#hotd fandom

The heavy velvet flap of the pavilion did not just close; it violently shattered against the wooden stakes as Ormund kicked it shut, the heavy iron-shod heel of his riding boot punctuating his fury with a sound like a small thunderclap.

The air inside the tent was instantly suffocating. It was a sprawling, multi-roomed traveling structure built for the Lord of the Hightower, but the sheer, volatile volume of Ormund’s temper made the canvas walls feel as though they were closing in.

The atmosphere was thick with the scent of unwashed leather, crushed pine needles from the rugged trails, the smoky residue of tallow candles, and the pure, terrifying heat of a Hightower wrath.

Outside, the temporary war camps of the Reach’s vanguard were settling into a quiet, disciplined evening routine. Inside, Ormund was an absolute storm.

”You have the sense of a newborn calf,“ his voice boomed, deep and scraping from the back of his throat, vibrating the very marrow of her bones.

He had not even unbuttoned his heavy, wool-lined traveling doublet. The dark green velvet was stiff, reinforced with thick boiled leather across the broad span of his shoulders, making him look less like a husband and more like a merciless warlord ready to sentence a treasonous garrison to the gallows.

”The rocky banks of the Honeywine? Outside the perimeter of our scouts? In your condition? Do you take me for a fool, or do you simply hold your own life in utter contempt?“

Lying back against a mountain of rich, plush sable and fox furs on the low traveling cot, she did not even flinch. She was a grown woman, fully settled into the skin of her maturity and the formidable reality of her station. She knew exactly how to handle the legendary Hightower temper—not by shrinking, but by anchoring herself like the foundation of the High Tower itself.

Slowly, deliberately, she began to massage her swollen, aching feet. The pregnancy was still in its earlier stages—her belly bearing only a slight, soft swell that was easily hidden beneath the heavy folds of her fine wool skirts—but the sudden shift in her body’s balance had turned what she intended to be a brief, liberating stroll into a grueling, exhausting ordeal. Her ankles were puffy, her skin felt tight with discomfort, and a dull, throbbing ache radiated up her calves from the unaccustomed strain. She was still adjusting to the early, heavy fatigue of carrying his child, an exhaustion that left her breathless far too quickly.

When her foot had caught on a patch of uneven, loose slate near the riverbank, her breath had hitched. It had not been a fall, just a heavy, clumsy stumble that made her back ache fiercely.

But Ormund, who had been riding nearby inspecting the vanguard, had reacted as if a scorpion had struck her. He had dropped from his stallion, his face white with a stark, blinding terror that immediately solidified into raging fury. Before she could even utter a syllable of protest, he had unceremoniously hauled her over his massive shoulder, ignoring her furious demands for decorum. He marched her straight back through the center of the camp in front of half the Reach’s assembled nobility. She had spent the entire walk back swearing under her breath that she would strangle him in his sleep.

”Daeron, sweetling,“ she said, her voice smooth, cool, and entirely cutting through the heavy, masculine roar that filled the pavilion. She did not look at Ormund. Instead, she looked past the towering bulk of her husband toward the entrance of the tent.

Young Daeron Targaryen hovered there, his once pale, silver-gold hair now in the deep auburn of House Hightower. The boy’s hand was white-knuckled on the hilt of his training sword, his violet eyes wide with a genuine, anxious panic. He was a Prince, but he was also a boy fostered in Oldtown, and he had never seen his uncle’s wrath directed so fiercely at the woman who normally served as the calm, steady center of their world.

He looked ready to step between them, his young shoulders tense with a protective instinct he did not quite know how to execute.

She offered the boy a small, deeply reassuring smile, her gaze steady.

”Go find Ser Gwayne. Tell him your uncle requires a cold pitcher of ale to soothe his scorched throat. And remain at the campfires until the sun sets. The air in here is far too thick for a young Dragon.“

Daeron looked at Ormund’s rigid, towering back, then back to her. The absolute, unbothered maturity in her eyes, the sheer calmness she exuded while standing in the path of a storm, was the only thing that gave the young Dragon the courage to move.

Recognizing that his aunt was entirely in control of the situation, he bowed quickly and scrambled out of the pavilion, the heavy velvet flap falling shut behind him with a soft, final thud.

The moment the boy was gone, the fragile truce of public appearance shattered. She turned her sharp wit directly on the beast remaining.

”If you bellow any louder, Ormund, the High Septon will hear you all the way from the Starry Sept,“ she murmured, her voice dripping with a dry, tired sarcasm that she used as a shield against her own deep-seated anxieties. She unlaced the heavy, dust-covered leather of her walking shoe and let it drop to the floor.

”I went for a stroll. I am a grown woman, not a fragile piece of Myrish glass to be locked away in a cedar chest. I wanted fresh air. I wanted to feel the earth beneath my feet because your Maester’s strictly ordered diet of boiled fowl and bland porridge makes me feel as though I am chewing on old parchment. I am suffocating in this camp, Ormund, and I will not be caged.“

”Your feet are swollen to the bone!“ Ormund roared, taking a massive, heavy step toward the cot that made the floorboards beneath the rugs groan. The sheer size of him filled her entire vision—shoulders like an anvil, a chest broad enough to shield three men in his thick velvet tunic.

”You call it a stroll? You call it fresh air? You are carrying my child—the heir to Oldtown, the future of my house! The child is a fresh, delicate thing in your womb, and yet you think it wise to wander beyond the camp guards where a loose stone could send you crashing down? You could have collapsed. You could have bled. You could have–“

”I did not collapse!“ she countered sharply, her own temper finally igniting. She sat up abruptly, bracing her hands behind her on the thick furs, ignoring the sharp twinge of protest from her lower back. She tilted her chin up, meeting his furious, dark gaze with an unyielding fire of her own.

”I slipped! A minor, clumsy misstep because my body no longer feels entirely like my own. And instead of letting me rest, instead of offering me a hand like a husband, you hauled me over your shoulder like a prized stag and embarrassed me in front of our entire vanguard. You made a spectacle of your wife, Ormund.“

She took a sharp, ragged breath, her voice dropping into a deeper, more biting register.

”But we both know you are not truly furious at my fatigue. You are furious because you cannot command the rocks beneath my feet to bow to House Hightower. You are furious because my body, and the life beginning inside it, is the one thing your armies, your wealth, and your titles cannot completely control or guarantee the safety of.“

Ormund stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw clenched so hard that the heavy muscles in his cheek twitched violently.

Inside his chest, a sickening, agonizing knot of pure terror tightened. Her words cut through his anger like a Valyrian steel blade, striking the raw, bleeding nerve he tried so desperately to hide.

He was not just angry; he was terrified. He knew how fragile these early moons were, how easily a new life could slip away before it ever had a chance to take root truly. The birthing bed was a slaughterhouse for noblewomen, a battlefield where his sword, his shields, and his immense physical strength were entirely useless.

The thought of losing her—of his home turning cold, of the light in his life being extinguished while he stood by, helpless—was a nightmare that haunted his every waking hour. When he had seen her stumble on those rocks, his soul had left his body. His anger was the only armor he had to keep from falling to his knees and begging her to never leave his sight.

And yet, the absolute arrogance of her tongue, the complete lack of fear she displayed while staring down his worst wrath, was the very thing that made him worship her. She was his match in every sense—a formidable woman who refused to break. But right now, combined with that lingering, sickening terror, her defiance made something dangerous snap inside him.

The martial wrath did not fade; it ignited into something entirely different, a dark, possessive, and overwhelming heat.

”You think this is a game of wits?“ he growled, his voice dropping into a low, predatory octave that vibrated straight through the floorboards, losing its booming roar and gaining a quiet, terrifying intensity.

”You think I care about the vanguard? You think I care about titles?“

In three slow, deliberate strides, he crossed the remaining distance between them. The sheer, predatory gravity of his movement made her pulse hitch, a sudden, heavy throb of anticipation blooming deep between her thighs. But as his strong hands reached down to grab her waist, she did not shrink back into the furs. Her own frustration, her own need to push back against the suffocating walls of his hovering protection, boiled over.

Using his forward momentum and her own unyielding leverage, she wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers digging into the thick collar of his doublet, and pulled down with all her might. At the same moment, she shifted her weight with a sudden defiance that caught him entirely off guard.

With a low grunt of genuine surprise, the massive warlord stumbled slightly forward. She twisted her hips, leveraging his bulk against him, and pushed him back against the heavy cushions and furs of the cot. In a flash of stubborn rebellion, she dragged her body up, straddling his muscular thighs, pinning his legs beneath her own.

For a breathless, triumphant second, she was on top. She looked down at the Lord of Oldtown, her face flushed, her eyes blazing with a fierce, intoxicating glare of dominance. She braced her hands flat against his heavy, leather-trimmed doublet, feeling the rapid, powerful thudding of his heart beneath her palms.

”I am the Lady of the Hightower, Ormund,“ she gasped out, her chest heaving as she tried to maintain her authority over him.

”You will not cage me. You will not dictate where I walk, and you will never carry me like a beast of burden through your camp again–“

Ormund lay beneath her for a fraction of a second, his massive chest rising and falling beneath her hands. Then, his dark eyes flashed with a sudden, dangerous amusement that instantly melted into pure, suffocating dominance. A low, gravelly chuckle rumbled deep in his throat, a dark sound that vibrated right through his chest and into her palms.

”An admirable effort, my love,“ he whispered, his voice dripping with a raw, protective heat that made her core ache with sudden wetness.

”Truly. But you forget who commands this army. And you forget exactly who you belong to.“

Before she could even register the shift in his muscles, his calloused hands came up, gripping her hips like iron bands. The sheer, effortless power in his arms was staggering. With a single, terrifyingly easy surge of brute strength, Ormund completely reversed their positions. He did not just push her off; he twisted his heavy torso, lifting her entire body and rolling her over in a single, fluid motion.

The world spun for a breathless instant, and then she was flat on her back beneath him, her breath completely stolen by the sheer speed and weight of his movement.

He followed her down instantly, his broad frame safely but completely trapping her beneath him. The sheer physical contrast of their bodies was on absolute display; he was a mountain of muscle and dark velvet, completely enveloping her smaller, softer form.

Yet, even in his primal need to master her, his instincts ruled his movements. He was hyper-aware of the slight, tender swell of her lower belly. He positioned his thick, heavy thighs to flank hers perfectly, taking the brunt of his own weight, and threw his immense bulk onto his elbows, hovering over her so that he pinned her completely without placing any dangerous pressure on her stomach.

The containment was absolute, flawless, and terrifyingly beautiful. She was completely mastered, her brief rebellion utterly crushed beneath his weight.

Her sharp tongue opened to lash him again, to find some way to reclaim her defense, but Ormund was entirely done listening.

He slammed his mouth down over hers.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was a total conquest—a deep, bruising, utterly possessive claim that completely smothered her breath, cutting off her voice before she could form a single word. His tongue parted her lips with a rough, commanding urgency, drinking in the quiet, helpless gasp of shock she let out.

For a woman who valued the deep, intense intimacy of a kiss above all else, the sheer, crushing force of his mouth was intoxicating. It drove out every coherent thought from her mind, replacing her anger with a desperate, clawing hunger.

She tried to turn her head, an instinctual reaction to find a pocket of air, but Ormund’s large hand moved to her jaw. His thick fingers locked her face in place with unyielding firmness, forcing her to take every single ounce of his desperate, terrified passion. He kissed her as if he were trying to possess her soul, as if he could force his own breath into her lungs to keep her safe forever. He kissed her until the air in her chest burned, until her hands stopped pushing against his broad shoulders and instead tangled frantically into the dark, thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down, begging for the very weight that threatened to consume her.

When he finally pulled his lips away by a fraction of an inch, the silence of the pavilion was broken only by their ragged, desperate breathing. Her lips were dark, flushed, swollen, and slick with their shared saliva, parted in a frantic gasp for air.

”You belong to me,“ Ormund snarled against her damp skin, his hot breath sweeping over her burning face. He shifted his bulk slightly, his hand sliding down the front of her gown to rip open the delicate linen laces of her chemise with a rough, impatient jerk. He dragged the fabric down, exposing the slope of her shoulder and the elegant curve of her neck.

”Every breath in your lungs. Every step your feet take on the earth. You do not risk what is mine, do you hear me? You do not terrify me like that again.“

Before she could form an answer, his mouth dropped down to the sensitive juncture where her neck met her shoulder. He did not merely kiss her skin; his teeth grazed the flushed flesh, biting down with a sharp, possessive pressure that bordered on painful.

She cried out, her voice a sharp, breathy gasp. A direct spike of intense, white-hot pleasure darted from the bite straight down to her core, making her lower stomach tighten with a fierce, throbbing ache. His teeth sunk deeper for a second, leaving a dark, immediate mark on her skin—a visceral, burning brand that would remain for days, a reminder of who owned her.

”Let the camp see it tomorrow,“ Ormund muttered against the fresh wound, his voice a dark, rough purr that vibrated against her collarbone.

”Let my knights and the lords of the Reach see exactly what happens when my wife decides to wander beyond my sight. Let them know you are claimed.“

His large hand slid further lower, moving over the rounded swelling of her breasts. His fingers tightly cupping and squeezing the sensitive, aching flesh through the torn linen, completely overwrought by the lush fullness that came with her early pregnancy.

He bunched the ruined fabric in his fist, pulling it down roughly until her breasts were completely bared to the warm, candlelit air of the tent. They were heavy, their nipples tight and hyper-sensitive from the child growing within her.

Ormund let out a low, guttural groan at the sight, his large, rough thumb dragging heavily across one tight peak. She arched off the furs with a sharp, breathless gasp, her hands gripping his velvet sleeves for anchor.

The sheer overstimulation of his rough hands on her aching chest was dizzying. He pinched the swollen bud between his calloused fingers, rolling it firmly, sending a ruthless wave of heat straight down into the heavy, weeping pulse between her thighs. She whimpered, her hips rolling instinctively against his heavy thigh, completely undone by the harsh friction.

”Ormund… please,“ she whispered, her composure entirely shattered, her voice cracking with raw, trembling need. She was entirely at his mercy, her body screaming for fulfillment.

”You are too heavy… I cannot breathe… please…“

”Good,“ he growled, his dark eyes burning down into hers with a fierce, ungodly devotion as his hand moved back up to grab her jaw, tilting her head back.

”Do not breathe. Do not think of the shore, or the diet, or the camp. Only think of me. Only feel what I give you.“

He locked his mouth over hers a second time, renewing the prolonged, suffocating kiss, sealing her desperate whimpers behind his teeth. He starved her of air deliberately, using the restriction of breath to heighten every single sensation running through her nerve endings.

At the exact same moment, his large hand slid beneath the heavy layers of her skirts, pushing through the fine linen and silk until his fingers found the soaked, burning heat between her thighs.

She was already dripping, her body completely betraying her anger, slick and scalding hot.

Ormund let out a dark, approving rumble deep in his chest against her lips as his fingers sank into her wetness. He drove two fingers deep inside her, the thickness of them stretching her engorged walls, filling her so completely that she let out a muffled sob into his mouth.

But he gave her no time to adjust. His thumb found her hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves, burying itself against the swollen bead. He did not tease her, did not offer a gentle prelude; he ground his thumb against her center with a relentless, heavy, rhythmic friction that perfectly matched the brutal, deep, wet strokes of his tongue inside her mouth.

She was completely, utterly trapped. She was unable to move her head away from his locking grip; she was unable to move her hips away from the brutal pleasure of his hand. The sheer restriction of breath from his unbroken, crushing kiss, combined with the explosive, wet heat of his fingers stretching her inside and his thumb ruthlessly punishing her clitoris, turned the pavilion into a blur of pure sensory madness.

Her mind emptied of everything but the burning friction. Her inner muscles clamped down frantically around his fingers, convulsing in tight, desperate, weeping waves as the relentless overstimulation pushed her to the absolute brink of her sanity. She was flying apart, her controlled mind shattered by the primal force of his mastery.

Her eyes rolled back behind closed lids. Her fingers dug into the thick furs beneath her until the fabric tore, her legs trembling violently where they were pinned wide by the immovable weight of his heavy thighs. She tried to scream his name, tried to beg him to stop or to hurry—she was unsure which—but the sound was swallowed entirely by his bruising lips, muffled into a desperate, choked moan that vibrated deep in his own throat.

The prolonged kiss continued, deep and unbroken, holding her right at the precipice of an unbearable peak. The lack of air, the deep fullness of his fingers, and the heavy, unyielding rhythm of his thumb created a perfect storm of overstimulation. Her body could not hold it back any longer.

The climax hit her like a monstrous wave crashing against the stone cliffs of Oldtown. Her body violently convulsed, her internal walls locking down in a tight, crushing spasm around his fingers. She shattered fiercely beneath his massive weight, entirely undone, her hips bucking helplessly against his hand as a brilliant, blinding release claimed her senses. She came hard, her body weeping against his fingers, her muffled cries of pure ecstasy echoing inside his locked mouth.

Ormund held her through the entire shattering wave. He did not lessen the pressure of his thumb, dragging her through every single throbbing ripple of her orgasm, keeping his lips locked tightly to hers until her violent trembling slowly subsided into soft, ragged breaths.

Slowly, mercifully, he pulled his mouth away. A long, thin silver thread of saliva connected their lips in the dim candlelight. A dark, intensely victorious smirk played on his lips as he looked down at her dazed expression, her chest heaving heavily against his broad, velvet-clad chest, her eyes half-closed and unfocused.

The terror that had gripped his heart all evening was gone, replaced by a profound, worshipful calm. Her body was safe, she was here beneath him, and she was entirely his. His thumb gently wiped a stray tear of pure overstimulation from her flushed cheek, his touch suddenly shifting into the deeply tender, reverent care that always followed his fury. He looked down at the woman who ruled his heart, his chest swelling with an all-consuming devotion.

”Next time,“ Ormund whispered, his voice low, gravelly, and fiercely protective as his massive hand came to rest reverently over the slight, warm swell of her belly, his thumb tracing the new life they had made together, ”I will carry you the entire way. You will not take a single step.“

The city of Oldtown felt the heat of the summer’s day, the waves met the port with delicate kisses, the wind blew with a soft, gentle breeze, and even the sun seemed to glitter in the sky above the beacon of House Hightower. The Princess Y/n walked the aged stone passageways on her way back from the Citadel, after once again being denied entrance by the Maesters for her lack of cock. But she had not returned to the keep empty-handed, as she’d bought a few ripe peaches to enjoy when she returned to her chambers. Her little shoes made barely a sound on the ancient stone, her green dress shifting and swishing around her developed body, which drew many a man’s eye, since the gown was more akin to one for a young girl and not the curves of a woman flowered. Her hair, silver-blonde and bright, was intricately braided down her back, with ivy woven from fabric and thread.

But it was the strings of the lute that caught her ears and attention, and she soon found their source. As her twin brother Daeron sat perched on the stairwell's windowsill. His feet up on the stone, the window open to allow in the breeze. Dressed in his fine green velvet, with his silver blonde hair half up and half left to hang down to his shoulders. His lute in hand as he stummed and sang,

“I loved a maid as fair as summer… with sunlight in her hair… I loved a maid as red as autumn… with sunset in her hair… I loved a maid as white as winter… with moonglow in her hair.-” But he stopped short when he spotted her, “Hello, little sister,”

She playfully rolled her eyes, “Little seems unneeded, we were born but moments apart.”

“And yet I emerged first, little sister.”

“Did you speak with the council of Grandmaesters?” Y/n changed the topic,

“I did…”

“And their answer?”

“Is the same as it always is, no maiden may study at the libraries of the Ciadel,” he chuckled, “Princess or no.”

“Tis a foolish rule…” she grumbled,

“And yet still a rule,” he chuckled,

“You are of no help! brother,” she sighed, continuing her way up the stairwell,

“Big brother,” he teased,

“Don’t make me toss a peach at your head,” She called back,

“Awww… I want a peach, please? Pllleeeeeaaaaassseeeee?”

She rolled her eyes and picked up one of the peaches from her basket and tossed it down to him,

“Hey! Don’t bruise my peach!” He complained,

“I don’t hear a thank you?”

“Thank you, Y/n.”

“You’re welcome, Daeron,” she answered,

“Ohh! Uncle Gwayne needs to see you!”

“Why?”

“How should I know?”

She scoffed, and she went on her way.

Y/n opened the windows of her chambers, allowing the wind to billow her curtains. She sat herself on her bed, feasting on peaches and reading her books on history and geography, learning all the lords and keeps of Westeros. When the doors of her chamber opened, her uncle Ser Gwayne Hightower, dressed in his usual green doublet and tunic, his light orange hair catching the sunlight. He had the Grandmaster of Physiology and a scribe boy with him.

“Ohh, Good afternoon, Uncle.” She smiled,

“Good Afternoon, my Sweet Peach,” he smiled as he came over, fixing a stray lock of her silver blonde hair behind her ear, his hand lingering to trail down and wipe some of the peach's juice from her jaw, “How are you today, Y/n?”

“Well, as ever,” she answered, “Daeron said you needed to see me.”

“Your brother does so love to tell you everything, doesn’t he?”

“He did not tell me why,” she said, her eyes flicking to the Maester and scribe who had accompanied him.

Gwayne nodded, “I am sure you can guess.”

“You’d be surprised, but I cannot.”

“You are a woman flowered, Y/n,” he said, “It is high time we began to search the land for a husband worthy of you.”

“I always assumed Mother would wed me to Daeron? Or Aemond, as she did Aegon and Haelena.”

“That was strategic, you and your brother’s hands are too valuable to be linked together, there are too many great houses your mother needs to show favour to.”

“So I’ll be handed off to some… Baratheon? Lannister? Or Tully boy?”

“Perhaps,” he nodded, “But that is not our concern for now, that is your mother’s matter.”

“Then why are you here, Uncle?”

“We need… to ensure your mother has the most accurate information about your body and its changes into womanhood. We need to take measurements and ensure everything is as it should be.”

“Oh… I see,” she nodded,

“Now, the Maester can do these checks; he is a grandmaster with health and physiology as his main link… or I can do them, whichever will make you the more comfortable, ”

“You, please, Uncle.”

“Of course,” he smiled, “You may go, Maester.”

The Maester nodded and headed out silently,

“Must he stay?” She asked, glancing to the scribe boy, a young lad from the libraries barley older than her,

“Not if you don’t want him to, My Sweet Peach.” Gwayne cooed,

“I would prefer not.”

“Of course,” He nodded, “You may go, boy. Leave your parchments.”

The boy nodded, leaving the parchments on Y/n’s table and scampering away.

Gwayne smiled smugly and picked up her books, setting them to the side, and collecting the parchment, quill and ink. “You are not frightened of me? Are you My Sweet Peach? You trust me?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Good, now lie down.” He said, “Get your pillows so you're nice and comfortable.”

She nodded and adjusted her pillows to lie atop her sheets. She lay down soon after with the pillows under her waist and neck to support her body, looking up to the intricately painted ceiling of her chamber.

“Perfect, such a good girl,” he cooed, “I’ll be as gentle as I can be, if you want me to stop, just say the word. Alright, Y/n,”

“Yes, Uncle,” she agreed,

Gwayne began slowly, at first fixing her hair, ensuring no strand lay on her tender skin. He ran his fingers softly over her jaw, tilting her head from side to side. “So very beautiful, a Targaryen Princess of true, undeniable magnificence.”

She giggled and blushed hard at his words, but kept her lips closed.

He slid his hands down the curve of her neck, pushing her head back to bare her throat, “Swan like,” He cooed, as his hands moved lower and lower, but froze up as his fingers brushed her collar bones. He, instead of heading down, moved across her shoulders and worked down her arms, taking a soft grip of her hands and kissing them. “Perfect,” he cooed,

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“Shhh… be still and be silent, my sweet peach,” he told her, as he laid her hands back down on the bed. He returned his hands to her shoulders, gliding this time down her collar bones and over her chest. He inhaled a deep breath through his teeth as his palms felt the soft movement of her breasts. The gown was thin between their skin, and since it was still a gown designed and fitted for a younger lady, there was no boning, structure, and only a thin cotton underdress rather than a tight supportive corset. Which left her flesh to move freely at the pressure of his hands, he had no shame in massaging her breasts, cupping one in each hand and squeezing them with gentle attention. His gaze was glued to the bounce and jiggle of her breasts, and he licked his lips with dark desire as he felt the sensation begin to cause her nipples to harden from their insane sensitivity, beginning to pucker her gown’s fabric and press against his hands.

The movement and sensation made her giggle, the soft amount of pleasure from the rough fabric of her dress moving against her now perked nipples caused her to feel small sparks in her lower stomach, her thighs mindlessly clamping together with desire she hadn’t known before.

“Be still,” he reminds her, his hands sliding down past her breasts, over her stomach and down her thighs, taking a soft grip on her knees and pushing them apart, so her knees lay flat against the bed, her legs completely open.

“Yes, uncle,” she nodded,

“Good… such a good girl… such a sweet peach,” he cooed as his hands slid down her legs, capturing her ankles and pressing tender kisses to her feet as he slipped off her shoes, and peeled down her stockings to reveal her bare feet and legs, “Try not to fidget now,”

“I will try.”

He scoffed smugly before his hands slid back up her legs, taking his time to run his fingers over her inner thighs, pushing up her gown inch by inch. Until he reached the laces at her waist, where he stopped and looped his fingers around them tightly, looking into her eyes with a deep satisfaction, before he untied the laces.

Her gown fell loose and tumbled to the bed around her, still on her arms, but the rest of her open and exposed, the thin excuse for a girl's underdress all that concealed her. A thin white cotton that reached only her knees and cut away at the chest to allow her breasts to grow in. But she was fully grown now, and her large breasts were fully open to the air, her skin glistening in the sunlight from her windows, her nipples perked up and sensitive with need for attention. Her breaths made her chest heave, even if they were only light and tender breaths; the rushing of her heart caused them to tremble with her every heartbeat.

Gwayne forced himself to be silent, even if all the blood in his mind rushed south to swell his desperate cock, his gaze moved slowly over her, but her breasts took all his attention and desire. He licked his tongue over his bottom lip before he captured it between his teeth. His hands moved without thought as he slipped his hands over the soft cotton that still concealed her. Without warning, he ripped it off her, breaking the threads that had sewn it together and leaving it as shredded fabric on the floor.

The sudden jolt and rip shocked Y/n, but she giggled, feeling the breeze of the day touch her every inch. She was utterly exposed now, with the soft curve of her stomach and hips untouched and unhandled, and her cunt fully revealed, with her small soft patch of silver blonde hair gracing her soft mound, her lips puckered and swollen with blood and excitement, her clit beginning to glisten, and her hole yet untouched by man or maiden. Touched only by the gods who had blessed her with her blood and the promise, then, after, of her fertility.

“Ughh-” Gwayne moaned, unable to resist the urge. His eyes were fully on her cunt, ensuring he knew every curve and swerve. He kept his hands settled high on her thighs, ensuring she would not tremble or close her legs and hide this view from him. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut and muttered a prayer to all seven gods to forgive him for how he looked upon his niece and the unholy feelings it was bringing up in him.

“Aren’t you meant to take notes, Uncle Gwanye? To send to my mother?” she innocently asked,

“Yes- Yes… thank you for reminding me, Y/n,” he smiled, taking the chance for a moment of distraction. He took the parchment and quill, making notes on the page even if none of this would ever reach Y/nnt’s eyes. He noted about the shape of her throat, of the arc of her hips, of the thickness of her thighs, of the swell of her breasts and the utter masterpiece that was her cunt. All notes he himself will use later, when alone in his dark chambers. Once he had noted enough about her bare body, his hands trembled with the need to touch her. He slid his hands over her ankles, hoisting them up and kissing her feet and ankles like she was a goddess.

The kisses tickled her, causing her wide smile and her feet to mindlessly kick.

But he grabbed her wrists hard, like his hands were tight cuffs to force her stillness. He was slow and sensual as he kissed down her legs, keeping her ankles on his shoulders as he slid deeper and deeper between her legs, pressing kisses as he went. He stopped and shuddered when he was within gasping reach of her cunt, “Ugh- My sweet… sweet peach…” He groaned, “You will… make some lord very… very happy,” he cursed that it wouldn’t be him, and forced himself to skip her cunt, kissing instead over her hips and stomach, wrapping her legs around his waist as he crawled up her body, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat as he kissed up her sternum, his eyes fluttering shut as he felt her breasts against his face, but he stayed strong and forced himself to keep going, kissing up her throat until he reached her face.

“Hello, Uncle,” she blushed,

“Hello, Y/n,” he cooed back,

“Am I doing alright?”

“You… are doing… so perfectly,” he groaned, fighting his urge to press his throbbing cock against her cunt, “Just… just a little more, is that slight?”

“Mhm,”

“Good girl,” he cooed. He pressed a kiss to her cheek and began to move back down her body, but this time he didn’t restrain himself; he took her left breast in his hand and began to squeeze it hard, while his lips kissed a circle around her right nipple.

Y/n giggled and began to squirm her hips, but Gwayne pinned her hips down with his own, knowing she’d feel his hard on through his britches. She silenced herself, keeping to soft little whines.

He soon captured her nipple between his lips, pinching softly with his teeth as he began to suckle on her, licking on the very tip of her nipple with fast and feverish movements, while his hand pinched her other nipple as he groped and squeezed,

“Uncle Gwayne!” she whimpered,

“Shhhh… shhh…” He groaned, forcing his mouth away, “I am just checking, how easy it will be… for your future babes… to latch on your… soft and… succulent breasts,” he moaned, cupping the left nipple and being just as attentive to it.

She moaned, and her hips squirmed under him with pleasure,

Which made him cut himself off with a groan of need, but he forced himself down, grabbing her thighs and wrapping them around his neck, his hands holding her hips as firmly against the bedsheets as he could manage, “And now… I… I am checking how you will taste… for whatever lucky lord will get to be your husband, and how… ughh- easy it will be for you to birth your sweet babes.” He groaned,

“Yes, Uncle Gwayne,” she nodded,

“Be a good girl now… a good… good sweet peach,” He moaned before finally closing the gap he had long lusted over. He locked his lips around her cunt, licking, nibbling and suckling as he let out all his desires. He gripped her hard as she began to squirm with pleasure, her soft moans echoing off the high walls, but he was too lost in lust to even care for a moment about anything beyond her softness. He suckled hard on her clit and licked up the squirt that came flooding out of her, his tongue sliding down to slip inside her as deep as his tongue would go, moving back and forth with intense thrusts. “Ummm, you taste so good… my sweet peach, so sweet and succulent.”

“Ughhhh! Ughhhhhhhh! Uuuughh uuuuuuughh!” She moaned, her hips bucking up towards his lips,

“Ummm… good girl…” he moaned back, returning his lips to her clit and bringing one hand down to begin to test her cunt, sliding the tip of his index finger inside her just a tiny bit up to his first knuckle given how tight her virgin cunt was, “Ughhh fuck- your still so tight… still so… innocent and virtuous.” but that wouldn’t last for long, he sucked hard and licked on her clit as much as he could pleasusing her, and with every lick she allowed his finger another centimiter slowly but surely sliding deeper and deeper until his whole finger was inside up to his last knuckle, he pulled his finger all the wat out and then dove back inside again, over and over loosening her more until he could slip in his middle finger beside it.

“Aaaahhh! Uncle!” She screamed in pleasure,

“Ummm, just a little more.” He groaned, speaking more to himself than to her, since his throbbing cock was becoming too hard to ignore and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer himself, so he thrusted his third finger inside her, shoving his index, middle and ring fingers all inside her as deep as they would go.

The second she felt all three inside her, filling her so utterly along with his desperate sucks and licks, her first ever orgasm rushed through her body. From her head to her toes, waves and waves of pleasure melted over her, her toes curled, her body trembled, her hips bucked and spasmed, she squirted down his face, her eyes rolled back, and as soon as the wave had crashed, she collapsed in a panting mess against her sheets and dress.

Gwayne watched with unrestrained desire, keeping her hips flush and his fingers deep, he sucked on her clit while she rode out her orgasm, moaning softly against her skin as her own release caused his own, and he came in shivering loads into his britches. He licked every drop of squirt that had fallen from her body before he slid his fingers out and sat up, licking his fingers clean. “Perfect, my sweet peach,” he cooed, fixing some hair that had stuck to her face with sweat, “You are pristine and pure.”

“Thank you, Uncle…” she panted,

Seeing them leave was tearing your soul apart even though you tried to be strong for yourself and them.

He practically begged you to come with him, but you insisted on staying because in his absence someone must take the responsibility.

Aegon kissed you like he never had, like there was no tomorrow even though in his terrible pain, he kept telling you that he would come back and would not abandon you.

⸝⸝ 𝐃𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍

As highborn lady you were lucky enough to get engaged to a young handsome Targaryen prince, to your cousin specifically.

The two of you grow up together that's why your bond with him was too way strong you couldn't bear the thought of losing him but duty calls anyway.

So when the war was upon you ,your father marched along with your beloved and God if this wasn't the hardest thing you have ever done in your life watching leave.

"I will pray for your and our army safe return,my prince". "Don't stop writing for me my lady". He put gentle kiss on your hand then your hair line "Be brave for me y/n".

You wrapped a piece of green cloth around his arm with single tear in your eye, daeron eyes went from his arm to your face and wiped it slowly.

⸝⸝ 𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍

You were sitting in your bedchambers when your husband entered the room with his full armor and right there you know that mean one thing.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" he strolled towards you, making himself comfortable beside you "Don't be like this you know I have to". he muttered.

He run his hand over your stomach "I will do my best to back to both of you".

your eyelid slowly shut when you felt his soft touch on your cheeks putting your own hands on his making the moment last a little more "I shall host a feast there in your honor" . he whispered with his other hand caresses your stomach.

Then he leaned towards your lips and kissed you... He was not in a hurry..or too hard just sweet and soft it felt like a feather.

⸝⸝ 𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑

You stood in front of your husband while his squires armed him, fastening the steel plates over his padded gambeson and tightening each leather buckle with practiced ease.

"I'd rather you not witness this my lady". he mumbels gazing your face"If you must go, then let me remember you as you are now".

He took a step in your way once everyone left his armored hands cupped your cheeks with such a grace putting one messy lock behind your ear.

"Pray for us my love may your voice reaches the gods where mine cannot". he whispers his voice soft and low hit your beings" No prayer shall leave my lips without asking the gods to grant you victory and bring you safely back to me".

He smiles, kissing your forehead tenderly "If anything happ—". you interrupt him immediately hushing his lips"Speak no more". followed with trembling tone.

⸝⸝ 𝐆𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑

"I was wondering whether you might give me your favor". gwayen voice cut the peace in your children chamber, you handed your son to your maid, turning to him.

He walked till he was right in the front of you holding your both hands raising them to his lips pressing lingering kisses from one to another "In case should I not return".

"You will, your son needs you..and so do I". you breathed restting your forehead against his own"I shall pray day and night". he felt your tears spilling down your cheeks.

"May the seven watch over you and let the clouds of their mercy descend upon you my beloved". you said in hushed voice holding him so tight even metal pressure did not bothered you anymore.

"Remember me whenever your eyes fall upon it". you removed your necklace from yoir neck and fastened it around his tucking it beneath his breastplate.

⸝⸝ 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐒 𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐍

“I'll back to you. We still have a wedding to celebrate, remember?” he said softly, so quietly that only you could hear.

“You've imprisoned your mother!”, “It is my duty to protect her, even if that means from herself.”

You watched him walk away, stubborn as ever. You couldn't just stand there and do nothing. You hurried after him and stepped into his path.

“You won't do such a thing... Jace.”“I have to,” he murmured, a faint, sorrowful smile tugging at his lips. “I'm sorry, y/n.” He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. He didn't shove you aside, nor did he yell “Please... let me go”

You caught his wrist when he tried to walk“Don't,” you whispered, He had no other choice but turning to the guards, he commanded “Take my lady betrothed to her chambers.”

Then, looking at your eyes one last time, he said quietly “Forgive me.. y/n”

“Jace!”

@𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐀𝐑 : 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐘 𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐄𝐁𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐄..

I'm not sure how long we've been out here. Time is but an illusion. Maybe it's been days. It feels Like it must have been. I feel like I'm looking through a warped glass window. Everything is blurry and it makes me dizzy, yet I can't look away. No matter how much I want to.

Smoke fills the air, obscuring my view and burning my eyes as the wind rushes through my ears. My hands tighten around the reins. Vermithor rumbles loudly. He senses my growing unease as I whip my head around. My gaze searches for Jace and Baela among the smoke. I swallow thickly as I rest a calming hand against his bronze scales.

"Lykirī, Vermithor." I say loud enough for him to hear. He grumbles lowly. "We'll find them soon. We just got split up." My voice trails off towards the end of my words.

The fumes make my throat tighten. A prickly sensation skitters up my spine. I yelp, yanking the reins to the side as one of the giant bolt arrows slices through the air toward Vermithor's side. He shrieks as he dives higher in the sky, narrowly missing the arrow. I'm thrown back into my seat as I grasp the saddle to stay upright.

"Rȳbās!"

More bolt arrows fly towards us. He flies towards the danger, turning left and right swiftly as shouts and screams become clearer the closer we get. I hold back a shriek when he slams his body through a ship, destroying the wood as it slices my cheek open. I feel warmth start to trickle down my skin. The cut stings.

Panic holds my chest in a vice, squeezing until I can't breathe as I look back at the damage. He breathes fire across more ships, more enemies. I can't hear anything except the blood rushing in my ears.

"Dohaerās! We have to find—"

A shriek fills the air, making a harsh wave of fear cover me like a cloak. I know that sound, that's Vermax, sweet, gentle, Vermax. He's in pain, such a great deal of pain that it makes tears prick my eyes. I yank the reins to turn my dragon around as we fly toward the sound.

Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay.

I feel bile rise in my throat. My trembling hand finds its way to my stomach, as if that action alone can keep me from losing my composure.

"Jace?" I shout. Fuck. I feel like I'm going to be sick when my eyes catch a head of brown curls.

Sinking in the water. The bolt arrows are lodged in his scales, his wails go quieter and more hoarse as his limbs grow more sluggish.

"Go, go now, Vermithor!" I urge him on as the wind slaps me in the face. He sails downward towards them, but it's too slow. Too fucking slow. Vermithor dodges the arrows as we get closer. Closer.

"I'm here, I'm here! I'm—"

When you love someone, you would be willing to die for them. Kill for them. With no regard for anything other than knowing that they are safe. I have never known the feeling of a loved one's blood on my skin. The thought makes my skin feel uncomfortably tight. So when that first arrow pierced his skin, I could do nothing but watch. I wanted to scream. I wanted to lay waste to those who hurt him because he doesn't deserve it. He deserves to be at home, safe and warm with his family until he grows old. He doesn't fucking deserve it. Not... not here.

"Jace!" I'm not sure if that was the scream I let out or not. I can't tell.

Calm down. Fucking focus! Get him. Go get him.

Then the second arrow hits.

Then the third.

I cry out. It feels like someone ripped out my lungs and shredded them apart then stuck them back in and expected me to breathe easily.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

The ancient beast slams into the water. The salty water sprays my face, the contact freezing against my skin. I unclasp the hooks on my saddle as I slide down his scales. I don't care about safety. All I can think about is him. I reach out, my fingers extending farther as I grab at his vest. My hand slips. Vermithor growls lowly, catching my attention. I have to hurry, or we'll both be dead.

I try not to cry. The tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I choke on the sobs that threaten to fall past my lips.

I give a determined shout as I grab him by the shoulders, yanking him up with all my strength. I feel like my arms are tearing as I clench my jaw. I hold him closely once I manage to get him up. I pant harshly as I rest my cheek against his soaked curls. I squeeze my eyes shut. My body is shaking so violently that I feel my teeth chatter. My stomach rolls at the sight of him. I gag at the scent of his blood. Vermithor assists in helping both of us back into the saddle, sinking himself lower into the ocean.

"Sōvēs." I let out. My voice is hoarse.

Vermithor launches off the water. The force makes a wave that crashes over a few ships around us. I hold onto Jace tightly to keep him from falling before I'm jerked to the side. The ancient beast lets out a pain-filled wail as the bolt arrow sticks out of his side.

"No, no! Sōvēs! Vēzot Sōves!" My voice cracks. He tries to obey, flapping his wings as he travels higher. A flash of shadow zips right past us, ripping the rope from the arrow. Baela looks back. A mixture of panic and despair paints her warm features when her eyes land on Jacaerys.

"We have to go back to Dragonstone!" I shout over the wind. She nods, leading the way on Moondancer. I look back down. Brown eyes meet mine as I swallow harshly. They're half-lidded, tracing over my face like he's committing it to memory.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

"You're okay now." I grit out, my hands tightening around his shoulders. "I'm here now. You're safe."

I brush back his wet hair that is sticking to his forehead with shaking fingers.

I'll keep him safe. I think. I'll shield him from the pain and sorrow that comes with war. I will take every arrow, every sword blow, even if I die by dragon fire. I would for him, because he isn't just a prince or the heir to the throne. He's Jace. Kind and gentle and good. I feel tears slip down my cheeks, creating a pathway through the dirt and blood.

Because I love him.

I feel the pad of his fingers brush against the tears staining my cheeks. The color is draining from his face, growing paler. The sight makes me nauseous.

"Don't cry, Ñuha jorāelā," he whispers, his tone weak and breathy. His chest is rising and falling too quickly. His breathing is shallow. I shake my head repeatedly.

"Don't speak. Save your strength." I stammer. I ignore the blood that's soaking through his vest. I ignore the way his skin is too cold against mine. It may be selfish of me. It is.

"You're bleeding."

"I'm okay. Hey, hey, hey. Don't close your eyes, okay? Just look at me." I guide his head toward mine. I press my forehead against his as I run a soothing hand through his damp curls. I press a trembling kiss to the side of his head. He murmurs my name. I pull back to meet his eyes.

I expect to see pain, anger, anything. But all I see is love. He's looking at me like I hung the moon and stars just for him, and I can't handle it. I feel sick. I feel like it's my fault.

"Don't... don't blame yourself." My eyes flick back up to meet his. Dragonstone is just coming into view.

"Don't say that like you're dying. You're not." I say forcefully. My hands are trembling as I press a hand to one of his wounds. He grunts roughly. I whisper soft apologies into his hair as I hold him close.

"Please don't take him." I whisper. I don't know who I'm speaking to. The gods, the ocean, the fucking sky. "We have already lost too much. Don't take him too. He doesn't deserve it."

I plead and plead until my voice grows hoarse and my words get stolen in the wind. I beg the gods, or whoever is listening, to not take him from me because it wouldn't be fair. Because he's still young, and he deserves to see a realm that is peaceful and safe. I beg until the tears have crusted on my cheeks and my heart has been stomped on. I beg until his heart grows more faint and slow. I beg once we land in Dragonstone and the maesters pry him from my arms.

I even began to pray to the old and new gods like a child, pleading with them, cursing them, making deals, anything.

I feel like I brought a corpse to his mother's feet.

The dragonkeepers lead away Vermithor to tend to his wounds.

I sit there for what feels like hours. My back is against a stone wall. I sit there waiting across the hall. My knees are up to my chest, my riding leathers still slightly damp. My head starts to lean forward, my eyes fluttering closed before I snap them open.

I can't sleep until I know he's alive.

The maesters tried to clean my wounds, but I refused each time. After the sixth attempt, I caved. Rhaenyra told me she would stay with Jacaerys. She urged me to go eat, or at least take a bath. I said nothing. Baela understood, in a way. She sat with me for the first hour, but then she jokingly remarked about how much she stunk of dragon as she rose to go take a bath. A maid passed by, offering sweet cakes. I declined, knowing that if I ate something, it would just come right back up.

And then I was alone.

Alone with my thoughts, which is worse when the thoughts could become true this time.

I repeat his name like a mantra out loud. Quietly. Oh so quietly, but the guards still glance my way. As if, by keeping repeating it, I'll somehow keep his heart beating by speaking his name over and over. Seeing the arrows strike his body is something that will never leave my sight. It will haunt me for the rest of eternity. Every time I close my eyes, I see the image behind my eyelids. I'm sure it will be in my nightmares tonight and every night after, but I would bear the burden if it meant his pain would ease and that his dreams would be peaceful.

Some time ago, I dozed off. I knock my head against the wall with a wince. Baela appears at my side, a tired smile plastered across her lips.

"He's alright. They did the most they could."

I attempt to spring up onto my feet. My legs feel fuzzy as I lose my balance, but Baela grips my forearms to stabilize me. I smile weakly as I hurry past her as quickly as I can. I walk into his bedchambers. The room smells of frankincense and salt.

My breathing hitches once my gaze lands on Jace. The arrows that were protruding from his body when I held him are gone. His riding leathers are gone, replaced with bandages around his chest. His lower half is covered in a soft, silk red blanket. His skin is still pale, but he's breathing more slowly now. My heart pounds relentlessly against my ribcage as I slowly make my way toward him.

"He's strong." I turn my head to the side to see Rhaenyra. She looks exhausted but less tense than before. Her violet eyes are soft as she goes to sit on the foot of the bed. She's still in her riding leathers from before, before we left to fight in the Gullet. I wince. She smiles slightly.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace." I whisper, I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for. Leaving her here, disobeying her, bringing back her half-dead son—

"You brought him back," she murmurs. I look back at him, he looks like he's still in pain. His brows are pinched together, but otherwise he looks peaceful. At least I hope he's peaceful. I scoff bitterly.

"Not fast enough." Her hand grasps mine, gentle.

"Do not speak like that. You brought him back and that is enough." It's quiet for a few aching moments. The guilt gnaws at me.

"Leaving was wrong. Keeping me in my bedchambers was wrong," she says. I purse my lips. "What you did could be seen as treason."

I look away from her, shame filling my gut.

"But," she starts. "You fought fearlessly, and you brought back my son." She pauses, pursing her lips. Her voice grows quiet. "I've already lost a son. I didn't need to lose another." My frown softens as I squeeze her hand gently. She stands up from the bed. She squeezes my shoulder before walking past.

"I'll give you both privacy."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

It's silent. I let out a deep sigh as I sit on the ground near the bed. I hesitate as my hand hovers over his. I gently interlock our fingers as I press them against my lips. Tears prick my eyes as my throat tightens.

"I'm sorry I didn't get there fast enough." I whisper against his skin. I rest my forehead against his leg as I let out a shaky breath. "I... I tried."

I feel a hand fall on top of my head, weak but still there. I practically deflate against him as tears collect on my eyelashes. My breathing hitches as he rubs soothingly down my back. this is ridiculous. I'm supposed to be comforting him.

"Oh, Jace. I thought—fuck—I thought—" He shushes me gently. I choke on a sob, my voice brittle. My body begins to tremble uncontrollably as he weakly tugs on my hand.

"Lay with me, Nuhys qēlos." His voice is gentle, not possessive, but so soft it makes me want to curl up in his arms.

"I can't," I breathe out, albeit sharply. "I don't want to hurt you further—"

He murmurs my name again, and I shake my head vigorously. But I let him guide me. I let him tug me into the bed and into his uninjured side. And when I feel the warmth and the solidity of him, my tears turn into sobs.

He grabs my hand gently—so gently—and holds it against his chest, right against his heart. I pull back, not wanting to hurt him, but he holds firmly.

Tears still slip down my face at a rapid pace, but I calm slightly once I feel the gentle thump, thump of his heart. It's consistent and strong, and fuck, it makes me fall apart all over again. because I felt his heart fading in my hands, and if I was even a second too late, he wouldn't be alive. My breathing stutters as his thumb rubs back and forth across my skin.

"I'm here." He says it with so much conviction that I want to believe him. So I let myself breathe in his calming scent. I let myself sniffle and hiccup as I focus on his heartbeat. "I'm here now, and I am not going to leave you."

I rest my head gently in the crook of his neck, careful of the bandage around his shoulder, as he wraps a tender arm around my waist.

"Are you okay?"

He smiles weakly. "I'm better. I'm alright now."

"Thank you for saving me." He whispers, pressing a sweet kiss to my forehead. I say nothing. I can't say anything as a lump forms in my throat.

He's my lungs, my heart, the very air I breathe. He's the wind through the trees, the waves crashing against the shore, the warmth of the sun. He's the wildflowers growing in the fields. His smile alone could bring light to the darkness.

Because if I had to burn the realm down, I would do it gladly if it meant he would be warm.

"Stay?"

I raise my head from the safety of his neck. I meet his soft brown eyes — dark and inviting, and oh so warm. When the light hits them just right, they're a pool of soft honey.

"I'm here," I whisper. I brush my thumb across his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed. "I'll stay."

He nods, and I go back to burying my face into his skin. It's quiet for a few moments. I draw gentle patterns on his bandaged chest. I hear him laugh quietly. I raise a brow as I hum in question.

"You smell of dragon. And blood."

I let out a small laugh at that.

"I suppose I do."

But I don't make any moves to get up, and neither does he. We stay like that until the sky darkens and our breathing slows. My eyes are half-lidded as I exhale quietly.

"Jace?" I mumble.

"Hm?" I feel his thumb tracing soft patterns back and forth on my hip.

"I love you."

He looks down at me, and I meet his gaze. He presses a kiss against my forehead, letting his lips linger for a few moments.

"I love you too." His voice raw as he whispers the words against my skin.

We fall asleep, me dirtying the sheets in the bed that I'm sure the handmaids will gossip and complain about. But I let the sound of his heartbeat lull me to sleep, knowing he is safe. And I will keep it that way, even if I have to fight the gods themselves.

But for now, we will rest.