is the knowledge that your husband probably won't even notice you're gone...
⥠dragon daddy is back on my screen and so I'm back writing ~xo âĄ
8.4k words - Warnings: smuttt, kidnapping, blood and gore, captivity, threats of sexual assault {not carried out}, cliche heroic rescue, descriptions of violence, daemon being daemon, caraxes lil squeaks, && dragon riding in more ways than one...
You probably shouldn't have wandered off, but you were bored. The Red Keep was dreadful and you had long since run out of places to explore. So you took a secret little stroll outside and hoped you would be back before anyone noticed. Your husband certainly wasn't going to miss you, he was too busy whoring and gambling off in some far distant city. Doing whatever deplorable thing suited his fancy that day.
And now you were sitting at a dingy table, in a castle that was so run down it was more like a ruin, being held for ransom by a bunch of morons. They seemed to think they were getting some great prize by holding you hostage. As if your husband would ever lift a finger to get you back.
The chains around your wrists and ankles were heavy and uncomfortable, your skin chafing from their weight. It was difficult to lift your goblet of wine to your lips, your hand shaking from the effort.
"Drink up, Princess." Lord Byrch said from across the table, chewing on a turkey leg with the sort of vile gluttony that would make even a pig nauseous. "I won't have the Prince thinking I've mistreated you."
Your hair was tangled and your dress torn and dirty, your face bruised and bloody from the initial fight. You hadn't let them take you easily, and you were quite proud of the fact that you had managed to scratch Lord Byrch's son right across his ugly face.
You raised your goblet towards him, lifting it as high as you could, keeping your eyes locked on his before you poured it all over the floor. He watched you in silence, chewing, chewing, chewing, until a slow smile spread across his lips.
"Fiery." He commented and you narrowed your eyes, "I see why the Prince married you."
He married me because his brother and my father told him he had to. You didn't say it out loud. You wouldn't give Byrch the satisfaction of hearing your marriage reduced to its ugly, political truth. Instead, you leaned back in your chair as far as the chains would allow and let your lips curl into something cruel.
"My husband will come for me," you said, your voice surprisingly steady and confident. "And when he does, he will kill every last one of you. He'll feed your entrails to his dragon and string up what remains as a warning to any other fool who thinks they can touch what belongs to him."
Inside you only had doubts. Will he, though?
You remembered how excited you had been when the betrothal was announced. The Rogue Prince. The most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms, and he was to be yours. You used to dream of him sweeping you off your feet, of dragon rides and passionate nights, of a love story that would make the bards weep. You thought of your wedding night, the way his body had felt, so warm and firm, pressing you into the bed. How he had been so gentle with you, so tender. How he had called you wife and kissed your mouth as if he were trying to drink you down and drown in you.Â
You actually thought, for a brief, beautiful moment, that the fairy tale was real. But a year of marriage had shown you a very different side of your husband. One that was cruel and cold. One that cared only for himself.
But Byrch didn't know that, so you were satisfied when a flash of fear crossed his features and he put that bloody turkey leg down.
"Father."
Byrch's son strode in behind you, you looked over your shoulder to see the scratch you gave him still looking a little swollen, raw, and definitely not healing wellâŚYou quickly turned to face his father again before he could see you smile. But it didn't matter, the sonâs hand came down hard across the back of your head. The force of the blow made stars burst across your vision, a cry tearing from your throat.
The son chuckled as he walked past you and towards his father, clapping a hand on the back of his own chair. "What have you learned?" Lord Byrch asked, gesturing for him to sit.
"King Viserys has responded to our ransom demand. He's willing to pay. Fifty thousand gold, just as we asked. He's sending envoys to negotiate the exchange."
Your stomach dropped.
Viserys. Not Daemon. Of course.
"Your good-brother is a reasonable man," Byrch said, taking another bite of his turkey leg. "He understands that gold is cheaper than blood... I knew Daemon wouldn't risk open war with his brother over a woman." He tilted his head, enjoying your silence. "You see, my lady? Your husband is on a leash, just as I predicted."
The son's smirk widened. "From what I hear, the Prince has been in Pentos this past week."
Pentos. Fucking Pentos. Of course he was in fucking Pentos. Probably so deep in his cups he forgot his own name let alone yours.
Some small, foolish part of you had hoped. But you knew better, you had always known better. It was always going to be Viserys, probably by the urging of your father... And of course the reputation of the Targaryen name. It was his duty to try and bring you back. He would pay, and send the envoys. Perhaps you would get to wear some of the better royal jewels at the next public event, a consolation prize for your suffering.
Lord Byrch waved a hand. "Take her back to her cell. No point letting her sour the wine."
The son grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into the bruises already blooming there, hauling you to your feet. You stumbled on the chains, but he didn't slow. He dragged you down a cold stone corridor with a rough hand, until he reached the heavy wooden door of your cell.
He shoved you inside and you hit the damp stone floor hard, the impact jarring through your knees and wrists, the chains clinking loudly. The door didn't close behind you, instead a shadow fell over you, the son's boots crossing the threshold, his foot landing dangerously close to your head.
"I'd watch that mouth, if I were you." He crouched down and grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze upward. His thumb pressed into the bruise on your jaw, and you bit back a hiss. "I'm sure the gold is coming," he murmured, almost thoughtfully. "But if it doesn't..." He smiled. "Father said I get to fuck you first. Might even scratch up your pretty face to match mine. Would you like that?"
Your stomach turned to ice at his words, but you didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. Instead you held his gaze, you wouldn't look away. Wouldn't give him an inch of your fear.
He squeezed your jaw tight enough that tears welled in the corners of your eyes. "No? You don't look so pretty anymore, anyway. Not much a man would want."
He shoved your head down, pushing you into the ground before turning and walking out. The lock clicked heavily in the quiet.
You lay there for a long moment, face pressed into the floor, the taste of blood and dirt on your tongue. The son's words echoed in your mind and your whole body began to shake.
Slowly, you pushed yourself up and leaned against the wall. Your wrists were raw. Your head throbbed. And somewhere deep in your chest, a sob was building.
Daemon wasn't coming. Daemon was in Pentos, drunk, probably with a whore on each arm. And these men were going to-
You pressed your palms to your eyes and bit down on your lip until you tasted copper. You couldn't cry. You wouldn't. You were stronger than that.
But the tears came anyway, hot and humiliating, the kind you hadn't cried since you were a girl. You curled in on yourself, forehead to your knees, and let them fall. You cried for the girl who had dreamed of a gallant dragon prince. You cried for the wife who had once reached for her husband in the dark and found only cold sheets. You cried because he had been gentle once, and you had been stupid enough to believe it meant something.
He's not coming.
The thought was a cold stone in your gut.
He's not coming. He was never going to come.
Your honor and safety would be traded for gold and Daemon Targaryen would continue to forget he ever had a wife at all.
You cried until your throat was raw and your eyes burned, until you were shivering and weak.
Finally, you took a shaky breath and looked up at the small, barred window. The sky was darkening, the sun sinking beyond the distant hills. You were exhausted, the weight of your chains a terrible burden, your eyes drooping and heavy.
Sleep took you before you could think to fight it. Your head fell back against the stone.
You didn't see the small black dot that appeared on the horizon. So small one might mistake it for a distant bird. But it grew. Larger. Faster. Until the beating of wings echoed through the walls.
And the screams began.
Flames. Everywhere. But they didn't burn. They cradled you, lapped at your skin like warm water. Is this what dying feels like? It wasn't so bad. Not as bad as what Byrch's son had promised.
Screams.
You stirred. The dream flickered.
Screams. Real ones.
Your eyes cracked open. Smoke stung your throat. The cell was awash in orange light. Outside the small window, the world was nothing but flame. The castle was on fire.
And then you heard it. A sound you would know anywhere; a long, stretched-out shriek that was half roar and half scream, and yet all dragon.
Caraxes.
Something like relief washed through you, even as your heart beat faster. If the castle was on fire and Caraxes was outside, then that could only mean-
Footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried.
You scrambled backward, pressing yourself against the far wall. The lock scraped, the mechanism groaning, and you held your breath as the door swung open.
Byrch's son filled the frame. His face was streaked with soot and blood, his eyes wild. The smug cruelty from before was gone, burned away by fear. Fear of dragonfire and its vicious rider.
"You-" His voice was high and shaky as he grabbed a fistful of your tangled hair, yanking you to your feet. "You're coming with me. Now. H-he'll gut me if he finds me, but I'll make sure you-"
His words stopped, because the tip of a blade punched through the front of his throat.
He released you. Stumbled. His hands flew to his neck, but the blood was already pouring, too fast, too much, and his eyes went wide. Confused. Then dim. Then he collapsed at your feet. The last thing he ever heard was you screaming at the sight of his throat gaping open.Â
You stood there, shaking, staring down at the body in shock. He had been threatening you a heartbeat ago. Now he was just meat.
And then you saw him.
Daemon stood in the threshold, his dark armor was slick with crimson, his face streaked with ash. His pale hair was braided and he held a dagger in one hand, blood dripping from its edge.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Your gaze locked. The crackle of flames and distant screams filled the silence.
"Wife."
He sheathed the dagger and crossed to you in three quick strides. You couldn't speak, couldn't move, but you let him take your face in his hands. His fingers were gentle as he tilted your chin this way and that, inspecting the cuts and bruises, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he did.
You lifted your wrists to show him the heavy shackles. He stepped back and unsheathed his sword and brought it down upon the chains. They fell from your limbs and clattered to the ground.
"I thought you were in Pentos," you managed, your voice hoarse and raw.
He tilted his head. "Why would I be in Pentos?"
"They told me-"
He chuckled, low and humorless, and reached up to push a loose lock of hair from your face. "Pentos?"
You opened your mouth to yell at him. To demand he tell you where he'd been and why you'd spent days believing he'd abandoned you. But a shout echoed from the corridor, followed by the clash of steel.
Daemon's hand found your wrist. "Stay behind me."
He pulled you through the doorway, and the corridor was chaos. Smoke billowed, thick and choking. Two of Byrch's guards rounded the corner, swords drawn, their faces twisted with panic as they laid eyes on your husband.
Daemon moved before you could breathe.
He met the first guard head-on, his sword singing as it caught the man's blade, disarming him in a single twisting motion. The second guard lunged, aiming for Daemon's exposed side, but Daemon spun, driving his elbow into the man's face, then burying his blade in his chest before he could fall.
The first guard tried to scramble for his fallen blade, but Daemon's boot came down on his wrist, and the crack of bone made you feel sick. Then Daemon swung and the guard's head rolled away.
It took seconds. Less.
"Come." He didn't look back, just reached out his arm for you to grab.
There were three more guards in the next passage. Daemon didn't slow. He shoved you backwards, his body a wall between you and the attackers, and then he struck them like a viper. His blade was a blur. Parrying, slashing, driving through armor like it was parchment. One man fell with a gurgle. Another dropped his sword and tried to run; Daemon's dagger found the back of his head. The third lunged, aiming for you, and Daemon caught him by the throat as he tried to rush past him, lifting him off the ground, driving his sword through the man's gut before letting him crumple.
The corridor was slick with blood. Daemon's chest heaved as he retrieved his dagger from the guards head. Then he stalked towards the exit.
"Keep moving."
You stumbled after him, past bodies, past flames licking at tapestries and wooden beams. The heat was suffocating, but Daemon's pace was relentless. He kicked open a side door and more guards spilled out and Daemon carved through them without hesitation.Â
And then he pulled you onward.
Finally, the great doors to the courtyard loomed ahead. Daemon didn't slow. He raised his boot and kicked them open.
The smell outside hit you like a wall. Fire raged across the courtyard walls, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh.Â
But the fighting was over.
Byrch's men were on their knees.
Dozens of them. Lines of them, forced onto the cobblestones with gold cloaks behind them, swords at their throats. Targaryen household guards stood at attention, their armor black and red, their faces hard and grim. And above it all, perched on the broken walls like a god of old, was Caraxes. His long neck craned toward the sky, and when he opened his maw, a plume of flame burst forth.
The heat made the air shimmer. Byrch's men flinched. Some wept.
Daemon walked you through them.
His hand wrapped around yours, and he led you past the kneeling men with a slow, deliberate stride. He wanted them to see. He wanted them to know. That the prince's wife was alive. That he had come for her. That this wreckage, this blood, this brutality; was the price of touching what belonged to him.
Your bare feet left bloody prints on the stone. Your dress was torn, your hair tangled, your face bruised. But you walked with your chin held high, because Daemon was holding your hand, and you would not let these men see you break.
At the center of the courtyard, Byrch knelt alone. His face was pale, streaked with sweat and ash, and his hands were bound behind him. Two gold cloaks held him in place.
"Byrch."
Your husband's voice was like silk, calm and smooth, his arm came around your waist and pulled you against his side. He kissed your temple gently before letting you go, gently guiding you to a waiting gold cloak. The guard wrapped you in a clean cloak, the targaryen sigil stitched into the fine material. It struck you in that moment, that this was all for you. His men. His dragon. The blood on his hands. Every corpse in this courtyard was a gift laid at your feet.
The lord's head snapped up. His eyes darted to you, then back to Daemon. "Mercy, my Prince. Please. You've already taken everything. Mercy."
Daemon cocked his head. "Everything?"
"Mercy," Byrch begged again. "I beg you-"
"Begging," Daemon said, chuckling to himself before he placed the point of his blade against Byrch's throat.Â
Byrch's eyes were wide, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
Daemon leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Why should I show you mercy?"
"Because I- because-"
"What's done is done," Daemon smiled, and it was the cruellest thing you'd ever seen.Â
Then he drew his sword back. And plunged it straight down Byrch's throat.
The gurgle was wet, horrible. Daemon pushed the blade deeper, through flesh and bone, until the tip emerged from the back of Byrch's neck. He held it there for a long moment, staring into the lord's empty eyes, before he wrenched the sword free.
Byrch's body slumped. Daemon wiped the blade clean on the dead man's clothes.
Byrch's remaining men cried out. Some begging, some cursing, a few trying to rise. The gold cloaks drove them back down to their knees.
Daemon looked at the prisoners, then at his men. He nodded once.
A flash of steel. A spray of blood. And without a single word, one by one, the kneeling men fell.
You watched, frozen, as the courtyard became a slaughterhouse. It was over in moments. Dozens of bodies lay sprawled across the cobblestones, their blood pooling together, running in dark rivulets between the cracks.
Daemon turned to you.
He crossed the distance to you in an instant, his hand finding yours again. His fingers were slick with blood, but you didn't pull away. He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.Â
"Burn it," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I want no trace left of this place. Take everything of value and bring it to Dragonstone."
"Yes, my Prince." His men shouted out in unison.
He pulled you away, past the bodies and towards where Caraxes waited. And that's when you saw the way he was favoring his right leg, barely, but you saw it.
"You're hurt," you breathed.
He didn't slow. Didn't respond. But you knew he heard you.
You wanted to argue, to grab his arm and make him stop; but then you were at Caraxes's side, and the dragon's heat washed over you, and your words died in your throat.
A sudden base instinct to flee gripped you, the sight of the great red dragon enough to freeze your limbs. But Daemon's grip was firm, his pace steady, and before you could process what was happening, he was lifting you up onto the dragon's back.
He climbed up behind you, a grunt escaping him as he swung his leg over. His arms came around your waist, and you felt the warmth of him, solid and real.
"Sovès" Daemon yelled.
Caraxes roared, a long, high sound, and lifted his wings. For a brief, terrifying moment, you were weightless.
And then the dragon launched itself into the air.
You didn't scream, didn't even cry out. You couldn't. Your mind was still catching up, your thoughts a jumble. Your mouth fell open, and your hands grasped at the saddle, your fingers digging in so hard your knuckles turned white.
The air rushed past, and you looked down, and the sight made you dizzy. The castle shrank beneath you, the bodies, the smoke, the flame. Everything was so small. The world was vast and the sky was endless and you were soaring.
A laugh bubbled up, the thrill of it filling your lungs. Then tears. Tears because you were safe and Daemon had come for you and it wasn't a dream and your chest was so tight and you were gasping for air-
You leaned back against your husband and sobbed, tears streaking down your cheeks, the sound swallowed by the wind.
Daemon's arms tightened around you, and the feeling of him there, his heartbeat against your spine, made you cry harder.
"PaghÄ" he whispered against your ear, the word rumbling through his chest. You didn't know Valyrian, but the tone was clear.
It was alright.
You were safe.
At first you thought you were going to Dragonstone, you could smell the salt in the air, the tang of the sea.
But no, Caraxes moved south, along the coast leading to Dorne. Daemon kept a firm grip on the reins, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He was silent.
Your sobs faded as you flew over the waves, and you settled in, watching the water, and the horizon, the sky painted in shades of red, orange and purple as the sun sank beyond the distant peaks.
Finally, Caraxes began to descend. He landed gracefully near a stone tower that looked out over the ocean, his body shuddering and his claws digging deep into the ground.
Your heart was still beating wildly, and you were grateful when Daemon slid down first and offered his hand. You took it, his warm touch bringing you back to earth, and let him guide you down.
Caraxes snorted and shook his wings, the gust of wind nearly knocking you off your feet. Daemon chuckled, pulling you against his side as the dragon's tail swished and he launched himself into the air, his huge wings beating so hard that dust billowed.
"Where are we?" you asked.
"A place I keep," he said, already moving past you toward the tower door.
You followed, watching the way he favored his right leg, the slight hitch in his stride he was trying to hide. He shouldered open the door and held it open, gesturing for you to enter.
The tower was not what you expected. Not the cold, damp ruin it looked to be from the outside. It was well furnished, with a large bed in the corner piled high with furs and pillows, a table bearing wine, bread wrapped in cloth, a basin of clean water. The hearth was cold, but fresh wood was laid and waiting.
This wasn't some abandoned hole he used for hunting. This was meant for something far more intimate.
"Is this where you bring your whores?" You didn't mean to say it, but the words escaped anyway, the bitterness in them a surprise.
"Why would I do that?" He crossed the room and grabbed a flagon, filling a cup with wine.
"Because they're easier than a wife," you snapped.
He laughed, and you bristled, but didn't respond. You watched him let out a quiet groan of pain as he knelt in front of the fire. It made something twist in your chest. He grabbed the wood and flint, struck a spark, and coaxed the flames to life. You watched as the flames licked up the dry wood, slowly consuming it.
"Your leg," you said, when he didn't speak.
"It's fine."
"No, it isn't."
He didn't answer. He was staring into the flames.
"Daemon."
He glanced over his shoulder at you, and then rose to his full height, turning to face you fully. He looked tired. Dark shadows hung under his eyes , and there was a pallor to his skin beneath the ash and blood. You hadn't noticed it before, when you'd seen him in the castle. He must have been riding all day, flying, killing...and he hadn't stopped. Not for rest, not for food, not until he had you back.
"I'll live," he said. "Sit."
You stayed standing. "Let me at least help you with your armor."
His lips twitched, but he nodded, sitting down heavily next to the table. You crossed to him, your hands reaching for the buckles of his pauldrons before you could second-guess yourself. He watched you, silent, his eyes tracking your movements as you worked the leather straps free.
The first piece of armor clattered to the floor. Then the second. Each buckle you loosened revealed more of him. The sweat-dampened tunic beneath, the way his shoulders sagged slightly without the weight of the steel.
"Did they hurt you badly?" he asked, his voice a soft rasp.
"They wanted to," you replied. "They said a lot of things."
You weren't sure why you told him. Perhaps because you wanted him to know what had happened. What might have happened if he hadn't come. Or maybe you simply needed to say it. To put the words into the air.
He reached up to where your hand was struggling with a strap at the back of his shoulder. He wrapped his fingers around yours, stilling them for just a moment before he helped you work the rest of the buckles free.
"I should have killed them slower."
"And more creatively." You smiled despite yourself.
He returned the smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
You stepped back as he rose and began stripping the rest of his armor. Greaves, gauntlets, bracers, until finally he was free. His white underclothes were stained red, blood seeping from the wound in his thigh.
"That needs stitching."
"I'm not some green knight who needs tending." He pulled a dagger from his belt and cut the fabric away, revealing a jagged cut down the outside of his thigh, the edges dark with blood. "See? It's not deep. It'll heal."
"Fine." You threw up your hands and turned away, anger simmering beneath your skin.
You could hear him moving, and you imagined him grabbing his sword and leaving. You wouldn't care. Let him leave. Let him go fly off wherever the hell he pleased.
But he didn't. Instead, his hands came around your waist, his warm breath tickling the shell of your ear.
"PaghÄ," he whispered, his voice low and soothing.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," he murmured, kissing your shoulder gently, "breathe."
"Breathe," you repeated.
"Aye, you're shaking."
You hadn't noticed, not until his hands slid over yours and took hold, his chest warm against your back. He brought one of your hands to his mouth, pressing his lips to your knuckles, looking over the raw flesh around your wrists.
"You look to be the one who needs tending," he said.
"I'm fine," you echoed his own words.
"Not yet." He led you over to the basin and guided you to sit on the bed, and then he dipped a cloth into the water, and began to clean the wounds.
His touch was gentle, the water soothing. You watched him in silence, your gaze tracing the line of his brow, the sharp angles of his face. Flashes of him fighting Byrch's men filled your mind. You'd never seen a man kill before.
"Why did you come for me?" you asked.
He paused, before dripping the cloth into the bowl.
"Because you're my wife."
"Am I?" You couldn't keep the bitterness from your voice.
"Do you think I'd have gone through the trouble otherwise?"
You didn't know what to say to that.
He finished cleaning the last of the wounds, then wrapped a bandage around each wrist, the feeling of his fingers on your skin sending a shiver through you.
"It doesn't mean anything," you said. "Being your wife."
"Make meaning then."
He rose and crossed the room, his movements stiff, and filled another cup with wine. He drank it quickly, then refilled the cup and came back to where you sat.
"Drink."
You took the cup, and sipped. The wine was rich and sweet, and after a few swallows you felt warm. You let out a slow breath and met his gaze.
"I didn't think you would come."
He said nothing.
"They told me Viserys was to pay a ransom," you went on. "I thought-"
"I'd let my brother handle the responsibility of saving my wife?" He smirked.
You looked away. The room was warm now, the fire roaring and the heat suffocating. You rose and went to the door, opening it, and the cool air rushed over you, making you sigh.
The sun was nearly gone, the stars bright in the sky, and the waves lapped gently against the cliffs below. It was beautiful, and quiet. It made the fear of the past days feel distant.
"If I matter so much, why have I not seen you since our wedding night?" You kept your gaze on the horizon, too afraid to look at him, all the pent up emotions you'd held inside threatening to spill over.Â
He let out a quiet laugh, a short, derisive sound, and rose, coming to stand beside you. He leaned against the door frame and looked out at the night sky.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked.
"The truth."
"You won't like it."
"That doesn't change it." You finally turned to look at him, a sudden surge of anger rising.Â
"I don't know how to be a husband." He said simply, his jaw tense. "I didn't want a wife. I didn't choose this. So, what should I have done? Made empty promises? Made you think you were special? That I was besotted? What was the point?"Â
He pushed off the doorframe and walked down the steps, and you stood frozen, staring at his back.
"You are right," he called over his shoulder. "This is where I bring my whores."
He kept walking. Away from the tower, down the path towards the shore.
Your heart was pounding. Anger, pain, frustration, relief; they were all warring inside you, and it made your head spin. Your feet carried you after him, the grass soft beneath them, the path winding down to the sand.
By the time you reached the beach, he had already stopped at the water's edge. He didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge you. He just reached for the hem of his tunic and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric stained dark with blood and ash. His boots followed, then his breeches, until he stood bare in the moonlight, the waves lapping at his feet.
He walked into the sea without a word.
You stood frozen on the sand, watching him wade deeper until the water reached his waist. He stopped there, facing the horizon, letting the surf wash over him. The cold didn't seem to bother him, or if it did, he didn't show it. He just stood there, washing the gore from his body.
You should have let him be. Should have turned around and gone back to the tower, wrapped yourself in furs, and waited for him to return... or not return. But something in you refused to let him walk away again.
You reached back and worked loose the ties of your dress, letting the fabric pool at your feet, the night air raising goosebumps across your bare skin. The shift followed a moment later.
The cold hit you like a slap as you stepped into the surf, the water shocking and sharp against your cuts. You hissed through your teeth but kept going, wading out until you were beside him, the water lapping just below your ribs. He still didn't turn, but you saw his jaw tighten.
The waves rolled in, cold and rhythmic, pulling at your legs. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just the sound of the sea and the distant cry of gulls.
"What was your plan?" you asked finally. "To come, rescue me, and then ignore me again? Go back to drinking, fighting and whoring?"
"Something like that."
You crossed your arms over your chest, though it did little to ward off the cold. You weren't sure what to say. He had given you no false promises, no declaration of love. But your wedding night was etched in your mind, a memory you couldn't let go.
"Then why did you treat me so kindly on our wedding night? Why were you..." You trailed off, your face suddenly warm despite the cold.
He laughed, a short, loud bark that echoed across the water. "Would you rather I have hurt you? Is that what you're asking?"
"No!" You scowled, feeling foolish. "I mean...you were gentle."
He finally turned to face you, the moonlight catching the sharp lines of his face. "What would you have preferred? A whore's treatment?"
"Shut up."
He laughed again, a rich, deep sound that made your stomach flip. His hand came up, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek.
"If it makes you feel better, my wife," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I enjoyed our wedding night very much." He shifted closer, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you against the warmth of his chest. "Maybe I'll enjoy it again tonight."
You shoved his shoulders, but you were smiling despite yourself. "I don't even like you."
"I just saved your life. I'd say you should start liking me."
"You are a terrible husband."
"I'm the worst." He kissed your jaw, his mouth moving along the line of your neck, his breath warm against your cold skin. "Tell me how terrible."
You let him kiss along your skin, a soft sigh escaping.
"You're selfish."
"And?"
"A cheater."
"Keep going."
"Infuriating."
"More."
"Unkind."
"Very."
He tilted your chin up, and you let him, his lips were a breath from yours, and then you turned your face away. Not hard. Just away.
He went still. The water lapped against your ribs. You felt his breath on your cheek, unsteady. His hand didn't leave your jaw, but he didn't force you back.
"So what am I, then? Just another whore you'll leave in the morning?" you asked, the question quiet in the night. You weren't sure you wanted an answer. You were already regretting the words. They made you feel weak, desperate. But they were the truth.
He slowly let go of your chin, letting his hand drop back into the water. He looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw something there in the moonlight, something raw and unguarded.
"A cage," he said. "My brother. Your father. This marriage."
He paused, then reached up, his thumb brushing over the bruise on your cheekbone. "And you," he added, softly. "It was-" He broke off, looking away across the water. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, almost angry. "It was good. And I didn't want it to be."
You stared at him.
He turned back to you, and his eyes were dark, unreadable. "I don't get given things."
"Well this might surprise you," you said, a sudden surge of boldness washing over you. "But I am not a thing."
He looked at you for a long moment, then let out a short, sharp laugh. "I'm aware." His gaze dropped to your lips. "That's the problem."
"You've never once asked me what I want."
He tilted his head. "What do you want?"
You didn't know what to say, your mind was racing. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you were scared to say it. Scared he'd laugh, or worse, agree. But you were tired of being scared. And you were standing naked in the sea with your husband who had just slaughtered a castle for you.
"I want a husband who doesn't ignore me," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "One who maybe, occasionally, eats dinner with me. I want to not feel so alone in my own chambers."
You paused, gathering your courage. "And I... I want you to stop being a stranger to me."
"Anything else?" he asked, and you couldn't tell if he was mocking you.
You took a shaky breath. "I don't know... I didn't hate that ride on Caraxes... It was thrilling."
A slow, genuine smile spread across his lips. "No?"
You shook your head, a small smile of your own. "Perhaps the occasional dragon ride."
"I can arrange that," he said, pulling you close again. His hands were on your waist, and yours rested on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. "Is that all, wife?"
"I'm freezing," you admitted, shivering now as the cold seeped into your bones.
He let out a soft chuckle, his arms wrapping around you, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and he started wading back to the shore.
You should have protested. You should have told him to put you down, that he was still wounded, that you could walk. But his eyes were fixed on yours, and you were in his arms, and all you could think was how safe he made you feel.
"Better?" he asked, his mouth close to your ear.
"Getting warmer," you murmured.
He carried you back up the path, into the warmth of the tower, and set you gently on the bed. The furs were soft, and you sighed, letting your body sink into them. A real bed. Clean. Safe. The feeling was so overwhelming that for a moment you just lay there, eyes closed, breathing.
When you opened them, Daemon was kneeling by the hearth, feeding logs to the fire. You watched him through the haze of your exhaustion. The broad plane of his back, the way the firelight caught the edges of old scars, the careful way he stacked the wood.
He rose, and you saw him favor his right leg again. A hitch he smoothed over almost instantly. Almost.
"How's your leg?"
"You will probably be a widow by morning," he deadpanned.
"I doubt that." You couldn't hide your smile, and his answering grin sent a flush of warmth through you.
He crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, not touching you, just⌠there⌠and you realized he was waiting. For you to sleep. For you to speak. For something. He didn't know what to do with a woman in his bed who wasn't there for his pleasure.
You propped yourself up on your elbows, the furs pooling around your waist. The fire had warmed the room enough that the air no longer bit at your bare skin. You were acutely aware that you were both still naked, but the awareness didn't feel urgent. It just felt⌠present.
"You're very far away," you said.
He glanced down at the small space between you. "This is far?"
"For a man who just saved my life and carried me naked up a cliffâŚyes."
His lips twitched. "I was giving you room to breathe."
"How considerate."
"I have my moments."
You shifted, sitting up fully, letting the furs fall away. He watched you move, his gaze steady but unhurried. He wasn't going to reach for you. You understood, suddenly, that he was waiting for you to decide. If you wanted him, you'd have to give him something. The realization was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
You reached out and pressed your palm flat against his chest. His skin was warm from the fire. You felt his heartbeat, steady and slow, under your hand.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low.
"I don't know," you admitted. "I've never done this before."
"Done what?"
"Take what I want."
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Interest. His hand came up and covered yours, pressing it more firmly against his chest. "And what is it you want?"
You swallowed. "I'm figuring it out."
He laughed, short and rough and utterly charmed. "Take your time, then."
You moved before you could talk yourself out of it, shifting onto your knees and then, carefully, deliberately, climbing into his lap. It wasn't graceful. Your knee caught his injured thigh and he grunted, but his hands came up to your hips anyway, steadying you.
"What's all this for?" he murmured.
"Because I want to."
"Not because I rescued you?"
"No." You met his eyes. "Though⌠you are owed thanks."
His grin was slow and sharp. "And you want to thank me with your-"
You pressed your fingers to his mouth before he could finish. "Do not say it."
He kissed your fingertips.
"I donât like crude words. I am a lady."
"You are a lady who is currently sitting naked in my lap."
"Then stop talking and let me concentrate."
He leaned back on his hands, the picture of obedience, his eyes dancing. "By all means."
You glared at him, but it was hard to maintain, with the way he was looking at you like you were the most entertaining thing he'd seen in years. You were suddenly, acutely aware of your nakedness. The way your thighs bracketed his hips, the heat of him, the fact that you had no idea what to do next.
Your cheeks flushed.
His smile turned knowing. "I recall how shy you were on our wedding night."
"I recall you being rather drunk."
"That, I was." He sat up, his chest now a breath from yours, one hand coming up to brush the hair from your shoulder. "You were prettier than I expected."
"Is that meant to be a compliment?"
"It's the truth."
You looked at him, the sharp lines of his face, the pale lashes, the mouth that had just confessed more in the sea than you'd heard him say in a year. He was still a stranger in so many ways. But he was yours. And he was here. And he wasn't running.
"You're still too far away," you said.
"I'm right here."
"Then kiss me."
His eyes held yours for a long moment, searching. Then, slowly, he leaned in and brushed his lips against yours. It was deep and unhurried and certain, his mouth slanting over yours like he'd been waiting for you to ask. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head back, and you made a sound against his lips, a soft, needy thing you didn't recognize as your own.
When he finally pulled back, you were breathing harder than you wanted to admit. He looked far too pleased with himself.
"You're very good at that," you said, a little accusatory.
"Years of practice," he smirked.
You shoved at his shoulder, but you were smiling.
"I don't want to hear about your practice."
"Then don't ask."
You wound your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your hands tangling in the soft hair at his nape. "I want to be the only practice."
His smirk faded. His gaze was serious now, searching your face. Something in your chest tightened, an old, familiar fear. You'd said too much. But then he was kissing you again, and this kiss was different. Deeper. Possessive. It wasn't a question or an answer; it was a statement. Mine.
Your body responded before your mind could catch up. You shifted in his lap, trying to find a better angle, and the movement brought your bodies flush together. He was half-hard beneath you, the heat of him pressing against your thigh, and the contact made you gasp against his mouth. You'd done that. The thought sent a sharp, unfamiliar thrill through you.
His hand slid down your chest, over the swell of your breast, the pad of his thumb brushing against your nipple, which pebbled instantly at the contact. He moved lower, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, until his fingers found the heat between your legs. He paused there, a feather-light touch against your seam, and you held your breath.
"Daemon," you whispered, the name a plea against his lips.
He answered you with a touch, a slow, deliberate glide of his fingers through your wetness. Your hips jerked, a moan escaping your lips. He found the small, hidden spot at the apex of your thighs and circled it once, twice, a gentle pressure that made your toes curl. He was watching your face, absorbing every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, and the intensity of his gaze was almost as intoxicating as the pleasure itself.
You tried to kiss him again, needing the anchor of his mouth, but he pulled back slightly, his focus entirely on the movement of his hand. He slid one finger inside you, a slow, deliberate intrusion that stretched you, filled you. Your head fell back, your neck arching as he began to move, a steady, maddening rhythm that had you rocking against his hand. He let you move with him, let you find a pace that built the tension in your core, a hot, tightening coil. You were losing yourself, the world narrowing to the sensation of him touching you. The sounds you made were uninhibited, wanton, and you didn't care.
Just as you felt the precipice of your release, he pulled away. You made a sound of protest, your eyes flying open to meet his. He was smirking, that infuriating, handsome smirk that made you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.
"Why did you stop?" you demanded, your voice embarrassingly breathless.
"Impatient," he chuckled, not ungently. He shifted you in his lap, adjusting your position until you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips, your core flush against his hard length. "I thought you wanted to be in charge."
Your breath hitched. The reality of him, hot and heavy against your most sensitive flesh, was a shock. You could feel your own wetness slicking him. The power was yours to take.
"I am," you said, though the claim felt less certain than you wanted it to be. Your hands on his shoulders trembled.
"Then take what you want, wife."
The challenge was clear in his eyes. You braced yourself, your hands flat on his chest, and lifted your hips. He held himself steady for you, one hand gripping the base of his cock, guiding the head to your entrance. The slow press as you began to lower yourself was a sweet, aching stretch. Your body welcomed him, a familiar, perfect fit that you remembered from your wedding night, but it felt different now. More intense.
When you'd taken him to the hilt, you paused, adjusting to the feeling of him. He was breathing hard, his eyes locked on where your bodies joined, the muscles in his neck taut. His self-control was admirable, and you wondered what would happen if you pushed it.
You started to move. Tentative, at first, just a slow roll of your hips that made you both gasp. You found a rhythm, unpracticed and a little unsteady, but it was yours. His hands stayed on your hips, but he let you lead, his head falling back slightly, his fingers digging into you tighter and tighter. The sight of him undone beneath you sent a surge of confidence through your veins.
"Does that feel good, husband?" you asked, and the word came out teasing.
His laugh was half groan. "You're a fast learner."
Your pace quickened, your thighs burning with the effort, but the pleasure was building again, that tight coil low in your belly. His thumb found that spot once more, pressing in time with your movements, and the combination shattered your rhythm. You cried out, your nails raking down his chest, and he sat up suddenly, one arm banding around your waist to keep you steady as you came apart around him.
He let you ride it out, your face buried in his neck, your body shuddering. Then, gently, he shifted. You felt yourself being lowered onto your back, the furs soft beneath you, his weight a warm, solid anchor, his forearms braced on either side of your head.
"Look at me."
His voice was rough. You opened your eyes, and the firelight caught the sharp lines of his face, the vulnerability he was letting you see. His thrusts stayed slow, deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours.
"You're beautiful."
The words were whispered against your lips, and for a moment you thought you imagined them. But he said it again, and again, each repetition timed with a deep, rolling thrust, until the pleasure crested and broke and you were falling apart beneath him, his name a broken cry on your lips.
He followed moments later, a low groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you, his forehead pressing to yours. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled. The sea whispered against the cliffs below.
He pulled out gently and rolled to his side, but he didn't let you go. He pulled you against his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you felt his lips brush your hair.
"Still hate me?" he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his voice without needing to see it.
"A little less," you whispered, running your hand down the side of his face. He caught it and pressed a kiss to your palm.
It should have felt strange to lie naked in the arms of a man who had, up until this afternoon, been little more than a stranger. But instead it felt comfortable. Safe. Like something that had been waiting for you both to stop running.
"Perhaps I was hasty," you mumbled, the words slurred and soft with exhaustion.
"In what regard?" His voice rumbled under your ear.
"I do think you could be a good husband, after all."
His arm tightened around your waist. "I can try."
"You'll be here when I wake? You won't run off?" You murmured sleepily. "If you're going to run, just tell me now."
"I'll be here, little wife. Sleep."
Sleep took hold before you could say more. Your last conscious thoughts were of how safe you felt, in this man's arms, in this strange little tower on the edge of the sea. And the strange realization that he was no longer a stranger. He was yours, and you were his.
He was still there in the morning, wrapped in furs and snoring softly beside you, your legs tangled with his. You smiled against his chest. It was a good beginning.
SUMMARY: A prince washes up on the shore outside your cottage, and you must decide whether youâre going to leave him to his fate or save his life. Either way, you know there will be consequences.Â
WARNINGS: fem!reader, commoner!reader, eventual dragonseed!reader, jace lives, eventual smut, class differences (jace is obviously a prince and reader is a commoner). Reader is not too fond of him at first because she is from Sharp Point. This is a bit of a mix of show canon and book canon in that Jace went to the Gullet to save his brothers and Rhaena still claimed Sheepstealer
AUTHOR'S NOTES: i HADDDD to do a fic for our beloved boy </3 i miss you jacaerys velaryon, prince of dragonstone, heir to the iron throne. I will truly never move on from this death </3 so we need a world where he does not die. I'm saur excited for this because it's my first time writing a reader who comes from a commoner background, AND I finally get to write the dragons ... originally she was not supposed to be a dragonseed, but I just cannot help myself. If I'm going to be writing a hotd era fic, our girl is going to have a dragon. ANYWAY I hope you guys enjoy! please leave a comment or reblog mwah mwah
You wonder whether it is chance or divine intervention that a Targaryen prince washes ashore beside your cottage.
By the time you get to the edge of the sea after catching a glimpse of the corpse from your porch, it is half buried in the wet sand, lying limp at your feet, and there is a lump in your throat that you cannot seem to swallow away.Â
You do not know how you didnât notice the sigil sooner.
It should have been the first thing that caught your eye, considering it was only a fortnight past that the Prince Aemond brought the great dragon Vhagar over the town you were raised in and razed it to the ground. The green and gold banners have been flying over the area since, and soldiers from the Reach have been constantly patrolling the roads, seeking out rebels and sympathizers.
You know better than to involve yourself in the affairs of any man that dons the three-headed dragon, you tell yourself, trying to will yourself to walk away from the corpse before anyone can catch you standing near it.
Red or gold, black or greenâit does not matter to you, the wars of nobles are graves for common folk, and you have no desire to meet an early one. You have done well enough for yourself since your father passed. You refuse to squander the life youâve built because a prince washed up on the shore near your home.
The boy at your feet is young, you cannot help but noticeâyour age, perhapsâdark of hair and fair of skin. At a distance, he had looked like any other body the sea had decided to return, and your first instinct had been to rush toward him rather than avert your gaze and pretend you had seen nothing.
Your hands tremble at your sides, and you have to forcibly still them as you take in a deep breath.
This is war, you recall the soldiers saying when the survivors demanded to know the reason for the tragedy that took place at Sharp Pointâmothers with tears in their eyes and no bodies to bury, fathers who had lost their livelihood and the children for whom they built it, your neighbors, your friends. They say Lord Bar Emmon sits on the usurperâs council, so all of the commonfolk who were unfortunate enough to be born beneath his banners have been made to pay the price of his loyalties, allies of a queen they have never seen and casualties of a war they never chose.
This is war, they will tell you the same as they cut off your head if they see you kneeling beside this corpse and call mercy treason. Because it is always the burden of the commonfolk, paying the price of noble quarrels. Princes speak of honor and succession, of rights and oaths and stolen crowns, and it is fishermen and farmers who have to bury their dead. They will not care to hear what you have to say if they think you're affiliated with the Black queen and her supporters, just as the Prince Aemond did not care whether the people of Sharp Point had declared for the Blacks or merely happened to be born beneath the wrong lord.
But now, a prince lies dead upon your shore, and you wonder if this is how it begins again.Â
You should leave him.
The thought comes immediately, sensible in light of the circumstances, even if it does make your stomach flip. You should turn around and go home, bolt your door, and tell no one what you saw. The sea will reclaim him, or the crabs will pick his bones clean; maybe the patrol will stumble upon the body before the tide rises, and they can parade it through the streets the same way you heard they did to Princess Rhaenysâs dragon.
By the morning, he will be gone one way or another, and you can move on with your life as though you never saw him at all. He will be somebody elseâs misfortune, or more hopefully, no one elseâs at all.Â
It is a corpse, anyway. The boy has not moved since you arrived, and his chest does not seem to be rising and falling. There are two arrows through his shoulder, and a blueness to his lips that youâve only seen in the dead, soâ
As though to mock you, he lets out a wet, ragged cough, water bubbling at his lips, lashes fluttering just enough for you to catch sight of dark, hazy eyes that slip over you once before they slide shut again.
You feel sick to your stomach.
He does not stir again. One side of his face is bruised an ugly purple, his dark hair plastered to his brow with seawater and blood. He cannot be much older than youâthe traitorous thought crosses your mind again. There is something terribly young about him, lying there half-drowned in the surf, one hand curled weakly into the sand as though, even unconscious, he is still trying to cling to something.
He does not look like a prince, you think miserably. He looks like a boy who is going to die.
The sea foams around your boots, and his body twitches as it threatens to reclaim himâthe only feeble resistance heâs capable of in his state. You do not know how he still breathesâthe fires might still burn on the Gullet, but the fighting ended days past. How long has he been floating about, dragged around by vicious currents and tossed by waves? It doesnât even seem as though it should be possible, as though the Seven themselves intervened andâ
âand dropped him on your shore, in your hands, and you are contemplating leaving him to die.
The thought is unpleasant, a heavy stone in your chest in place of your heart.
You are not a cruel person. You have cared for gulls with broken wings, and you leave scraps outside your door for the old orange cat that wanders the area. During the winter three years prior, you spent a fortnight nursing a lamb that did not even belong to you because you could not bear the sound of it crying.
And now there is a boy at your feetâbleeding, drowned, scarcely clinging to lifeâand because there is a dragon sewn onto his chest, you are trying to convince yourself to let the sea finish what arrows and war could not.Â
His lashes are dark against his cheek. Young, you think again, even more traitorous than the last, no older than ten and nine, if even. There is salt crusted at the corners of his mouth and blood soaking through his tunic in sluggish, rusty streams that stain the pale sand beneath him.
He looks coldâtraitor, traitor, traitor.
He looks like a prince, you try to insist. A dragon prince, fire and blood and ruin, dangerous.Â
Cold. Hurt. Dying.
You need to walk away, you tell yourself again, desperate this time, because the longer you stand there staring at him, the more you fail to convince yourself of the correct path.Â
A prince's life is worth more than yours, more than your cottage and your little patch of land and the fishing boat your father left you. It is worth armies and dragons and castles and men willing to kill for a name.Â
If this boy lives, others will come looking for him.Â
And if the soldiers discover him in your home, they will not ask questions. They will not care that you found him by chance or that you never bent the knee to Queen Rhaenyraâthat you could not even tell anyone why one half of House Targaryen wishes the other dead. They will see the three-headed dragon on his breast and the roof over his head, and that will be enough to condemn you.
Worse, the Prince Aemond and the dragon Vhagar could return. You think of Tom, the millerâs son, pulled from the boiling river after dragonfire reached the gristmill. You think of little Graceâs face as she searched the ashes for her mother. You think of all of your neighbors, all of your friends, who hardly survived the first time fire rained from the sky, and you think of all of those who didnât.Â
He is not worth it. He is not worth the risk. A prince is only a man born with a special name, thereâs no reason you should save him and condemn countless othersâhe bleeds the same, he dies the same, and when the Stranger comes for him, he is no more spared than any other man.
Except, he didnât, did he?Â
He should be deadâany other man would be dead.
Two arrows through the shoulder, half-drowned, tossed upon the sea for days on endâthere is no surviving that. Yet he breathes still, ragged and shallow though it may be, his fingers twitching every now and then.
The Stranger came for him and left empty-handed.
The Stranger came for him and left him with you.Â
Why?
There are no prophecies in your life, no gods whispering in your ear. You are a fisherman's daughter with a cottage by the sea and enough coin to keep yourself fed through winter if the catch is good. You know little of the gods save for the prayers your father taught you as a child and the candles you light for him on his nameday. The Seven did not save your father or your town; they did not save Tom or Graceâs mother or any of the others who screamed as dragonfire turned their homes to ash.
So why? Why this boy? Why this prince? Why should the gods spare a dragon's son when they had not spared children and fishermen and mothers? Why have they left him for you?
You do not have an answer. The only answer before you is a body on the sand, breathing when it ought not to be.
You stare down at him, furious and distressed and so, so unsure. He looks dead againâstill as driftwood, cold and pale, stiff. His lips are blue like the dead, and his chest hardly rises and falls. You wonder if you imagined what you saw before. If your guilt conjured a cough where there had been none, if your conscience simply could not bear the thought of walking away even from a corpse.
Slowly, you sink to your knees beside him, damp sand clinging to your knees, the sea foam wetting your trousers. Your hand is still trembling in spite of all efforts to still it. You lift it to his throat, hesitating only for a moment.Â
If there is life, you will do what you must.
If there is not, you will turn and walk away.Â
You have never prayed for someone to be dead before.Â
Please, you think now miserably. Please.
Your fingers brush the skin of his throatâit is cold. He must be cold. So cold, that for a brief, terrible moment, hope flares in your chest, and thenâ
There is a flutterâit is weak and uneven, so faint that you almost miss it, but it is there.
Your head hangs forward, and you blink away the tears that prick in your eyes, because you know this action will have consequences. You know that there is no going back once you have entangled yourself with dragons. You know that every story told of House Targaryen ends in blood and fire and ruin for everyone foolish enough to stand too close them.
You know that this boy could be the death of you.
The soldiers could discover him. Your neighbors could discover himâas much as they care for you, they fear Vhagar more. If word spreads that a prince of the black faction lives and is hidden beneath your roof, you could hang for it. They could burn your cottage to the ground. They could drag you through the streets and call you traitor.
Worse still, he could recover.
Because then he would not be a half-dead boy on the sand. He would be a prince again. A son of the house of the dragon. He would leave, and the war would continue, and perhaps one day you would hear his name in some tavern and learn that he had mounted a dragon and burned a town much like your own.
The sea rushes forward again, cold water washing over your boots and his legs alike. He does not move. He is so cold.
âWhy did you have to wash up here?â you breathe outâfrustrated, angry, resigned, because you have never been one to turn your back on someone in need.Â
His pulse flutters once more against your fingers, and he does not stir.Â
Then, because the gods have a cruel sense of humor and because your heart has always been softer than your head, you slide your arms beneath the princeâs shoulders and knees.
With a soft curse and the sea at your heels, you gather the dragon prince into your arms and carry home your ruin.
âââââââââ
He is Jacaerys Velaryon, son of Queen Rhaenyra, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne.Â
Three days have passed since you found him on the shore, and he has hardly stirred since you dragged him into your cottage. You have been riddled with anxiety since, jumping at every sound and fearing the worst when someone addresses you. It is only a matter of timeâwhenever a rider passes on the road beyond the trees or the patrol sweeps down your shore, you think they care coming for him. Coming for you.Â
You spend the first day trying to keep him alive.Â
You drag him home, soaked to the bone and half-frozen, laying him atop your bed as you get a fire going and wrap him in your blankets. For a while, you can only stand there staring at him, because it is one thing to decide not to leave a boy to die and another entirely to realize you have no idea how to save him.
You have to cut away his tunic to remove it, and it makes it easier to breathe once the three-headed dragon is out of sight, but then you have to address the monstrosity beneath itâbruises darkening one side of his ribs, yellow and purple and black, cuts everywhere, salt crusting his skin and body a ruin of blood.Â
You wonder how many rocks the currents slammed him into before he finally washed to shore. The sea around Sharp Point is, well, sharp. Jagged rocks and narrow inlets line the coast, and more than one fisherman has vanished into the sea after his boat drifted too close to reefs beneath the tide.
It is a cruel stretch of seaâcrueler still to a boy half-dead and alone.Â
And then there were the arrows.Â
The shafts protrude from his shoulders at awful angles, the flesh around them angry and swollen. You cry while removing them, because you have never done something like it before, and your hands cannot stop shaking. A part of you wonders if the gods left him for you so that his blood could be on your hands instead, and you cannot fathom what youâve done to deserve this.
You expect him to wake once you start removing them. At the very least, you expect him to scream. The first shaft pierced cleanly through his shoulder and is easy enough to ease out, but the second lodged itself deep in the flesh, refusing to budge until you brace your foot against the bedframe and pull with both hands.Â
It should have been agonyâany man would have cried out.Â
The prince does not so much as flinch.
You remember staring at him afterward, the arrow clutched in your hand and your own cheeks wet with tears, wondering if he had died while you were removing it. You press your fingers to his throat with a panic that borders on hysteria, and you arenât sure if youâre relieved or disappointed when you feel the fluttering pulse still there.Â
A traitorous part of you wishes that he had died.Â
A corpse is a tragedy, but a tragedy can be dumped in the sea and abandoned. A tragedy will not bring more war to your ravaged home.
A living prince, on the other hand, is a catastrophe that you do not know what to do with. Your home has already faced ruin once, and the longer he remains in your care, the more at risk you will be of bringing it upon you all again, because if he is captured in your care, then that means war and blood and fire and more dragons. The whole town, all of the survivors, everyone will be branded traitors to the crown.
But the prince lived, so you can only hope that he will heal quick enough and be gone before you have the chance to regret helping him.
The fever comes on the second day, and the corpse in your bed finally gives to life.Â
You notice it when you are wiping the blood from his face, and your hand brushes his forehead. Itâs as though all of the cold of the sea had fled his body at once and left only fire behind. Itâs what you expect of a Targaryen prince, reallyâthe burning heat, closer to dragon than manâ it feels more natural than the cold, but you are scared anyway.Â
You do not know much about treating battle wounds, but you do know about fever.Â
Your younger brother died of it during a long winter a decade pastâno matter how hard your mother worked to keep it at bay, he was dead by nightfall. Your mother passed in the same moon, to the same sickness, as did half of the children in Sharp Point, because fever does not care whether you are young or old, rich or poor, prince or peasant.
His skin is flushed, sweat beading along his brow and soaking the dark hair at his temples as he twists in the sheets violently, threatening to reopen the wounds you just stitched close. His breathing changes tooâno longer the slow drags of air, shallow and erratic, like he had spent days at sea only to begin suffocating on dry land.
You fetch water from the well until your shoulders ache. You lay cloths upon his brow and change them whenever they grow warm. You feed the fire, then fear you have made him too hot and let it die down, only to panic that he would grow cold again and build it back up.
Every few minutes, you find yourself pressing your hand to his forehead or his throat, checking for fever and pulse alike. There is never a changeâstill alive and burning, and you donât know whether to be grateful or terrified.Â
At one point, he begins muttering. You cannot make out most of itâthe words are slurred, little more than broken sounds spilling from fevered lips. Names, you think. Places, maybe. Some do not seem to be spoken in the common tongue.
Once, very clearly, he whispers, "Mother.â
You have to change the cloth on his forehead afterward and pretend your eyes are not stinging with tears. You curse the gods throughout that second dayâyou wish that youâd never left the cottage at all the morning you found him, you wish youâd left him to die, you wish, you wish, you wish, as though any of it matters anymore.Â
You sleep little that night, sitting beside your bed and watching him breathe. Terrified every time his breathing slowed, and equally terrified every time it quickened. You count the moments between each breath until dawn creeps through your shutters, and by morning, you feel like you have lived a lifetime in a single night.
The third dayâtodayâyou have to make the trek into town.
You have used the last of your willow bark, and there is only a heel of stale bread left, a few onions, and enough drinking water to last another day if youâre careful. You need fruit and vegetables, more barley, and you have a catch that you never got the chance to bring to the market to trade the morning you found the prince.Â
You cannot put it off any longer, much as you may wishâthe prince needs supplies, and unfortunately, so do you.
You do not like going into town. You have never liked going into townâyou have always been fond of your neighbors and your friends, but you were not fond of the way they circle and crowd you whenever you make your weekly appearance for trade. You got overwhelmed too quickly, and you didnât know how to make an exit without seeming rude, so you ended up staying there for hours when there were many chores you had to get done at home.
Now, it is like a graveyard. The destruction following the Prince Aemondâs attack on Sharp Point has yet to be cleared. The soldiers are too busy with war and patrols, and the survivors are too busy trying to salvage what they can of their ruined lives.Â
When you enter the town, you can still smell charred flesh and death.Â
The children usually run to you when you arrive, chattering about the games theyâve played and the rumors theyâve heard, if you saw the wild dragon Grey Ghost while you were out on your boat this week, and you smile and nod along with them. But all of the children are dead now, and you are not crowded by friends and neighbors eager to make conversation with you, because most of them are dead now too.
It is in the market when you overhear green-cloaked soldiers talking about the battle that took place in the Gullet, and you finally put a name to the face of the prince in your home. You try to pretend that youâre not eavesdropping, fingers shaking terribly as you sort through the fruits and vegetables that Wylem carted in from his farm, because you need to know if they have figured out what youâve done, if they know the prince is in your care, under your roof.
But they only laugh as they speak of dead dragons and a mourning pretender queen. They say the Blacks have lost two dragons, and the bastard prince, Jacaerys Velaryon, is dead. Any man who can find his body washed up on the shore to deliver to the King will see unfathomable riches.Â
Momentarily, you are angry at yourself because the royals brought this war and have caused all of this suffering, but when your lashes flutter shut, for a split second, you can only picture the haunted look on your motherâs face as she held your dead brother in her arms. You think of Miss Ellyn, who tossed herself into the sea when she found out her son had been killed on the Kingsroad. You think of your friend, Marie, who you found screaming, fisting her infant daughterâs ashes after the burning of the town. You think of them, and then you think of the black queen on her throne, and you feel the same lump in your throat.
Then you remind yourself that this is her doing.Â
Her doing, her half-brotherâs doing, the other noblesâ doing. They brought this war to Westeros, they brought death and destruction, fire and blood, and you force yourself to shake your head and push it all away, trading some of the fish you caught for fruits and vegetables and barley with a watery smile that youâre sure Wylem took notice of.Â
There are more important things to worry about: if there is a bounty on the princeâs body, everybody will be searching for him. Not just soldiers, the people tooâyour friends, your neighbors, everyone. Many starve, more struggle, so if there is an opportunity for gold, they will all be on the hunt. You need to burn his cloak and tunic when you get back to the cottage, anything that associates him with House Targaryen.Â
You nearly trip over your own feet racing back to the cottage, second-guessing every conversation you had in the town. Wylem asked you why you were getting twice as much food as you usually getâyou do not remember how you responded.Â
Did you imply that you had a visitor? Why canât you remember? What excuse did you give? Did the soldiers overhear? Are they following you? Do they know? Why canât you remember? Youâre scaredâyou do not think youâve ever been so scared in your entire life.Â
You look over your shoulder every five steps, worried that theyâre going to come charging after you, demanding you to bring them to the Prince Jacaerys before taking your head. Youâre not cut out for thisâyouâre the daughter of a fisherman. Thereâs no world where you should be worrying whether soldiers are going to hunt you down for saving a prince.Â
There are tears in your eyes when you make it back to the cottage, and your fingers are trembling around the bags Wylem packed for you. You shut the door behind you, and it takes you three tries to bolt it properly. When you finally do, you rest your forehead against the wood and let out a trembling sigh.
Youâ
âWho are you?â
There is a knife to your throat.
You stare at the crack in the wood of your door, breath catching, desperately trying not to move lest you risk the knife slicing through your skin. The crack appeared last winter, you remind yourself, trying not to focus too much on the fact that you can feel the cool edge of the blade. Your friend, Evander, was meant to fix before the next, but Evander is dead now, and you may well be too, if the knife at your throat presses any deeper.Â
âAnswer me, who are you? Where am I? Whââ the princeâJacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throneâfalters suddenly, and you can only breathe again when the knife drops from your neck, and you feel the presence at your back disappear. âYouâyou are a woman.â
You do not turn to look at him immediately, eyes sliding shut as you fight to steady the frantic beating of your heart, drawing one slow breath after another until your shaking eases enough to trust your legs. Your fingers tighten on the bags cradled in your arms before you force yourself to turn around.
Prince Jacaerys Velaryon stands three paces behind you, one hand braced against the edge of your table, pained, pale, barely conscious. He is bare from the waist up, and the stitches you painstakingly worked through his torn skin have pulled loose, fresh blood soaking the bandages and dripping down his chest and back.Â
You see more clearly in the light of the afternoon sun just how ruined his body is, bruises and cutsâyou think his ribs must be broken, you did not notice just how bad off he was when you had him lying in the dim corner where you keep your bed.Â
For a moment, you forget that you are face-to-face with a Targaryen princeâit is only the boy you dragged in from the sea and spent hours trying to keep alive.Â
Your lips curve down into a deep frown, brows knitting together. You exhale as you say, âYou reopened your wounds. It took me an hour to get them properly closed.â
The prince stares at you.Â
As soon as the words fly from your mouth, you remember who it is before you. The son of a queen. The heir to the Iron Throne, if one listens to his mother. A pretender's heir and bastard, if one listens to her enemies. You do not know which of them is right, nor do you particularly care. Such questions belong to lords and knights and people with far too much time to argue over crowns.Â
To the likes of you, prince is title enough for you to keep your mouth shut and your head bowed.
He does not immediately respond, gaze flicking around your cottage uncertainly. Your bed, stained with his blood. The dying hearth. The table where you left out the last bits of the bread, just in case he awoke while you were gone and was hungry. The bandages you left at his bedside. The basin of pink water you forgot to empty before leaving for town.
His lips, dry and cracked, part as he stares at you and murmurs more to himself than to you, âYou tended my wounds.â
You hesitate, then nod, swallowing once. âI found you on the shore a few days past, my princeââ Your Grace? What is the proper way to address a prince? My Lord does not seem grand enough for the heir to a queen. Prince feels the safestâwhatever he may be, no one seems inclined to dispute that part. ââI⌠you should probably be resting.â
âI need to know what happened,â he says instead, stepping closer to you. He is too pale, sweat beads at his forehead, dark curls matted to his skin. His eyes are wide and wild, pupils dilated the same way youâve seen in men mad with grief or fear or fury, moments before lashing out at the nearest person. You find yourself tensing instinctively. âWhat do you know of the battle that took place on the Gullet? Did Baela make it back to Dragonstone? And Rhaenaâshe was on that wild dragon, andâmy brothers, did my brothers make it back? How long has it been? Where are we? How far is it to Dragonstone? I must return immediately, Iââ
The prince only just seems to realize how youâve drawn away, back pressed against the door to your own home, arms tightening around the sack in your arms whenever he comes closer. His tongue darts out to wet his cracked lips, gaze flicking to the knife he dropped onto the floor and the fear in your face.Â
Shame crosses his expression instantly.
âIââ His expression twists as he puts space between the two of you again. You wonder whether itâs from pain or from struggling to force out an apology. Both, likely. He continues, âYou have helped meâsaved my life, most likeâand here I am frightening you. I⌠I thought Iâd been captured. I woke in an unfamiliar place. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know if I was a prisoner or if the battle had been lost. I heard the door open andâŚâ
He trails off, and you stand there awkwardly, tension easing slowly from your shoulders. He is still on guard, but he does not seem so inclined to pull a blade on you again. Your lips part to tell him where he is, what little you know of the battle on the Gullet.Â
Instead, you ask, âDo most enemy strongholds look like a fishermanâs cottage, my prince?âÂ
You are mortified the moment the question spills from your lipsâhe is a Targaryen prince, they are known for blood and fire and madness, dragons and crowns, and you speak to him as though heâs one of your peers.Â
Prince Jacaerys stares at you for a long moment, and then, to your astonishment, his gaze flicks around the inside of your home again, and something suspiciously like embarrassment crosses his face.Â
âI suppose not.â
The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself, and you let out a soft puff of air through your nose before making your way across the room to place the sack youâve carried from town onto the table. You will have to sort all of what youâve got later; for now, you need to get the prince resettled before he opens up any more of his wounds.
You turn to look at him again, faltering when you see the pained expression that crosses his face, so sudden that it steals all the color from his cheeks. His hand shoots to his side, fingers digging into the bandages wrapped around his ribs.
âMy prince?â you ask hesitantly, taking half a step forward, arm only slightly extended. It is one thing to carry him to your cottage and treat his wounds while heâs unconscious; it is different now that heâs awake.
Prince Jacaerys inhales sharply through his teeth. He is swaying on his feet, breath gone shallowâhe looks as though heâs moments from collapsing hard onto your wooden floor. Still, his jaw clenches and the muscles in his neck tighten as he draws himself upright through sheer stubbornness.
âI am fine,â he insists.
âYou should sit, my prince.â
âI am standing,â he replies with a tight smile, as though a bead of sweat isnât rolling down his temple from strain to remain upright and his lips arenât trembling with pain.
âBarely.â
The prince blinks as though caught off guard by the response, casting a look that is partially confused, and mostly offended in your direction. Your lashes flutter shut as you brace yourself for a volatile reaction, because he is a prince and you are a fishermanâs daughter, and you are arguing with him as though he is an equal and not one of those dragon-riding royals people compose songs about. You think you must have lost your wits entirely these past few days.Â
Instead, he shoots back, with all the dignity he can muster while visibly swaying, "I have endured worse."
You stare at the blood soaking through the bandages wrapped around his shoulder, uncertain if you believe him. You say with less heat, "That is not the same as being well, my prince."
His jaw tightens, and you fight a sigh. Gods, he actually looks as though he is preparing an argument.Â
You wonder, briefly, what your life has become. Three weeks ago, your greatest concern had been whether the currents would ease up enough for you to take the boat out of the shallows to catch some fish. Now, Sharp Point has burned and you are standing in your cottage, arguing with a dragon prince about his injuries.Â
The absurdity of it nearly makes you laugh, wondering if perhaps this entire ordeal is some fever dream brought on by bad fish and Leilaâs uncleâs dubious ale.Â
Then, Prince Jacaerysâs left leg buckles.Â
He reaches for the table and misses, injured shoulder slamming into the edge hard enough to wrench a strangled cry from him, and before you can think better of it, you're moving.
You let go of the sack of fruits and vegetables and barley you were keeping steady on your table; it topples over, and all of your pristine apples go rolling across the floor of your cottage, but you barely notice, panicked when you realize that he careening right toward the hardwood floor. Â
You catch the prince around the waist just as he starts to fall, but he is heavier than you expect.
You brace yourself, convinced that he is going to take you down with him, but you manage to steer him sideways toward the chair beside the table. He collapses into it heavily, breath hissing through clenched teeth as pain flashes across his face.
Momentum carries you forward with himâfar, far too forward.
One hand lands against the uninjured side of his chest to steady yourself, the other gripping the arm of the chair. For a horrifying second, you are practically sprawled across the heir to the Iron Throneâs lap. You jerk away so quickly you nearly trip over one of the escaped apples, face burning and hands shaking.
"Sorry," you blurt, mortified. âSorry. Sorry, I did not meanââ
âI believe,â Prince Jacaerys begins with a grimace, âthat was my fault.â
You do not respond, flustered, trying to put more distance between you to calm yourself down. Your gaze flicks back over to him, but he is too busy grinding his teeth as he glances down at his wounds to pay you any mind. You let out a soft puff of air through your nose before you look at the apples rolling about your floor, and then reach for one still on your tableâyou might have lost some sense over the past three days with the little sleep youâve gotten, but you are not about to feed a prince food off your floor.
You make your way back over to him and hold the apple out to him. He blinks once at it before his gaze lifts to yours questioningly.
âI do not know when last you ateâa while, certainly,â you tell him quietly. âYou should get something in you while I redress the bandages. Iâll cook some stew once Iâm certain youâre not going to bleed out.â
Prince Jacaerys exhales through his nose before he takes the apple from you, rolling it between his fingers. You step past him so that you can move the basin of water closer to where heâs sitting, grabbing a clean rag and the bandages that you left next to your bed.Â
You come to stand in front of him again, hesitating before you motion to the wounds on his shoulder. You ask, âMay I?â
His dark gaze flicks up to yours briefly before he nods, and your throat tightens as you shift closer, fingers fumbling a bit as you grab for the edge of the bandages to unwind them from around him. It is much more intimidating doing this while heâs awake, inches away from you, and eyes tracking your every move.
âI found you three days ago, my prince,â you tell him at last, trying to remember all of the questions he asked earlier so that you can busy your mind with something other than the fact that you can feel his skin hot against yours. âBefore that, the fighting died another three. In truth, my prince, I do not know how you survived so long at sea.â
Prince Jacaerys says nothing in response. His attention remains fixed somewhere beyond the wall behind you, expression distant. You suspect he is counting the days since the battle, the hours his family has believed he is dead, the minutes his mother has spent mourning him. You keep your gaze trained on his shoulder as you unwind the last of the bandages and set them down on the table.Â
You press your lips together when you see that the stitches have loosened at the back of his shoulderâwhere one of the arrows had dug deep, but not deep enough to pass cleanly through. Pulling it free had torn through muscle and flesh alike, leaving a ragged injury that had taken you nearly an hour to clean, stitch, and stop bleeding.
You exhale as you run the pad of your finger briefly over the stitches, trying to figure out if you can salvage what effort you already put in or if you would have to pull them out and redo them entirely.Â
âAnd my family? My younger brothers? Baela and Rhaena? Have you heard what has become of them?â the prince asks, and you glance up just enough to see how his jaw tightens when your finger brushes over the wound. âDid we win the battle?â
âI do not know if anyone can be said to have won that battle, my prince,â you answer quietly, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you finally start to get to work at reclosing the wound. Your gaze slips to the side when he finally starts to eat the apple you passed to him. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, as though heâs only just realized how hungry he is. âBoth fleets were decimated. The dead still wash up on the northern shore.â
How did Prince Jacaerys make it to your shore, then?Â
Not for the first time, you have to wonder if the gods themselves placed him directly into your hands.Â
Most of the rest of the dead have washed up on the northern and western shores of Sharp Point, as it is where the currents run strongest, but the prince somehow made it to where your cottage sits on the eastern shore. If he had washed up anywhere else, the patrol would have certainly found him by now. You've heard they have spent the last several days combing the beaches, hauling bloated corpses from the tide and turning them over with the tips of their spears, searching for the dragon prince they are certain the sea claimed.
Prince Jacaerysâs breath hitches when you tug lightly at the stitches holding the skin of his shoulder together. Already, heâs finished the apple you handed him, absentmindedly turning the core between his fingers while his thoughts remain leagues away.Â
It is only when the last bite is gone that he seems to notice, and his gaze drifts toward the table. He hesitates, and you think it is almost comicalâthis is the heir to the Iron Throne, a dragonrider, a prince who has flown into battle, and he looks as though asking for another apple might be an imposition too great to make when heâs been floating at sea for at least a week.Â
You hold the stitches carefully with your right hand so that you can lean forward and grab another apple from your table to pass to him. His cheeks color slightly when he realizes that you noticed.
âI did not mean to stare,â he murmurs, taking the apple from you and cradling it carefully between his hands. He asks again, âHave you heard what has become of my family?âÂ
You shake your head, focusing on tending to his wounds again. You think that youâll be able to salvage your work. It is good, you thinkâyou can get him resting and then cook some stew for the two of you. You didnât eat much yesterday, frazzled by the fever and trying to keep him comfortable, and youâre starting to feel a lightness in your head.Â
âIâve only heard what the soldiers say in town, my prince,â you murmur, trying to figure out how to go about speaking the news he certainly wonât take well. The last thing you need is for grief to send him bolting for Dragonstone before he can so much as walk across your cottage without collapsing. If he does not kill himself by straining his body when it is not ready, then the patrols will certainly catch him and have his headâand then yours.Â
You let out a soft sigh as you tie off the stitches on his shoulder blade and lean down to wet the clean rag before lifting it to his bloody skin. Youâre careful around the edges of the wound, trying not to disturb the stitches, working slowly at the dried and wet blood from the curve of his shoulder, over the collarbone, down the length of his back.Â
You try not to think too hard about what youâre doing.Â
If you do, it begins to feel far too intimate.Â
It is one thing to drag an unconscious stranger from the sea. It is another to stand so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, to brush your fingers across the line of his shoulders. You have spent three days tending him without much thought, because there had been no room for embarrassment while the Stranger lingered at his bedside.
Now he is awake and watching you, and every accidental brush of your knuckles against his skin seems to linger a heartbeat too long. He is a prince of the realm, and you are a fishermanâs daughterâpeople like you are not supposed to touch people like him, and yetâ
You exhale through your nose harshly. You busy yourself with the rag, scrubbing a little harder than necessary at a streak of dried blood along his collarbone simply to distract yourself, and his jaw pinches.
âSorry,â you say quietly.
âIt does not hurt,â he repliesâa lie, surely, any man would be in agonizing pain. But maybe not; any man also would have died in the sea. Maybe the rumors are true: the Targaryens are closer to god than man; they do not feel pain or have to fear the Stranger the same way people like you ought to. âWhat have you heard from the soldiers in town? Where are we?â
âHalf a league from Sharp Point, my prince,â you answer, still evading the question, which he seems to realize from the way he glances at you over his shoulder, gaze sharp and accusing. He knows you are withholding something. You exhale lightly through your nose and then say hesitantly, âThey say two dragons fell over the Gullet. I could not tell you which.â
âTwo?!â Prince Jacaerys demands, immediately rising to his feet, so quickly that the chair scrapes against the floor, and you fear he might rip back open the stitches. He whirls on you, eyes wide, pupils large as coins, and you almost flinch. âTwo dragons?â
You swallow thickly as you nod. âMy princeââ
âOne must beââ His voice catches. He cannot finish the thought. For the first time since he awoke, real grief overtakes him completely. It drains his face of what little color had returned, leaves him staring at nothing as though he can already see the answer waiting for him. âI need to know the second. Whose was it? Which dragon fell?â
It unsettles you how close he sounds to pleading when moments before, you had been wondering whether the stories of the Targaryensâ deism held some weight, because gods do not look like this. They do not stand in a strangerâs cottage with fear plain on their face, hands trembling as they wait for an answer they already dread.Â
The same lump forms in your throat now that did when you heard the soldiers mocking a grieving queen and couldnât help your thoughts from turning to your own mother, to Miss Ellyn, to your friend, Marie. For a moment, he is not a Targaryen prince or a dragonlord; you see a son and an older brother. A boy your age who knows there are only a handful of dragons flying over the Gullet, and every one of them belongs to someone he loves.
âI do notââ
âI need to return home,â he says immediately, as though his face isnât white with pain and his stitches donât strain every time he moves. His eyes glaze over you as though youâre not even there, and he takes a step toward the door to your small cottage. âSharp Pointâthere must be passage to Dragonstone, thereââ
Panic flares in your chest when he makes as though to leave. It is noon, and the patrols have become more frequent along the shores outside your cottage. Theyâve spent a week carding through the western and northern shores, and theyâve been sending more and more men to the eastâyou worry theyâre becoming desperate. The longer they go without finding a corpse, the more they may fear that there isnât one.
If they have an inkling that Prince Jacaerys is still alive, theyâll start kicking down doors, and if they start kicking down doors, they will find him, and your life will be forfeit for harboring him.Â
âYou cannot,â you say before you can think better of it, lunging forward as though to grab his wrist, but you stop yourself before you can make a terrible mistake, stopping a hairsbreadth from brushing his skin.Â
What is wrong with you? you think furiously. You need to rest tonight before you do something you cannot take back. Already you have gotten snide with and you have argued with a prince of the realmânow you have commanded him and nearly tried to seize him. You would have been lucky to only lose your hand in any other circumstance. Had he been standing in a hall instead of your cottage, surrounded by knights instead of rough-hewn furniture, you might have lost your head.Â
âI cannot?â Prince Jacaerys turns to you, bafflement momentarily eclipsing the fear that had consumed him only seconds before, as though he cannot quite fathom that someone has just told him no.Â
âMy prince, you can scarcely stand,â you say. His gaze drops to where your hand is still hovering near his arm, head cocking to the side and brows lifting, and you snap it back to your chest immediately, heat flooding your face. âYou have lost a lot of blood, you have barely eaten in a week, your wounds have only just been stitched again, and there are patrols searching for you every road between here and the sea.â
He continues to stare at you, disbelief riddling his expression. You have the distinct impression that no one has ever spoken to him this way beforeâcertainly not a fishermanâs daughter. You force yourself to press on while heâs silent, hoping to make your point and rid him of this futile endeavor before he gets you both killed.Â
âThe Prince Aemond burned Sharp Pointâs harbor. There are no ships capable of navigating the currents of the Gullet, and the water still burns besides. I do not have a horse for you to ride to Stonedance. You could not get to Dragonstone even if you were not hurt,â you insist. âI will return to town tomorrow to try to get more information, but please, my prince, you mustnât leave. You will only be putting us both at risk.â
For a long moment, you think that he will invoke his title or duty and insist upon leaving anyway, or maybe he will simply walk out the door despite everything you have said, and there is nothing you could do to stop him.Â
Then, his expression changes, twisting into something pained as he looks away, a shuddered breath escaping his lips. His shoulders, held tense since the moment you uttered the word two, sink ever so slightly. The panic that had driven him to his feet has nowhere left to go, draining from him all at once, leaving only exhaustion behind.Â
One hand drops back down to his ribs, pain crossing his face. Whatever strength carried him to his feet abandons him just as quickly as the panic, leaving him swaying where he stands. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he reopens them, the panic has been replaced by a type of defeat that is infinitely more difficult to look at.
You step forward cautiously when you see how his body is trembling, hand hovering uncertainly between the two of you, silently asking permission to help him. Prince Jacaerys stares at your outstretched hand, then at the bed on the far side of the room; you think, for a second, that he will attempt to cross on his own, but then his nostrils flare as he exhales, inclining his head just enough to grant you the permission his pride refuses to voice aloud.
Carefully, you slip beneath his uninjured arm, taking care to avoid the fresh bandages. He is warmâstill warmer than he ought to beâand you canât help but wonder if his fever has returned or if this is just how hot dragon princeâs typically run.Â
He leans into you only slightly, weight settling lightly against your shoulderâyou suspect he is trying very hard not to. The journey from the door to your bed is scarcely a dozen paces, but it feels much longer.Â
âWe were supposed to win this victory for her,â Prince Jacaerys says after a moment, voice breaking, the words slip free before he can stop it. You do not think the admission is meant for you, so you stay quiet. His throat works as he swallows. âWe were supposed toââ
He cuts himself off, looking away again as you help him ease back down into your bed. As soon as he is seated, something close to relief crosses his face, lashes fluttering; the pain is still there, but not quite as terrible as it was when he was straining on his feet.
âThe fact that you are alive at all is a victory, my prince,â you say quietly, even though you do not think the words will be of any reassurance. âYou should rest. The sooner you are well, the sooner we can figure out a way to get you home. Iâll cook up a stew and wake you when itâs finished.â
He exhales again, jaw tightening as he looks away with a resigned expression. You turn your back on him to deal with the mess you made of the kitchen area, grimacing slightly at everything spilled across your floorboards and the table.Â
âWhat is your name?â Prince Jacaerys asks you suddenly. âI think I ought to know the name of the woman who saved my life.â
You let a soft breath, glancing over your shoulder at him. He is pained still, but there is an earnest look in his eyes that makes you falterâyou remember how close you were to leaving him to his fate, and you have to look away again before he can catch the guilt that crosses over your face.
With a shaky exhale, you give the prince your name, and you cannot help but feel as though your life has irrevocably changed, and you do not think for the better.Â
ââââââââââââ
The sea is on fire.
Jace cannot tell where the flames end and the water begins. Ships burn around him, masts collapsing into the waves with deafening cracks; men scream as theyâre consumed by the fire, and dragons let out terrible shrieks as they dive low to bring down another ship full of Myrish mercenaries.Â
He tries to focus.
He chases after the rogue dragon, hoping to kill the rider before the dragon can burn any more of the Velayron fleetâor worse, catch Baela and Moondancer. But there is panic clawing at his chest, and smoke and salt clogging his throat and stinging his eyes. Heâs screaming at Vermax to fly faster, to kill the rider, and thenâthen he sees Rhaena.Â
He sees Rhaena atop the wild dragon, and she is screaming, crying, desperately trying to get it under control, and Jace is confused, reeling as he yells at Vermax to stop at the last second. He and dragon both diving down away from the chase before Vermax could breathe fire on his cousin.
Rhaena does not have a dragon, he thinks, trying to figure out what is happening, and Rhaena is supposed to be with his brothers, and his brothers are captured by the enemy, and he isnât sure if Stormcloud and Aegon made it to shore, and there is too much going on, andâ
âand Vermax is falling.Â
Vermax is banking hard, being dragged down into the sea, and Jaceâs stomach lurches. Heâs yellingâbeggingâVermax to fly, and Vermax is trying, heâs trying so hard, wings beating smoke through the air. He shrieks as another bolt catches him in the wing, and Jace feels the pain himselfâhe feels the pain, the primal fear, everything that Vermax does, because Vermax is his, and he is Vermaxâs, and they are bonded, and Vermax is drowning, and the water is so cold, and Jace cannot feel his legs or his hands or his face.
He fumbles as he tries to unhook himself from the saddle, choking on water and air, maybe a sob, as Vermax sinks into the sea, a stream of bubbles rising to the surface as he cries for Jace, slowly disappearing into the dark waters. Jace desperately tries to dive after him, as if he has the strength to hold them both above the sea, because Jace has already lost Luke, and heâhe cannot lose Vermax.Â
Not the dragon who had slept beside his cradle before he was old enough to walk, the hatchling he had grown up alongside, whose neck had once fit beneath his arm, whose first uncertain flights had ended with both of them tumbling into the sandy shore of Dragonstone while his mother laughed herself breathless.
Jace does not know a life without himâhe does not want to know a life without him. His earliest recollections are not of nursery songs or wooden swords, but of warm green scales beneath tiny hands and the deep, rumbling croon that had lulled him to sleep when he was scarcely more than a babe.Â
When Jace learned to walk, Vermax learned to fly; when Jaceâs voice deepened, Vermaxâs roar had too.Â
There has never been a Jacaerys without Vermax.
But Jaceâs lungs are burning, and he cannot see the familiar green scales anymore, and his body is reacting, seizing and spasming because there is no air left in him and water all around. He does not know which way is up and which way is down, the water is too dark and too cold, and he cannot think, butâbut he sees the bubbles. He sees the bubbles, and he follows them, and even as Vermax sinks to the bottom of the sea, he saves his rider one final time.Â
He reaches the surface with a gasp, gulping the smoky air, and everything hurts. His arms ache, his chest is too tight, his eyes burn, and he cannot breathe, because Vermax is gone. He can feel that Vermax is gone; there is a gaping hole in his chest where his dragon used to be, and Jace does not know what to do, he does not know how to live anymore, and he wantsâ
He wants his mother.
He just wants his mother.Â
He hears the cheers before he feels the first arrow, gaze lifting to the sky as he searches for Baela and Moondancerâthey are not too far, he thinks, she'll come for him.
And then, thereâs a dull throb in his shoulder blade as he pulls himself over a floating piece of driftwood, but he hardly takes note of the pain, because everywhere hurts, because Vermax is gone, because he wants his mother. He turns when he hears the cheering, and he sees the men on the ship, and he sees the crossbows and the bows and the Myrish banners, but he does not see anything at all, really, blinking once, staring.
The second arrow catches him closer to the chest.
And thenâthen all he remembers is sea.Â
White foam and bubbles, vicious currents and sharp rocks. He thinks he is dead more than he thinks he is alive, but there is so much pain. There is pain and emptiness, and Jace just wantsâ
â... prince, the stew is ready.â
Jace startles awake, breath hitching in the back of his throat. His body tenses immediately, because he does not remember where he isâhe remembers the sea and the waves and rocks and pain and Vermax, but he does not rememberâŚ
The cottage. Waking up alone. The door opening, the fearâwas he captured? Where is he? Where are his brothers? Where is Baela? What was Rhaena doing on the wild dragon? Mother, mother, motherâ
You avert your eyes suddenly, an awkward expression on your face, and Jace suddenly remembers. He remembers you, the apple you passed him as you tended to his wounds; how he held a knife to the throat of a woman who is risking her own life to save his. He remembers that he is stuck bedridden in the bed of a commoner while his mother thinks heâs dead and fights for her throne alone.
He opens his mouth to apologizeâto tell you that he will leave as soon as he is able, that he will ensure youâre properly compensated for saving his lifeâbut he falters when he feels something hot and wet drip down his face.
He lifts his hand to his cheek and wipes at his face, looking down at the wetness smeared on his fingertips. For a long moment, he does not understandâseawater, maybe? But he is no longer being tossed around by the sea. He is warm in your cottage, the hearth burns low and your blankets are tangled around him. He blinks once, and another fat droplet of water rolls from his eye down his cheek.
Is he crying?
Heat rushes to his face so quickly he thinks it rivals the fever. He wipes away furiously, not sure if itâs more or less humiliating that youâre pretending not to notice for his sake, turning your back to him to ready the table.Â
Jace has wept before, more than most ought toâfor the father who taught him fishing and sea shanties, and the other who passed before either of them could speak the truth out loud, for the grandfather he never truly knew, for the brother who felt less like a brother and more like his other halfâbut never, never in front of a stranger.Â
Jace promptly clears his throat and pulls himself together. He glances at you, praying that his face does not betray him, an excuse on his lips as takes a deep breath. Then he falters, mouth watering instantly, gaze cutting to the side where you are busy ladling stew into two chipped wooden bowls, back politely turned, as though you never noticed anything at all.
Jace doesn't think heâs ever been this hungry. He has dined in castles all his lifeâroasted swan, lemon cakes, arbor wines. He has consumed the finest meals Westeros has to offer and found them lacking, but he almost feels dizzy with need and pleasure at the scent of the stew you made.
âItââ Jaceâs voice is hoarse from sleep. Embarrassed, he clears his throat again to try to even it out. âIt smells good.â
You look at him over your shoulder with a small smile and murmur demurely, âIâm sure nothing compared to what youâre used to, my prince.â
âI do not know that,â he says lightly as he forces himself to his feet, grimacing as pain immediately shoots through his body.Â
Everything achesâhis chest, his shoulders, his legs, his arms, his head. In truth, all he wants to do is curl up and sleep more; he cannot bear to keep going. Not now. Not after Vermax, after Luke, after making such a terrible mistake that he might have cost his mother her throne. His stomach flips at the thought, and he fights a shuddered breath.
He needs to keep goingâthere is no other choice. He needs to get back to Dragonstone as soon as possible.
You pause in the middle of setting the bowls on the table at his words to give him a questioning look. âMy prince?â
âI have not tasted it yet,â he tells you, forcing levity into his tone, because you have saved his life, tended to his wounds, and now stand over a pot of stew you cooked for him, worrying that it is not good enough to satisfy a prince. The least he can do is ease your mind. "It would seem unfair to compare a meal I have not eaten yet.â
You blink at him once, and then you smile slightlyâitâs a genuine one, not like the small one you forced in his direction just beforeâand Jace tries his best to return it as he crosses the small room. He shuffles the last few steps toward the table with considerably less grace than he would have liked.
âPerhapsâ you reply softly, waiting for him to take a seat at the table before you do as well.Â
You do not immediately lift your spoon, and Jace hesitatesâfor a brief moment, an old childhood lesson surfaces. Do not eat until someone else has tasted it. Feasts at Kingâs Landing and supper at Dragonstone had been meticulous about such thingsâcups were poured and tasted before his mother, and plates were sampled before any of them took a bite of their food. The paranoia claws at him and disappears as quickly as it comes.
You had dragged him half-dead from the sea, spent days stitching his wounds and breaking his fever, and gave up your bed so he could sleep comfortably. If you wished him dead, you need only have left him on the shore.Â
âI never thanked you for what youâve done for me,â he says at last, fingers grazing the wooden spoon dipped into the broth. âWhen I return to Dragonstone, I shall speak with my mother. She will see you properly rewarded.â
âThere is no need,â you murmur, finally taking a sip of the stew when Jace lifts the spoon to his lips.Â
The broth is hot enough to sting his tongue, but he scarcely notices. It is a simple mealâcarrots and celery, chunks of what he thinks is rabbit. It is the plainest thing he has eaten in years, and yet somehow, the best meal he can remember.
His stomach twists painfully as warmth settles into it, and before he can stop himself, he takes another spoonful, then another, the hunger of the past week overwhelming whatever restraint court etiquette had once led him. It is only when half the bowl is gone that he realizes how quickly he is eating.
Embarrassed, he forces himself to slow, lowering the spoon.
âMy apologies,â he says, clearing his throat. âI fear I may have forgotten my manners.â
âYou havenât had a meal in over a week, my prince. Youâre allowed to be hungry,â you say with a faint smile.
Jace lets out a half-hearted huff of amusement through his nose, though his smile fades as quickly as it came, returning to conversation to try to force himself to slow down and show a modicum of etiquette before he embarrasses himself further.Â
âThere is every need for reward,â he disagrees, leaning forward slightly to look at you. For the first time since he woke in your cottage, he actually observes youâyou cannot be much older than he is, beautiful certainly, but thereâs a weariness in your expression that Jace cannot help but feel as though is his fault. âYou saved the life of the heir to the Iron Throne. You surrendered your bed, tended wounds that would have killed most men, and risked the wrath of the Greens simply by allowing me beneath your roof. I cannot allow that debt to go unanswered.â
You stare at him for a moment, a conflicted expression on your face, and Jace shakes his head slightly as he presses.
âI do not possess enough coin to repay such a debt myselfââ nor, he suspects, does anyone ââbut my mother will. You needn't live here any longer if you do not wish to. We could see your cottage rebuilt if the fighting has damaged it, or grant you land elsewhere, if that is what you'd prefer. Whatever you ask, so long as it is within my power, I will see it done.â
You are quiet for a long while as Jace finishes off the stew, but he expects hesitation as you mull over what to ask for: gold, land, a better ship, perhaps. Your gaze drifts off to the side, and Jaceâs follows it, faltering when he realizes that youâre looking in the direction of what remains of Sharp Point.
Thatâs right, he remembersâyou mentioned your cottage was less than a league away.Â
From where he sits, he can just see the destruction through the small window. The town is little more than scorched foundations and splintered timbers now, dragonfire having reduced generations of work to ash in the span of a single afternoon. He cannot look at it for long, stomach twisting so unpleasantly that he fears the stew you just cooked him might come right up.Â
You stay silent for so long that Jace wonders if you have not heard him, and his lips part to repeat himself futilely.Â
âWe used to think they were beautiful, you know?â you say, voice barely over a breath. âWe would watch your family fly from Kingâs Landing and Dragonstone. The children would cheer and call out the names of whatever dragon and royal was passing overhead, even though they knew you could not hear them.â A wistful smile tugs briefly at your lips, and Jace suddenly feels a rock in his stomach, a heaviness that he cannot seem to push away. âThere is a wild dragon in these partsâwe call him Grey Ghost. He hunts fish along the eastern shore. I see him frequently when I take my fatherâs boat out. We lived alongside him for yearsâsometimes he swoops down close when we have a big catch, but he never bothers us. My father always said he was curiousâshy, but curious.â
You exhale suddenly as you rise to your feet; Jace wonders if he should ignore the unshed tears in your eyes the same way you politely did for him.
âThen the Prince Aemond and Vhagar came,â you say at last. âThe only thing I want, my prince, is for this war to end, but I know you cannot give me that. If you don't mind, I should see to my father's boat before the tide turns. There is more stew in the pot if you would have it. Then you ought to rest. You'll not heal by arguing with your own body.â
Jace opens his mouth.
He does not know what he intends to say, caught between guilt and indignation, because everybody wants the fighting to endâhe does, his mother does. Maybe not Daemon, but why do you say it as though he stands opposed to peace? He did not choose this, nor did his mother. It is not his fault that the Greens usurped his mother's throne. Â
He desperately tries to formulate an answer, but how is he supposed to respond to that? What were they meant to do? Yield to the usurpers? Stand aside while his motherâs birthright was stolen? Let Luke die for nothing? Should he say that he is sorry for your loss? That his mother would never have done this? That Vermax would never have burned a fishing village? That this was all the Greens? That they fight to avenge what happened here?Â
That dragons are not cruel creatures, he feels the need to tell you when he sees the disdain on your faceâit is the people who ride them. It is the Greens. It is Aegon and Aemond, Alicent Hightower and her father.
His lips are parted as though to respond, but he only finds himself staring at you helplessly.Â
You incline your head politely before slipping out the door, the cool air rushing briefly into the cottage before it shuts behind you once more. Jace remains where he is, staring into the last of his stew until the steam no longer rises from it, the reality of his situation settling over himâVermax is dead, Luke is dead, and his mother believes them both lost. He does not know whether his brothers and cousins are safe, if his mother still fights for her crown. He is useless, wounded in a fisherman's cottage, alive only because a woman from a town his family failed to protect chose mercy over sense.
He does not think he has ever felt less like the heir to a kingdom.
Summary: After the Battle of the Gullet, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should be dead, instead, he washes ashore on a mysterious island, where a lonely woman nurses him back to health. As the days pass, Jace finds himself falling in love with his beautiful savior.
CW: The relationship contains themes of coercion, emotional dependency, and captivity. SMUT
Genre: Dark Fantasy
AN: First Jace fic! Different from what i usually write, comments are appreciated!
WC: 26K
He should be dead.
The last thing he remembered with any coherence was the sky, a sky choked with smoke and screaming. Beneath that memory lay only fractured images that swam behind his closed eyelids, fragments of chaos that refused to assemble into anything whole.
Vermax.
The name pierced through the darkness like a blade. His dragon. His beautiful, loyal Vermax, who had hatched from an egg placed in his cradle when he was nothing more than a squalling babe with a tuft of dark hair that already marked him as different from his silver-haired mother. Vermax had shrieked as the grappling hooks tore into his wings, as the Triarchy ships surrounded them, as the sea rose up to swallow them both.
Jaceâs chest seized, he remembered the impact. He remembered the bone-shattering crash as Vermax slammed into the churning waters of the Gullet, and he remembered the dragonâs terrified, agonized roar. That sound had carried more than pain. It had carried something that felt like betrayal, as if Vermax could not understand why the sky had abandoned them. The cold of the sea had been absolute, salt water flooding his mouth, his throat, his lungs.
He had surfaced somehow. He had gasped and choked and reached for something, a piece of wreckage or a shattered mast, though the memory refused to sharpen. The waves had tossed him like a childâs toy. Through the spray and the smoke, the first bolt had taken him in the shoulder. The second had buried itself in his side, just beneath the ribs. The third was a blank space in his memory, a sensation his mind had simply refused to record.
What remained was the feeling that followed. A slow, spreading numbness. The way his limbs had stopped obeying him. The way the sky had tilted and spun, grey and gold and red bleeding together like watercolors on parchment. His last conscious thought had not been of his mother, nor of his brothers, nor of duty or the Iron Throne or the war that was tearing the realm apart. It had been of Vermax.
Iâm sorry. Iâm sorry. Iâm sorry.
â
He woke to the glow of candlelight, the light came from dozens of candles, the air smelled of salt and something else, something green and living. Herbs, perhaps, or flowers. It was an earthy smell, a growing smell, utterly unlike the smoke and blood and terror that had filled his nostrils before the darkness took him.
Jace tried to move, and his body screamed in protest. Every muscle, every joint, every inch of skin felt like an open wound packed with burning coals. Pain lanced through his shoulder, his side, his ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, and even that small motion sent fire racing down his spine.
âYou shouldnât move.â
The voice was soft and female, carrying an accent he had never heard before. The vowels were rounder than he was used to, the cadence lilting and unfamiliar, Jace turned his head slowly, every vertebra in his neck protesting, and saw you.
You were kneeling beside the bed, on a cushion of deep blue silk, and you were looking at him with an expression of such open relief that Jace forgot, for a moment, how to breathe.
You were beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the powdered faces and elaborate hairstyles of court ladies. You wore no jewelry, no rings, no gems at your throat. Your dress, if it could even be called that, was unlike anything he had ever seen, layers of fabric in pale ivory and soft gold that had been draped rather than tailored. The cut left your arms bare, and the neckline was wide and flowing. It was clothing from a warmer world entirely, bearing no resemblance to the heavy velvets and structured bodices of Westeros.
âYouâre awake,â you said, and your smile was like dawn breaking over still water. âI was beginning to fear you wouldnât open your eyes again.â
Jace opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was a dry, rasping croak. His throat felt as though it had been scoured raw.
You reached for a clay cup beside you, glazed deep blue, and lifted it to his lips with a careful hand. âDrink. Slowly. Youâve been without water for a long time.â
The water was cool and impossibly clean. It slid down his throat like mercy. He drank until you pulled the cup gently away, your expression soft but firm.
âI said slowly. Your body has been through a great ordeal.â Jace sagged back against the furs, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Even drinking had exhausted him. He could feel the heat radiating from his own skin, a fever burning beneath the surface. âWhereâŚâ His voice was barely a whisper, cracked and ruined. âWhere am I?â
You set the cup aside. âMy home. I found you on the shore.â
He tried to form another question, but his thoughts were slipping away from him like water through fingers. The shore. The battle. The arrows.
âYour body was full of arrows,â you said quietly, as if you had followed the path of his scattered thoughts. âYou looked dead. I do not know how you survived.â A pause. âBut I am glad you did.â
Jace stared at you, his vision blurring and sharpening in turns. The candles made halos around your silhouette. The cave walls curved around you both like cupped hands. He lay in a bed of soft furs with clean linen bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder. The space around him was strange, a blend of cave stone and polished wood and silk cushions.
He tried to focus on you again, on your strange dress and your unfamiliar accent and the way you looked at him without the calculating gaze of a courtier. Your expression held only simple, unguarded relief.
âYouâŚâ he started, but the words crumbled before he could shape them. He was so tired. The heat in his blood was growing worse, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air of the cave.
âShh.â You leaned closer and pressed a cool cloth to his brow. Your touch was impossibly gentle. âYou have a fever. The arrows were laced with something, I think. A poison, or something like it. It will take time to burn it out.â
Jaceâs eyes fluttered. The cool cloth was a mercy, and your hand was steady against his skin.
âWhere is this island?â he managed, the question barely a whisper. âHow far from the battleâŚâ
You shook your head, a small and quiet movement. âThis is my island. That is all that matters now. You are here, and you are safe.â Your hand brushed the dark, sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead. âYou are my guest. I will take care of you.â
He should have questioned you. He should have demanded to know where he was, who you were, how any of this was possible. He was a prince, raised on suspicion, trained to trust no one. But the fever was burning through him, and you were so calm, so steady, and your hands were so gentle, and he was so gods-damned tired.
âRest,â you murmured. âYou are not strong enough to stay awake. But you will be. In time.â
Jaceâs eyes closed against his will. The darkness pulled at him, soft and warm. The last thing he felt was the cool cloth on his forehead and the gentle weight of your hand smoothing his hair back from his face.
âSleep, Jace,â you whispered.
â
The days blurred together like watercolors left in the rain, Jace measured time by the changing quality of light that filtered through the cave's entrance, a distant glow that brightened and dimmed in a rhythm he slowly came to recognize. Morning, afternoon, evening, night. The cycle repeated itself over and over. He could not see the sky from his bed, only the rough stone ceiling and the flickering candles and, whenever he turned his head, the soft silhouette of you moving through the chamber.
You were always there, that was the first thing he truly understood once the fever broke and his mind began to piece itself back together. You were always there. When he woke gasping from nightmares of Vermax screaming, the arrows striking, the water closing over his head, you were beside him with your cool hand on his forehead and your voice murmuring words he could not quite catch but that soothed him anyway. When the pain in his wounds flared hot and unbearable, you were there with the medicine, spooning bitter liquid past his cracked lips and following it with cool water to wash away the taste. When the fever spiked and he thrashed in the furs, soaked in sweat and half-delirious, you were there with cloths dipped in cold water, pressing them to his chest, his neck, his brow.
He did not know how you slept. He did not know when you ate. He only knew that every time he opened his eyes, you were somewhere nearby, kneeling beside his bed or mixing herbs at the stone table or simply sitting on your silk cushion with your hands folded in your lap, watching the candles burn.
âYou donât have to stay,â he rasped one night, though it might have been day for all he could tell the difference. His voice was still weak and still cracked, but it no longer hurt to speak. âYou must have other things to do.â
You looked up from the bowl you were mixing, and your lips curved into that soft, patient smile he was beginning to recognize. âI have nothing more important than keeping you alive, Jace. That is a full-time occupation, it seems.â
He wanted to argue, but exhaustion pulled him back under before he could form the words, the fever broke on what might have been the fifth day, or the sixth, or the seventh. He had lost count.
He woke drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead and the furs kicked to the foot of the bed, but his head was clear. For the first time since he had opened his eyes in this cave, his thoughts were not swimming in a haze of heat and pain. He could feel the wounds in his shoulder and side, still tender and still healing, but they no longer burned with the sharp, insistent fire of infection.
He was alive. He was going to stay alive, and that meant he had to get back.
His mother. His brothers. The war. Every day he spent lying in this bed was another day the Blacks fought without him, another day his family believed him dead, another day the Greens advanced their stolen throne. He had to get stronger. He had to return to Westeros.
âYour thoughts are very loud.â Jace turned his head. You were sitting on your cushion beside the bed, a piece of fabric in your hands and a needle moving in small, precise stitches. He had no idea how long you had been there. He had not even noticed you.
âMy thoughts?â he repeated, his voice hoarse but steadier than before.
âYou are frowning at the ceiling as though it has offended you.â You did not look up from your sewing, but there was a hint of amusement in your voice. âI assume you are planning your escape.â
Jace blinked. âI was not planning an escape. I was only thinking about how to leave.â
âThat is the same thing.â
âIt is absolutely not the same thing.â Now you did look up, one eyebrow raised, and Jace felt his face warm. He had walked directly into that.
âYou want to go back,â you said, and your voice was quieter now, the teasing edge softened into something more serious. âIt is natural. You have people waiting for you. A family. A war, perhaps, judging by the state of you when I found you.â You returned your attention to your stitching. âI understand.â
He was quiet for a moment, watching your hands move. The fabric you were working on was pale blue, the stitches neat and even. You were making him more bandages, he realized.
âYes,â he admitted finally. âI have to go back. My family needs me. They probably think I am dead.â
âThen we will work to make you strong enough to leave.â You bit off the thread with your teeth, smooth and practiced. âBut you cannot rush it. The wounds are healing well, but if you push too hard, too fast, you will undo all my hard work. And I have worked very hard, Jace.â
There was something almost stern in your tone, and despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. âI would not dream of undoing your hard work.â
âGood.â You set the sewing aside and rose to your feet, your gossamer skirts rustling softly against the stone floor. âYou have been lying in that bed for days. I think it is time you tried to sit up properly. Do you think you can manage it?â
Jace took a breath. His shoulder throbbed. His side ached. But the fever was gone, and his head was clear, and he was so gods-damned tired of lying flat on his back.
âYes,â he said. âI think I can.â It was harder than he had expected.
His muscles had atrophied during the days of fever and stillness. His arms shook when he pushed himself up, and the wound in his side pulled sharply, and by the time he was sitting upright against the carved headboard, he was breathing hard and sweating again. But he was sitting. He was upright. He was looking at the cave from a new angle, and it was strange and wonderful and disorienting all at once.
âThere,â you said, and you were smiling now, truly smiling, something brighter than the gentle curve of lips he had grown used to. âThat was not so terrible, was it?â
âTerrible,â Jace managed, still catching his breath. âAbsolutely terrible.â
âBut you did it.â
He looked at you, at the way the candlelight caught the strange color of your eyes, and he found himself almost smiling back. âI did it.â
â
The days that followed fell into a pattern, you would help him sit up in the mornings, propping him against the headboard with pillows and furs. You would change his bandages, your fingers quick and efficient, your touch never lingering longer than necessary but never cold or impersonal either. You would bring him food, strange fruits he had never tasted before, sweet and tangy, and a porridge made from some grain he did not recognize, and fresh water that tasted cleaner than anything he had ever drunk in his life.
And you would talk about small things, the weather on the island, the herbs you used in your medicines, the fish you caught in the tidal pools below the cliffs. You had a dry, quiet sense of humor that surprised him, and a way of tilting your head when you were thinking that he found himself watching for.
In return, he told you things about himself. He was still a prince, still trained in caution, and so he held back the details that mattered most. But he told you about Dragonstone, about the volcanic rock and the sea winds and the dragons that wheeled in the sky. He told you about his brothers, careful to speak of them in the present tense even though Luke was-even though Luke had become something he could not yet say aloud.
He told you other things instead. That he missed the sea. That he had never been good at dancing. That his mother had taught him to read when he was four years old, and he had been so proud that he had carried the book around for a week straight, showing it to anyone who would look.
You laughed at that, a real laugh, bright and surprised, as if you had not expected him to say something so ordinary. âA week?â
âI was very proud of myself.â
âI can imagine. A little prince with his book, demanding that everyone admire his genius.â
âI did not demand. I simply made strong suggestions.â
âThat is the same thing.â
âIt is absolutely not the same thing, and I will not have my diplomatic skills insulted.â
You laughed again, and Jace realized with a jolt of surprise that he liked making you laugh. It was a good sound, your laugh, unstudied and unguarded, the sound of someone who spent too much time alone and had forgotten to be self-conscious about joy.
You were his only companion. His caretaker. His only visitor.
He had not seen another person even once in all the days he had been lying in this bed. No one came to the cave. No one called your name from outside. No one brought supplies or messages or news. It was only you, always you, appearing and disappearing through the winding passages of the cave system with the quiet confidence of someone who knew every stone by heart.
He had not asked about other people. It felt rude, somehow, when you were taking care of him and feeding him and changing his bandages and sitting beside him through the long, fevered nights. To ask about the absence of others would have sounded like an accusation, as though your company were insufficient, as though he had grown bored of you.
So he did not ask, but the question sat in the back of his mind, growing heavier with each passing day.
â
The day he walked for the first time was the day everything began to shift.
It was morning, the pale silver light filtering through the distant cave entrance, and you had just finished changing his bandages. The wounds were healing well, the flesh knitting together into angry red scars that would fade to white in time. You told him he would have a collection of them, a constellation across his shoulder and ribs. He said he would wear them with pride. You called him ridiculous.
âToday,â you announced, rising to your feet and brushing off your skirts, âyou are going to walk.â
Jace looked up at you. âWalk.â
âYes. Walk. Put one foot in front of the other. I assume you knew how to do it before you arrived here.â
âI knew how to walk.â
âThen today you will remember.â
It was harder than sitting up. It was harder than anything he had done since waking in this cave. His legs felt as though they belonged to someone else, weak and unsteady, the muscles wasted from days of lying still. You had to help him, your arm around his back and his arm across your shoulders, bearing some of his weight even though he tried very hard not to let you. You were smaller than him and slighter, and he was terrified of crushing you.
âYou will not crush me,â you said, as if reading his thoughts. âI am stronger than I look. Stop trying to hold yourself up with pride alone and lean on me.â
He leaned on you, by the time he had taken five steps across the chamber, his legs were shaking and sweat was dripping down his face. But he had walked. Five steps. Then ten. Then, a few days later, he crossed the entire chamber without help, his hand braced against the wall and his breath coming hard and fast.
And the day after that, you smiled at him and said, âI think it is time you saw the sun.â
The cave system was a maze, Jace knew, that your home was larger than the single chamber where he had been lying. He had seen you disappear down passages and emerge from different directions, had caught glimpses of other rooms, a kitchen carved into the rock, a storage chamber lined with jars and barrels, a space where water trickled down the wall into a natural basin. But he had not grasped the full scale of it until you led him through it yourself.
The passages twisted and turned, branching off into side tunnels and dead ends. Some were narrow, barely wide enough for a single person to squeeze through. Others opened into wide chambers with high ceilings, lit by candles placed in alcoves and by thin shafts of daylight that pierced down through cracks in the rock. The walls were rough in some places and smooth in others, worn down by time and water and the patient labor of whoever had carved this place.
âDid you build all this?â Jace asked, his voice echoing strangely in the stone corridors. He was walking slowly, one hand on the wall for balance, but he was walking.
You glanced back at him. âThe caves were here long before me. I only furnished them.â
âYou furnished them very well,â he muttered, stepping around a carved wooden chest that would not have looked out of place in a merchantâs manse.
âI had time.â
That was all you said, as if it explained everything. As if it explained anything at all.
The light grew brighter as you walked, the grey-silver of filtered daylight giving way to a warm golden glow. Jace could smell the outside now, salt air and flowers and something green and growing. His heart beat faster. He had been underground for so long that he had almost forgotten what the sky looked like.
Then you stepped through the cave entrance, and he followed you, and the world opened up around him.
It was beautiful, there was no other word for it, no word that could possibly capture what Jace saw as he stood at the mouth of the cave, blinking in the sudden brightness, his eyes struggling to adjust after so many days of candlelight and shadow.
The island spread out before him like something from a dream, the cliffs where the cave was carved dropped down to a shoreline of white sand that gleamed in the morning sun. Beyond the beach, the water was the most extraordinary shade of blue he had ever seen, turquoise at the shore, deepening to sapphire further out, clear and calm and glittering with reflected light. The sky was vast and cloudless, a pale, soft blue that seemed to go on forever.
But it was the island itself that stole his breath, flowers grew everywhere, wild, sprawling, abundant blooms that cascaded down the cliffs and carpeted the meadows in explosions of color. He saw flowers in shades he had never encountered before, deep violet, vivid orange, a blue so pale it was almost silver. Trees heavy with fruit he did not recognize bent over natural pathways, their branches laden with something golden and round, something dark and pear-shaped, something that resembled a pomegranate but was the color of honey.
The air was warm and sweet, thick with the scent of blossoms and salt and damp earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance, strange, melodic calls that were not quite like any birdsong he knew. A waterfall tumbled down the cliff face to his left, a thin silver ribbon that caught the light and threw rainbows into the air.
Jace stood there, swaying slightly on his still-weak legs, and he could not speak.
âI know,â you said quietly, standing beside him. âIt is a great deal, after so long underground.â
âI have never seen anything like this.â
âIt is home.â Your voice was matter of fact, but there was something softer underneath it, something almost sad. âCome. There is a place to sit not far from here. You should not stand for too long yet.â
He let you lead him to a flat outcropping of rock cushioned with moss and ferns, and he sat down heavily, still staring out at the impossible landscape. The flowers swayed in the breeze. The waterfall sang its endless song. The sea glittered and danced.
And there was no one here, the realization crept up on him slowly, settling over his shoulders like a cold cloak. He looked out at the island, the meadows, the fruit trees, the white sand beach, the cliffs, and he saw no houses and no fishing boats pulled up on the shore. He saw no paths worn by the tread of many feet and no smoke rising from chimneys. He heard no voices calling in the distance. He saw no sign of human life at all.
Only the flowers. The birds. The waterfall. The sea.
And you.
â
He did not say anything at first, you helped him walk a little further each day, down to the edge of the meadow where the strange golden fruit grew on low, sprawling trees, up to a ridge that overlooked the eastern shore where the water was even bluer and the sky even wider. You showed him the tidal pools, teeming with tiny creatures he had never seen, brightly colored shells that moved on dozens of legs, star-shaped animals that clung to the rocks, fish that darted and flashed like living jewels.
And everywhere you went, you were the only person, he saw no footprints but yours, he saw no structures but the cave. The only signs of cultivation were a small vegetable garden tucked into a sheltered hollow behind the cliffs, neat rows of plants he recognized, mostly herbs and some kind of root vegetable, and further back, half-hidden by a grove of flowering trees, a low stone wall enclosing a patch of churned earth.
He heard the pigs before he saw them, a grunting, snuffling chorus rose and fell, punctuated by the occasional indignant squeal. Jace followed the sound, moving carefully along a narrow path between two rock formations, and emerged into a clearing where at least two dozen pigs were milling about in a large stone enclosure. They were fat and healthy, their coats glossy, their ears flopping. Piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt while larger sows dozed in the shade of the trees.
And you were in the middle of them, you were scattering something from a woven basket, scraps of fruit rinds and vegetable peels and some kind of grain, and the pigs crowded around you like old friends. You were speaking to them in a low, affectionate murmur, and your hands moved among them with the ease of long familiarity.
You looked up and saw him standing at the edge of the enclosure. Your expression shifted, just slightly. Something guarded, something wary, flickered behind your eyes before you smoothed it away.
âYou found my pigs,â you said, Jace leaned against the stone wall, catching his breath. The walk had been longer than he had realized, and his side was aching. âYou have a lot of pigs.â
âThey keep me company.â You tossed another handful of scraps into the enclosure, and a particularly large sow shouldered her way forward to claim it. âAnd they are useful. The meat, the fat, the leather. Nothing goes to waste.â
He watched you for a moment. The pigs jostled around your legs, grunting and snuffling, and you moved among them without the slightest hesitation, like a shepherdess, like someone who had been doing this for years.
âWhere are the other people?â he asked.
Your hands stilled on the basket. You did not look up.
âWhat other people?â
âThe villagers. The farmers. Whoever else lives here.â Jace gestured vaguely at the enclosure, at the pigs, at the island beyond. âYou said this was your island. But someone has to help you with all of this.â
He trailed off. You were looking at him now, and your expression was strange, as though you had been expecting this question and dreading it in equal measure.
âThere are no other people, Jace,â you said quietly.
He stared at you. âWhat do you mean, there are no other people?â
âI mean it is only me.â You set the basket down on the stone wall. Your hands, now empty, folded together in front of you. âThere is no village. There are no farmers. There are no fishermen or shepherds or traders. There is only me, and the pigs, and the birds, and the fish in the sea. That is all.â
The words refused to make sense. Jace shook his head, a short, sharp movement. âThat cannot be right. You cannot live here alone. How do you survive? How do you get supplies? There has to be someone else, a trader who comes by ship, a neighboring island, something.â
âThere is no one else.â Your voice was calm and steady, but there was something raw underneath it now. âNo ships come here. No traders. No neighbors. The island is hidden. It does not appear on any map. No one knows it exists.â
âThat is impossible.â
âIt is simply true.â
Jace pushed himself off the stone wall, ignoring the protest of his healing wounds. His heart was beating too fast. His thoughts were spinning. âHow did you get here, then? How do you live? You cannot simply be alone on an island forever.â
âI did not say I chose it.â
The words stopped him cold, you were still standing in the middle of the pig enclosure, surrounded by grunting, oblivious animals. Your strange dress fluttered in the breeze, the pale fabric catching the sunlight. Your face was composed, but your eyes were dark with something old and heavy and carefully buried.
âMy brother sent me here,â you said. âAs punishment.â
Jace opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. âPunishment for what?â
âFor disobeying him.â Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings. âI did something he could not forgive. And instead of killing me, he sent me here. He had the means to do it, the ships, the men, the knowledge of this place. He left me with supplies and seeds and animals and told me I would never leave.â
âYou have been here ever since,â Jace said slowly.
âI have been here ever since.â
âHow long?â
You looked away, out over the blue water, and for a moment you were utterly still. âA long time.â
Jaceâs mind was racing, scrambling to fit the pieces together. A brother with enough power to exile someone to a hidden island. Ships and men and the means to keep the place secret. A lord powerful enough to make his sister disappear without anyone asking questions.
âWho is your brother?â he asked.
Your jaw tightened. âA lord. That is all you need to know.â
âA lord of what? Where? What house?â
âIt does not matter.â Your voice sharpened, just slightly, the first hint of steel he had ever heard from you. âWhat matters is that he is powerful enough to do this. Powerful enough that if I try to leave, if I find a way off this island and set foot on the mainland, I will be found and I will be brought back, and the consequences will be worse than exile.â
Jace stared at you, you were alone. Completely, utterly alone. You had been alone for what might have been months or years or decades. You had built a life in a cave, furnished it with silk and polished wood, grown a garden and raised pigs and taught yourself to heal. And no one had come for you. No one had visited. No one had even known you were here.
Until a dying dragon prince washed up on your shore.
âI am sorry,â he said, and the words felt pathetically inadequate. âI did not know.â
âHow could you have known?â You picked up the basket again, your movements brisk and practical, as if you were eager to change the subject. âYou were unconscious when you arrived. It is not as if I introduced myself and gave you a tour. Welcome to my prison, please enjoy the flowers.â
âIt is not a prison.â You looked at him, and your smile was tired and sad and strangely kind. âIt is a very beautiful prison. But it is a prison nonetheless.â You turned and walked away, the basket tucked under your arm, the pigs trailing after you like a strange, grunting entourage. Jace watched you go, your bare shoulders and your flowing dress and the way you moved through the meadow as if you had memorized every inch of it.
And he understood, suddenly, why you had never hesitated to save him. Why you had sat beside his bed for days on end. Why you had laughed at his stupid jokes and argued with him about the proper way to brew medicinal tea.
You were lonely.
Jace stood at the edge of the pig enclosure, the sun warm on his face and the sea glittering in the distance, and he thought about his mother and his brothers and the war and the throne.
He had to go back. He had to, but as he watched you disappear into the grove of flowering trees, your figure growing smaller and smaller against the impossible beauty of the island, he realized that leaving might be harder than he had thought.
â
In the days following your revelationâit is just me, there is no one elseâJace threw himself into the work of recovery with a ferocity that surprised even him. He woke early, before the light through the cave entrance had shifted from silver to gold, and he pushed his body harder than was probably wise. He walked the island's paths until his legs stopped shaking. He climbed the low cliffs until his arms stopped burning. He ate everything you put in front of him, slept when you told him to sleep, and bit back every complaint when you made him drink your bitter medicines.
"Someone is motivated," you remarked one morning, watching him pace the length of the chamber. He had been doing lapsâback and forth, back and forthâtesting the strength of his newly healed legs. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to pink, then to white, and the pain was a distant memory now, only flaring when he moved too quickly or twisted the wrong way.
"I have to get home," he said, not breaking stride. "My mother needs me. My brothers need me. Every day I spend here is another day they think I'm dead."
You nodded, your expression unreadable. "Then we had better build you a boat."
The boat took shape slowly, you showed him a grove of trees on the eastern side of the island, tall and straight, their wood pale and close-grained, ideal for shipbuilding. You had an axe, kept sharp and well-oiled in one of the storage chambers, and you handed it to him without ceremony.
"I will help where I can," you said, "but I am not a shipwright. You will have to figure out most of it yourself."
Jace had never built a boat before. He had sailed on dozens of them but knowing how to sail and knowing how to build were two very different things. He felled the first tree through trial and error, the axe handle blistering his palms, the sweat dripping into his eyes. By the time the trunk crashed to the ground, he was exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure.
"Not bad," you said from where you sat on a nearby rock, a pile of mending in your lap. You had been watching him work for the better part of an hour, offering no advice but plenty of company. "For a prince who has never done a day's labor in his life."
"I've done labor."
"Name one example."
He opened his mouth and swung the axe into the fallen trunk with more force than necessary. "I trained with swords. That's labor."
"Swords are not labor. Swords are play for princes."
"Then what do you call this?" He gestured at the tree, the axe, his blistered hands.
You smiled, that slow, warm smile that was becoming as familiar to him as the sunrise. "I call it a good start."
The days passed, Jace shaped the wood as best he could, stripping branches and hewing planks with tools you provided from the depths of the cave. Some of them were strangeâshaped for hands slightly different from his own, their handles worn smooth by use that was not his. He didn't ask where they came from. He was learning that there were questions you would answer and questions you would not, and the line between them was invisible until he crossed it.
But you were always there, always nearby.
He had grown accustomed to the rhythm of your presence, the rustle of your strange, flowing dresses, the soft pad of your bare feet on stone, the quiet humming you did when you worked. You brought him water when the sun grew hot. You checked his scars every evening, your fingers against his skin, pronouncing him healed and healing well. You sat with him while he ate, and you talked about nothing and everything, and your laugh was the brightest sound on an island full of bright sounds.
"I should be further along by now," he said one evening, staring at the skeleton of the boat with frustration. The hull was taking shape, but slowlyâtoo slowly. At this rate, it would be months before it was seaworthy.
"You are one person building a boat by hand," you pointed out. You were sitting cross-legged on a flat rock, sorting through a basket of herbs. The setting sun caught the planes of your face, the curve of your bare shoulders, the way your dress draped across your lap in soft folds. "I think you are allowed to take your time."
"I don't have time." He ran a hand through his hairâlonger now, curling past his ears, in desperate need of a trim. "My motherâshe needs me. The warâ"
He stopped.
The war.
What war?
The thought slipped through his mind like water through fingers, there and gone before he could catch it. There was a war. Of course there was a war. He was fighting in it. Or he had been fighting in it. That was why he had been in the Gullet, why Vermax hadâ
Vermax.
His chest tightened. He remembered the dragon's scream. He remembered the water closing over his head. He remembered the arrows.
But what was the war about?
"The war," he repeated, more quietly now. "I have to get back to the war."
You looked up from your herbs, and your expression was gentle. Unreadable. "You will. When the boat is ready, you will."
"Right." He nodded, the motion jerky. "Right. The boat."
He picked up the axe and got back to work.
â
One afternoon you were down by the shore, sitting in the shade of a flowering tree while Jace worked on the boat's hull. "Brothers," he said, sanding down a rough edge of wood. "Three of them. Wellâtwo full brothers. Two half-brothers. That's four. No, wait." He frowned. "Joffrey and... and the little ones. Aegon and..."
He stopped, the name wouldn't come.
"Viserys," you said quietly.
"Viserys. Right. Viserys." He shook his head, laughing at himself. "I don't know why I couldn't remember that. He's the youngest. Named after my grandfather."
You said nothing. You only watched him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and your fingers were very still on the mending in your lap.
"And Luke," Jace continued, the name coming easier now. "Lucerys. He's the second one. He's..."
Dead.
The word surfaced from somewhere deep, cold and sharp as a blade. But it didn't hurt the way it should have. It was distant. Muffled. Like a scream heard through a closed door.
"He's what?" you asked.
Jace blinked. "He's... he's at Dragonstone. With our mother. Waiting for me to come home."
You nodded slowly. "I am sure he misses you."
"He probably thinks I'm dead." Jace turned back to the boat, running his hand along the smooth wood. "I have to get back soon. Before he does something stupid. He's always doing stupid things, Luke. He's impulsive. Reckless. He doesn't think before he acts."
Luke is dead. Luke was torn apart by Vhagar above Storm's End. You weren't there. You didn't protect him.
But the voice was fading. Growing quieter. Harder to hear over the sound of the waves and the breeze and your soft, steady breathing.
â
The boat took longer than it should have, some days Jace worked on it from sunrise to sunset, his hands raw and calloused, his back aching, his mind fixed on the singular goal of getting home. But other daysâmore and more days, as the weeks wore onâhe found himself... distracted.
The waterfall, for one thing.
It tumbled down the cliff face on the western side of the island, a silver ribbon that caught the sunlight and scattered it into rainbows. The pool at its base was deep and clear and shockingly cold, fed by some underground spring that kept it cool even in the heat of the afternoon. Jace had discovered it on one of his exploratory walks, and he had been drawn back to it again and again.
You came with him sometimes. You would sit on the rocks at the edge of the pool, your feet dangling in the water, your dress hiked up to your knees. You would tilt your face toward the sun and close your eyes, and Jace would find himself watching you instead of the waterfall.
"Are you going to swim or are you going to stare?" you asked one day, not opening your eyes.
"I wasn't staring."
"You were staring."
"I was... appreciating the scenery."
You opened one eye. "The scenery."
"The waterfall," he said, gesturing vaguely. "It's very nice."
You laughedâthat bright, unguarded laugh that he had come to loveâand he felt something warm bloom in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with the sun.
"Come on, then," you said, and before he could react, you slid off the rock and into the water with a splash that sent droplets arcing through the air like diamonds.
Jace stared at you. You surfaced a moment later, your hair plastered to your head, your dress clinging to your skin, the wet fabric rendered nearly transparent. The water lapped at your collarbones, and you were laughing again, and you lookedâ
You looked beautiful.
He had known you were beautiful from the moment he opened his eyes in the candlelit cave. But there was something different about you now. Something that had shifted, the curves of your face seemed softer. The color of your eyes seemed deeper. The way you movedâthe way you laughedâthe way you looked at himâit all seemed more vivid. More precious.
"Are you coming in or not?" you called, treading water in the center of the pool.
Jace pulled his shirt over his head and dove in after you, the water was cold and clean and wonderful. They splashed each other like children, chasing each other around the pool, ducking under the waterfall and emerging gasping and laughing. Jace couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like thisâfreely, openly, without the weight of duty pressing down on his shoulders.
Your dress clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric outlining every curve of your body. Jace tried very hard not to notice. He failed. "You're staring again," you said, but your voice was different now. Quieter. Almost shy.
"Sorry." He wasn't sorry.
â
"I was betrothed," he said one evening.
You were sitting on the rocks overlooking the western sea, watching the sun sink toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and pink. Jace sat beside you, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your arm near his. The boat sat half-finished on the beach below, forgotten for the day.
"Was?" you asked.
"Am. I am betrothed." He frowned. "I think. We were supposed to marry before... before I left."
"Before the battle."
"Before the battle, yes." He stared out at the sunset, trying to conjure her face. His betrothed. She was a Targaryen, he was sure of that. Silver hair. Purple eyes. A dragon. But her nameâher name wouldn't come. "She's my cousin, I think. Or my step-sister. Both, actually. It's complicated."
"What is her name?"
Jace opened his mouth. The name wasn't there.
"I can't remember," he said, and the admission felt strange. Not frighteningâit should have been frighteningâbut strange. Like discovering a pocket in a familiar coat that he had never noticed before. "I know her face. She's... she's fierce. Brave. She has a dragon. A small one, I think. Or maybe it's large. I can't..."
He trailed off.
You were quiet for a moment. Then, very softly: "Do you love her?"
"Love?" He considered the question. "I don't know. She's family. She's duty. She's... she's what I'm supposed to do, but i care for her, a lot."
"That is not the same as love."
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
He didn't say anything else. Neither did you. But your arm was warm against his, and the sunset was beautiful, and when he finally walked you back to the cave, his hand found the small of your back without thinking, and you leaned into the touch instead of pulling away.
â
He forgot about the betrothed entirely by morning.
â
The days grew warmer. Or perhaps they didn'tâperhaps it was only that Jace had stopped paying attention to the passage of time. The boat sat on the beach, half-finished, and he told himself he would work on it tomorrow. Tomorrow came and went, and he spent it with you insteadâwalking the island paths, gathering fruit from the strange golden trees, sitting by the waterfall and talking about nothing.
What are you doing? a voice whispered in the back of his mind. You have to go home. Your mother needs you.
But what did his mother need him for? There was somethingâsomething importantâsomething about a throne, a war, a betrayal. But the details were foggy now, blurred like ink left out in the rain.
He remembered her face. Her silver hair. Her voice saying his name, but the rest was slipping away, piece by piece, day by day, and the more he forgot, the more he noticed you.
The way you moved through the meadow, your skirts brushing the wildflowers. The way you hummed when you cooked, some melody he had never heard before but that felt familiar anyway. The way you looked at him sometimes, quick glances from beneath your lashes, as if you were checking to make sure he was still there. Still real. Still alive.
The way your hand felt in his when he helped you over a rocky patch of ground.
The way your laugh echoed off the cliffs and came back to them multiplied, a chorus of joy.
The way your eyes caught the light of the setting sun and held it, like they were made of something more than flesh.
He loved you.
He loved the sound of your voice and the curve of your smile and the gentle patience with which you had nursed him back from the edge of death. He loved your dry humor and your quiet strength and the way you never pressed him for answers he didn't have. He loved the life you had built here, alone on an island that should not exist, and he loved that you had let him into it.
He loved you.
And the more he loved you, the less he remembered.
â
The morning was hot and still, Jace had woken early, as he always did now, but instead of reaching for the axe or walking down to the beach where the half-finished boat sat waiting, he had gone straight to the waterfall.
The pool was cool and clear, fed by the endless rush of water that tumbled down the cliff face in a silver curtain. He shed his clothes on the rocks, just the loose linen breeches you had sewn for him from fabric found somewhere in the depths of the cave, and dove in without hesitation. The cold shock of the water stole his breath and cleared his head, chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep.
He floated on his back, staring up at the pale blue sky, watching the birds wheel overhead. His dark hair fanned out in the water around him. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to thin white lines, barely visible now. He was stronger than he had ever been, his muscles hardened by weeks of manual labor, his skin tanned golden by the sun.
He should have been thinking about the boat, about going home, about his mother and his brothers and the war.
He was thinking about you. Your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes caught the light. The way your hand felt in his. The way you looked at him sometimes, soft and searching, with something unspoken hovering just behind your lips. He had kissed you before, small kisses, brief and chaste, a press of his lips to your forehead when you fell asleep beside him, a brush of his mouth against your knuckles when you handed him a cup of water. But he had not kissed you properly. He had not kissed you the way he wanted to, the way he had been imagining for weeks, the way that left no doubt about what he felt.
He was thinking about that when he heard your footsteps on the rocks above. "You started without me."
Jace turned in the water, treading easily, and looked up at you. You were standing at the edge of the pool, barefoot on the smooth stone, wearing your dress of pale purple gossamer that drifted around your ankles in the faint breeze. The sun caught the planes of your face and the curve of your neck and the dip of your collarbones, and the sight of you struck him silent for a moment.
"Someone has to," he called back, forcing his voice into something approaching normal. "You sleep too late."
"I was gathering herbs. Some of us have work to do."
"Swimming is work. It builds character."
You laughed, that bright, warm sound that he had come to treasure more than anything else on this island. "Is that what you are doing? Building character?"
"Come in and find out."
You hesitated for just a moment. Your eyes met his across the water, and something flickered in your expression, something tentative and questioning, as if you were making a decision and waiting to see if he would notice.
Then you reached up and untied the clasps at your shoulders.
The dress fell and Jace stopped breathing.
You stood above him in nothing but the sunlight, bare to the sky and the water and his gaze. The curves of your body were soft and smooth, your skin glowing in the morning light. Your breasts were full and round and tight in the open air. Your waist dipped inward in a graceful curve before flaring out to the swell of your hips.
You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"Are you coming in or not?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.
You smiled, then you dove into the water in one clean, graceful arc, slicing through the surface with barely a splash.
You surfaced inches from him, the water lapped at your collarbones, but beneath the surface he could see the pale shape of your body, distorted by the ripples, impossibly close. Droplets clung to your lashes. Your hair floated around you like ink spilled in water. Your lips were parted and slightly wet, and you were looking at him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and Jace forgot how to think.
"The water is nice," you said, and your voice was teasing and light, but there was a tremor underneath it.
"Nice," he repeated. He could not stop staring at your mouth.
"Very refreshing."
"I had not noticed."
"No?"
"No."
His hand found your waist beneath the water. Your skin was cool and slick and impossibly soft. You did not pull away. You drifted closer, your bare legs brushing against his, and the contact sent a jolt through him like lightning striking water. He could feel the heat of your core through the cool water, a promise of the warmth waiting for him, and his cock stirred against the confines of his breeches.
"Jace," you whispered.
That was all. Just his name, but the way you said it, breathless and aching and full of want, broke something open inside him.
He kissed you, his mouth strong against yours. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand came up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. You made a small, desperate sound against his lips and kissed him back just as fiercely, your arms winding around his neck, your bare breasts pressing against the hard plane of his chest.
You were bare beneath his hands, there was nothing between his palms and your skin but water. He could feel every curve of you against the hard muscle of his own. His thumbs traced the ridges of your middle, and you shivered, and he swallowed the sound you made. His hands slid lower, cupping the full curve of your arse, kneading the firm flesh, pulling your hips against his so you could feel the rigid length of him pressing against your belly through the wet linen of his breeches.
"Jace," you gasped against his mouth. "Jace, Iâ"
"Tell me to stop." His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "Tell me to stop and I will stop."
"Do not stop." Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting into his sun-warmed skin. "Please do not stop."
He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened for him with a shuddering breath. The taste of you, sweet and clean and faintly herbal from the medicines you were always brewing, flooded his senses. He explored your mouth thoroughly, learning the texture of your tongue, the ridge of your teeth, the softness of your inner cheeks. You moaned into his mouth and sucked on his tongue, and the sensation went straight to his groin. He could feel your heart pounding against his chest, or perhaps that was his own heart, hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.
Your legs wrapped around his waist beneath the water. The movement was instinctive and natural, and it brought your hips flush against his, the heat of your sex pressing against the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches. He groaned against your mouth, low and rough, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. You were so warm. Even in the cool water, the core of you radiated a heat that he could feel through the fabric separating them.
He walked you backward through the pool, still kissing you, still holding you, until your back met the smooth stone of the cliff wall. The waterfall rushed beside them, a curtain of silver sound. He kissed the hollow of your throat, feeling your pulse flutter against his lips. He traced the delicate line of your collarbone with his tongue, tasting the clean, mineral tang of the spring water on your skin. He let his mouth drift lower, over the swell of your breast, and when his lips closed around one tight, pebbled nipple, you gasped and arched against him, your fingers fisting in his hair.
He lavished attention on your breasts, suckling first one and then the other, his tongue circling the tight buds, his teeth grazing them with just enough pressure to make you moan. Your breasts were perfect in his hands, full and soft, fitting his palms as though they had been made for him. He kneaded them gently, thumbs brushing over the wet peaks, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your head had fallen back against the stone, your lips parted, your eyes squeezed shut. The sight of you like this, bare and wanting and completely surrendered to his mouth, made his cock throb painfully against his breeches.
"I have wanted this," he breathed against your skin, his voice ragged. "Gods, I have wanted this for so long."
"Then do not wait any longer."
He lifted his head and looked at you. Your eyes were dark with want, your lips swollen from his kisses, your chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. The water lapped at your breasts, revealing and hiding, and he could feel every inch of you pressed against him, every curve, every soft place, every point of contact where your body met his.
"Are you sure?" he asked. He needed to hear it. He needed to know.
In answer, you cupped his face in your hands and pulled him down to you. "I have never been more sure of anything in my life."
He kissed you again, soft and sweet this time, a promise and a question all at once. Then his hand slid down your body beneath the water, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your legs tightened around his waist, and he felt you tremble against him. His fingers found the heat of you, warm and slick even in the cool water, and he traced the folds of your sex with a feather-light touch. You gasped and bucked against his hand. He explored you slowly, learning the shape of you, the soft outer lips, the slick inner petals, the hard pearl of your pleasure at the apex. When he circled that sensitive nub with his thumb, you cried out, a sound half-lost in the rush of the waterfall. He swallowed it with his mouth, kissing you through it, his touch gentle and searching and patient. He slid one finger inside you, feeling the tight, wet heat of your body grip him, and you moaned against his lips. He added a second finger, stretching you gently, his thumb still circling your sensitive peak, and you writhed against his hand, your inner walls clenching around his fingers.
"Please," you whispered, the word broken and beautiful. "Please, Jace. I need you inside me."
He withdrew his fingers, and you made a small sound of protest that he silenced with a kiss. He reached down and freed himself from his breeches, his cock springing out, hard and thick and aching. The head was dark with need, a bead of moisture already forming at the tip. You glanced down through the clear water and your eyes widened at the sight of him, long and rigid, curving slightly upward toward his belly.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured, positioning himself at your entrance. He rubbed the head of his cock against your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing you both with the promise of what was to come. "I want to watch your face when I enter you. I want to see what I do to you."
Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back. "Then do it. I want to feel you."
He pushed into you slowly, so slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The water made everything liquid and easy, but he wanted to savor this, the way your eyes fluttered closed, the way your mouth fell open, the way your body welcomed him. You were so tight and so warm and so perfect around him. He could feel every ridge and fold of your inner walls as they gripped him and fluttered and stretched to accommodate his size. Your heat enveloped him, searing even through the cool water, and he had to stop and breathe when he was fully sheathed, his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back.
"Look at me," he murmured. "Please. Look at me."
Your eyes opened. They were dark and shining, full of something that looked very much like love. "You feel incredible," you breathed. "I am so full."
He began to move, he withdrew almost completely, feeling the drag of your body against every inch of his length, and then pushed back in with a slow, deep thrust that made you both gasp. The sensation was overwhelming, the tight clutch of your body, the heat, the way your inner muscles rippled around him. He set a steady rhythm, each stroke deliberate and full, sliding into you to the hilt and then pulling back until only the head remained inside you. The water splashed gently around them, ripples spreading outward in concentric circles with every movement. Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper with every thrust. Your hands slid down his spine, tracing the ridges of muscle that flexed with every movement. You were making soft, breathless sounds, gasps and moans and fragments of his name, and he caught each one with his mouth, kissing you, drinking you down like wine.
"You feel incredible," he groaned against your lips. "So tight. So perfect. I could stay inside you forever."
"So do you," you gasped, your words barely coherent, slurred with pleasure. "Harder, Jace. Please."
He did not need to be asked twice. His pace quickened, his hips slamming against yours with increasing force. The sound of their coupling echoed off the cliff walls, wet and rhythmic, the slap of skin against skin beneath the water. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and he watched them, mesmerized by the way they moved, the way the water lapped at the peaks. He bent his head and captured one nipple in his mouth again, sucking hard, grazing it with his teeth, and you cried out sharply, your inner walls clenching around him.
He shifted his angle slightly, tilting his hips, and on the next thrust you cried out sharply, your head falling back against the stone, your whole body arching against his. He had found the right spot, that sensitive place deep inside you, and he drove into it again and again, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your brow furrowed and your lips parted and your eyes lost focus, and you were babbling now, a stream of broken words, his name and pleas for more and incoherent praise.
"There," you gasped. "Right there. Do not stop. Please do not stop."
He did not stop. He could not have stopped if the world was ending. There was nothing but you, your body, your voice, your hands on his skin. He felt your inner walls begin to flutter around him, the first warning signs of your approaching climax, and he moved his hand between your bodies, finding the slick, sensitive pearl of you beneath the water. He pressed his thumb against it in tight, circling strokes, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
"That is it," he murmured against your ear, his voice low and rough. "Let go. I want to feel you come apart around me."
Your climax took you by surprise. He felt it building, the way your breath quickened, the way your nails bit into his shoulders, the way your body tightened around him until he could barely move. And then you shattered, crying out his name, your head thrown back, your whole body arching and shuddering against his. He felt the rhythmic pulsing of your release gripping his cock, your inner walls milking him in waves, and he watched your face contort with pleasure, your mouth open, your eyes squeezed shut, your cheeks flushed dark. The sight of you, bare and beautiful and completely undone, was enough to push him over the edge. He drove into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and let go. His release surged through him in hot, pulsing waves, spilling deep inside you, and he groaned your name against the curve of your neck, his body shaking with the force of his climax.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breathing slowed, your chest rising and falling against his. Your fingers traced lazy patterns on the back of his neck. He remained inside you, still half-hard, reluctant to separate from the warmth of your body. He could feel his seed and your slickness mingled together, warm and wet around him, and the sensation was so intimate, so perfect, that he never wanted to move again.
"Jace," you whispered, and your voice was hoarse and sweet and utterly content.
He lifted his head and looked at you. Your cheeks were flushed. Your lips were red and swollen. Your hair was a wild tangle around your shoulders. Your eyes were soft and hazy with satisfaction. You had never looked more beautiful.
"I love you," he said.
The words came out before he could stop them, before he even realized he was thinking them. But once they were spoken, he knew they were true. He loved you. He loved you so completely and so absolutely that he could barely remember what his life had been before you. You were everything. You were the sun and the sea and the stars. You were the only thing that mattered.
Your eyes widened. "I love you too," you said. "I have loved you since the moment you opened your eyes."
He kissed you again, softly this time, tenderly, a kiss that tasted of water and salt and promises. And then he held you, your body still wrapped around his, the waterfall cool against his back, the sun warm on his face.
They did not leave the pool for a long time. When they finally climbed out, their skin pruned and their limbs heavy with satisfaction, they did not bother to dress. Jace carried you to a patch of soft grass beneath the flowering trees, and he laid you down among the fallen petals, pink and white and gold. He knelt between your spread thighs and looked down at you, at your bare body glistening with water droplets, at the place where his seed was already beginning to leak from your swollen folds, and he felt himself harden again at the sight.
He made love to you again, slower this time, sweeter. He kissed his way down your body, his mouth tracing the hollow of your throat, the swell of your breasts, the plane of your stomach. He paused to dip his tongue into your navel, making you squirm, and then continued lower, pressing kisses to your hip bones, the sensitive crease where your thighs met your body. When he reached the junction of your thighs, he settled between them and looked up at you. Your scent was intoxicating, musky and sweet and mixed with the salt of his own release. He could see the evidence of their earlier coupling, the glistening slickness that coated your folds, and the sight made him groan with want.
He tasted you properly for the first time. His tongue parted your folds, tracing a slow path from your entrance to the peak of your pleasure. The taste of you combined with the taste of him was earthy and raw and utterly intoxicating. You cried out and fisted your hands in the grass, your hips rising to meet his mouth. He took his time, learning what you liked, alternating between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and focused, circling attention to your sensitive peak. He slid two fingers inside you as he sucked on that tight bundle of nerves, curling them forward to press against that sensitive spot on your inner wall, and you came apart against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head, your voice breaking on his name, your body gushing wetness that he lapped up eagerly.
After that, they walked back to the cave hand in hand, bare and unashamed, their clothes forgotten on the rocks by the waterfall. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, and the island was alive with birdsong and the scent of flowers. Jace kept his hand on the small of your back as you walked, unable to stop touching you, his thumb tracing small circles against your skin.
When you reached the bedchamber, the bed where he had first woken, the furs soft and the candles flickering on the walls, he took you again. This time you pushed him down onto his back and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. You looked down at him and you reached between your bodies to guide him to your entrance. He watched his cock disappear inside you, inch by inch, watched the way your folds stretched to accommodate him, and the sight was almost enough to make him spend right there. You sank down until he was fully seated inside you, and you both moaned at the sensation.
You began to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sinuous rhythm. He watched you move above him, your breasts swaying with each roll of your hips, your stomach flexing, your head thrown back in pleasure. He reached up and cupped your breasts, rolling the tight peaks between his fingers, and you gasped and increased your pace. Your thighs flexed as you rose and fell, taking him deeper with every stroke. He guided you with his hands on your waist, helping you find a rhythm that made you both moan, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your hips.
"Look at you," he breathed, his voice full of wonder. "You are so beautiful riding my cock."
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and the new angle made you gasp. He thrust up into you from below, meeting your movements, and the wet sound of your bodies joining filled the chamber. Your inner walls were fluttering around him again, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He moved one hand to where your bodies were joined and pressed his thumb against your sensitive peak, circling it in time with your movements. You cried out and shattered above him, your body clenching around him, your back arching. The sight of you, lost in pleasure, pushed him over the edge. He thrust up into you one final time and spilled his seed deep inside you, groaning your name, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.
You collapsed against his chest, spent and trembling, and he wrapped his arms around you and held you close, still buried inside you. Your breath was warm against his neck. Your heart hammered against his chest. He could feel the thrum of your pulse where your bodies were still joined, and he never wanted to let you go.
You fell asleep like that, joined together, your body draped over his, and when you woke an hour later, the candles had burned lower and the light through the cave entrance had shifted to the gold of late afternoon. You stirred against him, and he felt himself harden again inside you, still buried in your warmth. You smiled sleepily and began to move your hips in a slow, lazy rhythm, and he rolled you onto your back and made love to you again, gentle and tender, whispering your name like a prayer.
After that day, they could not keep their hands off each other, it was as if a dam had broken. Every moment they were together, they were touching. His hand on the small of your back, your fingers tangled in his hair, his lips on your shoulder, your thigh pressed against his beneath the dinner table. The boat sat forgotten on the beach, the wood beginning to weather and grey in the salt air. The days blurred into a haze of sun and water and skin.
He took you in the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, the grass tickling your bare skin as he moved inside you, your legs wrapped around his waist and your fingers digging into his back. The sun was warm on his shoulders and the scent of blossoms was thick in the air. He rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him without breaking their connection, and you rode him among the flowers, your head thrown back, your breasts bouncing with every movement, the bright petals clinging to your damp skin.
You pulled him into the storage chamber one afternoon and pressed him against the cool stone wall. You sank to your knees before him on the worn stone floor, looking up at him and you freed him from his breeches with practiced hands. He was already hard, his cock springing out, the tip glistening. You wrapped your hand around the base of him, feeling the weight and heat of him in your palm, and then you leaned forward and took him into your mouth.
He groaned and buried his fingers in your hair as your lips closed around him. You took him slowly, deliberately, your tongue tracing the ridge on the underside of his shaft, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked. You worked him with your mouth and your hand in tandem, your head bobbing in a steady rhythm, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head on every upstroke. He watched you move, mesmerized, watching his cock disappear between your lips again and again, feeling the wet heat of your mouth, the gentle scrape of your teeth. When you took him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate his length, he groaned your name and tightened his grip on your hair.
You pulled back, your lips slick and swollen, a strand of saliva connecting you to his tip. You looked up at him and smiled, a slow, wicked smile, and then you took him deep again, hollowing your cheeks, increasing your pace. Your hand cupped him gently, rolling him in your palm, and the dual sensation pushed him closer and closer to the edge. When he could not hold back any longer, he warned you, his voice ragged, but you only took him deeper, and he spilled into your mouth with a ragged cry of your name. You swallowed everything he gave you, your throat working around him, and you did not pull away until he was spent and trembling.
You looked up at him, your lips slick and swollen, a tiny bead of his release at the corner of your mouth that you caught with your tongue. The sight of you, kneeling before him, having taken everything he had to give, made his spent cock twitch with interest. He pulled you to your feet and kissed you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue, and then he spun you around and bent you over the stone table where you mixed your medicines.
He bunched your skirts around your waist, baring you to his gaze. Your folds were already slick and glistening, your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. He ran his hand over the curve of your backside, kneading the firm flesh, and then he positioned himself at your entrance. He entered you from behind in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and you gasped and clutched at the worn stone surface. He set a hard, fast rhythm, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints and the other braced on the table beside yours. The sound of his hips slamming against your backside filled the small chamber, wet and rhythmic, punctuated by your breathless gasps and his low groans.
"Is this what you wanted when you got on your knees for me?" he asked, his voice rough. "Did you want me to bend you over and fuck you until you screamed?"
"Yes," you gasped, pushing back against him. "Yes, I wanted this. I wanted you."
He reached around and found your sensitive peak with his fingers, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The angle was perfect, driving him deep, hitting that spot inside you with every stroke. Your gasps turned to cries, your cries turned to screams, and when you came, your body clenching around him so tightly that he could barely move, he followed a heartbeat later, groaning your name into the curve of your shoulder, spilling himself deep inside you.
He stayed inside you until he softened, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade, both of you breathing hard. Then he pulled out gently and turned you around, and he kissed you softly, tenderly, his hands cupping your face.
Every night, they fell asleep tangled together in his bed, their bed now, and every morning they woke the same way. Sometimes he would wake first and simply watch you sleep, the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips curved into a faint smile as if you were dreaming of him. Sometimes you would wake first and trace the lines of his scars with your fingertips, until he stirred and rolled on top of you and the day began the way all their days began now, with your legs around his waist and your soft cries filling the candlelit chamber.
He could not get enough of you. He could not get enough of your taste or your scent or the sounds you made when you came apart in his arms. He could not get enough of the way your eyes fluttered closed when he kissed your neck, or the way your back arched when he ran his hands down your sides, or the way you whispered his name in the darkness, over and over, like an incantation. He learned every inch of your body, every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and every place that made you moan. He learned the rhythm you liked, slow and deep when you were tender, fast and hard when you were hungry. He learned how to read your body well enough to know which one you needed before you had to ask. He learned that you liked it when he talked to you while he moved inside you, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he loved you, how he wanted to stay buried in your warmth forever.
And every time he was inside you, every time you came apart in his arms, every time he lost himself in the heat and the pleasure and the overwhelming, consuming love he felt for you, something else slipped away.
In many ways, you were. You were his world now. You were everything.
And he was forgetting that there had ever been anything else.
â
The ship appeared on the horizon like a ghost from a life Jace had almost forgotten, he was down by the shore, skipping stones across the glass-flat water while you gathered shells further down the beach.
Then he saw it, a dark shape cut against the glare of the sun. At first he thought it was a cloud, or a trick of the light, or one of the strange birds that sometimes wheeled overhead. But the shape grew larger and sharper and resolved itself into masts and sails and a hull cutting through the water.
Jace's hand froze mid-throw. The stone dropped from his fingers and plunked into the shallows.
"Jace?" Your voice came from further down the beach, laced with concern. "What is it?"
"A ship."
The word felt strange in his mouth, foreign. He had not seen a ship in how long? Months? Years? He could not remember. Time had stopped meaning anything on this island.
He squinted against the sun, his heart beating faster. The ship was large, a warship by the look of it, three masts and a reinforced hull. As it drew closer, he could make out the banner snapping from the mainmast.
A seahorse. Silver on sea-green.
Velaryon.
The name hit him like a wave. His grandfather's house. His mother's allies. His family. The memories surged up from wherever they had been hiding, Dragonstone, Driftmark, the fleet, Lord Corlys, the war.
The war. He was fighting a war. His mother needed him. He had to go home.
"They are here for me," he breathed, and then he was running down the beach, waving his arms over his head, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Here! I am here!"
The soldiers came ashore in a longboat, six of them, their armor gleaming in the sun, the Velaryon seahorse embossed on their breastplates. They were grizzled men, seasoned fighters, and when they saw Jace standing on the beach, their faces broke into expressions of shock and relief and barely contained joy.
"Prince Jacaerys," the lead soldier breathed, dropping to one knee in the sand. "We thought you were dead. The Queen, your mother, she sent ships to every corner of the Narrow Sea. She never gave up hope."
Jace pulled the man to his feet, his hands shaking. "My mother. Is she well? Is the war stillâ"
"The war continues, my prince. The queen has taken Kings Landing. She will be overjoyed to see you. Everyone believed you had perished at the Gullet."
The Gullet. The arrows. Vermax screaming. The water closing over his head.
Jace shoved the memories aside. "I am alive," he said, and he was laughing now, giddy with relief and adrenaline. "I am alive, and I am coming home."
He turned to find you, you were standing a few paces back, your hands clasped in front of you, watching the soldiers with an expression he could not read. Your strange dress fluttered in the sea breeze, and your eyes were dark and unreadable.
"This is Y/N," Jace said, pulling you forward. You came reluctantly, your bare feet dragging in the sand. "She saved my life. She pulled me from the water and nursed me back to health. I would not be alive without her."
The lead soldier bowed to you, respectful. "The Queen will want to thank you personally, my lady. You have done the realm a great service."
You said nothing. You only nodded, a small, stiff movement.
Jace pulled you aside while the soldiers began unloading supplies from the longboat. His hands were still shaking. His heart was pounding. He felt more alive than he had in weeks, or months, or however long it had been.
"You are coming with me," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I know what you told me about your brother and the exile. But I am a prince, and my mother is the Queen. Whatever power your brother holds, it is nothing compared to the Iron Throne. We can protect you."
Your eyes widened. "Jace..."
"I mean it." He took your hands in his, squeezing tight. "You saved my life. You have been alone here for so long, and I am not going to leave you behind. Come with me to Westeros. I will keep you safe. I swear it."
For a long moment, you only looked at him. Your sea-glass eyes searched his face, looking for something he did not recognize. It might have been doubt or hesitation or some reason to refuse, then you smiled.
"Yes," you said. "I will come with you."
Jace pulled you into his arms and held you tight, his face buried in your hair, breathing in the scent of you, salt and flowers and home. "We leave at dawn," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we leave at dawn."
That night, you cooked a feast, the soldiers were camped on the beach, their tents pitched in a neat row above the tide line. They had offered to share their rations, but you had insisted, telling them in that quiet, gracious way of yours that they were guests on your island and that you would feed them.
Jace helped you carry platters of food down to the beach. There was roasted pork, crackling and golden, seasoned with herbs from your garden. There were strange fruits sliced and arranged in intricate patterns. There was fresh bread baked in the stone oven at the back of the cave, still warm and fragrant. And there was wine, more wine than Jace had ever seen in the cave, deep red wine in clay amphorae, rich and dark and potent.
"Where did you get all this?" he asked, watching you fill cup after cup for the soldiers.
You smiled, your hands steady on the amphora. "I have been saving it. For a special occasion."
The feast was a joyous affair. The soldiers laughed and sang and told Jace stories of the war, battles won and lost, allies gained and betrayed, the endless, grinding struggle for the Iron Throne. He listened with half an ear, nodding in the right places, but his attention kept drifting to you.
You moved among the soldiers like a ghost, refilling cups, offering plates of food, your smile never wavering. The men thanked you with drunken enthusiasm, their faces flushed with wine and gratitude. Jace felt a swell of pride watching you, his savior, his love, soon to be his companion in Westeros, where he would shower you with every luxury you had been denied on this lonely island.
"To the Prince!" one of the soldiers bellowed, raising his cup. "To Prince Jacaerys, returned from the dead!"
"To the Prince!" the others roared.
Jace raised his own cup and drank deep. The wine was stronger than he expected, and it went to his head almost immediately. The stars above seemed to blur and swirl. The fire on the beach danced and flickered. Your hand found his under the table, and he squeezed it tight.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, we go home
â
He woke to sunlight and the sound of birdsong, his head pounded. His mouth was dry and sour with the aftertaste of wine. He groaned and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to drive back the ache that throbbed behind them. How much had he drunk? He remembered the feast. He remembered the soldiers laughing, the wine flowing, your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered the fire on the beach and the stars wheeling overhead and the giddy, overwhelming relief of knowing that he was finally, finally going home.
The soldiers, Jace sat up so fast that the furs tangled around his legs and nearly sent him sprawling. The soldiers. The ship. They were leaving at dawn. He had to get up. He had to get dressed. He had toâ
He stumbled out of the bed and through the winding passages of the cave, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone. The light grew brighter as he ran, golden and warm, and then he burst through the cave entrance and stopped dead at the edge of the cliff.
The beach was empty, his eyes swept the shoreline, back and forth, back and forth, searching for the tents and the longboat and the supply crates. He looked for the ship, the great Velaryon warship with its three masts and its silver seahorse banner, riding at anchor in the bay.
There was nothing there, the white sand stretched out below him, pristine and unmarked. The sea glittered in the morning sun, calm and blue and utterly empty all the way to the horizon. No ship. No sails. No sign that anyone had ever been here at all.
"What..." Jace's voice came out hoarse, cracked. He turned and ran down the path to the beach, his legs still unsteady, his heart pounding against his ribs. He reached the sand and walked through the place where the camp had been, his eyes scanning the ground for any trace of the soldiers. A footprint. A scrap of cloth. A ring of stones where the fire had burned. A spilled cup. Anything.
The sand was smooth and unblemished. The tide had come in during the night and erased whatever marks might have been left behind.
"Jace?" Your voice drifted down from the cliff above, calm and curious. "What are you doing?"
He looked up. You were standing at the mouth of the cave, barefoot, wrapped in one of your flowing dresses, your hair loose around your shoulders. The morning light caught the soft curves of your face and made your eyes gleam.
"The soldiers," Jace called up to you. "The ship. Where are they?"
You tilted your head, your brow furrowing slightly. "What soldiers?"
The question hit him like a physical blow. He stood there on the empty beach, staring up at you, waiting for you to laugh or smile or tell him it was a joke. You only looked back at him with mild, patient confusion.
"The soldiers," he repeated, his voice rising. "The Velaryon soldiers. Six of them. They came yesterday in a warship. They landed on the beach. We had a feast. You served them roast pork and wine. They were going to take us home this morning."
Your expression did not change. That small, puzzled frown remained, as though he were speaking a language you did not quite recognize.
"Jace," you said gently, "I think you must have dreamed it."
"I did not dream it." He was breathing hard now, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "They were here. They said my mother sent them. You spoke to them. Youâ"
He stopped, you were walking down the path to the beach now, your bare feet moving sure and steady over the rocks. When you reached the sand, you came to stand beside him, and your hand rose to rest against his cheek.
"You had a great deal of wine last night," you said, your voice soft and soothing. "More than I have ever seen you drink. Sometimes wine can make dreams feel very real."
Jace shook his head, pulling away from your touch. "It was not a dream. They were here. They were real."
"Then where are they now?" You gestured at the empty beach, the empty sea, the empty horizon. "Where is the ship? Where are the footprints? Where is the fire? If six men camped on this beach last night, where is the evidence of it?"
The sand was smooth. The sea was empty. There was no smoke rising from the ashes of a campfire. There were no tent pegs driven into the earth. There was no ship, no longboat, no sign that anyone but the two of you had ever set foot on this island.
"I do not know," he said, and his voice sounded thin and uncertain even to his own ears. "I do not understand."
You stepped closer, and your hand found his cheek again, and this time he did not pull away. Your palm was cool against his flushed skin.
"You have been through so much," you murmured. "Your body is still healing. Your mind is still healing. Dreams and memories and wishes can all blur together. But you are here with me, and you are safe. That is what matters."
Jace stared down at the sand. His head was pounding. His thoughts were tangled, slipping over each other like stones in a landslide. He remembered the feast so clearly, the taste of the roast pork, the sound of the soldiers' laughter, the weight of your hand in his. He remembered the banner snapping in the wind, silver seahorse on sea-green. He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, the shock and relief on his weathered face.
But the beach was empty.
"Perhaps you are right," he said slowly, and the words felt like surrender. "Perhaps I dreamed it."
You smiled, and your smile was warm and gentle and full of something that might have been relief. "Come back inside. I will make you something to eat. You will feel better once you have eaten."
He let you lead him back up the path and into the cave. He let you sit him down at the stone table. He let you place a plate of fruit and fresh bread in front of him, and he ate without tasting it, his mind still chasing the fragments of the dream that had felt so real.
That was what you had called it. A dream. And perhaps you were right. Perhaps the longing for home had grown so strong that his mind had conjured a rescue where none existed. Perhaps the wine had done the rest, weaving the longing into something that felt like memory.
Perhaps.
He did not think about it for the rest of the day, it was not until late afternoon that he noticed the pigs, he was walking past the enclosure without any particular destination in mind, his feet carrying him along the familiar path, when he stopped and frowned.
The pigs had always been numerous, he had never bothered to count them exactly, but now, looking at the enclosure, he could see that there were more than there had been the day before. Many more.
The sows jostled and grunted. The piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt. They were fat, healthy animals with glossy coats and floppy ears, rooting in the churned earth of the enclosure, there were at least twice as many pigs as there had been the day before.
Jace stood at the stone wall and stared at them. The pigs stared back, their small dark eyes unblinking, he stood there for a long time.
â
Days later, Jace found the hole by accident, though later he would wonder whether anything on this island ever happened by accident at all. He had been exploring, something he did more and more often now, wandering the island's paths and cliffs and hidden coves as if searching for something he could not name. He had walked further than usual that afternoon, following a thin stream that wound through a cleft in the cliffs, its water cold and clear and tasting faintly of minerals when he cupped his hands to drink. The stream led him deeper into the interior than he had ever gone before, past stands of flowering trees whose blossoms released a sweet, drowsy perfume, past moss-covered boulders that loomed overhead like the shoulders of buried giants and that was when he saw it.
A dark opening in the rock face, half-hidden by a curtain of flowering vines that spilled down from the cliff above in cascades of white and purple. The vines were thick and tangled, but they did not quite conceal the gap behind them. An opening wide enough for a man to walk through without ducking his head.
He should not have gone in. He knew that, even as his feet carried him forward, even as his hands reached out to push the vines aside. A voice in the back of his mind, the voice that had once belonged to a prince trained in caution and suspicion, whispered that he should turn around and walk back to the sunlit meadow and forget he had ever seen this place. But that voice had grown very quiet in the months he had spent on this island, and something else had grown louder.
The darkness swallowed him whole. He stood motionless for a long moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust, one hand pressed flat against the cool stone of the wall. The passage sloped downward, the floor worn smooth by the passage of time or water or the tread of feet. He could not see more than a few feet ahead, but he could feel the space around him opening up, widening into something larger than a simple tunnel. The air was dry and still, the silence so complete that he could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.
He walked deeper, the passage twisted once, then twice, then opened abruptly into a chamber so vast that Jace's footsteps echoed back to him from walls he could not see. Thin shafts of daylight pierced down through cracks in the ceiling high above, illuminating the space in pale, dusty columns that fell across the floor like the bars of a cage made of light and in those columns of light, Jace saw them.
Armor.
Dozens of sets, perhaps hundreds, arranged against the walls and stacked in corners and laid out on stone slabs that rose from the floor like altars. Breastplates and greaves and gauntlets and helms, their surfaces catching the thin light and throwing it back in dull gleams. Some were polished and gleaming, as if they had been cleaned and oiled with meticulous care. Others were rusted and crumbling, their edges flaking away into red-brown dust, their shapes barely recognizable beneath the corrosion of years or decades or centuries. Swords and axes and spears and maces, their blades dull with age and disuse, their hilts wrapped in leather that had rotted away to nothing.
And clothes, stacks and stacks of clothes, tunics and breeches and cloaks and boots and belts and gloves. They were piled against the walls in drifts that rose nearly to the ceiling, some of them neatly folded as if awaiting a return that would never come, others tossed carelessly into corners in tangled heaps of faded fabric. Some were new, the dyes still bright, the wool still soft, the linen still crisp and clean. Others were ancient and moth-eaten, their threads crumbling at the slightest touch, their colors bleached to ghostly echoes of what they had once been.
Jace stood in the center of the chamber and turned in a slow circle, his breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a fist beating against a locked door. The scale of it was incomprehensible. There were so many. Too many. More than one person could ever need. More than a dozen people could ever need. More than a hundred people could ever need. This was not a collection. This was a graveyard for the belongings of the dead.
His eyes caught on a breastplate near his feet, and the world tilted sideways, it was newer than the others. Its metal still held a faint gleam beneath a thin layer of dust, and its leather straps were still supple, and on its chest, embossed in silver that caught the light like a blade, was the seahorse of House Velaryon.
He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, his weathered face breaking into shock and relief. He remembered the feast on the beach, the crackling fire, the roast pork and the wine and your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered waking to find the beach empty and the sea bare and you standing at the mouth of the cave with your head tilted and your brow furrowed, asking him what soldiers he meant, telling him it was only a dream, only a dream, nothing more than a dream.
The soldiers who had never been here. The soldiers he had only imagined. Their armor was lying at his feet.
He stumbled backward. His heel caught on a gauntlet and sent it skittering across the stone floor with a sound like a startled crab. The noise echoed through the chamber and died away into silence, and Jace stood there with his hands shaking and his mind blank with a terror so absolute that it felt almost like calm. He could not think. He could not breathe. He could not make sense of what he was seeing, and some part of him understood with terrible clarity that making sense of it would destroy everything he had built on this island. Every moment of peace. Every hour of love. Every whispered word in the darkness. All of it balanced on the edge of this pit, and if he looked down, if he truly looked, he would fall.
"What are you doing here?"
He spun around so fast that his boots skidded on the stone floor, his heart slammed against his ribs, once, twice, a frantic drumbeat of pure animal terror.. "Nothing. I was only looking, I wanted to understandâ"
"You were only looking." You stepped out of the shadows and into the thin light that filtered down from the cracks in the ceiling, and the expression on your face made his stomach drop. The gentle warmth he had come to love was gone. The softness was gone. Your jaw was tight, the muscles corded beneath your skin, and your hands were clenched into fists at your sides, and your eyes were fixed on him with a glittering intensity that pinned him in place like a butterfly on a board. "At what, precisely? At the belongings of dead men? At the evidence of my sins? At the proof that I am not the gentle, lonely woman you thought you loved?"
Your hands unclenched and clenched again, the fingers curling and uncurling in a rhythm that seemed almost involuntary, as though you were strangling something invisible.
"I asked you a question, Jace." Your voice dropped, soft and dangerous. "What are you doing here?"
He should have been afraid. He was afraid. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, and his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, and every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to run. But something else rose up inside him too, some scrap of the prince he used to be, some stubborn remnant of the boy who had faced down enemies on the battlefield and never flinched. He straightened his spine and met your eyes and refused to look away.
"Why are they here?" he asked, gesturing at the armor that surrounded them. "All of these. Dozens of sets. Hundreds, maybe. The soldiers who came for me, their armor is here. The same breastplate, the same sigil. It wasn't a dream was it? What happened to them?"
You stared at him. A muscle in your jaw twitched.
"It does not matter."
"It matters to me."
"It does not matter, Jace." Your voice was rising now, cracking at the edges, splintering into something raw and desperate. "It should not matter, Jace. Those men are gone. Let them stay gone. Let the past stay buried. We were happy. We were so happy. Why could you not leave well enough alone?"
"Because I need to know the truth."
"The truth will not make you happy. The truth will not keep you warm at night. The truth will not hold you when you wake from nightmares and tell you that everything is going to be all right."
"The truth is the truth. I deserve to know it."
You laughed, it was sharp and bitter and jagged, the laugh of someone who had been hurt too many times to believe in fairness anymore. "You sound just like them. Every single one of them. They all wanted the truth. They all thought they deserved to know. And do you know what happened when they found it?"
Jace did not answer. He did not need to answer. The armors answered for him.
"What happened to the soldiers?" he asked instead. His voice was very quiet. "The ones who came for me. The ones whose armor is lying at my feet. What did you do to them?"
Your face crumpled, the coldness shattered and the fury crumbled and underneath it was something far older and far more terrifying, a grief so immense it had calcified into rage over centuries of solitude. The tears that spilled down your cheeks were real, hot and sudden and utterly convincing.
"Why do you want to leave me?" you screamed, the sound echoed off the stone walls and came back multiplied, a chorus of accusations that battered him from every direction. Your voice was raw and ragged, shredded at the edges, and the pain in it was so enormous that Jace felt his own heart clench in response. The anger that had been building in him, the righteous fury at being lied to, began to waver. How could he be angry at someone who was in so much pain? How could he accuse someone who was so clearly suffering?
"Why do you want to leave me?" you cried again, and your voice broke on the last word. "Why do they always leave? Every single one of them, they wash up on my shore and I save them and I nurse them back to health and I give them everything I have, everything I am, and they tell me they love me, they look me in the eyes and they swear they love me, and I believe them every time, every single time I believe them because I am so desperate to be loved by someone, anyone, and then they remember. They always remember. And they always leave. They always want to go home. Why am I never enough? Why am I never enough for anyone?"
The question hung in the air, raw and bleeding. Your chest was heaving. Your hands were shaking. You looked at him with those burning eyes, and Jace felt his resolve crumbling, you were not a monster, you were wounded, a woman who had been abandoned and betrayed so many times that she had forgotten how to trust. How could he blame you for what you had done?
"I love you," he said, and his voice was shaking but he meant it with every fiber of his being. "I love you. I do. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone."
"Then why do you want to leave me?" Your voice was small now, wounded, the fury draining away to reveal the vulnerability beneath. "If you love me, why isn't that enough? Why do you need to go back? Why can't you just stay here with me? Why do you need a mother and brothers and a war and a throne? Why can you not just stay here and be mine?"
"Because I have a family." He was pleading now, hating himself for the pain he was causing you. "Because I have a mother who needs me and brothers who are waiting for me. Because there is a war, a war I was fighting, a war I was supposed to win. Because I have a duty."
"A duty." You laughed, but it was a broken sound, a laugh that was really a sob. "Duty. Honor. Family. I have heard all of this before. Every single one of them said the same thing. They had to go back. They had responsibilities. They had people who needed them. And what about me? What about what I need? I needed them. I loved them. And they left me anyway. They all left me. Just like you will leave me."
"I don't want to leave you," Jace said, and the words felt inadequate, pathetic. "I want to go home, yes. I want to see my mother. I want to protect her from the enemies who would see her dead and her throne stolen. But I want to take you with me. I want you to meet her. I want to marry you properly, before the whole court, with a septon and a cloak and vows spoken in the light of the Seven. I want to make you my queen. When I sit the Iron Throne, you will sit beside me."
He reached for you, desperate to comfort you, to wipe the tears from your cheeks. You did not pull away, but you did not lean into his touch either.
"I do not care what you did to these men," he said, his voice low and fierce. "I do not care what you have done. I love you. I love you more than I have ever loved anything in my life. I just want you to come with me. Please. Come with me."
For a long moment, you were silent, then you shook your head. Slowly. Miserably. With the exhausted certainty of someone who had heard these same promises too many times to count.
"It is not true," you whispered. "They always say this. When my brother sends them here, they always tell me they love me. They always promise they will stay. They look at me with those earnest eyes and they swear they are different from the others, and I believe them. I always believe them. Because I want to believe. Because I want so desperately for it to be true. And then they remember who they were before, and everything changes."
You pulled your hands out of his grip and wrapped your arms around yourself, your shoulders hunching inward as though you were trying to make yourself smaller, harder to hurt. Jace felt a surge of protectiveness so strong it almost knocked the breath out of him. He wanted to hold you. He wanted to shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.
"They remember their old lives," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "and they tell me they will save me. They tell me they will break the curse and take me away from here and marry me in a real sept with real vows. They promise me everything I have ever wanted. And for a little while I let myself hope. I let myself believe that this time will be different. This time the love will be real."
Your voice caught on the last word, splintering into something that was almost a sob. Jace felt tears prick at the corners of his own eyes. Gods, how could anyone have done this to you? How could anyone have been so cruel?
"But they never mean it," you said. "They are only saying what they think I want to hear. They are only trying to placate me, to buy themselves time, to find a way to escape. And when they try to break the curse and they fail, when they realize their love is not strong enough, when they understand that they do not really love me at all, they run. They try to leave. And Iâ"
You stopped. Your hands were trembling violently now, the fingers twisting together in front of you.
"What do you do?" Jace asked, though he already knew the answer. He knew it, and it horrified him, and yet somehow he could not bring himself to judge you for it. You had been hurt. You had been betrayed. You had been left alone for so long that you had forgotten what it felt like to be held. How could anyone expect you to react with grace when another man tried to abandon you?
"I do not let them leave." Your voice was barely a whisper, so quiet he had to lean closer to hear it. "They do not get to leave. They do not get to go back to their families and forget about me while I rot here alone. They stay. They stay here with me. Forever."
"The pigs," Jace said.
"They are happier as pigs,"Â Your voice took on a defensive edge, almost childlike in its insistence. "They do not remember their old lives. They do not feel the disappointment. They do not want to leave. They are content. They have food and shelter and each other. I take care of them. I take better care of them than anyone ever took care of me." Your eyes searched his face, looking for understanding, looking for absolution. "They are better off this way. I gave them peace. I gave them a life without pain. Do you know what my brother gave me? Do you know what it feels like to be left here, alone, for centuries, with nothing but the sound of the waves and the crying of the gulls and the knowledge that no one is ever coming for you?"
Jace's throat was dry. "Why did you not do it to me?"
"Because I thought you were different." Your voice was small now, so small it was almost swallowed by the shadows of the cave. "Because when I looked at you, when I held you through the fevers and listened to you talk about your home and your family, I thoughtâI hopedâthat you might really love me." A tear slid down your cheek, and you did not wipe it away. "I thought you would stay."
The guilt hit Jace like a physical blow. You had hoped. You had let yourself hope, despite everything, despite centuries of betrayal and abandonment, and he was about to become just another name on the long list of people who had disappointed you. He was about to leave you, just like all the others. He was about to prove that your hope had been misplaced, that love was a lie, that no one would ever truly choose you.
"I am sorry," he said, and he meant it with every part of himself. "I am so sorry. I do not want to leave you. I want to stay. I want both things. I want to go home, but I want you to come with me. Can I not have both things?"
"No one ever wants both things." You pulled your hands away, and your expression was hardening again, the vulnerability sealing itself back behind walls of old resentment. "They want to leave. They always want to leave. As soon as they remember their old lives, they want to leave. And when they realize they cannot break the curse, they run. They all run. And I have to stop them because if I do not stop them they will leave me alone again, and I cannot be alone again, Jace, I cannot, I would rather die than be alone againâ"
"What curse?" Jace cut through your spiraling words, his voice urgent. "You said they could not break the curse. What curse?"
"It does not matter," you said. Your voice was empty now, drained of all the fury and grief that had filled it moments before. "You are going to leave me too. You are going to try to break the curse, and you are going to fail, because no one has ever succeeded, and then you are going to run. Just like all the others."
"Tell me what the curse is. Please. Let me help you."
You stared at him for a long, long moment. The candles flickered in their alcoves, their flames guttering in a draft he could not feel. The armor gleamed dully in the shadows, the relics of a hundred men who had stood where he was standing now and made the same promises he was making. Somewhere far away, muffled by stone and distance, the pigs grunted in their enclosure. The men who had failed. The men whose love had not been strong enough.
"My brother exiled me here," you said finally. Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings, as though you had told this story so many times that the words had lost all meaning. "Centuries ago. So long ago that the world I came from does not exist anymore, and when I disobeyed him, when I refused to do what he asked of me, he put a curse on this island as punishment. I cannot leave. No ship will carry me. No boat will bear my weight. If I try to swim, the sea itself will rise up and drag me back to shore. I am bound here, bound to this rock, until the curse is broken or the world ends."
"How do I break it?"
You looked at him, and your eyes were ancient and exhausted and utterly without hope. Jace felt his heart twist. You had been disappointed so many times. You did not believe he could do it.
"There is a cave," you said. "Behind the waterfall on the western cliff. There is a statue inside, a statue of me carved from black stone, wrapped in chains. I cannot enter the cave. It is spelled against me." Your hand rose unconsciously to your neck, as if feeling for the links of a collar that was not there. "If the statue is broken, the curse will be lifted. The chains will fall. I will be free."
"Then I will break it."
"It is not that simple." Your voice was quiet now, almost gentle, and there was something in it that felt like a warning, a kindness, an attempt to protect him from the disappointment you were certain was coming. "Only a man who knows my true nature can destroy the statue. Only a man who has seen what I am, what I have done, every monstrous thing I have committed in my long and miserable existence, and still loves me truly. Not charmed. Not tricked. Not fogged by the magic of this island. Real love. Clear-eyed love. Love that looks at the worst of me and does not flinch." You paused. "If his love is false, if it is only gratitude or loneliness or the lingering effects of my enchantments, the statue will not break. It will not even crack. And I will know. I will know that his love was a lie."
"I am not them," he said.
"You are. You are exactly like them."
"No." He stepped forward and took your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks. "I am not them. I am going to break the curse. I am going to set you free. I am going to take you away from this island and give you the life you deserve. I swear it."
"You cannot promise that."
"I can. I am." He pressed his forehead against yours. "I love you. I know what you are. I know what you have done. And I love you anyway. I love you not despite the worst of you but because of it. Because the worst of you was born from pain, and I want to heal that pain. I want to be the one who finally proves to you that love is real. That you are worthy of it. That you have always been worthy of it."
You let out a sound that was half laugh and half sob. "You are a fool, Jacaerys Velaryon."
"Take me to the cave behind the waterfall," he said. "Let me prove it."
"Alright," you whispered, as if you had expected him to ask. "I will take you. But do not say I did not warn you."
You turned and walked out of the cave, and Jace followed you, his heart pounding and his mind clear and his love for you burning in his chest like a flame that no wind could extinguish. He was going to save you. He was going to be the one. He was going to prove that love was stronger than any curse, stronger than any magic, stronger than centuries of solitude and betrayal.
He had to be the one. The alternative was unthinkable.
â
The walk was silent, you led him along the familiar path, the meadow with its strange flowers swaying in the breeze, the grove of fruit trees with their golden bounty hanging heavy from the branches, the rocky outcropping that overlooked the western shore where the sea stretched out blue and endless and utterly indifferent to what was about to happen. The waterfall was roaring louder than usual, or perhaps it only seemed that way. Perhaps it was the blood pounding in his ears. Perhaps it was the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him like a physical thing, a stone laid across his chest that made every breath feel shallow and insufficient.
You stopped at the edge of the pool, where the water churned white with the endless cascade. Your face was pale. Your hands were shaking at your sides, the fingers twisting together in that nervous gesture he had come to recognize, the one that always made him want to pull you into his arms and promise you that everything would be alright.
"There," you said, pointing, Jace squinted through the spray. Behind the curtain of falling water, barely visible through the silver torrent, was a dark opening in the rock face. A cave mouth, smaller than the one you lived in, half-hidden by the cascade. It looked like something that did not want to be found.
"I cannot enter," you said, and your voice was quiet, almost reverent. "The spell prevents me. The moment I step through the water, I am pushed back. It burns." You wrapped your arms around yourself, your fingers digging into the flesh of your upper arms. The gesture was meant to look vulnerable, meant to make him feel protective. It worked. "You have to go alone."
Jace nodded. He had expected this. Of course he had expected this. The hero always had to face the trial alone. That was how these stories went.
"I will come back," he said.
You did not answer. Your eyes were fixed on the waterfall, dark and terrified, and your lower lip trembled just slightly, just enough for him to notice.
"Hey." He touched your chin, turning your face toward him. Your skin was cold beneath his fingers. "I will come back. I promise."
"Everyone promises." Your voice was barely a whisper, and there was something in it that snagged at his heart like a fishhook. "Everyone who has ever stood on this shore has promised to come back."
"I am not everyone."
He kissed your lips and for just a moment he felt something move beneath the surface. A flicker. A pulse. Something that was not quite human. Then the moment passed, and you were just you again, fragile and frightened and looking at him with those sea-glass eyes that held all the sadness in the world.
He turned away before he could lose his nerve. He dove into the pool, and the water closed over his head like a fist.
The cold was shocking. It was more than cold. It was the absence of warmth, the absence of life, a cold that sank into his bones and wrapped around his heart and squeezed. He surfaced gasping, his breath torn from his lungs in a ragged gasp, and swam toward the waterfall with strong, desperate strokes. The roar grew louder as he approached, a wall of sound that pressed against his eardrums until he could hear nothing else. The spray blinded him, stinging his eyes, filling his mouth with the taste of minerals and stone. The current tried to push him back, tried to shove him away from the cave entrance as if the water itself did not want him to pass.
But he kept swimming. He had promised. He had promised he would come back, he reached the rock face and pulled himself up onto a narrow ledge, slick with moss and running water, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wet stone. The cave entrance yawned before him, dark and silent and somehow hungry, as if the darkness itself was waiting for him to step inside. He looked back once. You were still standing at the edge of the pool, a pale figure in a pale dress, your hands pressed to your mouth. You looked like a ghost. You looked like a memory of someone who had died a long time ago.
Then he turned and walked into the darkness.
â
The cave was small, smaller than he had expected. The passage was short, barely twenty paces, the walls rough and wet beneath his trailing fingers, the floor sloping downward into the heart of the rock. The roar of the waterfall faded behind him, muffled by the stone, until the only sound was the drip of water and the soft scuff of his bare feet on the rock and the steady, insistent pounding of his own heart.
The passage opened into a round chamber no larger than your bedchamber back in the main cave. The walls were smooth and wet, glistening with moisture, catching the light and throwing it back in a thousand tiny reflections. The only illumination came from somewhere above, a thin shaft of daylight that pierced through a crack in the rock and fell in a single golden beam onto the center of the chamber. It was like something out of a sept, that beam of light. It was like the light that fell on an altar, or a tomb, or a place where something sacred had been buried and forgotten.
And in the center of the chamber was the statue.
It was you, smooth and luminous, carved with such skill that it seemed almost alive. The surface of the stone had been polished to a soft gleam, catching the golden light and holding it, and the details were so fine that Jace could see the individual strands of hair. The statue knelt on a stone pedestal, its head bowed in an attitude of submission or prayer, its face frozen in an expression of such profound sorrow that Jace felt his chest tighten just looking at it. The eyes were closed. The lips were slightly parted, as if caught in the middle of a sigh. The shoulders were hunched forward, the spine curved, every line of the body speaking of exhaustion and despair and the weight of an eternity spent alone.
And the hands, the statue's hands were raised in front of its chest, palms facing each other, fingers slightly curled as if holding something invisible. And around those marble wrists, coiled so tightly they seemed to be part of the stone itself, were two snakes.
No. Not snakes. Bracelets. Golden bracelets, each one shaped like a serpent eating its own tail. But the serpents were not connected to each other. They were separate, independent, each one locked around a single wrist, each one devouring itself in an endless cycle of consumption and renewal. Their golden eyes gleamed in the shaft of daylight, bright and watchful and aware. Their scales were so finely detailed that Jace could count every one, each scale overlapping the next in perfect, reptilian precision. Their jaws were clamped tight around their own tails, and their bodies were wound around the marble wrists in coils that looked tight enough to bruise.
They were not chains. Not exactly. They were something worse. They were a trap that could not be escaped because there was nothing to break. The snakes held her wrists, and her wrists held the snakes, and neither could let go, and the whole thing was a perfect, closed loop of imprisonment that had no beginning and no end.
Jace stood in the darkness at the edge of the chamber, staring at the statue. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. His hands were slick with water and sweat. The marble figure knelt in its beam of light, motionless and patient, and the golden snakes watched him with their glittering eyes, and the silence was so complete that he could hear the blood rushing through his own veins.
He bent down and picked up a rock from the floor of the cave. It was heavy, sharp-edged, big enough to do damage. He turned it over in his hands, testing its weight, feeling the rough edges bite into his palm. Break the statue. Break the curse. Simple. You had told him what to do. You had told him it was simple.
He took a step toward the pedestal.
"Are you quite certain about this?"
Jace froze, the voice was male. Low and smooth and echoing, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It bounced off the wet stone walls, slid through the darkness, coiled around him like smoke, like water, like something that had been waiting in the shadows for a very long time. It was not a human voice. It was too resonant for that, too layered, as if many voices were speaking at once in perfect, dissonant harmony.
"Who is there?" Jace demanded. His voice sounded too loud in the silence, too harsh, too frightened. He hated how frightened he sounded.
No answer. Just the dripping of water. The distant, muffled roar of the falls.
"You should think very carefully before you do something you will regret for the rest of your life. Which, I should warn you, may not be very long."
Jace spun around, the rock raised like a weapon. The chamber was empty. The passage behind him was empty. The shadows pressed against the walls, still and silent and utterly unoccupied.
"I said who is there?"
"A friend." The voice was almost gentle now, almost kind. It was the voice of a father speaking to a wayward son, a mentor guiding a confused student. "Someone who does not want to see you make a mistake you cannot undo. Someone who has watched this same scene play out more times than I can count, and who is very, very tired of seeing young men throw their lives away."
Jace's grip tightened on the rock. The edges cut into his palm, grounding him. "Show yourself."
"I cannot. I am not really here. I am just a voice in the dark. A warning. A kindness, if you will let me be." The voice paused, and when it spoke again, it was softer. Sadder. "I am the only person on this island who is actually trying to help you, Jacaerys."
"Don't listen to it," Jace muttered to himself. He turned back toward the statue. "It's just another part of the curse. It's trying to stop you. She said there would be things trying to stop you."
"Is that what she told you?" The voice sounded amused now, deeply and darkly amused. "That the curse is the villain? That she is the victim? How very convenient for her. How very convenient that she has a story that makes her the helpless damsel and everyone else the monster. She tells that story very well. She has had centuries of practice."
Jace ignored it. He stepped closer to the pedestal. The marble woman knelt in her beam of light, motionless and sorrowful. The golden snakes glinted.
"She is very beautiful, isn't she?" the voice continued, and now it was almost conversational, almost casual, as if they were two old friends discussing the weather. "Of course she is. She's had centuries to perfect the act. The dresses. The smiles. The way she looks at you like you are the only man in the world, like you are the answer to every prayer she has ever whispered into the darkness. It is all very convincing. It is meant to be. She has been refining it for longer than your entire bloodline has existed."
"You do not know anything about her."
"I know everything about her." The voice was sharper now, the amusement draining away to reveal something harder underneath. "I know what she is. I know what she has done. I know how many men have stood exactly where you are standing now, holding a rock just like that one, thinking they were going to be the one. The special one. The one whose love was strong enough." A pause, heavy with meaning. "Do you know how many of them succeeded?"
Jace did not answer.
"None. Not one. In all the centuries she has been trapped on this island, not a single man has broken that statue. Do you know why? Because it cannot be broken. It is a trap. It is the bait, and you are the fish, and you are swimming toward it with your mouth wide open."
"You are lying." Jace's voice was shaking now. He hated that it was shaking. "You are just another part of the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."
"I am trying to stop you from destroying yourself." The voice was closer now, seeming to come from just behind his left shoulder. He spun around, but there was nothing there. Only shadows. Only the dripping of water. "Let me ask you something, Jacaerys. Can you remember your mother's name?"
He opened his mouth but nothing came out, the name was gone. It had been there a moment ago, he was sure of it. He could see her face, silver hair and sad eyes, could feel the shape of her in his memory. But the name, the name would not come.
"Your brothers," the voice continued, relentless and calm. "How many brothers do you have? What are their names?"
"I have brothers. I know I have brothers." His voice sounded desperate, even to his own ears. "Luke-Lucerys. And the others. The little ones."
"You are reciting words. You are not remembering. She has taken them from you, piece by piece, day by day. She has been stealing your memories since the moment you arrived. The food she feeds you. The wine she pours you. The herbs she puts in your medicine. They do not just heal your wounds. They erase you. They hollow you out. They make room for her."
Jace's mind was blank. Empty. There was nothing there but fog, thick and white and impenetrable, where his memories should have been.
"She has taken them from you," the voice said, and now it was almost gentle again, almost pitying. "Piece by piece. Day by day. Every moment you spend in her presence, she is stealing more of who you are. Your family. Your home. Your past. Your very self. And you call that love? You think that is what love looks like?"
"She saved my life."
"She kept you alive because she needed you. There is a difference. She needs a man to break the curse. She always needs a man to break the curse. That is how it works. That is how it has always worked. She lures them in with her beauty and her vulnerability and her sad, sad story, and she makes them love her, and then she sends them here to die. Because no one can break the curse. No one. The statue does not break. It has never broken. And when the man fails, when he realizes his love is not strong enough, she has her excuse. She was right all along. No one really loves her. So she turns them into pigs and waits for the next shipwreck, the next castaway, the next fool who will believe her lies."
He kept going "You think that is love?" The voice laughed, a soft and pitying laugh. "You think a woman who erases your past and steals your future and traps you on an island where you can never leave loves you? You think any of this is real?"
"I love her." Jace's voice cracked. "I know I love her. That is real. Whatever else she has done, my love for her is real."
"Oh, it feels real. I am sure it does. But do you know why it feels real?" The voice paused, letting the question hang in the darkness. "Because she makes it feel real. That is what she does. That is what the magic does. It wraps around your mind and makes you think you are feeling something true. But it is not true, Jacaerys. It is a trick. A trap. You have been ensnared since the moment you opened your eyes in that candlelit room and saw her kneeling beside your bed like a worried bride."
Jace's arm was lowering. The rock felt heavier now, so heavy he could barely hold it. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.
"She told me you would say things like this," he said, but his voice was weak. Uncertain. "She told me the curse would try to stop me. She warned me there would be voices."
"The curse is not stopping you. I am not the curse. I am the only thing standing between you and an eternity of rooting in the dirt with all the other men who believed her lies." The voice was right next to his ear now, so close he could feel the cold breath of it against his skin. "Do you want to know the real story, Jacaerys? Do you want to know who she really is?"
He did not answer. He did not want to know. He wanted to cover his ears and run back through the waterfall and hold you in his arms and forget this voice had ever spoken to him. But his feet would not move. His body would not obey him.
"She is not a victim," the voice whispered. "She is not a lonely woman trapped by a cruel brother. That is a story she invented centuries ago because it makes men feel protective. It makes them feel noble. It makes them want to save her. The truth is much simpler, and much uglier. She is a goddess, a thing that was worshipped before your ancestors crawled out of the mud. And she was imprisoned here not as punishment, but as containment. Because she is dangerous. Because she feeds on devotion the way a spider feeds on flies."
"You are lying."
"Am I? If you break that statue," the voice said, "she will be free. And the moment she is free, she will have no more use for you. Her love for you, such as it is, will vanish. It is not real love, Jacaerys. It is bait. It is a lure. It is the promise of everything you have ever wanted, dangled in front of you to make you do what she needs. And once you have done it, once you have served your purpose, she will discard you like all the others."
"Stop." Jace's voice cracked on the word.
"That is the part she did not tell you, is it not? She did not tell you that her love is conditional. She did not tell you that it lasts only as long as she is trapped. The moment she is free, the magic breaks both ways. The chains fall from her wrists, and her love for you falls with them."
"You are lying." Jace's voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the distant roar of the waterfall. "You are the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."
"She told every man before you the exact same story. Word for word. The cruel brother. The lonely exile. The curse that can only be broken by true love. She told it to the knight in rusted armor whose bones are rotting in that cave. She told it to the merchant captain whose shield is propped against the wall. And you are just the latest audience."
"Stop."
"She does not love you. She cannot love you. She is not capable of love. She is capable of hunger, and she calls it love because that is what makes men stay. But it is not love. It has never been love. It is just need. Just appetite. Just the endless, grinding loneliness of a creature that consumes everything it touches and is still never full."
Jace opened his eyes. The statue knelt in its beam of light. The golden snakes watched him with their glittering, knowing eyes. The marble face was frozen in its expression of eternal sorrow.
What if the voice was right?
What if none of it was real?
What if he broke the statue, and your love disappeared, and he spent the rest of his life chasing a ghost?
What if he was just the next fool in line?
"Go back," the voice whispered. "Go back to the beach. Build your boat. Leave this place while you still can. While you still remember enough of yourself to want to leave. She will try to stop you. She will cry and plead and tell you she loves you. But it will be a lie. It has always been a lie. Go back, Jacaerys. Go home. Save yourself."
â
You had been waiting for hours. You stood at the edge of the pool, your bare feet sinking into the damp sand, your eyes fixed on the curtain of falling water. The roar of the waterfall filled your ears until you could hear nothing else, but you were listening for something beneath the roar. A shout. A crash. The sound of stone breaking. The sound of a man drowning.
Anything. Please, anything.
Jace surfaced at the edge of the pool, gasping, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his skin slick with water and gleaming in the sunlight. He pulled himself onto the sand, his chest heaving, his arms trembling with exhaustion, and for a moment he just knelt there on his hands and knees, catching his breath, water streaming from his body in rivulets. You just stared at him, searching his face for some sign of what had happened, some clue in the set of his jaw or the light in his eyes. Was the curse broken? Had he succeeded? Had he been the one, the only one, the man whose love was finally strong enough?
"I did it," he said, and his voice was warm and triumphant and full of a joy you had never heard from him before. "I broke the curse."
You stumbled forward, your legs barely supporting you, your hands reaching for him before your mind had fully registered what he had said. "Youâyou did? It is broken? I am free?"
"You are free." He rose to his feet, still smiling, and opened his arms to you. "You are free, Y/N. We can leave. Together. Just like I promised."
A sob tore from your throat, raw and jagged and utterly involuntary. You threw yourself into his arms, your body shaking, tears streaming down your face in hot, messy rivulets. He caught you and held you tight, his hands warm on your back, his lips pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, your cheek, his voice murmuring reassurances that you could barely hear over the pounding of your own heart.
"I love you," you gasped, the words tumbling out between sobs, unstoppable, irrepressible. "I love you, I love you, I love youâ"
"I love you too." His voice was soft. Tender. Everything you had ever wanted to hear. "I told you I would save you. I told you I was different. I told you I was not like the others."
He kissed you, it was a deep kiss, a passionate kiss, the kind of kiss that spoke of relief and joy and a future finally within reach. You melted into him, your body pressing against his, your hands sliding up his chest, his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his wet hair. The waterfall roared behind you, but it sounded different now, less like a threat and more like applause. The sun was warm on your skin, warmer than it had ever been. You were free. You were finally, impossibly free. After centuries of solitude, centuries of hoping and losing and hoping again, someone had finally loved you enough.
You did not notice anything until you felt the cold metal snap shut against your skin, you tore away from him, stumbling backward, your hand flying to your wrist. Something was there. Something heavy and cold and horribly, sickeningly familiar. You looked down, and the world stopped.
A golden snake. Coiled around your forearm, its tail clamped in its own jaws, its scales gleaming in the sunlight with a wet, organic sheen. Its eyes were bright and watchful and alive. It was warm against your skin, warm like something that had a heartbeat, warm like something that was feeding.
Identical to the ones in the cave. Identical to the ones that had bound the statue for centuries, the statue that was supposed to be destroyed, the statue that he had told you he had broken.
But the statue was not destroyed. You knew that now with a cold, creeping certainty. He had not broken it. He had done something else. Something worse.
"Whatâ" Your voice came out strangled, barely a whisper, the words catching in your throat like bones. "What is this?"
Jace was still standing by the water's edge. His smile was gone. His face had changed, shifted into something you did not recognize. The warmth in his eyes had drained away, replaced by something flat and cold and terribly, terribly calm. He looked at you the way a scholar might look at a pinned insect, curious and detached and utterly without feeling.
He raised his own arm.
The matching snake was coiled around his wrist. Twin to yours. Identical in every detail, from the curve of the scales to the glint of the golden eyes. Linked by nothing visible. Linked all the same. You could feel it, the connection between them, an invisible chain that stretched from your wrist to his and bound you together tighter than any iron ever could.
"I could not break the curse," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The voice of a man who had made a decision and was at peace with it. "The statue would not break. I struck it with the rock, and the rock shattered. I struck it with my fists, and my knuckles bled. I threw myself against it, and it did not even crack." He paused, his dark eyes fixed on yours, unblinking. "The voice, your brother, he told me the truth. He told me what you really are. He told me what you have done. He told me what you would do to me the moment you were free."
"No." You shook your head, backing away from him. Your wrist was burning where the snake touched your skin, a cold fire that spread up your arm and into your chest. "No, Jace, whatever he told you, it is a lie. It is always a lie. He is trying to trap you, he is trying to turn you against meâ"
"Is it a lie?" He tilted his head, regarding you with that terrible calm. "He told me the curse made me love you. He told me you have been feeding on my devotion since the moment I opened my eyes. He told me you would leave me the instant you were free."
"That is not true!" You were screaming now, your voice raw and cracking. "I love you! I have never loved anyone the way I love you! You have to believe me!"
"Then why can I not remember my mother's name?" His voice cracked on the word mother, just slightly, and beneath the coldness you saw something flicker. Something wounded. Something that still hurt. "Why can I not remember my brothers' faces? Why did I wake up this morning and realize that I could not recall the sound of my father's voice, or the color of my brother's eyes, or the name of the dragon I rode into battle? You took everything from me. Everything I was. Everything I loved. You hollowed me out and filled me with yourself, and you expected me to believe it was love?"
"I did not mean to!" You were sobbing now, the tears hot and bitter on your cheeks. "I did not want to take your memories, i loved you so much i did not want you to leave me."
"You loved being loved." His voice was flat. Final. "There is a difference."
You stared at him. Your chest was heaving. Your wrist was throbbing, the golden snake pulsing against your skin like a second heartbeat. You could feel it now, the thing that bound you together. It was not just a chain. It was a tether. A leash.
"The statue forced you to have a physical body," Jace said, and his voice had shifted again, becoming almost conversational. Almost pleasant. "You are not mortal. You are not human something that was bound to this island and trapped in the stone. The chains kept you here. The statue kept you solid. Touchable. Real." He paused. "Without the statue, you would have no body. You would be nothing but mist and memory. Is that not what your brother wanted? To keep you contained? To keep you in a form that could touch and taste and take?"
You did not answer. You could not answer. Your throat had closed around the words.
"I could not break the curse," Jace said, and he took a step toward you, his bare feet silent on the sand. "I could not destroy the statue. But I could transfer it. I could take the chains off the stone and put them onto something else. Something living. Something that could carry them." He raised his arm again, showing you the snake coiled around his wrist, and his smile returned. It was not a kind smile. "You are not bound to the island anymore. You are bound to me."
The world tilted. The roar of the waterfall seemed to fade, replaced by a high, thin ringing in your ears. The sun was too bright. The sand was too soft. The golden snake was too warm against your skin.
"Youâ" Your voice would not work. "You did notâ"
"I did." He was still calm. Still cold. Still looking at you with those eyes that used to be so full of love. "The voice told me it was the only way. The only way to make sure you could not leave me. The only way to make sure your love was real. The only way to be certain that when I woke up tomorrow, you would still be there, and the day after that, and the day after that."
"You trapped me."
He laughed. It was a soft laugh, a quiet laugh, but there was nothing warm in it. "I freed you. You can leave the island now. The chains that bound you to this rock are gone. You can walk onto a ship and sail away and see the world again. Is that not what you wanted? Is that not what you have been begging me for since the moment we met?"
"You bound me to you!"
"And you bound me to you first." His voice sharpened, the calm cracking for just a moment to reveal the fury underneath. "You made me love you. You made me forget my own mother's name. You drugged my food and whispered in my ear and wrapped yourself around my mind so tightly I could not tell where you ended and I began. You trapped me on this island long before I ever trapped you. The only difference is that my chains were made of kisses and lies, and yours are made of gold."
"I loved you!" The words tore from your throat, raw and ragged. "I loved you! Everything I did, I did because I loved you!"
"You made me forget my mother's name," he said again, and his voice was quieter now, almost sad. "Do you understand what that means? Do you understand what you took from me? She is out there somewhere, fighting a war, grieving a son she believes is dead, and I cannot remember her name. I cannot remember her face. I know I love her. I know I owe her everything. But when I try to picture her, there is nothing there. Just fog. Just you."
You opened your mouth, but no words came. What could you possibly say? What defense could you offer that would not sound hollow and selfish and monstrous?
"You stole my memories and drugged my food and lied to me for months," Jace continued, and now he was walking toward you, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. "You let me believe I was going home. You let me build a boat I was never going to finish. You let me dream of a future that did not exist. And when I found out the truth, when I confronted you in that cave full of dead men's armor, what did you do? Did you apologize? Did you offer to help me leave? No. You cried. You made yourself the victim. You told me how lonely you were, how sad you were, how much you had suffered. You made me comfort you. You made me feel guilty for discovering your lies."
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, close enough that you could see the pulse beating in his throat. "And I did feel guilty," he said. "I felt so guilty that I almost forgot what you had done. I almost let myself believe that you were the victim. That I was the one who had wronged you by wanting to go home. That is how good you are at this. That is how deep your hooks go."
"Please." Your voice was barely a whisper now. "Please, Jace, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I only wanted to be loved. I only wantedâ"
"I know what you wanted." He reached up and touched your face, his fingers gentle against your tear-streaked cheek. The gesture was almost tender. Almost loving. It made your skin crawl. "You wanted someone to stay. You wanted someone to choose you. And now someone has. I have chosen you. I have chosen you over my family, over my throne, over my memories, over everything I ever was. I have given up my entire life to be with you. Are you not happy? Is this not what you wanted?"
"You have made me your prisoner."
"I have made you my equal." His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. "We are connected now. Bound together. What happens to one of us happens to the other. If you leave, I will feel it. If you try to run, I will know. And if you try to hurt meâ" He shrugged. "The snakes will not let you. They protect what they hold. That is what the voice told me."
"The voice. He told you to do this?"
"He gave me a choice. Break the statue, free you, and watch you leave me the moment we set foot on the mainland. Or bind you to me, keep you close, and never wonder again whether your love was real." His smile returned, and it was the saddest smile you had ever seen. "It was not a difficult choice. I love you. I cannot lose you. So I made sure I would never have to."
You stared at him. The man you loved. The man who had just destroyed you. The man who had looked at your chains and decided to put them on himself rather than break them, because he could not bear the thought of you walking free.
"This is not love," you whispered. "This is possession."
"Is there a difference?" He tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering. "You tell me. You have been doing this for centuries. You tell me where love ends and possession begins. You tell me whether what you felt for me was really love, or just the desperate hunger of a lonely creature who needed someone, anyone, to fill the void. You tell me whether I am any different from you, or whether I am just the first man who was willing to sink to your level."
You opened your mouth. Closed it. The words would not come.
"Exactly," Jace said. "You cannot tell me. Because you do not know either. Because you have been confusing love and hunger for so long that you cannot tell them apart anymore. And now I am the same. You have made me the same." He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. "We are equals now. Partners. Two monsters bound together for eternity. Is that not romantic? Is that not what you always wanted? Someone who would never leave you, never abandon you, never choose anything over you?"
"You are insane," you breathed.
"I am what you made me." He pulled back and looked into your eyes, and his expression was unreadable. "You wanted me to stay. I am staying. You wanted me to love you. I love you. You wanted me to be different from the others. I am different. I am the one who did not run. I am the one who looked at the chains and chose to wear them. I am the one who gave up everything to be with you." He cupped your face in both hands, gentle and terrible and utterly inescapable. "Why are you not happy? If you really loved me, you would be happy. This is what you wanted. This is what you have been asking for since the moment we met. Someone who would stay. Someone who would choose you. Someone who would never leave."
He kissed your forehead, and his lips were warm, and the golden snake pulsed against your wrist like a second heart.
"I am going to build us a boat," he said. "A real one this time. One that can carry us both back to Westeros. And you are going to meet my mother, and I am going to take back my throne, and you are going to be my queen. Just like I promised. Just like we planned. The only difference is that now I know you will not leave me. Now I know your love is real. Because it has to be. Because you have no choice." He pulled back and smiled, and his smile was beautiful and broken and utterly terrifying. "You are free now, Y/N. Free from the island. Free from your brother's curse. Free from the statue and the chains and the centuries of solitude. You can go anywhere you want. You can do anything you want. The whole world is open to you." He took your hand, the one with the golden snake coiled around the wrist, and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. "As long as you never leave my side."
You looked down at the snake. At his hand holding yours. At the invisible chain that stretched between you, unbreakable and eternal.
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SUMMARY: A prince washes up on the shore outside your cottage, and you must decide whether youâre going to leave him to his fate or save his life. Either way, you know there will be consequences.Â
WARNINGS: fem!reader, commoner!reader, eventual dragonseed!reader, jace lives, eventual smut, class differences (jace is obviously a prince and reader is a commoner). Reader is not too fond of him at first because she is from Sharp Point. This is a bit of a mix of show canon and book canon in that Jace went to the Gullet to save his brothers and Rhaena still claimed Sheepstealer
AUTHOR'S NOTES: i HADDDD to do a fic for our beloved boy </3 i miss you jacaerys velaryon, prince of dragonstone, heir to the iron throne. I will truly never move on from this death </3 so we need a world where he does not die. I'm saur excited for this because it's my first time writing a reader who comes from a commoner background, AND I finally get to write the dragons ... originally she was not supposed to be a dragonseed, but I just cannot help myself. If I'm going to be writing a hotd era fic, our girl is going to have a dragon. ANYWAY I hope you guys enjoy! please leave a comment or reblog mwah mwah
You wonder whether it is chance or divine intervention that a Targaryen prince washes ashore beside your cottage.
By the time you get to the edge of the sea after catching a glimpse of the corpse from your porch, it is half buried in the wet sand, lying limp at your feet, and there is a lump in your throat that you cannot seem to swallow away.Â
You do not know how you didnât notice the sigil sooner.
It should have been the first thing that caught your eye, considering it was only a fortnight past that the Prince Aemond brought the great dragon Vhagar over the town you were raised in and razed it to the ground. The green and gold banners have been flying over the area since, and soldiers from the Reach have been constantly patrolling the roads, seeking out rebels and sympathizers.
You know better than to involve yourself in the affairs of any man that dons the three-headed dragon, you tell yourself, trying to will yourself to walk away from the corpse before anyone can catch you standing near it.
Red or gold, black or greenâit does not matter to you, the wars of nobles are graves for common folk, and you have no desire to meet an early one. You have done well enough for yourself since your father passed. You refuse to squander the life youâve built because a prince washed up on the shore near your home.
The boy at your feet is young, you cannot help but noticeâyour age, perhapsâdark of hair and fair of skin. At a distance, he had looked like any other body the sea had decided to return, and your first instinct had been to rush toward him rather than avert your gaze and pretend you had seen nothing.
Your hands tremble at your sides, and you have to forcibly still them as you take in a deep breath.
This is war, you recall the soldiers saying when the survivors demanded to know the reason for the tragedy that took place at Sharp Pointâmothers with tears in their eyes and no bodies to bury, fathers who had lost their livelihood and the children for whom they built it, your neighbors, your friends. They say Lord Bar Emmon sits on the usurperâs council, so all of the commonfolk who were unfortunate enough to be born beneath his banners have been made to pay the price of his loyalties, allies of a queen they have never seen and casualties of a war they never chose.
This is war, they will tell you the same as they cut off your head if they see you kneeling beside this corpse and call mercy treason. Because it is always the burden of the commonfolk, paying the price of noble quarrels. Princes speak of honor and succession, of rights and oaths and stolen crowns, and it is fishermen and farmers who have to bury their dead. They will not care to hear what you have to say if they think you're affiliated with the Black queen and her supporters, just as the Prince Aemond did not care whether the people of Sharp Point had declared for the Blacks or merely happened to be born beneath the wrong lord.
But now, a prince lies dead upon your shore, and you wonder if this is how it begins again.Â
You should leave him.
The thought comes immediately, sensible in light of the circumstances, even if it does make your stomach flip. You should turn around and go home, bolt your door, and tell no one what you saw. The sea will reclaim him, or the crabs will pick his bones clean; maybe the patrol will stumble upon the body before the tide rises, and they can parade it through the streets the same way you heard they did to Princess Rhaenysâs dragon.
By the morning, he will be gone one way or another, and you can move on with your life as though you never saw him at all. He will be somebody elseâs misfortune, or more hopefully, no one elseâs at all.Â
It is a corpse, anyway. The boy has not moved since you arrived, and his chest does not seem to be rising and falling. There are two arrows through his shoulder, and a blueness to his lips that youâve only seen in the dead, soâ
As though to mock you, he lets out a wet, ragged cough, water bubbling at his lips, lashes fluttering just enough for you to catch sight of dark, hazy eyes that slip over you once before they slide shut again.
You feel sick to your stomach.
He does not stir again. One side of his face is bruised an ugly purple, his dark hair plastered to his brow with seawater and blood. He cannot be much older than youâthe traitorous thought crosses your mind again. There is something terribly young about him, lying there half-drowned in the surf, one hand curled weakly into the sand as though, even unconscious, he is still trying to cling to something.
He does not look like a prince, you think miserably. He looks like a boy who is going to die.
The sea foams around your boots, and his body twitches as it threatens to reclaim himâthe only feeble resistance heâs capable of in his state. You do not know how he still breathesâthe fires might still burn on the Gullet, but the fighting ended days past. How long has he been floating about, dragged around by vicious currents and tossed by waves? It doesnât even seem as though it should be possible, as though the Seven themselves intervened andâ
âand dropped him on your shore, in your hands, and you are contemplating leaving him to die.
The thought is unpleasant, a heavy stone in your chest in place of your heart.
You are not a cruel person. You have cared for gulls with broken wings, and you leave scraps outside your door for the old orange cat that wanders the area. During the winter three years prior, you spent a fortnight nursing a lamb that did not even belong to you because you could not bear the sound of it crying.
And now there is a boy at your feetâbleeding, drowned, scarcely clinging to lifeâand because there is a dragon sewn onto his chest, you are trying to convince yourself to let the sea finish what arrows and war could not.Â
His lashes are dark against his cheek. Young, you think again, even more traitorous than the last, no older than ten and nine, if even. There is salt crusted at the corners of his mouth and blood soaking through his tunic in sluggish, rusty streams that stain the pale sand beneath him.
He looks coldâtraitor, traitor, traitor.
He looks like a prince, you try to insist. A dragon prince, fire and blood and ruin, dangerous.Â
Cold. Hurt. Dying.
You need to walk away, you tell yourself again, desperate this time, because the longer you stand there staring at him, the more you fail to convince yourself of the correct path.Â
A prince's life is worth more than yours, more than your cottage and your little patch of land and the fishing boat your father left you. It is worth armies and dragons and castles and men willing to kill for a name.Â
If this boy lives, others will come looking for him.Â
And if the soldiers discover him in your home, they will not ask questions. They will not care that you found him by chance or that you never bent the knee to Queen Rhaenyraâthat you could not even tell anyone why one half of House Targaryen wishes the other dead. They will see the three-headed dragon on his breast and the roof over his head, and that will be enough to condemn you.
Worse, the Prince Aemond and the dragon Vhagar could return. You think of Tom, the millerâs son, pulled from the boiling river after dragonfire reached the gristmill. You think of little Graceâs face as she searched the ashes for her mother. You think of all of your neighbors, all of your friends, who hardly survived the first time fire rained from the sky, and you think of all of those who didnât.Â
He is not worth it. He is not worth the risk. A prince is only a man born with a special name, thereâs no reason you should save him and condemn countless othersâhe bleeds the same, he dies the same, and when the Stranger comes for him, he is no more spared than any other man.
Except, he didnât, did he?Â
He should be deadâany other man would be dead.
Two arrows through the shoulder, half-drowned, tossed upon the sea for days on endâthere is no surviving that. Yet he breathes still, ragged and shallow though it may be, his fingers twitching every now and then.
The Stranger came for him and left empty-handed.
The Stranger came for him and left him with you.Â
Why?
There are no prophecies in your life, no gods whispering in your ear. You are a fisherman's daughter with a cottage by the sea and enough coin to keep yourself fed through winter if the catch is good. You know little of the gods save for the prayers your father taught you as a child and the candles you light for him on his nameday. The Seven did not save your father or your town; they did not save Tom or Graceâs mother or any of the others who screamed as dragonfire turned their homes to ash.
So why? Why this boy? Why this prince? Why should the gods spare a dragon's son when they had not spared children and fishermen and mothers? Why have they left him for you?
You do not have an answer. The only answer before you is a body on the sand, breathing when it ought not to be.
You stare down at him, furious and distressed and so, so unsure. He looks dead againâstill as driftwood, cold and pale, stiff. His lips are blue like the dead, and his chest hardly rises and falls. You wonder if you imagined what you saw before. If your guilt conjured a cough where there had been none, if your conscience simply could not bear the thought of walking away even from a corpse.
Slowly, you sink to your knees beside him, damp sand clinging to your knees, the sea foam wetting your trousers. Your hand is still trembling in spite of all efforts to still it. You lift it to his throat, hesitating only for a moment.Â
If there is life, you will do what you must.
If there is not, you will turn and walk away.Â
You have never prayed for someone to be dead before.Â
Please, you think now miserably. Please.
Your fingers brush the skin of his throatâit is cold. He must be cold. So cold, that for a brief, terrible moment, hope flares in your chest, and thenâ
There is a flutterâit is weak and uneven, so faint that you almost miss it, but it is there.
Your head hangs forward, and you blink away the tears that prick in your eyes, because you know this action will have consequences. You know that there is no going back once you have entangled yourself with dragons. You know that every story told of House Targaryen ends in blood and fire and ruin for everyone foolish enough to stand too close them.
You know that this boy could be the death of you.
The soldiers could discover him. Your neighbors could discover himâas much as they care for you, they fear Vhagar more. If word spreads that a prince of the black faction lives and is hidden beneath your roof, you could hang for it. They could burn your cottage to the ground. They could drag you through the streets and call you traitor.
Worse still, he could recover.
Because then he would not be a half-dead boy on the sand. He would be a prince again. A son of the house of the dragon. He would leave, and the war would continue, and perhaps one day you would hear his name in some tavern and learn that he had mounted a dragon and burned a town much like your own.
The sea rushes forward again, cold water washing over your boots and his legs alike. He does not move. He is so cold.
âWhy did you have to wash up here?â you breathe outâfrustrated, angry, resigned, because you have never been one to turn your back on someone in need.Â
His pulse flutters once more against your fingers, and he does not stir.Â
Then, because the gods have a cruel sense of humor and because your heart has always been softer than your head, you slide your arms beneath the princeâs shoulders and knees.
With a soft curse and the sea at your heels, you gather the dragon prince into your arms and carry home your ruin.
âââââââââ
He is Jacaerys Velaryon, son of Queen Rhaenyra, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne.Â
Three days have passed since you found him on the shore, and he has hardly stirred since you dragged him into your cottage. You have been riddled with anxiety since, jumping at every sound and fearing the worst when someone addresses you. It is only a matter of timeâwhenever a rider passes on the road beyond the trees or the patrol sweeps down your shore, you think they care coming for him. Coming for you.Â
You spend the first day trying to keep him alive.Â
You drag him home, soaked to the bone and half-frozen, laying him atop your bed as you get a fire going and wrap him in your blankets. For a while, you can only stand there staring at him, because it is one thing to decide not to leave a boy to die and another entirely to realize you have no idea how to save him.
You have to cut away his tunic to remove it, and it makes it easier to breathe once the three-headed dragon is out of sight, but then you have to address the monstrosity beneath itâbruises darkening one side of his ribs, yellow and purple and black, cuts everywhere, salt crusting his skin and body a ruin of blood.Â
You wonder how many rocks the currents slammed him into before he finally washed to shore. The sea around Sharp Point is, well, sharp. Jagged rocks and narrow inlets line the coast, and more than one fisherman has vanished into the sea after his boat drifted too close to reefs beneath the tide.
It is a cruel stretch of seaâcrueler still to a boy half-dead and alone.Â
And then there were the arrows.Â
The shafts protrude from his shoulders at awful angles, the flesh around them angry and swollen. You cry while removing them, because you have never done something like it before, and your hands cannot stop shaking. A part of you wonders if the gods left him for you so that his blood could be on your hands instead, and you cannot fathom what youâve done to deserve this.
You expect him to wake once you start removing them. At the very least, you expect him to scream. The first shaft pierced cleanly through his shoulder and is easy enough to ease out, but the second lodged itself deep in the flesh, refusing to budge until you brace your foot against the bedframe and pull with both hands.Â
It should have been agonyâany man would have cried out.Â
The prince does not so much as flinch.
You remember staring at him afterward, the arrow clutched in your hand and your own cheeks wet with tears, wondering if he had died while you were removing it. You press your fingers to his throat with a panic that borders on hysteria, and you arenât sure if youâre relieved or disappointed when you feel the fluttering pulse still there.Â
A traitorous part of you wishes that he had died.Â
A corpse is a tragedy, but a tragedy can be dumped in the sea and abandoned. A tragedy will not bring more war to your ravaged home.
A living prince, on the other hand, is a catastrophe that you do not know what to do with. Your home has already faced ruin once, and the longer he remains in your care, the more at risk you will be of bringing it upon you all again, because if he is captured in your care, then that means war and blood and fire and more dragons. The whole town, all of the survivors, everyone will be branded traitors to the crown.
But the prince lived, so you can only hope that he will heal quick enough and be gone before you have the chance to regret helping him.
The fever comes on the second day, and the corpse in your bed finally gives to life.Â
You notice it when you are wiping the blood from his face, and your hand brushes his forehead. Itâs as though all of the cold of the sea had fled his body at once and left only fire behind. Itâs what you expect of a Targaryen prince, reallyâthe burning heat, closer to dragon than manâ it feels more natural than the cold, but you are scared anyway.Â
You do not know much about treating battle wounds, but you do know about fever.Â
Your younger brother died of it during a long winter a decade pastâno matter how hard your mother worked to keep it at bay, he was dead by nightfall. Your mother passed in the same moon, to the same sickness, as did half of the children in Sharp Point, because fever does not care whether you are young or old, rich or poor, prince or peasant.
His skin is flushed, sweat beading along his brow and soaking the dark hair at his temples as he twists in the sheets violently, threatening to reopen the wounds you just stitched close. His breathing changes tooâno longer the slow drags of air, shallow and erratic, like he had spent days at sea only to begin suffocating on dry land.
You fetch water from the well until your shoulders ache. You lay cloths upon his brow and change them whenever they grow warm. You feed the fire, then fear you have made him too hot and let it die down, only to panic that he would grow cold again and build it back up.
Every few minutes, you find yourself pressing your hand to his forehead or his throat, checking for fever and pulse alike. There is never a changeâstill alive and burning, and you donât know whether to be grateful or terrified.Â
At one point, he begins muttering. You cannot make out most of itâthe words are slurred, little more than broken sounds spilling from fevered lips. Names, you think. Places, maybe. Some do not seem to be spoken in the common tongue.
Once, very clearly, he whispers, "Mother.â
You have to change the cloth on his forehead afterward and pretend your eyes are not stinging with tears. You curse the gods throughout that second dayâyou wish that youâd never left the cottage at all the morning you found him, you wish youâd left him to die, you wish, you wish, you wish, as though any of it matters anymore.Â
You sleep little that night, sitting beside your bed and watching him breathe. Terrified every time his breathing slowed, and equally terrified every time it quickened. You count the moments between each breath until dawn creeps through your shutters, and by morning, you feel like you have lived a lifetime in a single night.
The third dayâtodayâyou have to make the trek into town.
You have used the last of your willow bark, and there is only a heel of stale bread left, a few onions, and enough drinking water to last another day if youâre careful. You need fruit and vegetables, more barley, and you have a catch that you never got the chance to bring to the market to trade the morning you found the prince.Â
You cannot put it off any longer, much as you may wishâthe prince needs supplies, and unfortunately, so do you.
You do not like going into town. You have never liked going into townâyou have always been fond of your neighbors and your friends, but you were not fond of the way they circle and crowd you whenever you make your weekly appearance for trade. You got overwhelmed too quickly, and you didnât know how to make an exit without seeming rude, so you ended up staying there for hours when there were many chores you had to get done at home.
Now, it is like a graveyard. The destruction following the Prince Aemondâs attack on Sharp Point has yet to be cleared. The soldiers are too busy with war and patrols, and the survivors are too busy trying to salvage what they can of their ruined lives.Â
When you enter the town, you can still smell charred flesh and death.Â
The children usually run to you when you arrive, chattering about the games theyâve played and the rumors theyâve heard, if you saw the wild dragon Grey Ghost while you were out on your boat this week, and you smile and nod along with them. But all of the children are dead now, and you are not crowded by friends and neighbors eager to make conversation with you, because most of them are dead now too.
It is in the market when you overhear green-cloaked soldiers talking about the battle that took place in the Gullet, and you finally put a name to the face of the prince in your home. You try to pretend that youâre not eavesdropping, fingers shaking terribly as you sort through the fruits and vegetables that Wylem carted in from his farm, because you need to know if they have figured out what youâve done, if they know the prince is in your care, under your roof.
But they only laugh as they speak of dead dragons and a mourning pretender queen. They say the Blacks have lost two dragons, and the bastard prince, Jacaerys Velaryon, is dead. Any man who can find his body washed up on the shore to deliver to the King will see unfathomable riches.Â
Momentarily, you are angry at yourself because the royals brought this war and have caused all of this suffering, but when your lashes flutter shut, for a split second, you can only picture the haunted look on your motherâs face as she held your dead brother in her arms. You think of Miss Ellyn, who tossed herself into the sea when she found out her son had been killed on the Kingsroad. You think of your friend, Marie, who you found screaming, fisting her infant daughterâs ashes after the burning of the town. You think of them, and then you think of the black queen on her throne, and you feel the same lump in your throat.
Then you remind yourself that this is her doing.Â
Her doing, her half-brotherâs doing, the other noblesâ doing. They brought this war to Westeros, they brought death and destruction, fire and blood, and you force yourself to shake your head and push it all away, trading some of the fish you caught for fruits and vegetables and barley with a watery smile that youâre sure Wylem took notice of.Â
There are more important things to worry about: if there is a bounty on the princeâs body, everybody will be searching for him. Not just soldiers, the people tooâyour friends, your neighbors, everyone. Many starve, more struggle, so if there is an opportunity for gold, they will all be on the hunt. You need to burn his cloak and tunic when you get back to the cottage, anything that associates him with House Targaryen.Â
You nearly trip over your own feet racing back to the cottage, second-guessing every conversation you had in the town. Wylem asked you why you were getting twice as much food as you usually getâyou do not remember how you responded.Â
Did you imply that you had a visitor? Why canât you remember? What excuse did you give? Did the soldiers overhear? Are they following you? Do they know? Why canât you remember? Youâre scaredâyou do not think youâve ever been so scared in your entire life.Â
You look over your shoulder every five steps, worried that theyâre going to come charging after you, demanding you to bring them to the Prince Jacaerys before taking your head. Youâre not cut out for thisâyouâre the daughter of a fisherman. Thereâs no world where you should be worrying whether soldiers are going to hunt you down for saving a prince.Â
There are tears in your eyes when you make it back to the cottage, and your fingers are trembling around the bags Wylem packed for you. You shut the door behind you, and it takes you three tries to bolt it properly. When you finally do, you rest your forehead against the wood and let out a trembling sigh.
Youâ
âWho are you?â
There is a knife to your throat.
You stare at the crack in the wood of your door, breath catching, desperately trying not to move lest you risk the knife slicing through your skin. The crack appeared last winter, you remind yourself, trying not to focus too much on the fact that you can feel the cool edge of the blade. Your friend, Evander, was meant to fix before the next, but Evander is dead now, and you may well be too, if the knife at your throat presses any deeper.Â
âAnswer me, who are you? Where am I? Whââ the princeâJacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throneâfalters suddenly, and you can only breathe again when the knife drops from your neck, and you feel the presence at your back disappear. âYouâyou are a woman.â
You do not turn to look at him immediately, eyes sliding shut as you fight to steady the frantic beating of your heart, drawing one slow breath after another until your shaking eases enough to trust your legs. Your fingers tighten on the bags cradled in your arms before you force yourself to turn around.
Prince Jacaerys Velaryon stands three paces behind you, one hand braced against the edge of your table, pained, pale, barely conscious. He is bare from the waist up, and the stitches you painstakingly worked through his torn skin have pulled loose, fresh blood soaking the bandages and dripping down his chest and back.Â
You see more clearly in the light of the afternoon sun just how ruined his body is, bruises and cutsâyou think his ribs must be broken, you did not notice just how bad off he was when you had him lying in the dim corner where you keep your bed.Â
For a moment, you forget that you are face-to-face with a Targaryen princeâit is only the boy you dragged in from the sea and spent hours trying to keep alive.Â
Your lips curve down into a deep frown, brows knitting together. You exhale as you say, âYou reopened your wounds. It took me an hour to get them properly closed.â
The prince stares at you.Â
As soon as the words fly from your mouth, you remember who it is before you. The son of a queen. The heir to the Iron Throne, if one listens to his mother. A pretender's heir and bastard, if one listens to her enemies. You do not know which of them is right, nor do you particularly care. Such questions belong to lords and knights and people with far too much time to argue over crowns.Â
To the likes of you, prince is title enough for you to keep your mouth shut and your head bowed.
He does not immediately respond, gaze flicking around your cottage uncertainly. Your bed, stained with his blood. The dying hearth. The table where you left out the last bits of the bread, just in case he awoke while you were gone and was hungry. The bandages you left at his bedside. The basin of pink water you forgot to empty before leaving for town.
His lips, dry and cracked, part as he stares at you and murmurs more to himself than to you, âYou tended my wounds.â
You hesitate, then nod, swallowing once. âI found you on the shore a few days past, my princeââ Your Grace? What is the proper way to address a prince? My Lord does not seem grand enough for the heir to a queen. Prince feels the safestâwhatever he may be, no one seems inclined to dispute that part. ââI⌠you should probably be resting.â
âI need to know what happened,â he says instead, stepping closer to you. He is too pale, sweat beads at his forehead, dark curls matted to his skin. His eyes are wide and wild, pupils dilated the same way youâve seen in men mad with grief or fear or fury, moments before lashing out at the nearest person. You find yourself tensing instinctively. âWhat do you know of the battle that took place on the Gullet? Did Baela make it back to Dragonstone? And Rhaenaâshe was on that wild dragon, andâmy brothers, did my brothers make it back? How long has it been? Where are we? How far is it to Dragonstone? I must return immediately, Iââ
The prince only just seems to realize how youâve drawn away, back pressed against the door to your own home, arms tightening around the sack in your arms whenever he comes closer. His tongue darts out to wet his cracked lips, gaze flicking to the knife he dropped onto the floor and the fear in your face.Â
Shame crosses his expression instantly.
âIââ His expression twists as he puts space between the two of you again. You wonder whether itâs from pain or from struggling to force out an apology. Both, likely. He continues, âYou have helped meâsaved my life, most likeâand here I am frightening you. I⌠I thought Iâd been captured. I woke in an unfamiliar place. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know if I was a prisoner or if the battle had been lost. I heard the door open andâŚâ
He trails off, and you stand there awkwardly, tension easing slowly from your shoulders. He is still on guard, but he does not seem so inclined to pull a blade on you again. Your lips part to tell him where he is, what little you know of the battle on the Gullet.Â
Instead, you ask, âDo most enemy strongholds look like a fishermanâs cottage, my prince?âÂ
You are mortified the moment the question spills from your lipsâhe is a Targaryen prince, they are known for blood and fire and madness, dragons and crowns, and you speak to him as though heâs one of your peers.Â
Prince Jacaerys stares at you for a long moment, and then, to your astonishment, his gaze flicks around the inside of your home again, and something suspiciously like embarrassment crosses his face.Â
âI suppose not.â
The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself, and you let out a soft puff of air through your nose before making your way across the room to place the sack youâve carried from town onto the table. You will have to sort all of what youâve got later; for now, you need to get the prince resettled before he opens up any more of his wounds.
You turn to look at him again, faltering when you see the pained expression that crosses his face, so sudden that it steals all the color from his cheeks. His hand shoots to his side, fingers digging into the bandages wrapped around his ribs.
âMy prince?â you ask hesitantly, taking half a step forward, arm only slightly extended. It is one thing to carry him to your cottage and treat his wounds while heâs unconscious; it is different now that heâs awake.
Prince Jacaerys inhales sharply through his teeth. He is swaying on his feet, breath gone shallowâhe looks as though heâs moments from collapsing hard onto your wooden floor. Still, his jaw clenches and the muscles in his neck tighten as he draws himself upright through sheer stubbornness.
âI am fine,â he insists.
âYou should sit, my prince.â
âI am standing,â he replies with a tight smile, as though a bead of sweat isnât rolling down his temple from strain to remain upright and his lips arenât trembling with pain.
âBarely.â
The prince blinks as though caught off guard by the response, casting a look that is partially confused, and mostly offended in your direction. Your lashes flutter shut as you brace yourself for a volatile reaction, because he is a prince and you are a fishermanâs daughter, and you are arguing with him as though he is an equal and not one of those dragon-riding royals people compose songs about. You think you must have lost your wits entirely these past few days.Â
Instead, he shoots back, with all the dignity he can muster while visibly swaying, "I have endured worse."
You stare at the blood soaking through the bandages wrapped around his shoulder, uncertain if you believe him. You say with less heat, "That is not the same as being well, my prince."
His jaw tightens, and you fight a sigh. Gods, he actually looks as though he is preparing an argument.Â
You wonder, briefly, what your life has become. Three weeks ago, your greatest concern had been whether the currents would ease up enough for you to take the boat out of the shallows to catch some fish. Now, Sharp Point has burned and you are standing in your cottage, arguing with a dragon prince about his injuries.Â
The absurdity of it nearly makes you laugh, wondering if perhaps this entire ordeal is some fever dream brought on by bad fish and Leilaâs uncleâs dubious ale.Â
Then, Prince Jacaerysâs left leg buckles.Â
He reaches for the table and misses, injured shoulder slamming into the edge hard enough to wrench a strangled cry from him, and before you can think better of it, you're moving.
You let go of the sack of fruits and vegetables and barley you were keeping steady on your table; it topples over, and all of your pristine apples go rolling across the floor of your cottage, but you barely notice, panicked when you realize that he careening right toward the hardwood floor. Â
You catch the prince around the waist just as he starts to fall, but he is heavier than you expect.
You brace yourself, convinced that he is going to take you down with him, but you manage to steer him sideways toward the chair beside the table. He collapses into it heavily, breath hissing through clenched teeth as pain flashes across his face.
Momentum carries you forward with himâfar, far too forward.
One hand lands against the uninjured side of his chest to steady yourself, the other gripping the arm of the chair. For a horrifying second, you are practically sprawled across the heir to the Iron Throneâs lap. You jerk away so quickly you nearly trip over one of the escaped apples, face burning and hands shaking.
"Sorry," you blurt, mortified. âSorry. Sorry, I did not meanââ
âI believe,â Prince Jacaerys begins with a grimace, âthat was my fault.â
You do not respond, flustered, trying to put more distance between you to calm yourself down. Your gaze flicks back over to him, but he is too busy grinding his teeth as he glances down at his wounds to pay you any mind. You let out a soft puff of air through your nose before you look at the apples rolling about your floor, and then reach for one still on your tableâyou might have lost some sense over the past three days with the little sleep youâve gotten, but you are not about to feed a prince food off your floor.
You make your way back over to him and hold the apple out to him. He blinks once at it before his gaze lifts to yours questioningly.
âI do not know when last you ateâa while, certainly,â you tell him quietly. âYou should get something in you while I redress the bandages. Iâll cook some stew once Iâm certain youâre not going to bleed out.â
Prince Jacaerys exhales through his nose before he takes the apple from you, rolling it between his fingers. You step past him so that you can move the basin of water closer to where heâs sitting, grabbing a clean rag and the bandages that you left next to your bed.Â
You come to stand in front of him again, hesitating before you motion to the wounds on his shoulder. You ask, âMay I?â
His dark gaze flicks up to yours briefly before he nods, and your throat tightens as you shift closer, fingers fumbling a bit as you grab for the edge of the bandages to unwind them from around him. It is much more intimidating doing this while heâs awake, inches away from you, and eyes tracking your every move.
âI found you three days ago, my prince,â you tell him at last, trying to remember all of the questions he asked earlier so that you can busy your mind with something other than the fact that you can feel his skin hot against yours. âBefore that, the fighting died another three. In truth, my prince, I do not know how you survived so long at sea.â
Prince Jacaerys says nothing in response. His attention remains fixed somewhere beyond the wall behind you, expression distant. You suspect he is counting the days since the battle, the hours his family has believed he is dead, the minutes his mother has spent mourning him. You keep your gaze trained on his shoulder as you unwind the last of the bandages and set them down on the table.Â
You press your lips together when you see that the stitches have loosened at the back of his shoulderâwhere one of the arrows had dug deep, but not deep enough to pass cleanly through. Pulling it free had torn through muscle and flesh alike, leaving a ragged injury that had taken you nearly an hour to clean, stitch, and stop bleeding.
You exhale as you run the pad of your finger briefly over the stitches, trying to figure out if you can salvage what effort you already put in or if you would have to pull them out and redo them entirely.Â
âAnd my family? My younger brothers? Baela and Rhaena? Have you heard what has become of them?â the prince asks, and you glance up just enough to see how his jaw tightens when your finger brushes over the wound. âDid we win the battle?â
âI do not know if anyone can be said to have won that battle, my prince,â you answer quietly, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you finally start to get to work at reclosing the wound. Your gaze slips to the side when he finally starts to eat the apple you passed to him. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, as though heâs only just realized how hungry he is. âBoth fleets were decimated. The dead still wash up on the northern shore.â
How did Prince Jacaerys make it to your shore, then?Â
Not for the first time, you have to wonder if the gods themselves placed him directly into your hands.Â
Most of the rest of the dead have washed up on the northern and western shores of Sharp Point, as it is where the currents run strongest, but the prince somehow made it to where your cottage sits on the eastern shore. If he had washed up anywhere else, the patrol would have certainly found him by now. You've heard they have spent the last several days combing the beaches, hauling bloated corpses from the tide and turning them over with the tips of their spears, searching for the dragon prince they are certain the sea claimed.
Prince Jacaerysâs breath hitches when you tug lightly at the stitches holding the skin of his shoulder together. Already, heâs finished the apple you handed him, absentmindedly turning the core between his fingers while his thoughts remain leagues away.Â
It is only when the last bite is gone that he seems to notice, and his gaze drifts toward the table. He hesitates, and you think it is almost comicalâthis is the heir to the Iron Throne, a dragonrider, a prince who has flown into battle, and he looks as though asking for another apple might be an imposition too great to make when heâs been floating at sea for at least a week.Â
You hold the stitches carefully with your right hand so that you can lean forward and grab another apple from your table to pass to him. His cheeks color slightly when he realizes that you noticed.
âI did not mean to stare,â he murmurs, taking the apple from you and cradling it carefully between his hands. He asks again, âHave you heard what has become of my family?âÂ
You shake your head, focusing on tending to his wounds again. You think that youâll be able to salvage your work. It is good, you thinkâyou can get him resting and then cook some stew for the two of you. You didnât eat much yesterday, frazzled by the fever and trying to keep him comfortable, and youâre starting to feel a lightness in your head.Â
âIâve only heard what the soldiers say in town, my prince,â you murmur, trying to figure out how to go about speaking the news he certainly wonât take well. The last thing you need is for grief to send him bolting for Dragonstone before he can so much as walk across your cottage without collapsing. If he does not kill himself by straining his body when it is not ready, then the patrols will certainly catch him and have his headâand then yours.Â
You let out a soft sigh as you tie off the stitches on his shoulder blade and lean down to wet the clean rag before lifting it to his bloody skin. Youâre careful around the edges of the wound, trying not to disturb the stitches, working slowly at the dried and wet blood from the curve of his shoulder, over the collarbone, down the length of his back.Â
You try not to think too hard about what youâre doing.Â
If you do, it begins to feel far too intimate.Â
It is one thing to drag an unconscious stranger from the sea. It is another to stand so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, to brush your fingers across the line of his shoulders. You have spent three days tending him without much thought, because there had been no room for embarrassment while the Stranger lingered at his bedside.
Now he is awake and watching you, and every accidental brush of your knuckles against his skin seems to linger a heartbeat too long. He is a prince of the realm, and you are a fishermanâs daughterâpeople like you are not supposed to touch people like him, and yetâ
You exhale through your nose harshly. You busy yourself with the rag, scrubbing a little harder than necessary at a streak of dried blood along his collarbone simply to distract yourself, and his jaw pinches.
âSorry,â you say quietly.
âIt does not hurt,â he repliesâa lie, surely, any man would be in agonizing pain. But maybe not; any man also would have died in the sea. Maybe the rumors are true: the Targaryens are closer to god than man; they do not feel pain or have to fear the Stranger the same way people like you ought to. âWhat have you heard from the soldiers in town? Where are we?â
âHalf a league from Sharp Point, my prince,â you answer, still evading the question, which he seems to realize from the way he glances at you over his shoulder, gaze sharp and accusing. He knows you are withholding something. You exhale lightly through your nose and then say hesitantly, âThey say two dragons fell over the Gullet. I could not tell you which.â
âTwo?!â Prince Jacaerys demands, immediately rising to his feet, so quickly that the chair scrapes against the floor, and you fear he might rip back open the stitches. He whirls on you, eyes wide, pupils large as coins, and you almost flinch. âTwo dragons?â
You swallow thickly as you nod. âMy princeââ
âOne must beââ His voice catches. He cannot finish the thought. For the first time since he awoke, real grief overtakes him completely. It drains his face of what little color had returned, leaves him staring at nothing as though he can already see the answer waiting for him. âI need to know the second. Whose was it? Which dragon fell?â
It unsettles you how close he sounds to pleading when moments before, you had been wondering whether the stories of the Targaryensâ deism held some weight, because gods do not look like this. They do not stand in a strangerâs cottage with fear plain on their face, hands trembling as they wait for an answer they already dread.Â
The same lump forms in your throat now that did when you heard the soldiers mocking a grieving queen and couldnât help your thoughts from turning to your own mother, to Miss Ellyn, to your friend, Marie. For a moment, he is not a Targaryen prince or a dragonlord; you see a son and an older brother. A boy your age who knows there are only a handful of dragons flying over the Gullet, and every one of them belongs to someone he loves.
âI do notââ
âI need to return home,â he says immediately, as though his face isnât white with pain and his stitches donât strain every time he moves. His eyes glaze over you as though youâre not even there, and he takes a step toward the door to your small cottage. âSharp Pointâthere must be passage to Dragonstone, thereââ
Panic flares in your chest when he makes as though to leave. It is noon, and the patrols have become more frequent along the shores outside your cottage. Theyâve spent a week carding through the western and northern shores, and theyâve been sending more and more men to the eastâyou worry theyâre becoming desperate. The longer they go without finding a corpse, the more they may fear that there isnât one.
If they have an inkling that Prince Jacaerys is still alive, theyâll start kicking down doors, and if they start kicking down doors, they will find him, and your life will be forfeit for harboring him.Â
âYou cannot,â you say before you can think better of it, lunging forward as though to grab his wrist, but you stop yourself before you can make a terrible mistake, stopping a hairsbreadth from brushing his skin.Â
What is wrong with you? you think furiously. You need to rest tonight before you do something you cannot take back. Already you have gotten snide with and you have argued with a prince of the realmânow you have commanded him and nearly tried to seize him. You would have been lucky to only lose your hand in any other circumstance. Had he been standing in a hall instead of your cottage, surrounded by knights instead of rough-hewn furniture, you might have lost your head.Â
âI cannot?â Prince Jacaerys turns to you, bafflement momentarily eclipsing the fear that had consumed him only seconds before, as though he cannot quite fathom that someone has just told him no.Â
âMy prince, you can scarcely stand,â you say. His gaze drops to where your hand is still hovering near his arm, head cocking to the side and brows lifting, and you snap it back to your chest immediately, heat flooding your face. âYou have lost a lot of blood, you have barely eaten in a week, your wounds have only just been stitched again, and there are patrols searching for you every road between here and the sea.â
He continues to stare at you, disbelief riddling his expression. You have the distinct impression that no one has ever spoken to him this way beforeâcertainly not a fishermanâs daughter. You force yourself to press on while heâs silent, hoping to make your point and rid him of this futile endeavor before he gets you both killed.Â
âThe Prince Aemond burned Sharp Pointâs harbor. There are no ships capable of navigating the currents of the Gullet, and the water still burns besides. I do not have a horse for you to ride to Stonedance. You could not get to Dragonstone even if you were not hurt,â you insist. âI will return to town tomorrow to try to get more information, but please, my prince, you mustnât leave. You will only be putting us both at risk.â
For a long moment, you think that he will invoke his title or duty and insist upon leaving anyway, or maybe he will simply walk out the door despite everything you have said, and there is nothing you could do to stop him.Â
Then, his expression changes, twisting into something pained as he looks away, a shuddered breath escaping his lips. His shoulders, held tense since the moment you uttered the word two, sink ever so slightly. The panic that had driven him to his feet has nowhere left to go, draining from him all at once, leaving only exhaustion behind.Â
One hand drops back down to his ribs, pain crossing his face. Whatever strength carried him to his feet abandons him just as quickly as the panic, leaving him swaying where he stands. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he reopens them, the panic has been replaced by a type of defeat that is infinitely more difficult to look at.
You step forward cautiously when you see how his body is trembling, hand hovering uncertainly between the two of you, silently asking permission to help him. Prince Jacaerys stares at your outstretched hand, then at the bed on the far side of the room; you think, for a second, that he will attempt to cross on his own, but then his nostrils flare as he exhales, inclining his head just enough to grant you the permission his pride refuses to voice aloud.
Carefully, you slip beneath his uninjured arm, taking care to avoid the fresh bandages. He is warmâstill warmer than he ought to beâand you canât help but wonder if his fever has returned or if this is just how hot dragon princeâs typically run.Â
He leans into you only slightly, weight settling lightly against your shoulderâyou suspect he is trying very hard not to. The journey from the door to your bed is scarcely a dozen paces, but it feels much longer.Â
âWe were supposed to win this victory for her,â Prince Jacaerys says after a moment, voice breaking, the words slip free before he can stop it. You do not think the admission is meant for you, so you stay quiet. His throat works as he swallows. âWe were supposed toââ
He cuts himself off, looking away again as you help him ease back down into your bed. As soon as he is seated, something close to relief crosses his face, lashes fluttering; the pain is still there, but not quite as terrible as it was when he was straining on his feet.
âThe fact that you are alive at all is a victory, my prince,â you say quietly, even though you do not think the words will be of any reassurance. âYou should rest. The sooner you are well, the sooner we can figure out a way to get you home. Iâll cook up a stew and wake you when itâs finished.â
He exhales again, jaw tightening as he looks away with a resigned expression. You turn your back on him to deal with the mess you made of the kitchen area, grimacing slightly at everything spilled across your floorboards and the table.Â
âWhat is your name?â Prince Jacaerys asks you suddenly. âI think I ought to know the name of the woman who saved my life.â
You let a soft breath, glancing over your shoulder at him. He is pained still, but there is an earnest look in his eyes that makes you falterâyou remember how close you were to leaving him to his fate, and you have to look away again before he can catch the guilt that crosses over your face.
With a shaky exhale, you give the prince your name, and you cannot help but feel as though your life has irrevocably changed, and you do not think for the better.Â
ââââââââââââ
The sea is on fire.
Jace cannot tell where the flames end and the water begins. Ships burn around him, masts collapsing into the waves with deafening cracks; men scream as theyâre consumed by the fire, and dragons let out terrible shrieks as they dive low to bring down another ship full of Myrish mercenaries.Â
He tries to focus.
He chases after the rogue dragon, hoping to kill the rider before the dragon can burn any more of the Velayron fleetâor worse, catch Baela and Moondancer. But there is panic clawing at his chest, and smoke and salt clogging his throat and stinging his eyes. Heâs screaming at Vermax to fly faster, to kill the rider, and thenâthen he sees Rhaena.Â
He sees Rhaena atop the wild dragon, and she is screaming, crying, desperately trying to get it under control, and Jace is confused, reeling as he yells at Vermax to stop at the last second. He and dragon both diving down away from the chase before Vermax could breathe fire on his cousin.
Rhaena does not have a dragon, he thinks, trying to figure out what is happening, and Rhaena is supposed to be with his brothers, and his brothers are captured by the enemy, and he isnât sure if Stormcloud and Aegon made it to shore, and there is too much going on, andâ
âand Vermax is falling.Â
Vermax is banking hard, being dragged down into the sea, and Jaceâs stomach lurches. Heâs yellingâbeggingâVermax to fly, and Vermax is trying, heâs trying so hard, wings beating smoke through the air. He shrieks as another bolt catches him in the wing, and Jace feels the pain himselfâhe feels the pain, the primal fear, everything that Vermax does, because Vermax is his, and he is Vermaxâs, and they are bonded, and Vermax is drowning, and the water is so cold, and Jace cannot feel his legs or his hands or his face.
He fumbles as he tries to unhook himself from the saddle, choking on water and air, maybe a sob, as Vermax sinks into the sea, a stream of bubbles rising to the surface as he cries for Jace, slowly disappearing into the dark waters. Jace desperately tries to dive after him, as if he has the strength to hold them both above the sea, because Jace has already lost Luke, and heâhe cannot lose Vermax.Â
Not the dragon who had slept beside his cradle before he was old enough to walk, the hatchling he had grown up alongside, whose neck had once fit beneath his arm, whose first uncertain flights had ended with both of them tumbling into the sandy shore of Dragonstone while his mother laughed herself breathless.
Jace does not know a life without himâhe does not want to know a life without him. His earliest recollections are not of nursery songs or wooden swords, but of warm green scales beneath tiny hands and the deep, rumbling croon that had lulled him to sleep when he was scarcely more than a babe.Â
When Jace learned to walk, Vermax learned to fly; when Jaceâs voice deepened, Vermaxâs roar had too.Â
There has never been a Jacaerys without Vermax.
But Jaceâs lungs are burning, and he cannot see the familiar green scales anymore, and his body is reacting, seizing and spasming because there is no air left in him and water all around. He does not know which way is up and which way is down, the water is too dark and too cold, and he cannot think, butâbut he sees the bubbles. He sees the bubbles, and he follows them, and even as Vermax sinks to the bottom of the sea, he saves his rider one final time.Â
He reaches the surface with a gasp, gulping the smoky air, and everything hurts. His arms ache, his chest is too tight, his eyes burn, and he cannot breathe, because Vermax is gone. He can feel that Vermax is gone; there is a gaping hole in his chest where his dragon used to be, and Jace does not know what to do, he does not know how to live anymore, and he wantsâ
He wants his mother.
He just wants his mother.Â
He hears the cheers before he feels the first arrow, gaze lifting to the sky as he searches for Baela and Moondancerâthey are not too far, he thinks, she'll come for him.
And then, thereâs a dull throb in his shoulder blade as he pulls himself over a floating piece of driftwood, but he hardly takes note of the pain, because everywhere hurts, because Vermax is gone, because he wants his mother. He turns when he hears the cheering, and he sees the men on the ship, and he sees the crossbows and the bows and the Myrish banners, but he does not see anything at all, really, blinking once, staring.
The second arrow catches him closer to the chest.
And thenâthen all he remembers is sea.Â
White foam and bubbles, vicious currents and sharp rocks. He thinks he is dead more than he thinks he is alive, but there is so much pain. There is pain and emptiness, and Jace just wantsâ
â... prince, the stew is ready.â
Jace startles awake, breath hitching in the back of his throat. His body tenses immediately, because he does not remember where he isâhe remembers the sea and the waves and rocks and pain and Vermax, but he does not rememberâŚ
The cottage. Waking up alone. The door opening, the fearâwas he captured? Where is he? Where are his brothers? Where is Baela? What was Rhaena doing on the wild dragon? Mother, mother, motherâ
You avert your eyes suddenly, an awkward expression on your face, and Jace suddenly remembers. He remembers you, the apple you passed him as you tended to his wounds; how he held a knife to the throat of a woman who is risking her own life to save his. He remembers that he is stuck bedridden in the bed of a commoner while his mother thinks heâs dead and fights for her throne alone.
He opens his mouth to apologizeâto tell you that he will leave as soon as he is able, that he will ensure youâre properly compensated for saving his lifeâbut he falters when he feels something hot and wet drip down his face.
He lifts his hand to his cheek and wipes at his face, looking down at the wetness smeared on his fingertips. For a long moment, he does not understandâseawater, maybe? But he is no longer being tossed around by the sea. He is warm in your cottage, the hearth burns low and your blankets are tangled around him. He blinks once, and another fat droplet of water rolls from his eye down his cheek.
Is he crying?
Heat rushes to his face so quickly he thinks it rivals the fever. He wipes away furiously, not sure if itâs more or less humiliating that youâre pretending not to notice for his sake, turning your back to him to ready the table.Â
Jace has wept before, more than most ought toâfor the father who taught him fishing and sea shanties, and the other who passed before either of them could speak the truth out loud, for the grandfather he never truly knew, for the brother who felt less like a brother and more like his other halfâbut never, never in front of a stranger.Â
Jace promptly clears his throat and pulls himself together. He glances at you, praying that his face does not betray him, an excuse on his lips as takes a deep breath. Then he falters, mouth watering instantly, gaze cutting to the side where you are busy ladling stew into two chipped wooden bowls, back politely turned, as though you never noticed anything at all.
Jace doesn't think heâs ever been this hungry. He has dined in castles all his lifeâroasted swan, lemon cakes, arbor wines. He has consumed the finest meals Westeros has to offer and found them lacking, but he almost feels dizzy with need and pleasure at the scent of the stew you made.
âItââ Jaceâs voice is hoarse from sleep. Embarrassed, he clears his throat again to try to even it out. âIt smells good.â
You look at him over your shoulder with a small smile and murmur demurely, âIâm sure nothing compared to what youâre used to, my prince.â
âI do not know that,â he says lightly as he forces himself to his feet, grimacing as pain immediately shoots through his body.Â
Everything achesâhis chest, his shoulders, his legs, his arms, his head. In truth, all he wants to do is curl up and sleep more; he cannot bear to keep going. Not now. Not after Vermax, after Luke, after making such a terrible mistake that he might have cost his mother her throne. His stomach flips at the thought, and he fights a shuddered breath.
He needs to keep goingâthere is no other choice. He needs to get back to Dragonstone as soon as possible.
You pause in the middle of setting the bowls on the table at his words to give him a questioning look. âMy prince?â
âI have not tasted it yet,â he tells you, forcing levity into his tone, because you have saved his life, tended to his wounds, and now stand over a pot of stew you cooked for him, worrying that it is not good enough to satisfy a prince. The least he can do is ease your mind. "It would seem unfair to compare a meal I have not eaten yet.â
You blink at him once, and then you smile slightlyâitâs a genuine one, not like the small one you forced in his direction just beforeâand Jace tries his best to return it as he crosses the small room. He shuffles the last few steps toward the table with considerably less grace than he would have liked.
âPerhapsâ you reply softly, waiting for him to take a seat at the table before you do as well.Â
You do not immediately lift your spoon, and Jace hesitatesâfor a brief moment, an old childhood lesson surfaces. Do not eat until someone else has tasted it. Feasts at Kingâs Landing and supper at Dragonstone had been meticulous about such thingsâcups were poured and tasted before his mother, and plates were sampled before any of them took a bite of their food. The paranoia claws at him and disappears as quickly as it comes.
You had dragged him half-dead from the sea, spent days stitching his wounds and breaking his fever, and gave up your bed so he could sleep comfortably. If you wished him dead, you need only have left him on the shore.Â
âI never thanked you for what youâve done for me,â he says at last, fingers grazing the wooden spoon dipped into the broth. âWhen I return to Dragonstone, I shall speak with my mother. She will see you properly rewarded.â
âThere is no need,â you murmur, finally taking a sip of the stew when Jace lifts the spoon to his lips.Â
The broth is hot enough to sting his tongue, but he scarcely notices. It is a simple mealâcarrots and celery, chunks of what he thinks is rabbit. It is the plainest thing he has eaten in years, and yet somehow, the best meal he can remember.
His stomach twists painfully as warmth settles into it, and before he can stop himself, he takes another spoonful, then another, the hunger of the past week overwhelming whatever restraint court etiquette had once led him. It is only when half the bowl is gone that he realizes how quickly he is eating.
Embarrassed, he forces himself to slow, lowering the spoon.
âMy apologies,â he says, clearing his throat. âI fear I may have forgotten my manners.â
âYou havenât had a meal in over a week, my prince. Youâre allowed to be hungry,â you say with a faint smile.
Jace lets out a half-hearted huff of amusement through his nose, though his smile fades as quickly as it came, returning to conversation to try to force himself to slow down and show a modicum of etiquette before he embarrasses himself further.Â
âThere is every need for reward,â he disagrees, leaning forward slightly to look at you. For the first time since he woke in your cottage, he actually observes youâyou cannot be much older than he is, beautiful certainly, but thereâs a weariness in your expression that Jace cannot help but feel as though is his fault. âYou saved the life of the heir to the Iron Throne. You surrendered your bed, tended wounds that would have killed most men, and risked the wrath of the Greens simply by allowing me beneath your roof. I cannot allow that debt to go unanswered.â
You stare at him for a moment, a conflicted expression on your face, and Jace shakes his head slightly as he presses.
âI do not possess enough coin to repay such a debt myselfââ nor, he suspects, does anyone ââbut my mother will. You needn't live here any longer if you do not wish to. We could see your cottage rebuilt if the fighting has damaged it, or grant you land elsewhere, if that is what you'd prefer. Whatever you ask, so long as it is within my power, I will see it done.â
You are quiet for a long while as Jace finishes off the stew, but he expects hesitation as you mull over what to ask for: gold, land, a better ship, perhaps. Your gaze drifts off to the side, and Jaceâs follows it, faltering when he realizes that youâre looking in the direction of what remains of Sharp Point.
Thatâs right, he remembersâyou mentioned your cottage was less than a league away.Â
From where he sits, he can just see the destruction through the small window. The town is little more than scorched foundations and splintered timbers now, dragonfire having reduced generations of work to ash in the span of a single afternoon. He cannot look at it for long, stomach twisting so unpleasantly that he fears the stew you just cooked him might come right up.Â
You stay silent for so long that Jace wonders if you have not heard him, and his lips part to repeat himself futilely.Â
âWe used to think they were beautiful, you know?â you say, voice barely over a breath. âWe would watch your family fly from Kingâs Landing and Dragonstone. The children would cheer and call out the names of whatever dragon and royal was passing overhead, even though they knew you could not hear them.â A wistful smile tugs briefly at your lips, and Jace suddenly feels a rock in his stomach, a heaviness that he cannot seem to push away. âThere is a wild dragon in these partsâwe call him Grey Ghost. He hunts fish along the eastern shore. I see him frequently when I take my fatherâs boat out. We lived alongside him for yearsâsometimes he swoops down close when we have a big catch, but he never bothers us. My father always said he was curiousâshy, but curious.â
You exhale suddenly as you rise to your feet; Jace wonders if he should ignore the unshed tears in your eyes the same way you politely did for him.
âThen the Prince Aemond and Vhagar came,â you say at last. âThe only thing I want, my prince, is for this war to end, but I know you cannot give me that. If you don't mind, I should see to my father's boat before the tide turns. There is more stew in the pot if you would have it. Then you ought to rest. You'll not heal by arguing with your own body.â
Jace opens his mouth.
He does not know what he intends to say, caught between guilt and indignation, because everybody wants the fighting to endâhe does, his mother does. Maybe not Daemon, but why do you say it as though he stands opposed to peace? He did not choose this, nor did his mother. It is not his fault that the Greens usurped his mother's throne. Â
He desperately tries to formulate an answer, but how is he supposed to respond to that? What were they meant to do? Yield to the usurpers? Stand aside while his motherâs birthright was stolen? Let Luke die for nothing? Should he say that he is sorry for your loss? That his mother would never have done this? That Vermax would never have burned a fishing village? That this was all the Greens? That they fight to avenge what happened here?Â
That dragons are not cruel creatures, he feels the need to tell you when he sees the disdain on your faceâit is the people who ride them. It is the Greens. It is Aegon and Aemond, Alicent Hightower and her father.
His lips are parted as though to respond, but he only finds himself staring at you helplessly.Â
You incline your head politely before slipping out the door, the cool air rushing briefly into the cottage before it shuts behind you once more. Jace remains where he is, staring into the last of his stew until the steam no longer rises from it, the reality of his situation settling over himâVermax is dead, Luke is dead, and his mother believes them both lost. He does not know whether his brothers and cousins are safe, if his mother still fights for her crown. He is useless, wounded in a fisherman's cottage, alive only because a woman from a town his family failed to protect chose mercy over sense.
He does not think he has ever felt less like the heir to a kingdom.
I request for the speedrun nightguard for fnaf 2! (Just imagine seeing this guy flicker his lights and have perfect reaction time to the animatronics)
ËËË FAST AS FUCK ´ËË
â CHARACTER(S): Toy Bonnie, Toy Chica, Marionette, + Withered Bonnie, Withered Foxy
â NOTES: I don't write for a lot of FNAF 2 characters, so as a bonus I added two I don't normally write for!
⸠TOY BONNIE
Much calmer than the original Bonnie is. It doesn't bother him as much as it does, but he does see you as a sort of challenge and does his absolute best at winning over you. At the end of the week, he is pleasantly surprised that he failed. He strives to become better at what he does, and you should feel bad for the non-pro guards after you.
⸠TOY CHICA
Listen.. listen, Chica finds you absolutely adorable! You're so fast with your reaction time. You barley glance her way when she comes to try to 'check' on you. She is much like Foxy, but she wants to impress you by managing to best you. Though she does get angry at the end of the week when she still didn't have any luck with you..
⸠MARIONETTE
They barely even pays you any attention. You thought you were the speedrunner? You are. They just doesn't care that you are. As long as the music box keeps playing, you're both good. And you seem to do an awesome job with that, so they actually like you quite a lot.
⸠WITHERED BONNIE
GOD FUCKING NOâ Haven't you tormented him enough!? He can not handle you again! Leave! Quit! Obviously, he realizes this won't work and he decides to try and settle the score. He is even more aggressive than he was the first time around. He still fails. Miserably.
⸠WITHERED FOXY
His first mate is back, and he is back in dog playing fetch mode! Boy is excited to see if he can best you this time around. He even brags to the others on your behalf over how amazing you are ag your job. He is eager that you're back.
Content ~ Phainon x reader. Gn! Reader, fluff, maybe angst? Phainon is an overthinking mess:(( hurt and comfort?? I DON'T KNOW HOW TO TAG GUYS I'M SO SORRY, reader conforts Phainon late at night. Someone comfort me too ples... Okehy... Ok.. May be ooc?
Synopsis ~ Your boyfriend wakes up late at night right next to you. While gently caressing your delicate face, he wonders if he is or ever will be enough for you. You wake up to him sobbing beside you.
Phainon was usually known to be a tough guy all around Okhema. As the "hero" of Amphoreus, he strives to fulfill everyone else's wishes.
And as your boyfriend, he always puts your wants and needs at the top of his list. Whether it'd be small or big, if you needed help reaching a rather talk caninet or were in certain danger, he'd help you as much as he could. He's permanently yours!
But- in his eyes, he was never enough for you. Even if you reassured him countless times. He still felt... Like you'd leave him, someday. The silver-haired hunk had a lot on his shoulders from day one. His town, Aedes Elysiae, that burned away as ashes in the flames of war, the black tide, his role as the "Deliverer", the hero, and as a Chrysos Heir.
He felt as if he had never spent time with, you and you weren't given enough attention from him. But outside of your time together, you and him both knew that he risked his life in most missions to just come home, see your face, and just plop his head on your lap.
He's scared.
He's faced countless deaths before.
... And he's terrified that maybe you'd be caught in the crossfire if his careless mistakes, too. He wants to be better than that..
Late at night, he'd wake up, right beside you. Admiring your face. And he'd just sob. And he'd wake up with some really bad tear stains.
He's always been afraid of losing you. You were one of the few people that could subdue the degrading thoughts in his head. With just your voice, too. Whether it was deep, high, soft, or rough. He just found comfort in it.
One late night, he had been particularly timid. What if.. Some time in the future, you'd grow tired of him? Maybe you would die because of him? Maybe leave because of something stupid he did?
Maybe,
Maybe he was meant to lose the ones he loves but he'll fight for you till then.
You kissed his cheek.
Huh!? Since when did you wake up?
You told him how precious he is to you...
How you loved whenever he'd do something small for you. Everything he did, you took to memory.
... Maybe just once in his life, he could let go and sob in his sweetheart's arms. Maybe he could let his gaurd down for a little while.
He's happy you and him happened. So, so happy.
If they stole you from him, on his heart, there'll be a tattoo of your name.
A/N ~ So sorry if this is half assed guys, it's not proof read and Im writing this st 22 I'm the morning. It's currently 12:20 rn ermmpphh.... I also have school at 8 in the fucking morning WOW. Wow. I suck ass at writing Angst. Anyways guys I need your opinion!! (I say, as I talk to my 3 followers) Would you guys like it if I posted my OC's and make some fics? 𼺠Comment down below, hit that like and subscribe button yay ya Boohoo yay!! Also if you're wondering, yes I'm a Pierce the Veil lover.
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forgotten deities mydei and phainon being both pleased and annoyed when human! follower starts getting attention. at first theyâre pleased to see you happy, after countless times where youâre alone, endless devotion to them.
you clean their temples, clear the weeds and dust the floors and offer new fruits every week without asking for anything. they look fondly at you, not because of your duties but because of how you share your thoughts with them.
so when they see that youâre late to your usual time, theyâre pleasantly surprised to see you come in with high spirits, a pep in your step while you hum a tune sweeping. you speak of how youâve caught the attention of a man whoâs adamant on taking you out for dinner. a few days later you speak of how multiple people seem to be eyeing you, vying for a chance to have your hand.
but slowly they arenât too pleased with how you slowly spend less time in their temples, how the bushes slowly over grow and how youâre becoming more closed off from them. they decide to give you a little reminder of who you follow after you completely missed your normal routine.
and when you come in rushing the next day, bright and early with pomegranates in one hand and fine berries in the other you come to find them in all their divine glory sitting on their statues. theyâre eying the week old soft fruit and sit, staring at you in all their divinity. mydeis wings softly flutter while mydeis halo brightens the temple. they stare at you, mydei with slight annoyance and phainon with curiosity. the new fruit tumble onto the marble as you drop to your knees in shock and reverence, something theyâre happy to see in your eyes.
and when they finally get into arms length? they claim you as theirs.
based off of someone saying phainon transforms into khaslana when irritated | can be interpreted as romantic or platonic.
Youâre scared.
Of what?
Phainon, to be honest.
It was literally a peaceful day after amphoreus was made real, and as a celebration, everyone who helped amphoreus was invited to tour around the place. You remembered greeting way too many people in a couple of minutes and shooting a look to the IPC.
Thanks to Cerydra, they didnât do anything⌠For now at least.
Once the crowd started to die down, people left to explore, which left you, Mydei, and Phainon. Not a great trio but it definitely works! ⌠You think?
But itâs never a good moment with them, especially since theyâre rivals and Phainon is a pro at ragebaiting. Andânot really surprisinglyâtheyâre arguing about something childish while you stand there, looking back and forth between them.
You really wished you stayed with the Astral Express.
Sighing, you facepalmed, turning on your foot to leave them alone before it gets serious until hot air blew onto your back.
âOh my Gods.â
Lo and behold, Khaslana.
You and Mydei blinked at eachother, âStop transforming into Khaslana for every minor inconvenience!â You yelled out, trying to usher Khaslana down so he wouldnât draw any attention to the three of you.
âIt was Mydeiâs fault!â
The Kremnoan scoffed and crossed his arms, âYouâre so sensitive, Deliverer.â Khaslana huffed and turned around, his back to the both of you.
You clasped your hands together with closed eyes and a pleading look.
Youâre so done with him.
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