The waiting is the cruellest part.

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

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

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

Nothing further had followed.

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

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

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

You miss him terribly, your husband.

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

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

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

The memory warmed and ached all at once.

You had been terrified on your wedding day.

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

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

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

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

He continued, "You are marrying me."

"That is precisely the problem."

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

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

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

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

Just your Jace.

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

Your husband.

The title had never felt strange after that night.

Not when he reached for you in his sleep.

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

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

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

Gods.

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

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

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

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

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

Your aunt looked exhausted.

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

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

You took her hands. They were icy cold.

“Nothing?” she asked quietly.

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

“Nothing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He should have been.”

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

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

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

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

“What news?”

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

No. No. No.

The boy lowered his eyes.

“The battle is over.”

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

“The prince-” His words faltered.

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

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

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

The messenger blinked. “My Queen?”

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

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

“And did they see his body?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Did they recover Vermax?”

“No.”

“Did they see my son die?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The worst part was not knowing.

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

Every morning you woke expecting news.

Every night you went to sleep without it.

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

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

“They found pieces of Vermax.”

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

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

Vermax.

Gone.

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

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

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

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

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

The confession shattered something inside you.

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

The cry came shortly after noon.

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

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

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

“A ship.”

“A ship?” you repeated.

He nodded. “One of Lord Corlys’s.”

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

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

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

You followed immediately.

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

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

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

"Have you found Jacae-"

“The prince lives, your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Up close, the damage was even worse.

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

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

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

“Jace.”

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

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

“My lady.”

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

“Jace.”

The hand tightened.

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

“He needs me.”

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

“My lady, he needs physicians.”

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

“My boy,” she whispered.

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

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

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

“He is my husband.”

The words came out sharp enough to surprise even yourself.

“He is hurt.”

“My lady-”

“He is my husband.”

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

His voice softened. “Princess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He lost a great deal of blood."

"The arrow missed the lung."

"The fever concerns us."

"We are doing everything we can."

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

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

A guard stepped into your path.

"Princess."

"That was Jacaerys."

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

The guard looked uncomfortable. "The maesters instructed-"

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

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

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

"My lady-"

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

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

Then another voice spoke.

"Open the door."

You turned.

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

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

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

This time no one argued. The guard obeyed.

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

The world narrowed once again.

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

A maester approached immediately.

"My lady."

Your gaze never left the bed.

"Will he live?"

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

"That is not what I asked."

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

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

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

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

"He should not be left alone tonight."

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

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

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

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

"You should stay."

You hesitated. "Your Grace-"

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

"My stubborn boy," she murmured.

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

When she finally withdrew, the chamber seemed strangely quieter.

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

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

He never woke.

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

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

"What is it?"

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

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

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

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

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

Then he left.

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

Gods.

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

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

"She has not slept."

And so the smile disappeared.

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

"Jace?"

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

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

The name hit like a knife.

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

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

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

Your name.

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

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

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

It was the movement of his fingers that woke you.

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

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

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

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

“There you are.”

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

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

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

Tears started burning immediately behind your eyes.

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

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

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

“I gathered,” he said quietly.

The simplicity of it hurt more than denial would have.

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

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

“You married me.”

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

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

Your eyes closed. “Jace-”

“When I fell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thought of losing him hit with renewed force.

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

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

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Jace.”

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

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

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

“You are injured.”

“I am being persecuted.”

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

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

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

You laughed quietly. “Only now?”

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

“You deserve it.”

“I fought a naval battle.”

“You worried her.”

“I was shot.”

You both went silent again.

“I am sorry,” he said softly.

You blinked. “For what?”

“For making you afraid.”

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

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

despite this, you remain close; shy smiles, kind whispers and youthful awkwardness that blossoms into a strong, devoted friendship. you're to be queen - and he, king. indeed you study for your future duties side by side, with prideful grins - and along the way, you find time for yourselves.

in youth, it is in teaching jacaerys to sew and read tarot, painting, or maybe even showing him the game you used to play with your brothers; it is in him teaching you to wield a sword, studying high valyrian together, him showing you how to climb the castle's ramparts, and inviting you along with he and luke to throw stones at the sea.

as you grow old, it is in jacaerys giving you rides on vermax, dancing with him any chance you can, exploring nature - mountains with caves and tall waterfalls that he pulls you under with feverish kisses, finding ways to sneak to each other's chambers; it is in you kissing his cheek and teasing him when his face grows pink, bringing lucerys along with the two of you when you begin to sneak out of the castle, in sharing too many cups of wine and stumbling to your quarters, in hands weaving through each other's hair.

it is nice.

but then, the war.

things are as okay as they can be for a while- duty is a blessing and a curse for you both. tensions mount. jacaerys feels like everything is falling apart, but he has you; his best friend, his lover, his favorite person in the entirety of the seven kingdoms. you cry with each other, train with each other, sneak off when things become too intense in court. you begin to whisper about a secret wedding, a traditional valyrian one; intimate, quiet.

he just wants to call you his wife, and you just want to call him your husband. but duty has a way of interfering with even the sweetest plans.

the evening jace leaves to treat at winterfell, you clasp a chain round his neck, one you strung your favorite ring through; a keepsake, perhaps. or as he likes to think, a reminder of you during the cold nights in the north.

despite it all, things are okay.

until he loses you.

you are killed with your dragon, defending a crucial line of passage for their men; vhagar and aemond are the last ones to see you as your dragon spirals beyond a hill, wings singed and aflame. you vanish.

jace is overwhelmed with grief.

the news comes just as he's beginning to find himself in a new world - a world without his younger brother - and he, an empty pit of grief and despair, isolates himself from others. consumed by sorrow and rage, his emotions spiral out of control - snapping, yelling, unable to contain his emotions even at council.

his days are marked by a deep mourning that he's unsure will ever be mended. life continues in its droll capacity - the war rages on, and jace becomes more bitter, and more like his great uncle daemon. bloodthirsty, demanding revenge.

and then, you return from the dead.

the day you come back to him is rainy and drowsy. he had foolishly, or in a bout of grief, not noticed the sounds of dragon overhead the caste; a dragon whose screech he had not heard in many moons.

his mother is the one to find him - alone, staring at the hearth in his quarters, eyes filmed with the glossy haze of sorrow.

rhaenyra's face is ghostly, sickly - and he grows immediately concerned as he sees her expression, rising to grasp her arms. "mother, are you well?"

he is shocked when he hears her whisper out: "she's alive."

his worry for his mother vanishes, blinded by her words. you. you're...

and despite being ordered to remain, his legs carry him out - to you. his mother's own footfalls follow behind him, her voice begging. he does not listen, even when she warns him - there is something that isn't right.

when he finally finds you he's elated, heart nearly stopping when your eyes meet.

but there's something missing.

when he takes you into his arms, you're cold; barely blinking, you are not who you used to be.

his own tears distort his vision as he cups your face, pressing a kiss to your full lips - and perhaps that is why he does not notice the sullen, empty look on your face. but he feels it in the way your lips do not kiss back.

jace tries to ignore it, at first.

as you are nursed back to physical health, you avoid telling the court of the truth. all that is revealed is the harrowing tale of your mangled body, put back together by the maester in the red keep; your mutilated dragon, whose health was dangled over your head by your own brother, the one whose head bears a crown that is not his.

you do not speak of your time, but the nightmares you wake from, screaming your throat raw, speak for themselves.

you heal.

you begin to show some signs of humanity after the initial shock subsides; and when you begin to seek his touch, he is glad for that semblance of what you used to have.

but it isn't the same.

you flinch at the slightest movements; your face, once expressive and joyful, is rarely lax of the straight, icy stare you send mostly towards walls. he knows he must be patient; you've endured something he could not imagine - but he cannot help his unease.

you do not speak as you used to - lapse in memory, seemingly unfamiliar with jacaerys; as if you did not grow up together, running down halls, whispering secrets, notching each other’s heights in the frame of your chamber’s threshold.

he can't help when he begins to turn away from your lips, avoiding the mechanical feeling of your mouth upon his, the coldness of your eyes when you attempt to unlace his tunic.

he feels as though it is a different person that tries to kiss him each time. he grows incredibly lonely.

in time, he is suspicious of you. you're... different. during conversations, you forget important details, you cannot recall milestones or memories you used to cherish.

the way your palm fits oddly into his, the way you no longer brush his hair back when it falls into his eyes. you call him jacaerys, or your grace - that, indeed, is the first seed planted in the suspicion of his mind. always jacaerys, never jace - and when he asks you what you do with all the time you spend alone in your chambers, you lock up as if mute.

when performing certain duties around the queen, your eyes would slide to odd objects, or pay close attention to cupbearers and how the queen enjoys her wine.

and he begins tracking your walks when you think you're alone: he discovers you sending ravens with a cloak pulled low over your head, visiting odd alleys in town and disappearing into the lower bowels of peculiar shoppes.

jace goes to daemon, of all people - daemon, first. he knows his stepfather's reputation—ruthless, cunning, and fiercely protective; if anyone can help him discern the truth, it's him. "something is not right," he tells him, worried daemon would somehow turn it into something it's not.

even worse, though, is that daemon is quick to agree. and when jace tells his mother, she confesses her own concern.

"that isn't her," his voice warbled when he tells his mother - lip, trembling, tears tracking down his cheeks as she pulls him into her embrace, her own fear poorly concealed.

when it finally happens, it is a shock to his entire body.

a mere word; murmured, off-hand at a council you happened to be attending - of which you often no longer attended, your trauma and recovery from the kidnapping having sequestered you to your quarters most days.

"Usurper," he'd said.

and then your head had snapped up.

a change in your face - as if no longer human, you’d leapt, ripping out a dagger that had been concealed in your bodice.

and then you'd lunged at him; slicing like a hound rabid for a piece of meat.

he does not remember much besides his reaction: striking you across the cheek and disarming you- kicking hard, your body being thrown to the stone. four swords at your throat. daemon holding you down with a look of disbelief at your heaving frame.

you were relentless, ready to kill - but you are too small, and the rest too many.

a stinging pain, throbbing at his neck as he watches you in shock.

but that was not you - a statue, some sleeping beast that'd been awoken in your tortured brain at the trigger of such a word. it had nearly been worse than when you'd died.

brainwashed, maester gerardys tells them.

it is not until after you have been thrown into the cells below and a bandage sealed around jace's neck.

the blade was one of green and black hilt; intended, likely, for the queen herself - in hopes that she'd have been the first one to utter the word.

likely, maester gerardys says, you were led to believe you'd been abandoned by them, and subsequently tortured for all the time you'd been held at the red keep.

and of course, there was the threat of further maiming your dragon, perhaps, or other similar threats - and physical torture, if the scars on your body are anything to go by; this twists a raw agony in jace's gut and he has to shut his eyes to ward off the thought of you, in pain.

it is a miracle you did not lose your head for nearly slitting the throat of the crown prince; he contests while still lying abed with the open slice of red across his throat, relieved when his mother informs him you are still among the living. she is a merciful queen.

he does not weep until he is alone that night.

breaking the brainwashing is the hardest part.

nights, falling asleep in his brothers or his mother's quarters where your screams of anguish or anger could not be heard - days walking past your heavily guarded chamber to reach his own, swallowing thick as he imagines you on the other side.

isolation is key, he's been told, but it makes it so much worse.

it takes so long that jacaerys nearly forgets what your voice sounds like, how your eyes shine in the sun. he forgets how your smile, beautiful and uneven, makes his heart flip; the taste of your lips, the cadence of your voice.

he even finds himself praying to the seven for the first time since he was just a babe.

slowly, as you begin to heal, you are permitted to see others. he is not allowed, nor is his mother - daemon first, then baela and rhaena with their grandmother. servants and maids.

he begins to hear you again. walking past the chambers which lie near his own, he'd hear your voice, conversing quietly with maester gerardys. when he dozes off over a strategy tome at his desk, he is jolted awake by your gentle, haunting humming; a tune he used to love.

his mother tells him it is not healthy to keep it in.

but he cannot bring himself to speak of it.

shame, pain, anguish, embarrassment - heartbreak. he has grieved you twice over, seen you become a ghost. he has lost you and lost you again.

herbs, potions, guided discussions and meditations. solitary confinement, exposure to the word - all of this, and you begin to shed the skin of whatever person they had made you into.

he pretends that he does not endure nightmares of that day every time his eyes close - of the glint of your knife, the soulless stare of your eyes. the swelling bruise on your cheek - in the shape of his own fist.

there is a thin scar, a puckered pink line of fresh skin across the apple of his throat the next time he sees you.

it's an accident; he walks past just as a maid leaves your chambers, and he naturally glances over. your eyes meet him, hair wet and fresh from bathing; wide as a sweet doe, pain and regret laced through your gaze. "jace."

his throat is tight when he hears your voice - gentle, laced with remorse. jace, you'd called him. he hides the tears in his eyes when he continues briskly past your chambers. he thinks about you ceaselessly the rest of the day.

he's told you do not sleep. you eat only when it becomes impossible not to, you cannot make meaningful eye contact nor hold steady conversations without breaking down in guilt. it eats away at him.

but as you begin to show signs of improvement, jacaerys is finally allowed to visit.

they're brief, supervised; he brings paintings, books, and anything they believe could help stimulate your memory of life before your change. he tries to ignore the sting of pain when you barely meet his gaze, voice stuttering, hands shaking.

you’re still not you; flickering eyes, quiet voice. but soon, after moons of quiet conversation, stunted by the armored guards standing between you and observing your every move, it changes.

little by little, he sees glimpses of you again. you laugh like you used to. you recount stories of your shared youth - with a grin, you remember the day he'd fallen from an apple tree trying to pick you a fruit, and you'd had to snap his arm into correct place.

you brush flecks of dust and lint from his shoulder with shy looks, you share the books you’ve been reading; one day, you ask him to braid your hair - a task you'd taught him in youth. you fall asleep when he's halfway through.

and yes, there are bad days - days where your grief and guilt eat your stomach and you refuse to even look him in the eye; when you sob into your hands and curl yourself on the chaise longue and jace is stuck, heartbroken, watching you push him away.

you do not forgive yourself, you will not let him forgive you - but you soon let him hold you, and you soon begin to hold him back with a desperate grip.

it takes a while for jace to accept help.

but soon, he undergoes his own healing process; he knows he must reconcile the grief of losing you with the joy of having you back, albeit changed.

eventually, he speaks openly with you about the death of lucerys and about your own assumed death as well. you stroke his hair when he cries into your chest, you kiss his nose and cheeks to rid the tracks of tears.

during quieter moments, you find solace in each other's presence. you walk together in the gardens, hand in hand, your steps in sync as you talk about the future; you sit by the hearth in the evenings, your heads close as you share whispered conversations and stolen glances.

you broach the subject one stormy day, your beautiful hair loose and whipping around your head.

he watches your mind churn behind those eyes, the ones that have regained their expressive nature - the eyes he's loved since before he knew such a word.

"i would have killed you." it's a whisper into the wind. "and yet, you saved my life."

your voice is not grateful - to his horror, it is pained - as if you believe such repentance could only be achieved through greeting the stranger.

he shakes his head, "it was not you who did it." but you've heard it countless times, and you still find it hard to accept - guilt swims in your beautiful eyes.

"i love you." he whispers it.

tears drop from your eyes as you look at him. "why?"

eventually, the fog clears fully.

you remember the details of your manipulation, the torture, the indoctrinating, the conditioning. you confess it all to queen rhaenyra and the dragonstone court - voice shaking and body bent with shame, you apologize for your weakness. jace has to look away when you begin to cry, when you beg for forgiveness, for another chance.

it is given without hesitance.

one evening, you sit by the fire with him.

something upon him catches your eye; with a tentative reach, your fingers brush his chest. jace looks down, breath catching as he realizes what you've found; gently, you pull the necklace from his tunic - a ring upon it, untarnished. your smile is sad, sorrowful - "you kept it," you whisper.

he can only nod, eyes never leaving yours. "i never took it off."

it is that night you tell him about a dream you had; you were both young again, carefree and in love. his eyes glisten with unshed tears just as yours do, and he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "we'll get there," he promises, his voice unwavering. you both believe it.

you come back to him in ways he doesn't expect.

longing glances, eyes holding on his lips when he speaks to you - short teases that release your sharp tongue and quick wit. you are given some old duties back. kept to the castle, you mostly held draw efforts from within, but he can see the fire in your eyes return as the guilt subsides.

when the word usurper is accidentally used in conversation, eyes still flicker to you. there will remain wariness - conscious or not - for the rest of your days. but you prove yourself loyal and trustworthy, and you soon begin to forgive yourself.

nights you spend in jace's arms, fingers brushing against the scar you'd given him. tears are replaced with soft kisses upon lips, and eventually upon flushed, sweat-laced skin.

he is terrified each time you ride into battle - even when he and vermax are alongside you.

perhaps it is a weakness - to worry so, during a war; he cannot help it. but to his relief, you always come out unscathed, as does he - and you always slide off the wing of your dragon and pull him to you, murmuring into his neck, soothing over his back with your palm once you return.

you love him, and you tell him as much any chance you get. you begin to stop wincing when he tells you he loves you, too.

you still wake sometimes with a hoarse throat, but now you are soothed back to sleep when jace, bleary eyed and heart pounding, crawls into your bed alongside you. your cries turn into soft puffs of breath as he braids your hair until you fall asleep.

you still sometimes flinch when someone raises a hand, jace sometimes watches with wariness when he sees you wielding a knife.

but eventually the war ends.

you and jace marry.

a traditional, valyrian one; dragonglass sliced into lips, palms. a kiss that tastes of metal, of loyalty, of love. you whisper the words to each other, no echo of ghosts nor fear in your minds.

one flesh, one heart, one soul. now and forever.

you become prince and princess of dragonstone, first in line for the succession to the iron throne.

you show to be just rulers; fair and kind, strong willed and bright. ceaselessly, fiercely in love.

your firstborn son is named lucerys.

he has jace's eyes and your hair. you sing him the song jace remembers you humming those days after you came back to them - and when the queen visits to give her congratulations and to meet her grandbabe, the heir to the heir, she calls you daughter.

the scar upon his neck fades away, until you can scarcely trace it with your finger as he pulls you to him in the late hours of eve, wrapped in furs and the soft flicker of candlelight.

you do not hear the word usurper again.

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