#hotd season 3

Every answer she sought seemed wrapped in careful avoidance, hidden behind sympathetic looks and half-finished sentences. Servants lowered their gazes whenever she approached, while knights and messengers exchanged uneasy glances before offering the same frustrating response: they did not know.

Yet rumors drifted through Dragonstone’s halls like ghosts.

She heard that Prince Jacaerys had fought bravely against overwhelming odds, leading men into battle with the same courage that had always made others follow him. Some claimed they had seen Vermax soaring through walls of smoke and dragonfire, his emerald scales flashing amidst the chaos before disappearing into the flames. Others spoke of burning ships, shattered fleets, and the sea choked with wreckage.

There were survivors, they said. Men who had escaped the slaughter and returned with tales of fire raining from the sky. There were casualties too—far too many to count—and with each passing hour the lists of the dead seemed to grow longer. But when it came to Jacaerys, certainty vanished.

No confirmation arrived. No raven carried his name among the living or the dead. As the days stretched on, the whispers gradually faded, replaced by something far crueler.

Silence settled over Dragonstone like a storm cloud, heavy and suffocating. It was the worst kind of silence; the kind that left room for hope and despair to exist side by side, tormenting her with every heartbeat.

For three endless days, Y/N remained in her chambers overlooking the sea, unable to eat, unable to sleep, staring out the window as though she could somehow summon Vermax from the horizon.

Her betrothed.

Her future husband.

The man she had loved since childhood.

The man who had promised her beneath the godswood trees of Dragonstone that he would return from every battle.

“Because I have something worth returning to.”

The memory hurt.

Especially because she no longer knew whether he was alive.

Outside her chambers, servants moved quietly. Guards spoke in hushed tones.

Everyone feared giving her news.

Because no one knew what news existed to give.

Then, shortly before sunset on the fourth day, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor.

Y/N barely looked up.

She expected another servant, another apology, another uncertainty.

The door opened.

“My lady—”

She stood immediately. “What is it?”

The maid looked breathless. “He lives.”

Tears immediately filled her eyes, and for a moment it felt as though everything around her had come to a standstill. The world blurred into silence, the air caught in her lungs, and even the frantic pounding of her heart seemed to falter beneath the weight of what she had just heard.

Y/N stared. “What?”

“He lives,” The maid was smiling now. “The prince lives.”

For a moment Y/N simply stood there.

Then she ran.

There was no thought of composure or dignity as she broke into a run, racing through Dragonstone’s stone corridors and down its winding staircases. Guards and servants alike scrambled out of her way, startled by her urgency, while anyone unfortunate enough to linger in her path was quickly left behind.

Her skirts tangled around her legs as she raced toward the harbor.

Toward the ships.

Toward him.

Please.

Please let it be true.

Please.

The harbor was bustling with activity as sailors unloaded supplies from arriving ships, their voices mingling with the crash of waves against the docks. Above them, the distant roar of dragons echoed through the sky, a reminder that even here, the war was never far away.

And standing at the end of the dock surrounded by soldiers was a familiar figure.

Alive.

Gods.

Alive.

Jacaerys.

His dark curls had grown longer, falling untidily around a face marked by exhaustion. Damaged armor hung heavily from his frame, a bandage wrapped around one shoulder while bruises darkened his jaw. He looked worn and battered by battle, but most importantly, he was unmistakably alive.

Y/N stopped running.

A sob escaped her lips.

Jacaerys turned as if he had felt her presence.

The moment his eyes found hers, everything else seemed to fade into the background. The soldiers surrounding him, the bustling harbor, the crashing sea, and even the war itself ceased to matter as his entire focus settled on her.

Only her remained.

“Y/N,” His breath caught. “My love.”

Her eyes immediately filled with tears. “You idiot.”

A smile appeared on his face. A weak but beautiful one.

Then she was running again.

Jacaerys barely had time to brace himself before she crashed into him.

His arms wrapped around her instantly.

Holding her.

Clinging to her, almost desperately.

As if letting go would somehow make her disappear.

Y/N buried her face into his chest.

“You stupid, stupid idiot,” Her voice broke. “I thought you were dead.”

Jacaerys closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to feel her warmth against him and the steady beat of her heart. After days of uncertainty and survival, the simple reality that she was truly there in his arms felt almost unbelievable.

“I know.”

“I hated you.”

A laugh escaped him. “You did not.”

“I did.”

“You love me.”

She pulled back just enough to glare at him through tears. “I hate you right now.”

He laughed again.

Gods, even laughing hurt.

But hearing her voice was worth every ache.

His fingers brushed tears from her cheeks. “You cried.”

“Do not sound pleased about it.”

“A little.”

She smacked his arm.

Jacaerys immediately winced.

The smile vanished from her face. “Oh Gods.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not.”

“I’m alive.”

“You look terrible.”

He grinned. “You always know exactly what to say.”

For the first time since hearing he lived, Y/N laughed.

A watery, trembling laugh.

Jacaerys stared at her.

Gods.

How many times during the battle had he thought of this?

Of her?

When arrows darkened the sky, when ships burned around him, and when Vermax’s cries echoed through the chaos, her face had remained at the forefront of his mind. Even in the moments when death felt inevitable, thoughts of her were what he clung to most.

He had pictured her face.

Over and over.

The one thing keeping him from surrendering to fear.

Now she stood before him.

Real. Alive.

Beautiful.

More beautiful than memory.

His hand rose to her cheek.

The harbor around them had grown strangely quiet.

Everyone watched but neither noticed nor cared.

His voice came out softer than intended. “I thought I would never see you again.”

Y/N immediately looked away, fresh tears appeared.

“Do not say that.”

“It is true.”

“No.”

“Y/N—”

“No,” Her voice cracked. “You are here.”

Jacaerys swallowed.

The pain in her eyes struck harder than any blade.

Slowly, he pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers. “I am here.”

The words were almost a whisper.

“I came back.”

“You nearly didn’t.”

“I know.”

Silence lingered.

Eventually Y/N spoke. “Did you think of me?”

Jacaerys stared then laughed softly. “Every moment.”

She looked up. “Truly?”

His thumb gently traced her cheek as a soft smile touched his lips. “Every moment,” he murmured before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “When the battle began.” Another kiss followed near her temple. “When our ships were burning.” His gaze softened as he brushed a kiss against her trembling cheek. “And when I thought I might die, you were all I could think about.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Jacaerys smiled gently before pressing another kiss against her skin. “I was not thinking of glory,” he said softly. “Nor victory.” His voice lowered as he rested his forehead against hers. “I was thinking about the fact that if I died, I would never get to marry you.”

Her eyes widened at the confession. The prince who commanded fleets, who was destined for greatness, and who always seemed fearless now stood before her looking unexpectedly vulnerable. For perhaps the first time, she could see the fear he rarely allowed anyone else to witness, as though the thought of losing her frightened him far more than any battle ever could.

Y/N cupped his face. “Then do not leave me again.”

Jacaerys closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “If I can help it, I never shall.”

“You promise?”

“I swear it.”

“On what?”

A smile tugged at his lips. “On my crown.”

“That is not yours yet.”

“My dragon then.”

Y/N giggled. “Dangerous.”

“My life.”

Y/N immediately shook her head. “No.”

His expression softened. “Then I swear it on my love for you.”

Neither spoke for several moments.

Because some promises felt too sacred to interrupt.

Finally, Jacaerys leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers once more.

The harbor had vanished again.

The war had vanished.

Only the two of them existed.

And after days of fear, grief, and uncertainty, Y/N finally allowed herself to believe the truth.

He was alive, and he had returned to her at last. In that moment, she did not see a prince, a warrior, or the future heir to a kingdom; she saw only the man she loved standing before her.

And as Jacaerys held her against his chest, feeling her heartbeat beneath his hands, he realized something that no battle had ever taught him.

Victory was not surviving the Gullet.

You sighed, your body aching with a pleasant soreness. Your legs, which just minutes ago had been resting on your husband's shoulders, trembled slightly, but you held onto the edge of a small three-legged oak table. It was hard not to feel watched. Your husband's eyes, clear and piercing, clung to every curve. In the first year of marriage, you might have tried to cover yourself, to hide your breasts in your hands, but now it spurred you to that boldness that drove him mad. You straightened up, thrusting your chest out with dignity, perfectly aware of what reaction this playful gesture would provoke in Ormund. His lips stretched into a feline smirk, his eyes gleaming predatorily. His hand landed on the spot on the bed that you had previously occupied.

"Come back, little wife, you look tired."

His body, utterly relaxed and carefree, sprawled out on the silks of your bedding, one arm behind his head. The sheet covered only part of his body, reaching his sharp, prominent hip bones. You licked your lips, wetting them. Your eyes dropped, following the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the dark green sheet.

"You look smug, husband," you teased him, lowering your voice.

"How else should I look after you called upon the Seven in such a sinful, improper way?"

You giggled, lowering a piece of cloth into a basin of water. Droplets of essential lavender oil jumped, settling comfortably in the copper tub.

"Hold your tongue, my husband, it is not proper to speak so ill of your own wife."

You whispered with playful reproach. You untangled your hair, which had become knotted in the heat of your passionate encounter. You tossed the heavy wave over your shoulder.

"I speak nothing but the truth, you little minx."

The water splashed playfully as you wrung out the cloth, preparing to wipe your body of sticky sweat.

Ormund rose slightly, looking as if he were vigilantly watching your every move. Your palms, holding the damp cloth, touched your shoulders and slowly slid to your collarbones.

You saw him swallow hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with tension. His fingers clenched, crumpling the sheet.

Encouraged by this hungry response, your hands moved lower. A loud moan escaped your lips as you squeezed one of your breasts.

"Do you need help?" your husband asked with undisguised impatience, his voice gone hoarse, becoming like thick, bittersweet honey.

"I think I'm managing quite well on my own." Your teeth bit into your lower lip mercilessly teasingly, your body on display. It would take nothing for Ormund to spring up and grab you, dragging you back to bed. "Or do you need me?"

The clear outline of his aroused cock was visible through the silk, speaking volumes about his need. He needed very little, just you in the sunlight with no unnecessary clothing.

On your thighs were the marks of his demanding kisses. In bed, he allowed himself these liberties, sometimes playing and biting the delicate skin of your inner thighs.

You wanted more. You were testing his patience.

"You still haven't answered the question."

Your fingers traced your ribs, moving down toward your lower stomach. Ormund almost jerked, his jaw clenched. You could only imagine how painfully his needy cock ached, leaking precum.

"I think it's quite obvious, dear."

He wouldn't be Ormund Hightower if he didn't retort, his tone low and radiating dangerously exciting energy. His pupils were feverishly dilated, the irises flooded with darkness, his eyes resembling the sky before a storm.

"I can't see anything, my love," you whispered with feigned innocence.

The cloth, exuding a herby-bitter aroma, moved exactly to where your husband wanted to be most in the world at that moment. Your pussy, already sticky from your previous lovemaking, responded to the coolness immediately. The mewling sweet sound you made threw all your husband's composure away.

"Can't see?" he rasped, walking with a heavy gait, and you felt as if everything around you was trembling or perhaps it was you trembling with anticipation.

His breathing was loud, like that of a horse exhausted from a chase, but Ormund's hands did not falter for a moment as he snatched the cloth away, which had become a call to attack.

He grabbed your hand with that tenderness that, despite the passion, husbands who truly love their wives radiate, and pressed it to his hard, erect cock.

"And now, hmm?" he whispered in a low, warning tone into your temple, so you could feel his hot breath.

Without wasting a moment, Ormund moved behind you, surrounding you and embracing your waist with his broad hands. Your bodies seemed glued together, part of something new and unified. The tip of his nose tickled the back of your neck, and his lips delivered a series of punishing kisses. When he reached the hollow between your shoulder and neck, his tongue darted out, tasting the oil you had so carelessly applied.

You shuddered all over, feeling the wet warmth on your skin as his cock pressed relentlessly against your backside.

Ormund cupped your face, gently turning it towards him.

"You are so sweet, beloved, I could eat you up," he whispered hotly into your lips before covering them with his, laced with a hint of authority.

His fingers, usually adorned with rings, were freed from the burden of metal. This was one of your favorite parts of the day, when your husband removed his rings one by one, their clinking promising a good time. His knowing hand found its way between your legs, his thumb pressing on your aroused clit.

Your cry was swallowed in the depths of his mouth as he entered you, not carefully but impetuously, unable to wait another second. You were wet enough for the penetration to bring only pleasure, erasing tension with one deep movement. You had to grip the table to keep from falling. Your legs were already weak, as this was not the first time that day your bodies had met.

You pushed back, wanting to be taken deeper and faster, but Ormund set the rhythm. His fingers massaged your wet pussy in time with the thrusts of his hips. Your eyes stung with tears as you tried to look at him, turning your head over your shoulder. Then your husband held you tighter, squeezing your body with such force as if he intended to break you.

His lips descended upon you again and again, alternating tenderness and passion. The Lord of House Hightower lowered his hands to yours, intertwining your fingers tightly as his movements grew more intense. His body leaned forward slightly, forcing you to do the same. You were not sure you could last much longer. Your knees buckled, aching with sweet pain.

"Beloved, I'm so..." you moaned loudly when his cock hit the walls of your pussy, pressing against that spot that made you see sparks every time. "I'm so close!"

Heeding your pitiful plea, his fingers quickly helped you reach a bright orgasm. You cried out something incoherent, sounding more like a scream than a moan. Your dripping pussy clenched tightly around his cock, and, as if continuing the sweet blissful torment, your husband slowed down, fucking you gently, almost lovingly, but still deeply, allowing you to prolong your climax.

Kissing your salt-stained face, especially the corners of your eyes and your wet lashes, he came inside you, spilling deep and hot.

"I'm afraid you wouldn't last for another round," he laughed hoarsely, leaving a sloppy, wet kiss on your shoulder blade.

Ormund didn't intend to pull away, but seeing how pitifully your legs trembled, how you gasped for air like a drowning woman, he stepped back. His hand slapped your ass, not hard, rather playfully, before he scooped you up into his arms and, with a triumphant and sated look, sank onto the bed, pulling you close.

"You'll be leaving soon. I can't imagine how you'll live without me."

"Write letters, but don't expect me to read them with pleasure, my little wife."

You punched him in the chest in mock indignation, even though you knew perfectly well that he read everything you wrote for him. He kept those little paper squares like gifts from the gods, for they carried the distinctive scent of the oils you used.

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