:¨·.·¨: `·.. S

WEEK ONE.

You noticed the intricacies of their dynamic almost immediately. It was not necessarily hard to miss, not even for the feeblest of minds. Anyone who had spent an hour in the presence of Cregan Stark knew he was a man of few words, with a disposition as icy as his homeland. There were very few things that brought him joy, and even fewer that brought him visible joy.

Jacaerys was one of those things. At his welcome feast, your husband had sat at the front of the room, you at his left, your guest of honor on his right. Feasts were only your strong suit in the planning stage. You ran the household in a highly organized manner and had mobilized the entire castle in preparing for Jacaerys’ welcome. Once the event came, however, you were happy to fade into the background. You were sure others would be happy too.

Tonight, all eyes would be on your visitor. To honor the occasion, you had worn one of your finer gowns for the affair—a warm, heavy silver gown with deep purple embroidery, displaying the joined colors of yours and your husband’s houses.

It was no surprise to you that the prince was happy to lap this attention up. He was heir to the Iron Throne, of course. He had been primed for all eyes pinned on him since birth. He radiated light—a light so bright it was contagious, transmittable only to your husband. 

In the two years of your marriage, you had learned one thing: smiling was rare. It was rare between the two of you, but the absence of a smile did not mean he was displeased with you–a trait you had struggled to cope with in the early days of your union. Cregan was naturally stoic and spent most of his time preoccupied with matters of state and the Wall. His brow and lip were always turned downwards. The weight of responsibility made it hard to do otherwise.

When he smiled, it was small, or it was the consequence of a gentle laugh. It happened most often when he was tired, when he had just woken up, when he was sated, or when he was full of love. They rarely lasted. He would fall asleep or get up, and you would be left trying hopelessly to render the moment immobile.

Smiling from Cregan was rarest in front of everyone. He was a master of composure, born from years of projecting security and worthiness of his claim to be Lord of Winterfell. Jokes did nothing. He did not sing songs with the rest of his men. Cups loosened his shoulders, but not his lips. Not until after he was back in your bedchamber.

And yet, when he stood to make a toast, he smiled graciously. A hush fell over the room as he loomed over the guests of the hall. An unexpected sight indeed.

Some would suspect flattery—but this was Winterfell, not Highgarden. Northerners were hardly men of lip service. Others would suspect graciousness—no, Cregan Stark did not need to flatter his guest, but he did need to show the Prince of Dragonstone that he was welcome in the North.

That would leave only honest, unabashed happiness. From Cregan Stark. Warden of the North. Something few expected. And while you knew the prince was one of your husband’s favorite people, you couldn’t have expected that he would be smiling at his welcome feast during his toast.

“To all gathered here tonight,” Cregan’s voice boomed across the hall, “Let us all raise a toast to our prince, and to his mother. Treat him as you would your fellow Northerner in these coming weeks. Drink, eat, rejoice. Long live the queen!”

“Long live the queen!”

Cups were raised to the future king and his mother. Ensuing cups were filled, and refilled. Once he sat down, Cregan seemed content to sit between his wife and his prince and let them lead the conversation. Jacaerys was incredibly easy to speak to. He regaled you with tales of his correspondence with Cregan, life on Dragonstone, his childhood in the Red Keep. Every now and then, Cregan would interject, with a comment, a rebuttal, or an inside joke, which would send Jace into fits of laughter, especially as the prince sank deeper and deeper into his cups.

Cregan and you continued drinking too, albeit Cregan handled his wine far better than you and Jace. Not that he was impossible to sink. You could see his eyelids growing heavy, his shoulders dropping the tension, his body settling into his chair as the night progressed. Your laughter grew higher in pitch and frequency. The hall was warm and welcoming, something rarely felt this intensely in your home. While you had grown to love Winterfell over the past few years, you knew that its doors opened this widely for a very precious few. This was a welcome that had to be earned.

The party remained lively. The singers took up a spot in a far corner of the room, and the men took women into their arms to prance about the open space.

“Do you indulge Lady Y/N in dance at these feasts often, Cregan?” Jacaerys asked, and you stifled a laugh. 

“He would sooner take the black,” You joked, “And besides, Cregan is a fine warrior, but a terrible dancer.”

Cregan raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “I’m glad you find this insufficiency of mine humorous, wife,” He conceded, before looking at Jacaerys, “I seem to recall you are fond of dancing.”

You smiled, looking at the prince gleefully. “You dance?”

He bobbed his head up and down, noncommittal in his answer. “I wouldn’t call myself a dancer, necessarily. I’ve learned the dances at court.” His expression turned smug. “I am certainly more capable than he is.”

Cregan scoffed, shaking his head. “I should have pledged for Aegon. Look at how you repay me.”

You stiffened at Cregan’s remark, only to relax when Jace burst out laughing. Cregan’s eyes were warm. Swallowing down your nervousness, your gaze flickered between them both. The Year of Tension—the final year of the late King Viserys’s life, and the two moons following his death where the realm teetered between peace and war—had been three years past now. Many still grew awkward when discussing the crisis of succession. Evidently, not Jace, who scoffed right back at your husband.

“And then what?” Jace quipped, “Vermax was right there. We would have made you the warmest Northerner in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.”

The prince moved his eyes back to you. “Come, my lady,” He said, standing and extending a hand, “If my friend will not indulge you in a dance before the night is over, then the pleasure shall be mine.”

You looked at his hand, and recognized a scar matching your husband’s. He led you to the dance floor, with no protests from Cregan. He seemed to watch you both with a deep interest. Jace faced you, and allowed you to come to him. One hand placed itself on his shoulder, and when you lifted your palm, he brought his to yours. A moment later, his hand landed on your waist, a gracious and polite distance between you both. A moment later, the music began.

“Are you happy to be back in the North?” You asked, beginning to move in tandem with him. Jace smiled.

“I am. It is an honor to be received in such a way, especially as an outsider.” 

He said outsider the way most Northerners said it. Like an insult. 

“You understand, yes?”

Shrugging as best as you could amidst the dance, you had to agree. “Many had their doubts when I wed Cregan. That the only woman suitable for Cregan Stark could be one bred by the North. Some were particularly vocal. To some, I’m a Northerner now. I’ve slowly started to think of myself as a Northerner. My children will be Northerners someday, and I will die in the North, most like.”

You paused, thinking about the friction you still came face to face with. “But some will always consider me to be an outsider. It can be admirable, I suppose. How united they are. Gods know they could use the unity down in the Riverlands.”

“Do you miss it?” He asked, breaking eye contact briefly to eye his feet. “Cregan told me you kept the Seven after your marriage. I imagine it must get lonely.”

“It can be.” You did the same, looking down at where your feet fit in between his as the dance continued. “But I am grateful. Many a husband would have demanded I take their gods instead. Not only did he welcome me to keep mine, but he has repurposed use a room in the southern wing of the castle as a room of worship. My own personal sept, if you will.”

“Do you keep a septon?”

“No,” You replied, almost sad, “There are few willing to make the long journey, only fewer wishing to preach to only one. Some visit, and stay for some moons. Not many.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Jace nodded affirmingly. “I can see to it personally that one be stationed here at Winterfell, if you would like.”

Immediately, you shook your head. “This is the North,” You said resolutely, “Ultimately, I must respect their customs. The servants in the castle are wary of the septons when they visit—they are wont to preach. I’m sure you know.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I do. My brother Lucerys and I were often on the receiving end of the preaching, when we were boys in the Red Keep.”

You smiled at the newfound warmth on his face, different from the happiness at being in Winterfell. A vicarious pride, happy to gush about his family. “How is your brother?”

Jace beamed, ever the proud eldest son. “Luke is well, thank you for asking. He’s soon to be seven and ten, and is likely a constant in the hearts of the young ladies at court. He spends most of his days out on the Velaryon fleet with our grandsire and has become adept at sailing.”

“A true Velaryon, indeed. You must be proud of the man he’s become.” You smiled, “I’m sure he will one day make a grand Lord of the Tides.”

“I agree, and I am proud, as any eldest brother can be. Extremely so,” Jace said wholeheartedly. 

The music swelled. He knew the steps of this dance well, it seemed, and suddenly you seemed inclined to believe he had downplayed his proficiency. He spun you with one hand and grabbed your other hand mid-spin. The two of you were now facing the same direction, Jace guiding you with his hands on yours. 

You looked up, focusing back on Cregan. He was watching you both lazily, one hand around the goblet. Gray eyes shifted ever so slightly, and you knew he was locking eyes with you. He clenched his jaw. Your breath hitched, fighting to maintain your composure and remember the steps to the dance. 

I adore you, you wanted to call from across the room, keep looking at me like that and it will kill me from want, and I will die the happiest woman in the world. 

Jace let go of your hand, finishing the spin, returning to the beginning of the sequence of steps. He had yet to stumble or hesitate. When he pulled you back in, it was closer now. He exhaled, and you felt it on your cheeks.

“You are exceedingly humble, my prince,” You sighed, looking up at him, “You are extremely graceful.”

He hummed, hand landing back on your waist. “You are too kind, Lady Y/N. Besides, someone has to dance with you, yes?”

A giggle fell from your lips. “You say that as if it is the ultimate tell of a marriage—whether a husband will dance with his wife.”

“Not necessarily.” Jace shook his head. He spun you around again, and when you saw his face next, he too was looking at Cregan. “As long as you are suited to each other’s company. As long as his character fits yours—which by the sound of his letters, they do.”

You blinked, watching him watch your husband. He seemed oddly transfixed. “We are quite happy. A-after two years…” 

You craned your neck, searching for your husband. Cregan was still watching. This time, however, his gray eyes held just above you, over you. 

He was watching Jace. And when you looked back at Jace, he was holding his gaze firm. Subtly, his hand tightened against your waist. You hardly noticed, until you began to slow as the music calmed.

“...I believe we understand each other quite well.”

The music ended moments later. The couples around you came to a stop, and when the applause began, Jace finally looked back at you. He smiled, but his eyes were unreadable. 

“It brings me much joy, that you and my friend have a happy marriage. You are very lucky.”

“Thank you, my prince.”

He led you back to the table, and the three of you retook your previous conversation. Cregan had drained another cup by then, a servant stopping by to refill it as you and Jace sat back down. When you sat, his neck craned to stare deeply at you. His gray eyes shone in the candlelight, pupils wide and dilated. You could feel your heart skip a beat, waiting for him to say something.

“Yes?” You asked. He shook his head, raking up and down your figure. 

“Nothing, pet.”

He did this often. Staring just to stare. The closest thing to adoration he would allow himself in front of others. Any man could look at his wife. None of them could look at you the way Cregan did. A profound longing, soliloquizing with a silvery stare all the things he could never bring himself to say out loud.

The conversation picked back up, at Jace’s insistence. You tried your best to continue, to remain active in the conversation, but it was the point of the night where Cregan’s intentions were beginning to bleed through, thanks to the drink.

The most telling of all was when Cregan’s hand moved past his plate, past his cup, beginning to inch towards yours, and by the gods—this tactic of his never failed to hit you like a young maiden. 

How ridiculous it seemed, that he could exert such power over you. His hands rarely ever touched yours on nights like these. He would make a game of drawing his hand near and pulling away before he could ever actually touch you. Coming close and inching away, like waves lapping at the side of a ship.

You’d never have taken Cregan for a tease, when you first married. And you supposed, in a way, he wasn’t truly. Not in the original sense of the word. You rarely had to tell him off, rarely had to shove sneaky hands away. He didn’t grab at you in front of his advisors, for which you were grateful. But small things like these, in a hallway or at supper… 

The unfairly tantalizing push and pull of something as miniscule as whether or not he would touch your hand. A side glance without actually turning his head, one with hooded eyes from either the drink or the suggestion of something more, once he had you all to himself. Anything more than touching was always relegated to the bedchamber.

No, Cregan’s teasing lied mostly in the negative, the promise of more without ever even giving anything in the first place. Not until the only eyes placed upon you were his own. He loved these things, how he could see your pupils dilate or your breath catch. And when the time finally came, when his hands found their way between your legs, he loved the evidence of just how much he affected you.

Where they found themselves inevitably, at the end of the night. Once the lords and ladies had sung their goodnights to the three of you and welcomed Jacaerys back to the North. Cregan had led you up the stairs with a hand at the small of your back and had pressed you up against the door of the bedchamber the second it closed behind you.

Nights with your husband tended to reveal his more brutish nature and true strength, hidden beneath layers of furs. He could be loving and tender every now and again. But often, Cregan seemed to need to prove himself worthy of the Stark name. A wolfish nature would emerge on nights like tonight. Bite marks on your shoulders, breasts, hips.

Even then, he was rougher than usual tonight. You never complained. Not when he drove himself into you with a force that pushed the air from your lungs, using rough hands to push your thighs up to your chest, and slot himself between them. Not when he took a thumb to your pearl and swirled it in circles until you sang so beautifully for him. Not when he bent down to press a bruising kiss to your mouth, giving you a moment to recover before he parted and asked for “just one more, my girl. Let your husband show you how much he loves you.”

When he spilled in you finally, and lay his head on your chest, you racked what was left of your mind to wonder what may have triggered an appearance from the wolf. Whenever he was challenged, he liked to take it out on you. Whether the challenge had been issued by one of his advisors during council gatherings, a lesser lord at an audience, or by you during an argument, Cregan seemed to revel in using your body as an outlet to release his frustrations.

But who had challenged him that night? Everyone had smiled at him all night long, especially with his guest of honor at his side. There were no attempts to provoke him, not in front of Jacaerys.

Which left Jacaerys himself. Jacaerys, who landed just outside of Winterfell atop a hulking bright green dragon, who had temporarily displaced your husband from his pedestal of most important man of the room. You furrowed your eyebrows as you stroked Cregan’s sweaty hair.

“I had not realized the prince triggered such envy in you,” You murmured, looking up at the canopy of your bed.

“Jealousy?” Cregan spoke against the skin of your breast. It briefly sounded as though he was a child caught doing something he should not have been doing. 

“Aye,” You said gently, “You don’t get like this often. Only when you get angry, or jealous. Or if I work you up, which I cannot imagine I did tonight.”

“No, you didn’t,” He hummed, “Very well behaved. And the feast was beautifully planned.”

“Do not coo at me like I were a pup,” You grumbled, pushing gently at his shoulder. “Besides, I was not about to provoke you in front of your friend and our future king. Or do you think so poorly of me?” 

Cregan rolled off of you gently, and you puffed out a sigh when you felt him leave you. He propped his head up on his hand, the other tracing the curve of your breast. 

“No, and I know you wouldn’t. You didn’t work me up, love.”

“Did it anger you when I danced with him?”

“Anger?” Cregan shook his head, frowning as if you had just spoken in tongues. “I was not angry at all. Nor was I jealous.”

You scoffed. “You were looking at each other like two horned deer about to spar. What a fight that would have been.”

Your husband tilted his head. It looked like he was holding back a smile. “Is that what you think it was?”

“Don’t deny it,” You huffed. Cregan smiled now, waving his hand.

“There is nothing to deny, because it is not true. You misunderstand, love. You’ll see.”

And see, you did. But it was not unsettling.

By the end of the first week, none of it seemed strange to you. You didn’t think it strange when Jace accompanied you both on a tour of the armory, and Cregan’s fingers brushed Jace’s when Cregan was showing him how to use a crossbow thought to have belonged to Torrhen Stark’s daughter. Nor when Jace passed by your husband in a small hallway, and instead of waiting for precedent, for Cregan to step to the side for a Prince of the Realm, Jace took it upon himself to brush past, gently nudging Cregan to the side by brushing his hands along Cregan’s waist. 

What befuddled you was that even through all of this, you never felt a drop of jealousy. Even when you noticed the nature of Cregan and Jace’s relationship: the long bouts of eye contact, the unspoken conversations, the laughter, the way they seemed to orbit too close to each other. If anything, it only spurred curiosity. Every movement was now artwork for you to repaint in your mind. Every conversation became a dead man to dissect, and you the maester.

You waited, admittedly, for the twist in your chest, the urge to cling to Cregan, the ugly bloom of green in your heart that would turn your impression of the Prince of Dragonstone ugly and unpleasant. It never came. Instead, you were left with the strangest desire to push them closer. Like when you played with your dolls as a girl, and made your princess kiss her knight. You almost wondered if there was something wrong with you. 

Because there was no knight or princess to be seen here. In their place stood your husband and a prince of the realm. 

You sat with the doubt, but not for very long. Mostly because you had a spectre of a thought, one that could never be put into writing or spoken into words. A hunch. An inkling.

That if you truly were to push them closer, they would not protest.

Your husband was, for all intents and purposes, an emotionless wall of a man. Until it came to you. You could read him like a sailor could the stars. You had lived and learned his tells over the course of your alliance. The twitch of his lips, the flexing of the joints in his fingers. Whenever Jace was in the room, you could feel it. Taste it.

Jace would crack a joke, smug and wry. Bring up an old memory, or something they had discussed in a letter. His head would tilt back with an air of pride expected from the heir to the Iron Throne, and in a moment anyone else would miss, a fraction of a second, Cregan’s eyes would glance down at the span of his neck. 

Every now and then, if Jace veered too close, you could make out the smallest dimpling of Cregan’s right cheek. Immediately you knew what from: gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Because he couldn’t bite down on what he really wanted to. You knew this look—you had been on the receiving end of it at feasts that dragged on for too long, or council meetings that grew too boring.

What you hadn’t anticipated was the prince turning his attention to you.

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

The end of the first week came to a close in Cregan’s private study. Cregan had sent you off to bed without him, and together with Jace, they had opened an old cask distilled in Karhold many years ago. The final day of the first week had been slower, and had left time for the old pair to finally have some time on their own. 

The conversation began as normal as ever. Debriefing the first few days here at Winterfell, rehashing memories, discussing politics and logistics. Until Jace decided to change the subject.

“Your wife is a wonderful woman,” He said genuinely, “Your match was well suited.”

Cregan smiled at his mentioning you. “It did not always feel that way.”

Jace swirled the liquor in his goblet. “Oh? No?”

Cregan sighed. “The arrangement was made before we ever met. We had no time to become familiar before—”

“Before you became familiar.”

“Not—Jacaerys.” Cregan flashed him a look, but it was not threatening in the slightest. Jace snickered, and Cregan felt his chest grow warm. 

How he had missed this. There were few in Winterfell with whom he could simply joke with, like this. He was always the most needed man in the room, here. Everyone wanted something from him, always. Not Jace.

Not in a way Cregan would have complained about, anyway. 

No, here in this room, he could simply be Cregan. No one to lord over or wrench power away from. He supposed all of that fell on his prince’s shoulders. He returned to the question he’d asked himself for years: who took all of that from Jacaerys?

“Lord Tully took it upon himself to arrange the match,” He continued, “I think Y/N’s father was positioning things to have her wed Lord Oscar.”

Jace raised his eyebrows. “He’s around Luke’s age, I’d wager. He was so young back then.”

“Aye,” Cregan agreed, “And not keen on taking a wife at that time, certainly not one several years older than he. No, Oscar Tully wrote to me instead, and one of my men who’d ridden to Riverrun once and held court with them all around that time told me she was beautiful, and I thought it time.”

“I take it Lord Mallister didn’t care which great lord got his eldest daughter, just that a great lord had her,” Jace quipped. Cregan shrugged, somewhat indifferent at the mention of his father in law.

“He seemed overjoyed at her match with the Warden of the North.” Cregan sat down opposite him, lost in thought. When he spoke again, his tone was downturned. Regretful. 

“We had a misunderstanding, the night of the wedding. I believe I’ve told you.”

“You thought you’d frightened her.” Jace crossed his arms, trying to recall the story. “And she thought you resented her.”

Cregan sighed, mournful of the entire affair. He pinched the bridge of his nose, recalling the distance he found in you back then. “Everything went… well enough that night. It was wonderful. Then in the morning I opened my big idiot mouth and said something I should not have. We did not lay together for another three moons after. She looked at me as if I had threatened to bite her head off.”

“You always were such a poet, Lord Stark.”

“And you have always loved to make fun,” Cregan bit back, straightening his posture. Jace finished his drink, and Cregan poured himself another one.

“She seems transfixed with you now,” Jace observed, “Always watching you. She is exceedingly… warm towards you. Though neither of you say it much.”

“Sometimes she is of fewer words than I,” Cregan conceded, “But there can be such joy in a shared silence when there is no pressure to fill it. We speak freely when we want.”

Jace was silent as he mulled over Cregan’s words. The prince looked over to where his friend was sitting, taking note of the fond expression on his face.  He opened his mouth. Hesitated. But pressed on nonetheless.

“I’ll admit, it’s not what I would have expected from you.”

Cregan tilted his head towards Jace, gaze turning firm. “This came because it was expected of me.”

Jace pursed his lips. “I would have expected someone more talkative than you. A bit more willing to push.”

They held each other’s eye, and the air turned tense. The topic was a seal that should have remained unbroken. Cregan took a deep breath. 

“Someone like you?” He asked, in that low gentle tone he took when he already knew the answer to the question he was asking. The seal gave way, peeling Cregan’s walls back until what was left was a man Jace had known much closer, once. Someone he remembered quite frequently, late at night. He lifted the goblet and drank, but did not look away. Cregan squared his shoulders.

“Have you considered that it may have been good for that moment in time,” He said, “But would not have suited me long term?”

“It was never suitable for either of us,” Jace countered, setting down the goblet, “And we did it anyway, Lord Stark.”

“Jacaerys,” Cregan mumbled, “You are being unfair.”

He had misstepped, he realized. “Do you take me for a spurned lover, Cregan?”  

Cregan stared back at him, wordless. Cold gray eyes that had been warm not five minutes ago caused Jace to reevaluate his words. At the realization, Jace shook his head. He held up his hands in truce, offering a small gentle smile to boot. “I do not mean to turn this into a grudge or an argument. Truly. I just wondered…”

He watched Cregan’s jaw clench when he trailed off, feeling something warm and familiar bloom in his chest.

“Wondered what, my prince?” His tone was gruffer, words clipped. This was dangerous territory. In another life, his teasing likely would have burst into something that would have had Jace’s toes curling, legs raised towards the sky.

His smile turned sly. “Your wife is beautiful,” He said, tracing his fingers up and down the intricate details of the goblet, “Any man can see that.”

“Jace.”

The prince licked his lips, watching Cregan’s nostrils flare. Already, he seemed to know what Jace would end up saying. How delightful, he thought. Another opportunity to tantalize him.

“Would you be willing,” He said slowly, “Would she be willing…?”

Cregan’s voice dropped a dangerous octave. “Jacaerys.”

He blinked once, twice. The subtlest fluttering of his lashes. “Yes, my lord?”

Cregan’s knuckles were white against the tip of the armchair. Jace had known those knuckles very well, once. He had committed the ridges of them to memory. He would commission sculptures of them for his own personal collection, if Cregan had allowed it.

A pity. If this was how Cregan reacted to Jace asking him to fuck his wife, he doubted he’d say yes to that.

Cregan drained his cup, standing. “I ask you to leave my lady wife out of this conversation. I would not leave her to the devices of other men in our own bedchamber. She would not allow it.”

Before he could move to leave, Jace stood, making quick work to block Cregan’s path to the door with his own body. Cregan froze, hovering dangerously close.

“Who said anything about our being alone?” Jace shook his head, grinning. “How unimaginative, Cregan. That I want simply to ravish your wife and make a cuckold of you in your own home.”

“Is that not what you’re asking of me?” Cregan said, voice dangerously close to a growl.

At this, Jace shook his head again. His smile widened, showing teeth that would strike if he had the chance, the permission. The permission could not be granted by either person in this room. They both seemed to understand this. It did not mean they wanted it any less.

“I was of the understanding that cuckolds do not participate. I would not want her without you there. I want both of you.”

If Cregan asked him to leave, he would leave. Leave the room, leave Winterfell. He would walk into the snow, climb atop Vermax, and return to Dragonstone at this very moment. If Cregan punched him, he would perhaps also welcome it. He was well aware of how out of turn it sounded, noble hierarchy be damned.

It seemed Cregan had not considered this a possibility. His mouth opened, then closed. He studied Jace’s gaze, seeming to look for any inclination that he may be joking. The entire time, Jace held firm.

When Cregan found none, his eyes travelled down to Jace’s heart-shaped lips. Jace’s heart hammered in his chest.

“One night,” Jace suggested, “The three of us. You and her, as the gods intended it. Her and I, you and me, as we intend it.”

Cregan took a deep breath, brows furrowing. His tone seemed to waver, simmering with apprehension. “Jace…” 

“One night, and I will never ask you anything of the sort again. I know you love your wife,” He insisted, “And ours is long past. But do you not also think back on how we once were? How good we could make each other feel, and wonder whether or not we could ever do it again?” 

“My duty is to my wife.” He looked away, but from here, Jace saw no denial. He craned his neck downwards.

“I would wager gold,” Jace murmured raspily, “That if I were to grab you right now, your cock would be hard.”

Jace didn’t move, but Cregan’s hand shot out to stop him before he could, wrapping against Jace’s slender wrist. Cregan was facing him again, and Jace lifted his head. How close they had drifted in the past few minutes. He could feel Cregan’s body heat radiating off of him. 

Cregan’s hand felt like a brand, heat starting at his skin and melting through his flesh until it burned at his bones. 

“Where has this greed come from, my prince?”

“Search your memories,” Jace answered, “I have always been like this. Only the last time, you bent me over in the middle of the Wolfswood to satisfy me.”

Cregan licked his lips. Jace watched the glide of his pink tongue with the rapt attention of a rabbit suddenly aware of a wolf. 

“Your… idea,” Cregan began, “It interests me. I must admit it.”

Jace smirked, but it was premature. Cregan let go of his wrist, and straightened his posture. He jutted his chin out, probably trying to feel even taller than he already was.

“I have never known my wife to look at another man, however,” He said, sounding rather proud at this. “Her eyes have never wandered, nor have mine. Our vows are resolute.”

Jace swallowed, starting to prepare to apologize, to patch his ego. He wondered how cold it was in the skies at this hour of night. 

“But we have never been issued a challenge of this sort,” Cregan finished, and Jace’s brows began to raise. 

“Challenge?”

Finally, Cregan smiled. It was small, lopsided. Jace felt his heart stutter, wondering how many times Cregan had given you this smile. What a privilege, to be on the receiving end of it for the rest of your days.

“If you can entice my wife,” Cregan murmured, “I will broach the subject with her.” 

“I’ll charm her. Just as I charmed you.”

Cregan shook his head. “You don’t know Y/N like I do. She has a will made of steel.”

“So did you, I recall.” Jace had done this once. He could do it again. He raised a hand slowly, placing it in the center of Cregan’s leather doublet. Jace pressed down, searching eagerly for a restless ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. He found it, feeling the beating of Cregan’s heart against a three-year old scar that spanned the middle of his palm. 

“All it took was some pouting and some wine. And you folded the moment I pressed my lips to yours.”

There it was, Jace realized a moment later. Looking at Cregan, however, he would not have guessed such an uneven pace.

“I will say again,” Cregan said, slowing down his cadence, “You—do—not—know—her.”

Gods, how familiar this felt. Jace loved to push. Years past, Jace would poke and prod at the sleeping wolf, hoping desperately to wake. His antagonizing would lead to a pay off in teeth-clacking kisses, a pleasing soreness in his lower abdomen, and bite marks on his nipples (and once, his left ass cheek).

“No, but I know you.” Jace leaned forward. Cregan smelled of pine and bittersweet liquor. “I know your methods. All I have to do is inspire. Create a fantasy worthy of making her thoughts stray.”

Cregan remained silent. This proximity was dangerous. Jace knew that Cregan could also feel the way the air moved differently at such a short distance. When he tried to meet his brown eyes with Cregan’s gray, he found them turned just below his nose. Jace swallowed.

The Lord of Winterfell watched as Jace’s lips pressed together to hum, then turned upward. 

“Besides,” Jace murmured, wanting so terribly to just lean forward and reunite. “I have already made your eyes wander. And it has not yet been a week since I’ve returned.”

Cregan bit his lower lip, and paused for a beat before stepping away. The sweet moment was gone, torn away, but deep down Jace knew that he had reached the end of this path. They could not pass this wall without crossing into the realm of dishonor. He wondered if Cregan’s heart was beating as hard as his own. 

And still, he grinned hungrily. Bracing. Willing. 

“What more can it be to make hers?”

WEEK TWO.

Whatever initial anxiety you’d had prior to the prince and his dragon touching down in Winterfell seemed to melt away as you became better acquainted with him. The first week had been largely focused on the North as a whole: Jace had met with representatives from the likes of the Dreadfort, White Harbor, and Bear Island. A small envoy had been sent from the Wall to discuss the needs of the Night’s Watch with the prince. One more grand banquet was held that week, the planning leaving you too preoccupied to join your husband and his guests. 

This second week, however, felt more focused on Winterfell. Thus, as the Lady of the household, Jace’s attention turned to you. You walked the grounds with him speaking of the logistics of granaries, food distribution, expectations for your servants.

Many men would scoff or roll their eyes at the womanly duties of running a household. Not Jace. He remained attentive, clearly listening, asking genuine questions. Others, when they made it this far, would take it upon themselves to saddle you with recommendations you did not need. You do not need this many servants to do the washing, they might say. 

And they would turn their lips if you answered genuinely: perhaps not, but I would rather have a few more servants than needed than to deprive these people of coin to feed their families. Winter is hard enough.

Instead, Jace would listen to you speak. He would mull it over, then ask. When you offered your rationale, he would consider it—actually consider it, not pretend that he valued your insight. 

“You are incredibly receptive, Your Grace,” You said, “Some men have very strong opinions on how I run my household.”

“What know I of running households?” He answered, tone tinged with offense on your behalf. “Much less Northern ones at the height of winter.”

“You would be surprised.” Your smile held no joy. “You’d think I was Dornish, the way they think I know nothing about a long winter.”

He tilted his head. “Have you ever challenged their notions?”

You sighed, tracing a piece of embroidery over your skirt. “The septons say grace is of utmost importance. I would rather turn the other cheek than argue.”

Jace frowned. “How heavy it must be, to carry all of it in silence.”

With resignation, you looked at him. The freckles across his cheeks, just below eyes tinged with empathy.

“It can be.”

Jace crossed his arms, rubbing them up and down slowly. Despite the furs draped across his shoulders, he still seemed cold. Or perhaps it was more for comfort. You couldn’t be sure.

“I held back like you, once,” He said after a moment of silent rumination. Brown eyes met yours. His dark, curly, rather un-Valyrian hair fluttered in the wind. 

“When the knife comes for you, holding it by the blade will only you more. There must come a time when you turn it on whoever you’re duelling with.”

You didn’t ask him what he meant by that. You didn’t think you needed to.

There was a refreshing frankness about him, one that was exceptionally rare around these parts. Many Northerners seemed to use honesty as an opportunity for jaggedness. Honest to a fault, particularly brutal at your lowest. Jace’s honesty was nestled in kindness. The intention behind it was entirely different. It was comforting and not reproachful. He did not seek to pick apart your every action and your sex was not immediately discrediting to him.

It was pleasing and surprising. He seemed to be molded by gentleness that you would not expect of a dragon prince, and seemed to genuinely like you as a friend. Not just as the wife of his friend and political ally.

They had to have spoken about you, you assumed. What man did not speak of his wife to his closest friend? What friend did not offer advice or insight in return?

Honesty was never lacking in your husband. He was not normally one to hide things from you, not unless he knew you’d delight in the surprise. That being said, there was a difference between honesty and openness. While Cregan was not lacking in the former, he certainly did the latter. Pulling truth from him was easy. Pulling the whole truth, however, and asking him to lay his emotions bare, was worse than removing an arrow from a wounded man.

So, whenever you wanted his truths laid bare, his heart on his sleeve, you waited until you both returned to the shared intimacy of the bedchamber. Right before it became too late, and Cregan blew out the candles so that you may both rest your heads together.

And so it came when he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Sitting behind him on your knees, brushing out his long, dark hair. His shoulders were slumped and his breathing was slow. 

Lax, your man. At rest from a world that demanded so much of him, with someone who demanded only his full self. Tonight, the latter was not the scarier option. 

“Does he like me?” The peace in the room was so resounding that your murmur felt like yelling into the void. “Do you know what he thinks of me?”

Cregan didn’t turn, seemingly content to let you brush through his hair. His low tone seemed weighed down with sleep. “Who? Jace?”   

“Hmm,” You confirmed, “He has been incredibly kind.”

“Has he, now?” He rumbled mirthfully. You frowned. He knew you had worried over the crown prince’s approval. Why did he seem to be teasing you all of a sudden?

“I… yes.” You worried at your lower lip, lowering the brush. The loss of sensation was what finally made him turn back to you. He had a smile to match his previous tone, but when he saw the unsteadiness in your brow, the nibbling at your mouth, his face changed. His eyes filled with warmth, and a hand came up to caress your cheek.

“Why would he not like you then, love? If he has been so kind, as you are telling me.” 

You looked downward, suddenly unsure. “I don’t know. I just… I want him to like me. I need him to like me, Cregan. He had a spot in your heart before I did. I cannot have us at odds.”

He shifted his position to fully face you now, pulling his legs onto the bed before pulling you into his lap.

“My anxious little wife,” He whispered, “So desperate for the approval she has already been given. One she never would have had to earn.”

“He likes me then?”

He shook his head, but not in denial. “He does. But I wish the opinions of others would not worry you so.”

“I care not for the opinions of others,” You huffed, “I care for the approval of our future king and your dear friend.”

Large hands caressed your sides, warming your skin through the fabric of your nightgown. You wrapped your arms around his neck, analyzing the details of his face. Ones you already knew but would be happy to stare at again and again. A small scar at the top of his cheekbone from sparring in his youth. The soft stubble on his chin. A mole near his jaw. 

“He’s quite taken with you, love,” Cregan whispered, tension in your chest releasing at his admission, “He says you are quite capable at running our home. He considers you gentle. Graceful.”

Your cheeks went warm. “Does he really?”

He nodded. “Beautiful, too.”

“Oh.”

He stifled a laugh. “Are you blushing?”

“I—no.”

“You’re blushing,” Cregan said, boyish and teasing, “I just told you Jacaerys Velaryon thinks you’re beautiful, and you’re blushing.”

You straightened your posture, trying to push yourself off of him. “Well, it is quite late. Let us sleep, husband—”

He finally laughed, and you wanted to smack him. He pulled you in closer, despite your squirming, and gave you a chaste kiss. “Worry not, Y/N. It does not offend me.”

“Enough of this foolishness, Cregan. It is time for bed.”

He laughed, reveling in your bashfulness. “You asked me—”

“Hush. Bed.”

Throughout the week, Jace’s attention remained fixated on you. Walking the grounds with you, engrossing you in conversation on a variety of topics, from history, to your taste in wines, to snickering about your husband’s habits. He seemed to slowly come closer as your bond grew. Standing at a respectful distance at the beginning of his visit. Closing the distance with every passing day.

It did not dawn on you until the end of your third banquet, halfway through the second week. The night grew rather late, again full of dancing, singing and well roasted meat. Drinking games accelerated the chaos of the night. Jace had even convinced Cregan to partake in one—a game of tongue twisters and limericks, which he had inevitably lost. 

By the end of the night, you were swaying on your feet. While Cregan was not, he was clearly not in possession of all his wits. You retired while there were still a few lords and ladies insistent on seeing the rest of the game through, Jace lingering with them.

His touch was innocent enough to the onlookers. Lingering on your hip, steering you up the stairs. A lord gently taking his lady wife to bed. How noble, how chivalrous. As you went up the stairs, yours and his steps seemed to echo a little louder than they usually did. 

And then, once the lull of the party was far away enough, you rounded a corner, and he pinned you up against an alcove in the wall. You froze, unsure what to do. You weren’t going to turn him down, but gods, you couldn’t think of the last time he tried to ravish you in an empty hallway where anyone could walk past. 

“You looked beautiful tonight,” He growled against your neck, “and I am the luckiest man in the world.”

“Cregan—what are you—” 

“What do you think, pet?” A hand slid down your side, finding your hip under your dress and hiking it around his waist. With a finesse you did not usually expect from him, he slipped past the hem of your dress. His touch trailed up your ankle, past your stockings and thigh, searching, searching, and oh, finding…

“Cregan,” You whimpered, trying to stay quiet as his fingers came to glide through your folds. Your hands clung to his back.

“Let me,” He pleaded, restrained and throaty that made you clench around nothing, “I could take you right now, if you let me.”

“They will hear—” He chose your protest to plunge a finger in, thick and teasing.

He brought his mouth up to your ear. “Let them.”

Your head tipped forward, back pressing into the cold stone of the wall. Your lips yearned for the skin of his shoulder, his collarbone, but he was still fully dressed. You chose instead to press your mouth against the fabric of his doublet, trying hard to stifle your keening as he explored your walls.

His fingers began to speed their pace, pleasure rolling up your body, starting at your core and travelling up your torso, down your legs. You let yourself imagine it, a deep shiver taking over your person

His lips took your earlobe into his mouth, suckling gently. You could feel him pressing against your thigh, and you furrowed your brow. Whatever madness had possessed your husband, it had spread to his fingers, and you gasped against the thick gray wool at his shoulder when he pushed another in. 

“Do you want me to?” He pulled you closer with his free hand, and you couldn’t hold back the cry that came with being impaled further on his digits. “To fuck you up against this wall, and let Lord Glover hear how good I make you feel?”

You couldn’t find your words, eyes screwing shut as you imagined what he was suggesting. 

And when you opened your eyes, you found you didn’t need to. Peeking from around the corner, in the dark, you saw him: dark curly hair, slightly dishevelled from a night of drinking. Dark eyes trained on your face. You could feel it, at the base of your spine, and it spiked when you realized who you were looking at.

“Fuck—”

“Tell them, Y/N,” He demanded, free hand digging into your side, as if he wanted to break past the dress and melt his skin into yours, “Tell them who’s going to make you cum like this.”

Jace stepped out from behind the corner, and when your eyes trailed downward, you could see how hard he was. He wanted you. You wanted him.

“I—”

Cregan bit down on your neck, and a cry wrenched from the back of your throat.

“Jace!”

You shot up in your bed, heart threatening to break out of your chest. Cregan stirred by your side, but did not wake. You clutched the blanket to your bare chest, remembering how the night had ended. The three of you had retired together after a third round of drinking games. You and Cregan had walked Jace back to the chamber he was staying in, and then when you returned to your own, Cregan had pinned you to the ground, hiked your skirts up and fucked you until the embers in the hearth burned low.

Your eyes drifted back to your husband, who looked so unbelievably peaceful at your side. He was naked under the covers, and you willed your breath to steady. A hand brushed your hair out of your face. Your voice was trembling as you whispered into the cold air of the bedchamber.

“Father, give me strength.”

You tried to ignore the dream. A figment of your imagination. All the time around your guest and his proximity to your husband had clearly caused a lapse in your subconscious. Yes. Yes, this is what you told yourself.

This was all happening in your mind. Jace was not really closing the distance. It could not be. 

At the end of the week, he took you to meet his dragon. Cregan had ridden to Wintertown that morning to settle a land dispute, and had left you alone in Jace’s company. The pair had joked with each other before your husband’s departure in such a manner that had you peeling your eyes to watch the twitch of gloved fingers against reins, the furling and unfurling of lips.

Gods, how they had crafted a work of art together. A mosaic of seemingly innocuous looks and turns of phrase. How you wondered what the grout that held it all together was made up of. The promises whispered into the tiles as they had dried. And whether there was still room in the center of it all, where you could carve perfectly sized shapes of your flesh and shove them in between.

“Mind your manners, my prince.” Sarcasm from Cregan was seldom heard, but Jace had unfolded corners of your husband you scarcely knew existed. His lips threatened to curl up as his men began to ride off ahead of him.

“Of course, Lord Stark,” Jace had answered, “I know how to share. Do you?” 

Cregan had said nothing. His fingers seemed to tighten their grip on the reins. A breath later, his eyes landed on you. You felt a ball of nerves grow in your chest.

“Take good care of our guest, wife. I’ll be back before dark.”

And then he left.

The guards had shown you where Vermax was resting—a large, empty barn meant to stack provisions tens of feet high into the air, emptied ahead of the prince’s visit to accommodate the large creature. Most days, the beast spent his time flying, stretching his wings, always returning to his rider and the attendants who had ridden up prior to Jace. A devotion you would never know. A blood oath Jace would rather die than live without. 

“Cold then, are you, old friend?” Jace asked Vermax, stroking his snout affectionately. The dragon leaned its head into Jace’s touch, letting loose a sound that sounded like a complaint. 

“Ever spoiled, my Vermax. I know, I know,” Jace cooed, speaking to him as if he were a pet cat and not one of the most powerful creatures in the world, “Only two more weeks, and then we can return to Dragonstone.”

He spoke to the dragon as if they drank together, or were hunting friends. Mouth tipped open in awe, you realized that that was what they were. Brothers spanning species. Metals forged together in the fire, into the ultimate weapon. Jace turned back to look at you, a smile spreading across his face as he took note of your expression.

“Come say hello, Lady Y/N,” Jace suggested, and you eyed the dragon warily. 

Women of the Riverlands knew how to hunt and how to respect the wild animals they hunted. You knew the likes of bears, deer, wolves. Quite literally, this was an entirely different beast. A being bred from blood magic and scales that glittered like emeralds. You had only seen dragons twice before this, and only ever from overhead. This was the closest you had ever come to one.

You took half a step before your body became too tense to move forth. “Y-your grace. Are you sure he’ll let me…”

“He can feel my trust in you,” Jace explained, nodding encouragingly, “We share an emotional bond. I trust anyone he trusts, and he the same.”

Vermax let loose an excited growl, and were your feet not glued to the ground, your bones would have jumped from your skin. Jace tipped his head back, laughing as if Vermax had told the greatest joke Jace had ever had the pleasure of hearing. 

“He can feel your apprehension, which he appreciates.”

Your brows furrowed, looking up at Vermax. His glowing, orange eyes peered back down of you, and you forced yourself to keep his gaze.

“He… appreciates it,” You said flatly, trying hard not to jump back “Well, I’d scarcely take joy in offending him.”

“Dragons consider gentle hesitation as a sign of respect,” Jace continued, still petting Vermax’s side, “Oftentimes those who have never so much as seen a dragon think they can tame them with their touch. It never ends well, I have seen it myself. They are not lap dogs, my lady.”

You wanted to laugh, looking back at Jace. “Are they not? I hadn’t realized.”

The Prince of Dragonstone seemed to be enjoying himself far too much for your comfort. He stepped away from the dragon, in your direction. “There is a fine line, funnily enough. Hubris aggravates them. Excessive displays of fear make them impatient.”

His smile faded, but his expression remained warm. Beckoning you closer. “Come. He won’t harm you while I’m here.”

Moving too suddenly around the dragon, in your opinion, Jace swept forward and closed the gap between you both. He stepped behind you, a hand coming up to the small of your back to guide you. The other traced your arm gently, starting from your elbow and ghosting down until his fingers wrapped themselves around your wrist. 

His touch was light. His palms were cold, calloused from years of dragonriding. He lowered his voice to a murmur, speaking from over your shoulder. 

“Here,” He offered, using his grip to raise your hand, “Let me help you.”

With Jace as your guide, Vermax lowered his head. You could feel the dragon’s hot breath warming the space, being pushed low with his exhales and moving up as the heat from within him expanded before rising up into the rafters of the barn. The smell of smoke filled your nose.

“Slowly.” Jace’s mouth was both too close and too far away from your ear. “Though he’s harmless, right now at least.”

“Is he as gentle as you, my prince?” You asked, and he exhaled–an almost laugh with such a specific sound you didn’t need to see him to know he was smiling again. He sounded closer now.

The emerald dragon was inches from you now, rumbling low. You could feel the sweat beginning to form in your hairline.

Jace’s lip pressed itself to your ear. Your eyes fluttered shut, and his voice lowered itself to a whisper. 

“Whoever said I was gentle, Lady Stark?”

Scales in your palm, pressing up into you. Fingertips at your knuckles, holding tightly. Your eyes opened, and it fell into place for you as you peered up at Vermax, now nuzzling into your palm.

“You are one,” You murmured, awestruck.

Jace nodded proudly, the movement vivid against the side of your head. “He is mine own brother in all but blood. Were one of us to die, the other would feel a hollow in our chest the rest of our days.”

“Does that scare you?”

This time, Jace doesn’t nod. You heard him swallow. He let loose a shaky breath, now too looking at his dragon. His hand prompted yours, and you began to scratch the tip of Vermax’s nose. Vermax let out a pleased huff, but it did little to assuage Jace.

“It is my worst fear,” The prince admitted, “One so strong I’ve lost count of the nightmares it has brought me.”

Your head turned to look at him then. Emotions danced in his eyes—pain, admiration, adoration, all for his dragon. He looked so young, still. Even if it was winter, and the sun was dull and dim, freckles still spanned his sharp cheekbones and angular nose. If you wanted to, you could probably count every single one. Gods, did you want to.

With a purse of your lips you realized just how close he was. Jace wasn’t looking at you, however. And Vermax, despite pressing into your palm, was looking at Jace. 

They have known each other for a thousand years, it would have seemed. There was some sort of conversation happening here you were not physically capable of being privy to. It was all too familiar, you thought, and your lips turned up before you could help it.

This drew Jace’s attention. He raised an eyebrow, smirking. Face to face now, still behind you. Pressing close. Too close. “What?”

“This is a talent of yours, Jace. Holding entire conversations with your eyes.”

He shook his head. “It is a bond between dragon and rider.”

Your eyes widened, gaze curious but not prying. “Oh? Since when is my lord husband your dragon, then?”

Jace looked surprised for a moment, before scanning your face. Dark eyes lingered on your lips a beat too long, causing your breath to hitch.

“Is that jealousy I hear, Lady Stark?”

Now you shook your head with a wry smile. “Not at all. I’m simply curious.”

Jace’s forehead tilted forward, ever playful. His breath fanned your face. “Ask away, then. I am an open book.”

“You may be an open book, Prince Jacaerys,” You murmured, blood roaring in your ears, “Yet my lord husband seals himself shut until you are at his side.”

“What can I say,” He whispered, nose ghosting across yours, “I’ve a gift for opening people up.”

If either of you moved half an inch closer, your lips would touch. This was an exquisite torture. Surely, this was crossing someone’s line. Yours, Jace’s, Cregan’s. At some point they merged. Stopped being lines and curved, woven into a circle. 

You exhaled steadily. Vermax, suddenly disinterested, stepped away. Jace didn’t let go of your hand as you lowered it. His other hand—when had it moved from the small of your back to your hip?

You were warm. The dragon was warm—surely, this was why. You should have stepped away. Jace should have stepped away. This was hardly proper.

“You and my husband share the strangest bond,” You pointed out, “One I’ve seldom seen between men.”

The statement was a question you didn’t need to pose. Jace hummed, raising his eyebrows. Goading. Expecting. The hand on his hip began to rise.

“Is this an accusation, my lady?” His low tone held no malice, hand tightened against your hip. The rise and fall of his chest pressed up against your back told you everything you needed to know. He wanted this as much as you did.

“Not in the slightest, my prince,” A third time, you shook your head, slower. More deliberate. Using the movement to brush the tip of your nose against his. A small smile graced his pretty lips, lips now so close to yours anyone from afar would think the worst of Lady Stark and The Prince of Dragonstone. 

His nose pressed harder into yours. Your mouth tipped open, nearly trembling with anticipation. Every second grew infinite.

“No?” Jace murmured, eyes trained on your parted lips, “What should I take it for, then?” 

He dragged a finger across your wedding band. You felt your mouth go dry.

An invitation, you wanted to say. A door I want you to open.

He would have kissed you. Or you would have kissed him. Someone would have stumbled in the next few seconds, you knew it to be true. Your blood was running too hot and the pupils of his dark eyes were too dilated. You were two objects in unstoppable movement in the direct line of each other’s fire. The collision would have been inevitable and ruinous and you would have welcomed it with open arms.

But then Vermax’s head snapped up, grunting at something behind you. Jace, feeling his dragon’s altered state, split from you. You jumped at both of their movements, perfectly in sync with each other. And when the pair of you turned, your eyes landed on one of your guards, who looked incredibly uncomfortable at the entire ordeal. 

“Y-your grace, Lady Stark,” He said, “Lord Cregan has returned.”

You cleared your throat, hands smoothing out your dress. At your side, the prince clasped his hands behind his back. He clenched his jaw, and any hint of his playfulness was gone. 

“Yes. Yes, of course,” You sighed, heart pounding, “Thank you, Ser Justin.”

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

The whole ordeal left you with an ever growing sense of anticipation and dread. At dinner—tonight a smaller affair between some of the higher ranking lords and ladies who had come to visit—you sat at Cregan’s side. He sat at one head of the table, Jace at the other. 

The table was long enough to where you could easily avoid conversation with him. You hardly spoke a word to him the entire evening. You could hardly speak a word to anyone. Somewhat naively, you hoped to make it through the evening without anyone noticing.

And then Lady Umber opened her mouth.

“You are rather quiet tonight, Lady Stark,” She pointed out, the table quieting to listen to her speak, “I hope you are not fatigued by the large number of guests.”

“Not in the slightest, Lady Umber,” You answered, painting on a smile, “The conversation flows so well amongst you all tonight I am happy to simply listen.”

“How glad I am that we are such a source of entertainment.” Her tone was dripping with knives disguised as niceties. “I take it after all these years we are still novel to you.”

You set your knife down, taking a deep breath. You glanced over at Cregan, who was eyeing Lord Umber with a silent urge to wrangle his lady wife. Lord Umber looked as though he was about to break into a sweat. You felt something take hold of you, starting in your chest and spreading through your shoulders.

Lord Umber stammered, “Wife—”

“Two years is a long time, Lady Miranda,” You said, trying hard not to stumble over your words, “Though I’m sure after all of yours, it feels quite short.”

Silence. Lady Umber’s eyes widened, and for half a moment, she looked like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing with no sound to accompany the movement. The rest of the table grew deathly still. The sound of silverware scraping against plates all but disappeared. 

Your eyes found Cregan’s again. Even he seemed surprised, but not angry. His stare held a subdued wonder, one brow raised in bewilderment. He looked across the table, and you didn’t need to follow his gaze to know who he was looking at. You swallowed, unsure of what to say or do. Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on you as the person who had taken control of the moment. And here you were, unsure of where to take it next. 

Thankfully, you weren’t the one to decide. 

Jace snorted so hard into his goblet of wine that it broke the tension entirely. He was bright red, having held back so hard from laughing. But now, he could no longer handle it, hastily setting the cup down and covering his spluttering with his other hand.

Your mouth fell open, face burning profusely. Then, at your side, the impossible happened. Cregan coughed, looking down at his plate. 

Everyone’s heads turned to look at him. 

He nodded once, clenching his jaw. When he looked back up, eyes trained in the prince’s direction, his mouth twitched. 

And then he laughed. Once, twice, and before you knew it, his shoulders were heaving. 

Awkward laughter erupted at the table. Some unsure, some genuine. Most in disbelief. The chain reaction of your challenge, Jace’s choking, and finally Cregan Stark laughing. Actually laughing. 

When you looked back at Lady Umber, she was clearly fuming. But she had lost.

And perhaps, for the first time, you had pushed back. Refused to turn the other cheek. 

You sat an inch higher for the rest of dinner. And when you finally looked in Jace’s direction, you stared at him until he was the one to break eye contact.

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

“I cannot believe you said that.” Cregan lifted his elbows out of the hot water, resting back on the dry stone not submerged in the hot spring. You shook your head, thinking back on your behavior. 

He didn’t sound upset at all. Rather, he still sounded surprised. In awe. His head craned, the candlelight bathing him in a soft light that stole your breath. 

“I’m proud of you, Y/N. It was about time you bit back. You’re a wolf now, after all.” 

You leaned into his side, giving him a gentle peck on his upper bicep, just below his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” You mumbled against his skin.

You kept your face there, feeling the warmth of the muscle against your cheek and forehead. When your eyes closed, all you could see were a pair of brown eyes and freckles you wanted to map out like the stars. You cleared your throat nervously.

“There is… something I must ask you. About the prince,” You said softly, not meeting his eyes. Rather, you remained buried against his arm. Cregan made a face, brow quizzical.

“Has something happened?” He asked. You didn’t know whether or not to answer his question. When you remained silent, his mouth turned upwards. He considered the possibilities, before making a curious observation.

“You could hardly look at him during dinner. He couldn’t stop looking at you.”

Sometimes you wished he’d remain incurious. A fundamental impossibility, a pipe dream never to come true, considering your husband’s disposition. Much like the wall, nothing got past Cregan. He may well be the end of you one day. 

His lips found the crown of your head. You continued looking at the steam rising up above the water. When he spoke, his voice was low, raspy.

“Ever the seducer, our crown prince.”

Your head snapped in his direction, surprised eyes meeting his knowing ones. He gave a small half-smile. No anger, no joy. If anything, he looked sympathetic. As if Jace had also once pinned Cregan between himself and Vermax and delighted in blurring lines. Chest hollow, you were slowly realizing that it was more likely than not. You swallowed. 

Pity. From Cregan Stark. A rare sight, indeed. Though tonight certainly seemed the occasion.

“Has he made you uncomfortable at all?” Cregan asked, searching your face for fear or discomfort. Half of you wanted to kiss him breathless. The other half was moments away from bursting into tears. Any other husband may well have accused you of temptation. Brazenness. Whorishness. Cregan’s first concern was your own wellbeing. 

“No, not at all,” You said immediately. “He’s very… persuasive.”

At this, his expression morphed from a somewhat-smile to a genuine one. “May I ask what happened between you both today?”

A peace banner. There was no threat of anger from him, you realized, and you relaxed. Your shoulders sagged, guardrails you hadn’t knowingly put in place. He just wanted to know.

“I… We almost kissed,” You admitted, “He was trying to get me to pet Vermax, and he grabbed my hand, and then…”

“Almost?” If you hadn’t known better, you might even think he sounded disappointed. “What stopped you?”

You bit your lip. “Ser Justin came in to announce your return.” 

Cregan reached for your hand under the water. The air was not tense. Awkward, more like. Cregan was never one to talk. You were always the one to coax it out of him. When it was your time to be silent, it rarely proved productive.

“Are you angry?” You asked, placing your free hand on top of his. When you looked up at him, his gaze was warm, and he shook his head.

“Not at all,” He answered, “Were it any other man, maybe. But our prince has always been very… what did you call it? Persuasive. So long as you did not feel coerced, I won’t fault you. He may be our prince, he may be my friend, but you are my wife.”

His reaction was as jarring as it was relieving. You needed to know. You could hold back no longer. “Did you ever…?”

Cregan licked his lips, and hesitated for a beat. Eventually, he replied. “Him and I? …Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Seven. At least.”

Your eyebrows shot up. Cregan looked like he wanted to laugh. 

“Have you ever known me to be sated easily?”

You couldn’t argue with that, even if you wanted to slap that smug look off of his face.

“I suppose I’m just… curious.” You swiped a damp strand of hair off of your neck. “Clearly, you care a great deal for each other. I didn’t realize just how much.”

“He is our future king,” Cregan remarked, “I am Warden of the North.”

He said it as if this was meant to explain all of it. You didn’t want to tell him that you doubted Jace behaved this way with Jason Lannister, Warden of the West. When your face didn’t change, he sighed. 

“When we first met,” Cregan began, “We were on the brink of civil war. You remember.”

You nodded. “I remember when my father received the raven notifying him of Vermax being spotted flying over the Twins.”

“I had become so preoccupied with matters of running everything. All that… all the loss, all the anger, all the fighting. It made me numb. I truly hadn’t realized how it had… hardened me. When he came to Winterfell, I accepted him as my guest, and I renewed my vow to his mother. My men and I invited him to hunt for three nights—it was summer still. How could we not? He was the prince. Impending war be damned.”

You said nothing, waiting for him to continue. “None of us expected any fun. The mood was bleak. We hardly knew him. But he put on his best spirits, and he charmed us all. He was smart, gracious. Humble, which none of us expected from a southern prince.”

Cregan’s mind was seemingly far away, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “And one night, we’d all had too much to drink. Everyone else had gone to bed. The fire was burning low, and he was sat right next to me. He looked so… pretty.”

At this, your eyes softened. “It just happened.”

“It was so easy to speak to him. That never happens—you know my character, love. It didn’t even occur to me that I wanted him until he kissed me. Like I hadn’t even considered it to be an option.”

You thought of Cregan when you’d first met him. He was gruff, closed off, easily the coldest man you’d ever met. You’d been convinced he didn’t even like you until a few months into your marriage, when he stumbled into your bedchamber drunk mumbling, “I missed you today. And I wish I could tell you that without the drink.”

You thought of your husband as a little boy, small and unsure and stifled by an uncle who would rather be rid of him entirely, all for the sake of control of the North. What that did to him, what retaking his birthright would have entailed for a young boy forced to become a man far too early. What all of that and the death of a little brother could do. You pressed a kiss to his hand, and he hummed at the gesture. 

“Do you love him?” The question left you before you could think twice. When it was out in the open, you decided to press. There was no taking it back now. “If he had been the princess of Dragonstone, would you have asked for his hand?”

Cregan looked down at the water, where your hands were joined. He squeezed, gentle but insistent. Affirming. “I suppose… I suppose there may have been a time where I thought myself to be in love with him. I care for him still. Deeply, in ways that I cannot say I’ve ever cared for any other man. But I would not have married him, even if it had been an option.”

You tilted your head, and Cregan acquiesced without you even needing to ask. “I married you out of duty, yes? We’d never met until you arrived at Winterfell.”

“Yes,” You said, “And I thought you hated me.”

He sighed regretfully. “And I’ll spend the rest of my days making it up to you. But Jacaerys and I had different duties at the end of it all. I am Warden of the North. He is our future king. Those two titles cannot merge, not without one of us giving something up—which neither of us would do. Regardless of the circumstances, it would not have worked.”

You swallowed, a lump beginning to grow in your throat. Under the water, his hand with the scarred palm began to burn. “So you married me out of duty. But you love Jacaerys.”

“What? No.” The rebuff was immediate, bitten out. He frowned, and you bit down on your tongue. This had taken a turn you hadn’t wanted it to.

Here it was, you realized. That awful shade of green in your chest you’d wondered so much about, turning your heart from deep red to brown to a bright, flaming green. Suddenly, the image of Cregan and Jace seemed much less enticing. You wished you hadn’t thought about the green so, wished so badly to yank it from the root and toss it into the fire. 

“Gods, I wish I were better at this,” Cregan muttered to himself, before opening his eyes to look at you again. “No, love. You are not a placeholder. You’re my wife, and I love you so differently than how I loved him.”

He moved to be in front of you now, grabbing you by the shoulders. Forcing you to look at him, though the determination in his eyes did little to assuage your confusion.

“I would never have asked Jacaerys to marry me, not if he weren’t heir to the throne, not if he were a woman,” He told you, “Fundamentally, it would not have worked. The only way it would have worked would have been if Jacaerys were a Northern woman born to a noble house, bound to no one but his father. And then he would not have been Jacaerys, would he?”

You blinked. “What?”

“What?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Officially declaring surrender, completely lost. You wondered if Cregan was more lost than you were—he seemed on the verge of distress. 

“So…” You shook your head, chest clenching. You took a shaky breath, hating the way your voice sounded on the verge of cracking. You started to pull away. “So then would you or would you not have—I… C-Cregan, do you not–?”

His grip tightened on your shoulders, head shaking furiously. “No,” He said with gritted teeth, “No. I love you, Y/N. My soul is yours.”

“But–”

He groaned, the top of his head leaning into your chest. “This isn’t… I don’t mean—fuck, I’m sorry.”

He pulled you into his lap, large hands cradling you gently. A position the two of you had taken a hundred times in this exact same spot. Instinctively, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, ignoring the low heat in your stomach that always pooled there. Your muscles knew what usually came next: joined bodies moving in such a way that caused water to spill onto the floor. Not now. It could wait.

When Cregan met your eyes, he looked pained. Like he wished he’d never spoken. Your husband, who never spoke much to begin with, who guarded his emotions the way a starved wolf guarded a kill. 

He grabbed your arm, then interlaced your fingers. His wedding band glittered in the light. The scar brushed against your palm. You didn’t want to think about how the ring could be taken off.

“I loved Jacaerys differently then, before I loved you. It’s different from the way I love him now,” He explained slowly, clearly searching and painstakingly choosing each word. “A-and both of those forms of love are vastly different from the way I love you, the way I’ve loved you since we married. I can’t quite put it into words. I don’t know that there are enough words in the Common Tongue for me to fully describe it, and I don’t know I’d be able to if there actually were.”

His face scrunched up, trying to articulate his thoughts clearest. Your heart was in your throat the entire time, but you dared not interrupt him.

Finally, his eyes opened, clarity interlaced with fear. He took a deep breath before he placed his final verdict. 

“My vow to him is my sword. My vow to you is my heart. And my heart will always come before my sword.”

Your lips parted, eyes brimming with tears. No longer from jealousy, or the fear that you were nothing to Cregan but a second choice. You brought a hand to his cheek and he pressed into it desperately, longingly. 

“Cregan,” You whispered, smiling, “I love you.”

His eyes closed at your touch, sighing when your forehead touched his. “I love you, and I’m sorry if candor escapes me. I do not mean to dishonor you, wife. It has never been my intention.”

“No,” You cooed, “No, thank you for telling me.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

Sighing, you gave him a gentle, chaste kiss. When you pulled away, you studied him. His gray eyes were darting frantically across your expression, searching for any leftover doubt or anger. A hand slid down his shoulder and landed just above his sternum, pressing into the skin, caressed by the hair on his chest. Underneath, where his heart lay, you could feel it hammering quickly. You almost wanted to laugh.

“Honesty is the only thing that scares you so,” You mumbled, “A wildling horde south of the wall would not cause your heart to falter this way.”

“I can slay a wildling horde,” He whispered, “Matters of my heart, decidedly not.”

Your hand lingered on his chest, the other beginning to scratch at the baby hairs at his nape. He hummed contentedly—this was one of his favorite forms of contact. Deeply soothing, comforting, one he had never known until you taught it to him.

“You needn’t answer if you wish not to tell me,” You began, “But can I ask how it’s different? Not the emotion. Rather…”

You cleared your throat, feeling an awkward heat crawl up your neck, reaching your cheeks and temples rather rapidly. You reached for his hand out of comfort, but grew even warmer when you saw the scar. “I know… how it works, between two men. Did he… did you…?”

It was his turn to watch you struggle for words now, and for all of his struggling earlier, he seemed quite amused to let you writhe like a fish. 

He bit back a grin. “Did I what?”

You scrunched your lips together, unsure of what to say. With every word, his smile grew and grew until he was holding back laughter. “Who… well. Cregan, I’ve no better way of putting it. Who was the scabbard, and who was the swo—?“

At last, he could no longer resist, and a laugh escaped him. He laughed and all the previously tense air evaporated from the room, and then he laughed some more.

“You’re wondering who stuck their cock in who,” He said once he’d settled, “Is that it?”

You gasped, swatting at his chest. He seized your hand, pressing it back into his chest, rubbing over your knuckles. “Vulgar man,” You chided affectionately, but then quickly added, “…Yes.”

“I had no preference. I think I would have enjoyed it.” He answered candidly, “But he seemed rather keen on being bent over. Not quite something you’d expect from a prince.”

“Oh,” You sighed, cheeks burning brightly, “Oh, I see.”

“He tried to kiss you.” Bringing the conversation full circle, his hands slid down to your hips. “And you liked it.”

Wordlessly, you nodded. Cregan huffed, looking as if suddenly everything made sense.

“What if I told you…” He eyed your lips, tongue darting out to wet his own, “The prince… propositioned me, shortly after his arrival?”

Your eyebrows shot up. “He attempted to seduce you?”

“Not exactly. I wouldn’t have allowed that to happen. No, he suggested the three of us share. That for one night, the three of us indulge in each other. You and I. Him and me. You and him.”

Oh. “A-and what did you say?”

“I wasn’t sure what to say. Ultimately, I told him I would make no attempt to force the idea on my wife unless you seemed interested. It would seem his grace has taken upon itself to lay his plan into motion, with or without me.”

“What a scheme,” You murmured. The heat in your lower stomach had returned now, spurred by the mental images Cregan had built you. Him sprawling Jace across the forest floor. The three of you, together, tangled in bedsheets. And Jacaerys Velaryon, beautiful Jacaerys Velaryon, lips swollen from kissing and covered in sweat.

“How unfairly he plays, and how he underestimates us, love. Do wolves not wander in a pack?”

You furrowed your eyebrows, thinking back to everything that had transpired over the past few weeks, now with the knowledge you’d just acquired. Jace’s history with your husband. His propositioning you and Cregan. 

If his attempt with Cregan had been anything like what he had done with you, you had to agree with Cregan’s choice of words. Unfair. But not necessarily cruel, or manipulative. No, this was a game to Jace, and he was eager for the two of you to play along.

“What say you now, husband?” You searched his face. “Now that his intentions are laid bare.”

He took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and looked at you for a good long while. Then, his hands, still on your hips, pressed down, water moving around you. 

Your breath hitched, feeling the hardness of his cock catch against your core.

“I believe it speaks for itself,” He replied. “But only if you wish for it, too. You are my wife, and you come first.”

“You like the idea of the three of us together,” You remarked, almost astonished.

“I cannot lie.” His hips shifted upwards, and you gasped at the pressure, of the sensation of him catching against your entrance. “How pretty the two of you would look on your knees, with both of your lips around my cock.”

Your hips responded in kind, hands scrambling to find purchase on his shoulders. “Cregan.”

“Don’t lie to me, Y/N. Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it, whether I made him beg while pinning him to the bed, same as I have with you. Which I did. Grabbed him by his hair and made him plead to let him cum.” 

Your breath weighed heavily in your lungs. Out of nowhere, the air seemed to weigh a thousand stones. The heat radiating off of the water was certainly not helping.

“Answer me,” He said softly, firmly. Looking for your voice, you nodded.

“Can you blame me?” Gritted teeth, fluttering eyes—two more things you could pin on Cregan. “You look at each other so lecherously.”

He huffed, eyes locked on your breasts as your hips began grinding down onto him in earnest. “We do not.”

“Oh, you do. I’ve been watching.”

“That’s all you ever do,” He grunted, “Maybe you should do more than just watch.”

“Something—ah—something would need to happen in order for me to do that.”

He grinned, yanking you closer. Before his tongue forced itself into your mouth, he said against your lips, “That can be arranged.”

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

WEEK THREE.

This week was a tour of Wintertown and some other villages nearby, and decidedly more laid back. There were no tourneys to be had, hunts to embark on, or great festivals to curate. Winter was here, and threatened to come for you all if you decided to spend more time outside than remotely necessary. 

Jace and Cregan heard petitions coming from the smallfolk that had travelled in advance to see them both. To speak with the Warden of the North was one thing, to do it while the Prince of Dragonstone was sitting at his side was another thing. They heard petitions for hours, and even insisted on staying an additional two after seeing the amount of people who had yet to be heard.

The week was strangely absent of them, then. You were preoccupied with your daily work and overseeing the planning of Jace’s farewell banquet, the grandest of them all. You saw them in small glimpses. Cregan in the morning or Jace at meals. Glimpses of both of them in the courtyard.

You weren’t sure if Cregan had spoken to Jace. How unfairly he plays, he had said, how he underestimates us. Jace had expected to be playing two different one-on-one games. He didn’t know that he was actually only playing one, and was outnumbered on the turf. 

So when Jace passed you by, you allowed yourself to look. Really look at him, and to let him see that you were looking. And when he noticed you one morning in the middle of an empty hallway, he stopped, stepped forward and took your hand in his. 

“Lady Stark,” he said. He raised your hand to his lips, staring intensely as he pressed a kiss to your glove. “You look lovely today.”

“Thank you, my prince,” You answered, “You look well.”

“I’m beginning to grow accustomed to the cold.” He rolled his shoulders back, seemingly at ease.

“It can be jarring at first.” You thought back to your first few weeks at Winterfell after the wedding. You weren’t sure if you’d ever be warm again, and that was at the end of summer. “We’ll make a Northerner of you yet.”

He laughed, and looked like he wanted to reply. His opportunity was stolen by a maid of yours, who rounded the corner and smiled when she saw you. 

“Milady! Giselle has found the linen napkins you were asking for,” She called, “Shall we have them pressed?”

You gave Jace a regretful nod of your head, before replying, “Thank you, Greta! I’ll be right over to have a look at them.”

It was then that she seemed to realize who she was in the presence of. She noticed Jace, and immediately turned bright red before stumbling into a curtsy.

“My deepest apologies, your grace,” She stammered, “I-I didn’t see—”

“Worry not, my lady,” He said genuinely, “The work of a maid is a never-ending list. Carry on.”

Her eyes flickered nervously between you and Jace. You nodded in agreement. “All is well, Greta. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

She left, clearly still feeling awkward. When she was gone, the air felt lighter. “Thank you for not frightening my staff, Jace.”

“I could never. I’d rather they blush than tear up, and I’ve done the former twice already.” He studied your figure.

“Twice…” You took a steady breath. “Do you plan on teasing my staff any further?”

“Not necessarily. But if we drop the pretense, I might do more than tease you.”

“What pretense?” You gave him a coy smile, tracing the threadwork on your gloves. “Is there a game afoot?”

He stepped forward. You stepped back, eyes never breaking away from his. At this, Jace tilted his head.

“You are so brave, suddenly.”

“And you are so bold, Prince Jacaerys. You are a fountain of temptation.”

He licked his lips. “How pretty it sounds, my name falling from your lips.”

“I’d argue my husband’s name sounds even prettier.” Jace raised his eyebrows, taken aback at your sudden bite. You laced your fingers together, before gracing Jace with a curtsy of your own.

“I must go now, your grace.” You stepped past him, aiming to follow Greta’s direction. You landed a foot away from him, and stopped to lean in close. 

“But perhaps one night you might listen for it before you leave us.”

You did not look back when you walked away. But you could feel him watching.

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

He took you up on it that night. You shouldn’t have been surprised. You had issued a challenge, and Jace had simply taken you up on it.

You were in Cregan’s study, going over some documents regarding the household budget. The fire burning behind you, he had brought you onto his lap to look them over. 

A knock at the door, following the heavy wood swinging open. You scrambled to stand, but widened your eyes when one of Cregan’s hands tightened on your hip, holding you in place. Jace stepped into the room, and for half a moment you wondered if you had been double crossed.

Then you craned your neck to meet Cregan’s eyes, and he nodded. Then, he looked at Jace. You watched his brow twitch subtly as he raked his gaze over the prince, and the grip he had on your side did not loosen. You stiffened, anticipation tinging your senses.

“Your grace,” Cregan greeted, “The hour grows late.”

“I can see that.” Jace jutted his chin in the direction of where you were sitting, zeroing in on Cregan’s hand on your hip. “If you are preoccupied, we can reconvene on the m—”

“Not at all,” Cregan interrupted, shifting you in his lap until you were perched entirely on his right thigh. “We were just finishing our own conversation. Was there something troubling you?”

“Safety, along the Kingsroad.” Jace shook his head and shifted his posture back and forth. “Though it seems you have something different on your mind.”

“Speak freely, my prince,” You murmured, setting the ledger down on the desk in front of you. Jace moved forward, his gait cautious. Still, there appeared to be a silent excitement about him. You looked down at your fingers. Were you trembling or were you just cold?

Cregan studied Jace’s trajectory, and when the prince’s path began to trace around the desk, he shook his head. 

“Sit, Jacaerys.” Cregan took an authoritative tone. He refused to look away as he grabbed your hand and placed it upon his chest. The hand over yours squeezed gently, and you forced your shoulders to loosen. “What can be done about the Kingsroad?”

You attempted to pay attention to what Jace was saying—something about harsher sentences for those caught thieving. You tried to think of what would come next. Something was building, surely. What, you could not be sure. 

This was entirely uncharted territory for you. Cregan had mostly kept everything contained to your bedchamber, as you tended to prefer. You’d had sex in this room once, because Cregan had been very convincing. Up until two weeks ago, you had never considered any man other than your husband. Here the challenger stood in front of you, a dragon prince with a gaze that might as well set you on fire just as much as the beast that had carried him here.

You knew that if you wanted to, if you were to stand up right now, or to push Cregan away, he would understand. He would lay the game to rest and promise to never pick it back up again. There was no threat of coercion or pressure from him. And because you trusted your husband’s judgment so well, you knew that it had to have been the same for Jace. There was not a single hair on your body that doubted the notion.

You could say no. You had every freedom to do so. But did you want to?

You’re a wolf now, Cregan had told you a few nights ago. And that same night, he’d also said, do wolves not wander in a pack?

You were a wolf. You were his Lady Stark, a woman belonging to the North now. Not because you were given to the North or because it had taken you. You had welcomed the becoming of your own volition. 

Before that you had been Y/N Mallister, and while eagles were just as fierce as wolves. But they were solitary birds.

And you and Cregan were one pack. 

Your body relaxed. You leaned into Cregan, who understood immediately. The game moves forward.

Jace continued speaking, but Cregan leaned into you. His eyes closed, and he took a deep inhale against your jugular, taking in the smell of your skin and perfume oils. On instinct, you leaned your head back, letting him take it in. Jace’s voice faltered, trailing off in the middle of talking about a scourge of muggings near the Dreadfort. Cregan opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow.

“We’re listening.”

Jace interlaced his fingers, fixated on Cregan nosing along the expanse of your neck. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Cregan insisted, closing his eyes again, “There seems to be a network of bandits along the stretch of Kingsroad nearest to the Dreadfort. Go on.”

Jace licked his lips, before lifting his gaze, meeting yours. You wondered whether the look in his eyes was jealousy or impatience. Sliding your hand from Cregan’s chest to the shoulder closest to you, you held firm. Surprisingly, that sensation of jealousy you had felt the night in the hot springs had returned. But you did not shy away from it, did not let it stop you from having your fun. 

You were putting your hands on your husband, you were hoping to convey, and Jace would lay hands on him and on you because you allowed it.

He certainly didn’t seem offended by it. He shifted in the chair, legs parting slightly. Then, he cleared his throat and began speaking again.

“Yes. Lord Bolton had told me when he spoke to me last week…”

Cregan’s lips met the base of your throat, and you inhaled sharply. Another hand gripped his shoulder, and your eyes fell shut. You could hear the crackling of the fire behind you and the depth of Jace’s voice, but the only sensation at the forefront of your mind was Cregan’s gently chapped lips just above your collarbone. He pressed a few kisses around the area before deciding on which spot he preferred best and anchoring there by opening his mouth and biting down. You let out a hmph at this, loud enough to cause Jace to falter once more.

“Lord Cregan,” He glowered, breath growing heavier, “You are forgetting yourself.”

There was no threat in the statement. Bait, more like. 

“I remember myself plenty.” Cregan spoke against your skin before biting even harder. You gasped, reaching for the back of his head to push him closer. “I’m sure you remember me too, my prince.”

You heard Jace shift again in the chair, but did not open your eyes. He asked, “What good is memory when the experience is right in front of me, here in the present?”

Your eyes opened when you heard him get up in the chair. He took one step forward before Cregan sat up straight to look at him dead on.

“No.” You knew this tone. This was Cregan at his most domineering, typically reserved for nights he wished to prolong the most agonizing pleasure you’d ever felt in your life. “No, you watch tonight. You will sit there while I fuck my wife, and you will thank me for it. You will thank her for it.”

You never knew you could feel your cunt jump, but then, you also didn’t know forcing the future king of Westeros to watch you fuck your husband had been an available option to you until about five minutes prior. 

Jace’s mouth fell open. He blinked stupidly. And then he laughed, sitting down. It was just as Cregan said, the near immediacy of his submission to your husband. Not quite something you’d expect from the Prince of Dragonstone.

He let loose a heavy breath, eyes growing darker. “Yes, Cregan.”

Cregan maneuvered you, forcing you to stand, nudging you towards the desk. You placed both hands on the wood, a slight bend to your back. Less than five feet away, Jace sat in the chair, fingers laced back together. His mouth was slightly ajar, tongue darting out to swipe across his lower lips. They were so pink, you wanted to finally kiss him. 

But right now, that was not a call you were allowed to make. Cregan had made the command, and it would hold in stone until he changed his mind. If he changed his mind. 

Cregan pressed his chest to your back, draping his broad shoulders over your frame. A hand snaked up your front, landing in a place where calloused fingers spanned your neck and your chin. He placed a wet, worshipping kiss just below your ear, and his hips rocked against your backside. 

He was halfway to being hard already. His hand slid down your neck, other hand meeting at your chest to fondle your breasts over your dress. His body heat was radiating off of him so intensely you thought the fire would probably be cooler. 

“Did you know I used to bend him over like this, love?” He asked in your ear, loud enough for Jace to hear. “One of the last times I had him, I took him just like this in the Wolfswood.”

Gods, that mental image should not have ignited what it did in you, but it did, and you keened at the thought. Jace chuckled.

“That’s exactly how I felt,” He said, lingering his gaze on Cregan’s hands.

“What a memory,” You panted, pushing your chest into your husband’s hand, “Describe it to me.”

“Why tell you when I could just show you?” Cregan pulled up the back of your skirt, holding it in place with one hand. Your entire body felt like a furnace, dragging your eyes up and down Jace’s person, listening for Cregan’s movements. You tried to conjure up the idea. 

The end of summer. Cregan’s hair had been shorter when you met him. Had his hair been shorter then, when he took Jace up against a tree? Was he just as muscular then? What about Jace? 

You could vaguely imagine two young men exploring each other in the Wolfswood, after weeks of learning and mapping out each others’ bodies. Two young men who had grown into the lords of the realm. The crown prince submitting to the Warden of the North. And if Cregan was truly showing you what had happened between the two of them, you could hear Cregan shuffling onto his knees…

He parted your legs, and your eyes widened when you felt his tongue lick at your slit from behind. He tugged on your dress, and you understood what he wanted. You grabbed the hem of your skirts, clutching the fabric for purchase. His giant hands grabbed your ass cheeks, spreading them apart for better access. You gasped, other hand sliding papers around the desk in search of something to hold you to the earth. You would float out the window otherwise. 

“For someone so terrible with words, he certainly knows how to use his tongue, doesn’t he, Lady Stark?” Jace flashed a smug grin at you as your head fell. He spread his legs again, and you saw it then—the bulge in his pants, and the twitching of his hands on his thighs.

You just watch. You groaned, fully realizing the extent of Cregan’s dominion over Jace, his actions, his body. How quickly he had retaken it.

“Lady Stark?” Jace’s voice rose slightly. “Do you agree? Now that he’s showing you how he prepared me for his cock?”

You nodded, biting back a whimper as Cregan changed the movement of his tongue, delving into you. “S-so good,” You said.

“He licked me just like that. He had some stubble that time. A most pleasant ache.” 

“Oh gods.” The room filled with the sound of your frenzied panting and the wet, insistent sound of Cregan’s mouth against your mound. This was perhaps the most aroused you’d ever felt in your life.

Jace laid back in the chair, eyes hooded. From under your skirts and behind the desk, he probably couldn’t see what Cregan was doing. But your sounds and his own experience had to have been indication enough.

“I bet I’ll be able to hear when he puts a finger in.”

“I wonder if—” You bit back a keen, “–if it feels the same for me as it does for you.”

“Probably not,” Jace mused, “Gods, that I could get wet like you. Poor Cregan’s face was drenched in spit by the time he was done with me. He looked lovely like that. So messy.”

Cregan hummed from behind you at the same time he decided to brush his fingers against your clit. Your voice jumped in pitch, and Jace nodded. 

“I was right.” He sounded so excited about his theory being proven true. He licked his lips. “I always loved how thick his fingers were. Perfectly r–”

“Rough,” You finished for him, nodding in agreement. You pushed your hips back against Cregan’s face, teeth catching your lower lip in hopes of staying quiet. “Gods, Cregan…”

“And when he finally puts his cock in, it’s such a relief, isn’t it? Like an itch you can’t scratch on your own. I swore I could always feel him in my stomach—”

“Fuck!” Your head tossed itself back, feeling a few strands of hair beginning to stick to your forehead.

“What do you want?” Cregan asked, voice muffled from between your legs. He pressed down on your clit even more insistently. The paper under your hands crumpled as your fingers curled. You weren’t quite sure how you were still standing. 

“Tell him,” Jace jeered, almost singing, “Tell your husband what you want him to do to you.” 

You opened your eyes again to look at Jace once more, and your lower lip trembled from the pleasure. Your hips began to rock against Cregan’s face. His other hand squeezed your ass in a manner you knew would leave bruises. You would never shy away from this. 

He shook his head back and forth between your legs, trying his hardest to get in closer. Your knees buckled, crying out his name.

“Tell him.” Jace’s voice was dripping with desire. “Beg him for his cock. Just like I did.”

“Cregan… Cregan, please fuck me.”

He pulled away, giving you a moment to catch your breath. You yelped when he smacked your ass.

“Soon, pet,” He said, too gentle for someone who had just been fucking you with his tongue, “Come for me first.”

And then he stuck his face back into your pussy, beginning to flick your clit in tandem with the rhythm of his tongue. You jolted, unsure if you were moving away one movement from the sheer overwhelm or into the other from the pleasure. You could feel your lower stomach growing taut, a building pressure underneath the tight, tight heat. 

Now, you were fully fucking back onto Cregan’s tongue, whines spilling from your lips. You could feel his hot breath on you. 

Your eyes cracked open and you landed back on Jace. You couldn’t count how many times you had done it already, but every time felt like the first. You would revel in him looking you up and down every single time. How ready he looked to strike had he not been shackled by Cregan’s words alone. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat, eyes fluttering from the pleasure of Cregan lapping at you like a parched hound. Trying your damnedest to hold eye contact and keep them from rolling up into your skull. Your jaw hung slack, searching helplessly for words to string together.

Jace didn’t need to hear them. He seemed to recognize what you wanted to ask for. Perhaps he had struggled to ask for it himself, then, and was taking it upon himself now to be merciful.

“Cum.”

The ecstasy started at the crest of your head and dripped its way down your spine in such a way that it caused your back to curl in on itself. You held back a sob, body trembling at the sensation.

Cregan stroked you through all of it, prolonging your agony. He hummed too, clearly enjoying the tightening of your thighs against his head and your moaning into the hot, heavy air of his study. He kept at it until you were actively trying to run from him, too much to handle.

He squeezed your thighs in reassurance before he stood. When he reappeared behind you, he grabbed you by the chin, smearing your face with your own release. His lips found yours in a sticky sweet kiss, tasting your own musk on his tongue. You moaned into his mouth, pushing back in a redundant effort to bring him closer.

When Cregan parted from your mouth, he smiled triumphantly. His chin was still gleaming.

He nudged your cheek with his nose. “And to think that was only the beginning.”

You almost keeled over. Cregan gripped your chin again, repositioning your head in Jace’s direction.

“You really haven’t moved,” Cregan murmured, almost surprised, “You’ve settled down since then.”

“I had my reasons for restlessness back then,” Jace offered, very much an understatement. He shrugged. “Times have changed.”

The next moment, he tilted his head. “Are you really not going to let me touch her? Or you?”

“If you keep up the act, maybe,” Cregan answered, wrapping his arms around your middle. Palming again at your chest. “If I could get her out of this dress faster, I’d let you suck on her tits. They’re divine.”

Jace hummed imaginatively, and you had to hold yourself back from ripping at your bodice. You rather liked this dress. 

“I told you, she’s beautiful,” Jace eyed your cleavage. He ogled your chest, which was still heaving from Cregan’s mouth, and now his hands.

“Yes, well,” You huffed, growing impatient, “She is right here. Ready and waiting.”

Cregan chuckled against your cheek, kissing the flushed skin before pulling away. “‘M here, pet. I’ve got you.”

His palm met the small of your back to bend you back over the table. Trousers were unlaced, your skirts pulled back up. Your breath hitched. You realized, once more, that this was actually happening. 

His weight returned to your back, slotting himself where he had so many times before. He moved against you like it was a birthright, like he knew this was where he belonged. The main difference was sitting right in front of you, painfully hard. Jace groaned quietly, his hands tightening into fists on his thighs. 

Cregan reached a hand back, and then you felt him at your entrance. Teasing you by sliding his cock up and down your slit. You clenched around nothing, desperate to feel him fill you. 

“Don’t tease,” Jace grunted, taking a deep inhale through his nose. 

And for once, Cregan was the one inclined to obey. His head squeezed through your entrance, and the two of you groaned at the pressure, at your togetherness. Cregan gripped your hips, and your head rolled back onto his shoulder. His eyes found yours, noses bumping gently against each other.

The solace he allowed for this brief moment as he slid into you was an eternity in itself. One hand remained on your hip, the other slid between your stomach and your sternum. Whether it was to hold you up or if it was a subtle show of dominion, possession, you couldn’t be sure. Both. Could it not be both? Darkened gray eyes the same color of a turbulent storm raked over your face, flushed and burning. You mewled softly when he bottomed out, jutting your chin out in search of his lips. 

Here, in this small bubble, it was just him and you. It would always be him and you.

“Cregan,” You sighed, barely above a whisper. He groaned your name softly, seemingly in agreement. 

He jerked his head at the third in the room, and you were reminded of Jace. When he reentered your sight, he did not seem offended at the sudden exclusion. His eyes were full of admiration and reverence, breathing heavily at the erotic intimacy on full display in front of him. 

“You’re beautiful,” He whispered. He was talking about you both.

“Cregan.” Your voice was reedier, insistence dripping off of it.

Cregan grunted again. He placed his mouth by your ear. The warmth of his body was rolling off of him, even despite the fact that you were both still clothed. “You wanted to know how I fucked him, Y/N?”

“Yes.” Your brows scrunched together, nodding frantically. “Please move.”

Cregan drew his hips back, sliding out until only his tip was inside of you. Jace’s tongue slotted itself on the inside of his cheek, the skin stretching as it rested there.

“I let him feel every vein on my cock when I put it in him,” He explained, sliding in at an agonizingly slow pace. “I teased him until he was begging for it. I let him squirm. Almost like you were, just now. He sounded a bit more desperate. ”

He bottomed out again, punching the air out of you. He practically spit the next word out, aimed directly at Jace, who grinned at the sound. 

“Whorish.” The hand on your sternum slid down, just above your womb. Then, he pressed down, and you gasped, feeling him at both sides. “I let him feel me so deep in him, I wanted him to feel me in his throat. I wanted to eat him from the inside out. Tried to fuck back on me, I didn’t let him.”

He held still for a beat. Two. All the air felt sucked out of your lungs, and Cregan’s tongue snaked out to ghost along your earlobe, and then he lowered his voice to the quietest, lowest whisper he’d had all night. 

“Not you, Y/N. You do everything I say. You’re so sweet, my love.” 

He slid out again. And when he fucked back into you, the slow, measured, torturous pace was gone, replaced with a forceful, quick one that filled the room with a wet, obscene plap plap plap as his fat balls slapped against your pussy.

Your body seized in his clutch. “C-Cregan!” 

“I know, pet,” He growled, low tone dripping with faux sympathy, “I’ve got you, little thing.”

You shifted onto your tiptoes, fighting for a better angle. You were fully sweating now, overheating in the warm, thick fabric of your dress. His force continued to wreak havoc on your lungs, and combined with his body lumbering over your back, it almost felt like you were suffocating, choking on your husband’s essence. 

His hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to look back at Jace in the chair, who was clenching his jaw now, nostrils flaring with every deep heave of his breath. You wanted to say something, either to him or to Cregan, it didn’t matter. The pleasure was fogging your brain so beautifully that someone, anyone needed to hear it, but your words were gone.

“Think about him,” Cregan commanded, “Look upon our prince and imagine him taking my place.”

Jace’s eyebrows shot up, arousal so clearly painting his features. He was flushed, hair dishevelled, trousers wrinkling from where he had gripped them so clearly. And he was still so hard, tenting the dark, rich fabric. You wanted it in your mouth. You wanted to tear the fabric from his body and take him into your throat, to let him wrap his fingers in your hair and take and take and take and take—

“Say his name.”

You clenched down so hard on Cregan, his exhale turned into a moan, throaty and hungered. Your hips tried to push back, movement involuntary and animal, but he held you in place.

“No,” He scolded, “No. I held him in place, so I’m holding you in place now too. Now do as you’re told.”

“J—” You choked out, breath coming out short and shallow, “Jace.”

Jace’s head tipped back, groaning quietly into the air. His hips shifted upwards, humping like a dog at something that wasn’t there. A reprieve he was not allowed to receive.

“Y/N,” He murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

“You want her,” Cregan said, “You want me.”

Jace’s words emerged, pulled from behind gritted teeth. “I do.”

“What do you want?”

“Anything—” You’d never heard him sound so desperate. How quickly he’d gone from pretending to be in control to showing that he’d never really had it in him at all. “Everything. Her cunt on my mouth and your cock in my ass and her tongue in my throat and—and—”

“My fingers against that little spot in your hole, yeah? The one that makes you cry like a girl?”

Jace’s hips jerked, and he nodded. “Yes. Gods, yes. I miss you inside me.”

“You’ll get it. Soon. Be patient.”

You moaned, the conversation in you bringing back that sweet shade of green that you’d felt in the hot springs. Except the jealousy wasn’t aimed at Jace, and it didn’t have the bitter aftertaste. The jealousy enveloped them both, a jealousy that you hadn’t been there, that you hadn’t seen them rut against each other in the woods or to watch Cregan fuck Jace with his fingers until tears spilled from his pretty brown eyes. When you spoke, you almost weren’t aware of it. 

“Y-you too, Cregan.”

He twitched inside of you. He seemed to know what you wanted, but needed the confirmation. 

“Me?”

“Say his name too, Cregan. Pretend I’m him.”

At that, they both moaned. Desire. Adoration. Surprise. The melody filled the room and travelled down your diaphragm into your stomach, compounded by the shift in Cregan’s movements. 

Animal instinct seemed to recognize your request first. His thrusting turned brutal and mean, befitting of a spoiled, antagonizing prince that needed to be ground into submission. When his brain caught up to his body, he groaned again, and fisted a hand in your hair. You yelped.

“I—Fuck,” Cregan slurred, “You feel so good, my sweet boy—”

Your cunt clenched unexpectedly. My sweet boy. You could be his sweet boy.

“Jace,” You whined. 

“Jacaerys.” Cregan drew out every syllable, savoring this flavor of his prince’s name, one he had not tasted in a very long time.

The both of you dissolved into each other quickly. Cregan continued to pound into you, and you managed to fuck back onto him, despite his best efforts to hold you back. You reached for your skirts, the movements clumsy and jerking. You searched for the hem, trying madly to reach past it. When you did, you immediately found your clit and swirled your fingers, rutting into the movement like a rabbit.

Jace’s name filled the room until it no longer held meaning, until it sounded abstract, until it rose in pitch, grew throatier, and was cried out by the both of you. All the while, the man whose name it was stood watching, jaw gaping, cock aching, as the two people he’d been yearning for peaked in their shared pleasure. And in that shared pleasure, they shared a single word, a single idea, a single thought: him. Jace, Jace, Jace, Jacaerys, Jace.

He watched your back tilt upwards, pushing against Cregan until you bared your neck and your head fell onto Cregan’s shoulder. Your breasts strained against the neckline of your dress and your skin seemed to glow when the firelight hit the sheen of your sweat just right. He watched Cregan’s lip curl, looking more beast than man, before burrowing into your neck and calling Jace’s name against your carotid artery. 

His eyes sank down, to where you had lifted your skirts to rub at your clit, and where Cregan fucked into you once, twice, before burying himself as deep as he could in you, likely hoping that he would spill right up against your fertile little womb. He remained fixated on the sight, like if he stared hard enough he would be able to see through your skin and watch it happen.

When you came down, you were trembling in Cregan’s arms, his broad chest searing into your back. Your breathing was labored, loud, groans marking your every exhale. You could feel just how much Cregan had filled you, and braced yourself for the walk back to your quarters with his spend dripping down your thighs and stockings. He stayed in you, enjoying your warmth for a little longer.

You cracked your bleary eyes open. Jace shifted in the chair and considered his next action. A few seconds later, he stood, and walked slowly towards the desk. Cregan hadn’t told him he could move. But Cregan seemed almost as ruined as you, hair mussed and fingers curled into the fat of your hips. He lifted his head from your neck ever so slightly to watch the prince approach, and said nothing. Jace seemed willing to take his chances.

He leaned over the desk, finally seeing how Cregan had ruined you up close. The corners of his lips, which were pink and swollen from biting them, turned upwards. One hand came up to trace your face, thumb swiping across the apple of your cheek. His touch felt akin to someone stoking a dying fire. He flashed a glance at Cregan before looking back at your own mouth. 

And then he leaned in, and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was gentle but deep, like he was trying to drink up any remaining pleasure that might have been left in your body. Your neck craned, chasing after the taste of Jace’s mouth as he swiped his tongue against your lower lip. You folded immediately, mouth falling open and a hand coming up to his chest. Finally, you wanted to say. You’re here. I’ve been waiting for you. 

You heard a sound leave Cregan’s throat, needy and absolutely involuntary. You had never heard him make a sound like this. How new everything felt suddenly. A spot you had never seen before, on a map you had studied a thousand times.

So quickly Jace came and so quickly he was gone, parting from your lips with a fond phantom of a smile. You blinked slowly, finally able to trace his features without fear or apprehension. You watched as his eyes, nearly blown black from how wide his pupils had become, shifted from your face to another just below yours. 

Wordlessly, his neck shifted downwards, brown eyes meeting gray at a closeness now unmarred with risk or potential betrayal. Jace raked his gaze over Cregan’s face, spent, sweaty and flushed with release. A sight he had seen in person years ago, and seen most recently in his dreams when he was at his loneliest. 

Cregan leaned in first. Jace simply met him halfway. 

Your breath caught at the back of your throat as you watched your husband kiss his best friend, chiseled jawlines moving in tandem, tongues lapping at each other. You felt your core pulse, and Cregan groaned into the kiss, brows creasing. Jace’s second hand rose to Cregan’s face, mirroring the position it had taken along your own skin.

They savored each other for longer than Jace had kissed you, and you let it happen. Your chest was full of all of the moments over the past few weeks, every question, every what if. Moments where you had watched them brush against each other or meet each other’s gaze, in such a manner that had you trying to string together a narrative, evidence, a theory, anything, that indicated something like this. 

The proof was right in front of you. And you were happy to catalog every second. 

When Jace pulled away, he flickered his eyes between both of your faces, both so close to his. You watched his brown eyes simmer with something you could not name. Then his gaze turned calculating, and then it turned sly. He applied a gentle pressure to your cheek, at the same time he did to Cregan. Pushing the three of you even closer, which seemed almost impossible.

Cregan made a face. “What—”

“Shh,” Jace whispered, “Let me.”

He pushed again. You would run out of room. Your mind pulsed as it tried to identify what he was trying to do. When the side of your face not held by Jace met Cregan’s, you seemed to understand.

This won’t work, you thought, desperately hoping you were wrong, surely, he can’t mean to—

The corner of your lip met Cregan’s, and then Jace’s mouth descended on you both. 

The sensation was strange. A rhythm you hadn’t quite danced to before. You tried to mimic Jace’s movements, but Cregan was motionless at your side, and you wondered how this was meant to work. 

Jace’s skin was softer. You could feel some stubble off of your husband, the slight dryness from prolonged exposure to the cold.

You would have pulled away. You almost did, worried the moment would turn awkward. 

Until Cregan reached over to grab at the back of Jace’s head, and his other hand reached over to the one the prince had on your face. He pressed the three of you even closer—a difficult feat—and opened his mouth. His tongue darted from your lips to Jace’s. You jolted, realizing that you could feel Cregan’s tongue against Jace’s mouth, because you were there too. 

Something clicked into place. Something frantic, primal, ancient. Jace opened his mouth. You opened yours. And when their tongues touched yours, you understood then why many said good things came in threes.

Three noses bumping into each other. Three pairs of lips navigating a familiar sequence, this time with an entirely new component to it. Best of all, three tongues flicking against each other, two of them licking into the third, then switching places. You and Cregan pushed into Jace, you and Jace pushed into Cregan, they pushed into you. The three of you tangled together in a delicious, frenzied cycle, needing still to be impossibly closer.

You whined against their mouths when you felt Cregan’s cock twitch inside you. You knew what would happen if you kept at it. He would get hard again, and this time, no matter what he said, you would not be able to hold back and demand Jace join, despite how spent you were. They would press you between them, bodies so hot that you would inevitably melt into the two of them, drip down their chins and their throats, and cease to exist as a person. 

This had to end. You did not want it to. While your spirit was willing, you felt your body utterly ruined. You relished it for a few moments longer, before pulling away, lips wet and panting. Your eyes fluttered open, watching them pull away too. 

Cregan was breathing heavily, face bewildered, but not unsettled.

“I–” He licked his lips, trying to commit your combined tastes to memory. “Where the fuck did you learn that?” 

Jace had the audacity to look sheepish in his reply. “Some Lyseni courtesans were guests at court last year. They can be very, well, creative in their pursuits of pleasure.”

You laughed once, breathless and still trying to process what had just transpired.

“You’ll kill me,” You muttered, “Both of you are going to kill me.”

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

The next few days were a blurred build up to the night of Jace’s farewell feast. You were filled with a seemingly perpetual arousal, kept on the precipice of the best kind of waiting. You returned to your host of administrative tasks, but found the occasional sweet reprieve at being cornered by either of them in an empty hallway or disoccupied study. 

“My lady, the napkins have been pressed as you asked.”

At night, the kissing, gods, the kissing. The three of you, late at night after the work was done, would return to Cregan’s study with an excess of Dornish wine. When the three of you were drunk enough, you would sit in one of their laps and do nothing but alternate kissing each other. You would sit in Jace’s lap, brace your hands on his firm chest, and grind yourself down onto him, feeling his hard cock through your smallclothes and his trousers.  Or, you would sit in Cregan’s lap and let him drag his teeth against your neck while Jace claimed your mouth with his own. Regardless, you would be reduced into a whiny stupor from the visual and physical stimuli descending on you.

“Lady Stark, will you still be wearing the violet gown tonight?”

If the hour stretched late enough, one of you would eventually crack, and ask Jace to show you that Lyseni kissing again. You came twice during this, mind hazy from the hours of grinding against them and the drawn out state of arousal they had placed you in. This strange new union was always a forceful push enough that would have you falling apart in someone’s lap. 

“Lady Stark?"

And other times, you would watch, transfixed, as he and Cregan swapped spit lazily for minutes at a time. You had gripped your goblet with such a force that you were positive you would bend the fine metal, unable to look away as your husband and the prince moved mouths and bodies languidly against each other. As if you were analyzing, studying, preparing yourself to reach out and slot yourself between them both—

“Milady?”

You snapped back to where you were standing, in the middle of the banquet hall where preparations were well underway for the farewell feast. You blinked, meeting eyes with the woman who had just been trying to get your attention.

“Hm?” You raised your eyebrows. “Oh. Yes. Yes, thank you, Rose.”

She nodded sheepishly, and walked away. You pursed your lips, trying to forget about it. A fruitless endeavor. You were on the verge of becoming rabid. You had begged and pleaded for more. It never came.

“Please,” You murmured achingly, “Touch me. Both of you.”

Cregan shook his head. 

“He asked for one night. That’s all I’m willing to share you for. You’ll get it when the time is right, pet.”

If not tonight, when? It had to be tonight. Jace was set to leave on the morrow, good weather permitting. They had taken such a hold on your brain that you found yourself retracing parts of your body that they had traced. A hand on your ribcage where Jace had placed his in the barn with Vermax. Tracing your collarbone with your fingers, where Cregan had placed a bruising kiss while you had been sitting in Jace’s lap a few nights ago. Running your tongue across your teeth, where you had felt both of their own tongues tracing the night it had all started. 

Gods bless Lyseni courtesans, you thought distractedly. 

The rest of the evening was spent in a similar daze. You made your rounds in the kitchen, taste testing sauces, soups, and the sweet creams that would be drizzled on the desserts. You headed up to bathe, attended by your maids as you stared into the distance. 

You were dressed in the deep violet gown you had asked them to press for you, with a neckline low enough to garner attention but not too low as to be immodest. They placed silver pins in your hair, and dressed you in your favorite set of jewelry: a silver pendant with amethyst stones inlaid delicately against the metal, with earrings to match. A gift from Cregan for your wedding. 

You met Cregan at the bottom of the stairs. He walked you down the hallway, a hand on the small on your back.

“Thank you for planning everything,” He said, “Everything has been delightful.”

“It’s been busy, but I was happy to do so.”

“Tonight will be exciting.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Will it?”

A voice from behind you replied, “I certainly hope so.”

The pair of you turned to see Jace. He was a vision in crimson velvet, a dark sash draped over his shoulder, pinned in place with a silver dragon pin. His hair was perfectly curled, sword at his hip. The only word that came to mind was regal. When he smiled, his chin turned upward, carrying himself with all the grace and pride befitting the heir to the Iron Throne. 

“Your grace,” Cregan greeted, “Are you ready?”

“I am.” Jace’s eyes landed on you. He raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

He didn’t need to specify what for. For a second, you glanced at Cregan, who was just as smug. Something you didn’t really see from him.

You took a deep breath. “I… Yes.” 

To say the next few hours were excruciating would have been an understatement. And yet, it made total sense.

The entire night was wrought with an evolution of that initial dynamic you had been so keen to observe when Jace had first arrived. If Jace brushed past you, without fail, he would gently readjust you with delicate fingers on your waist. “Pardon me, Lady Stark,” he whispered every time, loud enough for only you to hear. Your little secret. 

There was no shortage of drinks, of this you had made sure. You had also brought out a gift Jace had sent ahead of time before his visit—several cases of wine from The Reach and The Arbor as a thanks to the lords and ladies of the North for receiving him. At dinner, he raised his cup to the North, its people, and his gracious hosts, Lord and Lady Stark. When Jace mentioned you, Cregan squeezed your thigh under the table, and you grew rigid as a brittle wooden board, ready to snap at any moment. 

As the drinks flowed, they were the final ingredient to a potent and dangerous concoction. The first ingredient had been the heat of the room, the hustle and bustle of the conversation and the music blending together as you took it all in. Next, the pace you had taken all day long, running here and there to make sure everything was perfect and ready to go. Worst of all—strongest, too—had been the mounting expectation of whatever was going to happen once this was over. 

You searched the ballroom for a tall frame draped in dark furs. Dark hair partially tied up. There, speaking with two of Lord Bolton’s sons, he stood tall, poised and elegant like a wolf before a hunt. You held back a sigh. Your husband, your Cregan, your man. He looked beautiful, though he would reject the word outright. Men were not beautiful, he might say.

Or maybe he wouldn’t. Not anymore, you hoped. There was no need to shy away from it now that the truth was out in the open. He was Cregan and he was human and he had been in love with Jace once and he still loved him, but he also loved you. He was capable of holding both of those loves and they were not at odds with each other. Quite the opposite. 

Cregan Stark. Your husband. Lord of Winterfell. Lover of princes and ladies alike. Your heart felt full.

“I told you. You are very lucky.”

Around you, your guests started to pair up. The singers were preparing for another number. Jace looked at you knowingly, and held out a hand.

He raised an eyebrow. “Will you indulge me one last time, Lady Y/N?”

You placed your hand in his. “How could I refuse?”

When he positioned himself, he pulled you closer than he had the first time. Your chests were nearly touching. The music began, and he immediately took the lead. You grinned.

“You know this one.” 

Jace nodded. “It is one of my favorites.”

He moved with you around the hall, not even needing to watch where he was going. Instead, he remained trained on your face. You felt your face grow warm from the attention. 

“Have you enjoyed your time in The North, Jace?” You asked, blinking up at him.

“I have,” he conceded. “I have learned so much more than I did my first time here. And I leave with a new friend. You have been so welcoming to me, my lady.”

He paused, considering his next words. The next time he spoke, he leaned in, lowering his voice. “Especially considering the… behavior I exhibited initially. I imagine that were I a woman, you would have assumed the worst.”

“Your being a man did not matter,” You confessed, “I assumed it within the first few days of your being here.”

This surprised him. “I… You did?”

You laughed. For once, you seemed to have the upper hand with him. “I know my husband. I saw the way he looked at you, and how you looked back. I’m not quiet because I don’t like speaking. But because when you’re silent, you hear every whisper, my prince. Even those that might not be spoken aloud.”

Jace blinked. He seemed stunned, unable to find something to say. The Prince of Dragonstone, words stolen away by Cregan Stark’s meek southern wife. You beamed, triumphant. A moment later, you tilted your head, success giving way to something more genuine.

“Will you miss him?”

Jace lifted his gaze, fixing on one point in the room. You watched his eyes and neck move, coordinating with his feet to keep his eyes on him. You didn’t even need to look to know. Jace watched Cregan with the serenity of someone who had held something once, and come to terms with not being able to hold onto it forever. That was what you saw when they stared at each other, you realized. 

Finally, there was a name for it. Peace. A bond forged from mutual respect and absolution. Whatever had once taken root was no longer there. They would never resent each other for it. If anything, they would care for each other even more. When he looked back at you, you saw yourself reflected in that peace.

“Yes and no,” He answered clearly. “I will miss my friend. But I feel as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders having been here after so long. It was a confirmation I hadn’t realized I’d been searching for. I have you to thank for that, also.”

He spun you around, but you didn’t look away from him as you made a face. “Me?”

Jace nodded, smiling. “I knew coming here how much Cregan loved you. He’s never been good with emotions, but his tone when writing about you was so warm, and… meeting you, spending time with you and him, I see why. I see how he cares for you, and you him. I leave here knowing his heart is safe with you. Just like I know how yours is safe with him.”

You smiled back at this, heart swelling even more. “Thank you, my prince. It has been an honor and a pleasure to be your host, and an even greater pleasure to gain your friendship.” 

The dance slowed to an end. The room burst into applause, and when you looked up, Cregan was watching you both, seemingly ignoring one of the Bolton boys as he attempted to keep Cregan’s attention. The emotion on his face could only be labeled as affection. 

The two of you watched Cregan apologize to the Boltons, brush past them, and cross the room. He seemed to part the onslaught of guests as he walked through them. People would see him, bow their heads, and step to the side. When he landed in front of you both, he held out his arm. You let go of Jace’s hand.

“The night grows long,” Cregan mused, “And the prince has a long journey ahead of him on the morrow. Shall we say our goodbyes and escort him back to his quarters, wife?”

You felt your mouth tip open. It was here. You paused for a beat, then nodded. Jace clenched his jaw, then smirked.

The three of you made a quick round to bid your guests a restful evening. Everyone seemed quite understanding that Jace was feeling tired. The entire time, when you were not speaking, you bit down on your tongue. Lest your teeth rattle with anticipation.

Cregan led you and Jace up the stairs. The ascent was slow, quiet. The symphony of your steps bounced off the stones, echoing throughout the stairwell. 

“The music was lovely,” You murmured innocently. 

“The food was marvelous.” Jace echoed your tone.

Your trio rounded a corner and you found everyone’s slow walk speeding up. Compliments were paid to your organizational choices. Another flight of stairs. Your thighs tensed with exertion and excitement. By the time you hit the top of the staircase, Jace grinned.

He grabbed your hand, then he grabbed Cregan’s. Cregan chuckled quietly, and you found yourself breaking into giggles as well.

“I’ve been waiting for this for weeks,” Jace admitted. Then, he broke into a light jog, taking you and your husband along with him. The drinks, the arousal, the warmth in your chest. All three of these had your head tipping back in joyful, girlish laughter. This was everything you had been wanting, and all of your clothes were still on.

Jace’s door appeared at the end of the hall. He let go of your hands only to open it, and once you were all inside, they pounced on you. How they seemed to move so in sync, you could not say. You had been wound up so tightly you could no longer tell which way was right and which way was left. 

Cregan’s mouth landed on yours, and you immediately opened yourself for him. Pure instinct, letting him lick into your mouth with hot breaths against your mouth. Rough and demanding. He grabbed at your sides, squeezing your hips. Jace stepped behind you, tracing open mouthed kisses along the side of your throat, moving up under your ear. His hands slotted themselves over Cregan’s hands, calloused hands brushing even larger calloused hands. 

You reached behind you to fist Jace’s curls between your fingers, and rubbed Cregan’s chest in front of you. Already, your heart was pounding. Cregan pulled away to nip at your collarbone, and as if reading Jace’s mind, you craned your neck in pursuit of his heart-shaped lips. 

Jace’s kisses were not as aggressive as Cregan’s but they were just as deep. He did not immediately demand you open his mouth to slide his tongue against yours, but rather he spent time courting your lips, then teasing with a quick slide of his tongue against your lower lip. When you bit down on his lower lip, he took that as permission. Only then did his kisses grow faster, humming against your lips when you sucked on his tongue, desperate to get it deeper in your throat. 

His front pressed up against your back, and there, nestled between your buttocks, you could feel something poking you, growing more and more insistent with each passing moment. His hands moved away from Cregan’s at your side and slid up your back, trying to find the laces of your bodice. He parted from your lips to fully concentrate on undoing the problematic knots, and you wrapped both of your arms around your husband’s neck. 

Cregan immediately straightened, moving his hands down to squeeze at your ass. You gasped, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck. 

“Who goes first?” You asked breathlessly. 

“Me,” Cregan responded immediately, “I fuck you first, then Jace fucks you.”

You sighed, bodice becoming looser as Jace successfully undid the laces. “When do you fuck Jace?”

They froze. Cregan gaped at you, then looked at Jace.

Jace cleared his throat. “I–”

Cregan raised an eyebrow. “You–”

“What,” You asked, taken aback at their surprise, “I ask to watch you stick your tongues down each other’s throats, can I not watch my husband stick his c—”

“I didn’t think you’d want to see the… well. The whole of it,” Jace answered. 

Cregan snickered, a hand gripping your chin. “Oh, she wants to see the hole of it, Jace, I promise you.”

“She continues to surprise me.”

“I’m not surprised at all,” Cregan sighed after a moment, rubbing his forehead against yours, “Gods, you greedy little thing.” 

You leaned forward, needing someone desperately. He kissed you again, groaning as you began to unbutton his black jerkin. The vest fell to the floor quickly, leaving him in his thick, gray, cotton doublet. Cregan helped you with the buttons on this one when you pulled away to watch your fingers, which had started to tremble with excitement.

“Easy, pet,” He murmured fondly as his chest was revealed, “We’ve not even touched you yet.

That could not remain true for much longer, you thought, as your bodice and skirts finally gave way thanks to Jace’s ministrations. They pooled at your feet, leaving you in your slip, stockings, and boots. Jace took you by the hand and pushed you back to sit gently on the bed. 

Your boots were unlaced. Two pairs of foreign hands pulled down each stocking, and then they parted your legs. You were left to lift your cotton slip and pull it over your head. It left you the first to be naked, you realized as you laid flat on the bed. Cregan was right behind you, and Jace’s clothes remained in place. 

The pair of them hovered above where you needed. You propped yourself up on your elbows and found yourself with Jace’s eyes dragging slowly up your body, twinkling in the firelight all the meanwhile. 

“You’re unreal,” Jace mumbled, “Sculpted in the image of Mother and Maiden alike.”

“O-oh,” You sighed, a shudder traveling down your spine. You had never been told that before. 

Cregan nipped at your bare thigh, before touching Jace’s cheek. “So this is how you southerners seduce women.”

“Only the exceptionally beautiful ones,” Jace argued, flicking his eyes between you and Cregan, “You use it too much and it becomes blasphemy.”

You licked your lips seeing them both slotted between your legs. “This is already blasphemy enough.” 

“Quite true,” Cregan said, moving his hand to the back of Jace’s head, “And it’s about to be even more so.”

Cregan’s lips wrapped around your pearl. Jace’s mouth landed at your hole, immediately beginning to lap at your wetness as if he hadn’t seen water in days. 

The simultaneous pleasure, courtesy of two of the most powerful men in Westeros kneeling at your feet to worship at your altar. Such a devotional was unlike any other. 

The difference in their kisses translated almost perfectly to this. Cregan enjoyed a bit of force when pinning you down like this. “I know she can take it, she’s taken worse,” was his rationale. Jace, for all of his teasing and mastery of making you want, was as gentle as he was needy. He seemed to understand that this was new to you too, but that this would be his only chance to lap at you. 

They switched places, tongues touching as they moved around your pussy. Jace moaned when it happened, and between watching it happen and feeling the vibration against your core, you cried out, head falling back. Now, it was Jace’s turn to suck softly on your clit, while Cregan decided to stick his tongue inside of you and fuck you with it. You couldn’t make up your mind on where to focus—at this rate your mind was gone, turned to mush, leaking out of your cunt and being soaked up by their mouths.

Cregan’s hands squeezed at your thighs and Jace had one hand on your hip. You were so focused on your own pleasure you didn’t see Jace’s free hand land at the front of Cregan’s trousers, cupping your husband’s hardness with a restrained vigor. Cregan’s hips pushed into Jace’s touch, and he grunted into your pussy as Jace began to squeeze his bulge.

Jace slid his tongue down to where Cregan’s was. He stuck his tongue into your walls as well, holding back a humbling moan when he felt the tightness of your cunt forcing Cregan’s tongue up against his own. He could take it no longer, delving his hands under the dark wool of Cregan’s trousers. 

Jace wrapped his hand around Cregan’s hard cock, remembering the weight of his thick, veiny member, before cupping his fat, heavy balls. Jace’s touch had Cregan groaning into your hole, causing you to gasp out, reaching for both of their heads. Your orgasm was approaching embarrassingly fast, and they got the message when your fists landed in their hair. You hung one leg on their respective outside shoulders, heels digging into their shoulder blades.

Closeness. What a funny word. How could it be that something was too much but never enough?

Cregan’s hand rose up to meet yours in his hair. His index finger tapped your wedding band. Your head rose, face screwed up in pleasure, and saw them both joined together inside of you. A different form of Jace’s Lyseni kiss. The sight was more than enough. You descended into your pleasure, hips bucking against their faces as you demanded for more, for them to stop, for them to keep going, for someone to fuck you, for this night to never end. 

Jace was painfully hard. Between Cregan’s cock in his hand, and now you reaching your peak all over him and your husband’s tongues, he could no longer bear it. As you came down, he realized that he’d be relegated to the side yet again before being allowed to participate. He would not be able to just sit idle while watching the two of you again. 

You lay limp on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as you tried to regain your bearings. They pulled their mouths away, and you let them go. Your eyes fluttered shut for barely half a second, before you heard more kissing, Cregan grunting, Jace gasping. 

You lifted your head with a speed you didn’t think you still had, only to find Jace’s hand in Cregan’s pants while Cregan gripped Jace by the scruff of his neck. Like he was a pup who had just been caught misbehaving. If the hand pumping his cock was the misbehavior, Cregan didn’t seem eager to correct it. You whined at the sight, so ready to watch the prince fall apart on Cregan’s cock. 

Your sound roused them both. Cregan’s movements slowed, and his eyes cracked open. He found you staring at the both of them, chest rising and falling with need. He jerked his hips into Jace’s hand, and for a moment, you almost understood what it was like to be Jace the very first night it had all happened. 

Jace opened his eyes to look back at you, and he bit his lip. He looked at Cregan, who was watching you as well. Jace spit into his other hand, moving to wrap it around Cregan’s member, before leaning over to suck on Cregan’s jugular. Cregan inhaled sharply, hips thrusting into the prince’s hands. 

“Go to her,” Jace murmured against his skin, “Fuck her and I’ll ready myself for you.”

They stood, shedding their remaining clothes as you moved further back on the bed to make room for them both. Soon, the pair were just as naked as you were, moving to the edge of the bed closest to where you were. Standing next to each other, you could not help but compare.

Jace’s muscles were different from your husband’s. Where Cregan was stocky and strong, the muscle was hidden beneath a small layer of plush skin, which was very common in Northern men. Foolish southerners would call it “pudgy”. You called it very, very attractive. His long, thick cock stood at attention, red and willing, hefty balls sagging beneath.

Objectively, Jace was prettier. He was leaner, lighter. Better for riding. His slimness did not necessarily mean fragility—his arms and thighs were well sculpted from years of training, and his shoulders and chest were dotted with freckles too. While his cock was slightly smaller than Cregan’s, it was, like the rest of him, a bit prettier than your husband’s. Pink at the tip, with a generous upward curve that left your mouth watering.

Cregan tilted his head. “Have you had enough of your ogling?” He asked, nodding once. “Lie back.” 

As Cregan crawled onto the bed, Jace walked to the vanity on the far side of the room. He heard you and Cregan kiss as he inspected the vials spread across the grain of the wood, before landing on a vial of perfume oil. He grabbed it before returning to the bed, setting it on a table right next to the mattress. 

When Jace’s head hit the pillow next to yours, Cregan took it as permission to hike your legs around his waist, one hand propping himself up against the headboard. He took himself into his hand, pumped his cock a few times before sliding it up and down your slit, gathering your wetness along his tip.

“Cregan,” Jace said softly, “How many times have I told you not to tease?”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Cregan clenched his jaw, and you could finally tell what was being said. So did Jace, who immediately lowered his eyes. 

“Prepare yourself for me,” Cregan said finally, nodding at the vial Jace had grabbed, “Give her something pretty to look at.”

A moment later, Cregan entered you, and did not give you a moment’s reprieve. His pace was immediately fast and rough, and you reached for his arms to find purchase on something. Cregan’s hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to turn your head to where Jace was lying, currently opening the vial.

“Watch him,” He ordered, “You love watching, don’t you, love?”

You nodded as best you could with your head in his grip, eyes pinned to Jace’s form as he came onto his knees, pressing his face against the pillow. His fingers glistened with oil, and a faint smell of jasmine hit your nose. Your mouth fell open as he lifted his fingers up and behind him. From where you were, you couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but the face he made and accompanying sound that escaped him seconds after left nothing to the imagination. 

“Good boy,” Cregan praised, before looking back down at you. You felt yourself clench at his words. Cregan’s pace continued, your hands tracing whatever part of your body you could land your hands on. His broad back and shoulders, hairy chest, or strong plush biceps, you needed something to hold onto as you watched the Prince of Dragonstone finger himself open in preparation for the cock you were currently speared on.

“See normally,” Cregan mumbled into your ear, “I’d have him just like that, but I would be the one to put my fingers in his pink little hole.”

Jace nodded, lip curling up in pleasure. “His f-fingers are quite long,” Jace answered, “Not sure if you’ve noticed.”  

You keened. “Yes,” You agreed, “Quite—ah!—quite talented too.”

Jace groaned. You watched his arm begin to speed up. From atop you, Cregan watched slack-jawed as you both compared notes in front of him. He thrust even harder a few times, desperate to drive the breath from your lungs. The movement pushed you into the pillows, back arching into him.

“C-Cregan,” You cried, whining as the harsh thrusting slowed into deep grinding, “Gods, s-so good.” 

His lips crashed into yours, so bruising and demanding and so very much Cregan, you tightened your legs around his waist. His weight on top of you was almost crushing, but the way he draped himself over you as he moved languidly in and out of you had you enveloped in a blanket of pleasure and veneration radiating off of his being into yours. 

Across from you, Jace was already pressing a second finger into his ass, his other hand wrapping around his cock as he watched Cregan fold you in half. The sound of your cries was soft and needy, but you didn’t complain or try to run from Cregan’s force. You soaked it all up, thirsty and wanting.

When Cregan pulled away, he groaned against your open mouth. “Soon,” He told you, “And after I fill you up, he’ll fuck you too.”

You snaked a hand between you both, rubbing at your nub with a mounting need. You looked back at Jace, moan wrenching from your throat as you watched him, moaning into the pillow, flush covering his delicate freckles. There was a sheen across his forehead and cheekbones, lips forming a delicate little o-shape. Jace’s eyes locked with yours, and you wanted so badly to reach out and touch him. You were rendered immobile beneath your husband’s weight.

You looked down at Jace’s pink cock. He seemed to have found a good rhythm, fucking his cock into his hand and then fucking back onto his fingers. When you realized that he was matching the thrust of his cock into his hand up to the rhythm of Cregan’s hips, your eyes screwed shut, pleasure building impossibly high.

“Cregan,” You called, bucking your hips up into his, “Please.”

“It’s alright, love.” He nodded against your neck, hips beginning to stutter. “Me too. I’ve got you.”

He thrusted a few more times, movements out of rhythm but still so deep inside of you, until his grunts turned into long, drawn out calls of your name. When you felt him spill his hot seed, cock pulsing inside of you, it tipped you over the edge as well, clit pulsating as you pushed your fingers into the sensation. There was always so much, and this time was no different. You looked up at him, vision blurred, to see his hair mussed and a bead of sweat dripping down his nose. It landed on your cheek, and he wiped it away. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Jace shift. He whimpered when his fingers left his hole. He moved closer, eyes trained on where you and Cregan were still connected.

When Cregan pulled out of you, the three of you twisted your necks to watch Cregan’s creamy, white seed spill out of you. You sighed, lower belly warm as he dragged a finger through his release, smearing it across your cunt. He pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Keep them open,” He murmured in your ear, rubbing your thighs. “You’ve been such a good little hostess, wife. How kind of you to gift our prince your tight little cunt.” 

His words caused you to clench down on nothing, and Jace groaned when more cum spilled out. Cregan rolled to your side, letting Jace take his place. Jace’s lips landed on yours, deep but not demanding. His eyes studied your face, the flush of your skin as it travelled down your shoulders and tits.

“My lady,” He whispered, cock poking at your entrance, “Can I? Let me—”

“Yes, fuck.” Your voice was breathy, shifting your hips to catch the head of his cock. The two of you gasped at the sensation. Cregan sighed next to you and both of you shifted to look at him. Your eyes were wide, Jace’s were hooded. Waiting. He had held the reins for most of the operation. Was it any wonder the two of you deferred to him?

Cregan looked between you both, before his lips turned upwards. “Well, go on,” He goaded, “Or does our prince need to tell me where to put his cock?”

Jace swallowed, shaking his head. He grabbed one leg, slinging it over his shoulder. Your chest lurched at the angle, and Jace slid into your pussy. An involuntary sound spilled from his lips, a similar whine coming from yours. You were so—

“So wet, Y/N,” Jace growled, licking up your jawline, “Is that you, or is that his cum?”

“Both,” You said, “It’s both of us.”

Jace’s thrusts were slow and controlled, but still had a way of wrenching soft whimpers from your lips. His lips descended on one of your nipples, and you buried your hands in his hair. You opened your chest to give him better access, nodding desperately as he grazed his teeth delicately across the hard nub. 

His hips tried different angles, each one hitting better than the last, until  he shifted his movement to the left ever so slightly and let out a breathy laugh when you clenched around him and moaned his name. 

“Jace,” You said, “Oh, right there, my prince, please, please, please.”

Jace hit the spot again, experimentally, and he pinned your wrists to the bed to stop you from curling in on yourself. He grinned, groaning softly. 

“No, you’re not going anywhere.” His pace became faster, your head beginning to writhe back and forth on the pillow. You were so sensitive, but Jace was just beginning to let his more merciless nature show. 

“You’ll sit there and take it and show your husband how obedient you are, hmm?”

Your hands balled into fists, unable to touch Jace where you wanted. You wanted your fingers in his mouth. You were sure he would accept them willingly. His pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked more black than brown, and his brows were furrowed in concentration, nose scrunched up ever so slightly as he chased after his own pleasure. He tilted his head, eyes widening.

“Yes? Answer.”

“Yes!” You nodded, unable to deny it. “Yes, yes, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“She always gets desperate when she’s sensitive,” Cregan told Jace. Your head turned, spotting him lying on his side. His cock was half hard, and beginning to swell again. A man starved, his eyes did not settle in one place for very long. Between your face and Jace’s, your tits, where Jace was fucking into you, there was simply too much to take in. “She doesn’t know whether to run from it or let it happen. Isn’t that right, Y/N?”

You chewed on your lip but nodded. The observation was true, but to be teased like this made the faintest shame brew in your chest, and even worse, the shame made your pussy clench. Jace gasped at this, gripping the headboard with one hand and your clit with the other. Your body tensed up as Jace used the headboard for leverage, swiping his fingers across your nub, doubling the sweet anguish traveling through your veins. 

Cregan began to stroke himself again, spurred on by the sudden mania overtaking Jace and being taken out on you. His two favorite people, making each other feel so good right in front of him. The two of you looked so beautiful, your eyes rolling back up into your head as Jace’s head tipped back, revealing the creamy expanse of his neck. He almost wanted to cum again, but knew to save it for what was to come. 

Jace groaning your name, you moaning Jace’s. Gods, what a sight, what a sound. He didn’t think he would ever forget tonight. 

His hand left your clit to grip the leg not propped over Jace’s shoulder, and then he hauled it up to match. The angle allowed him to reach even deeper, and the curve of his cock proved sweet in ramming up against that warm, spongy spot inside of you that had your legs beginning to tremble. This much pleasure could not be good for your body. Surely, you would combust.

“Oh, fuck,” Jace grunted, returning his fingers to between your legs. A fire licked up your mound and shot straight up your spine, fingernails digging into your palms. You bucked against Jace’s movements. He pressed a kiss to one of your ankles before his pace turned harder, rhythm slowing just enough to maintain precision—an effort in vain. 

“Jace, I’m going to—”

“Yes,” He nodded, “Can I—please, inside—”

“Yes,” Your legs slid off his shoulders, immediately wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his ass cheeks, “Yes, Jacaerys, cum in me too.”

Your words pushed him over, paired with the insistence of your legs. Jace could not have escaped even if he wanted to, he realized as his balls tensed up. His arms wrapped around you and yours wrapped around him. His ache crashed into yours, and the two of you hurtled into release, writhing against each other in the aftershocks. 

He buried his face between your breasts, hips bucking wildly as his seed mixed with Cregan’s. The thought had him thrusting weakly as his orgasm died down, trying to extend the sensation in his lower stomach for as long as possible. 

He pulled out of you, cock beginning to soften, and remained draped over you, panting against one of your breasts. He flicked his tongue against your nipple, and you almost shoved him off. You were too weak to actually see it through, twitching against Jace’s lean frame as he pressed kisses into your hairline, damp with sweat.

“Gorgeous,” He whispered into your skin, “Doing so well for us, pretty girl.”

Jace lowered his mouth to yours, lazily tangling his tongue with your tongue in the brief interlude before the final act. You felt Cregan stand from the bed, too engrossed in the taste of Jace’s lips to actually focus on what your husband was doing.

The prince pulled away, and you cracked your eyes open to see Cregan at the foot of the bed, gaze dark, shoulders squared. Jace twisted his head. They exchanged a glance, and then Jace looked back at you. He gave you one final kiss, before crawling backwards until his buttocks met the tops of Cregan’s thighs. You moved to sit up, but Cregan shook his head.

“Come here.”

You raised your eyebrows, eyes darting from side to side. “Me? What are you—”

“Look at the mess his grace made,” Cregan murmured, hand sliding up Jace’s spine. The prince shuddered, eyes falling between your thighs. Your cunt was ruined, he realized, swallowing thickly. Cum was oozing out from your hole, your clit was swollen, and Cregan’s cum, previously dislodged by Jace’s fucking you had smeared across your folds.

“Should he not be made to clean it up?”

Your thighs twitched, mouth gaping. You looked at Jace, who seemed near close to drooling like a hound. When your eyes returned to Cregan’s face, there was no room for argument. Still, you tried.

“I can’t—”

“But you will.” Cregan’s hand nestled into Jace’s hair, giving it a light tug. “And he will be good and clean you up. You can take one more, pet. I know you have it in you. You always do.”

You almost hesitated, before spotting where Cregan’s fingers were tangling themselves in Jace’s hair. Your lower lip found itself pinned down by your teeth, but not out of apprehension. 

A few moments later, you slid down the bed, at the same time as Cregan walked to the nightstand. He took the oil and smeared it over himself. When he stood behind Jace again, he rubbed the remainder all over the prince’s hole. Jace jumped, before craning his hips back. 

Cregan smiled crookedly before applying a gentle pressure against Jace’s hole with his thumb. It gave almost immediately, welcoming Cregan back in greedily. He dipped his thumb in and out too slow for comfort, and Jace’s forehead made contact with one of your parted thighs.

He toyed with Jace’s hole a little longer, gauging whether or not he was ready for Cregan’s cock, now fully hard again. He wasn’t sure how long he would last, having came once already, on top of watching Jace fuck you. When he pulled his thumb out, he also pulled the softest whimper from the back of Jace’s throat. 

“Please,” Jace said, one hand reaching back to spread himself open for Cregan, “Please, I need you.”

Cregan bent down, slotting a wet, open mouthed kiss between Jace’s shoulder blades. He gripped himself, pressing the head of his cock right up against Jace’s asshole. All of the air still in Jace’s body left him, leaving only anticipation that bled from every pore on his skin. 

“Put your mouth on her.” The command was said quietly against Jace’s skin. “Then I’ll fuck you, my sweet boy.”

Jace exhaled shakily at the name. He had not been called that in years. He licked his lips, looking back at your cunt. Your tired eyes were watching him fondly, a hand reaching for his cheek. You took a trembling breath, before falling in line with what Cregan wanted. 

“Eat,” You whispered sweetly, beaming when he pressed his face into your palm, “Be good for us.”

The silver of your wedding band was cold against his cheek. A miniscule oasis from the layer of heat that had blanketed the room. He shut his eyes and allowed himself one more moment to enjoy the cool metal on his skin. Then, he turned, and placed a dedicated kiss on your palm. When he drew away, he lowered his neck, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth to trace a long stripe from your hole to your clit.

The sensitivity was too much. You jumped at the wet warmth of his tongue, and Jace splayed a hand over your lower stomach, pinning you in place. You shivered, scar touching your skin. He licked you again, and then began to dip his tongue into your folds.

“Fuck!”

Jace hummed against your folds, half-hard member twitching at your expletive and the mixed flavor of his own cum and Cregan’s. He canted his hips back, unable to form words anymore. 

Cregan chose mercy. He pushed in, forcing Jace to gasp against your cunt. His eyes burned as he stared unblinking at how he slid into Jace’s tight hole, jaw clenching as he gave Jace a moment to adjust. The prince was still as tight as he remembered him. Jace seemed to disagree with the decision.

“Ngh, move.” This was the most princely he’d sounded since coming into the room, his demand bitten out and gruff. Jace brushed his nose against your clit, and you tangled both hands in his hair. Cregan lifted his eyes, landing on your debauched, sweaty face, and you nodded. 

Cregan bottomed out, reaching for Jace’s slender waist. He was going to need the leverage. He held Jace in place as he slid out, and then began to fuck the prince with an abandon Cregan hadn’t expected of himself.

The three of you were falling apart. This drawn out session had stripped the three of you to your most animal senses. Humping, grabbing, moaning, licking. Titles were seemingly gone, and what was left were three sweaty lovers in search of a reverie so prolonged it verged on painful, still delicious enough to keep at the pursuit. 

Cregan’s hands tightened around Jace’s waist. Jace groaned, hoping desperately he’d have bruises to further commit the night to memory. He angled his hips upward, knowing how close Cregan he was to his prostate. He knew Cregan was looking for it too. All Jace had to do was guide the way. 

When he found it, Jace’s voice cracked. The timbre of his voice gave way, leaving a whiny mess still dipping his tongue into your hole. His whimpering and the accompanying vibration had you crying out too. The praise spilled out of you, a woman possessed. 

“That’s it,” You said, “Take it, Jace. I know you can do it, darling. Take it like I did.”

Cregan, yearning for that mythical closeness, rested his knees against the mattress, stomach pressing against Jace’s lower back. He began mouthing at Jace’s shoulders, showering him with affirmations every time his lips were detached from his skin long enough. Cregan’s hips never let up.

“Just as tight as I remember, sweet boy,” He growled, “‘M going to fuck you until you’re begging me to stop.”

“Never stop,” Jace pleaded, lapping at your clit, “Don’t want you to.” 

“No?” Cregan’s hands slid to his front, tweaking at Jace’s nipples, before sliding a hand down to grip Jace’s twitching, ruddy member. “Even like this?”

Jace cried out again, wrapping his lips around your clit. Your back arched off the bed, tugging so intensely at Jace’s pretty locks that his scalp ached sweetly. Your entire body was trembling now. Jace was wrecked, pinned between you and your husband as Cregan took and you were made to give. 

The three of you, connected. You and Cregan, slowly suffocating Jace with your love. And Jace, in the middle of it all, unable to do anything but accept it all. Even as his a knot began to form in his lower stomach, ass tightening with Cregan still inside. When he clenched down on Cregan, Cregan’s hips bucked, before retaking the rhythm he was still trying to hold onto. 

“Feel too good, Jace,” He groaned, “‘M not gonna last.”

“Cum in me,” Jace demanded, lifting his mouth off of you, “Let me feel you in me when I leave.”

Cregan drove himself into Jace even harder, final orgasm now in view. He cupped Jace’s balls, squeezing, as if attempting to coax Jace’s cum out of them. Jace reattached his tongue to your clit, two fingers sliding into your painfully sensitive hole, trying to find more of the sticky, creamy cum they had both placed so lovingly in you. Your body was no longer your own, you realized with a pleased satisfaction. They had taken control of it and decided how to position it, how to fill it, when you’d had enough.

“And you,” Jace murmured breathlessly into your skin, “I want to feel your pussy squeeze around my fingers one more time.”

His words triggered an avalanche, starting with you and ending with Cregan. Your vision turned white, body stiffening for a beat. Then, your body jolted, cunt clenching helplessly around Jace’s digits. He suckled on your clit through every single wave of painful pleasure, until you were sobbing, trying weakly to push his head away. 

Jace let his head fall back on your soft thigh. He couldn’t tell if you were the one trembling or he was. His eyes squeezed shut, feeling the familiar tug in his balls. He bit down on your thigh when he came again, cum spilling over Cregan’s fist, his own walls fluttering against Cregan’s incessant pounding. 

Finally, Cregan wrapped himself on Jace, burying himself the deepest he’d been in the prince all night, shuddering on top of him as he spilled more of his warm, sticky cum into the heir to the Iron Throne.

The three of you rode out the final waves until it hurt, room smelling of sweat, sex, and funnily enough, jasmine. The only sounds were those of the crackling wood of the hearth and three different staccatos of breath. 

Carefully, Cregan pulled himself out of Jace. Jace, boneless, fell forward, nuzzling into your thigh. You carded a hand through his sweaty curls, attempting to soothe after all of your yanking. You felt the mattress dip behind you. Cregan had slid onto your side of the bed, lying behind you. He pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder. He looked utterly spent, heart still hammering just under his sweaty chest. 

When Jace had regained his bearings, he crawled up to be level with you and Cregan. He wrapped his hands around your waist, and looked at you both. Cregan had one hand splayed across your lower back, and used the other to slide up Jace’s arm. All your touches had turned tender, now. Any tension or desire had bled into each other late into the night, leaving only fondness and a feeling of completion. A circle being closed.

“If Aegon the Conqueror had done this instead,” Jace decided, “I believe the North would have fallen much faster.”

Cregan swatted his arm. Jace caught his hand, scars brushing. You giggled, sleep beginning to settle over your body. 

“I mean it. If he’d just bent over for Torrhen Stark–”

“Jacaerys.”

As your eyes fluttered shut, you smiled between their bodies. It was cold outside, but you had your husband at your back, and a prince of dragon blood at your front.

For the rest of the night, there would be no cold to be spoken of.

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

minors dni. if i didn't tag you, it was because i couldn't see an age anywhere on your blog <3

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. 

You do not know how you didn’t 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 green—it 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 you’ve built because a prince washed up on the shore near your home.

The boy at your feet is young, you cannot help but notice—your age, perhaps—dark 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 Point—mothers 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 usurper’s 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. 

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 Rhaenys’s 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 else’s misfortune, or more hopefully, no one else’s at all. 

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 you’ve only seen in the dead, so—

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 you—the 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 him—the only feeble resistance he’s capable of in his state. You do not know how he still breathes—the 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 doesn’t even seem as though it should be possible, as though the Seven themselves intervened and—

—and 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 feet—bleeding, drowned, scarcely clinging to life—and 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. 

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 cold—traitor, traitor, traitor.

He looks like a prince, you try to insist. A dragon prince, fire and blood and ruin, dangerous. 

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. 

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. 

If this boy lives, others will come looking for him. 

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 Rhaenyra—that 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 miller’s son, pulled from the boiling river after dragonfire reached the gristmill. You think of little Grace’s 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 didn’t. 

He is not worth it. He is not worth the risk. A prince is only a man born with a special name, there’s no reason you should save him and condemn countless others—he 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 didn’t, did he? 

He should be dead—any other man would be dead.

Two arrows through the shoulder, half-drowned, tossed upon the sea for days on end—there 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. 

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 Grace’s 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 again—still 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. 

If there is life, you will do what you must.

If there is not, you will turn and walk away. 

You have never prayed for someone to be dead before. 

Please, you think now miserably. Please.

Your fingers brush the skin of his throat—it is cold. He must be cold. So cold, that for a brief, terrible moment, hope flares in your chest, and then—

There is a flutter—it 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 him—as 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.

“Why did you have to wash up here?” you breathe out—frustrated, angry, resigned, because you have never been one to turn your back on someone in need. 

His pulse flutters once more against your fingers, and he does not stir. 

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 prince’s 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.

—————————

He is Jacaerys Velaryon, son of Queen Rhaenyra, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne. 

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 time—whenever 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. 

You spend the first day trying to keep him alive. 

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 it—bruises darkening one side of his ribs, yellow and purple and black, cuts everywhere, salt crusting his skin and body a ruin of blood. 

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 sea—crueler still to a boy half-dead and alone. 

And then there were the arrows. 

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 you’ve 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. 

It should have been agony—any man would have cried out. 

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 aren’t sure if you’re relieved or disappointed when you feel the fluttering pulse still there. 

A traitorous part of you wishes that he had died. 

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. 

You notice it when you are wiping the blood from his face, and your hand brushes his forehead. It’s as though all of the cold of the sea had fled his body at once and left only fire behind. It’s what you expect of a Targaryen prince, really—the burning heat, closer to dragon than man— it feels more natural than the cold, but you are scared anyway. 

You do not know much about treating battle wounds, but you do know about fever. 

Your younger brother died of it during a long winter a decade past—no 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 too—no 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 change—still alive and burning, and you don’t know whether to be grateful or terrified. 

At one point, he begins muttering. You cannot make out most of it—the 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.”

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 day—you wish that you’d never left the cottage at all the morning you found him, you wish you’d left him to die, you wish, you wish, you wish, as though any of it matters anymore. 

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 day—today—you 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 you’re 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. 

You cannot put it off any longer, much as you may wish—the prince needs supplies, and unfortunately, so do you.

You do not like going into town. You have never liked going into town—you 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 didn’t 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 Aemond’s 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. 

When you enter the town, you can still smell charred flesh and death. 

The children usually run to you when you arrive, chattering about the games they’ve played and the rumors they’ve 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 you’re 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 you’ve 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. 

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 mother’s 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 daughter’s 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. 

Her doing, her half-brother’s doing, the other nobles’ 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 you’re sure Wylem took notice of. 

There are more important things to worry about: if there is a bounty on the prince’s body, everybody will be searching for him. Not just soldiers, the people too—your 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. 

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 get—you do not remember how you responded. 

Did you imply that you had a visitor? Why can’t you remember? What excuse did you give? Did the soldiers overhear? Are they following you? Do they know? Why can’t you remember? You’re scared—you do not think you’ve ever been so scared in your entire life. 

You look over your shoulder every five steps, worried that they’re going to come charging after you, demanding you to bring them to the Prince Jacaerys before taking your head. You’re not cut out for this—you’re the daughter of a fisherman. There’s no world where you should be worrying whether soldiers are going to hunt you down for saving a prince. 

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.

You—

“Who are you?”

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. 

“Answer me, who are you? Where am I? Wh—” the prince—Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne—falters suddenly, and you can only breathe again when the knife drops from your neck, and you feel the presence at your back disappear. “You—you are a woman.”

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. 

You see more clearly in the light of the afternoon sun just how ruined his body is, bruises and cuts—you 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. 

For a moment, you forget that you are face-to-face with a Targaryen prince—it is only the boy you dragged in from the sea and spent hours trying to keep alive. 

Your lips curve down into a deep frown, brows knitting together. You exhale as you say, “You reopened your wounds. It took me an hour to get them properly closed.”

The prince stares at you. 

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. 

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, “You tended my wounds.”

You hesitate, then nod, swallowing once. “I found you on the shore a few days past, my prince—” 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 safest—whatever he may be, no one seems inclined to dispute that part. “—I… you should probably be resting.”

“I need to know what happened,” 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 you’ve seen in men mad with grief or fear or fury, moments before lashing out at the nearest person. You find yourself tensing instinctively. “What do you know of the battle that took place on the Gullet? Did Baela make it back to Dragonstone? And Rhaena—she was on that wild dragon, and—my 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, I—”

The prince only just seems to realize how you’ve 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. 

Shame crosses his expression instantly.

“I—” His expression twists as he puts space between the two of you again. You wonder whether it’s from pain or from struggling to force out an apology. Both, likely. He continues, “You have helped me—saved my life, most like—and here I am frightening you. I… I thought I’d 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 and…”

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. 

Instead, you ask, “Do most enemy strongholds look like a fisherman’s cottage, my prince?” 

You are mortified the moment the question spills from your lips—he is a Targaryen prince, they are known for blood and fire and madness, dragons and crowns, and you speak to him as though he’s one of your peers. 

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. 

“I suppose not.”

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 you’ve carried from town onto the table. You will have to sort all of what you’ve 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.

“My prince?” 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 he’s unconscious; it is different now that he’s awake.

Prince Jacaerys inhales sharply through his teeth. He is swaying on his feet, breath gone shallow—he looks as though he’s 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.

“I am fine,” he insists.

“You should sit, my prince.”

“I am standing,” he replies with a tight smile, as though a bead of sweat isn’t rolling down his temple from strain to remain upright and his lips aren’t trembling with pain.

“Barely.”

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 fisherman’s 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. 

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. 

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. 

The absurdity of it nearly makes you laugh, wondering if perhaps this entire ordeal is some fever dream brought on by bad fish and Leila’s uncle’s dubious ale. 

Then, Prince Jacaerys’s left leg buckles. 

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.  

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 him—far, 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 Throne’s lap. You jerk away so quickly you nearly trip over one of the escaped apples, face burning and hands shaking.

"Sorry," you blurt, mortified. “Sorry. Sorry, I did not mean—”

“I believe,” Prince Jacaerys begins with a grimace, “that was my fault.”

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 table—you might have lost some sense over the past three days with the little sleep you’ve 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.

“I do not know when last you ate—a while, certainly,” you tell him quietly. “You should get something in you while I redress the bandages. I’ll cook some stew once I’m certain you’re not going to bleed out.”

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 he’s sitting, grabbing a clean rag and the bandages that you left next to your bed. 

You come to stand in front of him again, hesitating before you motion to the wounds on his shoulder. You ask, “May I?”

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 he’s awake, inches away from you, and eyes tracking your every move.

“I found you three days ago, my prince,” 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. “Before that, the fighting died another three. In truth, my prince, I do not know how you survived so long at sea.”

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. 

You press your lips together when you see that the stitches have loosened at the back of his shoulder—where 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. 

“And my family? My younger brothers? Baela and Rhaena? Have you heard what has become of them?” the prince asks, and you glance up just enough to see how his jaw tightens when your finger brushes over the wound. “Did we win the battle?”

“I do not know if anyone can be said to have won that battle, my prince,” 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 he’s only just realized how hungry he is. “Both fleets were decimated. The dead still wash up on the northern shore.”

How did Prince Jacaerys make it to your shore, then? 

Not for the first time, you have to wonder if the gods themselves placed him directly into your hands. 

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 Jacaerys’s breath hitches when you tug lightly at the stitches holding the skin of his shoulder together. Already, he’s finished the apple you handed him, absentmindedly turning the core between his fingers while his thoughts remain leagues away. 

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 comical—this 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 he’s been floating at sea for at least a week. 

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.

“I did not mean to stare,” he murmurs, taking the apple from you and cradling it carefully between his hands. He asks again, “Have you heard what has become of my family?” 

You shake your head, focusing on tending to his wounds again. You think that you’ll be able to salvage your work. It is good, you think—you can get him resting and then cook some stew for the two of you. You didn’t eat much yesterday, frazzled by the fever and trying to keep him comfortable, and you’re starting to feel a lightness in your head. 

“I’ve only heard what the soldiers say in town, my prince,” you murmur, trying to figure out how to go about speaking the news he certainly won’t 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 head—and then yours. 

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. You’re 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. 

You try not to think too hard about what you’re doing. 

If you do, it begins to feel far too intimate. 

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 fisherman’s daughter—people like you are not supposed to touch people like him, and yet—

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.

“Sorry,” you say quietly.

“It does not hurt,” he replies—a 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. “What have you heard from the soldiers in town? Where are we?”

“Half a league from Sharp Point, my prince,” 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, “They say two dragons fell over the Gullet. I could not tell you which.”

“Two?!” 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. “Two dragons?”

You swallow thickly as you nod. “My prince—”

“One must be—” 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. “I need to know the second. Whose was it? Which dragon fell?”

It unsettles you how close he sounds to pleading when moments before, you had been wondering whether the stories of the Targaryens’ deism held some weight, because gods do not look like this. They do not stand in a stranger’s cottage with fear plain on their face, hands trembling as they wait for an answer they already dread. 

The same lump forms in your throat now that did when you heard the soldiers mocking a grieving queen and couldn’t 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.

“I do not—”

“I need to return home,” he says immediately, as though his face isn’t white with pain and his stitches don’t strain every time he moves. His eyes glaze over you as though you’re not even there, and he takes a step toward the door to your small cottage. “Sharp Point—there must be passage to Dragonstone, there—”

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. They’ve spent a week carding through the western and northern shores, and they’ve been sending more and more men to the east—you worry they’re becoming desperate. The longer they go without finding a corpse, the more they may fear that there isn’t one.

If they have an inkling that Prince Jacaerys is still alive, they’ll start kicking down doors, and if they start kicking down doors, they will find him, and your life will be forfeit for harboring him. 

“You cannot,” 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. 

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 realm—now 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. 

“I cannot?” 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. 

“My prince, you can scarcely stand,” 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. “You 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.”

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 before—certainly not a fisherman’s daughter. You force yourself to press on while he’s silent, hoping to make your point and rid him of this futile endeavor before he gets you both killed. 

“The Prince Aemond burned Sharp Point’s 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,” you insist. “I will return to town tomorrow to try to get more information, but please, my prince, you mustn’t leave. You will only be putting us both at risk.”

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. 

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. 

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 warm—still warmer than he ought to be—and you can’t help but wonder if his fever has returned or if this is just how hot dragon prince’s typically run. 

He leans into you only slightly, weight settling lightly against your shoulder—you 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. 

“We were supposed to win this victory for her,” 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. “We were supposed to—”

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.

“The fact that you are alive at all is a victory, my prince,” you say quietly, even though you do not think the words will be of any reassurance. “You should rest. The sooner you are well, the sooner we can figure out a way to get you home. I’ll cook up a stew and wake you when it’s finished.”

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. 

“What is your name?” Prince Jacaerys asks you suddenly. “I think I ought to know the name of the woman who saved my life.”

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 falter—you 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. 

————————————

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 they’re consumed by the fire, and dragons let out terrible shrieks as they dive low to bring down another ship full of Myrish mercenaries. 

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 fleet—or worse, catch Baela and Moondancer. But there is panic clawing at his chest, and smoke and salt clogging his throat and stinging his eyes. He’s screaming at Vermax to fly faster, to kill the rider, and then—then he sees Rhaena. 

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 isn’t sure if Stormcloud and Aegon made it to shore, and there is too much going on, and—

—and Vermax is falling. 

Vermax is banking hard, being dragged down into the sea, and Jace’s stomach lurches. He’s yelling—begging—Vermax to fly, and Vermax is trying, he’s trying so hard, wings beating smoke through the air. He shrieks as another bolt catches him in the wing, and Jace feels the pain himself—he feels the pain, the primal fear, everything that Vermax does, because Vermax is his, and he is Vermax’s, 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 he—he cannot lose Vermax. 

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 him—he 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. 

When Jace learned to walk, Vermax learned to fly; when Jace’s voice deepened, Vermax’s roar had too. 

There has never been a Jacaerys without Vermax.

But Jace’s 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, but—but 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. 

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 wants—

He wants his mother.

He just wants his mother. 

He hears the cheers before he feels the first arrow, gaze lifting to the sky as he searches for Baela and Moondancer—they are not too far, he thinks, she'll come for him.

And then, there’s 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 then—then all he remembers is sea. 

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 wants—

“... prince, the stew is ready.”

Jace startles awake, breath hitching in the back of his throat. His body tenses immediately, because he does not remember where he is—he remembers the sea and the waves and rocks and pain and Vermax, but he does not remember…

The cottage. Waking up alone. The door opening, the fear—was he captured? Where is he? Where are his brothers? Where is Baela? What was Rhaena doing on the wild dragon? Mother, mother, mother—

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 he’s dead and fights for her throne alone.

He opens his mouth to apologize—to tell you that he will leave as soon as he is able, that he will ensure you’re properly compensated for saving his life—but 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 understand—seawater, 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 it’s more or less humiliating that you’re pretending not to notice for his sake, turning your back to him to ready the table. 

Jace has wept before, more than most ought to—for 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 half—but never, never in front of a stranger. 

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 he’s ever been this hungry. He has dined in castles all his life—roasted 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.

“It—” Jace’s voice is hoarse from sleep. Embarrassed, he clears his throat again to try to even it out. “It smells good.”

You look at him over your shoulder with a small smile and murmur demurely, “I’m sure nothing compared to what you’re used to, my prince.”

“I do not know that,” he says lightly as he forces himself to his feet, grimacing as pain immediately shoots through his body. 

Everything aches—his 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 going—there 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. “My prince?”

“I have not tasted it yet,” 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.”

You blink at him once, and then you smile slightly—it’s a genuine one, not like the small one you forced in his direction just before—and 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.

“Perhaps” you reply softly, waiting for him to take a seat at the table before you do as well. 

You do not immediately lift your spoon, and Jace hesitates—for a brief moment, an old childhood lesson surfaces. Do not eat until someone else has tasted it. Feasts at King’s Landing and supper at Dragonstone had been meticulous about such things—cups 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. 

“I never thanked you for what you’ve done for me,” he says at last, fingers grazing the wooden spoon dipped into the broth. “When I return to Dragonstone, I shall speak with my mother. She will see you properly rewarded.”

“There is no need,” you murmur, finally taking a sip of the stew when Jace lifts the spoon to his lips. 

The broth is hot enough to sting his tongue, but he scarcely notices. It is a simple meal—carrots 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.

“My apologies,” he says, clearing his throat. “I fear I may have forgotten my manners.”

“You haven’t had a meal in over a week, my prince. You’re allowed to be hungry,” 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. 

“There is every need for reward,” he disagrees, leaning forward slightly to look at you. For the first time since he woke in your cottage, he actually observes you—you cannot be much older than he is, beautiful certainly, but there’s a weariness in your expression that Jace cannot help but feel as though is his fault. “You 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.”

You stare at him for a moment, a conflicted expression on your face, and Jace shakes his head slightly as he presses.

“I do not possess enough coin to repay such a debt myself—” nor, he suspects, does anyone “—but 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.”

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 Jace’s follows it, faltering when he realizes that you’re looking in the direction of what remains of Sharp Point.

That’s right, he remembers—you mentioned your cottage was less than a league away. 

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. 

You stay silent for so long that Jace wonders if you have not heard him, and his lips part to repeat himself futilely. 

“We used to think they were beautiful, you know?” you say, voice barely over a breath. “We would watch your family fly from King’s 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.” 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. “There is a wild dragon in these parts—we call him Grey Ghost. He hunts fish along the eastern shore. I see him frequently when I take my father’s boat out. We lived alongside him for years—sometimes he swoops down close when we have a big catch, but he never bothers us. My father always said he was curious—shy, but curious.”

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.

“Then the Prince Aemond and Vhagar came,” you say at last. “The 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.”

Jace opens his mouth.

He does not know what he intends to say, caught between guilt and indignation, because everybody wants the fighting to end—he 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.  

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 mother’s 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? 

That dragons are not cruel creatures, he feels the need to tell you when he sees the disdain on your face—it 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. 

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 him—Vermax 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.

The man’s breath smelled like stale beer and bad decisions. He leaned too close, his elbow propped against the bar beside you, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the sticky wood.

"C’mon, love, just one drink," he slurred, grinning like he’d already won something. You forced a smile, gripping your untouched glass tighter. "I’m good, thanks."

Across the room, the crowd pulsed with laughter and music, but your attention snagged on the way his gaze kept sliding down your shirt. You shifted sideways on the stool, but he mirrored you, undeterred.

"You don’t gotta be like that," he said, louder now, like volume might make you reconsider. The bartender glanced over, then away—purposefully uninterested.

You were about to slide off the stool and bolt when a warm hand settled on your lower back.

The drunk guy’s grin faltered as Oscar materialized beside you, his voice calm but edged with something unyielding. "She said no, mate."

The drunk blinked, swaying slightly as he processed Oscar’s presence—tall, steady, and decidedly not drunk. "Who’re you?" he muttered, squinting.

The drunk guy’s grin widened, revealing a chipped tooth as he leaned even closer, his breath hot against your cheek. "Looks like your boyfriend’s got a problem with me," he said, jerking his chin toward Oscar.

His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you but thought better of it—Oscar’s presence was a wall he couldn’t quite scale. You swallowed, your pulse thudding in your throat.

"It’s not a problem," you said, voice steadier than you felt. "Just leave it."

Oscar’s hand stayed firm on your back, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding arc over your spine. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t puff up—just leveled the guy with a look that said try me.

The drunk hesitated, glancing between you two, then huffed a laugh. "Yeah, whatever," he muttered, pushing off the bar with a wobble. "Didn’t know she was yours."

Oscar’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t bite. Instead, he guided you away with a gentle nudge, steering you toward a quieter corner near the pool tables.

The neon lights overhead flickered, casting his profile in sharp relief—all focused intensity, like he was still cataloging threats even now. "You okay?" he asked, fingers brushing your wrist.

You nodded, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. Just… hate that yours shit."

Oscar’s grip loosened, his fingers sliding down to intertwine with yours. The noise of the bar faded into a dull hum as he tugged you closer, his other hand coming up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice low enough that only you could hear. “Like you’re a fucking trophy.” His thumb swept over your knuckles, a silent apology for the guy’s words, even though they weren’t his fault.

You leaned into him, the solid warmth of his chest a welcome anchor. The drunk had already stumbled off toward the bathrooms, but the tension still coiled in your shoulders.

Oscar noticed—he always did—and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Want to get out of here?” he asked, though his tone made it clear he already knew the answer.

You nodded, and he didn’t hesitate, dropping a few bills on the bar before guiding you toward the exit. The night air was sharp with the scent of rain-soaked pavement, a relief after the stifling heat inside.

Oscar’s arm settled around your waist as you walked, his fingers tapping an absent rhythm against your hip—some racing cadence he’d picked up from hours in the simulator.

“You know,” you said after a quiet stretch, “you didn’t have to do that.” You nudged his side, teasing. “I could’ve handled him.”

Oscar snorted, shaking his head as he pulled you a little tighter against him. “Yeah, I know you could’ve,” he said, voice laced with amusement. “But why should you have to?”

He glanced down at you, eyebrows raised like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Besides, I like pissing off guys who think they’re entitled to your time.”

You laughed, the sound carrying down the empty street. “Oh, so it was selfish, then?”

“Totally,” he deadpanned, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “My evil plan all along.”

The streetlights flickered above you, casting long shadows as you walked. Oscar’s thumb traced idle circles on your hip, his touch warm even through the fabric of your jeans. You leaned into him, savoring the quiet after the noise of the bar.

“Where are we going?” you asked, though you didn’t really care—anywhere with him was better than that sticky countertop and the weight of some stranger’s gaze.

Oscar tilted his head toward a neon sign glowing faintly at the end of the block—a tiny 24-hour diner you’d never noticed before, its windows fogged with condensation.

“Hungry?” he asked, but the way his fingers flexed against your waist suggested he already knew the answer.

You nodded, and he grinned, quick and bright like he’d won something.

The sharp scent of hot tarmac mingled with exhaust fumes as you blinked against the midday glare. Your fingers cramped around another Sharpie, autographing a cap thrust toward you by a sweating teenager in team merch.

The crowd pressed closer, voices overlapping—requests, compliments, questions about Oscar—until they blurred into a single buzzing hum in your skull.

Someone’s elbow jabbed your ribs as they leaned in for a selfie. Your smile felt like it was cracking at the edges.

The Sharpie slipped from your grip, clattering against the concrete as you tried to steady yourself against the wave of dizziness. Too many bodies, too many voices—your vision blurred at the edges like a photograph left out in the rain.

Another cap was shoved into your hands, the brim damp with someone’s nervous sweat. You scribbled something—your name? Oscar’s?—before the pen died mid-stroke.

The pen's death was a small mercy—your fingers had begun shaking too much to keep up the pretense of enthusiasm anyway. Someone in the crowd shouted Oscar's name like a demand, and the sound ricocheted against your skull.

You pressed your lips together, willing your knees not to buckle as the sea of faces swayed in your vision. A bead of sweat trickled down your spine beneath your blouse.

The cap slipped from your hands—your grip suddenly useless—and you watched it tumble in slow motion toward the pavement. A dozen voices surged louder, fingers snatching at it mid-fall like vultures diving for scraps.

Your breath hitched, throat tight as the crowd's heat pressed in from all sides. Someone's phone grazed your cheek, screen blindingly bright as they angled for a shot.

Your vision tunneled—just the blur of outstretched hands, the glare of phone screens, the suffocating press of bodies. Someone’s perfume choked the air, thick and cloying.

The Sharpie was gone. The cap was gone. Your breath came in shallow gasps, ribs aching like they were wrapped in steel bands.

The pavement tilted under your feet—just slightly, like the deck of a ship in gentle swells—and you curled your toes inside your shoes as if that could anchor you.

Someone’s voice cut through the din, sharp with excitement: "Oi, mate, get McLaren’s girl to sign this!" A wrinkled race flag was thrust toward you, the fabric brushing your wrist.

Your signature would’ve been a shaky mess even if your fingers weren’t numb.

Then, like a current shifting, the crowd parted. A familiar shape shouldered through—broad shoulders cutting through bodies with the same precision Oscar used to carve through S-curves.

His hand closed around your elbow, warm and sure, before you could sway again.

"Alright, enough," he said, not loud, but with that quiet firmness that made people step back. The crowd’s noise dimmed by half, as if someone had turned a dial.

Oscar didn’t tug you away—just slid his grip down to your hand, lacing his fingers with yours like he was slotting a battery into place. Solid. Simple. His thumb brushed your knuckles once, a silent breathe.

The remaining Sharpie was plucked from your limp fingers by a grinning team PR guy who materialized out of nowhere.

"We’ll handle the rest, yeah?" he said, already herding fans toward a table stacked with merch.

You expected Oscar to steer you toward the hospitality suite—air-conditioned, quiet, safe—but instead he ducked into the narrow gap between two haulers, pulling you into the shadowed alley of stacked tires and coiled cables.

The sudden silence was dizzying. His hands framed your face, calloused thumbs catching the dampness under your eyes you hadn’t realized was there.

"Hey," he murmured, forehead nearly touching yours. "Still with me?"

You nodded against Oscar’s palms, but your breath still came in uneven hitches, the adrenaline making your ribs feel too tight. The rough texture of his thumbs grounding you more than the cold metal of the haulers at your back.

"I’m here," you managed, voice thinner than you wanted. The distant roar of engines from the track vibrated through the pavement, a steady counterpoint to the static still buzzing in your skull.

Oscar exhaled through his nose, a sound you recognized—the same one he made when his engineer suggested a questionable strategy over the radio. His hands slid down to your shoulders, squeezing gently.

"You were signing for forty minutes straight," he said, like it was a fact, not an accusation. "Even I tap out after twenty."

The corner of his mouth twitched, that almost-smile he reserved for moments when he was trying not to fuss.

A laugh punched out of you, shaky but real. "You’re not supposed to admit that," you murmured, curling your fingers into the fabric of his team shirt.

The familiar scent of his detergent—something citrus and sharp—cut through the lingering haze of sweat and petrol.

"Too bad." His fingers traced the tense line of your spine, slow and deliberate.

Oscar’s fingers didn’t leave your spine—just pressed a little firmer, grounding you in the way only he could, like he was recalibrating your center of gravity.

“Next time,” he murmured, “you tap my shoulder. Just once. Doesn’t matter where I am or who I’m talking to.” His voice was low, the kind of quiet that curled around you in the dark before a race when he’d tell you about his first kart. “I’ll notice.”

You swallowed, the tightness in your throat easing as his thumb traced the hinge of your jaw. The noise from the paddock was muffled here, just the occasional burst of laughter or rev of an engine, but you could still feel the residual buzz in your fingertips, the phantom weight of a hundred Sharpies.

“You’d really abandon a sponsor mid-sentence for me?” you teased, but your fingers tightened in his shirt anyway.

He didn’t smile. “Try me.”

The words landed somewhere under your ribs, warm and certain.

You believed him—not just because of the way his hands steadied you now, but because you’d seen it before: the way he’d cut interviews short when your texts went unanswered for too long, how he’d materialize at your side during paddock chaos like he had some internal radar tuned to your pulse.

"No, seriously—what does he even see in you?" Your cousin Liam grinned over his beer, elbowing your brother, who snorted into his plate. "I mean, no offense, but Oscar Piastri could date literally anyone. And he picks… this." He gestured vaguely at you with a chicken wing, grease dripping onto the tablecloth.

You rolled your eyes, stabbing at your salad with more force than necessary. "Wow, thanks. Real nice family bonding moment."

"It's just charity work at this point," your brother added, wiping his mouth. "Him dating you is basically community service." The table erupted into laughter, forks clinking against plates like a shitty applause track.

The chicken wing grease had barely dried before Liam leaned in again, his smirk widening. “Seriously though—how much did you pay him to show up to family dinners? Or is he just really into pity projects?”

Your brother snorted so hard he nearly choked on his mashed potatoes, thumping his own chest while the rest of the table dissolved into another round of laughter.

You gripped your fork tighter, knuckles whitening, but kept your mouth shut. Defending yourself never worked—they’d just twist it into another joke.

“Bet he’s got a spreadsheet tracking how many times he’s had to pretend to laugh at your jokes,” your brother wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. “Column A: Painful Silence. Column B: Fake Smile.”

The table erupted again, Aunt Carol nearly spitting out her wine. You focused on the way the lettuce in your bowl had gone slightly limp, the dressing pooling at the bottom like a sad little pond.

The back of your throat burned like you'd swallowed a lit match, but you clenched your jaw tighter, refusing to let them see the sting.

The dining room blurred at the edges—your vision going watery despite your best efforts—and you stared harder at the sad little pond of dressing in your salad bowl, willing yourself not to blink. If you blinked, the tears would fall. If they fell, they'd win.

Your fork trembled against the plate, a tiny, betraying clink. You could feel Oscar's knee pressing against yours under the table, steady and warm, but even that wasn't enough to stop the hot prickle behind your eyelids.

God, you hated this. Hated how they could reduce you to this—a joke, a charity case, something to poke at until you folded. You hated it more because part of you wondered if they were right.

The sound of the front door opening cut through the laughter like a blade. You didn’t even need to look up to know it was him—the shift in the air, the way your family’s voices stuttered mid-chuckle, the sudden scrape of chairs adjusting.

Oscar’s footsteps were quiet, but the silence they left in their wake was deafening.

You stood so fast your napkin fluttered to the floor. The chair legs screeched against hardwood, a sound so harsh it made your brother wince.

You didn’t look at Oscar—couldn’t, not with your eyes this close to spilling over—just strode past him toward the hallway, the kitchen, anywhere but here.

Your shoulder brushed his arm as you passed, and the contact burned. Not because you wanted to pull away, but because you wanted to collapse into him, and that was worse.

The laughter had died, replaced by the clinking of silverware and someone clearing their throat.

You barely made it three steps down the hallway before Oscar’s fingers closed around your wrist—not tight, not demanding, just there. Like an anchor.

The contact was warm, almost electric against your skin, and for a stupid second, you considered shaking him off just to prove you could. But then his thumb brushed over your pulse point, slow and deliberate, and your breath hitched.

“Hey,” he murmured, so soft it was almost swallowed by the hum of the fridge in the kitchen ahead. You didn’t turn around, but you didn’t pull away either.

His grip shifted, fingers sliding down to lace through yours, squeezing gently. “Look at me.”

You swallowed hard, staring at the smudged fingerprint on the door handle instead. “I’m fine.” The words came out brittle, cracked at the edges like old pavement.

Oscar sighed, stepping closer until his chest brushed your shoulder. “You’re shaking.”

“Am not.” But you were—your fingers trembled against his, your breath coming too fast. The hallway light flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows that made the walls feel like they were closing in.

He didn’t argue. Just tugged you gently backward, turning you toward him. When you finally looked up, his expression wasn’t pity. It wasn’t even anger. It was something far worse—understanding.

Like he knew exactly how much it hurt, and it pissed him off. “They’re idiots,” he said simply, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist.

A laugh punched out of you, raw and unexpected. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t make it less true.”

His jaw tightened. “What part? The part where they think I’m dating you out of charity?” The corner of his mouth twitched, something sharp glinting in his eyes. “Or the part where they think I’m capable of faking a damn thing around you?”

You blinked. That wasn’t the response you’d braced for.

Before you could reply, Oscar stepped closer, crowding you against the hallway wall—not trapping you, just… grounding.

His free hand came up to cradle your face, fingers warm against your cheek. “Tell me you don’t actually believe that shit.” His voice was low, rougher than usual.

You swallowed. “I don’t—”

“Try again.”

The words tangled in your throat. It wasn’t that you believed them—not fully—but after years of hearing the same jokes, the same digs, some part of you had started carving out space for the possibility.

Like a splinter working its way deeper every time you laughed it off.

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You really think I’d sit through your uncle’s conspiracy rants and your grandma’s passive-aggressive pie critiques if I didn’t want to be here?” A beat. “With you?”

The fridge hummed louder in the silence. Somewhere behind you, someone dropped a fork, the metallic clatter echoing down the hall. You focused on the way Oscar’s thumb kept brushing your wrist, steady and sure, like he was counting your pulse points.

“I don’t know,” you admitted finally.

His expression did something complicated—twisting between frustration and something unbearably soft—before he leaned in, forehead pressing against yours.

“Then let me be clear,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t fake smiles. I don’t track your jokes in spreadsheets. And I sure as hell don’t do charity.”

His breath warmed your lips. “I’m here because every time you walk into a room, I forget how to fucking breathe. That clear enough for you?”

Your chest ached. “Oscar—”

“Tell me you know that,” he interrupted, fingers sliding up to tangle in your hair. “Tell me you’re not seriously sitting there wondering if I’d rather be anywhere else.”

The problem wasn’t that you doubted him—it was that you didn’t. Not really. The problem was the way your family’s laughter still rang in your ears, the way their jokes had carved grooves into your ribs over the years until you started bracing for impact.

Oscar’s thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, startlingly gentle. “Say it.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“Louder.”

“I know,” you repeated, voice cracking.

Oscar exhaled, long and slow, his fingers loosening in your hair. “Good.” He didn’t pull back—just stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in like he was memorizing the space between your ribs.

The hallway light flickered again, casting his eyelashes in shadow. You could count his freckles from here.

The pressure of Oscar's forehead against yours grounded you, but the weight of his words—raw and unfiltered—left your chest tight. You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

"I need a minute," you murmured, pulling back just enough to break contact. His grip loosened reluctantly, fingertips trailing down your arm as you stepped away.

"Go compose yourself," he said, voice low but firm. His jaw was set, the sharp line of it betraying the tension beneath his calm exterior. "I want to speak to them."

You hesitated, fingers hovering near his wrist. "Oscar, you don't have to—"

"I know." He caught your hand, squeezing once before letting go. "But I'm going to." There was no room for argument in his tone, no playful edge—just quiet, simmering resolve.

The bathroom tiles were cool against your palms as you braced yourself over the sink, staring at your reflection. Your eyes were red-rimmed, mascara smudged just enough to be noticeable.

You splashed water on your face, the shock of cold bringing you back to your body. Outside, the murmur of voices had stopped entirely, replaced by an eerie silence broken only by the occasional creak of floorboards.

Oscar hadn't raised his voice—you would've heard it. That wasn't his style. But the absence of sound was somehow worse, like the entire house was holding its breath. You dried your hands slowly, focusing on the way the towel absorbed each droplet, delaying the inevitable return.

When you finally cracked the door open, the first thing you heard was your brother's strained chuckle. "C'mon, mate, we were just—"

"Just what?" Oscar's voice was lethally calm. "Bullying her? For fun?" A chair scraped, someone clearing their throat. "Because let's be clear—that's what you were doing. And you've been doing it for years."

You peered around the corner to see Oscar standing at the head of the table, hands braced on the wood. His shoulders were rigid, the tendons in his forearms standing out. Your brother opened his mouth, but Oscar cut him off with a look that could've frozen lava.

"No. You don't get to justify it. You don't get to laugh it off." His thumb tapped once against the tablecloth. "You don't get to make her feel small ever again."

Aunt Carol dabbed her lips with a napkin. "Now, Oscar darling, surely you're overreact—"

"I'm not your darling." The words landed like a guillotine. "And if I hear one more 'joke' at her expense, I will personally ensure none of you ever see her again." His gaze swept the table, ice-cold. "Try me."

Your cousin Liam scoffed, but it lacked its usual bravado. "What, you gonna punch me over a salad joke?"

Oscar didn't blink. "No. I'll ruin you financially." A beat. "I know exactly where you work, Liam. And I know exactly who owns the building." The blood drained from Liam's face. Your brother's fork clattered onto his plate.

The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked three times before your mother stood abruptly, her chair legs shrieking against the hardwood. "Alright. That's enough." Her hands trembled as she adjusted her pearl necklace—the one she only wore for special occasions. "Oscar's right."

Silence.

She turned to you, eyes glistening. "I should've stopped this years ago." The admission hung in the air like smoke. Your brother gaped at her. "Mum—"

"No." She pressed a hand to his shoulder, her rings catching the light. "I let you boys think this was funny. That was my mistake." Her gaze flicked to Oscar, then back to you. "But I won't let it continue."

Your father cleared his throat, staring at his wineglass like it held the answers. "Darling, surely we can discuss this—"

"There's nothing to discuss." Oscar's voice cut through the room like a scalpel. "Not unless it starts with an apology." His knuckles whitened against the tablecloth. "A real one."

The air conditioner kicked on with a groan, ruffling the napkins. Someone's phone buzzed—a frantic, misplaced sound. You watched a bead of condensation slide down your water glass, tracing the path with your eyes until it vanished into the tablecloth.

Liam shifted in his seat, tugging at his collar. "Alright, alright—Jesus. We were just having a laugh." His laugh sounded like gravel in a blender. "No need for theatrics."

Oscar didn't move. "You know what's theatrical?" His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried farther than a shout. "Pretending cruelty is comedy for twenty-three years." The math was so precise it made your chest ache—he'd counted. He'd kept track.

Your brother's fork clattered onto his plate. "Okay, fuck, we're sorry—"

"Not to me." Oscar stepped back from the table, hands sliding into his pockets like he couldn't trust them. "And not like that."

The silence stretched like taffy, sticky and suffocating. You watched Liam's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his beer bottle.

Your mother reached for her wineglass, then thought better of it, folding her hands neatly in her lap instead. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked four times before your father sighed, rubbing his temples. "Alright. Perhaps we've been… unkind."

Oscar's laugh was short and humorless. "Unkind." He tested the word like it was a foreign object. "That's one way to put it."

Your brother shoved his plate away, the china screeching. "What do you want us to say? That we're assholes? Fine. We're assholes." He threw his hands up. "Happy?"

"No." Oscar's gaze flicked to the hallway where you stood, unseen. "I want you to mean it."

Aunt Carol's pearls clicked as she straightened. "This is absurd. We're family—we tease each other. It's what families do."

"Teasing?" Oscar's voice dropped an octave. "Teasing is when she steals your fries and you pretend to be mad. Teasing isn't systematically dismantling someone's self-worth for entertainment."

His thumb tapped the table again—once, twice. "And if that's what your family does? You're worse than I thought."

Your mother's chair scraped back as she stood, her palms pressed flat against the table. "Oscar's right." The words seemed to cost her something. "I've watched you chip away at her for years and I… I laughed along." Her voice wavered. "God help me, I even encouraged it."

The admission hung in the air like a struck bell. Your father reached for her hand, but she pulled away, turning toward the hallway. Toward you. "Sweetheart?" Her voice cracked. "Can you come here?"

Your knees locked. Every instinct screamed to run—to let Oscar handle this, to let him be the shield he'd always been. But then he turned, just slightly, and the look he gave you wasn't pity or frustration. It was pride. Like he knew you could face this. Like he'd stand beside you, but not for you.

The hardwood floor creaked as you stepped forward, your socked feet suddenly too loud in the silence. Twenty-three years of swallowed comebacks pressed against the back of your teeth, threatening to spill over.

Oscar met you halfway, his fingers brushing yours—not holding, just anchoring. "They have something to say," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. His thumb stroked your knuckles once. "You don't have to accept it."

Your brother cleared his throat. "Look, we—" He stopped when Oscar's head snapped toward him, the warning in his glare unmistakable.

Your mother's hands fluttered like wounded birds before settling on the tablecloth. "I'm sorry," she said, the words frayed at the edges. "Not just for tonight. For every time I didn't stop them."

Her gaze flicked to your father, who stared resolutely at his wineglass. "For every time I laughed."

Liam rolled his eyes, but his fingers tightened around his beer bottle. "Christ, it's not that deep—"

"It is." Oscar didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The quiet certainty in those two syllables made Liam's jaw snap shut. "You don't get to decide how deep it goes."

Your brother shoved his chair back, the legs screeching. "Fine! You want a fucking apology? Here." He flung a hand toward you. "Sorry we hurt your fragile little feelings—"

Oscar moved so fast the table rattled. Not toward your brother—no, he stepped between you both, his back to you, blocking their view like a human shield. His shoulders were taut under his shirt, the fabric straining as he braced his hands on the table. "Try again," he said, voice dangerously soft. "And this time? Pretend you're talking to someone you actually give a shit about."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Your mother's pearls clicked as she exhaled sharply. Your father finally looked up from his wineglass, his brow furrowed. Aunt Carol opened her mouth—then closed it at Oscar's glacial glare.

You watched your brother's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. His fingers twitched toward his fork before abandoning it. "I…" He glanced at Liam, who suddenly found his beer label fascinating. "I'm sorry. For… the charity comments. And the spreadsheet thing."

The words came out stilted, like he was reading from a script he didn't understand.

Oscar didn't move. "And?"

"And…" Your brother's shoulders slumped. "And for all the other times." His voice dropped to a mumble. "It wasn't funny."

Liam snorted—a reflexive, defensive sound—but choked it off when Oscar's head snapped toward him. "You're next," Oscar said pleasantly. The contrast between his tone and the murder in his eyes made Liam pale.

The grandfather clock ticked seven times before Liam muttered, "Yeah, whatever. Sorry." He didn't look at you.

Oscar's knuckles whitened against the tablecloth. "That's the best you can do?" His voice was lethally soft. "After twenty-three years?"

The fridge hummed louder in the silence. Your mother twisted her wedding ring around her finger—a nervous habit you'd inherited. Outside, a car door slammed, the sound startling in the heavy quiet.

Then your father stood abruptly, his chair legs shrieking against the hardwood. "Enough." He rubbed his temples, his signet ring glinting under the chandelier light. "We've been… unkind."

The word seemed to cost him. "More than unkind." His gaze flicked to you, then away just as fast. "And I'm sorry for that."

Oscar exhaled through his nose, long and slow. "Better." His fingers finally unclenched from the tablecloth. "Not good. But better."

Your brother opened his mouth—probably to argue—but your mother pinched his arm sharply. "Don't," she hissed.

Liam scoffed, pushing his plate away. "Christ, this is pathetic. It was a joke—"

"A joke everyone laughs at." Oscar's voice was razor-edged. "Except the person it's about." He straightened, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the tension. "Tell me, Liam—how many times have you laughed at yourself today?"

Silence.

"That's what I thought." Oscar turned slightly, just enough to catch your eye over his shoulder. His expression softened infinitesimally—just for you. "You okay?"

You nodded, curling your fingers into the hem of his shirt. The fabric was warm from his skin, slightly damp where he'd braced against the table. The scent of his cologne—something crisp and clean, like winter air—anchored you as the room spun slightly at the edges.

Your father sighed, rubbing his thumb over his wedding band. "Oscar—"

"No." Oscar didn't raise his voice, but the quiet authority in it made your father's mouth snap shut. "This isn't about me. It's about her." His fingers found yours, squeezing once. "And whether any of you actually care enough to change."

The grandfather clock ticked eight times—you counted—before your mother stood abruptly, her chair legs shrieking. "Right." She smoothed her skirt with trembling hands. "We're leaving."

Your brother gaped at her. "Mum—"

"No." Her voice cracked like thin ice. "We've done enough damage for one night." She reached for her purse, her pearl necklace catching the light as she turned to you.

The apology in her eyes was real, but raw—the kind that came too late to heal cleanly. "We'll… give you space."

Liam scoffed, shoving his chair back. "Unbelievable." He threw his napkin onto his half-eaten chicken. "Ruined a perfectly good dinner over—"

Oscar moved so fast Liam flinched. Not toward him—just a single, deliberate step forward that made the entire table tense. "Finish that sentence," Oscar invited softly. "I dare you."

Liam's mouth snapped shut. Your brother grabbed his arm, hauling him toward the foyer with a muttered curse. Silverware clattered as your family scattered like startled birds—Aunt Carol fussing with her shawl, your father draining his wine in one go, your mother hesitating at the threshold like she wanted to say more.

Oscar's hand found the small of your back, grounding you as the front door clicked shut behind them.

The silence that followed was thicker than the tablecloth. You stared at the abandoned plates—your brother's fork still embedded in his mashed potatoes, Liam's beer sweating a ring onto the wood. Oscar's thumb traced idle circles over your spine. "Breathe," he murmured.

You sucked in a shaky breath. The air smelled like rosemary and red wine and something sour underneath—regret, maybe. Or guilt. "I should feel better," you admitted. Your voice sounded alien in the quiet. "Why don't I feel better?"

Oscar's exhale ruffled your hair. "Because apologies don't erase years of shit." His fingers curled tighter around your waist. "But it's a start."

The grandfather clock chimed nine times, the sound reverberating through the empty dining room. You focused on the way Oscar's pulse jumped under your fingertips where they rested against his wrist.

Steady, but not calm. "You didn't have to do that," you whispered.

His laugh was a quiet puff of air against your temple. "Yeah, I did." His lips brushed your hairline—quick, barely there. "You're my favorite person. Protecting you isn't optional."

The words curled warm in your chest. You pressed closer, forehead resting against his collarbone. His shirt smelled like starch and the faintest trace of motor oil from the garage earlier. "They're still my family," you mumbled into the fabric.

Oscar's arms tightened. "Doesn't give them the right to hurt you." A beat. His fingers flexed against your back. "You're not their punching bag."

You closed your eyes, counting the beats of his heart through his shirt. One. Two. Three. "They're going to hate you now," you murmured, half into his chest.

Oscar snorted, his chest vibrating under your cheek. "They already did." His fingers traced idle patterns between your shoulder blades. "Difference is, now they'll be quiet about it."

You pulled back just enough to see his face—the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his eyelashes cast faint shadows under the dim hallway light. "You really don't care what they think of you?"

"Not even a little." His thumb brushed your chin, tilting your face up. "Only person whose opinion matters is right here." His gaze flicked down to your mouth, then back up—deliberate, unhurried. "And right now, she's looking at me like I kicked her puppy."

You snorted despite yourself. "You kinda did. That was my family dinner."

Oscar grinned—sharp, unrepentant. "And now it's ours." He nodded toward the abandoned feast. "Better food, better company, no shitty jokes." His fingers traced the curve of your ear. "Unless you count my puns."

"You're insufferable."

The first thing Oscar did after your family left was pour you a glass of wine—the expensive one your father had been saving for his birthday.

He handed it to you with a smirk, the crystal catching the light as he clinked his own glass against it. "To shitty relatives," he toasted, taking a deliberate sip.

You stared at the ruby liquid, watching it swirl against the sides. "You just declared war on my entire bloodline over chicken wings."

"And?" Oscar plucked a roll from the breadbasket, tearing it in half with his teeth. "Worth it." Crumbs dusted his lower lip as he chewed, unbothered.

The second thing he did was steal your brother's untouched steak—the perfectly medium-rare one Liam had been eyeing all night—and slide it onto your plate with a flourish.

"Eat," he ordered, nudging the fork toward you. "Before it gets cold."

You stared at the steak Oscar had commandeered—still pink in the center, just the way you liked it—and something in your chest cracked open.

Not the jagged, painful kind of breaking, but the quiet release of a dam you hadn’t realized was holding back everything. The knife trembled in your hand as you cut into the meat, the juices pooling like an accusation.

Oscar didn’t say anything. Just watched you with those unsettlingly perceptive eyes, his own fork hovering mid-air.

The silence between you wasn’t empty; it was full of everything unspoken—the years of backhanded compliments, the holidays spent biting your tongue, the way your laughter had always been a half-beat too late at family gatherings.

The third bite was when the tears came. Not the dramatic, heaving kind. Just a single hot trail down your cheek that you swiped away with the back of your hand, pretending it was the horseradish. Oscar’s fork clinked against his plate as he set it down with deliberate care.

"You’re allowed to be angry," he said finally, swirling his wine. The ruby liquid caught the chandelier light, casting fractured crimson across the tablecloth. "You’re allowed to hate them a little."

The wineglass trembled in your grip, the crimson liquid shivering against the crystal. You stared at the reflection warily—your own red-rimmed eyes blinking back at you from the distorted surface.

Oscar's hand settled over yours, steadying the glass before it could spill. His fingers were warm, his grip firm but gentle, like he was anchoring you to the present.

"You're allowed to hate them a little," he repeated, softer this time. His thumb traced the ridge of your knuckles, slow and deliberate. "You don't have to forgive them just because they muttered a half-assed apology."

The steak knife glinted where you'd left it embedded in the meat. You focused on the way the juices had seeped into the mashed potatoes, staining them pink.

"I don't hate them," you murmured. It wasn't entirely true—but it wasn't entirely a lie, either. The feeling was more complicated than hate. It was the ache of loving people who kept choosing to hurt you.

Oscar exhaled through his nose, long and slow. "Yeah, well. I hate them enough for both of us." He said it lightly, but there was steel beneath the words.

His free hand plucked a dinner roll from the basket, tearing it apart with more force than necessary. Crumbs scattered across the tablecloth like shrapnel.

"I love you, you know," you murmured into the space between his collarbones, the words muffled against his skin. Oscar stilled, his fingers freezing mid-motion where they'd been tracing nonsense patterns along your spine.

The grandfather clock ticked twice before his arms tightened around you, his chin resting heavy on the crown of your head.

"I know," he said finally, voice rough. His heartbeat stuttered under your ear—just once—before steadying. "But say it again anyway."

You tilted your head back just enough to see the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw catching the dim kitchen light.

"I love you," you repeated, quieter this time. The admission curled warm in your chest, familiar yet still terrifying in its weight.

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing against your hip. "Even when I ruin your family dinners?" His tone was light, but his grip betrayed him—too tight, like he was bracing for impact.

"Especially then." You pressed your palm flat over his heart, counting each steady beat. His shirt smelled like starch and the faintest hint of motor oil from the garage earlier—comforting in its mundanity.

"No one's ever…" The words tangled in your throat. No one had ever looked at you like you were worth defending before.

Oscar's thumb brushed the hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up. His eyes were dark in the low light, the usual sharp green muted to something softer.

"No one's ever what?" he prompted, voice dropping to that quiet rasp that always unraveled you.

"Protected me like that," you finished, the words barely audible. Oscar's thumb stilled against your jaw. The kitchen faucet dripped once—a slow, metronomic sound—as his expression shifted into something unbearably tender.

Oscar’s exhale was warm against your lips, his fingers tightening imperceptibly around your waist. "You’re easy to protect," he murmured, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, catching a stray tear you hadn’t realized had escaped. "You’re worth it."

Oscar's hands were still framing your face, his thumbs brushing away tears you hadn't realized were falling. His touch was gentle, but there was steel beneath it—the kind of quiet certainty that made your knees weak.

"I love you too," Oscar muttered, the words rough against your temple, his breath warming the damp trail your tears had left.

His fingers curled tighter around your hips, pulling you flush against him—close enough that you could feel the hitch in his breathing, the way his pulse jumped under your palm where it rested against his chest.

The admission wasn’t new—he’d said it before, in stolen moments and sleepy murmurs—but this time, it landed differently. Raw-edged, like he’d dragged it up from somewhere deeper than his ribs.

Oscar’s hands slid down to your wrists, his grip firm but not tight—just enough to ground you without trapping. The contrast was everything.

Previous boyfriends had either clutched too hard, leaving bruises they'd later kiss with performative guilt, or let go entirely when things got messy. Oscar did neither.

He held you like you were something precious, but never fragile. Like he trusted you to stand on your own, but would never make you do it alone. . . .

The only light came from the star-shaped nightlight plugged into the corner, casting a soft, golden glow over the rocking chair. You were there, curled up with your legs tucked beneath you, your head resting against the high back of the chair. In your arms, your daughter was fast asleep, a tiny fist clutching the fabric of your shirt.

Ollie stopped in the doorway. He felt the air leave his lungs.

It happened every time. He’d come home thinking he was prepared for how much he loved you, thinking he knew the extent of it, only to be knocked sideways by the sheer, crushing weight of it. seeing you like this—hair messy, face devoid of makeup, holding the life you two created—it felt like a physical blow.

He crossed the room silently, dropping to his knees beside the chair.

You stirred, blinking open tired eyes. A soft smile broke across your face when you saw him. "You're home," you whispered, careful not to wake the baby.

"I'm home," Ollie breathed. He didn't lean in for a kiss immediately. Instead, he just looked at you. His eyes traced the curve of your jaw, the sweep of your eyelashes, the slight pulse in your neck. It was intense, bordering on feverish.

"Ollie?" You shifted slightly, your free hand coming up to cup his cheek. "You okay? You look... intense."

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes and letting out a shaky breath. He turned his face, pressing a fervent kiss to your palm, then your wrist.

"I missed you," he said, his voice rough. "Not just 'I wish you were there' missed you. I mean, I felt like I couldn't breathe right until I walked through that door."

"You were only gone four days, you drama queen," you teased gently, though your thumb stroked his cheekbone lovingly.

Ollie opened his eyes. They were dark, dilated, and terrifyingly sincere. He shifted, resting his chin on your knee, looking up at you like a devotee at an altar.

"It doesn't matter," he whispered. "Do you know what I was doing during debriefs? Thinking about this. Thinking about you holding her. Thinking about the way you smell."

He reached up, his hand trembling slightly as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on your skin, needing the contact to ground him.

"It’s actually a problem, Y/N," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes. "I am so obsessed with you it scares me. I look at you and I feel... greedy. I want every second of your time. I want every thought in your head."

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, despite the years you’d been together. "Ollie..."

"No, I'm serious," he interrupted softly, leaning forward to press his forehead against your thigh, his arm wrapping around your waist to anchor himself to you. "You’re a masterpiece. Look at you. You’re exhausted, you haven't slept properly in weeks because of the baby, and you are still the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life."

He looked up again, his expression vulnerable.

"I would burn the world down just to keep you sitting in this chair, looking at me like that."

You softened, your heart squeezing in your chest. You leaned down as much as you could without disturbing the sleeping baby, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Well, luckily for the world, I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you."

Ollie let out a contented sigh, closing his eyes again as he buried his face against your stomach, right beside where the baby lay.

"Good," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and devotion. "Because I'm never letting go."

When you finally woke up, the first thing you noticed was the silence.

Panic, the constant companion of a young mother, spiked in your chest. You sat up abruptly, hair falling over your face, expecting to hear a cry or the hum of the baby monitor. But there was nothing.

Then, the smell of coffee and burnt toast drifted down the hallway.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and padded barefoot out of the bedroom, following the scent. The morning sun was streaming through the kitchen windows, blindingly bright, illuminating the scene in front of you.

Ollie was standing by the stove, shirtless, wearing only his grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. In one arm, he balanced your daughter, who was happily chewing on the drawstring of his pants. With his free hand, he was attempting to flip a pancake.

He looked chaotic. There was flour on the counter and a carton of milk dangerously close to the edge. But he was humming.

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest, a smile tugging at your lips. "You're going to burn the house down, Ollie."

Ollie spun around so fast he almost dropped the spatula. The moment his eyes landed on you, that same intensity from the night before snapped back into place. The spatula was forgotten on the counter (dripping batter onto the marble) as he just stared.

"Hi," he said, his voice raspy with morning grogginess.

"Hi," you replied, walking over to rescue the milk carton. "How long have you been up?"

"Couple of hours," he shrugged, shifting the baby so she was resting more comfortably on his hip. She made a happy gurgling sound at the sight of you. "She woke up around six. I didn't want to wake you."

You reached out to take the baby, but Ollie stepped back slightly, shaking his head.

"No," he said firmly. "I've got her. You drink coffee. You sit."

"Ollie, I can hold my own child—"

"Y/N," he cut in, stepping into your personal space. He used his free hand to grip your waist, pulling you flush against his side. "I’m serious. Sit down. Let me do this."

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. He was warm, smelling of baby powder and strong espresso.

"I watched you sleep for a while before I brought her out here," he murmured against your skin, his lips moving against your pulse point. "You were drooling a little bit."

You laughed, trying to push him away, but his grip on your waist tightened. "Shut up. That ruins the romance."

"It really doesn't," Ollie pulled back to look at you, his eyes scanning your face with that terrifyingly soft adoration. "It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I almost woke you up just to tell you how pretty you looked, but I figured you’d kill me."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then finally a quick, hard peck on your lips.

"Go sit," he commanded gently, guiding you toward a barstool. "I’m making you pancakes. They might be burnt, and they definitely won't be round, but I made them."

You sat down, watching him turn back to the stove. He was humming again, occasionally whispering nonsense to the baby on his hip, who was watching him with wide eyes.

"You're obsessed," you said, resting your chin on your hand, your heart feeling full to the point of bursting.

Ollie glanced over his shoulder, a lopsided, boyish grin on his face. "We established this last night, darling. I'm completely gone for you. Now, do you want syrup or fruit?"

"Both," you smiled.

"Both it is," he said, turning back to the pan, whispering to the baby, "See? Mommy gets whatever she wants. That's the rule."

The end-of-season party was in full swing. The music was loud, the drinks were flowing, and the atmosphere was light. But in the corner booth of the VIP area, a different kind of show was happening.

Kimi Antonelli leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink, and sighed loudly. He looked across the table at Arthur Leclerc, who was currently trying to ignore the situation.

"Is he blinking?" Kimi asked, nodding his head toward Ollie. "I genuinely don't think he's blinked in three minutes."

Ollie was sitting next to Y/N. He had one arm draped protectively over the back of the booth behind her, and his body was angled entirely in her direction, effectively turning his back on half the group.

Y/N was in the middle of telling a story about the baby’s first attempt at crawling. She was animated, using her hands to demonstrate, laughing at her own bad parenting moment.

Ollie wasn't listening to the story. He was listening to the sound of her voice. He was staring at her profile with a look of such profound, dopey adoration that it was almost painful to witness.

Every time Y/N laughed, a soft, matching smile would spread across Ollie’s face, like a reflex. He reached out, his fingers idly playing with the hem of her sleeve, then drifting up to brush a stray eyelash off her cheek.

"It's disgusting," Arthur whispered, though he was smiling into his glass. "He used to be cool. He used to want to talk about racing."

"Now he just wants to talk about how 'Y/N is a goddess for birthing his child,'" Kimi mimicked Ollie’s British accent poorly. "If I hear him say 'Did you see how she holds the bottle?' one more time, I'm throwing myself into the pool."

At that moment, Y/N shivered slightly, the air conditioning in the venue a bit too high.

Before she could even rub her arms, Ollie was moving. He was out of his jacket in a split second, draping it over her shoulders and tucking the lapels in to ensure she was covered. He leaned in close, whispering something in her ear that made her flush pink and swat his chest playfully.

Ollie caught her hand and kissed the knuckles, completely unbothered by the audience.

"Oi! Bearman!" Kimi finally snapped, tossing a peanut at him.

Ollie didn't even flinch. He just lazily turned his head toward his friends, keeping one hand firmly planted on Y/N's waist. "What?"

"You're drooling," Kimi deadpanned. "Dial it back, mate. We get it. She's the love of your life. You're obsessed. We are trying to have a conversation here."

Ollie looked at Kimi, then looked back at Y/N, who was now hiding her face in her hands, embarrassed but laughing.

Ollie smirked, completely shameless. "I haven't seen her in four days, Kimi. You're lucky I'm even acknowledging your existence right now."

"You're whipped," Arthur shook his head. "So whipped."

Ollie just shrugged, leaning back and pulling Y/N into his side, resting his chin on top of her head. He looked at his friends with a smug, satisfied expression.

"I have a beautiful girlfriend," Ollie stated matter-of-factly. "We have a beautiful baby. And I’m the one going home with her. Call me whipped all you want. I’m winning."

Y/N groaned into his chest. "Ollie, stop bragging."

"Never," he murmured into her hair, closing his eyes and inhaling her scent again. "They're just jealous."

Kimi rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Okay, that's it. I'm going to get another drink. I can't be around this much sugar."

As Kimi walked away, he heard Ollie whisper loudly to Y/N: "Do you want anything? Water? Champagne? My kidney?"

The red digits on the clock read 3:14 AM. The nursery felt like a pressure cooker.

Your daughter had been screaming for two hours straight—a high-pitched, sawing wail that grated against your very soul. Teething. It was brutal. You were pacing the floor, bouncing her rhythmically, tears of sheer exhaustion streaming down your own face. Your back ached, your arms were shaking, and you felt like the worst mother on the planet because you couldn't fix it.

"Shh, baby, please," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Please just sleep."

The door creaked open. You expected a sleepy, grumpy Ollie. Instead, you found him fully awake, eyes clear and focused in the dim light.

He didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't ask if you were okay. He just walked straight to you.

"Give her to me," he said. His voice was low, calm, and brokered no argument.

"Ollie, you have training tomorrow, go back to sleep—"

"Y/N." He stopped in front of you, his hands gently covering yours where they clutched the baby. His thumbs stroked over your knuckles. "Look at me."

You looked up, blinking through tears.

"You're done," he said softly. "Your shift is over. Give me my girl."

He took the screaming baby from your arms with a practiced ease that still surprised you sometimes. He shifted her high onto his shoulder, immediately starting a deep, rumbling hum in his chest that you knew she found soothing. He began a specific, swaying walk around the room.

"Go to bed," he instructed over his shoulder.

You hesitated, hovering by the crib. "But she's—"

Ollie stopped swaying and turned to look at you. His expression was fierce, but not angry. It was that intense, singular focus again.

"I cannot handle seeing you in pain," he said, his voice rough. "It hurts me more than her crying does. If you don't go get in that bed right now and let me take care of our family, I'm going to lose my mind. Go."

The sheer force of his care for you was overwhelming. You nodded mutely and slipped out of the room.

Twenty minutes later, you were drifting off when the bedroom door opened softly. Ollie padded in. It was silent outside.

He climbed into bed behind you, smelling of baby lotion and relief. He pulled you back against his chest, his arm clamping around your waist like a vise. You felt him bury his face in your neck, inhaling sharply.

"Is she asleep?" you whispered.

"Out cold," he mumbled against your skin. "Took some convincing." He kissed your shoulder, his grip tightening almost painfully. "God, I love you. You're such a good mom. I'm so obsessed with you it makes my teeth ache. Now sleep."

It was a black-tie gala for one of the sponsors. Ollie had stepped away for two minutes to grab you both refills on champagne.

You were standing near a high-top table, idly watching the crowd, looking stunning in an emerald green gown that Ollie had spent the better part of the evening staring at.

"Excuse me," a voice said to your left.

You turned to find a man in an expensive suit—someone you didn't recognize, perhaps an investor—smiling smoothly at you.

"I don't mean to interrupt," he said, stepping a little too close into your personal space, his eyes raking over your dress. "But you look incredibly bored. And far too beautiful to be standing here alone."

You gave a polite, tight smile. "I'm not alone, actually. My partner is just getting drinks."

The man laughed, a dismissive sound. "Well, he's a fool for leaving you unguarded. I'm Marcus. Can I get you—"

He started to reach out to touch your arm.

He never made contact.

Suddenly, the air pressure around you changed. A warm, solid weight slammed against your back. An arm, heavy and unyielding, wrapped around your waist, pulling you back so hard your spine collided with a rock-hard chest.

The smell of Ollie’s cologne—something woodsy and expensive—flooded your senses.

"Is there a problem here?"

Ollie's voice was unrecognizable. It was several octaves lower than usual, stripped of all warmth, all humor. It was ice cold and razor-sharp.

The man, Marcus, blinked, looking up at Ollie, who was glaring down at him with an expression that could only be described as murderous. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes dark and flat.

"Oh, uh, no," Marcus stammered, taking a reflexive step back. "I was just... making conversation with the lady."

Ollie didn't blink. The arm around your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your hip through the silk of your dress. It wasn't painful, but it was a clear, primal marking of territory.

"She's not interested in conversation," Ollie said, his voice deadly quiet. "And she's not 'the lady.' She's my wife. Move along."

It wasn't a request.

Marcus turned pale, mumbled an apology, and practically ran into the crowd.

As soon as he was gone, the tension didn't leave Ollie’s body, but his focus shifted entirely to you. He turned you in his arms, his hands coming up to cup your face, tilting your head back.

The icy look vanished, replaced by frantic, searching concern. His thumbs traced your cheekbones.

"Are you okay?" he demanded, his voice shaking slightly now. "Did he touch you? Tell me if he touched you, Y/N."

"I'm fine, Ollie," you soothed, placing your hands over his on your face. "He was just annoying. You scared him off."

"Good," Ollie breathed, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. His heart was hammering against your chest. "I hated the way he was looking at you. I wanted to rip his eyes out."

He kissed you then—hard, possessive, and desperate, right in the middle of the gala floor, not caring who was watching. When he pulled back, he kept you locked against his side.

"We're leaving," he muttered into your hair. "I need to get you home and remind myself that you're mine."

The noise at Monza was deafening, the Tifosi screaming as the cars tore down the main straight. But inside the hospitality suite, it was relatively muffled.

Ollie stood by the glass, arms crossed, watching the monitors with a critical eye. He had a few silver hairs mixed into the dark curls at his temples now, and fine lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes—evidence of a life spent squinting at the sun and smiling at you.

On the screen, a car emblazoned with the number 87 overtook down the inside of Parabolica.

"Did you see that move?" Kimi (now sporting reading glasses that he refused to admit he needed) pointed at the screen. "That was late on the brakes. She drives exactly like you, Ollie. Aggressive. Little bit stupid."

"She drives better than me," Ollie corrected without turning around. "She has her mother's patience."

"She’s leading the championship," Arthur added, shaking his head. "God help us all. Another Bearman."

You walked into the suite then, carrying two espressos. You were wearing a team jacket over a simple white dress, your hair windblown from the walk through the paddock.

The moment you stepped into the room, Ollie’s posture changed. The tension in his shoulders from watching your daughter race evaporated. He turned away from the track—away from the race his eighteen-year-old was currently leading—and walked straight to you.

"Hi," he said, taking the coffee from your hand and setting it down on a table without looking at it.

"Hi," you smiled, smoothing the lapels of his shirt. "She's doing well. Five laps to go."

"I don't care," Ollie murmured. He stepped into your space, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you in until there was no daylight between you.

"Ollie," you laughed, glancing over his shoulder at Kimi and Arthur, who were both groaning theatrically. "Your daughter is about to win Monza. Watch the screen."

"I've seen Monza," Ollie said dismissively, his eyes scanning your face with that same hungry, reverent intensity he’d had at twenty-one. "I’d rather watch you."

"Please," Kimi called out from the couch. "We are forty years old. Are you still doing this? It’s been twenty years, mate. Give it a rest."

Ollie didn't even look at them. He brought a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin.

"They don't get it," he whispered to you, his voice lower, rougher with age but just as devoted. "They don't understand that it never stops. It just gets worse."

You softened, leaning into his touch, the roar of the cars outside fading into the background. "It gets worse?"

"Yeah," he nodded, his eyes dark and sincere. "I used to be obsessed with the girl who held my baby. Now I'm obsessed with the woman who raised her. I look at you, Y/N, and I think... how did I get away with this? How did I get to keep you for two decades?"

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours.

"I am still so head over heels for you, it’s embarrassing."

"It is embarrassing," Arthur shouted. "We are all embarrassed for you!"

You giggled, and Ollie smiled—that boyish, lopsided grin that hadn't aged a day. He kissed you, slow and deep, ignoring the race, ignoring his friends, ignoring the world.

"Let them talk," he murmured against your lips. "I won the championship a long time ago."On the screen behind him, the car with number 87 crossed the finish line in first place, the garage erupted in cheers, but Ollie Bearman was too busy looking at his wife to notice.

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***

As they walked, he listened to her talk—really listened. She was sharing everything that had been happening lately: her schedules, Jisung, the other Dreamies, the other members—jumping from one topic to another as naturally as breathing.

Mark stayed quite, nodding occasionally, commenting when needed, but his mind wasn’t fully there.

When did she become so open like this…?

It wasn’t that she hadn’t always been talkative, but moments like this—just the two of them, no pressure, no cameras—made her words flow even more freely. And only now he realised how much he had come to rely on these moments too.

Ten years…

That lingered in his mind.

Ten years being in NCT with her. The female maknae. Ten years of growing, changing, struggling, and surviving together.

His grip around her shoulders tightened slightly without him realizing it—and she noticed immediately.

“You okay, Oppa?” she asked innocently, looking up at him with her doe eyes.

Mark felt his chest tighten further.

How can she still look at me like that…

That light in her eyes - the trust, comfort, love - made something inside of him soften…but at the same time…ache.

And I’m going to darken them today…

“Let’s sit over here,” he said, guiding her toward a quieter spot by the Hangang River—the place they always ended up whenever they needed space to talk.

It felt symbolic for him.

Sitting down on the picnic mat they had rented, Boyoung turned to face him, concern already written across her face.

“Are you okay?” she asked again. “You look…worried…”

He let out a small breath.

Of course, she could read him too well…Dreamies knew each other well, now.

“There’s… something I wanted to share with you…” he began, though his voice came out more nervous than he expected. He looked down at his hands, fidgeting slightly.

Why am I this nervous…?

This wasn’t the first difficult conversation or situation he had in his life - there were way worse scenarios they lived through - but it felt like one of the heaviest.

“I-I’ve been thinking…”

Before he could continue, he felt something warm wrap around his shaking hands.

Boyoung’s soft hands. Three rings on her hands; the Dream friendship ring, the matching ring they have with Dream fans, and then Jisung’s couple ring he gifted her for Christmas.

Staring at those significant rings for a moment, he lifted his head, meeting her gaze.

Patient. Steady. Understanding.

It grounded him. He took a slow breath in and out.

“Are you happy?” he asked instead.

Let’s start with something simple…check on her…something honest…

“Oh?” she blinked. “Um…yeah, I'd like to think so.”

“Truly? Are you happy where you are now?” He squeezed her hands lightly, almost as if he was seeking reassurance.

“I think so,” she admitted. “I mean… I have you guys. I’m visiting the therapist less—I feel kind of at peace. Things are going well, and I feel… content…” She hesitated slightly, then looked at him with a small furrow in her brows. “Are you…not happy, Oppa?”

Mark didn’t answer.

Her question lingered in the air, and suddenly, everything he had rehearsed in his mind vanished. Why is this harder than I thought?

“Oppa…” She squeezed his hands again. “You can tell me, it’s okay—”

“My contract is ending soon,” he blurted out.

Silence.

The words felt final the moment they left his mouth. It lifted weight off of his chest, but at the same time, it was still clenched with fear and worry for her reaction.

Boyoung froze, her expression going blank as she stared at him. It had his clenched heart racing tightly.

It’s coming…

“Okay…” she finally said, slowly. “So…you'll renew…?”

More silence. The pause stretched longer than he could bear. He was tempted to just scream out his feelings.

“Right…?” Boyoung's face fell, turning pale. “You'll renew, right?”

“Boyoung…”

“It's Dream forever, isn't it? We-we made promises, and we wear rings, and we have the matching microphones -” Boyoung’s voice began to rise, panic creeping in.

Mark felt his chest tighten painfully almost to the point he couldn’t breathe.

“Boyoung -” he tried again, more urgently this time, but she was already spiraling.

“Is it because of me?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Because of all the stuff I put you guys through? I’m sorry, I really am, I’ll do better, I swear, I’ll open up more and listen more—”

“Boyoung, Boyoung, baby, stop, stop, please…” He moved quickly, pulling her into his arms, guiding her onto his lap as instinct took over.

This isn’t what I wanted…

He held her tightly, like he used to when she was younger - when comforting her felt simpler. Just stage nerves. Interviews. Meeting fans. When she was making a comeback after her whole scandal.

But now, it felt heavier. Because he was the reason of her pain this time.

Boyoung cried into his chest, asking why between sobs. It had Mark closing his eyes briefly, his own emotions threatening to spill over.

“I…aigoo…”

He let her cry. He had to. Because anything he said now wouldn’t fix the hurt he had just caused. And that realisation alone made his throat tighten, sign of his own cries emerging.

This is the second time…

The thought hit him again. The first time he had made her cry was when he graduated from Dream. And now this.

He swallowed hard, in an attempt to get rid of the lump in his throat, guilt settling deep in his chest instead.

After a while, her crying slowly softened, and the two of them sat there in silence, listening to the sounds of nature around Hangang River. Mark stared ahead, but his mind drifted through memories—laughing together, practicing together, sitting right here countless times over the past ten years.

So many moments…

“Oppa…” she finally croaked. He hummed in response. “Why…?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took deep breaths, steadying himself as he searched for the right words. Boyoung waited patiently, though her heart felt heavy as she sniffled softly into his chest.

“First of all…” he cleared his throat. “First of all, I’m not thinking this because of you. Chwe Boyoung, this is not your fault. You are not the reason I am considering not renewing, understand?” He shook her lightly when she remained silent. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Oppa…” she answered meekly. He exhaled at her quiet reply.

“The reason…the reason I’m thinking of not renewing is that…” He rested his head on top of hers, letting out a deep sigh, his eyes closing for a moment as exhaustion caught up with him. “I’m… I’m tired… I’m tired, Boyoung.”

The words felt honest…too honest…

But also…relieving, to say it out loud, than hiding it.

“Then…” She lifted her head from his chest. “If you need a break, that can happen—you deserve it, actually—”

“No, baby, I mean…” he sighed again, quietly amazed by her innocence that remained unchanged. “I mean… I’m tired of the idol life… I don’t think I can do it anymore, Boyoung.”

Boyoung went quiet again. He watched her carefully, unsure of what she was thinking. There were times one could read her, times one couldn’t read her. This was one of those moments.

She rested her head back on his chest.

“...oh.”

Her calm reaction startled him. But at the same time…it’s very her.

Boyoung had always been observant, thoughtful—someone who understood more than she let on.

“I…I understand,” she said after a moment, surprising him again.

But was it really a surprise?

Out of the Dreamies, Boyoung was the one who understood everyone the most. She observed quietly and carried her big heart behind careful walls. Of course, she could connect the dots and understand why he was thinking of not renewing.

And she proved it with her next words. And as she spoke, Mark found himself listening more intently than ever, her words grounding him in a way he didn’t expect… reminding him that while this decision was difficult… it wasn’t something he had to face alone.

“Oppa, you’ve been working hard since your trainee days. You’ve been balancing between two sub-units—at one point, three or four—plus your own personal life. I’m not blind. I’ve seen the many times you and Haechan have been overworked and exhausted, especially you.” She looked up at his touched expression. “You’ve done so much for us over these past ten years, especially for me… You’ve been the pillar for us. We wouldn’t be here without your sacrifices. You’ve been doing everything for NCT without complaining or showing any discomfort. You’re always smiling and doing your best—I aspire to be like that. Strong.”

She reached up, wiping away a tear he hadn’t realized had fallen until her gentle touch brought him back.

“It’s been more than ten long years, Oppa. I’ve seen the times you almost lost yourself. Use this chance to be free and reach for your dreams.”

How could she be so understanding?

“Thank you,” he whispered emotionally, burying his face in her hair as he hugged her tightly to his chest. His grip tightened slightly, as if holding on would somehow steady the storm inside him. “I’m so sorry—”

“Why are you sorry?” she whimpered, tears falling again. 

Even now…she’s thinking about me first…

“Oppa, you deserve this,” she continued. “You’ve done so much already in ten years. It’s your turn to do what you want. You’re thinking this way because you’ve realized what you really want to do, right? That’s why you’re considering this—because you’ve found yourself.”

Found myself…?

The words echoed in his mind, unsettling and comforting at the same time. Before, he would say he found himself in NCT - and he did. But just as she said, he’s realised what he wanted to do truly…

“I’m so scared!” he admitted with a choked sob, his voice breaking despite himself. “NCT is all I know… and what’s going to happen to you guys? To the rest of the members? I feel bad—I’m the leader, and I’m leaving you—”

The guilt surged through his chest as the words came hurling out of his mouth. Even saying it out loud made it feel more real…and heavier.

“Stop!” she shook her head, lightly hitting his chest. “Stop, don’t think like that. Oppa, you’re finally putting yourself first for once.”

Her words hit harder than he expected.

Putting myself first…when was the last time I really did that?

His thoughts trailed to the members’ sad faces.

“But -”

“Of course we’re going to be scared. This isn’t you graduating—this is you stepping back from NCT. Of course it’s scary. I’m scared too.” Boyoung’s voice wavered slightly, and that alone made his already broken heart ache further.

Even she’s scared…

“You have such important parts in our songs; you’re one of the main members. It’s normal to feel scared. But Oppa—” She held onto his shoulders firmly, grounding him in the moment.

Somehow, he was able to have the strength to look at her through blurred vision, trying to hold himself together.

“I’d rather you leave and be happier than stay here and lose yourself to something you’ve already grown out of.”

Lose myself…

Boyoung’s words lingered, quieter now, but heavier in meaning. When he really thought about it, he had spent so long pushing forward, fulfilling roles, responsibilities, expectations from everyone - never really stopping to ask himself what he wanted. Heck, he didn’t even have the time to ask himself - or think much about it.

And now, faced with the possibility of stepping away, now that he was given a possible chance, he realised…he was afraid not just of leaving NCT - but of not knowing who he would be without it, without the safety of NCT’s reputation and members.

Yet at the same time…a small part of him felt seen. Understood. Accepted.

Because Boyoung wasn’t asking him to stay…

She was giving him permissionto choose himself.

And he was grateful, because to be honest…if Boyoung asked him to stay, he would have stayed. In a heartbeat.

But she didn’t.

“Oh, Boyoung-ah,” he murmured, rocking them gently. “Oh, how you have grown…”

***

2013…

The three entered the small conference room, the last to enter.

Mark noticed her immediately.

The way she paused just slightly at the entrance…the way her steps wern’t as confident as the two boys with her.

And then subtly, she shifted. Half of her body hid behind Jaemin.

She’s…hiding?

Mark’s gaze lingered for a brief second long than he intended. He had heard about her before coming here. Not directly from her - but from others. Trainees talked. Word spread easily in environments like this.

Chwe Boyoung. Quite. Reserved. Barely spoke. Always stayed close to Na Jaemin, her best friend. Hard to approach.

Seeing her in person, Mark understood why those descriptions existed.

But at the same time…

She doesn’t exactly look cold. She just looked guarded. Careful. Almost like she didn’t want to take up space (or even be there) unless she absolutely had to.

“Thank you for coming,” the producer greeted them. “Take a seat, and we can begin.”

Mark listened as the producer explained the purpose of the show, expectations, and how they should present themselves on camera. He followed along attentively, but his attention kept drifting—subtly—back toward Boyoung.

She just sat there quietly, posture slightly closed off, hands close to herself. Shoulders hunched. Not disengaged, just…reserved.

She really doesn’t talk much…

Was she nervous? Uncomfortable? Both?

When the producer spoke again, his tone shifted - more direct. “This is a time for you guys to show yourselves and shine. So do your best, and be out there. Don’t hide.”

Mark didn’t miss the way the room reacted subtly. He saw it clearly.

Boyoung’s shoulders dropped slightly, her gaze lowered.

That was directed at her…

When he glanced around the room, he noted the rest of the trainees were looking at her.

He felt a small weight in his chest. Not pity exactly—but concern. Being singled out like that, especially in front of strangers… it wasn’t easy. 

Beside her, Jaemin quietly placed a reassuring hand over hers. Mark observed that too.

They’re close indeed…

“Okay, use this time now to get to know each other and become good friends,” the producer continued. “It won’t be good for the viewers to see if the main stars aren’t civil with one another.” And then, the staff began to leave. Once the doors closed, silence followed.

Now, it was just them.

Mark became aware of the shift immediately. Everyone slightly more alert, more aware of each other. Conversations hadn’t fully started yet—but the pressure to begin was there. He looked at Boyoung again. She hadn’t changed much—still quiet, still reserved—but now that all eyes were technically on her, her presence felt even more… withdrawn.

She’s uncomfortable…

Jaemin spoke first, introducing himself and Jeno, then naturally introducing Boyoung as well. Mark listened, picking up on the dynamic. They speak for her… not because she can’t—but because she chooses not to.

When it was his turn, he stepped forward slightly. “I’m Mark,” he said with a polite bow, offering a small, genuine smile. Introductions continued. Names exchanged. Small acknowledgments. But Mark found his attention returning to Boyoung more often than he expected. 

She remained mostly silent, offering only brief smiles, small nods, or subtle shakes of her head when necessary. She’s here… but she’s holding herself back.

And somehow, that made her stand out even more.

“Well, it may not seem like it at first,” Mark said at one point, glancing briefly toward her, though she quickly looked away, “but I’m sure we’ll become good friends in the future.”

It was a simple statement. Something people often said in situations like this.

But Mark found himself meaning it more than expected.

Maybe she just needs time…

Jaemin responded enthusiastically, and soon after, he gently guided Boyoung to leave with him, sensing her discomfort. Mark watched as they prepared to go.

Jaemin really looks after her…

As the group dispersed, Mark couldn’t quite shake the image of Boyoung from his mind. She hadn’t said much. She hadn’t needed to. But something about her lingered.

And as he called his mother later that night to share how his day went, he mentioned her. His mother listened, and then gently respond with wisdom he would keep inside for the rest of his life.

“Mark, if you notice someone like that, keep an eye on her. Be a friend if you can… and pray for her too. You never know what someone is going through inside. Sometimes, just having someone who cares can make a difference.”

After the call ended, he sat in silence for a moment, thinking back to her quiet presence.

She doesn’t need someone to force her to open up…

But maybe she needed someone to simply stay.

Someone consistent. Patient. Present.

And quietly, Mark made a decision within himself.

I’ll be there for her.

Whether she opened up to him or not.

***

2016. 08.25 - NCT Dream Debut

Backstage, they waited for their debut performance, each of their hearts racing erratically.

Mark quietly looked around, instinctively counting heads. One by one, he double-checked that all eight of them were present.

Leader mode… even though we’re all just kids…

Despite their age, the responsibility sat on his shoulders heavily.

As he checked on each member, his gaze landed on Boyoung. She stood slightly off to the side, arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if trying to hold herself together.

She’s nervous…

He glanced briefly toward Jaemin and Jeno. The two were occupied reviewing choreography, fully focused and unaware of Boyoung’s growing anxiety.

Mark hesitated for a moment, then decided to approach her.

Moments like this were rare—he could count on one hand the number of times he had spoken to her directly like this.

Taking a small step closer, he positioned himself in front of her, subtly blocking her from the others’ view.

“Hey,” he whispered gently. “How are you feeling?”

“Scared,” she admitted, her voice slightly unsteady. “Nervous… I don’t want to mess up…”

Mark nodded slowly.

Yeah…debut day…it’s not easy…I would know…since I debuted in…NCT U…wow…

“Hey, you’ll be okay,” he reassured her, snapping out of his thoughts. His hand instinctively lifted, as if to rest on her shoulder—but he stopped himself.

Right… she doesn’t like being touched unless she’s comfortable…

He lowered his hand again, choosing instead to keep a respectful distance.

“Boyoung,” he continued, voice steady. “You’ve been working toward this day for a long time. Honestly, you’ve worked harder than us. You’re the one who remembers the choreography best—you helped polish all of us.” He gave her a small, encouraging smile. “Just follow your instincts. Don’t pay attention to the cameras or the audience.”

“But what if I can’t?” she asked quietly.

Mark blinked. For a brief moment, he didn’t have an immediate answer.

Then his mother’s words came back to him.

“Sometimes, just having someone who cares can make a difference.”

He took a small breath.

“Then…look at me,” he said gently.

She looked up at him, uncertain.

“It’s not super professional,” he admitted with a faint, reassuring tone, “but if you ever get nervous, just look at me. I’m NCT Dream’s leader. No matter what, I won’t steer you wrong.”

He held her gaze, steady and sincere.

“I’ll be there for you. For all of you, okay? I believe in you. You can do it.”

Boyoung didn’t respond immediately, but something in her expression softened—just slightly.

And in that quiet moment, without either of them fully realizing it…

That was the beginning of Boyoung letting him into her heart.

***

2017 - First Win

The moment their name was announced, everything became a blur.

Cheers. Shock. Disbelief.

Mark barely registered how they made it onto the stage, the trophy in their hands, voices overlapping as they tried to process what had just happened.

We…won…?

It didn’t feel real.

As they celebrated, laughing and thanking everyone, Mark’s attention drifted—instinctively checking on the members like he always did.

That was when he noticed it.

Off to the side, slightly separated from the group, were Boyoung and Jeno.

Jeno stood close to her, speaking softly, his posture gentle—comforting. Boyoung, on the other hand…

She looked upset.

Mark’s brows furrowed slightly.

Why is she crying…? We just got our first win…

A small flicker of worry settled in his chest. Before he could step closer, the two turned back toward the stage, their expressions shifting quickly into bright smiles.

“Nana! This is for you! We did it!” Boyoung cheered into the microphone, her voice filled with emotion.

“Yeah, Jaemin!” Jeno added, waving toward the cameras. “We’ll give you the trophy afterwards!”

Mark paused.

Ah…

Of course. Jaemin.

The realisation settled over him quietly.

Even in this moment—one of the biggest milestones of their career—they were thinking of the one member who couldn’t be there with them.

Mark’s grip on the trophy tightened slightly.

I didn’t even think of that…

He had been too overwhelmed—too shocked, too happy.

But they hadn’t forgotten. They couldn’t.

He knew how difficult things had been lately. Having one member absent affected all of them—but for Boyoung…

It hit differently.

She had always stayed within a small circle. And Jaemin was at the center of it.

Mark glanced at her again.

She must’ve been holding that in this whole time…

But then—

She turned, and their eyes met. And she smiled.

Bright. Genuine. Full of joy and excitement. For a split second, Mark felt something lighten in his chest.

She looks… happy.

He had noticed it over time—small changes. Boyoung had been opening up more. Slowly, but surely.

She was closer to Jeno now…

And maybe—just maybe—

She’s getting a little more comfortable with me too…

The thought lingered as they made their way offstage.

Later, as they piled into the van, the energy was still high—voices overlapping, laughter filling the space as they talked about surprising Jaemin.

Mark sat beside Boyoung, the trophy still in his hands. He glanced at it, then at her. Without overthinking it, he held it out. “Here,” he said with a small grin. “You should give it to him.”

“Eh?” she blinked, startled. “But you’re the leader—”

“And?” Mark shrugged lightly. To him, it felt simple. Natural. “You’re his best friend,” he said. “And you were able to perform well for all of us today.”

He met her eyes, his tone softening just slightly.

“You did well, Boyoung. You’re strong and brave.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. Just like I told you back then…

“I told you—you can do it.”

She went quiet for a second. Then -

“…thank you…”

Her smile this time was softer. More sincere.

And as Mark looked at her, something clicked.

This might be the happiest I’ve seen her in a while…

And without realizing it—

That mattered to him more than the trophy in his hands.

***

December 2018 - Mark’s Graduation

Standing there, surrounded by the Dreamies… hearing the fans… knowing this was his last stage with them as a NCT Dream member—

It felt heavier than he expected.

As he admired the fans in front of him, his gaze drifted instinctively to the members, to Boyoung. And the moment he saw her

Ah…

Her eyes were already glassy, lips pursed in an attempt to not cry. That alone made his chest tighten.

Don’t cry…please don’t cry…

Because if she did…

He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold himself together.

Mark swallowed hard, trying to keep himself composed, but his mind betrayed him—pulling him back through years of memories. A small girl, barely ten, hiding behind Jaemin. Quiet. Guarded. Someone he wasn’t sure how to approach -

But someone he couldn’t ignore.

Then slowly…

The way she began to trust him. Talk to him. Smile more around him. Look for him before going on stage.

When did she become someone I needed to look after…?

And more than that -

When did she become family…?

“Boyoung-ah…” he called softly, his voice already unsteady. “Boyoung-ah…”

She turned to him, and before he could say anything else, two words escaped her emotionally:

“Don’t go.”

They slipped out of her mouth like a plea, raw and unfiltered, echoing through her mic as she rushed into his arms. For a second Mark froze, caught off guard by the sudden contact. She…hugged me first…?

But the shock didn’t last long; the moment he heard her sob, everything in him broke. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, pulling her close without hesitation.

She’s crying…

And just like that, the tears he had been holding back began to fall too. Holding her in his arms, his mind drifted again; to every version of her he had known until now. The quiet girl who barely spoke. The one who slowly opened up. The one who stood on stage now - stronger, a bit brighter…a bit happier. And he had the fortune to be there through it all.

“I’m always here for you, no matter what,” he murmured softly into her ear, his voice breaking despite his efforts. He pulled back just enough to gently wipe her tears, his hands careful, familiar. Even now…she looked the same to him. Not just the idol. Not just his member. But the small girl he met years ago - still someone he wanted to protect.

“If you need me, contact me, okay?” he continued quietly. “I’ll do my best to help you—I promise, Boyoung. I really do.” He pulled her back into another hug, holding her just a little tighter. “I’m not going to leave you…not after everything we’ve been through.”

And he meant it. Every word.

“I love you, Oppa.”

Mark’s breath hitched. For a second, everything went still.

Did she just…?

It was the first time she had ever said it to him. And it shattered whatever composure he had left.

He let out a broken breath, burying his face into her shoulder as tears fell freely. A small, emotional laugh slipped through him.

When did she get this hold on me…

“I love you too, Boyoung,” he said, pulling back with a tearful smile. He looked at her properly - really looked at her. Not just who she was now…but everything she had been. “My little sister, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, sniffling. It had him smiling softly. Even as his chest ached, even as everything was changing for Dream in the upcoming year - 

That much…

Would never change. He was determined on that.

***

He had been there for everything.

Through every stage, every shift, every quiet turning point in her life.

When Dream had their first comeback without him…

When she and Jisung slowly found their way to each other…

Through every milestone, every trial, every moment that could have broken her—

He was there.

At the hospital.

During her recovery.

Watching over her, the same way he always had.

Just like I promised…

And somewhere along the way, without him even realizing it—

Not just the quiet, guarded girl he met years ago…

But Boyoung.

Someone who trusted him.

Someone who let him in.

Someone who gave him her love so freely, in her own quiet way.

He had been there to guide her.

To protect her.

To encourage her when she needed it most.

And she had been there for him too, in ways he never expected.

Grounding him with logic when his thoughts spiraled too far.

Pulling him back when he hit his lowest points.

Supporting him—not loudly, not dramatically—but steadily. Consistently.

Like she always did.

We grew together…

And before he knew it - ten years had passed. Ten years with NCT. With her.

Now, here they were. At Hangang, 2026.

Just the two of them.

When everything finally felt like it was settling into place. Huh, maybe that’s why…

Maybe that’s why it feels like it’s time.

He had done what he needed to do. He had given everything he could. And somewhere along the way…he had found what mattered most.

He let out a soft sigh, his arms tightening slightly around her as he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “Oh, Boyoung…” His voice was filled with something deeper than pride…something softer. “Oh, how you’ve grown into such an amazing woman…”

Boyoung shifted in his arms, looking up at him with eyes steady despite everything. “Exactly…” she murmured. “You helped me grow into who I am now. And now…” She held his gaze as her words settled into him more deeper than he expected. “It’s your turn to grow.”

For so long, his life had been about leading, guiding, staying strong for others…but now - for the first time in a long time…

He was being told it was okay to choose himself. And somehow…

Hearing it from her made it feel real.

***

He was glad he had told Boyoung first. Because when he spoke to the rest of Dream—one by one, and then all together— she was the one who stood by him the most. Unwavering. Even when it hurt her too.

He still remembered the argument. The first real one between her and Jisung. And it was about him.

“It’s not fair!” Jisung had cried, voice breaking. “How are you okay with this? I thought we were going to be 8Dream forever! We all promised!”

Mark’s chest had tightened painfully at that. We did…I’m sorry…

“Of course I’m not okay!” Boyoung shot back, tears in her eyes. “I’m scared and hurt too! But I’d rather feel this temporary pain than have Oppa stay here and lose himself and be unhappy!” Her voice shook—but she didn’t back down. “Stop being selfish and let him have his freedom! Is this how you’re going to be if I ever want to do this?”

Mark had never felt guilt hit him that hard before. Watching them argue—because of him—it felt unbearable.

He apologised over and over after that. But Boyoung? She never wavered. She chose to stay by his side, no matter what. So this is what it feels like…to be chosen…

There was tension for a while after that. Quiet, unspoken, lingering in the air between them all. It was stifling, and painful, since they were usually comfortable and happy together.

But slowly, things began to settle. Jisung came around, the members adjusted, they prepared for the future. And they made the most of the time they had left, spending their remaining days together as 8Dream.

***

And now…here they were. Their last concert together.

Mark tried not to cry. He really did. He avoided looking at the members for too long, afraid that if he saw them break down, he would too. But there was one person he couldn’t ignore. Boyoung.

She stayed close to him the entire time. Not saying much, not even looking at him for long. Just…there. Close enough that he could feel her presence beside him.

She moved back and forth—going to Jisung when he broke down, kneeling beside him, comforting him…

And then returning to Mark again.

Like she was trying to hold both sides together.

Mark’s eyes drifted to Jisung. Collapsed on the ground, sobbing— just like he had, years ago, when he graduated.

Mark’s grip tightened around the small plushie in his hands. He stared down at it, unable to move.

How can I go to him…when I’m mthe reason he’s hurting like this?

“Oppa…” Her voice pulled him back.

She stood in front of him now, her hands gently covering his—still clutching the plushie. “Look at me.”

He hesitated. He didn’t want to. Because he knew if he did, he’d break again. But slowly, he lifted his head. Her eyes were already fille dwith tears.

“You need to go to him,” she whispered. Mark shook his head immediately.

“I can’t. If I go, I -”

“It’s our last concert together… for who knows how long,” she cut him off, her voice cracking. Her grip on his hands tightened. “Please…you’ll regret it. Go to him.”

Mark stared at her. Even now…she’s thinking about us. About all of them. Not just him, not just herself…all of them.

He swallowed hard. But he nodded, nonetheless. And he was glad - so, so glad - that he listened. Because in the future, when he looked back on this moment, there was no regret. Only gratitude that he was able to be there for Jisung - one last time.

***

As the concert continued, emotions still ran high. But slowly, something began to shift.

Mark found his gaze drifting again back to Boyoung.

What’s going to happen to her… when I’m not there anymore? The thought lingered, heavy and persistent.

For so long, he had been there to watch over her. To guide her. To protect her. But now—

He wouldn’t be by her side every step of the way anymore.

Yet…

As he looked around; at the Dreamies cheering him on from across the stage… At Jeno standing firmly in the middle, bridging both sides… At the way they smiled through their tears, still supporting him—

The weight in his chest began to ease.

They were still here. For him. For each other. Always.

And when his eyes met Boyoung’s, just for a brief moment—

She stood there, surrounded by the others, singing toward him.

And she smiled. Not perfectly. Not without tears. But strong. Steady.

She’ll be okay…

And maybe—

So would he.

Because this wasn’t the end. Not really.

Just because he wouldn’t be part of NCT anymore…

Didn’t mean he wouldn’t be part of their lives.

And they wouldn’t stop being part of his.

We’re still…

Mark let out a small breath, something in his chest finally settling.

We’re still 8Dream.

His fingers kneaded the flesh gently now, pushing your oversized t-shirt further up your thighs. He peppered soft kisses along the newly exposed skin, humming under his breath.

You sighed, unsure if you should feel irritated or amused. "Whatever…"

You turned back to your phone, trying to ignore the low flutter in your stomach.

A second later, strong hands flipped you onto your back with ease and you gasped.

Keeho laughed—that signature, high-pitched schoolgirl giggle that you loved oh so much—and you narrowed your eyes, feigning annoyance. "What now?"

He beamed up at you from between your legs, mischief sparkling in his usually sharp, slitted eyes. They were wide and round now, akin to a kid in a candy store, and you didn’t trust that look one bit.

He pouted dramatically at your reaction. "Why are you already annoyed by me?"

A giggle escaped you despite yourself. You reached down, brushing your thumb over his pouting lower lip where his head rested heavily on your thighs. "Because I feel like you're up to something…"

He shook his head unconvincingly. "I'm not!" But he was already shifting. He lifted your leg, draping it over his shoulder, nestling himself deeper between your thighs until his head rested snugly against your lower stomach. You looked down the length of your body at him, slightly breathless at the sight.

His lips pressed softly against the strip of skin exposed between the waistband of your underwear and your bunched-up shirt—tiny pecks at first. Then he lifted his head, delivering slower kisses that made your skin tingle.

"Not up to anything, huh?" you whispered, feeling the curve of his smile against your hip bone. Sneaky little shit.

"I've been thinking about doing this all day, actually. Just didn't wanna jump you the second I got here." His breath fanned hot over your sensitive skin.

You smirked, raising an eyebrow. "How classy."

He nipped the skin of your lower stomach in warning, just hard enough to make you clamp your mouth shut with a surprised yelp.

He repositioned himself, arms hooking firmly under your thighs, spreading you just a little wider as he stared directly at your center. A faint, telltale damp spot darkened the fabric right over your core.

He couldn't hide the smug smirk that tugged at his lips.

His eyes lifted to yours, finding you watching him intently. He held your gaze and leaned down to press a delicate kiss right over your clit through the fabric.

You gasped softly, a jolt of pleasure tightening the tension coiling in your lower belly. He rubbed the bridge of his nose slowly over the damp spot, breathing in deeply before exhaling a warm sigh.

"Fuck... you smell so good."

You whined as his long tongue darted out to lick from your entrance up to your clit over the fabric. He licked his lips, savoring the feeling, then did it again, slower this time. Your skin felt like it was on fire, the pressure from his tongue combined with the wet drag of the soaked cotton was deliciously torturous.

Your hand loosened around where you had been clutching your phone and an idea sparked. You reached down, carding your fingers gently through his soft hair. "Kyo?"

He tilted his head up, resting his chin lightly on your mound, those big eyes fixed patiently on yours. "Yeah?"

"Can I... can I record you?" you asked, suddenly feeling shy under his intent eye.

He looked surprised for a split second, and you quickly explained yourself. "It's just... you're leaving for tour soon. Need something for when I miss you..."

His eyes darkened, your words sending a sated throb right to where his hips were pressed into the sheets. "God you're the sexiest thing I've ever seen. Of course you can, baby."

Relief and a flush of excitement ran through you at his enthusiasm. You smiled sweetly at him, quickly opening the camera app and hitting record.

He didn’t break eye contact with the lens, or with you behind it.

He leaned back in, pressing another open-mouthed kiss right over your covered clit, his tongue poking it firmly this time. You gasped, clutching the phone tightly in your grip.

His long tongue was relentless, licking up the entire length of your pussy through the soaked fabric, then zeroing in, circling the outline of your clit as you writhed below him. "Fuck... I can taste you through these. Taste even better than you smell."

You could see the concentrated dip between his brows as his jaw worked you.

"Oh god—!" you gasped out, hips jerking reflexively at the sudden, wet pressure. You breathed out his name desperately, your voice catching as he started sucking right where you needed him most. "Right there... Kyo please..."

He squeezed your thigh in response, now alternating between broad licks that made you arch slightly off the bed and tight, rapid flicks focused solely on the tiny bundle of nerves hidden beneath the thin cotton.

"Gonna soak through everything, aren't you?"

His nose nudged against you as he worked, breathing you in. Every so often he glanced back up at you, his lips curling with pride at the desperate little sounds escaping you.

"Look at you... filming me like a good girl while I eat you out. Gonna fuck yourself to it later right? Wishing your fingers were my tongue?"

The fabric was thoroughly soaked now, translucent in places, plastered to your sensitive folds. You could see the outline of his tongue pressing against it, seeking your entrance. Your hips twitched helplessly towards his mouth.

"You feel- ngh..s-so good!" you whimpered.

He chuckled darkly against your heat and pulled back just enough to hook his thumbs into the sides of your underwear. He looked up at the camera, then directly into your eyes, tugging the soaked fabric up and taught against your aching core. The sudden, searing pressure and friction, grinding directly onto your hypersensitive clit, tore a ragged cry from your throat.

"Keeho! What the—fuck!" Your back arched high off the bed, hips writhing helplessly against the unexpected torment.

He watched, mesmerized, as the cotton stretched and sank deep into your swollen folds. A low groan rumbled from his chest. He was two seconds away from grabbing the camera from you to capture the perfect sight.

"Look at you," he breathed, voice thick with lust, eyes fixed on the obscene display. "So fucking desperate, want your pussy ate so bad huh." He pressed hard, open-mouthed kisses over the stretched fabric, each one hitting you with a mix of pleasure and pain that made you eyes roll back in submission.

Then, with agonizing slowness, he peeled the ruined underwear away. The cool air hit your glistening heat and he paused to stare at your bare cunt. You were utterly drenched and squeezing around nothing, folds slick and shining, your clit a hard, needy peak.

A thick rope of your arousal stretched from your entrance down to the sheets and keeho’s tongue swept over his lips, starved by a hunger that could only be sated by you.

"Fuuuck me," he groaned before quickly leaning back in to catch the slick with his tongue, moving up to press against your fluttering hole.

A depraved moan tore from him as your taste flooded his senses. "God, baby… I could do this for hours," he moaned against your skin, one hand splayed on your lower belly, the other clamping your thigh down hard. "Gonna drown in you. Pussy so pretty." He panted before diving back in.

He lapped deep at your entrance, drinking greedily, the blunt pressure and slick glide drawing helpless whines and lifts of your hips.

"Need more… please, Kyo…"

He trailed up, circling your clit with the very tip of his tongue, maddeningly light circles that had you begging, "Oh g-god…r-ngh—right there…" He spread your folds wider with his fingers, exposing you completely to him.

"Look at this perfect clit," he murmured, watching it pulse under his scrutiny. "Begging for me to ruin you."

He began flicking at it, rapid brushes that made you cry out, a broken sob escaping your lips.

Without warning, he inched down, his tongue stiffening as it sank shallowly into you, fucking you with short, insistent bobs of his head.

The sudden invasion and fullness stole your breath. "Soo fucking needy," his voice was strained against your flesh, eyes locking onto yours with fierce intensity.

He slipped in and out a few times before retreating to suck hard on your clit, drawing a new wave of whines from deep within you.

You couldn't lie still anymore. You needed to see him, so you shoved yourself up onto one hand with a groan, letting the phone fall forgotten. You needed to watch as he ravaged you.

The sight was exhilarating. The powerful muscles of his back flexed as he feasted, his hips grinding urgently into the mattress beneath him. Needing more, needing control, your free hand tangled roughly in his hair and pushed, grinding his face harder against your throbbing core.

"Fuck yes—" he whimpered, the sound muffled by your folds, and looked up. His eyes were glazed, unfocused, utterly wrecked and drunk on you.

Your slick coated his lips, chin, and nose, shining obscenely. The sight, so earth shatteringly carnal, made your own arousal spike tenfold.

"Keeho… look at you…" you breathed, voice trembling.

He didn’t pause. His voice was thick, slurred against your heat. "Need you closer...please, ride my tongue."

Heat flooded your cheeks, confidence and control dwindling.

"Oh, I-I've never…" But the doubt was crushed before it formed.

"Do it," he commanded, rough and urgent. "Need you on me. Need you grinding that sweet cunt into my mouth." He was already rolling onto his back beneath you, staring up, chest heaving, eyes burning with pure, feral hunger. "C'mon baby don't be shy, I've got you."

Heart hammering against your ribs, you swallowed hard. Shifting forward, you swung a leg over, positioning yourself above his face, knees planted beside his head. Hovering carefully, your gaze dropped to the massive bulge straining against his sweatpants as you shuddered out a breath.

Slowly, you lowered yourself. He wasted no time to begin lapping at you again, harder, more direct pressure aimed at your entrance

Your thighs trembled as you held yourself up carefully above him.

"Tired already?" Keeho taunted, breath puffing hotly against your sensitive skin. Without question, his hands locked onto your hips and pulled you down flush against him, seating you fully on his mouth. "Fucking use me."

A shocked cry tore from you as his mouth sealed over your entire cunt.

"Yes! Oh God, Kyo! Like that!" you cried, the sensations overwhelming. You found a good rhythm, rolling your hips hard against the muscle, bracing your hands on his abs for leverage.

Seeking a better angle, you leaned forward, lowering your upper body until your face hovered inches above the tent in his sweats. The evidence of just how affected by you he truly was.

Spurred on by the muffled whines getting lost against your core, you fumbled desperately with his waistband.

You shoved his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock, thick, flushed an angry red, the head slick with pre-cum.

He moaned deeply against your cunt at the release, his hips bucking off the bed in search of you.

You wrapped your hand around his shaft, stroking him to draw another strained grunt from his lips. "You're so hard Kyo," you murmured, then lowered your head and took him into your mouth.

The simultaneous stimulation was a shock to both your bodies.

"Fuck yes… suck my cock princess."

You obeyed, bobbing your head on his cock, taking him as deep as you could while trying to maintain the desperate grinding against his mouth. You swirled your tongue around his swollen head, lapped eagerly at the salty pre-cum leaking steadily, hollowed your cheeks to take him fully.

The taste of him, the sounds of him devouring you, the overwhelming pleasure radiating from your core pushed you towards the edge.

"I can't… Kyo gonna cum," you gasped around his cock, voice shaking. "Please can I? Wanna c-cum on your tongue."

"Cum baby," he obliged, voice raw and ragged. He latched onto your clit like a man possessed, licking and sucking to drive you over the edge.

Your back arched as a choked scream ripped from your throat around his cock. Your thighs clamped around his head as wave after blinding wave of ecstasy crashed over you.

The intense pulsing of your cunt around his tongue mixed with the way your throat squeezed his cock shattered Keeho’s control completely.

"Gonna cum baby, gonna cum in your throat— Fuck!" With the last bit of control he had left, he bucked hard up into your mouth. Thick, hot pulses of cum shot down your throat as his own climax ripped through him.

"Swallow baby, god just like that—that's my good girl."

You obeyed his instructions, swallowing with a gag as you milked him through the last shuddering pulses as aftershocks still rocked your own body. Spent and trembling uncontrollably, you collapsed forward onto his stomach, his softening cock slipping from your lips with a soft, wet sound. Beneath you, Keeho was panting, his face still buried blissfully in your thighs, right where he wanted to be.

Silence fell as you both tried to gather your composures. Keeho turned his head slightly, pressing a final, exhausted, yet tender kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh. His lips were sticky against your skin. His voice, when it came, was a wrecked whisper laced with pure satisfaction. "Mine."

You felt boneless, utterly spent, your cheek pressed against the firm warmth of his stomach, the frantic thud of his pulse beneath your ear slowly calming.

"Okay," he murmured through the silence. "Gotta move, baby." His hands slid carefully under your hips. "Lift up for me? Just a little." You managed a weak groan, pushing yourself up slightly on trembling arms. With a gentleness completely opposite to how fiercely he’d just held you, he eased himself out from under you, mindful of your sensitive, trembling limbs.

He guided you down onto your back against the pillows, your legs feeling like jelly.

Before you could even catch your breath fully, he was leaning over you. His face, still glistening with your slick, met yours in a kiss that was nothing less than deeply intimate. You tasted each other on your tongues; It would have been strange to anyone else but in the hazy aftermath, it felt like your souls were intertwining.

You kissed him back, your hands weakly finding his shoulders, your breaths mingling as you both simply breathed each other in.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his dark eyes soft and satisfied. "Fuck," he breathed, a lazy smile playing on his swollen lips.

You managed a weak smile back, still catching your breath. "Yeah."

He shifted then, turning onto his side beside you. His hand reached out, fingers grabbing the forgotten phone lying screen-up on the crumpled sheets nearby. The screen was still on, likely having recorded nothing but darkness. He glanced at it, then back at you, a playful glint returning to his eyes despite his exhaustion.

"Why'd you stop recording?" he asked, his tone light, teasing. He tapped the screen. "Missed the best part."

You stared at him like he was insane. The sheer absurdity of the question, after what had just transpired, cut through the haze.

"Sorry," you said flatly, your voice still a little hoarse. "I was a little distracted, too busy sucking your cock."

Keeho stared at you for a split second then a loud, surprised snort of laughter burst out of him. He threw his head back, the sound rich and genuine, echoing in the quiet room. "Jesus, so vulgar." He wheezed, shaking his head.

He tossed the phone carelessly aside onto the bed turning back to you, wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye though it mixed with the drying slick on his cheek. "Look who's not so classy now," he grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners, referencing your earlier teasing jab.

"Not even 3 minutes ago you were telling me to suck your co—" His hand shot out to muffle your words, his face burning red. "Shh! What I say during freaky time is none of my business."

A tired, genuine laugh bubbled up from your own chest.

He leaned in again, his laughter softening into a warm, affectionate smile. His thumb brushed gently over your cheekbone. "But it was well worth it."

He sure was right about that.

—

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Yunho had a show of trying to reach out and laughed when San slapped his hands away.

“San…” you breathed out his name and couldn’t help the bashful grin when he turned to look at you, eyes warm and soft as he gazed down.

His thumb rubbed a circle at your hip. “Come on,” he urged quietly, just for you, “we’re going to be late.”

San drove you both, car rumbling powerfully beneath your legs. He kept a possessive hand on your thigh, the warm curl of his fingers raising goosebumps on your skin. Every time he stopped at a red light, he’d find your fingers and press kisses to the tips.

When you arrived, he rushed around the car just so he could open the door for you.

“You don’t have to do that Sannie,” you said, even as your hand rested on his open palm and your legs swung out of the door car.

“I do,” San insisted, guiding you away from the car door so he could shut it for you. He took your bag from your shoulder to slip on his before his hands were around your waist, moving you step by step into the theatre. 

San was aware that he expressed his love through words. He wasn’t afraid to whisper compliments or confess how he feels into the domestic warmth of the den. He was never ashamed of his feelings, was quite bad at keeping them to himself if he was honest. Hongjoong said that his face always gave it away, the crease between his eyebrows or the subtle flicker of his mouth into a frown. 

Since finding his pack though, his need for touch and expression through actions had increased. There was nothing better than cuddling his love, feeling the uptick of their pulse against his fingertips, watching the way they swayed towards him. Wooyoung and Seonghwa were content to let him reach for them whenever he felt the urge and they would do the same for him. Yunho and Mingi, less so, but would never object to his touch. Yeosang would tense at first and melt easily, an embarrassed flush on his pretty face. Hongjoong and Jongho were the only ones that complained, allowed it in the private moments or when they were feeling particularly amenable to him.

You though – you weren’t a hybrid. Physical connection didn’t have the same impact on you, but you acted like it did. You reacted so beautifully to his touch, to his words. San was obsessed with how goosebumps break over your skin when his touch is gentle or the way your breathing shudders when he’s firmer, surer of himself. You leaned into him so easily and reached for him with the same surety that he did for you.

When they got closer, San had to reluctantly put distance between the two of you. It might be quiet, lower key, but cameras followed him all the time. Still, he kept looking out of the corner of his eye at you, never quite willing to let you out of his line of sight. Once he was passed the line of cameras, once the theatre door pulled close, he paused in his step until you were back in step with him. His fingers trailed down your wrist to interlock with your own.

He squeezed them affectionately. You squeeze back.

The show itself was good but not half as interesting as you. Your expressions of delight, your low gasps of surprise, the way your lips angled down in distress at the emotional climax. He found himself unable to look away, watching the sparkle of the light reflecting in your eyes.

You noticed of course. You tried to ignore him to focus on the show, but every once and a while, you’d catch him – smile soft, eyes twinkling, playing with your fingers with the gentlest of touches.

“You’re supposed to be watching,” you whispered.

San kissed your knuckles. “I am,” he lied.

Honestly, if someone asked him what the play was about, he couldn’t explain a single part. Still, he listened with the most avid interest when you gushed and expressed how much you enjoyed it. 

Of course, until the growing urge to kiss you got too much. San clicked off the engine of the car in the driveway of the pack house, and you’d turned to him with such a large smile. It was like instinct to reach across the middle console and cup your cheeks, to drag you in closer and slot his lips over yours.

Kissing San was distracting you found. The cat threw himself into each kiss like he did a stage performance, like he had something to prove to you with each slide of his lips. Sometimes you got Sannie – the soft and sensual slide, the little huffs of breath, the hands that didn’t want to drift anyway disrespectful. Sometimes it was the Duke.

The nip of teeth against your bottom lip told you that’s who was kissing you now. It was harder, deeper, more control in how he licked between your teeth. The way he held you still, kept you close, and you let him, happy to take what he’d give you.

“Fuck, just,” the curse slipped through his lips, pressed like a bruise against you. You didn’t have time to react, before San was moving his hand to the side of his chair and yanked it back.

His fingers gripped your hips and tugged. He moved you effortlessly close, urged your legs to rest on either side of him. You gasped as you fell into him, hands splayed across his broad chest, before the sound was swallowed by a desperate touch.

San felt heady, restless, your sweet scent filling the car until it was all he could smell. It blurred his senses, made him forget the night of romance he had originally planned. The cat within him yowled and purred in delight. He’d have you there, San knew, if you let him.

He could have cried when you moaned into him and parted your lips to let him lick in. The taste of you was even better than the scent and it was lost to the addiction.

You pulled away with a shuddered inhale, and San buried his face in your neck. He pressed kisses there, small at first and then longer, a slide of tongue along where your scent was strongest and then the worrying of teeth. You melted against him, angled your head more to let him get impossibly closer, and he took it greedily.

Later, when you pulled yourself from the fogged-up windows of the car, Mingi gave you a shiteating grin. “In the driveway?” he teased. “Really?”

Wooyoung matched his expression. “Sannie, do you have no shame?”

Yeosang’s lips twitched in amusement. “Baby, have you seen your neck?”

-

Yunho poked your neck and you slapped his hand away. You huffed, ears turning red, while his grin widened next to you, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Baby…” he cooed.

You rolled your lips. “Don’t.”

Yunho scooted closer, resting his head on your shoulder. “Come on, please,” he pouted, “you let San do it.”

Across the room, the hybrid in question flushed across the back of his neck and squinted at the ceiling. If he avoided eye contact, he could hide his embarrassment and the swell of pride he felt when he looked at the bite he’d left on your neck.

It wasn’t a mating bite, wasn’t on the correct side of the neck, but that didn’t seem to matter to his hybrid, who purred and swayed in pleasure that you bore his teeth so high on your pretty skin. San had apologised of course, he’d gotten carried away, lots in the feeling and emotion, but when you looked elsewhere, he couldn’t keep his eyes off it.

His mark looked so good on you.

The others, of course, were equal parts amused as they were jealous. For you to hold any of their marks was an absolute delight, but the temptation to mark you themselves. Yeah, that was quite intense now that there was proof you’d let him so on display for them. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you scolded, half serious and half playful. Your Labrador hybrid looked so sweet like this, peering up at you with wide and hopeful eyes, it almost made you want to agree.

Because in theory, you didn’t mind having their hickeys along the curve of your throat. It had felt good, lost in San’s kisses and claiming touches, and the idea that each of them wanted to do the same to you, to drag their teeth across the soft skin of your neck, made you feel wonderfully warm all over.

However, the more sensible part of you was aware that this one mark was visible for not just your hybrids to see, but everyone – strangers, colleagues, bosses alike. It filled you with this fluttering of embarrassment, made you want to duck your head and hide away.

So even though the urge to bare your neck and let them have your way with you was high, you had put your foot down.

The boys respected your choices of course, but there were buttons to push, and Yunho was shaking with excess energy that he needed to dispel.

He stuck his bottom lip out more. You couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss it away. 

Wooyoung, head resting against your knee, perked up. “If he gets to, I want to,” he demanded.

Mingi made a noise of objection. “Me too.”

Across the room, Jongho turned the page on his book. “Dibs.”

Yeosang looked aghast. “You can’t call dibs on our baby.”

“I can,” Jongho shot back, “I just did.”

“Do I get a say in this?” you interrupted.

A hand brushed gentle through your hair and when you looked up there was Hongjoong’s calm expression looking down at you. It would have been innocent if it weren’t for the sharp glint in his eyes. “Of course beautiful,” he assured. His fingers danced a beat along the high point of your cheek, down your jaw, over the curve of your neck to rest comfortably there. “You can pick where.”

You’d laugh if you weren’t a second away from melting. You worried your bottom lip for a moment. “Just…below my collar line, okay?”

You might as well have begged for it for the way the room went tense, still, bodies thrumming with the expression of interest.

“Out of sight, out of mind, got it,” Seonghwa agreed. He was on the other end of the sofa to you, spreading his legs wider so you had enough space to fit between. He stretched out his arms and wriggled his fingers. “Now come here.”

-

You smothered your neck in foundation, concealer and a lot of setting spray. With the winter month, you were able to get away with high collars with scarves, even though the top of the bruise embarrassingly peeked over the fabric. San had been equal parts embarrassed and delighted, stroking the exposed mark with gentle wonder.

Still, you managed to hide it well enough.

Until you didn’t.

The break room was hot, and you’d been busy all morning, mind running a mile a minute with all the things you needed to do. You’d unwrapped your layers to lay claim to a chair before heading about making yourself a coffee. You hadn’t even realised until one of the production assistants – Soojin, you recalled the name belatedly – gasped excitedly.

“Unni,” she exclaimed, “you’re dating?”

You had hummed in agreement before pausing, registering what she said and asking, “How did you know that?”

She tapped her own neck and wriggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Your own hand slapped to cover the mark, and you must have looked truly aghast because her excitement faded into a mix of amusement and pity.

“Not serious yet?” she said.

Your heart pounding in your chest, you swallowed around your dry throat. “It’s not that, it’s just…we haven’t really told anyone yet. It’s still…new.”

You hadn’t even discussed what to say about your relationship. Are you telling people officially? You aren’t exactly subtle, the boys scent you all the time, but that could be seen as affectionate, just close co-workers, not –

It was professional at work; an appropriate distance kept for all of you. But Hongjoong had said more than once he wanted you in his pack. Yeosang had blushed when he explained mating marks, how it made everything real for their animal instincts as well, and confessed that he liked the idea that you were considering taking theirs. Yunho had been touching the hickeys adorning your skin like it was a daily ritual. Along your thighs, your hips, your breasts, you bore their bruising kisses.

You made a mental note to talk to Hongjoong about it when you got home.

Of course, that’s not where the conversation ended. KQ Entertainment was small and close knit. If anything, that made it worse. Rumours spread from the production team to PR to stylists to the dance team, and then of course to your boys.

One of the dancers had elbowed Mingi goodnaturedly and made a joke. Something about the pretty caretaker of theirs sporting marks and made some comment about how they’d missed their shot. It was nothing serious, meaningless words, but Mingi could feel the way his fox sat up, eyes narrowed, hunches high in displeasure.

He made himself laugh and act as if nothing was wrong, that he was screaming inside. If he was a little rougher during practice, that was no one’s business. When Yunho pulled him aside to find out what was wrong, he admitted to the way it scratched at the worst part of him, made him feel possessive and irritable. Because he knew who left the marks but no one else did and that left room to speculate.

“She’s ours,” he spat and took a deep breath to chase the flare of rage away.

Yunho patted him on the back in understanding. “Hold it together man,” he said, “10 more minutes and you can scent her to your heart’s content. Just try not to take it out on the dancers, yeah?”

When you did arrive, flushed with your scarf firmly secured around your neck, Mingi bullied you into the wall, removed the layer in the way and buried his face into the warm skin there. You yelped in surprise, stammered his name but relaxed, quiet and content, when Mingi rumbled his pleasure.

Your hands came to his head, silky strands slipping between splayed fingers, and angled your cheek towards him. “Tough practice?” you guessed.

Yunho snorted. “More like jealous fox.”

“Jealous?” you blinked. “About what?”

“You’re the talk of the company Noona,” Wooyoung teased.

“Are you okay?” Yeosang looked at you wide eyed. Mingi’s hold on you flexed at the question.

“I’m…a little embarrassed everyone’s talking about my love life,” you admitted. Seven pairs of eyes were looking at you so intently, you needed to look away, gaze dropping to their shoes. “Soojin-ah noticed first and she asked if I was dating someone and I…”

You weren’t sure if you could finish, uncertainty whirling in your stomach. What if they said not to tell anyone? That this needed to be some little secret? Or what if they said tell everyone? Your place in this group becoming public knowledge. Would it be allowed? Would the company terminate your contract because messing around was one thing, but permanence is another.

“Baby…”

Your vision flickered up. It was Yeosang who was taking the step towards you, boba eyes wide. If Mingi wasn’t already laying claim to you, Yeosang would have gathered you into his arms -  as long as someone was holding you. You looked so uncertain, worrying your bottom lip, lips flittering, like they were going to break your heart.

“If you think we don’t want to shout this from the rooftops, then we haven’t been doing our job right,” he said, voice clear, firm.

The honest shot right through you. “I know, but…”

“Tell everyone, tell no one,” Hongjoong interjected, “tell whoever you want. Don’t question for a moment that we want you with us.”

Wooyoung elbowed their leader. “He’s been wanting to give you a pack bite from the beginning,” he teased. He leant that way, into jokes and soft jabs, when he was worried, he might collapse under the weight of the moment.

Though nothing could have prepared from for the soft agreement that left your sweet lips.

“Okay.”

A simple word that had them all standing tense, hope and desire surging through them as their animal brains caught up with the moment.

Mingi had pulled away from you, eyes wide and dark, lips parting in surprise. “W-wait…”

“Are you sure?” Jongho asked. He could have rumbled his excitement, but he suppressed the urge, each muscle tensed individual as if that would hold him in place.

You looked at each of them. Your boys. Your pack. Your loves. Before you’d taken on this position, you never imagined living in a world like this. Never imagined being handled with such softness, never imagined how good it would feel to hold each of them in your embrace. Desperately, selfishly, you wanted this forever. They said they would always be yours, something wired deep in their DNA that would refuse to let you go even if you walked away from them.

But maybe you were more hybrid than you thought because the idea of leaving them behind, of living a life in their absence, made your soul cry. 

A pack mark was akin to a marriage band. It was serious and sacred. It was tying yourself so completely and utterly to a group of people. Your uncle had his own mating mark and had called it more permanent than a wedding band.

“You can break a marriage easy,” he had explained, “but this-“he gestured to the healed wound on his jugular, “-this was intended to be forever. You can break it, of course, but it takes work. It takes true pain.”

There was some evolutionary reason for it. You were sure that you had notes from lecturers about it from your university days. It didn’t really matter why though. In this moment, it came down to you and your confidence.

Were you confident that you would want to be here, with them, until the end?

The answer came so easily.

“I’m sure,” you nodded. 

You looked at Hongjoong, pack leader, who wore an expression that was a mix of joy and terror. He was almost convinced he was dreaming, that he hadn’t drunk enough water and now he was lightheaded, facing a fantasy. His skin was itchy, his red panda restless, and God, he hoped this was real. He wasn’t sure he could bare it if it wasn’t. 

And then you breathed out the words he’d wanted to hear from the beginning, your voice confident and so sure that that this – that him and his pack – were what you wanted. 

“Make me part of your pack.” 

-

Pack bites were something important to hybrids. It held weight and reverence and a lifetime commitment. This wouldn’t be rushed in to, no matter how much you would want it over with.

That night, in the Den, Hongjoong had tucked you under his arm, body curved over yours, cheek pressed to cheek. His breath felt hot there as he whispered, “You really want this? Want us?”

You angled your head to press in close. “I’ve never wanted something more,” you admitted.

Hongjoong could have full body shuddered. He had hoped of course, ever since you had stepped over the threshold, met his pack with a smile, leaving your sweet scent behind. It had been the same with the others – he’d met them and his hybrid decided that he wanted them. Call him possessive, but when he was sure, he couldn’t be dissuaded.

It was still true that he would have let you go though, even as it terrified him. He would have released you and wished you all the best in the world. 

But knowing now that you wanted him – wanted them all, his pack, his family – forever. That would bare his mark as the pack leader and if anyone asked, introduced him as your beloved.

“This is my husband, Hongjoong.”

He could just imagine your smile, the gesturing, the way his arm would slide around your waist, a claim he was allowed to make.

“We’ll pick a day,” he murmured, unable to keep the emotion from his voice, “We’ll show you that you should chose us. We’ll be worth it.”

Beside them, Yunho rolled in close. He pressed a kiss to the back of your hand and then to the back of his. Hongjoong felt how your body seemed to relax even more, the exhale releasing any remaining uncertainty.

“You are,” you promised. “Do whatever you feel is right for you and pack but don’t think you have to prove anything to me. I’ve made my choice. I’ll chose you every time.”

Hongjoong blinked rapidly so he wouldn’t cry.

Yunho whispered his love into your fingers, a sentiment that was echoed through the crowded space of the den. You felt warm, cocooned, protected by their affection.

It was decided that it would happen during the next big break. ATEEZ would have time just before their scheduled comeback, 5 days to a week of minimal workload to give them a chance to relax and prepare for the next busy cycle.

“It’ll be good then,” Yeosang had murmured, “we can stay with you.”

Hongjoong and Seonghwa had spoken to you about the mark, about how it affected other hybrids and their research into how it would affect humans like you. Hwa had pages of carefully written notes – because he remembered things better when he writes them by hand and this was important.

To them, there had been initial physical pain, an undeniable pressure of broken flesh, but their animals relished in it, rolled onto their bellies and submitted to their pack leader.

“You want to give everything over to them,” Seonghwa explained gently, voice soft and eyes softer when they consider Hongjoong.

The red panda in turn went a little pink, even as he smiled fondly. “For me, it’s like…the world was spinning and now a little steadier,” he explained, always lyrical in his explanations, “it’s intense though. I remember the need to hover around each of them. Jongho was the worst, he threatened to bite me if I didn’t give him space.”

You snorted. You could just imagine the wide eyed, tense jaw of your baby bear at his leader’s hovering.

“So be prepared to be smothered, got it,” you joked.

Hongjoong grinned, even as he ducked his head shyly. “For humans, it says it could feel like nothing or like everything,” he said.

Seonghwa squinted at his notes. “Some people have reported that they feel almost as animalistic as the hybrid biting them,” he quoted, “and others said that it just felt like a really good foreplay.”

“Kinky,” you muttered.

Seonghwa gave you a wicked smirk, and Hongjoong coughed, eyes rolling to the ceiling to gather himself. He scratched the back of his neck and commented, “I mean, I don’t think any of us would be objecting…”

You wouldn’t either.

“Would everyone…” you paused to consider your thoughts, “…participate?”

“We’ll be there,” Seonghwa answered. “As witnesses, as participants, whatever you want from us. It’ll be about you.”

“About us,” you corrected, “about our pack.”

You watched the way both hybrids visibly melted, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed. It sent a rush of warmth through you and more than anything, made you sure of your decision.

How could anything that made you feel like this be wrong?

When the day came, you felt like you could vibrate out of your skin. Excitement, nerves, reckless abandon and catastrophising worries circled through you. It was the same with the boys – the way they looked at you, touched you, scented you, like they were trying to get closer and terrified to in equal measure.

You waited until the evening. San insisted it was more romantic that way. Wooyoung dressed you himself – a dark purple satin styled sleep dress that bordered on lingerie, that he slipped over your head and adjusted the straps on with expressive eyes. He dropped kisses to everywhere his fingers touched, made your skin goosebump and your heartbeat wildly.

“You look beautiful, baby girl,” he whispered.

You couldn’t answer, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, but you stole a kiss – deep, forceful – on your way out that you hoped would convey everything you were feeling.

It was like they all had a part to play in the pagentry. Seonghwa escorted you down the stairs to the main room, touch burning everywhere he touched. Yunho and Mingi took over, one large hand over each of yours, leading you through the living room towards the corridor that lead to the den. There, four more pairs of eyes watched you, glinting in the dimly lit space.

You felt sick but in the best way.

“This all seems very dramatic,” you commented.

Mingi hummed and bowed just so to brush his nose along the top of your head. “We wanted it to be special for you,” he murmured.

You were about to be handed off to the next, Yeosang and San already had their hands outstretched for you, when you paused. “Wait.”

God, the way their expressions shuttered, scared, already heartbroken. You had to reach out and press desperate hands to both men’s chiselled cheeks, let him nuzzle into the soft flesh of your wrists.

“I have something for you,” you announced, and then broke from the decided path to scurry on bare feet to your overnight bag, left on the sofa where you had dropped it a days before. It didn’t really hold any of your own clothes, not when you wore theirs more often now, but what it held now was more precious to you.

Mating gifts were common, like wedding bands for a marriage. Your uncle had brought your aunt this pure gold necklace that she never took off. That had been a thought for a while, as the future of this relationship, of what he meant, pressed down on you. They were going to be giving you a future with them, welcoming you into their fold, and you wanted to do the same to them.

The small boxes trembled on top of each other as you moved. You passed them out carefully.

“I know you wear your team rings all the time,” you murmured, “so I wanted something that would match.”

The ones you got them were stacking rings, platinum, curved at the bottom to fit against the curved pattern of the team ring. You’d had to find a photo to show the jeweller so it could be custom made to fit. You wanted it to be something that they could wear forever.

You couldn’t watch all their faces at once, eyes dancing from one to the other as quick as you could. You watched Yeosang’s fingers touch the edge of the box, Hongjoong opening it, Jongho’s wide eyed expression when he stared into it.

It was San who stepped in close, wrapped a possessive hand around the back of your neck and kissed you so deeply that the strength left your body, slumping into his broad chest. He licked into your mouth and bit down on your bottom lip, before whispering his love into the swollen flesh. There were hands splayed against your back and a nose nudged against the line of your jaw.

An arm stretched around your waist and tugged you close, tearing your lips and attention from San to Hongjoong. He looked at you with glassy eyes, sharp eyebrows, lips parted as he breathed deeply. When he stroked your cheek, he did it with the finger that held both rings, the cold edge on your warm skin making you shiver.

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered.

“I know,” you were breathless, “I wanted to.”

His eyes darkened then as Hongjoong rested his forehead against yours. He took a moment, breathed you in, basked in the moment of feeling so strong that he felt his heart was going to beat out of his chest. “Let’s get started.”

The den room had been tidied. More cushions and blankets had been laid out precisely for you. Hongjoong led you carefully over tripping hazards to the centre of the room and then lowered himself onto his knees with you.

Behind you, the others filed in – Seonghwa shut the door behind him securely – and splayed themselves across the edges of the room. They layered over each other, arms around waists, legs intertwined. They held each other as they watched you.

It was only Jongho that stepped towards you, uncharacteristically nervous eyes dancing from you to Hongjoong as if checking this was okay.

“You wanted someone to hold you,” Hongjoong reminded.

“I won,” Jongho sounded equal parts delighted and wrecked.

The bear was so carefully as he sat beside you, splayed his legs wide and encouraged your body to fit against him. You could feel the deep rise and fall of his breathing against your back. He lowered his head to drop a kiss to your bared shoulder, hands flexing around your waist, and then pressed his cheek against your own.

You relaxed into him, trusting Jongho to keep you up right, to hold you close. Maybe Hongjoong knew that because he smiled at you, wide and open.

His teeth looked unusual sharp. You’d never really looked before but knowing they were about to pierce skin, you couldn’t think of anything else. Your scent must have soured just so because the room vibrated with energy and Jongho rumbled, a sound you knew was his bear trying to comfort you.

“It’s going to hurt,” you said, more to yourself than to the others.

Still, Hongjoong nodded. “Only for a moment,” he promised. He shuffled closer, warm palms sliding up the bare flesh of your legs to your thighs. He didn’t venture any further, rubbed comforting – and distracting – circles on your inner thigh. “I’ll make you feel good.”

It was a loaded promise. One that made desire curl in your stomach, twisting with the anxiety and fear that you felt. Your skin felt sensitive, goosebumps rising, and the muscles in your thighs jumped without warning.

Jongho pressed a sweet kiss to the highest point of your cheekbone.

You exhaled slowly. “Okay…” you licked your lips and flushed at the way Hongjoong’s eyes followed it, “I’m ready.” 

-----------------------------------------------

a/n: let me know if you want the rest of this pack marking scene. it would definitely be nsfw and since this fic hasn't been so far, I didn't want to add it in unexpectedly, but happy to write a spin off!

🏷️ @quaxing-lour @yizhou-time @jpow345 @princelingperfect @aireagle92 @sourlimesoda @livonianmaia @wolfhallows4 @dachshunddame @glowingsoup @devilzliaison @stxrrywoo @minkieater @moooonadroses @arieltwvdtohamflash @koztion @sangis-puppy (join the taglist)

Yunho had a show of trying to reach out and laughed when San slapped his hands away.

“San…” you breathed out his name and couldn’t help the bashful grin when he turned to look at you, eyes warm and soft as he gazed down.

His thumb rubbed a circle at your hip. “Come on,” he urged quietly, just for you, “we’re going to be late.”

San drove you both, car rumbling powerfully beneath your legs. He kept a possessive hand on your thigh, the warm curl of his fingers raising goosebumps on your skin. Every time he stopped at a red light, he’d find your fingers and press kisses to the tips.

When you arrived, he rushed around the car just so he could open the door for you.

“You don’t have to do that Sannie,” you said, even as your hand rested on his open palm and your legs swung out of the door car.

“I do,” San insisted, guiding you away from the car door so he could shut it for you. He took your bag from your shoulder to slip on his before his hands were around your waist, moving you step by step into the theatre. 

San was aware that he expressed his love through words. He wasn’t afraid to whisper compliments or confess how he feels into the domestic warmth of the den. He was never ashamed of his feelings, was quite bad at keeping them to himself if he was honest. Hongjoong said that his face always gave it away, the crease between his eyebrows or the subtle flicker of his mouth into a frown. 

Since finding his pack though, his need for touch and expression through actions had increased. There was nothing better than cuddling his love, feeling the uptick of their pulse against his fingertips, watching the way they swayed towards him. Wooyoung and Seonghwa were content to let him reach for them whenever he felt the urge and they would do the same for him. Yunho and Mingi, less so, but would never object to his touch. Yeosang would tense at first and melt easily, an embarrassed flush on his pretty face. Hongjoong and Jongho were the only ones that complained, allowed it in the private moments or when they were feeling particularly amenable to him.

You though – you weren’t a hybrid. Physical connection didn’t have the same impact on you, but you acted like it did. You reacted so beautifully to his touch, to his words. San was obsessed with how goosebumps break over your skin when his touch is gentle or the way your breathing shudders when he’s firmer, surer of himself. You leaned into him so easily and reached for him with the same surety that he did for you.

When they got closer, San had to reluctantly put distance between the two of you. It might be quiet, lower key, but cameras followed him all the time. Still, he kept looking out of the corner of his eye at you, never quite willing to let you out of his line of sight. Once he was passed the line of cameras, once the theatre door pulled close, he paused in his step until you were back in step with him. His fingers trailed down your wrist to interlock with your own.

He squeezed them affectionately. You squeeze back.

The show itself was good but not half as interesting as you. Your expressions of delight, your low gasps of surprise, the way your lips angled down in distress at the emotional climax. He found himself unable to look away, watching the sparkle of the light reflecting in your eyes.

You noticed of course. You tried to ignore him to focus on the show, but every once and a while, you’d catch him – smile soft, eyes twinkling, playing with your fingers with the gentlest of touches.

“You’re supposed to be watching,” you whispered.

San kissed your knuckles. “I am,” he lied.

Honestly, if someone asked him what the play was about, he couldn’t explain a single part. Still, he listened with the most avid interest when you gushed and expressed how much you enjoyed it. 

Of course, until the growing urge to kiss you got too much. San clicked off the engine of the car in the driveway of the pack house, and you’d turned to him with such a large smile. It was like instinct to reach across the middle console and cup your cheeks, to drag you in closer and slot his lips over yours.

Kissing San was distracting you found. The cat threw himself into each kiss like he did a stage performance, like he had something to prove to you with each slide of his lips. Sometimes you got Sannie – the soft and sensual slide, the little huffs of breath, the hands that didn’t want to drift anyway disrespectful. Sometimes it was the Duke.

The nip of teeth against your bottom lip told you that’s who was kissing you now. It was harder, deeper, more control in how he licked between your teeth. The way he held you still, kept you close, and you let him, happy to take what he’d give you.

“Fuck, just,” the curse slipped through his lips, pressed like a bruise against you. You didn’t have time to react, before San was moving his hand to the side of his chair and yanked it back.

His fingers gripped your hips and tugged. He moved you effortlessly close, urged your legs to rest on either side of him. You gasped as you fell into him, hands splayed across his broad chest, before the sound was swallowed by a desperate touch.

San felt heady, restless, your sweet scent filling the car until it was all he could smell. It blurred his senses, made him forget the night of romance he had originally planned. The cat within him yowled and purred in delight. He’d have you there, San knew, if you let him.

He could have cried when you moaned into him and parted your lips to let him lick in. The taste of you was even better than the scent and it was lost to the addiction.

You pulled away with a shuddered inhale, and San buried his face in your neck. He pressed kisses there, small at first and then longer, a slide of tongue along where your scent was strongest and then the worrying of teeth. You melted against him, angled your head more to let him get impossibly closer, and he took it greedily.

Later, when you pulled yourself from the fogged-up windows of the car, Mingi gave you a shiteating grin. “In the driveway?” he teased. “Really?”

Wooyoung matched his expression. “Sannie, do you have no shame?”

Yeosang’s lips twitched in amusement. “Baby, have you seen your neck?”

-

Yunho poked your neck and you slapped his hand away. You huffed, ears turning red, while his grin widened next to you, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Baby…” he cooed.

You rolled your lips. “Don’t.”

Yunho scooted closer, resting his head on your shoulder. “Come on, please,” he pouted, “you let San do it.”

Across the room, the hybrid in question flushed across the back of his neck and squinted at the ceiling. If he avoided eye contact, he could hide his embarrassment and the swell of pride he felt when he looked at the bite he’d left on your neck.

It wasn’t a mating bite, wasn’t on the correct side of the neck, but that didn’t seem to matter to his hybrid, who purred and swayed in pleasure that you bore his teeth so high on your pretty skin. San had apologised of course, he’d gotten carried away, lots in the feeling and emotion, but when you looked elsewhere, he couldn’t keep his eyes off it.

His mark looked so good on you.

The others, of course, were equal parts amused as they were jealous. For you to hold any of their marks was an absolute delight, but the temptation to mark you themselves. Yeah, that was quite intense now that there was proof you’d let him so on display for them. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you scolded, half serious and half playful. Your Labrador hybrid looked so sweet like this, peering up at you with wide and hopeful eyes, it almost made you want to agree.

Because in theory, you didn’t mind having their hickeys along the curve of your throat. It had felt good, lost in San’s kisses and claiming touches, and the idea that each of them wanted to do the same to you, to drag their teeth across the soft skin of your neck, made you feel wonderfully warm all over.

However, the more sensible part of you was aware that this one mark was visible for not just your hybrids to see, but everyone – strangers, colleagues, bosses alike. It filled you with this fluttering of embarrassment, made you want to duck your head and hide away.

So even though the urge to bare your neck and let them have your way with you was high, you had put your foot down.

The boys respected your choices of course, but there were buttons to push, and Yunho was shaking with excess energy that he needed to dispel.

He stuck his bottom lip out more. You couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss it away. 

Wooyoung, head resting against your knee, perked up. “If he gets to, I want to,” he demanded.

Mingi made a noise of objection. “Me too.”

Across the room, Jongho turned the page on his book. “Dibs.”

Yeosang looked aghast. “You can’t call dibs on our baby.”

“I can,” Jongho shot back, “I just did.”

“Do I get a say in this?” you interrupted.

A hand brushed gentle through your hair and when you looked up there was Hongjoong’s calm expression looking down at you. It would have been innocent if it weren’t for the sharp glint in his eyes. “Of course beautiful,” he assured. His fingers danced a beat along the high point of your cheek, down your jaw, over the curve of your neck to rest comfortably there. “You can pick where.”

You’d laugh if you weren’t a second away from melting. You worried your bottom lip for a moment. “Just…below my collar line, okay?”

You might as well have begged for it for the way the room went tense, still, bodies thrumming with the expression of interest.

“Out of sight, out of mind, got it,” Seonghwa agreed. He was on the other end of the sofa to you, spreading his legs wider so you had enough space to fit between. He stretched out his arms and wriggled his fingers. “Now come here.”

-

You smothered your neck in foundation, concealer and a lot of setting spray. With the winter month, you were able to get away with high collars with scarves, even though the top of the bruise embarrassingly peeked over the fabric. San had been equal parts embarrassed and delighted, stroking the exposed mark with gentle wonder.

Still, you managed to hide it well enough.

Until you didn’t.

The break room was hot, and you’d been busy all morning, mind running a mile a minute with all the things you needed to do. You’d unwrapped your layers to lay claim to a chair before heading about making yourself a coffee. You hadn’t even realised until one of the production assistants – Soojin, you recalled the name belatedly – gasped excitedly.

“Unni,” she exclaimed, “you’re dating?”

You had hummed in agreement before pausing, registering what she said and asking, “How did you know that?”

She tapped her own neck and wriggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Your own hand slapped to cover the mark, and you must have looked truly aghast because her excitement faded into a mix of amusement and pity.

“Not serious yet?” she said.

Your heart pounding in your chest, you swallowed around your dry throat. “It’s not that, it’s just…we haven’t really told anyone yet. It’s still…new.”

You hadn’t even discussed what to say about your relationship. Are you telling people officially? You aren’t exactly subtle, the boys scent you all the time, but that could be seen as affectionate, just close co-workers, not –

It was professional at work; an appropriate distance kept for all of you. But Hongjoong had said more than once he wanted you in his pack. Yeosang had blushed when he explained mating marks, how it made everything real for their animal instincts as well, and confessed that he liked the idea that you were considering taking theirs. Yunho had been touching the hickeys adorning your skin like it was a daily ritual. Along your thighs, your hips, your breasts, you bore their bruising kisses.

You made a mental note to talk to Hongjoong about it when you got home.

Of course, that’s not where the conversation ended. KQ Entertainment was small and close knit. If anything, that made it worse. Rumours spread from the production team to PR to stylists to the dance team, and then of course to your boys.

One of the dancers had elbowed Mingi goodnaturedly and made a joke. Something about the pretty caretaker of theirs sporting marks and made some comment about how they’d missed their shot. It was nothing serious, meaningless words, but Mingi could feel the way his fox sat up, eyes narrowed, hunches high in displeasure.

He made himself laugh and act as if nothing was wrong, that he was screaming inside. If he was a little rougher during practice, that was no one’s business. When Yunho pulled him aside to find out what was wrong, he admitted to the way it scratched at the worst part of him, made him feel possessive and irritable. Because he knew who left the marks but no one else did and that left room to speculate.

“She’s ours,” he spat and took a deep breath to chase the flare of rage away.

Yunho patted him on the back in understanding. “Hold it together man,” he said, “10 more minutes and you can scent her to your heart’s content. Just try not to take it out on the dancers, yeah?”

When you did arrive, flushed with your scarf firmly secured around your neck, Mingi bullied you into the wall, removed the layer in the way and buried his face into the warm skin there. You yelped in surprise, stammered his name but relaxed, quiet and content, when Mingi rumbled his pleasure.

Your hands came to his head, silky strands slipping between splayed fingers, and angled your cheek towards him. “Tough practice?” you guessed.

Yunho snorted. “More like jealous fox.”

“Jealous?” you blinked. “About what?”

“You’re the talk of the company Noona,” Wooyoung teased.

“Are you okay?” Yeosang looked at you wide eyed. Mingi’s hold on you flexed at the question.

“I’m…a little embarrassed everyone’s talking about my love life,” you admitted. Seven pairs of eyes were looking at you so intently, you needed to look away, gaze dropping to their shoes. “Soojin-ah noticed first and she asked if I was dating someone and I…”

You weren’t sure if you could finish, uncertainty whirling in your stomach. What if they said not to tell anyone? That this needed to be some little secret? Or what if they said tell everyone? Your place in this group becoming public knowledge. Would it be allowed? Would the company terminate your contract because messing around was one thing, but permanence is another.

“Baby…”

Your vision flickered up. It was Yeosang who was taking the step towards you, boba eyes wide. If Mingi wasn’t already laying claim to you, Yeosang would have gathered you into his arms -  as long as someone was holding you. You looked so uncertain, worrying your bottom lip, lips flittering, like they were going to break your heart.

“If you think we don’t want to shout this from the rooftops, then we haven’t been doing our job right,” he said, voice clear, firm.

The honest shot right through you. “I know, but…”

“Tell everyone, tell no one,” Hongjoong interjected, “tell whoever you want. Don’t question for a moment that we want you with us.”

Wooyoung elbowed their leader. “He’s been wanting to give you a pack bite from the beginning,” he teased. He leant that way, into jokes and soft jabs, when he was worried, he might collapse under the weight of the moment.

Though nothing could have prepared from for the soft agreement that left your sweet lips.

“Okay.”

A simple word that had them all standing tense, hope and desire surging through them as their animal brains caught up with the moment.

Mingi had pulled away from you, eyes wide and dark, lips parting in surprise. “W-wait…”

“Are you sure?” Jongho asked. He could have rumbled his excitement, but he suppressed the urge, each muscle tensed individual as if that would hold him in place.

You looked at each of them. Your boys. Your pack. Your loves. Before you’d taken on this position, you never imagined living in a world like this. Never imagined being handled with such softness, never imagined how good it would feel to hold each of them in your embrace. Desperately, selfishly, you wanted this forever. They said they would always be yours, something wired deep in their DNA that would refuse to let you go even if you walked away from them.

But maybe you were more hybrid than you thought because the idea of leaving them behind, of living a life in their absence, made your soul cry. 

A pack mark was akin to a marriage band. It was serious and sacred. It was tying yourself so completely and utterly to a group of people. Your uncle had his own mating mark and had called it more permanent than a wedding band.

“You can break a marriage easy,” he had explained, “but this-“he gestured to the healed wound on his jugular, “-this was intended to be forever. You can break it, of course, but it takes work. It takes true pain.”

There was some evolutionary reason for it. You were sure that you had notes from lecturers about it from your university days. It didn’t really matter why though. In this moment, it came down to you and your confidence.

Were you confident that you would want to be here, with them, until the end?

The answer came so easily.

“I’m sure,” you nodded. 

You looked at Hongjoong, pack leader, who wore an expression that was a mix of joy and terror. He was almost convinced he was dreaming, that he hadn’t drunk enough water and now he was lightheaded, facing a fantasy. His skin was itchy, his red panda restless, and God, he hoped this was real. He wasn’t sure he could bare it if it wasn’t. 

And then you breathed out the words he’d wanted to hear from the beginning, your voice confident and so sure that that this – that him and his pack – were what you wanted. 

“Make me part of your pack.” 

-

Pack bites were something important to hybrids. It held weight and reverence and a lifetime commitment. This wouldn’t be rushed in to, no matter how much you would want it over with.

That night, in the Den, Hongjoong had tucked you under his arm, body curved over yours, cheek pressed to cheek. His breath felt hot there as he whispered, “You really want this? Want us?”

You angled your head to press in close. “I’ve never wanted something more,” you admitted.

Hongjoong could have full body shuddered. He had hoped of course, ever since you had stepped over the threshold, met his pack with a smile, leaving your sweet scent behind. It had been the same with the others – he’d met them and his hybrid decided that he wanted them. Call him possessive, but when he was sure, he couldn’t be dissuaded.

It was still true that he would have let you go though, even as it terrified him. He would have released you and wished you all the best in the world. 

But knowing now that you wanted him – wanted them all, his pack, his family – forever. That would bare his mark as the pack leader and if anyone asked, introduced him as your beloved.

“This is my husband, Hongjoong.”

He could just imagine your smile, the gesturing, the way his arm would slide around your waist, a claim he was allowed to make.

“We’ll pick a day,” he murmured, unable to keep the emotion from his voice, “We’ll show you that you should chose us. We’ll be worth it.”

Beside them, Yunho rolled in close. He pressed a kiss to the back of your hand and then to the back of his. Hongjoong felt how your body seemed to relax even more, the exhale releasing any remaining uncertainty.

“You are,” you promised. “Do whatever you feel is right for you and pack but don’t think you have to prove anything to me. I’ve made my choice. I’ll chose you every time.”

Hongjoong blinked rapidly so he wouldn’t cry.

Yunho whispered his love into your fingers, a sentiment that was echoed through the crowded space of the den. You felt warm, cocooned, protected by their affection.

It was decided that it would happen during the next big break. ATEEZ would have time just before their scheduled comeback, 5 days to a week of minimal workload to give them a chance to relax and prepare for the next busy cycle.

“It’ll be good then,” Yeosang had murmured, “we can stay with you.”

Hongjoong and Seonghwa had spoken to you about the mark, about how it affected other hybrids and their research into how it would affect humans like you. Hwa had pages of carefully written notes – because he remembered things better when he writes them by hand and this was important.

To them, there had been initial physical pain, an undeniable pressure of broken flesh, but their animals relished in it, rolled onto their bellies and submitted to their pack leader.

“You want to give everything over to them,” Seonghwa explained gently, voice soft and eyes softer when they consider Hongjoong.

The red panda in turn went a little pink, even as he smiled fondly. “For me, it’s like…the world was spinning and now a little steadier,” he explained, always lyrical in his explanations, “it’s intense though. I remember the need to hover around each of them. Jongho was the worst, he threatened to bite me if I didn’t give him space.”

You snorted. You could just imagine the wide eyed, tense jaw of your baby bear at his leader’s hovering.

“So be prepared to be smothered, got it,” you joked.

Hongjoong grinned, even as he ducked his head shyly. “For humans, it says it could feel like nothing or like everything,” he said.

Seonghwa squinted at his notes. “Some people have reported that they feel almost as animalistic as the hybrid biting them,” he quoted, “and others said that it just felt like a really good foreplay.”

“Kinky,” you muttered.

Seonghwa gave you a wicked smirk, and Hongjoong coughed, eyes rolling to the ceiling to gather himself. He scratched the back of his neck and commented, “I mean, I don’t think any of us would be objecting…”

You wouldn’t either.

“Would everyone…” you paused to consider your thoughts, “…participate?”

“We’ll be there,” Seonghwa answered. “As witnesses, as participants, whatever you want from us. It’ll be about you.”

“About us,” you corrected, “about our pack.”

You watched the way both hybrids visibly melted, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed. It sent a rush of warmth through you and more than anything, made you sure of your decision.

How could anything that made you feel like this be wrong?

When the day came, you felt like you could vibrate out of your skin. Excitement, nerves, reckless abandon and catastrophising worries circled through you. It was the same with the boys – the way they looked at you, touched you, scented you, like they were trying to get closer and terrified to in equal measure.

You waited until the evening. San insisted it was more romantic that way. Wooyoung dressed you himself – a dark purple satin styled sleep dress that bordered on lingerie, that he slipped over your head and adjusted the straps on with expressive eyes. He dropped kisses to everywhere his fingers touched, made your skin goosebump and your heartbeat wildly.

“You look beautiful, baby girl,” he whispered.

You couldn’t answer, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, but you stole a kiss – deep, forceful – on your way out that you hoped would convey everything you were feeling.

It was like they all had a part to play in the pagentry. Seonghwa escorted you down the stairs to the main room, touch burning everywhere he touched. Yunho and Mingi took over, one large hand over each of yours, leading you through the living room towards the corridor that lead to the den. There, four more pairs of eyes watched you, glinting in the dimly lit space.

You felt sick but in the best way.

“This all seems very dramatic,” you commented.

Mingi hummed and bowed just so to brush his nose along the top of your head. “We wanted it to be special for you,” he murmured.

You were about to be handed off to the next, Yeosang and San already had their hands outstretched for you, when you paused. “Wait.”

God, the way their expressions shuttered, scared, already heartbroken. You had to reach out and press desperate hands to both men’s chiselled cheeks, let him nuzzle into the soft flesh of your wrists.

“I have something for you,” you announced, and then broke from the decided path to scurry on bare feet to your overnight bag, left on the sofa where you had dropped it a days before. It didn’t really hold any of your own clothes, not when you wore theirs more often now, but what it held now was more precious to you.

Mating gifts were common, like wedding bands for a marriage. Your uncle had brought your aunt this pure gold necklace that she never took off. That had been a thought for a while, as the future of this relationship, of what he meant, pressed down on you. They were going to be giving you a future with them, welcoming you into their fold, and you wanted to do the same to them.

The small boxes trembled on top of each other as you moved. You passed them out carefully.

“I know you wear your team rings all the time,” you murmured, “so I wanted something that would match.”

The ones you got them were stacking rings, platinum, curved at the bottom to fit against the curved pattern of the team ring. You’d had to find a photo to show the jeweller so it could be custom made to fit. You wanted it to be something that they could wear forever.

You couldn’t watch all their faces at once, eyes dancing from one to the other as quick as you could. You watched Yeosang’s fingers touch the edge of the box, Hongjoong opening it, Jongho’s wide eyed expression when he stared into it.

It was San who stepped in close, wrapped a possessive hand around the back of your neck and kissed you so deeply that the strength left your body, slumping into his broad chest. He licked into your mouth and bit down on your bottom lip, before whispering his love into the swollen flesh. There were hands splayed against your back and a nose nudged against the line of your jaw.

An arm stretched around your waist and tugged you close, tearing your lips and attention from San to Hongjoong. He looked at you with glassy eyes, sharp eyebrows, lips parted as he breathed deeply. When he stroked your cheek, he did it with the finger that held both rings, the cold edge on your warm skin making you shiver.

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered.

“I know,” you were breathless, “I wanted to.”

His eyes darkened then as Hongjoong rested his forehead against yours. He took a moment, breathed you in, basked in the moment of feeling so strong that he felt his heart was going to beat out of his chest. “Let’s get started.”

The den room had been tidied. More cushions and blankets had been laid out precisely for you. Hongjoong led you carefully over tripping hazards to the centre of the room and then lowered himself onto his knees with you.

Behind you, the others filed in – Seonghwa shut the door behind him securely – and splayed themselves across the edges of the room. They layered over each other, arms around waists, legs intertwined. They held each other as they watched you.

It was only Jongho that stepped towards you, uncharacteristically nervous eyes dancing from you to Hongjoong as if checking this was okay.

“You wanted someone to hold you,” Hongjoong reminded.

“I won,” Jongho sounded equal parts delighted and wrecked.

The bear was so carefully as he sat beside you, splayed his legs wide and encouraged your body to fit against him. You could feel the deep rise and fall of his breathing against your back. He lowered his head to drop a kiss to your bared shoulder, hands flexing around your waist, and then pressed his cheek against your own.

You relaxed into him, trusting Jongho to keep you up right, to hold you close. Maybe Hongjoong knew that because he smiled at you, wide and open.

His teeth looked unusual sharp. You’d never really looked before but knowing they were about to pierce skin, you couldn’t think of anything else. Your scent must have soured just so because the room vibrated with energy and Jongho rumbled, a sound you knew was his bear trying to comfort you.

“It’s going to hurt,” you said, more to yourself than to the others.

Still, Hongjoong nodded. “Only for a moment,” he promised. He shuffled closer, warm palms sliding up the bare flesh of your legs to your thighs. He didn’t venture any further, rubbed comforting – and distracting – circles on your inner thigh. “I’ll make you feel good.”

It was a loaded promise. One that made desire curl in your stomach, twisting with the anxiety and fear that you felt. Your skin felt sensitive, goosebumps rising, and the muscles in your thighs jumped without warning.

Jongho pressed a sweet kiss to the highest point of your cheekbone.

You exhaled slowly. “Okay…” you licked your lips and flushed at the way Hongjoong’s eyes followed it, “I’m ready.” 

-----------------------------------------------

a/n: let me know if you want the rest of this pack marking scene. it would definitely be nsfw and since this fic hasn't been so far, I didn't want to add it in unexpectedly, but happy to write a spin off!

🏷️ @quaxing-lour @yizhou-time @jpow345 @princelingperfect @aireagle92 @sourlimesoda @livonianmaia @wolfhallows4 @dachshunddame @glowingsoup @devilzliaison @stxrrywoo @minkieater @moooonadroses @arieltwvdtohamflash @koztion @sangis-puppy (join the taglist)

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

You hadn't meant to discover the hole in the wall—a gap where the stone had crumbled between your chambers and his. It was small, barely the width of your  index and middle fingers, hidden behind the carved wooden screen that stood in the corner of your room. You'd only found it when you'd moved the screen aside to retrieve a dropped pearl earring, and there it was, a sliver of forbidden sight directly into the heir's private quarters.

You stared at it for a moment longer, crouched onto the floor with the pearl still in your palm.

Rotted mortar, you thought. Old stone. The Red Keep is falling apart in places no one bothers to look.

The right thing would have been to call for the servants, have it sealed with fresh mortar. To forget you'd ever seen it, like a proper lady would. 

That first night, however, curiosity won. Just a glance, you kept telling yourself. Just to see if it truly looked into Jacaerys's room or if your eyes had deceived you in the dim candlelight.

They hadn't, and your breath caught in your throat as soon as your eye found the gap. His bed was perfectly visible—the heavy posts of dark wood, the deep crimson coverlet embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. And there, tangled in those sheets, was your cousin.

Worst of all, he wasn't alone.

Turn away. The thought flickered through your mind even as you stayed perfectly still, silver hair spilling over your shoulder and onto the floor in waves as you leaned closer. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew what the right choice was. You simply weren't making it.

The woman beneath him was dark-haired, flushed, with her mouth open as Jacaerys pounded into her from behind, and you realized with a strange twist in your stomach that this was far from his first time. The rumors that swirled through the Red Keep were true, then. The Crown Prince, for all his duties and noble bearing in the daylight hours, was as much a creature of appetite as any Targaryen before him.

You, on the other hand, had never even been kissed. Never been touched. Good noble ladies waited for their wedding night, and common fucking was for the common whores—thank you for that wisdom, cousin Aemond.

His hand fisted in her dark hair, pulling her head back as he drove into her cunt with a rhythm that was almost borderline brutal. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the stone walls, punctuated by her breathy moans and his low groans of pleasure. You could see the sheen of sweat on his shoulders, the flex of muscle beneath his skin as he gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises.

"Fuck," he growled, and the vulgarity of it—hearing such words from the lips of the Crown Prince—sent a forbidden thrill down your spine. "You take me so well."

The woman whimpered something you couldn't quite hear, and Jacaerys laughed—dark and satisfied. He leaned forward, pressing her face into the pillows as he changed his angle, and her muffled cry of pleasure made heat pool low in your belly.

Your hand had somehow found its way to your throat, fingers pressed against your racing pulse. This was wrong, so utterly wrong. You sat here, watching your cousin rut like a beast in heat, and worse—far worse—your body was responding to it. Your thighs pressed together on their own accord, seeking friction you had no right to want.

Leave. Now.

You started to pull back from the gap, but then Jacaerys pulled out suddenly, flipping the girl onto her back with easy strength, and you caught a glimpse of him fully—his flushed cock, hard and completely shameless. He spread her thighs wide and thrusted back into her cunt in with one smooth stroke, and a gasp tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Your hand flew to your mouth, palm clamping hard over your lips. The pearl earring—forgotten, still clutched in your other hand—slipped from your fingers and hit the stone floor with a soft clink that sounded deafening in the quiet of your chamber.

You froze, heart hammering, terrified the sound had somehow carried through the wall.

But Jacaerys didn't pause, didn't look toward the gap. He was too focused on the woman beneath him, and you—gods help you—you couldn't look away.

"Look at me," he commanded, and something in his voice—the authority, the certainty, the  want—made your breath catch. The woman's eyes snapped to his face. "Good girl," he murmured, and thrust deeper.

The words sent heat flooding through you, pooling low into your belly. You felt it between your thighs—a pulse, an ache, something you had no name for. Your hand was still clamped over your mouth, but you couldn't move, couldn't think, could barely breathe—

The sharp knock at your chamber door made you jerk back from the wall as though it burned you.

"My lady?" came Lysa's voice, muffled through the heavy oak. "We've come to prepare you for supper."

You stumbled back from the screen. Your hand pressed against your cheek—Seven Hells, you were boiling. "A moment," you called out, breathless, hating how your voice wavered in the otherwise silent room.

You smoothed your skirts with trembling hands and tried to compose yourself before crossing to open the door. Your three ladies-in-waiting filed in—Lysa, Maryse, and young Elaena, their arms full of silks and jewelry boxes. They were good girls, all of them. You'd chosen them yourself—daughters of minor houses who actually seemed to like you rather than seeing you as a political opportunity. The last thing you needed were the usual vultures, daughters of great lords who'd spend more time reporting back to their mothers than actually being useful.

"You look flushed, my lady," Maryse observed you with immediate concern, setting down the silks onto the dressing table. "Are you well?"

"Quite well," you lied, settling into the chair before your mirror. Your reflection was damning, your silver hair mussed, falling loose from where you'd been pressed against the wall. Your cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide and dark, emphasizing the violet haze. You looked exactly like what you were, a woman who'd been watching something she had no business seeing. "The fire was burning too hot. I've only just opened the window."

Lysa moved to begin unpinning your hair, her fingers gentle, yet ever so clever, as they worked. "I see my lady. The cook's boy told me the funniest story today," she began, and you felt yourself relax into the familiar rhythm of their chatter.

This was safe. This was normal. Unlike whatever madness had possessed you just moments ago.

Elaena brought forward the gown, it was a beautiful collection of pale red silk that caught the candlelight like dawn breaking over the Narrow Sea. The bodice was fitted, the neckline modest but elegant, with delicate embroidery along the sleeves that fell into drapes. It was a gown befitting a princess of dragon blood, though you sometimes forgot that's what you were.

As your ladies worked, Lysa plaiting your hair into an intricate crown of braids, Maryse threading deep crimson rubies on fine silver chains to weave through the silver, Elaena carefully lacing you into your gown—your mind wandered despite your best efforts.

You could still see it. The flex of Jacaerys's shoulders, the way his head had fallen back in pleasure. The sound of his voice, rough with need and desire. 

Seven hells. 

"Tilt your head, my lady," Lysa murmured, and you obeyed, watching in the mirror as she secured the final braid with a dragon brooch of white gold and rubies, its eyes tiny chips of garnet that seemed to glow due to the candlelight.

Your hair fell in a waterfall of silver down your back, nearly to your calves, the braids creating an ornate crown that framed your face. The rubies caught the light like drops of blood, and for a moment you understood why men wrote songs about Targaryen women. More specifically, why their chantee’s were filled with tales of you.

"Beautiful," Maryse breathed, stepping back to admire their work.

You were beautiful. You knew this, had always known it—it was simply a fact, like knowing the sky was blue or fire was hot. But beauty felt like a strange, useless disease when your mind was still full of images it shouldn't hold.

When your thoughts were consumed by your cousin, the heir to the Iron Throne, and the way he'd looked lost in pleasure with a woman who wasn't you.

The private dining hall was already warm and loud when you arrived, filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of serving plates. This was your favorite meal of the week. no courtiers to impress, no performers to sit through, no need to smile politely while some lord droned on about his son and why he’s worthy of your hand. Just family. The table could have seated fifty people easily, but tonight it was just the twelve of you, which somehow made the hall feel bigger and emptier at the same time.

Rhaenyra sat at the head in a gown of black and red, her crown set aside for the evening, silver hair braided simply. Daemon lounged beside her, looking more like a dangerous cat than a prince consort. Down the table, Alicent sat with her children scattered among Rhaenyra's, Aegon laughing at something Jace had said, Helaena showing Baela her embroidery. A year ago, they'd been on the brink of war. Now they broke bread together like it had never happened.

"There she is," Aegon called out as you entered, already half in his cups despite the early hour. "Our lovely cousin, late as always."

"I'm not late," you replied, taking your usual seat between Helaena and Baela. "You're simply too eager for the wine, Aegon."

Aegon clutched his chest in mock offense while Helaena reached for your hand beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. She said nothing—she rarely did in company—but her smile was soft and genuine. You squeezed back, wishing she'd been born your sister instead of your cousin. She understood silence, understood that sometimes you just needed to exist quietly in a world that never managed to simply shut the fuck up.

"You look beautiful tonight," Helaena murmured, so quietly only you could hear. Her green eyes—so unlike the rest of the Targaryens—studied your face with an intensity that only she had. "Red suits you. Like fire. Like blood."

Before you could respond, the servants began bringing out the first course, and your attention was pulled elsewhere. You reached for your wine, grateful for something to do with your hands, and that's when you saw Jacaerys sat across the table and down two seats, between Luke and Joffrey. He was dressed formally in a black doublet with red embroidery, his dark hair still damp as though he'd bathed recently. He looked every inch the Crown Prince—composed, attentive, laughing at something Luke said.

He looked nothing like the man you'd seen less than an hour ago, flushed and shameless, fucking a woman whose name he probably didn't know. Or didn't care to remember. 

Your cheeks heated at the memory, and you quickly looked down at your plate.

Gods, were you that much of a prude?

"How was your afternoon, my dear?" Rhaenyra suddenly asked you, her voice carrying easily down the table. She'd always been kind to you, treating you more as a daughter than a niece. Your father's sister, mourning the brother she'd lost, had perhaps seen something of him in you.

"Quiet, Your Grace," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "I spent most of it reading in my chambers."

"Always with your books," Daemon observed with amusement. "You're worse than the damn Maesters."

The conversation flowed easily after that—talk of the day's small council meeting, Aegon's latest exploit (falling asleep during a petitioner's complaint), Helaena's new collection of butterflies. You participated when required, but part of your attention kept sliding back to Jacaerys despite your best efforts.

He caught you looking, which was more embarrassing than usual. His eyes narrowed, and for one horrible second you were certain he knew. Knew what you'd seen. Knew you'd watched. Your stomach dropped and you bit your lip hard enough to taste copper and looked away. When you risked another glance, he was already talking to Luke again, the moment forgotten.

It wasn't until the second course that Rhaenyra cleared her throat in that way that meant an announcement was coming. The table quieted immediately, all eyes turning to their queen.

"I've been thinking," she began, glancing at Jacaerys with obvious affection, "that our heir is now two and twenty. More than old enough to take a wife."

Across the table, Jacaerys kept his expression perfectly neutral and composed. But you saw his jaw tighten, saw the way his hand clenched briefly around his fork before he forced himself to relax.

"It's time we began seeking suitable matches," Rhaenyra continued. "I've already received inquiries from several great houses—the Arryns, the Starks, even a letter from the Triarchy expressing interest in an alliance."

"The Triarchy?" Daemon barked a laugh. "What would they offer, a wife who smells of spices, counts coins and wouldn't know what to do with a cock if you handed it to her with instructions?"

"They offered three ships of gold and exclusive trading rights," Rhaenyra replied dryly. "Which is more than most houses can promise."

"I won't marry for ships," Jacaerys said quietly, and something in his tone made you look at him once more. His expression was still composed, but there was a hardness around his eyes. 

"You'll marry where it serves the realm," Rhaenyra said, though not unkindly. "As I did. As all rulers must."

"You married for love the second time," Jace pointed out.

"The second time, yes." Rhaenyra smiled at Daemon. "But first I did my duty. And you will do yours."

The tension at the table was palpable. Alicent looked uncomfortable, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Aegon was watching the exchange with barely concealed glee—always happy when someone else was being pressed into marriage talk instead of him.

"We'll host a series of feasts," Rhaenyra continued, her tone allowing no argument. "Let the eligible ladies of the realm come to court. Let Jacaerys meet them, dance with them. Surely among them there will be someone suitable."

"How many feasts?" Luke asked, grimacing. "I hate feasts."

"As many as it takes," Rhaenyra replied. "We'll begin preparations the following morrow."

Your stomach dropped. Feast after feast, watching Jacaerys dance with simpering ladies who would fall over themselves for the chance to be queen. Watching him smile that charming smile, knowing what you now knew—that he was skilled at pleasing women, that he knew exactly how to make them fall at his feet.

"How exciting," Baela said beside you, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. "More opportunities to wear uncomfortable gowns and make pleasant conversation with people who hate us."

"They don't all hate us," you murmured, though your heart wasn't in the defense.

Across the table, Jacaerys stared at his wine cup like it might provide him with answers. You almost felt bad for him. If anyone at this table had no chance of marrying for love, it was him. Not that he seemed particularly interested in finding one person to settle down with, but still, your point stood.

"Well then," Aegon raised his cup. "To Jace's upcoming nuptials. May his future wife have the patience of a saint and the deafness of a stone."

Despite the tension, several people laughed, and Rhaenyra shook her head with exasperated fondness. "Perhaps we should have music," she suggested, gesturing to the musicians who always waited in the shadows during these intimate suppers. "Clear some space. Let us remember we're still young enough to enjoy ourselves."

"An excellent idea," Daemon agreed, already rising. He offered his hand to Rhaenyra with a theatrical bow that made her laugh.

The servants quickly moved the table back, creating a space for dancing as the musicians struck up a lively tune. It was informal, nothing like the rigid court dances you'd endure at the upcoming feasts—this was just family, moving together without judgment or ceremony.

Luke grabbed Rhaena's hand first, spinning her into the space with more enthusiasm than grace. She laughed, steadying him when he nearly tripped over his own feet. Joffrey tried to convince Helaena to dance, but she demurred with a gentle shake of her head, content to watch from her seat.

"Dance with me," Baela demanded, pulling you up before you could protest. "Before one of the boys asks and proceeds to step on our feet."

You let yourself be drawn into the movement, falling into the familiar pattern. Baela was a good dancer—all the Targaryen children were taught from youth that grace in the ballroom was as important as grace on dragonback. You switched partners as the song changed, first with Aegon, who was surprisingly light on his feet despite the wine, then with Luke, who apologized three times for nearly stepping on your hem, which you found adorable.

"You're doing fine," you assured him with a smile, and he grinned back, boyish and sweet.

When that dance ended, you found yourself passed to Jacaerys.

Your breath caught as his hand found yours, the other settling at your waist. His palm was large and warm against your back, steadying you. You could smell him now, clean linen and spice. Could see his eyes up close, brown with flecks of amber in the firelight. Could see, really see, how stupidly beautiful he was.

"Having fun?" he asked as he led you through the steps, his tone pleasantly neutral and polite. The exact same way he'd speak to any cousin at a family gathering.

"Yes," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "It's nice, having everyone together like this."

"Mm," he agreed, spinning you smoothly. "Rarer than it should be. Though I suppose it'll be even rarer once I'm shackled to some lord's daughter who'll expect me to sit through needlepoint demonstrations."

He was trying to make it sound like a joke, but it came out flat. Like he'd already accepted this was happening and hated every second of it.

"Maybe you'll find someone you actually like," you offered, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue.

A laugh, short and bitter. "Maybe. Though I doubt the great houses are sending their daughters for love matches. They want a crown, not a husband."

"Then perhaps you should look for someone who wants neither," you said before you could stop yourself.

Jacaerys raised an eyebrow, something that might have been interest flickering across his face. "And where would I find such a creature? They seem to be in short supply."

Before you could respond—before you could make an even greater fool of yourself—the song ended. Jace released you with a small bow, perfectly proper, and turned to offer his hand to Rhaena for the next dance.

You stepped back, your heart still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the exertion of dancing. He'd been so normal. So completely indifferent. There was no awareness in his eyes, no sign that he saw you as anything other than his cousin, someone to dance with at family gatherings and exchange pleasantries with at supper. Which was as it should be. You should be relieved and instead, you felt something uncomfortably close to disappointment.

"You look troubled," Helaena's soft voice came from beside you. She'd moved so quietly you hadn't noticed her approach. "Like a bird that's flown into a window."

You turned to her, finding those strange green eyes studying you. "I'm fine," you said automatically.

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured, her gaze distant in that way it sometimes got after one of her vision spells. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

"Helaena—"

But she'd already drifted away, drawn by something only she could see, leaving you standing at the edge of the dancing with her cryptic words echoing in your mind.

The spider watches from the corner. Seven hells, your poor, dear, earnest cousin knows you’re a pervert. 

You watched Jacaerys spin Rhaena through the steps, laughing at something she said. Watched him dance with Baela next, then with his mother, the perfect dutiful son. He never once looked your way again and you told yourself that was exactly what you wanted.

The dancing continued for another hour before Rhaenyra finally called an end to the evening. "Early council meeting tomorrow," she announced with apologetic warmth. "And I need at least some sleep if I'm to endure Tyland Lannister's complaints about the damned grain tariffs."

The group began to disperse—Aegon stumbling slightly as Aemond steadied him with the patience only a brother could have, Luke and Joffrey arguing about something as they headed toward their chambers. You walked back to your chambers with Helaena and Baela, their soft conversation a comfortable buffer against your own churning thoughts. When you finally reached your door, you bid them goodnight and slipped inside, leaning back against the heavy oak with a shaky exhale.

Your ladies had been by earlier, the room was tidy, the fire banked low, your nightgown laid out across the bed. Everything was peaceful and ordinary. Your gaze immediately drifted, unbidden, to the corner where the carved screen stood.

You shouldn't. You absolutely shouldn't. But your feet carried you forward anyway, your hands moving the screen aside with trembling, eager, perverted fingers.

Empty. Fuck. 

His room was dark save for a single candle burning on the bedside table. The crimson coverlet was smooth and undisturbed. The heavy curtains drawn back from the windows to let in the moonlight. No Jacaerys. No woman writhing beneath him. Nothing but silence and shadows.

You sat back on your heels, a strange mix of relief and something else—something you refused to name as disappointment—settling in your chest.

Where was he? 

It was late, well past the hour when most of the castle had retired. Perhaps he'd gone to the Street of Silk, unwilling to bring his entertainment into the Red Keep on a night when the family had gathered. Perhaps he was in someone else's bed entirely, some lady's maid or kitchen girl who'd caught his eye.

Perhaps he was being discreet, something he clearly hadn't bothered earlier today. The thought dissipated as quickly as it came, no, maybe he was being discreet. Thoughtful, even. Of course, he'd been perfectly discreet earlier too, it was your fault for being a creep. 

You pressed your palm against the cold stone, staring at that empty bed as though it might offer answers. The image from earlier was still burned into your mind—the flex of his shoulders, the sound of his voice rough with pleasure, the casual way he'd commanded that woman's body like he owned it.

Your cousin. The heir to the Iron Throne. The boy you'd grown up with, who used to let you win at cyvasse when you were children, who'd shown you how to skip stones across the fountain and laughed when you both got yelled at for it.

When the fuck had he turned into that? When had he learned to move like that, to take someone apart with his hands like it was easy?

And why, by all the Seven, couldn't you stop fucking thinking about it?

You pushed away from the wall, suddenly furious with yourself. This was madness. Dangerous, stupid madness that could only end in humiliation or worse. You needed to forget what you'd seen. Needed to seal that hole in the wall and pretend it had never existed.

Starting tomorrow. You'd call the servants first thing in the morning and have it filled with mortar. Tonight, tonight, though,  you would sleep, and you would not dream of your cousin's hands, or his voice, or the way he'd looked so beautiful while lost in pleasure.

You climbed into bed still wearing your red silk gown, too tired to call your ladies back to unlace you. The rubies in your hair pressed uncomfortably against the pillow until you pulled them free with impatient fingers, letting your silver hair spill loose around you.

Sleep was slow to come. When it finally did, you dreamed of dragons and fire, of flying on Cannibal's back while something nameless chased you through the clouds. And in the dream, when you finally turned to face it, it had Jacaerys's eyes.

You did not look through the hole the following morning.

The temptation was there—gods, it was there, a constant itch beneath your skin as your ladies dressed you. But you kept your eyes firmly away from that corner, focusing instead on the monotonous task of standing still while they laced you into your gown.

It was white today, or perhaps the palest blue, the color seemed to shift in the light like a sort of moonstone. The bodice was scaled like dragon armor, each piece of fabric layered and stitched to create the illusion of protection. Gold chains draped across your shoulders and down your bare arms, cold against your skin. More chains hung from your waist, swaying gently when you moved. The sleeves were sheer and flowing, doing little to ward off the morning chill.

"You look like a goddess," Elaena breathed as she stepped back to admire their work.

"I look like I'm about to freeze to death, thank you very much," you replied, though without any real complaint. 

Your hair was left mostly loose today, falling in silver waves down your back, with only two small braids pulled back from your face and secured with a dragon clasp of white gold. It was simple and appropriate for a small council meeting where you needed to be taken seriously.

The walk to the council chamber was embedded into your brain, your slippered feet silent on the cold stone floors. Guards nodded as you passed, servants stepped aside with murmured greetings. You were known throughout the Red Keep as kind, perhaps too kind for a Targaryen. You stopped to ask the head cook about her daughter's fever, remembered the name of the stable boy's new puppy hound, listened when the washerwomen complained about the state of the linens.

Your father had been like that, or so Rhaenyra told you. Loved by the smallfolk, remembered fondly even years after his death. You hoped it was true. You hoped you carried something of him beyond just his silver hair and violet eyes.

The council chamber was already half-full when you arrived. Lord Corlys sat at Rhaenyra's right hand, his age showing more each moon but his mind still sharp as any of the younger council members. Daemon lounged in his seat with typical irreverence, picking at his nails with a dagger. Grand Maester Gerardys shuffled through papers, and several other lords whose names you'd long since memorized filled out the remaining seats.

Rhaenys was there too, your mentor in all things draconic and strategic. She caught your eye as you entered and gave you a subtle nod of approval. She'd been instrumental in convincing Rhaenyra to let you train, to let you learn the ways of war despite your aunt's maternal protests.

"Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat. "I trust you slept well?"

"Well enough, Your Grace," you replied, ignoring the knowing look Daemon shot you. He always seemed to know when someone was lying, the bastard.

You'd earned your place at this table through years of study—history, law, trade routes, military strategy. While other noble daughters learned needlework and song, you'd buried yourself in the library, devouring every tome you could find. Knowledge was power, and you'd wanted to be useful. Wanted to matter beyond being another pretty Targaryen to marry off for alliances.

And then there was Cannibal. Your sweet baby boy, Cannibal. 

You'd claimed him at two and ten, a feat that had shocked the entire realm. The wild dragon, the one who'd killed and eaten other dragons, who'd never been ridden—you'd walked up to him on Dragonstone's smoking beaches and simply asked. And he'd lowered his massive black head and let you climb onto his back.

The bond between you was unlike anything the Dragonkeepers had seen. You could feel him, always, a presence at the back of your mind, dark and fierce and free. Sometimes you knew his thoughts, or at least his intentions. When he wanted to hunt. When he wanted to fly far from the castle and its confining walls. When he missed you, though he'd never admit it, that damned proud creature.

He was out there now, somewhere over the Bay of Blackwater or perhaps the Kingswood. You could feel him, distantly, content in his solitude.

Vhagar was different—ancient, massive, slow with age but no less deadly. Aemond insisted he had full control of her, but you'd seen the truth when you flew near them. Vhagar tolerated Aemond. She hadn't fully accepted him, not the way Cannibal had accepted you. It would take years, perhaps decades, before that bond truly solidified.

If Aemond lived that long. Vhagar was known for her temper.

And Cannibal—Cannibal was larger still. Nearly the size of Balerion the Black Dread himself, or so the Dragonkeepers whispered when they thought you couldn't hear. Black as a night sky with none of the stars, with eyes like green flame and teeth as long as swords. He'd never accept the Dragonpit even if he could fit, which he couldn't. He roosted where he pleased, in sea caves along the coast, in the ruins of old Valyrian outposts, anywhere that gave him space and freedom and solitude.

"Shall we begin?" Rhaenyra's voice pulled you from your thoughts. She waited until everyone had settled, then gestured for Grand Maester Gerardys to start with the day's business.

The first hour was tedious, grain shipments from the Reach, trade disputes with the Free Cities, a complaint from House Royce about border incursions from mountain clans. You paid attention, offered your thoughts when asked, but your mind kept drifting.

Don't think about it. Don't think about him.

"There is one more matter," Rhaenyra said as the meeting drew toward its close. She looked around the table, her gaze lingering on you for a moment before moving on. "I've decided that Jacaerys should begin attending these meetings regularly. Starting the following morrow, he'll be joining us."

A few eyebrows raised, but no one protested. It made sense, he was two and twenty, the acknowledged heir, soon to be married. He needed to understand the workings of the realm he would one day rule. 

"Will he be given a formal position?" Lord Corlys asked, ever practical, ever scheming. 

"Not immediately," Rhaenyra replied. "Let him observe first. Learn our ways, then we'll see where his talents might be best utilized."

Daemon snorted. "His talents are best utilized in the training yard and the—"

"Daemon," Rhaenyra cut him off with a warning look, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement.

You felt your cheeks heat and kept your eyes fixed firmly on the table. In a week’s time Jacaerys would be here, sitting in one of these chairs, probably directly across from you. You'd have to see him regularly, maintain professional courtesy, pretend you hadn't watched him fuck a woman senseless.

Gods have mercy.

"Any objections?" Rhaenyra asked, looking around the table.

Silence. What could anyone say? He was the heir and none of you were about to tell the Queen that her son wasn't allowed in the Small Council. That seemed like a great way to lose your head.

"Good. Then we're finished for today." She stood, and everyone else rose with her. "Same time in three days. Try not to let the realm burn down before then."

The council members began to file out, but Rhaenys caught your arm as you moved to leave.

"Walk with me," she said, and it wasn't really a request.

You followed her out into the corridor, down a side passage that led into the city and the Dragonpit. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never quite lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem distracted," she finally said.

"I'm fine."

"You're lying." She stopped, turning to face you with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "What's wrong?"

For a wild moment, you considered telling her. I accidentally discovered a hole in my wall that looks into Jacaerys's chambers, and now I can't stop thinking about what I saw, and I think I'm losing my mind.

Instead, you said, "I'm just tired. The dancing went rather late last night."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced, but eventually she nodded. "Very well. But if something is bothering you—truly bothering you—you know you can come to me."

"I know," you said softly. "Thank you."

She squeezed your shoulder once, then continued down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the distant sound of dragons roaring in their pit.

You stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, and wondered how in seven hells you were going to survive sitting across from Jacaerys in council meetings. Wondered if he'd look at you the same way he'd looked at you while dancing—politely indifferent, completely unaware of the effect he had.

Wondered if that was better or worse than the alternative.

You found yourself wandering toward the kitchens, drawn by the familiar sounds of clattering pots and raised voices. The rest of the castle felt too quiet after council meetings, too full of people watching their words. The kitchens were honest, they were steaming hot, loud and smelling like fresh bread and meat.

"My lady!" Jessamyn looked up from the massive hearth, her round face flushed from the heat. She'd been head cook for as long as you could remember, ruling her domain with an iron ladle and a sharp tongue. "What brings you down here? Shouldn't you be off doing princess things?"

"Princess things are dreadfully boring," you replied, stealing a piece of candied lemon from a nearby tray. "I'd much rather be here."

"Oi, those are for tonight's supper!" But Jessamyn was smiling, swatting at you halfheartedly with her wooden spoon.

The kitchen staff had long since grown accustomed to your presence. You'd been sneaking down here since you were a child, preferring the warmth and chatter to the formality of the upper floors. Here, no one cared that you were a Targaryen. Here, you were just the girl who always burned her tongue on the stew and asked too many questions about how to make proper gravy.

"How's Mara's fever?" you asked, hopping up onto a cleared section of the work table.

"Broke this morning, thank the gods." Jessamyn's expression softened. "That tea you brought from the Maester helped, I think."

"Good. I'm glad." You watched as two scullery maids argued over the proper way to pluck a chicken, their debate growing increasingly heated. "Should you be concerned about that?"

"They'll sort it out," Jessamyn said dismissively. "Or they'll stab each other with the bloody kitchen knives, and I'll have two fewer girls making my life a misery. Either way."

"You staying for midday meal?" one of the kitchen boys asked hopefully. "We're making that venison stew you like."

"Can't today. I'm going to the Dragonpit."

"Your beast finally coming back?" Jessamyn asked, pulling a tray of bread from the oven. "Haven't seen him in what, near a fortnight?"

"Twelve days," you confirmed. Cannibal preferred his freedom, and you'd never been one to cage him. He came when he wanted, and you would not have it  any other way. "He's out past Blackwater Bay somewhere. I can feel him."

"Feel him," one of the maids muttered. "Still sounds like madness to me, my lady."

"It is madness," you agreed cheerfully. "But it's a very useful madness."

You stayed a while longer, listening to the kitchen gossip, who was bedding whom, which lordling had insulted which servant, the general consensus that the upcoming feasts were going to be a right fucking nightmare to prepare for. Apparently, Rhaenyra had requested swan for one of them, and Jessamyn was already composing angry speeches about the impracticality of cooking swan.

"Tough as old leather and mean as sin," she complained, gesturing violently with her ladle. "But does Her Grace care? No. She wants swan because it's elegant. I'll give her elegant—I'll serve it so tough she'll break a tooth on it."

"I'll speak to her," you offered. "Suggest something else."

"You're a good girl," Jessamyn said, patting your cheek with a flour-dusted hand. "Too good for this lot of pompous cunts, if you ask me."

Eventually, you took your leave, stealing one more piece of candied lemon on your way out just to hear Jessamyn's exasperated shout behind you.

The walk to the Dragonpit took you through the city streets, and you pulled your cloak up to hide your distinctive hair. The smallfolk knew you by sight anyway—you came this way often enough—but it was easier not to draw any attention. A few people nodded as you passed, and you nodded back, trying not to think about how different you were from most nobles who never set foot outside the Red Keep's walls without a full escort of gold cloaks.

The Dragonpit loomed ahead, ancient and crumbling in places despite the best efforts to maintain it. The Dragonkeepers bowed as you approached, their respect tinged with something like awe. They still spoke in hushed tones about the day you'd claimed Cannibal, about the wild dragon who'd finally accepted a rider.

You came here even though your dragon never would. Cannibal was too large. He'd never fit through the Dragonpit's entrance even if he wanted to, which he decidedly did not.  But you came anyway, to see the other dragons, to speak with the Dragonkeepers who understood what it meant to be bonded to such creatures.

"My lady," the eldest keeper greeted you. "Still no sign of your beast?"

"He's hunting in the Kingswood," you replied, moving past them into the cavernous space. 

Some of the other dragons were here, Vermax in his usual corner, Arrax further back, Syrax sunning herself near the entrance where the light streamed in. They all shifted as you entered, great scaled heads turning, sensing you the way dragons always sensed Targaryen blood.

But none of them called to you the way Cannibal did. None of them were yours.

You could feel him now, distant but present in your mind. He was flying over the Kingswood, hunting deer or perhaps wild boar. Satisfied. He sent you an impression—not words, but feeling—of wind and height and the joy of the chase.

Umbās lenton, ñuha riña, you thought at him in High Valyrian, not knowing if he could truly hear your thoughts the way you felt his intentions. Māzigon lo jorrāelagon. 

Stay free, my boy. Come if needed.

You stood there in the Dragonpit for a while, watching the other dragons, feeling the heat of their breath and the weight of their ancient eyes. Vhagar wasn't here either—she was too massive, kept in the fields outside the city where she had room to spread her wings without crushing half the buildings in King's Landing. But even Vhagar was smaller than Cannibal. 

"He burns green, doesn't he?" one of the younger keepers asked, approaching cautiously. "Your Cannibal. Green flame."

"Yes," you confirmed. "Like poison made fire."

The keeper shuddered slightly. "I've never seen anything like it. Most dragons burn orange or red, sometimes gold. But green and his size. Seven hells, my lady, he's near as big as Balerion was."

"Bigger, perhaps," you said softly. "He's still growing."

The thought should have terrified you. Instead, it filled you with something like pride.

Supper that evening was a grander affair than the intimate family meal from the night before. The great hall was filled with lords and ladies of the court, the high table crowded with Targaryens and their most favored bannermen. Musicians played from the gallery, servants moved between the tables with platters of roasted boar and honeyed duck, and the wine flowed freely.

You sat between Baela and one of the Velaryon cousins whose name you could never quite remember, making polite conversation and trying not to let your gaze wander too obviously across the hall.

Jacaerys, much to your surprise, wasn't there.

His seat at the high table sat empty, and when you'd asked Rhaenyra about it as casually as you could manage, she'd simply said he was indisposed. Daemon had smirked into his wine cup at that, and you'd felt your cheeks burn.

Indisposed. Right, your arse.

The meal dragged on, course after course, toast after toast, Lord Whoever droning on about trade agreements until you wanted to scream. You smiled and nodded and said the right things, all while your mind churned with thoughts you had no business thinking.

Where was he? Out in the city again, finding another willing woman to warm his bed? Or perhaps he'd brought someone here, to his chambers, and simply hadn't wanted to risk being seen at supper with the smell of sex still clinging to him.

Gods, you needed to stop. This needed to stop, permanently, and immediately. 

By the time Rhaenyra finally dismissed the court for the evening, you were wound tight as a crossbow string. You said your goodnights to Baela and Helaena, declined Aegon's slurred offer to continue drinking in his chambers, and practically fled back to your own rooms.

Your ladies had already been by, the fire was lit, your sleeping shift laid out. You should call them back to help you out of your gown. Should prepare for bed like a sensible person and get some actual sleep before tomorrow's duties.

Instead, you found yourself moving toward the corner where the carved screen stood.

Don't, you told yourself firmly. Don't be a fool.

But your hands were already pushing the screen aside, your knees hitting the cold stone floor as you pressed your eye to the gap.

Empty. Again. Damn, damn, damn.

The room was dark save for moonlight streaming through the windows. The bed undisturbed, the coverlet smooth. No candles lit, no sign of life. You sat back, frustration coiling in your chest. Where in the seven hells was he?

You should go to bed. Should stop this madness before it consumed you entirely. But instead, you paced. Back and forth across your chamber like a caged animal, your silk skirts swishing against the floor. Every few minutes you'd stop, kneel down, check the hole again.

Still empty.

This was pathetic. You were pathetic. Waiting like some lovesick girl for a glimpse of a man who didn't even know you existed beyond being his cousin at family suppers.

He danced with you, a small voice whispered in your mind. He smiled at you.

He smiled at everyone. That was what princes did. And once again, you checked.

Empty.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, pressing your forehead against the cool stone. This was going to drive you mad. You needed to seal this hole, needed to forget you'd ever found it, needed to—

The door to his chamber opened and you froze, eye pressed to the gap, heart suddenly hammering.

Jacaerys entered first, and he wasn't alone. Your throat tightened, and for a split second, you told yourself to look away, to be decent for once. Instead, you pressed harder against the gap, like that might somehow get you closer.

The woman who followed him through the door was decidedly not a servant or a whore from the Street of Silk. Her gown was fine silk, deep green with gold embroidery at the sleeves. This was expensive, well-made, the kind only highborn ladies wore. Her dark hair was pinned up elaborately, though a few strands had come loose, and when she laughed at something Jace said, the sound was refined. 

You recognized her after a moment—Lady Cassandra Baratheon, one of Lord Borros's daughters. She'd been at court for the past month, ostensibly to foster closer ties between Storm's End and the crown.

Apparently, she'd been fostering ties of a different sort.

"Wine?" Jace asked, moving to the table where a pitcher sat waiting.

"Please," Cassandra replied, and there was an ease between them that spoke of familiarity. This wasn't their first time together. Not even close.

Something hot and ugly twisted in your chest. Jealousy, perhaps, though you had no right to it.

Jace poured two cups, handed her one, and they stood there for a moment just talking. You couldn't hear the words through the stone, but you could see the way Cassandra touched his arm, fingers trailing down from shoulder to elbow with the intimacy of someone who'd done it before. The way Jace leaned in closer, his head tilted as he listened to whatever she was saying, a small smile playing at his lips.

And then he kissed her, and you inhaled sharply, pulse suddenly pounding everywhere, your throat, your wrists, between your legs.

It started slow—almost tender, really. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb stroking along the line of her jaw as their mouths moved together in a way that suggested they'd learned each other's rhythms. Cassandra made a soft sound, stepping into him, and her fingers tangled in his dark hair, tugging slightly.

Pervert, pervert, pervert.  

Your eye stayed pressed to the gap in the stone. Your hand, seemingly of its own accord, had drifted to press against your stomach, just above where heat was beginning to pool low and insistent. 

Jace backed her toward the bed, still kissing her, his hands starting to work at the laces of her gown. She helped him, both of them fumbling slightly in their eagerness despite clearly having done this dance before. You watched as layer after layer of silk fell away and onto the floor, first was the overdress, then the underdress, then the stays—until she stood in just her shift, the thin fabric clinging to curves that made your throat go dry.

"Gods, you're beautiful," Jace murmured and you could read the words on his lips even if you couldn't quite hear them through the stone.

Cassandra smiled, reaching for the fastenings of his doublet. "You say that to all of them, my grace."

Your jaw clenched. So you were right. There were others. Many others, probably.

"I mean it with you," Jace said, and you wanted to scream at Cassandra not to believe him, that those were just pretty words he knew how to wield. 

But Cassandra seemed to believe him, or at least didn't care if it was true. She pushed his doublet off his shoulders, her hands running over his chest, fingernails scraping lightly over skin, and Jace groaned—a sound you felt echo between your own thighs. He pulled her shift over her head in one smooth motion, and then she was naked before him.

She was beautiful, that you could admit that even through the haze of jealousy burning in your chest. Full breasts, a narrow waist flaring into hips that Jace's hands immediately claimed, skin like cream in the candlelight. Dark hair spilled down her back as Jace turned her around, pressing kisses down her spine, and you watched his mouth trace the path of her vertebrae one by one.

"Jace," she breathed, arching back against him, pressing her bare arse against where you could see he was already hard beneath his breeches.

Your own breathing had gone shallow. Your hand pressed harder against your stomach, wanting to move lower but not quite daring. Not yet.

Jace took his time with her. His hands mapped every curve, every dip and swell of her body. He cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked and she gasped. Kissed the side of her neck, teeth scraping against the tendon there in a way that made her shiver. Slid one hand down her stomach, between her thighs, and even from here you could see how she bucked against his touch.

"Please," Cassandra whimpered, and the desperate edge to her voice made your breath catch.

"Patience," Jace murmured against her skin, but there was dark amusement in his tone. He was enjoying this—enjoying making her wait, making her beg.

When he finally guided her onto the bed, she went willingly, eagerly, spreading herself out on the crimson coverlet like an offering. Her thighs fell open without prompting, shameless in her want, and you could see the glistening evidence of her arousal even from your hidden vantage point.

Jace shed the rest of his clothes—unlacing his breeches with quick movements—and your mouth went dry at the sight of him. You'd seen him before, that first night, but somehow this felt different. More intimate. You could see every line of muscle in his stomach, the dark hair trailing down from his navel, the thick length of his cock jutting proudly from his hips as he climbed onto the bed.

Your hand finally, finally, slipped beneath the waistband of your smallclothes.

Jace settled between Cassandra's thighs, bracing himself above her on his forearms, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Then he pushed his cock deep inside her—slow, so agonizingly slow—and Cassandra's head fell back with a moan that you felt echo through your own body.

“Your grace—-hhhhh,” she moaned.

Your fingers found the wet heat between your legs, already slick and aching. You bit your lip hard to keep from making a sound.

"Fuck," Jace groaned, his hips rolling in a steady, measured rhythm. "You feel perfect. So tight and wet for me."

"Harder," Cassandra gasped, her nails raking down his back hard enough to leave red marks. "Please, your grace, I need—"

He gave her exactly what she wanted.

The gentleness evaporated like morning mist, replaced by something raw and almost brutal. Jace pulled nearly all the way out before slamming his cock back into her, and Cassandra cried out—pleasure and pain mixing in her voice in a way that made your fingers circle faster over your clit. His hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the long line of her throat, and his teeth found the skin there, biting down just hard enough to make her gasp.

"Is this what you wanted?" Jace growled, his voice low and dangerous in a way you'd never heard before. Not gentle, princely Jace. This was something darker. "This what you've been thinking about all through supper? Sitting there with your father, making polite conversation, while all you could think about was having my cock inside you?"

"Yes," Cassandra sobbed, her body arching to meet each brutal thrust. The obscenity of the words, the rawness of it, sent liquid heat flooding through you. "Gods, yes, don't stop—please don't stop—"

Your fingers worked faster, your other hand coming up to muffle any sounds threatening to escape your throat. You could feel your own wetness coating your fingers, could feel the tension building low in your belly as you watched Jace fuck Cassandra with single-minded intensity.

"Greedy little thing," Jace muttered, but there was dark satisfaction in his tone. His free hand moved between their bodies, and you knew exactly what he was doing when Cassandra suddenly cried out sharply, her whole body going rigid. He was circling her clit with his thumb while he pounded into her, giving her pleasure from two directions at once, and the thought of it—the thought of him doing that to you—made your legs tremble.

"Jace, I'm going to—oh gods, I'm going to come—"

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough and strained. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you, sweetling."

She shattered. Her whole body convulsed, back arching off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream before the sound finally tore from her throat—his name, over and over, like a prayer. You could see the way her cunt clenched around him, could see the exact moment the pleasure crested and broke over her.

Your own fingers moved desperately, chasing the same release, imagining it was Jace's hand between your thighs, Jace's cock filling you, Jace's voice in your ear telling you how good you felt. But Jace didn't stop. He kept fucking Cassandra through her peak, relentless, using her body to chase his own pleasure as she whimpered and clutched at the sheets beneath her. Her sensitivity must have been overwhelming, but he showed no mercy, just kept driving into her with brutalness. 

He was so undeniably good at this, at fucking whores, noble ladies, at driving his cock into their cunts and making them squeal beneath him from the pleasure.

"Too much," she gasped, but her hips were still rising to meet his, her body betraying her words. "Y-your grace, it's—fuck—it's too much—"

"You can take it," he said, and there was something almost cruel in his certainty. "You always take it so well for me."

His rhythm grew erratic, desperate. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched, the muscles in his arse flexing with each thrust. He was close—so close—

Your own pleasure was building, that familiar tightening, that pressure mounting—

Jace pulled out suddenly, wrapping his hand around himself and stroking once, twice, before he came with a groan that sounded almost pained. His seed spilled across Cassandra's stomach in thick ropes, marking her, claiming her, and the sight of it—the raw, animalistic possession of it—sent you tumbling over the edge.

You bit down on your palm hard enough to taste blood, muffling the sound threatening to tear from your throat as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your fingers didn't stop, working you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive and barely able to see through the haze.

When you finally came back to yourself, gasping and trembling, Jace was cleaning Cassandra with gentle touches that seemed almost absurd after the brutality of moments before. She was boneless against the pillows, looking thoroughly debauched, her hair a tangled mess and her skin flushed pink.

"Stay," Jace said quietly, pulling her against his chest.

"I shouldn't," Cassandra murmured, but she was already nestling into him, her head tucked beneath his chin. "If someone finds out—"

"Let them find out. I don't care."

You wanted to laugh at the lie of it. Of course he cared. He just didn't care enough not to fuck her. Within minutes, Cassandra's breathing had evened out into sleep, her body going lax in his arms. Jace stared at the ceiling for a long while, his expression unreadable in the dim light. One hand stroked absently through her hair, gentle in a way that made your chest ache.

Then he turned his head slightly—and for one heart-stopping moment, his gaze seemed to land exactly where you knelt. Directly at the wall. Directly at your hiding place.

But that was impossible. He couldn't see you through solid stone. Couldn't know you were there, hand still between your thighs, lips swollen from biting back your moans, watching him like some desperate, pathetic creature.

You jerked back from the hole anyway, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. Your whole body was trembling—from the release, from the fear of discovery, from shame so acute it felt like it might choke you. You'd just brought yourself to peak while watching your cousin fuck another woman. While imagining it was you in that bed, you he was whispering filth to, you he was making come apart on his cock.

This was sick. Wrong. You were sick and wrong and yet, deep down, you knew, with terrible certainty, that you'd be back tomorrow night. And the night after that. Until this madness either consumed you or destroyed you entirely.

You barely slept that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him, his shoulders, his body, his thick cock, the way his hand had fisted in Cassandra's hair, the rough timber of his voice as he'd commanded her to come. And beneath it all, the shameful memory of your own hand between your thighs, chasing pleasure you had no right to feel.

When dawn finally broke, you were grateful for it.

Your ladies dressed you in silence, perhaps sensing your foul mood. The gown today was the palest blush pink. The bodice was fitted with embroidered silver thread in delicate patterns that caught the morning sun. The neckline dipped low, modest enough for court but still flattering, drawing the eye. Long flowing sleeves of sheer silk hung from your shoulders, gossamer-thin, moving like water with each gesture. The skirts were layers upon layers of the same pale silk, creating an almost dreamlike effect as you walked, the fabric seeming to float around you.

The walk to the council chamber felt longer than usual. You nodded to the guards, smiled at passing servants, and tried not to think about the fact that Jacaerys would be here today. His first small council meeting. Sitting across from you for hours while you pretended you hadn't watched him fuck Lady Baratheon into the mattress last night.

Gods give you strength.

The council chamber was already filling when you arrived. "Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat.

"Your Grace." You settled into your chair, arranging your skirts, trying not to look at the empty seat that would soon be occupied.

Others filtered in quick waves, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, Master of Coin; Ser Steffon Darklyn, Commander of the City Watch; a handful of other lords whose presence was required. The table filled, voices murmuring in low conversation.

Then the door opened again, and Jacaerys entered.

He looked... gods, he looked perfect. Rested and put-together in a way that seemed deeply unfair given what you knew he'd been doing until late into the night. His doublet was his usual black with red embroidery, his dark hair neatly combed, and when he smiled at his mother, it was warm and genuine and completely utterly unbothered.

"Apologies for my lateness," he said, taking the empty seat directly across from you.

Of course. Of course he'd be directly in your line of sight.

His eyes met yours for a brief moment—polite, pleasant, utterly indifferent—before moving on. No recognition. No awareness that anything was amiss. He had no idea what you'd witnessed. No idea that you'd spent the night with your hand between your thighs, imagining it was you in Cassandra Baratheon's place.

"Let us begin," Rhaenyra said once everyone had settled. She gestured to Grand Maester Gerardys. "The reports from the North, if you would."

Gerardys cleared his throat and began reading, something about increased wildling activity beyond the Wall, requests from the Night's Watch for additional men and supplies. You forced yourself to pay attention, to nod at the appropriate moments, to look anywhere except at Jacaerys.

It was going to be a very long meeting. The discussion moved from the North to the Stepstones, where Daemon's efforts to hold the islands remained precarious at best. Then to trade disputes with Pentos, grain shortages in the Reach, and a particularly tedious debate about tax collection methods that made you want to throw yourself from the nearest window.

Jacaerys contributed thoughtfully when asked, his observations intelligent and well-reasoned. He'd been well-trained for this, you realized. Rhaenyra had made sure her heir would be ready to rule, ready to navigate the complexities of statecraft. Of the Realm. 

Ready to be the perfect prince while fucking half the women in King's Landing in his spare time.

"There is another matter," Rhaenys said, her voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts. She was looking at you, and there was something in her expression that made your stomach clench. "The matter of our dragons and their war-readiness."

The table went quiet.

"The realm is at peace," Lord Corlys pointed out carefully.

"For now," Rhaenys replied. "But peace is a fragile thing, as we all learned during the—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "—recent troubles. We cannot afford to be complacent."

"What are you suggesting?" Rhaenyra asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.

"That we ensure our dragons are battle-ready. That we train them for war, even if we pray that war never comes." Rhaenys turned her sharp gaze fully on you. "Cannibal, in particular, has never been tested in true combat. He's large, powerful, but wild and untested."

Your jaw tightened. "Cannibal doesn't need testing. He's—"

"A wild dragon who's only known freedom," Rhaenys interrupted, not unkindly. "I'm not questioning your bond with him, child. I'm suggesting that bond needs to be forged stronger and that will only come through discipline."

"You want me to train him for war," you said flatly.

"I want you to prepare him for the possibility of war." Rhaenys leaned forward slightly. "With drills and formation flying with the other dragons. Learning to respond to commands in the chaos of battle. These things take time and practice."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to say that Cannibal would never tolerate such constraints, that he'd sooner eat the other dragons than fly in formation with them. That forcing him into drills and formations would break something fundamental in the bond between you, the trust that came from respecting his need for freedom.

"I don't think it's a good idea," you said carefully. "Cannibal isn't like the other dragons. He's larger, older in his ways. Trying to force him into formations could be potentially dangerous."

"Dangerous for whom?" Daemon asked, sounding genuinely curious rather than mocking. "For you, or for the other dragons?"

"Both," you admitted. "Cannibal doesn't play well with others. He never has. That's why he lived alone on Dragonstone for so long, why he—" you stopped yourself before saying ate the other dragons, because that seemed impolitic in the moment. "Why he prefers solitude."

"All the more reason to socialize him now," Rhaenys countered. "Before we're in the middle of a battle and he decides another dragon looks appetizing."

A few uncomfortable chuckles around the table. It wasn't really a joke, not one you found particularly funny. 

"What about Vhagar?" you asked, grasping for any argument. "She's larger, older. Is Aemond expected to fly formation drills with her?"

"Vhagar is already battle-tested," Rhaenys replied. "She fought in Aegon's Conquest, in the wars since. She knows what's expected. Cannibal has only ever known hunting sheep and being left alone."

It stung because it was true. For all his size and power, Cannibal had never been to war. Had never been asked to do anything more demanding than fly when you called and let you sit astride him while he soared through the clouds.

"What does Her Grace think?" you asked, turning to Rhaenyra. Let the Queen make this decision, let it not be your choice to potentially damage the one pure thing in your life.

Rhaenyra studied you for a long moment, her expression deep in thought. "I think Rhaenys makes valid points. But I also trust your judgment when it comes to your dragon. If you truly believe this would be harmful rather than helpful, I'll take that into consideration."

It was a careful, political answer. She was giving you an out, but also making it clear that refusing would require solid justification, not just childish objection. 

"I'll think about it," you said finally. "Perhaps we could start small. Test his tolerance before committing to full formation drills."

"A reasonable compromise," Rhaenys agreed, though she didn't look entirely satisfied. "We'll begin in a week's time. Simple exercises first."

The knot in your stomach tightened, but you nodded anyway.

"What about Vermax?" Daemon asked, his gaze sliding to Jacaerys with lazy interest. "The heir's dragon should certainly be included in this training."

"Vermax and I train regularly," Jace said, and there was the slightest edge of defensiveness in his tone.

"In the training yard, yes," Rhaenys replied. "But have you ever taken him into simulated combat? Flown him through fire and smoke? Tested his response time when startled?"

Jace's jaw tightened. "No."

"Then you'll join us as well," Rhaenys said, brooking no argument. "All dragonriders of fighting age. Baela, Rhaena, Aegon if we can pry him away from his cups long enough."

"Then it's settled," Rhaenyra said, her tone making it clear the discussion was closed. "Rhaenys will oversee the training regimen. All dragonriders are expected to participate." Her eyes found yours. "Including you, niece. I know Cannibal prefers his solitude, but this is necessary."

You bit back a dozen more arguments and simply nodded. "As you command, Your Grace."

The meeting dragged on for another hour, more reports, more discussions, more decisions that needed to be made. Through it all, you were acutely aware of Jacaerys sitting across from you. The way he listened intently when others spoke. The way his fingers drummed absently against the table when he was thinking. The way he looked so effortlessly princely while you sat there trying not to remember the sound of his voice, rough with pleasure, commanding Cassandra to come for him.

Finally, finally, Rhaenyra called an end to it. "Same time in three days. Try not to let anything catch fire before then."

You stood quickly, eager to escape before—

"Walk with me?" Rhaenys said, appearing at your elbow.

Of course because the gods clearly thought you hadn't suffered enough today. You fell into step beside her, following her out of the council chamber and down a side corridor. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem troubled," she finally said.

"I don't think Cannibal will take well to this training. I'm worried it will damage our bond."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced that was the whole truth. "He'll adjust. The bond between you is strong enough to weather some discomfort."

"It's not just discomfort. He's not like the other dragons. He's—"

"Wild. Yes, I know. But wildness can be channeled, shaped, without breaking it entirely." She squeezed your shoulder gently. "Trust me, and more importantly, trust him. Trust that your bond is stronger than a few training exercises. He did choose you, at the end of the day."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

"Now," Rhaenys said, her tone shifting to something lighter, "I believe Helaena was looking for you earlier. Something about her insects?"

Right. Helaena. Safe, sweet Helaena who wouldn't ask probing questions about why you looked like you hadn't slept properly in days.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "For everything, Aunt."

Rhaenys smiled, though there was something sad in it. "Go. Spend time with your cousin. The gods know there are precious few people in this world who'll love us without wanting something in return."

You found Helaena in her chambers, which were somehow both cluttered and organized in a way only she could manage. Jars and terrariums covered every surface, each containing some specimen or another, there were butterflies, beetles, spiders, things you couldn't even name. It was entirely Helaena. 

"You came," Helaena said, looking up from where she was carefully transferring a large iridescent beetle from one container to another. Her silver-gold hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wore a simple gown of pale green that brought out the unusual color of her eyes. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Of course I came." You settled onto the cushioned bench beside her workspace, careful not to disturb anything. The layers of your pink gown pooled around you like flower petals. "What have you found, dear cousin?"

Helaena's face lit up in that rare, genuine smile she reserved for the things she truly loved. "A stag beetle. Look at his mandibles, aren't they magnificent?"

You looked. The beetle was indeed impressive, its horn-like mandibles nearly as long as its body, gleaming black with hints of deep purple when the light hit them right. "Beautiful," you agreed, and meant it.

For the next hour, Helaena showed you her collection, explaining in her soft, sometimes disjointed way about each specimen's habits and characteristics. You listened, grateful for the distraction, for the simplicity of her enthusiasm. Here, there were no council meetings or dragon training or inappropriate thoughts about cousins. 

"Lord Cregan Stark sent me a letter," Helaena said suddenly, interrupting her own explanation about moth wing patterns.

You blinked. "Did he?"

"Yes. He's coming to court for the feasts. The ones for Jace." She was studying a moth wing with intense focus, not meeting your eyes. "He asked if he might call on me. To discuss insects."

Something in her tone made you pause. "Ah, I see, insects."

"He's interested in the wildlife of the North. The creatures that survive the cold. The ice spiders." Helaena finally looked up, and there was something almost vulnerable in her green eyes. "Do you think that's really why he wants to call on me?"

Oh. Oh.

Cregan Stark was young, newly Lord of Winterfell after his father's passing two years past. By all accounts he was honorable, strong, kind, everything a northern lord should be. And if he was expressing interest in Helaena...

"I think," you said carefully, "that Lord Cregan would be very fortunate if you agreed to speak with him. About insects or anything else, dear cousin."

Helaena's cheeks flushed pink. "He's very kind in his letters. Patient and he doesn't mind when I ramble about things most people find boring. He even sent me a preserved ice spider specimen from beyond the Wall. Said he thought I might like to study it."

Your heart softened. A man who would hunt down rare specimens for Helaena's collection was a man worth considering. "That's incredibly thoughtful, Hel."

"Mother says I should consider marriage eventually. That I can't hide in my chambers with my insects forever." Helaena's voice was quiet, tinged with something like resignation. "But most lords look at me like I'm mad. Like I'm something to be pitied or fixed."

"Then they're fools," you said firmly. "You're brilliant, Helaena. Anyone with half a brain can see that."

"Lord Cregan doesn't look at me like that. At least, not in his letters." She turned back to her moths, a small smile playing at her lips. "He asks questions. Real questions about my observations and theories. He doesn't just humor me."

"Will you see him when he arrives?"

"I... I believe I might." She looked back down at her specimens, fingers gentle as she adjusted a butterfly's position in its case. "It's strange. I never thought—I mean, I never imagined someone might actually want to court me. Not really."

"You're a princess of the blood," you pointed out. "Half the lords in Westeros would trip over themselves for the chance."

"They'd trip over themselves for the crown and the alliance," Helaena corrected softly. "Not for me. But Lord Cregan, he talks to me like I'm a person. Not a prize to be won or a madwoman to be managed."

You reached over and squeezed her hand. "Then I hope he lives up to his letters. And if he doesn't, I'll feed him to Cannibal."

Helaena laughed, a rare, bright sound that made you smile despite everything. "The wolf meets the spider in the dark. The spider weaves while the wolf watches. But which one catches which?"

Another one of her strange pronouncements. You'd long since given up trying to decipher them.

"What about you?" Helaena asked, suddenly aware of her surroundings again. "Will you dance with any lords at the feasts?"

Your stomach dropped. You'd almost managed to forget about the upcoming feasts, the parade of eligible ladies who would be throwing themselves at Jacaerys while you watched from the sidelines.

"I doubt it," you said lightly. "You know I prefer the edges of the room to the center of attention."

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured again, and something in her tone made you look up sharply. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

Helaena suddenly moved on, returning her attention to her beetles, humming softly to herself. Leaving you to wonder if she'd just made an innocent observation or if she somehow knew exactly what you'd been doing in the dark corners of your chambers.

You stayed with Helaena until the sun began to set, letting her soft voice and gentle presence soothe the jagged edges of your thoughts. Here, at least, things made sense. Here, you could almost forget the madness consuming you.

Almost.

When you finally took your leave, pressing a kiss to the top of her silver head, she caught your hand.

"Be careful," she said quietly. "Webs are sticky things. Hard to escape once you're caught."

You had no answer for that. The walk back to your chambers was quiet, most of the castle beginning to prepare for the evening meal. When you reached your door, you found your ladies already waiting.

"We've prepared a bath, my lady," Lysa said with a smile. "Thought you might want to wash before supper."

Gods, yes. Perhaps hot water and lavender oil could wash away the tension coiled tight in your shoulders, the restless energy that had plagued you all day.

"Thank you," you said, letting them usher you inside.

The tub had been set up near the fire, steam rising from the water in lazy curls. Your ladies helped you out of the elaborate pink gown, unlacing the bodice and lifting the layers of silk away until you stood in just your shift. Then that too was removed, and you stepped into the blessed heat of the bath with a sigh.

"We'll be just outside if you need anything, my lady," Maryse said. "Call when you're ready to dress for supper."

You nodded, already sinking deeper into the water, letting it cover you up to your shoulders. The heat seeped into your muscles, and for the first time all day, you felt some of the tension begin to ease.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the scent of lavender, trying to empty your mind of everything, council meetings, dragon training, Helaena's cryptic warnings, and most especially the memory of brown eyes and dark hair and hands that knew exactly how to make a woman fall apart.

Stop, you told yourself firmly. Just stop.

For a few blessed minutes, you succeeded. The water, the warmth, the quiet—it was almost peaceful.

Then something moved at the edge of your vision. You opened your eyes and looked toward the rim of the tub. A spider. But not just any spider, this thing was massive, easily the size of your palm, with thick hairy legs and a body that seemed to pulse as it crept along the wooden edge of the tub. Moving toward you.

The scream tore from your throat before you could stop it, pure, primal terror that echoed off the stone walls.

You shot to your feet, water sloshing over the sides of the tub, your whole body shaking as you tried to scramble away from the creature. But the tub was slippery, your feet finding no purchase, and you nearly fell before catching yourself on the edge.

"My lady!" You heard Lysa's voice, muffled through the door, and then—

The door burst open, but it wasn't your ladies who came through first.

It was Jacaerys. He must have been passing in the corridor, must have heard your scream and thought, what? That you were being murdered? Attacked? He rushed in with his hand on his sword hilt, eyes wild, clearly ready to face down whatever threat had made you scream like that.

And then he froze. Because you were standing there, in the middle of the tub, completely and utterly naked. Water streaming down your body, your silver hair plastered to your back and shoulders, every inch of you exposed in the firelight.

For one endless, horrifying moment, neither of you moved.

His eyes went wide, his mouth falling open slightly as his gaze traveled down and then snapped back up to your face. You could see the exact moment his brain caught up with what he was seeing, the way his cheeks flushed, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

"I—" he started, his voice rough. "I heard you scream, I thought—"

"SPIDER!" you shrieked, pointing at the creature that was still making its way around the rim of the tub, seemingly unconcerned with the chaos it had caused. "There's a massive fucking spider, Jace!"

Jace's gaze followed your pointing finger, and you watched him take in the admittedly impressive specimen currently terrorizing you.

"That's, yes, that's a spider," he said, somewhat stupidly.

"I KNOW IT'S A SPIDER!" you yelled, still frozen in place, acutely aware that you were naked and he was staring and your ladies were probably right behind him in the corridor and this was literally the worst thing that had ever happened to you.

Your ladies burst in then, Lysa and Maryse and Elaena, their faces panicked, clearly thinking you were dying. They took in the scene, you, naked in the tub. Jacaerys, standing there looking like he'd been struck by lightning. The spider, innocently crawling.

"My lady!" Lysa gasped, immediately grabbing a linen cloth and rushing forward to wrap it around you.

But the damage was done. Jacaerys had seen everything. Every curve, every inch of skin, every part of you that should have remained hidden beneath layers of silk and propriety. 

Damn the Gods. Damn you, this is your punishment for being a pervert. 

"I'll just—" Jace stammered, backing toward the door, his face now bright red. "I'll—the spider—sorry—I thought—"

He practically fled, the door slamming shut behind him. You stood there, wrapped in the linen cloth, shaking for entirely different reasons now.

"Oh gods," you breathed. "Oh gods, he saw me. He saw—"

"It's all right, my lady," Maryse said soothingly, though she looked rather scandalized herself. "It was an accident. He heard you scream and thought you were in danger."

"I AM in danger!" you gestured wildly at the spider, which had now made it halfway around the tub. "That thing is massive!"

"It's just a spider, my lady," Elaena said gently, moving toward it with a cloth. Within moments she'd captured it and was carrying it toward the window. "See? Harmless."

Harmless. Right. Unlike the memory now burned into both your and Jacaerys's minds of you standing bare-arsed naked in a bathtub while he stared at you like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe.

"We need to get you dressed," Lysa said firmly, already moving to pull out clothes. "Supper will be starting soon."

"I can't go to supper," you said, your voice rising. "I can't face him after—after he just saw me naked."

"You have to go to supper, my lady," Maryse said, not unkindly. "If you don't, everyone will wonder why. And rumors will start."

Worse rumors than "the princess screamed bloody murder over a spider and her cousin saw her naked"? You doubted it. But she was right. You had to go. Had to face him. Had to somehow sit through an entire meal pretending that nothing had happened while knowing that Jacaerys now knew exactly what you looked like without clothes. While knowing that you'd seen the look in his eyes—surprise, yes, but also something else. Something heated that had flashed across his face before embarrassment took over.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath.

"Language, my lady," Lysa chided gently, but she was already helping you out of the tub.

This was going to be the longest supper of your entire life.

The great hall was already filled with lords and ladies when you arrived, late enough that most people were already seated. The musicians were playing something lively from the gallery, servants moved between tables with wine and platters of food, and the general hum of conversation and laughter filled the space.

You wanted to sink through the floor and disappear.

Somehow you made it to your seat at the high table without tripping over your own feet, a minor miracle considering how unsteady you felt. You'd been dressed in a gown of deep purple silk, your ladies working quickly to make you presentable. Your hair was still slightly damp at the ends, but they'd managed to braid it back in a way that hid the worst of it.

Baela was already seated beside you, laughing at something Rhaena had said. On your other side, Helaena was staring at her plate with that distant expression she sometimes got. And across the table Jacaerys sat beside Lady Cassandra Baratheon.

He was leaning toward her, saying something that made her laugh, that refined, ladylike laugh you'd heard through the stone wall. His hand rested on the table close to hers, not quite touching but near enough to be intimate. He looked perfectly composed, perfectly at ease, like he hadn't just seen his cousin naked less than an hour ago.

You grabbed your wine cup and drank deeply.

"You have no idea," you muttered into your cup.

The meal began, course after course of roasted meats and honeyed vegetables and fresh bread. You pushed food around your plate, barely tasting anything, hyperaware of every movement Jace made across the table. The way he smiled at Cassandra. The way she touched his arm when she spoke. The easy familiarity between them that spoke of more than one night together. 

"All right, what's wrong?" Baela asked finally, setting down her fork and turning to face you properly. "You've been sulking since you sat down. Did something happen at council?"

"No," you said quickly. Too quickly.

Baela's eyes narrowed. "Then what?"

You glanced around, making sure no one else was listening. Then you leaned closer and whispered, "Jace saw me naked."

For a moment, Baela just stared at you. Then she burst out laughing—loud enough that several people turned to look.

"Shut up, this is not funny!" you hissed, your face burning with shame. 

"It's a little funny," Baela managed between gasps. "How in the seven hells did that happen?"

You covered your face with your hands, mortified beyond measure. "There was a spider. A huge one. He was in my bath and then I screamed and he must have been in the corridor and he came running in thinking I was being murdered or something and I was just—standing there—completely bare-arsed—hh"

Baela was practically crying with laughter now, her hand pressed to her stomach. "A spider," she wheezed. "You're telling me the mighty dragonrider who claimed Cannibal, who sits on the small council, screamed loud enough to bring the heir running because of a spider?"

"It was a very large spider," you said defensively, though your own lips were twitching despite your mortification.

“And, so, he saw everything?"  Her voice went low and suggestive, bringing a finger to her mouth and biting the tip of it as her lips curved into a smirk.

"Everything," you confirmed miserably. "Full frontal view. Nothing left to imagination."

"Oh gods," Baela wiped at her eyes. "And what did he do?"

"Stood there like a fish for about three seconds, went bright red, stammered something about the spider, and then fled like the castle was on fire."

"That's amazing," Baela said, still grinning. "That's the best thing I've heard all week."

"I'm glad my humiliation amuses you," you said sourly, but you couldn't quite hold onto your irritation. It was sort of funny, in a horrifying, want-to-die sort of way.

"Look at the bright side," Baela said, taking a sip of her wine. "Now you know he's definitely seen you naked. That's more than most ladies can say about the heir before marriage."

You kicked her under the table.

"Ow! I'm just saying—"

"Well don't," you muttered, risking a glance across the table.

Jace was still deep in conversation with Cassandra, his attention completely focused on her. He hadn't looked your way once since you'd sat down. Was probably trying very hard not to look at you, considering what he'd seen.

Your stomach twisted, he'd seen you naked—completely, utterly exposed—and less than an hour later he was here, flirting with the woman he'd been fucking just the night before. Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. Which of course you didn't. You were his cousin, a political piece on the board, same as everyone else.

The fact that you'd watched him through a hole in the wall, that you'd brought yourself to come while imagining his hands on you instead of Cassandra—that was your problem. Your shame to carry, your degenerate shame.

"You're doing it again," Baela said quietly.

"Doing what?"

"Looking like you want to kill someone, dear cousin." She followed your gaze across the table. "Ah. Lady Cassandra."

"You know she's not the only one, right?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Jace." Baela kept her voice low, casual, as she cut into her meat. "He's got quite the appetite, from what I hear. Half the ladies at court have warmed his bed at some point or another."

Your stomach twisted even though you already knew this. Had seen it.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Baela shrugged, a wicked grin playing at her lips. "Just saying, if you ever wanted to... you know. Sample the goods before he's shackled to some boring highborn wife, now's your chance. He's not particularly discriminating."

You nearly choked on your wine. "Baela!"

"What? I'm just saying.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm told he's very talented, Lady Cassandra certainly seems satisfied."

"I am not having this conversation with you," you hissed, your face burning.

"Your loss." Baela sat back with a laugh. "Though honestly, I don't blame you for looking. He's annoyingly pretty for someone with such common blood. Those brown eyes, that hair, he’s very brooding hero of a song, isn't he?"

"You're drunk, Baela."

"I'm tipsy," she corrected, "and you're deflecting."

"I'm not interested in Jace," you said firmly. "Not like that anyways."

It wasn't entirely a lie. You weren't interested in romancing with Jace. You didn't want his love or his devotion or whatever pretty words he whispered to the hoards of women in his bed. You just wanted, gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. To stop thinking about him, probably, most likely. And certainly to stop seeing his fucking gorgeous face every time you closed your eyes.

"Whatever you say," Baela said breezily, clearly not believing you but willing to drop it. "I'm just saying, the man's going to be married off soon. If you wanted a taste, the window's closing."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. "You're impossible."

The conversation moved on, Rhaena leaned over to tell you both about some drama involving a lady-in-waiting and a stableboy, and you forced yourself to laugh, despite your gaze kept drifting across the table.

You didn't look through the hole that night.

It took every ounce of willpower you possessed, but you left that carved screen exactly where it was and climbed into bed fully clothed, too exhausted to even call your ladies back to help you undress properly. Sleep came fitfully, plagued by dreams of brown eyes and smirks and the memory of standing naked in a bathtub while your cousin stared.

When you woke, sunlight was streaming through your windows and someone was pounding on your door.

"My lady!" Lysa's voice, urgent and harried. "You need to wake! The lords are arriving and you're expected in the courtyard within the hour!"

Right. The festivities. The celebration of Jacaerys coming of age, of finding him a suitable bride. A full day of feasting and tournaments and watching eligible ladies parade themselves in front of the heir to the throne. Wonderful, just wonderful. Despite yourself, you managed to drag yourself out of bed and let your ladies descend upon you like a flock of determined birds. They stripped away yesterday's rumpled gown, scrubbed you with rose-scented soap, and set about the elaborate process of making you presentable as they did every morning. 

The gown they'd chosen was magnificent, it was a midnight blue silk that seemed to shimmer between black and deepest sapphire depending on how the light hit it. But you shook your head.

"No. The white one with the gold and red."

Your ladies exchanged glances but didn't argue. They brought out the dress you'd requested, white as fresh snow, with gold embroidery that traced patterns of dragons and flames across the bodice and down the flowing sleeves. Red accents caught the light like drops of blood, rubies sewn into the neckline and waist. The skirts were layers upon layers of silk and gossamer that moved like water, the train long enough to pool behind you like a bride. 

It was a statement, really, like Alicent’s green gowns. A reminder of who you were, a Targaryen, a dragon rider, not someone to be overlooked even as every other woman at court tried to catch the heir's eye. Your hair was left mostly down, falling in silver waves to your calves, with elaborate braids woven through and secured with gold and ruby pins shaped like dragon claws. By the time they finished, you looked like something out of a song. 

You barely heard the compliments ringing from your ladies tongues. You were already moving toward the door, trying to steel yourself for whatever fresh hell today would bring.

The courtyard was flooded when you arrived. Banners from a dozen different houses snapped in the morning breeze, there was Stark, Tully, Arryn, Lannister, more. Lords and their retinues filing in through the gates, their daughters dressed in their finest, all of them here for the same purpose.

To win the favor of the Crown Prince.

You spotted Cregan Stark immediately—he was hard to miss, tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and grey eyes that seemed to take in everything. He was a gorgeous man, and currently  he was speaking with Rhaenyra, his manner respectful but not obsequious. A good sign, if Helaena was genuinely considering him. But it wasn't Cregan who made you pause. It was the way every male head in the courtyard seemed to turn as you descended the steps.

Lords, knights, visiting dignitaries, they all looked. Some with open admiration, others with more subtle interest, but they looked. You were used to attention, had grown up beautiful and aware of it, but this felt different. Or perhaps you were just more aware of it now, after everything.

"Seven hells," you heard someone mutter—one of the Tully boys, you thought. "Is that—"

You kept your chin high and your expression serene as you made your way through the crowd. Lords bowed as you passed, their sons stared, and you pretended not to notice any of it. Rhaenyra stood on the dais with Daemon beside her, already holding court. Jacaerys was there too, looking infuriatingly well-rested in black and red, his attention on whatever Lord Corlys was saying to him.

"Cousin," Aegon appeared at your elbow. "You're causing quite the stir. I think Lord Tyrell's son just walked into a pillar because he was too busy staring at you."

"Good," you said flatly.

Aegon laughed. "That's the spirit. Make them all suffer, my dear cousin. "

"Come," Aegon said, tugging at your elbow. "We're expected to stand there and look pretty while Father's old bannermen parade their daughters like prize mares. Should be entertaining enough."

You let him guide you to where the rest of the family was gathering. Rhaenyra sat in the place of honor with Daemon beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Helaena was tucked between Baela and Rhaena, already looking overwhelmed by the crowd. And Jacaerys stood at the center of it all, the sun around which this entire day revolved.

"How many do you think there are?" Aegon asked, settling in beside you with his cup. "I'm counting at least fifteen eligible ladies, and those are just the ones I can see from here."

"Shouldn't you be paying attention?" you asked. "You're supposed to be looking for a wife too."

"Gods, don't remind me." He took a long drink. "Mother's been at me for months about it. Apparently being six and twenty and unmarried is some sort of tragedy."

"Is it not?"

"It's called having standards," Aegon replied airily. "Low ones, admittedly, but standards nonetheless."

Rhaenyra stood, and the courtyard quieted. "Lords and ladies," she began, her voice carrying across the space. "We are honored by your presence here today as we celebrate my son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, and his coming of age. Many of you have traveled far to be here, and we welcome you all to King's Landing."

Polite applause. Jace smiled that princely smile, gracious and warm.

"Today marks the beginning of festivities that will last the fortnight," Rhaenyra continued. "Tournaments, feasts, and celebrations in honor of the Crown Prince. And perhaps, by the end, we will have even more to celebrate."

Meaning a betrothal. 

"But first," Rhaenyra gestured to where several young ladies stood with their fathers, all of them dressed in their finest, "we have been honored by requests from several noble houses to present their daughters to the Prince. We welcome them now."

"Here we go," Aegon muttered. "The parade of the desperate."

"Aegon," you hissed.

"What? I'm not wrong."

The first girl stepped forward, a Lannister, judging by her crimson gown and golden hair. She was beautiful in that polished, perfect way. You’re certain her Father, and all the other lords of Casterly Rock  told her she was destined for greatness. She curtsied deeply before Jace, her father presenting her with all the pomp and circumstance House Lannister could muster.

"Lady Cerelle Lannister," the herald announced. "Daughter of Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock."

Jace took her hand and kissed it, saying something that made her blush and smile. You watched him be charming, watched him perform the role of interested suitor with practiced ease.

"She's pretty," Aegon observed. "Bit too much like looking in a mirror for my taste, all that gold hair and self-rightesnous."

"She seems nice enough."

"Nice and boring are often companions," Aegon replied. "Trust me, I know from experience."

The next girl was from House Tyrell, tall and willowy with dark curls and a nervous smile. Then a Tully girl with auburn hair and freckles. Then another, and another. Each one more beautiful than the last, each one curtsying and smiling and trying desperately to be memorable.

"This is torture," Aegon said after the sixth introduction. "How is Jace keeping that smile on his face? I'd have run screaming by now."

"It's called duty, you idiot."

"It's called martyrdom." He drained his cup and gestured for a servant to refill it. "You know what the problem is? They're all the same. Pretty, accomplished, perfectly trained to be queens. Where's the personality? The fire?"

"You want fire, marry a dragon rider," you said absently, watching as yet another lady—this one from the Stormlands—was presented to Jace.

"Excellent idea. Marry me."

You turned to look at him, startled. "What?"

"Marry me," Aegon repeated, gesturing expansively with his cup. "You're a dragon rider, you're beautiful, you already know all my worst qualities so there'd be no nasty surprises. We could get drunk together and ignore all our duties. It'd be perfect."

"You're not serious."

"I'm never serious. But the offer stands." He took another drink. "If all else fails, if the realm goes to shit and we're all desperate—you and me. We could do much worse."

You studied him for a moment. Aegon was handsome, you could admit that. Pretty in the way Targaryens often were, with his silver hair and sharp features. The drinking was a problem, and the complete lack of ambition, but he was kind in his way. Honest, at least, which was more than most lords could claim.

"If all goes to hell," you said slowly, "and we're both desperate and alone. I suppose I could do worse than you."

"High praise," Aegon said with a grin. "I'm touched. Truly."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. I'm already planning our wedding. We'll serve nothing but wine, scandalize the Faith, and let our dragons eat anyone who complains."

Despite everything, you laughed. It felt good, like releasing some of the pressure that had been building in your chest since yesterday. Then, another lady was presented, a Manderly girl from White Harbor, plump and pink-cheeked and clearly terrified. Jace was gentle with her, you noticed. He was patient and kind.

"He's good at this," you said quietly.

"He's had practice," Aegon replied, and there was something almost bitter in his tone. "Perfect Jace. Perfect heir. Does everything right, fucks everything that moves, and somehow still manages to look like a hero from a song."

"Jealous?"

"Absoloutely." Aegon studied his cousin across the courtyard. "I love Jace, don't get me wrong. But he's playing a game he doesn't even realize he's in. All these ladies throwing themselves at him, and he thinks it's because he's charming. Because they like him."

"That's not why?"

"They like his crown," Aegon said flatly. "They like the idea of being queen. Jace himself? He's just the pretty vessel holding the thing they actually want."

You said nothing, watching as Jace smiled at the Manderly girl, made her laugh despite her nervousness. Was Aegon right? Did all these women only want the crown?  Did you? No. You wanted—gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. But it wasn't his crown. It was him. The way he moved, the way he sounded, the way he looked when he was lost in pleasure. That had nothing to do with thrones or politics.

Which somehow made it worse.

"Lady Floris Baratheon," the herald announced, and your attention snapped back to the courtyard.

Another Baratheon girl, younger than Cassandra but with the same dark hair and sharp features. She curtsied beautifully, and Jace took her hand with the same courteous attention he'd given all the others.

"How many fucking Baratheon daughters are there?" Aegon muttered. "Lord Borros must spend half his time just keeping track of them all."

"Four, I think."

"Four. And they're all here trying to land the heir. Ambitious bastard, isn't he?"

You watched Floris smile up at Jace, watched him be charming and attentive. Was Cassandra here somewhere, watching this? Did she care that the man who'd been in her bed two nights ago was now entertaining her younger sister?

Did Jace care?

"This is going to be a very long fortnight," you said.

"Agreed." Aegon raised his cup in a mock toast. "To surviving it with our dignity intact."

"I'll drink to that."

He grinned and passed you his cup. You took it and drank deeply, letting the wine burn down your throat. It was going to be a very, very long fortnight indeed.

Several torturous hours later, you and Aegon were both well into your cups and had devolved into something resembling badly behaved children.

"I'm sorry," Aegon wheezed, barely containing his laughter, "but did that last one actually curtsy to his horse first before approaching Jace?"

"She did," you confirmed, your own shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles. "She absolutely did. I saw it, cousin."

"Maybe she thought the horse was the heir. Can't blame her—Vermax has better hair than Jace does."

You snorted wine through your nose, which only made Aegon laugh harder.

"You two are being disgraceful," Baela hissed from your other side, though her lips were twitching. "Show some decorum."

"Decorum is for people who aren't dying of boredom," Aegon replied, reaching for another cup from a passing servant. "We're performing a public service, really. Someone has to make this bearable."

"By getting drunk before noon?"

"Exactly. See? She understands."

You were about to respond when movement at the courtyard entrance caught your eye. Another arrival, late enough that most of the formal presentations had concluded. But this wasn't some minor lord with a daughter to parade. This was someone who commanded attention simply by existing.

He was tall—taller even than Cregan Stark—with broad shoulders and the kind of build that came from actually using a sword rather than just wearing one for decoration. Dark hair, though not as dark as Jace's, fell to his shoulders in waves that somehow looked artfully disheveled rather than unkempt. And his face—

"Oh no," Aegon said, following your gaze. "Oh, that's not fair."

"Who is that?" you asked, unable to look away.

"Trouble," Aegon replied. "That's Lord Dalton Greyjoy. The Red Kraken himself."

The Red Kraken. You'd heard stories, of course. The young Lord of the Iron Islands, who'd claimed his seat at six and ten after his father's death and had spent the years since becoming a legend. A reaver, a warrior, and by all accounts, devastatingly effective at both. He was dressed simply compared to the other lords—dark leather and salt-stained cloth rather than silk and velvet—but he wore it like armor. Like he had nothing to prove. Salt-and-pepper scruff covered his jaw, and when he smiled at something Daemon said, you caught a glimpse of white teeth.

"He's supposed to be in the Iron Islands," Aegon muttered. "What's he doing here?"

"The same thing everyone else is doing here," Baela said dryly. "Paying homage to the Crown Prince."

But Dalton Greyjoy wasn't looking at Jacaerys.

He was looking at you. His eyes—grey-green like storm-tossed seas—found yours across the crowded courtyard, and he didn't look away. Didn't pretend he hadn't been staring. Just held your gaze with the kind of bold confidence that should have been offensive but somehow wasn't.

Then he smiled. Slow and deliberate and knowing, like you'd shared some private joke.

"Oh, dear cousin, he's definitely trouble," Aegon said. "Look at him. Looking at you like—well, like Jace looks at literally every woman who crosses his path."

"Shut up," you muttered, but you didn't look away from Dalton.

"The Red Kraken," Baela mused. "Now that's interesting. He doesn't usually come to court. Prefers his islands and his ships from what I hear."

"And his salt wives," Aegon added. "Rumor has it he's got three. Or is it four now? I lose count."

"Salt wives aren't real wives," you said absently, still holding Dalton's gaze.

"Try telling him that."

Dalton was moving through the crowd now, making his way toward the dais where Rhaenyra sat. Lords parted for him—whether out of respect or wariness, you couldn't tell. Maybe both. There was something dangerous about him, something wild that expensive clothes and courtly manners couldn't quite hide. He knelt before Rhaenyra with surprising grace for someone so large. You couldn't hear what he said, but whatever it was made Daemon laugh, actually laugh, which was rare enough to be noteworthy.

Then Dalton stood, turned, and those storm-grey eyes found yours again. And the huge bastard, well, he started walking toward you.

"Oh shit," Aegon said gleefully. "Oh this is going to be good."

"If you say one embarrassing thing—" you started.

"Would I do that?"

"Yes. Regularly, you arse."

Dalton Greyjoy stopped in front of you, and up close he was even more imposing. Taller, broader, with the kind of presence that made the air feel heavier. 

"My lady," he said, and his voice was rough, like he'd spent too many years shouting orders over storm winds. "Lord Dalton Greyjoy, at your service."

He didn't kneel. Didn't bow. Just stood there looking at you like you were the only person in the entire courtyard.

"Lord Greyjoy," you managed, trying to remember how to be polite while several cups of wine deep. "Welcome to King's Landing."

"Is it?" He glanced around at the crowd, at the elaborate decorations, at the general excess of it all. "Seems like a lot of trouble for a party."

"It's a celebration, my lord," you corrected.

"Of the Crown Prince coming of age. Yes, I heard." His lips quirked. "Eight and ten years to grow up. We do it much faster in the Iron Islands."

"Everything's faster in the Iron Islands," Aegon interjected cheerfully. "Living, dying, marrying your cousin, certainly fucking your cousin."

"Aegon," you hissed.

But Dalton just laughed. "Your cousin speaks truth, if not tact. We're a practical people."

"Practical," Aegon repeated. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Among other things." Dalton's attention returned to you, and the intensity of it made your breath catch. "I've heard stories about you, Princess. The girl who claimed Cannibal."

"They're just stories."

"Are they?" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I heard you walked up to him and asked him nicely. That he bowed his head and let you climb on his back like a trained horse."

"More or less," you admitted.

"Terrifying or impressive. I haven't decided which, my lady."

"Can't it be both?"

That smile again, sharp and interested, like a predator seeking its prey. "I suppose it can. I like that."

There was something in the way he looked at you—direct and unashamed—that felt different from the courtiers with their careful glances and veiled intentions. Dalton Greyjoy looked at you like he knew exactly what he wanted and saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

"Are you here for the tournaments, my lord?" you asked, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

"Among other things." He straightened, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that should have looked casual but somehow seemed coiled, ready. "I'm here to see what all the fuss is about. The perfect prince, the eligible ladies, the great game of marriage and alliance." His eyes glinted. "And to see if the Dragon Princess lives up to her reputation."

"And does she?"

"I'll let you know," he said, and it sounded like a promise. "May I have the honor of your company at the feast tonight, my lady?"

Before you could answer, Aegon cut in. "She'd be delighted. Wouldn't you, cousin?"

You shot him a look that promised murder, but Dalton was already bowing, actually bowing this time, though it looked faintly mocking. "Until tonight, then."

He walked away, and you could feel his absence like a physical weight. You were certainly going to kill Aegon, kill him and feed him to Cannibal. 

"Well," Aegon said into the silence. "That was something."

"I hate you."

"No you don't. I just got you a dinner companion who isn't boring. You should be thanking me."

You should probably be worried, you thought. Dalton Greyjoy had a reputation that made even Daemon look respectable by comparison. But, nonetheless, instead you felt intrigued.

Which was probably dangerous. Definitely dangerous. But after days of watching Jace parade around with other women, of feeling invisible and foolish and consumed by wanting something you couldn't have. Maybe dangerous was exactly what you needed.

The remainder of the day had been a blur of increasingly bold lords and their sons trying to catch your attention. You'd smiled politely through it all, deflected propositions both subtle and explicit, and tried not to drink so much that you'd embarrass yourself at tonight's feast.

You'd failed at that last part.

The great hall had been transformed for the evening, there were now thousands of candles which casted everything in warm golden light, musicians played from the gallery, and long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats and exotic fruits and wine from across the known world. The air smelled of smoke and spices and the musk of too many sweaty bodies pressed close together. You'd kept the white gown from earlier, the gold and red embroidery catching the candlelight as you moved. Your ladies had refreshed your hair, re-pinning the braids and adding fresh ruby clips, but otherwise you looked much the same as you had that morning.

Which apparently was more than enough, judging by the way heads turned as you entered. Dalton Greyjoy was already there, lounging at one of the lower tables with a cup in his hand and that same confidence he'd worn earlier. He saw you immediately—like he'd been watching the door—and stood.

"Princess," he said as you approached. "Come, sit. I've claimed the best seat in the hall."

"Have you?"

"Good view of the wine." He gestured to the seat beside him. "And now a better one."

You sat, aware of how he took up space without apology, all broad shoulders and long limbs sprawled in a way that suggested he'd never learned courtly posture and didn't particularly care to either. A servant poured wine, and Dalton took his cup, drinking deeply before setting it down with more force than necessary. "Seven hells, that's good. Better than the piss we brew on Pyke."

"I'm sure."

"You've never been to the Iron Islands." It wasn't a question.

"No."

"Good. It's a miserable place. Cold, wet, smells like dead fish and shit." He grinned. "But it's mine."

There was something about the way he said it, simple pride, no need to justify or explain. Just fact that sprung a buzz in your chest. 

"You're far from home," you observed.

"Aye. Your aunt summoned, so I came." He reached for a piece of bread, tearing it apart with his hands. "Hadn't planned on it, but then I heard about the festivities. The Crown Prince coming of age, all the pretty ladies competing for him." His eyes slid to you as he brought the bread to his mouth, tongue darting out to catch a crumb at the corner of his lips. He raised an eyebrow. "Thought it might be entertaining."

"And is it?"

"Getting better." He popped the bread in his mouth, still watching you while he chewed. "Tell me something. That dragon of yours—Cannibal. Is it true he ate three dragons on Dragonstone before you claimed him?"

You reached for your wine. "Two that I know of for certain. Possibly three."

"Fuck me." But he sounded impressed rather than horrified. "And you just walked up to him?"

"More or less." You took a sip, watching him over the rim of your cup.

"You're either the bravest woman in the Seven Kingdoms or the maddest." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you."Probably both."

"Most people say it was foolish."

"Most people are cowards."  He picked up his wine again, draining half the cup in one go. "I respect it. Taking what you want, consequences be damned. That's how you survive in this world."

The food kept coming—course after course. Servants appeared with platters of roasted duck, honeyed figs, spiced lamb. Dalton ate like a man who wasn't sure when his next meal would be, unbothered by the elaborate presentation. You picked at your own plate, more interested in the conversation than the food.

"You fight in the tournaments tomorrow?" you asked.

"Planning on it. Need to work off some of this." He gestured at the feast. "Can't spend all day drinking and eating without swinging a sword eventually. I'll go soft."

You doubted that. There was nothing soft about Dalton Greyjoy. You let your eyes drag over him, shoulders, arms, the way he took up space.

"Who do you think will win?" you asked. "The tourney, I mean."

"Not me," he said with a shrug. "I'm a better sailor than jouster. Give me a deck that's moving under my feet and I'm deadly. Put me on a horse in full plate and I'm just another idiot hoping not to fall off." He paused. "Your cousin, probably. The pretty one. Jacaerys."

Your jaw tightened slightly. "Jace is skilled."

"Aye, I've heard. Trained by the best, naturally." There was something in his tone—not quite mocking, but close. "Born with every advantage. Dragon, crown, looks that make ladies go weak. Must be nice."

"It has its challenges."

"I'm sure." He didn't sound particularly sympathetic. "Still. I'd take his challenges over mine any day."

A commotion near the high table drew your attention. Jace was standing, Lady Cassandra Baratheon beside him, her hand on his arm as they moved toward the dancing. You watched them go, watched her lean in to say something that made him smile, and your stomach dropped. Your hands curled into fists in your lap. 

"There's a look I know," Dalton said quietly.

You turned back to find him studying you, those storm-grey eyes too sharp. He was leaning back in his chair now, one arm draped over the back of it, completely relaxed.

"What look?"

"The one that says you want to set something on fire but you're too well-bred to do it." He tilted his head, watching you like a hawk. "What's he done to earn that?"

"Nothing. I don't—"

"Right." He drained his cup in one swallow and stood, extending his hand across the table. "Come on then."

"Where?"

"To dance. You're sitting here stewing and it's making me uncomfortable." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

"I'm not—"

"You are." He stepped closer, hand still out. "And if I have to watch you watch him dance with that Baratheon girl for one more second, I'm going to start breaking things." His fingers curled slightly, beckoning. "Dance with me, Princess. Give the court something else to gossip about."