description: jacaerys was ecstatic when his mother proposed that he invite his girlfriend along on their annual summer holiday in dorne. two weeks in paradise, endless luxury, the love of his life, and…his entire extended family–what could go wrong?
warnings: UNEDITED dear god dont hold me accountable for typos or bad grammar i had a bad week guys, SMUT mdni (p in v, oral, mention of masturbation), substance use (alcohol and marijuana), swearing, reader is described as feminine presenting (mentioned to be wearing bikinis and skirts/dresses), a disgustingly large wealth gap (middle class!reader), very toxic family dynamics, no targcest featured in this one (jace, luke, and joffrey are still velaryons but lets not dwell on that), aegon and aemond are the weird uncles but at least they share their weed
words: 7.7K
date posted: 26/07/26
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Jacaerys had laughed aloud at the look on his girlfriend’s face as their driver pulled onto the tarmac. She’d expressed her nerves about flying, having only been on two different planes in her life, which had consisted of her being squished between two strangers and shaking from the turbulence. It had, of course, been on a standard economy flight, which she had not been expecting from the billionaire family, but she also had not been expecting a glittering red and black and gold private jet waiting for them at the airport.
This flight had been nothing like she’d ever experienced before, just another jarring reminder of the unimaginable wealth sitting beneath the Targaryen family. Jace had packed her softest pyjamas in his own carry-on for the flight, reminding her that she would be more comfortable once she changed out of her linen shorts and shirt set. She took them begrudgingly, making a stern remark about how she wholeheartedly resented such an unethical use of fossil fuels while slipping into the generously sized bathroom. She even rolled her eyes when she returned from changing to find that breakfast had been spread across one of the tables for them, but had no reservations about having seconds as she sipped on a perfectly ratioed iced latte.
The stewardess on board seemed to preen under her praise, keeping just enough distance to offer privacy, but always watching for signs that they may need her assistance. Jace seemed quite amused at the woman’s eagerness to please his girlfriend, and even more so at his girlfriend’s many failed attempts to keep pretending that she didn’t like it.
She dragged her heels as she stepped down onto the tarmac, thanking the staff politely before allowing Jace to guide her to the deep scarlet convertible that awaited them. With the luggage packed into the boot, they set off down the road onto the coastal highway. She was glad that Jace seemed to know where he was going, because as marvelled as she was by the natural landscape, she would have somehow wandered into the desert without him.
It was late in the afternoon when they finally arrived at the villa–or rather, villas. The property was guarded by a large iron gate, followed by a long, palm covered driveway before finally leading into a cul-de-sac surrounded by three monumental houses, all built with traditional Dornish architecture, but each retaining their own Targaryen features to them; dragon statues, an excessive use of black and red, royal symbolism all over.
Jace opened the door for her, offering her a hand to guide her out into the driveway.
“I know it doesn’t look like much, but–” he teased with a wicked grin on his pink lips.
“Don’t even finish that sentence,” she hissed, pinching his arm playfully, “I used to spend my summers in a camper van.”
“Alright,” he admitted, hands finding her waist as he stepped nearer to her, “it’s nice, I know,”
Two young men appeared from one of the villas, rushing toward the parked car and hurriedly unpacking the trunk of their luggage. She glanced over her shoulder at them, offering a grateful smile as Jace guided her up towards the second largest of the three villas, his hands never leaving her waist as they stepped inside.
A breath escaped her lungs as she took in the grand entryway; marble and precious metals and glass all over, physical evidence of the Targaryen legacy before her eyes. She glanced over her shoulder at him, her cheeks growing hot as she found him already looking, watching her take it all in, watching her in yet another one of his spaces.
He wanted her there, he wanted her everywhere. If there was anything that he could call his own, he wanted her to take it, to make it her own. He wanted her in every part of his life; he’d let her live inside his own skin if he could. It all made sense when she explained how his wealth could make her feel when he just threw it around, and as much as he wanted to bury her with gifts and material affection, he respected that she wanted to maintain some of her own financial independence–but if she ever let him, she would wear only the finest silks and jewels, eating and drinking however she pleased, and on as many vacations she would allow him to organize. They’d only been together for nine months, but he wanted only her to be part of that future, and now that he was getting a glimpse of what it would look like, he couldn’t get it out of his head.
“What?” She asked defensively, turning toward him curiously, “what’s that look for?”
He stepped closer, hands pulling her closer by the hips and lowering his lips to hover just over her own.
“I was just imagining bringing you here on our honeymoon.”
She pushed at his chest with a laugh, “oh shut up!”
“I’m not joking,” he laughed, stepping back from the force of her shove, “and then we’ll go to YiTi for our first anniversary, skiing in Winterfell for New Year’s.”
“You’re skipping over a few steps, I think,” she giggled, “first, we’ll graduate, move in together, you’ll propose…”
“Don’t give me any ideas,” he said, “you’d have a ring tomorrow if I thought you would say yes.”
“I would say yes,” she reminded him, “just not right now.”
Jace leaned closer with a cheesy grin, his eyes dropping to focus on her lips. He shifted to press closer, lips about to brush against hers when his brothers appeared in the doorway.
“Ugh!” Joffrey huffed in disgust, “Mo-ther! Jace is mauling his girlfriend again!”
The hurried click of Rhaenyra’s shoes against the marble flooring echoed through the bottom floor of the villa, her sunkissed figure appearing behind the younger two of her sons. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, silky silver locks glistening in the sunlight like polished glass as she pushed through the two younger boys, her arms extending with glee as she rushed towards the young couple.
“You’re here!” she cheered, “I’m so glad you could make it!”
Jacaerys stepped forward to meet his mother, only to let out a sharp grunt of surprise as she pushed past him, her arms curling snugly around the figure of his girlfriend, who seemed equally surprised by Rhaenyra’s affection while also not-so-subtly cosying into the embrace.
She pulled away, keeping her hands steady on the younger woman’s shoulders as she took in her appearance, “oh, you look so beautiful, but I just see how much you need this vacation.”
Jace cleared his throat impatiently. He was her firstborn son, her, her favourite–though she would never admit it. Never before had Jacaerys felt dismissed by his own mother, let alone for someone who wasn’t even her own blood.
“Should we give you two a moment to catch up?” He scoffed, “perhaps you may give me a ride back to the airport when you’re finished?”
Rhaenyra smirked at her son’s pout. He was not truly angry with them, but there was little he could do to stop the slight whine to his tone at the implication of his mother’s rejection.
“And you, my boy,” she hardly stifled her laugh as she moved to cup his cheeks, “how glad I am to see you, too. How was the flight?”
Jace, practically purring under his mother’s touch, turned his content gaze to his girlfriend teasingly.
“I practically had to force this one off the jet. I think I’m beginning to spoil her.”
His girlfriend scoffed at him, “the beginning was a long time ago.”
Rhaenyra barked a laugh as she shifted back to glance between her son and his girlfriend.
“Clearly, even more spoiling is in order if you think this too much already.”
“Funny,” Jace grinned at her, “I’ve been saying the same thing.”
She shook her head in embarrassment, “I don’t–I’m not–”
“We’re only teasing, my girl,” Rhaenyra laughed, “now come in, you must be exhausted. We’ll be having dinner in a few hours, so try not to pick too much and ruin your appetites.”
After exchanging pleasantries with Luke and Joffrey and offering them their own–much shorter–hugs, Jace led her up the stairs and through the long corridors to their bedroom. It was the same one he’d kept since he was a child, decorated finely as any other room with a few touches of his personality throughout the years. Photos and trinkets decorated the space; family portraits, football posters, collages of he and his brothers during their vacations. It was a strange sort of intimacy to see evidence of the boy Jacaerys had once been.
Their luggage awaited them in the room. Or rather, simply their belongings that were already tucked away in the large armoire in the corner, their toiletries arranged neatly on the ensuite counter, and two stiffly pressed bathrobes folded on the foot of the bed.
She let out a soft breath as he closed the door behind them, her shoulders slouching as she felt the exhaustion seep into her bones. Suddenly, the weight of it all slipped away, and it was just the two of them again. She felt her lips curl into a lazy smile as she felt his chest press up against her back, his arms curling around her waist possessively.
He hummed against her neck as he pressed lazy kisses against the soft flesh, his teeth catching on the dainty gold chain that helped balance a small J pendant between her collar bones. She hummed at the graze of his teeth against the sensitive flesh.
“Jace,” she whispered weakly, “I know what you’re doing–stop that! I’ve gotta get ready! Don’t start anything you cannot finish.”
“It’s a casual dinner, love, no need to get all dressed up,” his lips curled into a smile against her neck, “and who said anything about not finishing?”
She laughed then, fighting against his hold but only becoming more restrained as he tightened his grip around her waist.
“Gods forbid I show my girlfriend some love and affection,” he whined, burying his nose deeper into her flesh.
“Love and affection? Is that what you call what’s poking into my back right now?”
One of his hands slid down, gently pinching at the fat of her bum, “it certainly could be.”
She finally broke free of his grasp, putting a few paces between them before turning to face him.
“I am tired, I am anxious, and worst of all, I am sweating from this gods’ forsaken heat. I am not having sex with you right before a dinner with your entire extended family–who, mind you, could have me quietly disposed of if they do not like me and see no consequences for it. It truly irks me how easily you forget what privilege you come from.”
Jace, whose attention had fallen to her lips as she scolded him, glanced back up to meet her gaze.
“So…after, then?”
His girlfriend huffed, turning on her heel, snatching her monogrammed robe from the bed and heading for the shower, where all of her products already awaited her in a neat little row.
“Take care of it while I shower,” she ordered, “I’m also not going to dinner with that sitting next to me all night.”
He let out a dramatic sigh before throwing himself onto the bed dramatically.
“Can’t I join you? It would be quick.”
“It never is,” she barked, “take care of it.”
“Can you at least leave the door open?” He asked weakly.
The door shut firmly behind her.
***
When Jacaerys said that it was a casual dinner, she should have known better than to believe him.
To be fair, it likely was actually casual by billionaire royal standards, but even her nicest dress was far too understated, she suddenly realized, for the grandeur of the king’s own villa. It was decorated with glittering rubies, rich linens and satins, sleek leather, and glistening marble columns. Rhaenyra led the charge, accepting a glass of Dornish red from a hired server as she led the path through the sprawling house like it was her own. Her own tailored suit likely cost more than a month’s rent, her shoes double that.
Jace and his brothers were all dressed in varying colours and materials, but all seemed to compliment one another perfectly; Rhaenyra never gave up the opportunity to flaunt her picture perfect family before her stepmother Alicent, the crown princess’s former best friend turned enemy after discovering that Alicent had been sleeping with the king. Somehow, she had even found a way to match Jace’s outfit to his girlfriend’s, ensuring that each of them were so subtly correlated that Rhaenyra knew only Alicent would pick up on it.
Jace guided her along from a step behind, his warm palm pressing into her lower back comfortingly. She reached back, fingers ghosting across his forearm until she caught his hand with her own and fell into step with him. He squeezed her hand, offering her a supportive smile as they stepped into the parlour.
“Stop that,” he whispered after catching her shifting at her dress, “you are breathtaking.”
“You call that casual?” She hissed as she glanced towards the queen, who stood next to her husband’s chair in a floor length emerald gown made of the softest silk in the realm.
“Trust me,” he murmured back, “for her, it is. You should see her during Yuletide.”
Beside Alicent, the king sat in a soft leather chair, a glass of vintage scotch trembling slightly in his hand. He was well dressed, though in attire far more comfortable than formal, and despite the toll of age and illness, he carried himself with an easy warmth, his cheerful demeanor refusing to yield to his frailty. Jace had often told her that his grandfather was deeply devoted to keeping the family together, even as the fractures between them had become impossible to ignore.
“My boy,” Viserys beamed as Jacaerys stepped before him, “it’s good of you to finally show up, only two days late.”
“You know my Jacaerys,” Rhaenyra hummed, “always fashionably late.”
Jace rolled his eyes at the pair, “I’m beginning to think you only wanted me here to be the butt of your jokes.”
“I only jest, my boy,” Viserys chuckled at his grandson, “fear not, your brothers have been dealt their fair share of my terrible humour. Now, pray tell, who is your lovely companion?”
She instinctively pressed closer to Jace, retreating half a step behind him as every gaze in the room settled upon her. Across from them, Viserys leaned forward with undisguised curiosity, eager to finally meet the young woman who had so thoroughly captivated his grandson.
Jace beamed as he spoke her name into the room, “my girlfriend.”
Jace gently guided her from behind his shoulder, coaxing her into view before the king while keeping his hand firmly entwined with hers. Viserys noticed it at once—a quiet but unmistakable breach of royal protocol. Yet in the intimacy of the moment, the gesture seemed less an act of defiance than one of reassurance, Jace offering the comfort she so clearly sought in the steady warmth of his touch.
“I have heard very much about you, my dear.”
She glanced at Jace over her own shoulder, raising a brow at him.
“My grandson has always had a terrible poker face, even now, and has never been one to keep a secret for long,” Viserys chuckled, “but I do not expect many could with a woman like you at their side. Law school, is it?”
She felt warmth bloom across her cheeks beneath the king's unwavering attention.
"I hope so, Your Grace," she said with a small, self-conscious smile. "I've still got my undergraduate degree to finish, so I have a little ways to go."
Jace gave an amused shake of his head. "Don't let her fool you. She'll be admitted—I'd bet the Crown on it. She's already landed an internship with Stark & Co. in King's Landing, and they don't take just anyone."
Viserys raised his brow in surprise, “they certainly do not, I know Rickard quite well, and Cregan has always been a good friend to Jacaerys. Do not diminish your achievements, my dear.”
Jace squeezed her hand.
This time, the motion caught the attention of the queen, who did not seem nearly as amused by the affection as her husband had been.
“Yes,” she drawled, “this family is certainly in need of more ambitious women.”
The remark was a double-edged sword—a compliment to the young woman's academic accomplishments, yet a subtle barb aimed at Rhaenyra, whom Alicent had long regarded as a persistent thorn in her side, forever frustrating her designs with schemes of her own.
Rhaenyra bristled from beside me, “yes, it certainly does.”
The tension was suffocating, the animosity between the two women spreading through the room until it seemed to tighten around her throat. Instinctively, she edged closer to Jace, who looked no more at ease than she felt. His shoulders stiffened as he glanced toward his younger brothers before returning his attention to their grandfather.
He suggested a walk through the gardens that bordered the estate and wound along the cliffs overlooking the beach. It was a transparent excuse to usher his girlfriend and brothers away from the gathering before the familiar family conflict could erupt. He had warned her before that when Rhaenyra and Alicent clashed, tempers escalated with alarming speed. Once, he had told her, it had become so vicious that he made it a habit to get his brothers out of the room before the worst of it began.
“They don't quite compare to the gardens at Maegor's Holdfast," Joffrey admitted as they wandered beneath the archway and into the grounds. "Those are grander, and Dragonstone's are larger still, but these have their own charm."
He spoke easily as they walked, his steps matching hers while Jace and Luke followed a short distance behind. After weeks apart, the brothers had plenty to catch up on, their conversation filling the space between them as they slowly drifted out of earshot.
She let out a soft laugh as Joffrey guided her toward the garden doors.
"It must be strange, going from Dragonstone to this. Doesn't it feel a little... cramped?"
“It does,” he nodded mindlessly, “but it’s only for a few weeks.”
Once again, she was baffled by the blissful ignorance of the wealthy. She almost laughed at the boy’s nonchalance, but withheld as he led her further into the finely landscaped hedge maze, following behind as he broke into a run.
"Follow me!" Joffrey called over his shoulder before darting behind a towering wall of hedges.
She laughed and hurried after him, only to round the corner and find the path empty.
"Joff?" she called, peering down one corridor, then another. Nothing.
A beat of silence.
"Joffrey?"
"Don't worry," a voice drawled behind her. "He has a habit of wandering."
She startled, spinning on her heel.
Another silver-haired Targaryen lounged on a weathered stone bench tucked into the crook of the hedge maze. He reclined against one arm as though he'd been there for hours, one boot lazily crossed over the other. Between his fingers burned the end of a half-smoked joint, a thin ribbon of smoke curling into the afternoon air.
His pale violet eyes swept over her with shameless curiosity, lingering just long enough to make her skin prickle.
"You're the nanny, then?" he asked. "My sister doesn't usually bring the help along on holiday."
She let out a short, incredulous laugh and glanced around the maze once more. Still no sign of Joffrey. Jace and Luke must have fallen farther behind than she'd realized.
"No," she replied coolly, folding her arms across her chest. She silently thanked herself for choosing the modest midi dress over the sundress she'd briefly considered. Even so, she could feel his gaze tracing the bare skin of her shoulders.
"I'm Jacaerys's girlfriend."
For the first time, his expression shifted.
His brows climbed toward his hairline before a loud, disbelieving laugh escaped him.
"Jace?" he repeated, an amused grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're serious? The realm's golden prince actually managed to get himself a girlfriend?"
He gave her another once-over, this one slower, more assessing.
"I'll admit," he said with a crooked smile, "I didn't think he'd be anyone's type."
He took another drag before flicking the ash onto the gravel path.
"Gods..." he muttered, amusement still dancing in his voice. "This family really has been full of surprises lately."
“You almost sound jealous,” she said, watching curiously as he took a long drag from the joint, “I’m sure there are women lining down the block for a chance with Aegon Targaryen.”
Aegon smirked at her as he let out a smoky breath.
“They are, and I’m very happy to entertain them for a night or two.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“You get used to it,” he muttered bitterly, then shifted his eyes back to her face, “so, you apparently know my name, it’s only fair if I know yours.”
She hesitated. He was a stranger, lounging in the middle of the gardens while getting stoned—the sort of situation her mother had spent years warning her about. Granted, those lectures usually involved dark alleys, suspicious vans, and somehow ended with her living under a bridge, but the underlying message had been the same: don't trust strange men.
Still, it seemed pointless to keep the truth from him. If he really was Jace's uncle, he was bound to learn who she was sooner or later. They would all be under the same roof for the next week, and family gossip traveled faster than wildfire.
A knowing smirk spread across his face when she finally answered. Without another word, he held the joint out to her in offering.
She glanced at it before shaking her head. "No, thank you."
He huffed a laugh and nudged it a little closer.
"Go on."
"I'm sure."
"Trust me," he said, settling back against the bench, "you'll want something to dull the edges before dinner."
The butterflies already fluttering in her stomach seemed to plummet.
"...Why?"
His expression remained maddeningly relaxed.
"Has something happened?"
Aegon lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug.
"Depends what you call 'happened.' My mother and my sister have been at each other's throats since before I can remember."
"Even at a family dinner?"
He laughed outright.
"Especially at family dinners. Half the entertainment is waiting to see who throws the first jab."
She frowned.
"I thought maybe they'd... try to keep the peace."
"They do." He took another slow drag. "For about five minutes."
Despite herself, she smiled.
"Maybe you'll be the miracle we've all been waiting for," he added. "A fresh face. Neutral territory."
She raised an eyebrow.
"That almost sounded sincere."
"It wasn't."
She laughed, earning a satisfied grin from him.
"No offense," he said.
"None taken." She nodded toward the joint. "But I'll pass. I'd rather be fully present for my first dinner with my boyfriend's family."
"Brave woman."
He reclaimed the joint, exhaling a thin stream of smoke toward the hedges.
"Don't say I didn't try to save you."
A familiar voice cut through the maze before she could answer.
"There you are."
She turned to find Jacaerys rounding the corner, an easy smile spreading across his face the moment he saw her.
"I should've warned you," he said with a sheepish laugh. "Joff has a habit of abandoning people the second something else catches his attention."
His gaze shifted to the silver-haired man lounging on the bench.
"...Ah."
A crooked grin tugged at Aegon's lips.
"And here is your prince charming."
Jace sighed through a smile.
"I see you've met my uncle."
"So I have."
Before she could say another word, Jace stepped in beside her. She instinctively leaned back against his chest as his arm slipped around her waist, his hand settling there with an ease that immediately put her at ease.
Aegon's eyes lingered on the gesture before a smirk tugged at his lips.
"So it's serious."
Jace didn't hesitate.
"It is."
Aegon let out a quiet hum, taking one last drag from the joint.
"Huh. Good for you, nephew."
He pushed himself off the bench, brushing off his trousers.
"I'll see you both at dinner. Try not to take whatever my mother says to heart."
With a lazy salute, he disappeared down another path, leaving the pair alone once more.
A quiet laugh escaped her once Aegon was out of earshot.
"He's... not what I expected."
Jace sighed, shaking his head as he threaded his fingers through hers.
"That's Aegon."
"Does he always greet strangers by offering them a joint?"
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Only the ones he likes."
She nudged his shoulder. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"I think it was." He glanced toward the opening of the maze. "Come on. If we don't head back now, Baela will come looking for us, and she'll never let Joff forget he lost you."
They found Joffrey waiting sheepishly by the garden entrance, Luke beside him with his hands tucked into his pockets.
"There you are!" Joffrey exclaimed. "I only turned around for a second."
"You disappeared," she laughed.
"I was exploring."
"You got distracted," Luke corrected, making himself known behind them.
"...I got distracted."
Jace chuckled, slipping an arm around her shoulders as the four of them started back toward the house. The warm glow of the dining room spilled through the tall windows ahead, the sounds of conversation already drifting onto the terrace.
She drew a slow breath.
"Dinner?"
Jace gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
"Dinner."
Together, they climbed the stone steps toward the house, leaving the peace of the gardens behind as they stepped into whatever awaited them inside.
***
Dinner was quieter than she had expected.
King Viserys began the evening with a speech, beaming beneath the candlelight as he spoke about how happy he was to see his family gathered together again. His voice carried a warmth that seemed almost out of place given the tension lingering around the table, but he appeared determined to savor the moment.
After that, conversation came in brief, strained attempts. Questions were asked out of courtesy rather than genuine interest, and most were answered with little more than a few clipped words before the silence returned.
Aemond and Helaena had since joined them, seated across the table from where she and Jace sat. Helaena seemed almost entirely detached from the evening, drifting in and out of conversation as though her thoughts were somewhere far away. She offered no judgment, no curiosity, barely even acknowledging her presence.
Aemond, however, had noticed her.
He had made no effort to hide it.
His attention lingered from across the table, his expression carefully composed, as if he was trying to decide what exactly he thought of her. There was no warmth in his gaze—not yet—but neither was there the outright disdain she had expected.
It was curiosity. And something else she couldn't quite place.
She caught him looking more than once, only for him to calmly return his attention to his plate as though he hadn't been watching her at all.
Jace noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His hand found hers beneath the table, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles in quiet reassurance.
"Don't mind him," he murmured.
She glanced toward Aemond again. "I wasn't sure if I should."
A faint smile tugged at Jace's mouth.
"That means he's interested."
She raised an eyebrow. "Interested?"
"In his own way."
The silence lingered until Viserys, ever eager to keep his family engaged, turned his attention back toward her.
"And tell me," he said warmly, "how are you finding King's Landing? It must be quite the change from what you are accustomed to."
She smiled politely. "It has been an adjustment, Your Grace. But I enjoy it. There is always something new to learn."
"A good answer from someone in your position," Viserys said with a pleased smile. "Jace tells me you are doing remarkably well with your studies."
Viserys looked delighted by the exchange. "And Stark & Co. is a fine place to gain experience. A demanding one, I imagine."
"It is," she admitted. "But I've learned more there than I could have imagined. The people I work with are brilliant, and they expect a great deal from me."
"As they should," Viserys replied. "Ambition is a wonderful quality when paired with dedication."
Across the table, Alicent lifted her glass.
"Indeed," she said smoothly. "Stark & Co. is an impressive placement. I imagine it helps to have the support of influential people when beginning one's career."
The words were gentle, but the meaning beneath them was not.
Jace's expression shifted immediately.
She kept her composure, setting her fork down carefully.
"I've worked very hard for them, Your Grace," she replied, her tone calm. "But I am grateful for the opportunities I've been given."
Alicent's smile remained perfectly pleasant.
"Of course. I meant no offense."
Which, somehow, made the comment feel more deliberate.
Viserys, either unaware or unwilling to acknowledge the tension, continued with a fond smile.
"I think it is admirable. Too many young people are content to inherit what has been given to them. It is refreshing to see someone build something of their own."
Jace's hand found hers beneath the table, a quiet reminder that she wasn't facing the room alone.
"She earned it herself," Jace said firmly.
His voice remained calm, but there was no mistaking the conviction behind it.
"She was accepted in the autumn, when we had only just begun seeing each other. I had no influence over the decision—and even if I had, I would never have used it on her behalf."
His hand tightened around hers beneath the table.
"She is brilliant. Her work speaks for itself, and her accomplishments are hers alone."
Alicent offered a smile that did little to disguise her skepticism. She lifted her fork, taking her time as she brought it to her mouth, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing.
"Of course," she said at last, her tone perfectly pleasant. "I would never suggest otherwise. It is simply fortunate that such doors are available to those with the right circumstances."
Her gaze briefly flickered toward Jace before returning to her plate.
"But I am pleased to hear she has earned the respect of her colleagues. I'm sure Stark & Co. would not keep someone on their team who was not capable."
The compliment was carefully placed—just enough praise to make the insult impossible to challenge.
Then she returned to her meal, signaling that the matter was closed.
She glanced at Jace from the corner of her eye, letting out a quiet breath as he caught her gaze. His hand tightened gently around hers beneath the table, a silent reassurance that she wasn't facing the tension alone.
Maybe Aegon had been right.
Maybe she would need something to get her through the rest of the evening.
With a small exhale, her free hand reached for her wineglass.
***
When Jacaerys returned to their room that night, she was already settled in for the evening. Wrapped in a plush white robe, her hair fell freely over her shoulders, her makeup washed away as she lay sprawled across the bed, absently scrolling through her phone.
He lingered in the doorway for a moment, the lock clicking softly behind him as he took her in.
She was beautiful like this.
Not because she'd spent hours getting ready, or because she wore expensive dresses fit for palace dinners. There was something about seeing her at ease—comfortable enough to let the day fall away—that captivated him more than anything else.
She looked over her shoulder, catching him staring. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.
"What?" she teased. "Why are you just standing there?"
"Just admiring the view," he replied, a grin tugging at his lips as he crossed the room.
She set her phone aside and shifted onto her knees, slipping her arms loosely around his neck as he stopped in front of her.
"You know," she murmured, "you're always looking at me like that."
"Can you blame me?"
She laughed, shaking her head.
"I swear, you're always trying to charm me."
He smiled, his hands settling gently at her waist.
"If only you didn't make it so easy."
She leaned forward until the bridge of her nose brushed gently against his, a long, weary sigh escaping her lips before she even realized she'd been holding it.
The knot that had settled in her chest throughout dinner began to loosen.
This was what she had needed all evening.
Him.
Jace smiled, his forehead coming to rest against hers.
"Tough night?"
She let out a quiet laugh.
"I think your uncle owes me an apology."
He chuckled softly. "For what?"
"For making me think he was exaggerating."
"...He wasn't?"
She shook her head.
"He somehow undersold it."
That earned a genuine laugh from him, warm and unguarded.
"I told you my family could be... complicated."
"'Complicated' feels like a generous word."
"It does, doesn't it?"
She smiled despite herself, her hands still loosely clasped behind his neck.
"I kept waiting for someone to flip the table."
"Give it until dessert tomorrow."
She groaned, hiding her face against his shoulder for a moment.
"You're joking."
"I wish I was."
She pulled back just enough to search his face, only to find the corners of his mouth twitching.
"You are joking."
"...Mostly."
She narrowed her eyes at him before laughing again, the last of the evening's tension finally dissolving.
"I'm sorry," he said more quietly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I know today wasn't exactly the warm welcome you deserved."
"It wasn't all bad."
"No?"
She shook her head.
"Your grandfather was lovely. Your brothers are sweet. Even Aegon was..." She paused, searching for the right word.
"Unexpected."
Jace laughed.
"That's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever called him."
She smiled, squeezing his hand.
"And I got to come back here with you."
For the first time that day, neither of them was thinking about the family waiting downstairs or the dinners still to come. The room was quiet, and that was more than enough.
She closed the small distance between them, tilting her face up as her eyes met his. She didn't need to say a word; the hopeful smile tugging at her lips was invitation enough.
Jace smiled back immediately, understanding her without explanation.
"What?" he murmured, his voice warm with amusement.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
She shook her head, still smiling.
"I just wanted you a little closer."
His expression softened.
"I think I can manage that."
He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing gently over her skin before leaning down to meet her halfway. Their lips met in a slow, lingering kiss, unhurried and familiar, carrying none of the uncertainty that had followed her throughout the evening.
When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers, a quiet smile still lingering on his face.
"Better?" he asked.
"So much better," she whispered.
She smiled as she drew him closer, her fingertips brushing lightly along the back of his neck. He let out a quiet laugh, resting his forehead against hers for the briefest moment.
"Careful," he murmured, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. "Don't start something you can't finish."
She arched an eyebrow.
"Who said anything about not finishing?"
A grin spread across his face.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
He closed the distance between them, capturing her lips in another lingering kiss. She smiled into it, her hands settling comfortably around his shoulders as the last remnants of the day's tension finally slipped away.
When they parted, neither of them moved very far.
"I needed this," she admitted quietly.
"I know."
He brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering against her cheek.
"We survived the first family dinner."
"Barely."
He laughed.
"Barely counts. The first of many."
She smiled, leaning into him once more.
"Promise me tomorrow won't be worse."
"I can't promise that," he said with an apologetic grin. "But I can promise you won't have to face it alone."
She looked at him for a long moment before pressing another gentle kiss to his lips.
"I think I can live with that. Now take me to bed.”
Jace smirked at her, his hands sliding around, shifting from her waist to her hips and around to grip her ass firmly in his palms.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Her own fingers reached down, untying the belt of her robe until it fell open, her bare chest now flush against him. He smiled against her lips, helping her slide the material away from her shoulders until it landed on the bed behind her.
Jace wasted little time before scooping her up and laying her across the bed. He took a moment then, standing over her and admiring the softness of her skin under the warm, low lighting emitting from the bedside lamp. She was bare, skin glistening and warm from the lotion she had just massaged into her flesh, hair fanned around her head like a halo.
“Are you just going to stare, or are you going to do something?” She asked impatiently, stretching herself out further under his gaze.
“Impatient, are we?” He responded with a chuckle, his hand reaching out to take hold of one of her ankles.
He raised it up, pressing her foot firmly to his chest as his eyes fell lower with a small, content smirk.
“Funny, isn’t it?” He said, “when you want me, I give you everything you need and more. When I want you, I’m left with my own two hands for relief.”
She pursed her lips, thighs drawing closer together.
“Well, if it’s that much of a bother–”
His fingers tightened around her ankle, pulling it further up onto his shoulder while his other hand pressed the other thigh open wider. He said nothing, eyes trained on her own as his lips turned to press a warm kiss to her inner ankle, just over that dragon tattoo.
He pressed slow, open mouthed kisses along the length of her leg, allowing it to slide further over his shoulder until his lips reached her inner thigh. She let out a soft gasp as he suckled at the flesh there, his tongue smoothing over the sensitive flesh and growing dangerously closer to where she began to glisten with desire.
“Is this what you want?” He asked huskily, his breath sweeping across her lips in soft, warm pants, “you want me?”
She nodded weakly.
“Yes, yes,” she whined, “I want you, Jacaerys.”
He grinned up at her, pressing one more kiss to her thigh before shifting his attention to where she wanted him most.
Jace began with soft kisses up her slit, dragging his nose against her wetness and letting out a low groan at her scent. He glanced up at her through hooded eyes, lips curling into a wicked grin before he lowered his kiss to her clit.
She released a quiet sound, lip tugged between her teeth to muffle her sounds–it may have been a large house, but she was not about to let her boyfriend’s entire family hear as he went down on her.
Then came his tongue, gently sweeping through her folds to collect her wetness. Jace’s moan vibrated against her as he buried himself deeper into her. His teasing was short lived, his face pressing closer and closer as he became more relentless in his motions.
“Jace,” she whispered, fingers tangling in his dark curls to anchor herself, “oh–Jace, please.”
His lips curled against her, tongue sliding lower to circle her entrance before pressing against it, the movements of his head forcing the bridge of his nose to rub firmly against her bundle of nerves.
She was already close when he pressed his index finger inside, lips returning to suck and kiss as her clit while his finger curled inside of her and prodded at that spongy spot that made her toes curl every time.
“Jace–I’m going to–fuck.”
“Do it,” he murmured against her, “please, do it.”
His pleading brought it on, the warmth of her orgasm washing over her like a wave of relief. She released a series of soft whines and mewls, containing her pleasure for the sake of her own embarrassment the next day.
Her fingers pulled him away from her, a moan falling from her lips as the pressure released.
“I’m not done,” he huffed, frowning at her.
“Yes you are,” she said, “I need you. Now.”
“Impatient, are we?” He chuckled as he allowed her to pull him up her body, caging her in against the mattress.
“I’m impatient,” she agreed, fingers tugging at the fabric of his shirt, “and you’re overdressed.”
Her fingers eagerly worked on the buttons of his shirt until it hung loose around him. He pushed himself up to kneel on the mattress between her thighs, tugging the shirt down his arms and tossing it aside. Next, he unbuckled his belt and slid it free of his belt loops before it met the very same fate as his shirt–thrown across the room and landing unceremoniously in a heap in the corner.
She reached out, raking her nails gently over the curve of his waist, the smooth muscular abdomen, and finally hooking into the button of his slacks.
“I wanna taste you,” she hummed, eyelashes fluttering up at him flirtily.
His hands met her own, stopping her in her tracks.
“Next time,” he dismissed her, replacing her own hands in unfastening his pants and pushing them down his thighs, “I need to be inside you.”
She grinned up at him, laying back against the pillows in a silent excitement as she watched her boyfriend strip down, eyes soaking in every last inch of naked flesh until there was nothing left uncovered.
After kicking away his boxers, he crawled back onto the bed, hands easily finding the backs of her thighs and raising them up to rest around his waist. Her core was ready–oozing and throbbing already as his tip slid through her folds with a gentle familiarity. They each released a soft sound as his tip rubbed against her clit, then slid back down to notch at her entrance.
A whine pulled from the back of her throat as the tip pressed just inside, her legs locking firmly around his waist and forcing his weight down on top of herself. Her lips traced open mouthed patterns along his neck as he slowly pushed further inside, a low rumble emitting from his chest when his hips suddenly pressed firmly to hers.
“Fuck,” she moaned, fingernails pressing into his shoulder blades as he paused to allow her to adjust.
“Yeah?” He asked breathlessly, a cocky grin appearing on his face as he took in her tight expression, “Like that?”
“Shut up,” she mumbled through a moan as he shifted his weight slightly, causing the slightest movement of pressure through her.
His hips pulled back a touch, drawing himself free from her heat before plunging back inside. His tip punched into that spongy spot immediately, so deep inside of her that she almost felt him in her belly.
It was his turn to curse aloud at the sensation of her tight walls squeezing around him, holding his member so firmly that he wasn’t sure that he could leave even if he wanted not–not that he wanted to anyway.
“Faster.”
He obliged her, finding a quick, deep rhythm as one of his hands found her own, lacing their fingers together and pressing their conjoined hands to the pillow next to her head. His other hand worked to support his weight, laying flat against the sheets, while hers fisted his dark curls as she forced his lips back to her own, muffling their shared sounds of pleasure.
Where she was often known by every relationship she’d ever had and some of her closest friends for her inability to keep quiet during sex, she’d never felt more indulged than with Jace, who was oftentimes just as loud as she was. She knew she would need to keep both of their mouths occupied if she wanted to save herself the humiliation of his mother and brothers overhearing from down the hall.
The mattress creaked quietly with every other thrust, jerking each time Jace’s hips stuttered, an uneven and uncertain motion that signalled exactly how much longer he would last. His fingers rubbing at her clit in tight, quick circles to bring her there just in time for his own climax.
He came inside of her with a soft groan into her mouth, hips stuttering and slackening as the pleasure rolled through him. His orgasm was the trigger for her own, drawing a rush of heat and slick out from between her thighs with every one of those final sloppy movements as they each came down.
He laid on top of her for a few moments as they caught their breaths.
“Was that alright?” He asked, brushing the hair away from her face.
“Good?” She asked with a small giggle, “I can hardly feel my legs.”
He chuckled, finally rolling off of her to collapse in a heap next to her.
“Next time,” he huffed, “we’re coming here alone, and I am going to make you scream and wail as much as you desire.”
She grinned at him, shifting to curl into his sweaty chest and draw soft patterns along his pec.
“Next time,” she paused to let out a few uneven breaths before she continued.
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Suggestive 18+ no actual smut but heavily suggested. Baelor is very down bad.
First instalment of the Saviour Grandtour.
The wedding breakfast was proving every bit as boisterous as the reception had been the night before.
Morning sunlight poured through the tall arched windows and open doors of the great hall, turning the pale stone almost golden. Beyond the balcony, the castle grounds were washed in the clear light of late morning, though inside there was little of the quiet one might have expected at such an hour. Servants moved briskly between the long tables with steaming pots of tea, silver jugs of cream and great platters piled with bread, fruit, smoked fish, eggs, honeyed ham and little sugared pastries.
Half the wedding party looked as though they had not slept at all. You were fairly certain some of them hadn't. Lyonel Baratheon's dark hair was decidedly flat on one side, as though he had only recently lifted his head from a pillow, or perhaps a table and his doublet looked remarkably similar to the one he had worn to the ceremony. One of its golden clasps had been fastened incorrectly. He was currently leaning heavily against the back of a chair while listening with grave concentration to a story that appeared to have no ending.
You hid your smile. Giddy. Baelor's hand settled against the small of your back as he guided you down the shallow steps from the balcony.
It had been there almost constantly since you had left your chambers; he seemed incapable of passing more than a few moments without touching you. His palm rested warm against the fabric of your gown, fingers spreading whenever you slowed, gently steering you between chairs and sleepy courtiers.
"We shan’t be here long" he murmured near your ear as you reached the high table. "...I will have you back to our bedroom and beneath me as soon as breakfast is done."
Your breath caught in your throat as you gazed up at him, the soreness between your thighs a reminder of that delightful stretch you felt when he pulsed within you, his hips grinding against yours, his rough hand pinning your thighs wide and open. Each roll of his hips pulling you closer and closer to the addictive feeling that splintered your body.
‘’Now my love, let me feed you. You will need your energy for what I have planned.’’ he grinned his eyes flickering to the distracted crowd before bringing his hand down to give you a sharp rap on your rear. A breathy whimper falling from your parted lips. Ravenous eyes, near black, held you captive.
‘’Move my innocent wife, before I brag you back to the room in front of the whole court and give you a lesson on how a dragon claims his wife. I will have your screaming in pleasure.’’ his eyes glint, ‘’Go greet your family, my love while you still have the a voice.’’ he ushered you foward.
You turned sharply to greet those already gathered. Your father was first. He chortled as you bent to kiss his cheek, catching your hand before you could retreat and squeezing it affectionately. "Look at you."
Your mother was less easily satisfied. She kissed you and then immediately cupped your cheek, her thumb brushing beneath your eye as she studied your face with the ruthless attention you had long been accustomed to hear. You knew precisely what she was looking for. She said nothing, though the corners of her mouth curled downward knowingly.
Behind you, Baelor had already taken your abandoned place in the greetings. He clasped your father's shoulder with enough warmth to make the older man laugh before turning to your mother and pressing a kiss to her cheek.
"Good morning, Mother." he greeted
She immediately stiffened, Baelor withdrew with a strained smile before retreating, letting back beside you once more letting your mother glare at him.
"Hmm."
His smile widened, if only strained.
The Queen received your kiss far more graciously, taking both your hands and squeezing them before releasing you. The King, however, caused a spectacle. He pushed himself enthusiastically from his chair the moment you approached.
"Ah! My new daughter!"
"Your Grace…" Before you could finish, he seized you warmly by the shoulders and planted a resounding kiss upon one cheek and then the other.
"Father," Baelor called, laughter threaded through his voice. Baelor stood with one arm loosely around his mother's shoulders as she embraced him, though his attention remained entirely upon you. His father's playful eyes flicked towards him. "Do not startle my wife."
"Your wife?" the King repeated. "My daughter now and I will startle her as often as I please.’’
You escaped the King's lingering hands before he could decide upon another embrace and continued around the table.
Aemon and Egg appeared to have already escaped into the crowd. You caught the briefest glimpse of pale hair disappearing between two groups of guests before losing them entirely. But Dunk was slightly harder to miss, he loomed off at the distance smiling following the boys, in his new pretty white clack. Maekar, unfortunately for him, had not been so quick to escape with his sons. He sat hunched over a cup of something dark and steaming, shoulders stiff, looking as though he deeply resented the existence of mornings, weddings and cheerful relatives in equal measure.
You bent and kissed his cheek. Maekar grumbling at your kiss, recoiling the instant your lips touched his cheek as though you had committed some terrible offence against his dignity. His shoulders drew up and his face twisted into such exaggerated disgust that you could not help but laugh. He immediately scrubbed the back of his hand across the place you had kissed, muttering something thoroughly uncharitable beneath his breath. Unfortunately for him, the performance was entirely undermined by the warm flush creeping over his golden skin. It began high upon his cheekbones before spreading towards the tips of his ears, and when he noticed you looking at him, his scowl deepened.
"Do stop smiling, it does not befit a Targeryn princess."
That, naturally, only made your smile grow. You might have lingered to torment him further had your handmaids not descended upon you in a flutter of skirts and concerned hands. One caught the trailing edge of your gown before someone could step upon it, while another fussed unnecessarily with the fall of your sleeve. Between them, they managed to shepherd you back towards your mother and the Queen, both of whom had already settled near the centre of the high table. Behind you came the scrape of chairs, the clink of silver against porcelain and the steady murmur of a hall still recovering from the excesses of the previous night.
Maekar watched his brother approach through narrowed eyes, his cup balanced between both hands as though the warmth of it might soothe his temper. It evidently did not.
"I did not think we would see you before dinner, brother."
Baelor, who had been reaching for the back of your chair, stopped. Slowly, he turned his head. Maekar met his gaze over the rim of his cup. His expression was wonderfully bland, though the slight curl at one corner of his mouth betrayed him. "The servants are nearly ready to serve tea. We thought we might have to send out a search party."
The silence between the brothers lasted only a moment, but you had already begun biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Baelor's eyes narrowed upon Maekar with the particular look of an elder brother deciding precisely how cruel his retaliation ought to be. Then his expression softened into a smile so pleasant that Maekar immediately looked suspicious.
"My apologies, brother. Had I known you were so desperately wanting for company, I would have attended to you as soon as possible."
Baelor stepped behind your chair and rested both hands upon its carved back, apparently giving the matter serious consideration. "Though perhaps a more constant companion would be better. Someone capable of enduring your moods without requiring the rest of us to suffer them. A wife, perhaps." Baelor continued, plainly delighted with himself. "She might even make you pleasant."
At the mere mention of a wife, the King, who until then had been occupied with buttering a thick piece of bread, looked up with sudden interest. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Oh, I quite agree."
"Father," Maekar warned.
The King ignored him completely. "A wife seems to have put your brother in an exceptionally good mood."
Baelor's eyes flickered towards you. You caught the glance. So did Maekar. His expression became even more miserable.
The King leaned back in his chair and regarded his younger son thoughtfully. "Perhaps my new daughter has a friend? Or a cousin? May perhaps one of her ladies, then?" his eyes travelling towards the collection of young women who had been fussing around you since the previous evening. Breannei Lannister, Carlys Mollen, and Mysa Dayne all gathered a short distance away, speaking quietly amongst themselves while occasionally glancing towards the high table. "They have certainly been hovering around you since last night." The King's smile suddenly faltered as he looked towards the ladies. Then back at Maekar. His brows rose "Unless there is something I ought to know, son.’’ The King leaned forward. "I am not to acquire another three daughters, am I?"
"For fuck's sake." Maekar muttered it directly into his cup before taking a long drink, his cup came down against the table with rather more force than necessary.
Your father choked upon a laugh and hastily disguised it as a cough. The Queen closed her eyes for a moment, her lips tightening in the unmistakable expression of stifling a laugh. Baelor, meanwhile, had abandoned any attempt at dignity. His shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter as he lowered his head.
You decided Maekar had suffered enough. "I do hope you are not terrorising my dear brother."
Baelor's attention shifted immediately towards you. The wickedness in his expression disappeared beneath something altogether softer as he came around the table.
"Never, my love."
He pulled your chair out before you could reach for it yourself, one hand resting upon the carved back while the other extended towards you. You placed your fingers in his and allowed him to guide you into your seat. He pushed the chair carefully towards the table, only to pause, glance at the distance separating your chair from his, and drag it several inches sideways until the two were nearly touching.
"Oh, gods spare us." Maekar growled.
Baelor paid him no attention. The moment he was seated, his hand disappeared beneath the edge of the table and found yours. His fingers slid between your own, his gold rings cold against your skin, his thumb beginning a slow stroke across the side of your hand while he surveyed the breakfast spread with his other.
You watched as a piece of warm bread appeared upon your plate. Then some eggs. A portion of smoked fish followed. Then berries. Then strawberries.
"Baelor." You glanced meaningfully at your increasingly crowded plate. "I am capable of feeding myself."
Baelor did not stop till your plate was piled high before he lifted your intertwined hands and pressed a kiss against your knuckles before returning them beneath the table.
Across from you, Maekar watched this display with the expression of disdain. "It is sickening."
"You seem unusually invested in our marriage this morning," Baelor observed, calmly breaking a piece from his bread with one hand.
"I am unfortunately required to witness it. Along with the whole of the realm.’’ Maekar's eyes dropped pointedly towards the place where your hands disappeared beneath the table. His gaze rose again to his brother, his mouth twisting. "It might have been better if the two of you had simply stayed in bed."
You reached for your plate, Baelor's thumb continued moving lazily over your knuckles. "I did try to persuade him." You arranged your features into an expression of perfect innocence. "I was rather enjoying myself."
Baelor slowly turned his head towards you, eye wide and burning. You refused to look at him. Instead, you reached for one of the strawberries he had placed upon your plate, turning it delicately between your fingers. "But I thought it prudent not to wear out my husband on our first full day as husband and wife."
Maekar spat his wine. Red Arbor erupted across the white tablecloth in a spectacular cloud. He doubled forward coughing, one hand striking against his chest while the other blindly searched for something with which to wipe his mouth. A servant several paces away startled so badly that the silver jug in his hands rattled against its tray.
You calmly bit into your strawberry. When you finally looked up, Maekar was staring at you with enormous eyes. His horror was surpassed only by Baelor's expression.
Your husband looked genuinely speechless. His hand remained wrapped around yours beneath the table, but otherwise he had gone completely still. His lips had parted slightly and his brows had risen as though he could not quite reconcile the sweetly smiling woman beside him with the words he had just heard leave her mouth.
The King broke first. His laughter exploded across the high table with such force that several conversations farther down the hall faltered. He threw his head back, one broad hand striking the table as he laughed, entirely heedless of the Queen's increasingly disapproving stare. Your father was staring determinedly at his plate, though the trembling of his shoulders betrayed him. Your mother was the only one entirely untouched by the comment, instead she just glared out at the guest staring at the top table.
Baelor's surprise faded first. Then his eyes narrowed, amusement warming them as the corner of his mouth began to curl upwards. That familiar, dangerous smile slowly returned. He leaned towards you until his shoulder brushed yours, lowering his voice enough that his words were meant only for you.
"You are going to regret that later. When I get you back to our chambers my lovely, if you thought you were sore before you will have to think again. Minx.’’
Warmth climbed your neck, your thighs rubbed together, a now familiar wetness coating them. The dull ache you had You turned your face towards him, meeting his gaze with a sweetness you did not remotely feel.
"Promises, promises."
Maekar made a strangled sound from across the table.Fortunately for what remained of his patience, footsteps sounded near the high table.
"Father. Princess." Valarr approached with Princess Kiera upon his arm, "Good morning," Valarr ventured cautiously. "Myself and Princess Kiera, wish to extend another congratulations. I hope we can spend the day celebrating."
"Save yourself, nephew." Maekar's warning came with such weary sincerity that Valarr stopped.His brows drew together. He looked at Maekar. Then at the King. Then at the Queen. Then towards his father.
Baelor, who had regained most of his composure, was sitting rather too close to you and looking entirely too pleased with himself. Valarr's confusion deepened. Princess Kiera followed the direction of his gaze and appeared to understand enough of the situation to know that ignorance might be preferable.
She gave Valarr's arm a gentle pat. "Do not worry, husband. I shall explain it to you after you have eaten."
Valarr allowed Kiera to guide him towards their places, though he continued glancing between the members of his family as though careful observation might eventually reveal what had happened.
Baelor held your gaze as he reached into the bowl himself. He took his time examining the fruit before selecting the largest, ripest strawberry and bring it to your lips
"Behave," he murmured as you took a bite.
For several seconds Baelor merely regarded you. Then a low laugh escaped him, warm and helpless, and he shook his head. His hand slipped back beneath the table to find yours once more, fingers threading through yours as naturally as before.
Across from you, Maekar watched your hands disappear beneath the table. His shoulders sagged. ‘’Baelor kindly retrieve your hands from underneath the table, people are eating.’’
xxxxxx
The courtyard had become a confusion of farewells by the time your parents were finally ready to depart. What had begun as an orderly procession of servants carrying trunks and travelling chests had gradually dissolved into embraces, forgotten parcels, last-minute instructions and horses stamping impatiently against the stones. The morning had grown pleasantly warm, sunlight spilling over the pale walls and catching upon buckles, polished breastplates and the bright-painted sides of the wheelhouse waiting near the gates. Servants hurried back and forth beneath the watchful eyes of your mother's household steward, while guards checked saddles and harnesses for what seemed the third time.
Your father appeared entirely unconcerned by the chaos. He stood before you with his travelling cloak thrown back over one shoulder, looking from your face to the castle behind you with a fondness that made his smile deepen.
"You are glowing dear, I hate to part with you again but we must return. Your aunt is traveling from the Riverlands and your mother is rather keen to gossip. I fear that the celebration she is planning will ruin us," your father laughed. He kissed your forehead and squeezed your hands before allowing your mother to claim you.
She did so almost immediately. Your mother's hands settled upon your arms, smoothing the fabric there despite there being nothing wrong with it. She had been fussing over you for most of the morning, straightening your sleeve, checking the clasp at your throat, brushing an invisible piece of lint from your shoulder and you had begun to suspect that each unnecessary adjustment was merely an excuse to touch you once more before leaving. Now that the moment of departure had actually arrived, the stern composure she had maintained throughout the morning was beginning to falter.
Her eyes travelled carefully over your face. There was something searching in the way she looked at you, as though she were attempting to discover in your expression all the things you had not told her. Her fingers tightened slightly around your arms before her voice dropped low enough that the question was intended for you alone.
"Was he good to you...he didn't force you or rip you…"
Heat immediately climbed into your cheeks. You glanced instinctively towards the gathering of people nearby before returning your attention to your mother. Her expression held no teasing curiosity; she was entirely serious, concern pulling her brows together as she waited for your answer.
"Very mother."
Something in her face relaxed. Her shoulders lowered and the grip upon your arms softened, though the relief that passed across her features was swiftly followed by an emotion she was considerably less successful at concealing.
"Well then.." a tear filled her eyes "I know I have been difficult but I do truly want you well and safe."
The sight of that tear robbed you of whatever irritation her questioning might otherwise have inspired.
"Mother I am safe can be here with Baelor." you smiled.
Your mother's mouth tightened. "Baelor will not always be by your side. You would have been much safer as Lord Baraethon bride."
"Mother…" you hissed.
Your eyes immediately darted beyond her shoulder.Baelor stood several paces away with his back to you, speaking with your father and one of the knights accompanying your family home. At least, he had been speaking with them. Now he was very noticeably silent.
You knew at once that he had heard. His back had become as straight as a spear. His shoulders were squared beneath his dark doublet and his head had tilted just slightly to one side, not enough to turn towards you but enough to make it painfully obvious that every ounce of his attention had shifted to the conversation behind him. Your father appeared to notice the change as well. His eyes flickered briefly towards you and your mother before returning to Baelor.
"I know…I worry…it is a mother's job. Just because you have run off and got married does mean I will stop." The defensiveness in her voice softened towards the end.
You sighed, your irritation fading as quickly as it had come, and reached for her hands. "I know, mother."
Her fingers closed tightly around yours. For several moments she simply looked at you, taking in your face as though committing every feature to memory despite knowing perfectly well that she would see you again before long. Then she drew herself upright and summoned some of her usual authority.
"Till home then. I will have a banquet fit for a future queen ready for you. I hope the journey is good and the road treats you well."
Before you could answer, your mother pulled you into her arms. She crushed you against her with enough force to make you stumble half a step forward, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. Her cheek pressed against your hair and when she spoke again, the command in her voice could not entirely conceal its tremor.
"Be cautious my dear. Trust few and be wary of everyone."
"I will be a mother. I love you, see you soon."
She held you for another moment before finally forcing herself to release you. Even then her hands lingered upon your shoulders. She kissed one cheek, then the other, inspected your face one final time and turned sharply towards the waiting wheelhouse before her emotions could betray her further.
Your father gave you one last affectionate smile before following. The wheelhouse door was closed. Within moments the driver called to the horses and the procession began moving towards the gates, wheels grinding over the courtyard stones as mounted guards fell into formation around it.
You stood watching until the wheelhouse began to disappear beneath the shadow of the gatehouse.
Beside you came a suspiciously rough sound. Maekar, you had come to realise, did not laugh so much as produce increasingly strange variations of grunts whenever something genuinely amused him. This particular noise emerged from somewhere behind his beard as he stood a short distance away, arms folded firmly across his chest. To anyone who did not know him, his expression might have appeared as dour as ever. You were beginning to know better. There was a faint crease beside his eyes that had nothing whatsoever to do with irritation, and although the beard concealed most of his mouth, you were almost certain there was a grin hiding beneath it. More tellingly, he was not watching the departing wheelhouse. He was watching his brother.
Baelor remained rigid beside you, his severe frown fixed upon the vehicle carrying your mother away. His eyes followed it with such concentrated displeasure. Even after the wheelhouse passed beneath the gate and vanished from sight, Baelor continued staring after it.
You gave Maekar a warning glance before turning towards your husband. Sliding closer, you rested one hand against Baelor's chest, feeling the burning heat through the embroidered fabric of his doublet.
"Husband, she means well." you smiled up at his hand resting on his chest.
Baelor's face lowered towards yours, though his eyes stubbornly remained upon the gate for several moments longer. His jaw shifted once, irritation still evident in the hard line of his mouth. Only when the last of your family's escort disappeared from view did his gaze wonder to your features, his expression softened almost immediately.
"I am sure she does but if she mentions that prancing stag again I will have her thrown in the dungeons." he smiled as he placed kisses to your cheek.
You giggled. "Well perhaps I could persuade you from doing that" you look up at him through your lashes going with the button of his doublet.
Your fingers found one of the small buttons running down the front of his doublet and toyed idly with it. Baelor's gaze followed the movement for an instant before returning to your face. Whatever lingering irritation Lord Baratheon's name had inspired disappeared beneath an entirely different expression. His eyes darkened with unmistakable desire, the corners of his mouth curling as he covered your hand with his own and gently drew it away from his doublet.
"Shall we retire, my love." he eyes hungrily dark eyes devouring you as he brought your hand to his lips and kissed them, purring as you laughed and ushering up the steps.
Baelor raised your hand slowly, pressing his mouth against your knuckles without once taking his eyes from yours. You laughed beneath your breath, suddenly very conscious of the number of people still occupying the courtyard, but Baelor appeared to have forgotten they existed. His hand settled at the small of your back as he turned you towards the steps, guiding you ahead of him with an eagerness he made very little attempt to conceal. Ser Duskendale and Crakehall followed at a considerably more respectful distance. Neither looked towards their prince and his new wife if they could possibly avoid doing so.
Maekar remained exactly where he was. His expression had returned to its usual scowl. The sound of hurried footsteps approached from behind him, accompanied by the fluttering of robes and the faint wheeze of someone who had crossed the courtyard more quickly than was advisable.
Maester Yormwell bumbled along. "They make a fine couple. It will make a wonderful start for my history."
The old maester came to a stop beside the prince with several scrolls clutched precariously beneath one arm, his chain bouncing against his robes from his hurried progress. He followed Maekar's gaze towards the staircase, apparently oblivious to the look upon the prince's face to lost in his own delight to think to deeply into the sight of Baelor, future king of the kingdoms, practically chasing his new wife back to their chambers had provided him with invaluable information to be recorded.
Maekar did not look at him. "Disgustingly so. What do you want, Yormwell, I am busy being violently sickened."
Yormwell blinked at him, uncertain whether the prince was joking. Maekar's face offered absolutely no assistance in determining the answer. After a moment, the maester evidently decided it was safer to proceed with his business.
"The ravens are ready to be sent. Are there any last minute adjustments you wish to add to my prince." Yormwell thrust the small scroll towards the prince.
Maekar made no immediate attempt to take the scroll. His gaze remained fixed upon the staircase. The last glimpse of your skirts disappeared through the doorway, closely followed by Baelor. Several moments later Ser Duskendale and Crakehall reached the top themselves, maintaining the careful distance of men who had absolutely no desire to discover how affectionate their prince intended to become once he was beyond the courtyard.
Only then did Maekar turn towards the maester. His gaze dropped to the scroll being held expectantly beneath his nose waiting for approval of the final arrangements for the royal progress: which houses were to receive them, where the travelling court would stop, how many attendants each castle could accommodate and countless other details Maekar had spent far too much of his morning considering. His eyes travelled over several lines before drifting back towards the empty staircase.
"Yes. Instruct the hosting houses to situate the Prince and Princess as far away from others as possible, lest we have those to offend the known kingdom, I am far too old for another rebellion…though a war might be a blessed release from any children my brother seems hell bent in unleashing on us."
''Yes my grace. Won't it be wonderful''
Soooooo what did you think? Poor Maekar. His life on the road with them is gonna be unbearable. But don't worry I will make it worth it for him. Next but the Kingsroad and Baelor has a lot to teach his beloved bookworm wife...lets just say she won't just be thirsty for knowledge... *insert suggestive eye wiggle* hahaha.
More to following soon.
Side note would anyone be interested in a three parter Ormund Hightower fiction obviously being ruled by a Redwyne reader as he needs to be taken down a peg...or several.
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your amazing support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: A book can be very intriguing for many.
Word Count: 4k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes, medieval era expectations and viewpoints on marriage and gender. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Being raised as the heir to Winterfell, Robb had known his entire life that one day he would have to step up to his father’s place and rule the North.
Though, he hadn’t thought it would be under these circumstances.
The whole castle had been in chaos since the royal visit. His father was in the Capital with the girls, his mother had gone there to meet him, and his little brother had woken up, thank the gods, but could no longer walk according to Maester Luwin. Meanwhile, he had to act as the Lord of Winterfell, make sure the castle did not so much as notice his father’s absence in their daily lives, he had to hear the lords, hold meetings, and ensure that the whole north was ready for the fast approaching winter.
And in the middle of all this, the one person whose mere presence made everything better, soothed his mind and held his heart—the very gift from his gods; was his lady.
“You’re staring again.”
Robb didn’t even attempt to stop the smirk on his lips while he put his shirt on, then leaned sideways to the column of the bed.
“Can a man not admire his wife?”
Though she tried to bite back her smile, the happy glint in her eyes gave her away when she lifted her head from the letter she was writing.
“Not while he’s supposed to be attending to his duties.”
She did have a point, as always. Robb was supposed to have gone to the rookery to talk to Maester Luwin before breakfast, yet he still lingered in the room, unwilling to leave.
Gods be good, how could any man just walk out the door while she looked like that, all prim and proper in her pretty dressing gown as if she wasn’t gasping under him and moaning his name last night?
She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as if she could hear his thoughts.
“Maester Luwin already warned me in the nicest way possible, I don’t wish to put him through such discomfort again,” she told him, pointing at him with her quill. “Off you go.”
“Warned you?” he repeated. “How?”
“He asked if I could perhaps remind you that though marital duties are of utter importance, so are your duties to the north.”
He threw his head back with an impatient groan.
“I am attending to my duties to the north, I’ve done nothing but!” he said. “For weeks now!”
“Yet here you are,” she noted, resting her chin on her fist. “Lingering.”
“I’m not lingering, I’m reminiscing.”
That seemed to have confused her for a moment. “Reminiscing?”
“Mm hm.” He grinned. “Reminiscing last night.”
She lowered her head to scribble something to hide her smile, but before he could say anything, her lady maid had knocked on the door.
“M’lady, you wanted to know when Lady Barbrey’s cousin arrived.”
“Thank you Kyra!”
He raised his brows. “Who?”
“House Flint,” she answered and put the quill down and stood up from her chair to walk to the other side of the room. “Barbrey’s cousin married their heir, and they dislike each other, I’m told. Well, Barbrey does.”
…Seven hells, her dressing gown was see through in the sunlight.
“Either way,” she continued and returned to the table, holding the seal stamp, “we must make sure we host them well, not only for Barbrey but also—”
“Undress and come here.”
Her jaw dropped. “Robb!”
His chuckle at the scandalized look on her face echoed in the room before she balled up a piece of parchment and threw it in his direction. It bounced off his chest and went under the bed, where Robb could see the corner of a book sticking out, so he knelt down to grab it while his lady turned to melt some wax to seal her letter.
This had to be the poetry book.
“That sounded like a demand,” she whined, pouring some of the wax on the rolled up parchment, “rather than a romantic request.”
“Shall I recite you a poem then?” he asked and opened a random page to read it, but the illustration made him raise his brows.
This was no poetry book.
Robb looked from the page to her, his grin widening while she scoffed, her whole attention still on the scroll.
“Wouldn’t hurt,” she reprimanded him, pressing the stamp on the wax. “If not a poem, at least a line or…”
“What’s this?”
She glanced over her shoulder, her breath hitching when her eyes fell upon the book he was holding up. From the look on her face, one would’ve thought she was caught with something of great offense rather than a simple, albeit risque book. She opened her mouth but no word came out, so she pursed her lips for a moment as if she was considering her options.
This was one of the many times that Robb remembered not only their upbringing, but also their positions in their families were completely different. As the youngest among her siblings and having grown up with six older brothers, she had to have been very used to tussling for something she couldn’t reach, that was why she rushed to him to grab the book from him. However, Robb was the oldest brother to five younger siblings, who—with the exception of the perfect little lady Sansa— had no problem catapulting themselves into him at full speed to grab whatever he was holding, so it was instinct at this point.
“Robb!”
He let out a laugh and he held the book above her reach. “I’m reading!”
“Give it back!” she exclaimed, grabbing at his arm to pull it down but Robb switched hands, gently pushing her head back with his other hand to keep her at arm’s length.
“So this is your poetry book?”
“Give it, I said!”
“Not very romantic though, is it?”
“Give it!”
He lowered the book a little so that she could snatch it out of his hand before she stepped back, breathing hard.
“Riveting read?” he teased her while she fixed her hair, then stuck her nose in the air in a haughty manner.
“I shall take no part in inappropriate conversation.”
He scowled. “No conversation we have can be inappropriate.”
“Yes it can.”
“No it cannot, we’re wed.”
“And I’m a lady!”
“You’re my lady, and I’m inside you every night—” He tried to contain his laughter when she gasped and smacked his arm. “Do I not speak the truth?”
She huffed and stepped past him but he grabbed her arm to turn her around before she could reach the door, tut-tutting.
“Not so fast.”
She glared up at him, holding the book to her chest like it was a shield before she took a deep breath in an attempt to look composed.
“I must get ready to greet our guests,” she said. “And I refuse to entertain such vulgar remarks—”
“Show me your favorite.”
She stomped on her foot. “Robb!”
“Or draw a star on the page,” he taunted her and she let out a whine. “We can try it tonight.”
“For some reason that remains a mystery to me, you seem to find this rather entertaining.”
“Very entertaining,” he corrected her, reaching out to play with her hair before she swatted his hand away.
“Well, you can entertain yourself all you want,” she said. “But I’m in a rush, you see, so I’m afraid I must leave and we’ll never talk about this ever again.”
“Oh, we’ll talk—”
“We cannot, I’m in a rush!”
She opened the door, gave a quick kiss on top of Grey Wind’s head, then made her way to her own bedchambers, the sound of her heels echoing in the hallway before she slammed her door shut. He shook his head with a fond smile, then grabbed his cloak and walked out of the room with Grey Wind following him.
“It’s important to give a lady her space,” he told the direwolf wistfully while they both made their way down the hallway. “Even though the lady forgot we sleep in the same bed.”
After he was done in the rookery, Robb visited Bran, listened to some of the bannermen in his solar, then went to Wintertown with Jon and Theon per Maester Luwin’s advice. With everything that had happened lately, Robb had missed spending time in the town; though this time, he was not going to the tavern with Jon and Theon to grab drinks and have fun, they had to visit the vendors in his father’s absence to see if they were in any need. Once they were back in the castle yard, Robb couldn’t help but think that Maester Luwin had been right in his advice, as always.
Unlike Theon.
“What do you mean, we’re not going to the mountains to settle that dispute?”
Robb dismounted his horse and rolled his eyes.
“It means I sent for them, and that they’ll come here instead of us going to them.”
Jon got off his horse with Theon following him suit, and Robb stroke his horse’s neck before the stable boys came closer to lead the horses to the stables. He approached the basket of fruits on a table to grab an apple, then tossed one to Jon, another to Theon.
“You sent for the Norreys and Burleys?” Jon repeated and Robb nodded.
“Aye.”
“You realize they’ll kill each other on their way here?”
Robb took a big bite of his apple, then leaned back to the table. “I sent them a raven earlier today, I made sure to add that they will have to wait until they get here.”
“But why?” Theon insisted. “Why are we not going?”
“Because we just came back from Castle Hornwood.”
“And?”
“And it’d take me a moon to go and come back, it’s not a good time for that right now.”
Theon and Jon exchanged glances, and Jon let out a chuckle while Theon scowled.
“Don’t tell me it’s because of your lady wife.”
...Where was his lady wife?
Robb looked around the yard with a frown, then stole a glance at the Inner Keep, chewing his bite.
“Robb,” Theon said. “You cannot be serious.”
“Why is it surprising I’m not willing to leave my wife for a moon?”
“Because you’re the Warden of the North in Lord Stark’s absence!” Theon said. “And while your lady wife is pulling your leash—”
“Careful now,” Robb warned him and Jon raised his brows, looking between them.
“But she is,” Theon insisted. “Come on, she asked you not to leave, and that’s the only reason we’re not leaving? That simple?”
“You’re not winning that fight, Theon,” Jon muttered and Theon shook his head.
“If he makes decisions based on her whims, follows her commands like he’s put under some southern spell—”
“It was my idea,” Robb cut him off. “My decision, she said nothing. You sound like Old Nan.”
Jon stifled his laugh.
“But you can go up to the mountains for a moon if you want, Theon,” Robb added, pushing himself off the table with a shrug. “No one will stop you.”
He tossed the apple aside and crossed the yard to enter the keep, Lady Wylla and Lady Alys making their way down the hallway.
“My ladies,” he greeted them. “Have you seen my lady wife?”
For some reason, the sight of him made both of them blush and a giggle escaped Lady Alys before Lady Wylla elbowed her.
“She’s um—she’s in the Great Hall, my lord,” she said and Robb gave them a curt smile, then walked past them, half wondering why they were acting so strange.
The Great Hall was crowded as usual, but he immediately caught the sight of his lady; a skill he had acquired in the last moons. She wore a silk, light blue gown today, the fabric glimmering among the sea of darker colors worn by the northern ladies around her. One of the women she was speaking to held a babe in her arms; the little girl nearly enchanted by her judging by how she tried to reach for her while her mother rocked her. His lady cooed at the babe and held her tiny hand, and Robb felt his chest tighten.
He was well aware that they both enjoyed being newlyweds, and it was way too early. Not to mention there was no point in talking of such things; the gods would give them children when they deemed it fit, yet the dream was faster than lighting, as bright as the beam of light that always managed to surround her, bathing her in warmth. A glimpse of future—or he hoped it to be; with her cooing at their babe, standing right there in the Great Hall of their home, her beautiful face lit up with happiness.
Though everyone kept singing the same tune about heirs and spares, Robb realized he could not care less whether their firstborn was a boy or a girl, all that mattered was that she would be their mother.
A piece of them both, carrying his name and her perfection.
He let out a breath and shook his head, willing himself to snap out of it before he took a step to approach her. She was too busy with the baby until the other ladies curtsied, and Robb bowed at them with a polite smile as she turned around to see him.
“My lord husband!”
That never failed to make his heart skip a happy beat.
“My lady wife,” he greeted her back and she gestured at the ladies.
“This is Lady Maege of House Flint, and her ladies-in-waiting,” she introduced them. “And this is little Sara.”
Robb ran a knuckle over the baby’s chubby cheek.
“Hello Lady Sara.” He bowed his head slightly, making the ladies giggle. “You honor us with your visit. Me and my lady wife hope Winterfell is to your liking.”
There was a soft light glimmering in his wife’s eyes while the baby babbled something, and Robb turned to the mother.
“Welcome to Winterfell, Lady Maege.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“If you’ll excuse us for a moment,” Robb said and took his lady’s hand in his, then walked to the corner of the hall with her following him.
“You’re back!” she said with a smile. “How was Wintertown?”
“It was good,” he said. “How was here?”
“Oh, Lady Maege is quite nice, I’ll have to ask Barbrey—Robb, we’re in public!” she hissed when he reached out to play with her hair absentmindedly, and he shrugged.
“They don’t mind,” he said. “Besides, we’re doing something of utmost importance.”
“Which is?”
“Talking of your favorite book of late,” Robb tried to control his expression at the flustered expression on her face. “It’s crucial you see, for me to learn my lady wife’s favorite…poem.”
She scrunched up her face and looked up like she was praying for patience.
“How else will I know how to recite it?” he added, a grin twitching the corners of his mouth. “I’m told it’s very important back in the Reach.”
“Are you done?”
“Not even close.”
She narrowed her eyes, then stole a glance at someone over his shoulder and waved at them.
“Lord Martyn!” she called out. “Lord Martyn, hello!”
“What are you doing?”
“Lord Martyn is Lady Maege’s husband, and he loves the sound of his own voice,” she said through her teeth as she gave him a smile. “He told us all about the new tapestries in their castle. For two hours. He was looking for you while you were in Wintertown, but now that you’re here…”
“What?” Robb shook his head fervently. “Lamb, you cannot—”
She made a noise of disagreement. “It appears that I can, though.”
“We’re wed,” Robb reminded her in a heated whisper. “You’ve sworn an oath in front of the weirwood tree!”
“I’ve sworn no oath to save you from socializing with chattering guests.”
“It was implied in the vows!”
“I’m southern,” she pointed out. “Anything that is not specified in a vow does not count as a vow.”
“So you’re stabbing me in the back?”
“Aye, we do it in the south all the time—Lord Martyn, here’s my lord husband!” She grasped Robb’s arm to lean into him once Lord Martyn reached them. “Did you not need him for a meeting? Here he is, and he’d love to talk to you, he said! You’re free until dinner, are you not my lord husband?”
Robb gawked at her while Lord Martyn clasped his hands, letting out a cheerful laugh.
“Oh how wonderful!” he said. “Shall we go to your solar, my lord?”
Robb let out a breath and shot his lady a look, then turned to Lord Martyn and forced himself to smile.
“Of course.” He heaved a sigh. “Let’s go to my solar, Lord Martyn.”
To say Lord Martyn loved the sound of his own voice was an underestimation.
He had all but taken Robb hostage, but he also spoke about the issues his own people had, so Robb couldn’t simply make up an excuse and dismiss him. Around dinner time, he had to speak to a couple of other bannermen, so he ended up taking his dinner at his solar with some of the bannermen instead of joining his lady in the Great Hall. Once he was done, he had gone down to the hall but his lady had already retired for the night, so he decided to do the same.
However, his lady wasn’t in their shared bedchambers. Judging by how Grey Wind curled up in front of her own bed, she had to be in her own bedchambers, and it was only when Robb knocked on the door and stepped in that he realized the reason.
The whole room was surrounded with steam, the lovely scent of her bath oils trickling into his lungs when he took a deep breath before his gaze fell on his lady.
Naked in the bathtub.
Seven hells, she was trying to kill him.
She turned her head and repressed a smile, then glanced at her maid.
“That’ll be all Kyra,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, “thank you.”
Her maid curtsied, and went past him to leave the room, closing the door behind her.
“How was your um...” His lady scrunched up her nose. “Your meeting?”
Robb approached the bathtub and crouched down, half lost in a daze.
“My meeting or your vengeance?”
“Both,” she said with a giggle while he dipped his hand into the hot water to trail his fingers through the flower petals that covered the surface and hid her body from his gaze. “Serves you right for teasing me.”
“I feel the punishment exceeded the crime.”
She pouted her lips, water splashing around her when she moved to pull her knees up to her chest. He ran his fingertips over her bare arm, following the small droplets racing down her soft skin as she rested her cheek on her knees. A comfortable silence fell upon the room; the only sound is the crackling of wood in the hearth mixed with the tiny waves in water following her movements. She leaned towards him a little, her eyes darting over his face.
“What are you thinking about?”
“That perhaps what I’ve been told today was right,” he murmured. “Perhaps I am indeed under some southern spell.”
“Some southern spell?” she repeated. “Who told you that?”
“Theon,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “He thinks the reason why we’re not going to the mountains is because I follow your commands under some southern spell.”
It had to be a trick of light in the dim lit room, but for a second—less than a second, a dark shadow sharp as a dagger crossed her face, but it was gone as soon as it came. Confusion furrowed her brows and she paused for a moment, looking down at the flower petals before lifting her gaze to his.
“But…” She blinked a couple of times. “That’s nonsense even for Theon. It was your idea, not mine.”
Well.
Not exactly.
In all honesty, Robb had had every intention to go to the mountains to settle the dispute between Burleys and Norreys. He didn’t want it, but duty demanded it, and the Lord of Winterfell did visit the northern mountain clans from time to time; his father had done so multiple times. Though these hill lords were quarrelsome among each other, they were loyal to Winterfell, and it would be the women and children amongst them that would be sent to Wintertown to survive the harsh winter.
The mothers and children that his lady wanted to help.
And Robb had indeed thought he would go and pay them a visit, until his lady told him it would break her heart so terribly to even imagine being away from him for a moon.
By the Gods, how could he put himself through such torment? Being away from her for a moon would have been pure agony already, and to break her heart on top of that?
Absolutely not. He could not bring himself to do it.
And contrary to what he had said today, he was under her spell, he did follow her commands and made decisions based on her whims.
But how could he be expected to do otherwise when his heart was her captive?
“Besides,” her voice cut through his thoughts. “Had I known I put a spell on you…”
He grinned. “What would you do?”
“I’d have very evil plans.”
“Like what?”
“Well,” she mused. “My first command would be that you send away all these guests so that you could spend more time with me, obviously.”
“You were the one who made me spend all that time with Lord Martyn just now,” he reminded her, “in case you forgot.”
“It seems that I overestimated my desire for vengeance and underestimated my desire for your mere presence,” she said. “How very non-southern of me.”
He leaned in to press his lips on her bare shoulder. “Mayhaps we are turning you into a northerner.”
A laugh climbed her pretty throat. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“No?”
“No,” she said, “because many will never see me such. Southern spell, was it?”
He should’ve known better than speak so carelessly about what Theon had said; his lady was saddened by what she had heard.
“Don’t mind his words,” he muttered against her skin, brushing his fingertips down her spine. “He’s Ironborn—”
“I haven’t forgotten,” she said, her voice sweet like honey. “I think perhaps he has forgotten that I’m a Stark, though.”
The simple statement was enough to stop all the thoughts, a fire shooting through his veins. The movement of his hand came to a halt, the fog of desire clouding his mind, her scent pulling him closer into the haze. He let out a breath, his lips still on her damp skin, softer than the flower petals on the water.
She was.
His lady wife, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, was a Stark.
She belonged in his house, belonged in Winterfell, and most importantly, she belonged in his arms.
“The water has gone cold,” she said petulantly, oblivious to the impact of her words on him. “Would you please hand me the towel?”
Robb licked his lips and stood up, but instead of grabbing the towel where she pointed at, he scooped her up into his arms out of the water, making her let out a tiny scream of surprise.
“Robb!” she exclaimed, water drenching his shirt as her fingers curled in his shirt. “What happened to reciting me a poem, or a line, or—”
“That’s the southern way,” he said and dropped her on the plush furs on the bed before he flipped her over onto her stomach, her excited giggle echoing in the room. “How about I show my lady the northern way?”
Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Reader (Modern Football AU)
Synopsis: The stadium is packed. Supporters chanting his name. Cameras following him. Commentators praising him as football's golden boy. Yet before before kickoff, Valarr is distracted.
By the time Valarr Targaryen looked toward your seat for the fifth time, the stadium had already begun chanting his name.
Seventy thousand voices rolled down from the stands in violent, rhythmic waves.
Val-arr. Val-arr. Val-arr.
Floodlights burned white against the November dark. The pitch shone beneath them, cut into pristine stripes and wet enough that the studs of his boots left brief black wounds in the grass. Camera operators moved along the touchline with lenses trained on him. The giant screens above the north stand displayed his face in ruthless clarity: light brown hair sleeked back with water and gel, mouth set in concentration, the sharp planes of his features made even more striking by the black and red of King’s Landing United.
The commentators were already speaking about him.
They always were.
The most expensive forward in Westeros football.
The golden boy.
The player who had transformed United’s attack within a single season.
The man who had scored in six consecutive matches and carried the club through an injury crisis with the kind of composure pundits liked to call inevitable.
Valarr heard none of it.
He was staring at an empty seat.
Section 112. Row F. Seat 18.
Your usual place.
His gaze moved away only when the assistant coach shouted his name.
“Valarr.”
He turned.
“You listening?”
“Of course.”
The coach’s expression suggested otherwise.
Around him, his teammates stretched, exchanged short passes, adjusted tape, and performed the private rituals footballers claimed were not superstition. Jace Velaryon bounced twice on his toes before every kickoff. Daven Lannister retied his right boot even when the laces were already tight. Garlan Tyrell touched the grass and then his chest.
Valarr rubbed his thumb beneath the white tape around his left wrist.
The thin thread hidden under it had been worn smooth over the years. Once, it had been red and black. Now it was faded to something between rust and brown, the knots tightened by sweat, rain, blood, and repeated repair.
The sponsorship representative hated it.
The club’s kit manager had once suggested replacing it with a clean replica.
Valarr had stared at him until he stopped speaking.
His fingers found the smallest knot.
Still there.
You were not.
The final warmup began.
Players moved through sharp passing patterns while the stadium announcer read the lineups. Valarr collected the ball at his feet, opened his body, and sent it toward Garlan with enough force that the midfielder had to step backward to control it.
“Easy,” Garlan muttered.
Valarr ignored him.
He looked toward the tunnel.
No sign of you.
You were always late by precisely enough to annoy him and never late enough to miss kickoff. You complained that his stadium security made attending a match feel like entering a foreign embassy. You refused the private entrance he had arranged because, according to you, walking through the ordinary gates was part of the experience.
He had told you that being crushed against thousands of drunk supporters should not constitute an experience.
You had told him to stop being dramatic.
Then you had arrived at your seat with seven minutes to spare and waved at him as though you had not left him checking the tunnel every thirty seconds.
Tonight, kickoff was three minutes away.
Your seat remained empty.
A ball struck his ankle and Valarr looked down.
Jace stood several feet away, hands on his hips. “She coming?”
Valarr trapped the ball beneath his boot.
“I don’t know.” The answer came out sharper than he intended.
Jace lifted both eyebrows.
“All right.”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because you’ve looked at her seat more times than you’ve looked at the opposition.”
“I’m checking the stand.”
“For structural damage?”
Valarr sent the ball back hard enough that Jace caught it against his shin with a curse.
“Fuck off.”
Jace grinned and jogged away.
The players were called toward the center circle.
Valarr took his place beside the opposing captain. The referee performed the coin toss. The crowd rose louder, scarves lifted above heads, flashes of red and black filling the stands.
He looked once more.
Empty.
His jaw tightened.
The whistle blew.
For the first ten minutes, he told himself it made no difference.
You were not part of the tactical plan.
You were not responsible for the opposing back line, the narrow press, or the way Storm’s End had crowded the midfield. You had nothing to do with his first touch or the timing of his runs.
He knew that.
He had played finals in foreign countries with hostile crowds screaming abuse every time he neared the ball. He had played through ankle pain, fever, transfer speculation, family scandals, and the anniversary of his grandfather’s death. He had scored penalties while entire stadiums prayed he would miss.
One empty seat should not matter.
In the twelfth minute, he mistimed a run and was caught offside.
In the seventeenth, he lost possession near the halfway line and Storm’s End broke on the counter.
In the twenty-third, he shot from an impossible angle instead of passing to Garlan, who had acres of space inside the box.
Garlan threw out his arms.
Valarr turned away.
The manager shouted from the technical area.
“Keep the width, Targaryen!” Valarr did not acknowledge him.
In the thirty-first minute, the referee ignored a challenge at the edge of the penalty area.
Valarr spun around. “That’s a foul.”
The referee jogged backward. “Play on.”
“He took my leg.”
“You stayed on your feet.”
“So I’m punished for not falling?”
“Enough.”
Valarr followed him for several steps. “That’s twice now.”
A hand caught the back of his shirt. Jace pulled him away before the referee could reach for a card.
“Stop.”
“He’s blind.”
“He’s reaching for his pocket.”
“Then he can book me.”
“He will.”
Valarr dragged his shirt free.
The crowd had shifted. He could feel it in the low, uneasy noise spreading through the stands. United supporters adored him, but their adoration came with expectations. They knew what he looked like when he was about to take over a match.
They also knew what he looked like when something had crawled beneath his skin.
Tonight, he was visibly unraveling.
The ball went out of play near the west stand. While Storm’s End prepared for the throw-in, Valarr turned toward Section 112 again.
Empty.
He rubbed his wrist.
A memory pressed at the edge of his thoughts—rainwater dripping from a corrugated academy roof, cold hands fumbling with thread, your mouth pinched in concentration—but he pushed it away before it could fully form.
Not now.
//
The first half ended scoreless.
Valarr walked into the tunnel without looking toward the stands again. The dressing room door had barely shut before the manager began shouting.
“You’re dropping too deep, forcing the pass, and pressing without the rest of the line.”
Valarr sat at his place and began loosening his boot. “I know.”
“You know?”
“I said I know.”
The room went quiet.
His manager, Harrold Westerling, had coached football longer than Valarr had been alive. He was one of the few people in the club who did not care about Valarr’s salary, family name, endorsements, or market value.
He stepped closer. “Then fix it.”
Valarr pulled off the boot and dropped it to the floor.
Westerling continued through the tactical adjustments. Storm’s End’s right-back was carrying an injury. Their central midfielder had begun sitting too deep. United needed faster switches of play and more patience around the box.
Valarr listened this time.
Mostly.
His phone was locked in the equipment cabinet with the others. He could not check whether you had messaged him.
You might be ill.
There might have been trouble at work.
Your train could have stopped.
You might have decided not to come.
That possibility bothered him most.
Not because you owed him attendance. He knew you did not. He had told you so repeatedly, especially after you accused him of behaving as if the fixture list should determine your entire calendar.
But this was the quarterfinal.
You knew what it meant.
You knew how badly he wanted the Westeros Cup. You knew he had watched the tournament as a child from the hallway outside his father’s study because football had not been allowed during family dinners. You knew he had kept a torn photograph of the trophy inside his academy locker.
You had never missed a Westeros knockout match.
Until tonight.
Jace dropped onto the bench beside him. “You’re being weird.”
Valarr took the fresh shirt offered by the kit assistant. “I’m fine.”
“You nearly got booked arguing over a shoulder challenge.”
“It was a foul.”
“It was barely contact.”
Valarr pulled the shirt over his head.
Jace lowered his voice. “Did you two fight?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
Valarr gave him a flat look.
Jace held up his hands. “Fine. None of my business.”
“It isn’t.”
“Though if she doesn’t show up, perhaps tell your face.”
Valarr looked away before he could say something that would turn into a dressing-room story repeated for months.
The second half began with United playing toward the south stand.
Valarr forced himself back into the match.
He stayed higher. He stopped chasing the ball into midfield. He played one-touch passes and waited for the spaces Westerling had promised would open.
United improved.
Still, something in him remained wound too tightly.
In the fifty-third minute, Garlan won the ball near the center circle and drove forward. Valarr moved between the center-backs. The pass came early, bending behind the defensive line.
He reached it.
One touch to settle.
Another to shift onto his right foot.
The goalkeeper rushed.
Valarr struck low toward the far corner.
The shot went inches wide.
The stadium groaned.
He stood inside the box, hands on his hips, and tipped his head back.
Then, before turning toward midfield, he looked toward Section 112.
Someone was moving along Row F.
You.
You were half bent as you apologized your way past the seated supporters, coat unbuttoned, hair windblown, one hand clutching your bag against your body. A steward leaned down to point toward your seat. You nodded, breathless, and continued shuffling sideways.
Valarr stopped walking.
The noise of the stadium seemed to recede for one impossible second.
You reached Seat 18 and sat. Then, as if you could feel him looking, you lifted your head. Your eyes found him. They always did.
You raised one hand in apology.
Valarr stared.
Your face was flushed from running. A strand of hair had caught against your mouth. You brushed it away and mouthed something he could not hear from the pitch.
Sorry.
His lungs unlocked.
Jace passed him on the way back toward the halfway line.
“There she is.”
Valarr shoved his shoulder.
Not hard.
Jace laughed.
The game restarted.
Everything sharpened.
The space between defenders. The movement of Garlan’s hips before he passed. The moment Storm’s End’s midfielder turned his head and lost sight of the runner behind him.
Valarr’s shoulders lowered. His breathing steadied.
In the fifty-eighth minute, he received the ball with his back to goal, rolled away from one defender, and drew a foul.
In the sixty-first, he flicked a pass through two players and sent Jace into the box.
In the sixty-fourth, he nearly scored from the resulting corner.
United pressed higher.
Storm’s End began retreating.
The goal came in the sixty-ninth minute.
Garlan took possession on the left and drove inward. Valarr started toward the near post, dragging the center-back with him, then stopped abruptly and cut behind.
Garlan saw him.
The pass arrived between three defenders.
Valarr met it first time.
The sound of his boot striking the ball was clean and hard, almost lost beneath the roar that followed.
The shot rose beyond the goalkeeper’s hand and hit the underside of the crossbar before crossing the line.
For half a heartbeat, the entire stadium inhaled.
Then it detonated.
Valarr wheeled away from goal.
Garlan ran toward him with both arms spread. Jace was shouting. The supporters behind the net surged against the barriers, scarves and fists lifted into the night.
Valarr ignored all of them.
He turned toward Section 112.
He found you among thousands. Your hands were pressed over your mouth. His teammates were nearly on him when he raised his left hand.
He tapped two fingers against his heart.
Once.
Then pointed directly at you.
The stadium screamed louder.
You lowered your eyes.
You always did.
Around you, supporters grabbed one another, yelling about the famous celebration, the mystery person, the ritual Valarr Targaryen had performed after important goals since his first senior season.
The commentators would be discussing it again.
They would slow the footage down.
They would trace the angle of his arm and speculate about where he had pointed.
They would ask whether it was for his mother, his late grandfather, a private sponsor, an old coach, a superstition, a secret lover.
You knew the truth.
Valarr had told it to you once in the rain, when he was sixteen and furious with the world.
The first one is always yours.
But the memory did not arrive fully.
Not yet.
His teammates crashed into him.
Garlan hooked an arm around his neck. Jace struck the back of his head with an open palm.
“Now can you play football?”
Valarr shoved him off, laughing despite himself.
As they jogged back to the center circle, he glanced at you again.
You were still watching him.
This time, you did not look away.
//
United won two-nil.
Valarr scored the first and assisted the second, a low cutback Jace tapped in from six yards. By the final whistle, the bad first half had become little more than a talking point for the post-match analysts.
The cameras followed Valarr off the pitch. A presenter intercepted him near the tunnel.
“Valarr, difficult opening forty-five minutes, but a very different performance after the break. What changed?”
He glanced toward the stand. You were no longer in your seat.
“Adjusted our shape,” he answered.
The presenter smiled. “Your manager’s instructions?”
“Among other things.”
“And that celebration again. The supporters are desperate to know who you’re pointing to.”
Valarr accepted the player-of-the-match award from an assistant.
“They’ve been desperate for years.”
“Will you finally tell us?”
“No.”
He said it with enough charm that the presenter laughed rather than pushed.
“Someone special?”
Valarr’s grip tightened briefly around the small glass trophy.
“Yes.”
The word left before he could reconsider it.
The presenter’s eyebrows rose.
Behind the camera, a producer made an excited gesture.
Valarr corrected too late.
“A supporter.”
“One particular supporter?”
“The interview’s about the match, isn’t it?”
He smiled then—the polished one, easy and bright, the expression used in advertisements and press conferences when he wanted to reveal nothing.
You would recognize it immediately.
The presenter moved on to the quarterfinal draw. Valarr answered without listening to himself. When the interview ended, he walked down the tunnel, passed the mixed zone, and ignored three reporters calling his name.
His phone waited in his locker. The moment he unlocked it, he saw six messages from you.
I’m sorry.
The train stopped outside Blackwater.
I know you’re going to be unbearable about this.
You looked furious.
Good goal.
Then, sent three minutes later:
Very good goal.
Valarr sat down on the bench.
He typed:
Where are you?
The reply came immediately.
Hospitality corridor. They won’t let me downstairs because apparently my pass is wrong.
His head lifted.
He stood so quickly that the player beside him had to pull his legs out of the way.
“Where are you going?” Jace asked.
Valarr grabbed a sweatshirt.
“To sort something.”
Jace looked at the phone in his hand and made an exaggerated kissing sound.
Two other players joined in.
Valarr did not bother responding.
He left before they could see him smile.
//
You were arguing politely with a security guard when Valarr found you.
You had buttoned your coat now, though one side was fastened incorrectly. Your hair was still disordered from the wind. There were damp marks along the hem of your trousers, and one of your shoelaces had come undone.
“You’re not listening,” you were saying. “I’ve had this pass for months.”
“It’s showing as restricted access.”
“It has never shown as restricted access before.”
“I can’t override the system.”
“You don’t need to override it. You need to look at the name.”
“Names don’t determine access.”
“This one might.”
The guard saw Valarr first.
His entire posture changed.
“Mr. Targaryen.”
You turned.
For several seconds, neither of you spoke.
Valarr had showered quickly. His hair was damp, the ends curling slightly at his neck. He wore black training trousers and a club sweatshirt, the hood flattened against his back. The white tape remained around his wrist.
There was a red mark along his jaw where another player’s shoulder had caught him.
Your eyes went to it before his face.
He noticed. He always noticed.
“You’re late,” he said.
You looked at him.
“Hello to you too.”
“You missed the first half.”
“I noticed.”
“You could have called.”
“I was underground.”
“You could have called before.”
“I did not know the train planned to stop for forty minutes.”
His gaze moved over you again, quick and searching, as though confirming you had arrived intact.
“Why is your coat buttoned like that?”
You looked down.
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
He stepped closer and began undoing the buttons.
The security guard looked away.
You caught Valarr’s wrist.
“I can dress myself.”
“Evidence suggests otherwise.”
“You have just played ninety minutes of football. Surely you have something else to do.”
“No.”
“You have interviews.”
“Finished.”
“Recovery.”
“Later.”
“A team meeting.”
“Tomorrow.”
“You always have something.”
Valarr corrected the alignment of your coat and fastened the buttons properly. His fingers moved with the ease of someone who had touched your clothing a thousand times. He brushed a piece of lint from your collar and then, with the same absent familiarity, tucked the loose strand of hair behind your ear.
The gesture lasted half a second too long.
Your hand fell from his wrist.
His eyes met yours.
The corridor seemed suddenly narrow.
Valarr stepped back first.
“Your pass,” he said to the guard.
The man handed it over immediately. Valarr examined the card. The access strip had expired two days earlier.
He frowned. “I told them to renew this for the season.”
“I can issue a temporary pass,” the guard said.
“It should be permanent.”
You reached for it. “It doesn’t matter.”
Valarr moved the pass out of reach. “It does.”
“Not everything needs to become an international incident.”
“You were standing in a corridor arguing with security.”
“I was handling it.”
“You call that handling it?”
“I had almost worn him down.”
The guard coughed into his fist.
Valarr finally gave you the pass, though his expression promised someone in administration would receive an unpleasant call before morning.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“Inside.”
“I should go home.”
“No.”
You stared at him.
“No?”
“You owe me dinner.”
“For what?”
“Arriving after halftime.”
“I crossed half the city to get here.”
“You missed my worst half of the season.”
“Perhaps I was protecting my peace.”
His mouth twitched. Then his gaze sharpened again. “Why didn’t you tell me the train had stopped?”
“You were playing.”
“I wasn’t playing before kickoff.”
“You were preparing.”
“You still could have told me.”
The frustration in his voice was disproportionate enough that you glanced toward the guard.
Valarr saw the glance and lowered his tone.
“I thought something happened.”
Something shifted inside you. “You thought something happened?”
“You weren’t there.”
“That is not usually considered an emergency.”
“For you, perhaps.”
The words settled between you.
Valarr looked away.
From farther down the corridor came the sound of approaching staff members and rolling equipment cases. The private stillness broke.
You bent to retie your shoelace.
Valarr moved before you could.
He crouched in front of you, one knee against the concrete floor, and caught the loose laces between his fingers.
You froze. “Valarr.”
“You’ll trip.”
“I am capable of tying my shoe.”
“You said that about the coat.”
Several club employees passed.
One smiled.
Another looked at you, then at Valarr kneeling at your feet, and quickly hid her expression.
Heat climbed your neck.
Valarr double-knotted the lace.
He had done the same thing when you were nine after you had fallen running behind him through the gardens. He had complained the entire time about your inability to keep up, then slowed his pace for the rest of the afternoon.
The memory arrived so briefly that you almost missed it.
Mud on his knees.
Grass stains on your palms.
A football disappearing over the estate wall.
His voice shouting your name from the other side.
Valarr stood.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m remembering how insufferable you were as a child.”
“Were?”
“You’ve grown worse.”
His hand settled at the small of your back as another equipment case rolled past. He guided you toward the dressing-room corridor without thinking.
You let him.
That was the problem.
You had been letting him for years.
//
The players’ dining room had mostly emptied by the time Valarr brought you inside.
A nutritionist had left covered plates under heat lamps. Recovery drinks stood in neat rows along the counter. Two televisions replayed match highlights without sound.
You sat at a table near the windows while Valarr disappeared into the kitchen area.
“You are not supposed to serve yourself,” you called.
“I work here.”
“That is not how professional kitchens operate.”
He returned carrying two plates.
One held grilled chicken, rice, vegetables, and the exact sauce he always claimed tasted like medicinal herbs.
The other held pasta.
He placed the pasta in front of you.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You texted me at noon complaining that a meeting ran through lunch.”
You looked up. “You remembered that?”
Valarr pulled out the chair beside yours rather than the one across from you.
“I remember things.”
“Only when they concern you.”
“That meeting didn’t concern me.”
“You complained through the entire voice note that I might miss kickoff.”
“That concerned me.” You tried not to smile.
He took your fork, twisted pasta around it, and held it toward you.
You stared at him. “Absolutely not.”
“Eat.”
“I am not five.”
“You’re behaving like it.”
“So are you.”
Valarr ate the forkful himself.
You reached for the utensil.
He moved it away.
“Say the goal was good.”
“I already did.”
“You said good. Then very good.”
“That is generous praise.”
“It went off the crossbar.”
“Almost missed.”
His eyes narrowed.
You took the fork from his hand while he was distracted.
“The second-half movement was better,” you said.
Valarr leaned back.
“Better.”
“You kept dropping too deep in the first half.”
He was silent.
You looked at him.
“What?”
“That’s what Westerling said.”
“Westerling is very intelligent.”
“You think you’re funny.”
“I think you were trying to force the match.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
Valarr stabbed at his rice.
You watched him for a moment.
“Were you angry because I was late?”
“No.”
“Valarr.”
“I wasn’t angry.”
“You argued with the referee for two minutes.”
“He was incompetent.”
“You ignored three overlaps.”
“The timing was wrong.”
“You shot when Garlan was open.”
“He would have missed.”
On the screen, the broadcast replayed his goal. The camera followed him as he turned away from his teammates and pointed toward the crowd.
Your eyes moved to the television.
Valarr’s did not.
He was watching you.
“You still do it,” you said quietly.
“What?”
“You know what.” He looked toward the screen at last.
The replay changed to a close view of his face after the goal, fierce and bright with adrenaline.
He reached under the table and rested his hand on your knee. It might have been accidental if he had not done it so often.
At restaurants when photographers appeared.
In cars when traffic became unbearable.
During family dinners when his father began discussing the business.
Under hospital lights while waiting for scans.
His palm was warm through the fabric of your trousers. His thumb moved once, an absent stroke near the inside of your knee.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked.
You swallowed.
Because you date women whose photographs appear beside yours in magazines.
Because the commentators call it a mystery and you let them.
Because each time you point at me, I remember being sixteen and cold and stupidly in love with you.
Because I do not know how much longer I can pretend it means less than it does.
Instead, you said, “People are beginning to think you’re in a cult.”
“That would improve my reputation.”
“You are already worshipped by half the country.”
“The wrong half.”
His hand remained on your knee.
The door opened behind you.
Jace entered with Garlan and two members of the coaching staff. He spotted the two of you and smiled slowly.
“There they are.”
Valarr did not remove his hand.
You did.
You reached for your glass as casually as possible.
Jace came to the table.
“Nice of you to arrive.”
“I was delayed.”
“You should have seen him.”
Valarr looked up. “Velaryon.”
“What? She deserves to know.”
“Know what?”
Jace pulled out the chair across from you. “He spent the entire first half playing like someone had stolen his dog.”
“I did not.”
“He nearly fought the referee.”
“The referee deserved it.”
“He asked the assistant manager during warmup whether the hospitality entrances had changed.”
Your gaze moved to Valarr.
Valarr stared at Jace with open threat.
Jace continued cheerfully. “Then you arrived, and suddenly he remembered he’s the best player in Westeros.”
“I was adjusting to the match.”
“Of course.”
Garlan sat beside Jace.
“To be fair, we all noticed.”
Valarr pushed back from the table.
“Do either of you have somewhere else to be?”
“No,” Jace said. “Team bus leaves in twenty minutes.”
“I’m not taking the bus.”
“You never do when she’s here.”
A small silence followed.
Not awkward. Worse.
Knowing.
You gathered your coat from the back of the chair.
“I should leave.”
Valarr stood immediately.
“I’ll drive you.”
“You have recovery.”
“I’ll do it at home.”
“You should go with the team.”
“I don’t need to.”
“You do.”
His expression changed.
You knew every version of his face.
The public smile.
The arrogant tilt of his mouth after scoring.
The cold stillness he used with executives.
The fury that tightened his jaw after a defeat.
This was something quieter.
The look he gave you whenever you placed distance where he had not expected it.
“You’re leaving?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s late.”
“You always stay after Westeros matches.”
“I have work in the morning.”
“You had work this morning.”
“That is generally how employment functions.”
“I’ll stay at yours.”
The words came easily, without hesitation or request.
Jace looked down at the table. Garlan became very interested in his recovery drink.
You tightened your hold on the coat. “You have your own apartment.”
“It’s forty minutes from here.”
“Mine is thirty-five.”
“Exactly.”
“That is not an argument.”
“I sleep better at yours.”
No one spoke.
Valarr seemed unaware of what he had admitted.
Or perhaps only unaware of how it sounded.
You looked at him.
He looked back, impatience beginning to edge his expression, as if the conclusion were obvious and you were deliberately refusing to see it.
You knew what would happen if you agreed.
He would follow you home.
He would drop his training bag beside the door, though you had asked him a hundred times not to block the entrance. He would shower in your bathroom and leave a towel on the floor. He would wear the old grey shirt he kept in your wardrobe and complain there was nothing to eat while opening cupboards he knew as well as you did.
He would lie across your sofa with his head in your lap.
He would fall asleep while you answered emails.
At some point in the night, he would reach for you without waking.
You would remain still, because moving away always felt crueler than letting him hold you.
In the morning, he would steal your coffee and kiss your temple as though it meant nothing.
Then he would leave for training.
And you would spend the rest of the day trying to remember that friendship was enough.
“I have an early meeting,” you said.
“I’ll be quiet.”
“You’re never quiet.”
“I can be.”
“You talk in your sleep after matches.”
“I do not.”
“You were giving tactical instructions to my sofa cushions last time.”
Jace covered a laugh with a cough.
Valarr ignored him.
“I won’t bother you.”
That was not possible.
He had been bothering you since childhood.
First by kicking footballs over a garden wall.
Then by waiting on the other side until you returned them.
Then by becoming the one person in your life you had never learned how to refuse.
You exhaled.
“One night.”
His shoulders loosened.
The change was small enough that no one who did not know him would have seen it.
Everyone at the table saw it. Jace looked at Garlan. Garlan looked at the ceiling.
Valarr took your coat from your hands and held it open for you. You slid your arms into the sleeves. His fingers settled briefly at the back of your neck, brushing beneath your hair as he adjusted the collar.
“Good,” he said.
Like he had won something.
Perhaps he had.
//
He fell asleep in the car.
Valarr’s driver took the river road while rain streaked the windows and the city moved around you in blurred reflections. Valarr sat beside you in the back seat, knees spread because he had never learned how to occupy a reasonable amount of space.
For the first ten minutes, he answered messages from his agent.
Then the phone slipped lower in his hand.
His head tipped toward the window.
You watched him fight sleep with the same stubbornness he brought to everything else.
“You can close your eyes,” you said.
“I’m awake.”
“You are not.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Oh right, and your thinking has begun to snore.”
His eyes opened.
“I don’t snore.”
“You do after night matches.”
He looked offended.
Then he shifted closer.
His head came down on your shoulder.
The movement was so practiced that neither of you acknowledged it.
His hair was still slightly damp. You could smell his shampoo beneath the clean, sharp scent of the club soap. His body remained warm from exertion, even through the sweatshirt.
You stared out the window.
Valarr’s hand rested on the seat between you. His fingers flexed once. Then found yours. He did not lace them together. He simply curled his hand around two of your fingers, as though checking that you were there.
Within minutes, his breathing deepened.
The city passed.
You looked down.
The tape at his wrist had loosened near the edge. Beneath it, a faded thread showed against his skin.
You touched it lightly.
Rain struck the windows.
For one moment, it was not rain against glass but rain against the roof of an academy shelter years earlier.
Valarr at sixteen, soaked through and pretending he was not afraid.
You sitting beside him with red and black thread wrapped around your fingers.
His trial the next morning.
His family refusing to attend.
His knee bouncing restlessly beneath the bench.
You tying the bracelet around his wrist.
He had looked down at it with disdain.
“What is this?”
“Protection.”
“It’s thread.”
“Very observant.”
“It looks childish.”
“So do you when you sulk.”
“I’m not wearing this.”
“You are.”
“Why?”
“Because I made it.”
“That is not a reason.”
“It is the only reason you’re getting.”
He had complained until the knot was secure. Then he had held his wrist beneath the weak academy light and turned it once, studying the colors.
The next morning, you saw it beneath his sleeve before he stepped onto the pitch. He never removed it again.
Valarr shifted in his sleep. His fingers tightened around yours.
The memory dissolved.
You looked at his face, softened by exhaustion.
The red mark on his jaw would bruise by morning. There was tension between his brows even in sleep. He had played ninety minutes, scored, faced cameras, answered questions, and stood beneath the weight of thousands of expectations.
Now he slept against you like the boy who used to climb through your bedroom window after fights with his father.
The driver turned onto your street.
You should have woken him. You did not.
For another minute, you let yourself remain still beneath the familiar weight of him.
Then Valarr murmured your name in his sleep.
Not loudly.
Not clearly.
But with the certainty of someone reaching for the one thing he expected to find.
Your chest tightened.
You turned your face toward the dark window before he could wake and see it.
Outside, the city continued moving.
Inside the car, his hand remained wrapped around yours.
And beneath the loosening tape at his wrist, the old thread bracelet held.
//
In celebration of the world cup final, I wrote this little piece. I might extend it into a series but we'll see. I hope you enjoy!
There is nothing fiercer than a dragon who protects his hoard, especially from his own brood, or in which, after seeing you with your sons, Maekar Targaryen wants another.
Because apparently I am incapable of writing fluff without smut. In this, the Maekarlings are yours, as this will now be dubbed the 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃𝐒 universe, where you replace Dyanna Dayne and be the mother to the precious babies.
“Maekar..”
“Fuck off, woman, and let me love you.”
The chamber was quiet but for the crackle of the low-burning hearth and the soft rustle of linen. Maekar’s mouth moved against yours in slow, deliberate kisses, each one deeper than the last, stealing the air from your lungs until your fingers were tangled in his hair and your body arched helplessly into his. “Maekar...”
He tasted of wine and warmth and the quiet possessiveness that never quite left him, even in the soft hours after the children were meant to be asleep. “Hmm, shut that mouth and take it.”
You made a small, breathless sound when his lips trailed to the corner of your mouth, then lower, along the line of your jaw. His hand splayed possessively over your hip, thumb stroking idle circles that made your pulse skip.
“Fuck me,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough with want, “you’re still the most beautiful thing I have ever known.”
“Maekar!” You gasped in mock scandal, eyes flying open even as a helpless smile tugged at your lips. “Language. There are impressionable ears in this keep.”
He only huffed a quiet laugh and claimed your mouth again, kissing you until your thoughts scattered and the world narrowed to the solid weight of him, the heat of his chest against yours, the way his arms locked around you like he meant to keep the rest of the realm outside the bed curtains forever.
That was when the soft scrape of bare feet on stone reached you.
A small shadow hovered at the edge of the bed, clutching a wooden dragon, the one Maekar himself had carved years ago for him. Aerion’s hair was mussed from sleep, his lower lip caught between his teeth.
“Mommy,” came the little voice, thin with worry, “I am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?”
Maekar’s arms tightened around you at once, a low grumble of displeasure vibrating through his chest.
He lifted his head just enough to glare past the curtains, still half-draped over you like a dragon guarding its hoard.
You turned your face toward your boy, soft smile already forming, only for Maekar’s gruff imitation of a child’s plea to tumble out first.
“Mommy,” he mimicked in a deep, aggrieved rumble, arms locking tighter, “I am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?”
A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself. You flicked the tip of his nose the moment the words left his mouth.
“Oh, hush, you impossible man.” Then, gentler, to the small figure at the bedside: “Oh, my sweet boy…”
You shifted, ready to throw off the linens, but Maekar’s hold only hardened.
“Woman,” he growled, low and final, “you are not leaving this bed.”
“You are insufferable, Maekar.”
“You are my woman. My wife.” His head settled heavily on your chest, eyes still fixed on Aerion with pure parental outrage. “See what your spoiling has caused. Go back to bed, boy.”
Aerion’s lower lip trembled, but his chin lifted with the same stubborn set his father wore. “Please, mommy.”
You reached out, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, voice warm and firm all at once. “My sweet boy, you are grown now. You must start being independent. The dark is only dark, and your dragon will keep watch.”
Aerion’s eyes widened, pure betrayal shining in them as he pointed an accusing finger at the large man currently occupying the entirety of his mother’s arms. “No! Daddy is bigger than me. Why should he get to keep you? He’s bigger than me, he should be independent too!”
Maekar’s only answer was a deeper glare and an even tighter embrace, as though the very suggestion might somehow pry you from his side.
A bright, helpless laugh tumbled from your lips before you could stop it, soft and fond and utterly undone by the sight of your third son standing there in his little nightshirt, wooden dragon clutched to his chest like a shield, solemnly declaring that his father ought to be independent too.
Aerion’s whole face lit up at the sound. The worried crease between his brows vanished. He beamed so brightly the dim chamber seemed warmer for it, small shoulders straightening with pure, triumphant hope.
You reached up, carding gentle fingers through Maekar’s hair even as he continued to glare daggers over your chest. “It is only until I know he is safe and asleep,” you murmured, voice low and coaxing against his ear. “Just a little while, my love. Then I will come straight back to you.”
Maekar’s answer was a deep, rumbling growl that vibrated straight through your bones, half protest, half pure possessive displeasure. His arms tightened once more, as though he might simply refuse to let the world or his own son claim even a single heartbeat of you.
Yet when Aerion padded closer, bare feet whispering on the stone, Maekar did not stop you from shifting the covers. He only pressed one last, lingering kiss to the hinge of your jaw, silent promise and soft warning both, before reluctantly loosening his hold enough for you to slip free.
Aerion’s small hand found yours at once, warm and trusting, and the wooden dragon bumped against your hip as he tugged you toward the door with quiet, victorious urgency. Behind you, Maekar’s growl followed like a shadow, low and continuous, the sound of a dragon who had temporarily lost his hoard and was already counting the minutes until it returned.
You guided Aerion down the quiet corridor, his small hand warm in yours, the wooden dragon bumping softly against your side with every eager step. The night torches burned low, casting long golden pools across the stone, and the keep felt hushed and safe around the two of you.
His chamber was small and familiar, tapestries of ships and stars, a single shuttered window, the bed piled high with soft furs. You helped him climb in first, then slid beneath the covers beside him, tucking the blankets snug around his narrow shoulders. Aerion immediately burrowed closer, the carved dragon clutched between you both like a shared secret.
For a moment he simply lay there, breathing in the quiet. Then his voice came, soft and hopeful in the dark.
“Mommy… will you tell me a story?”
You smiled, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Of course, my brave boy. What sort of story shall it be?”
He thought hard, nose scrunching. “A scary one. But with a happy ending. And swords.”
“Very well.” You propped yourself on one elbow, voice dropping into the low, dramatic cadence reserved for the best tales. “Once there lived a fierce lady knight, strong and clever and never afraid of the dark. One night a terrible basilisk crept into her castle, its eyes glowing like green fire, its scales black as pitch. It meant to steal her youngest son away…”
Aerion’s eyes went round. You sat up a little higher, one arm sweeping wide as though drawing a blade from thin air.
“But the lady knight would not allow it!” You rose onto your knees in the bed, imaginary sword flashing in great, heroic arcs. “She charged down the corridor, slash! clang!, driving the beast back with every strike. ‘You shall not have my boy!’ she cried, steel ringing against scales. The basilisk hissed and lunged, but the lady knight was faster. She leapt, spun, and with one final mighty swing,” you brought the invisible blade down in a decisive arc that made the covers flutter, “she sent the creature tumbling into the shadows, never to return!”
Aerion giggled, pure delight bubbling up as he clutched his dragon tighter. “And then she hugged her son?”
“And then,” you said, settling back down beside him with a soft smile, “she gathered her son close, tucked him safely into bed, and promised that as long as she lived, no darkness, nor any beast within it, would ever touch him.”
You pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. Outside the chamber door the keep remained quiet, and somewhere down the hall a certain gruff dragon was almost certainly still counting the minutes until his wife returned.
Aerion’s small arms wound tightly around your neck the moment the last words of the story faded. He pressed his face into the curve of your shoulder, the wooden dragon caught awkwardly between your bodies, and held on as though the entire keep might vanish if he loosened his grip even a little.
“Promise,” he whispered, voice already thick with sleep. “Promise you won’t leave me, Mommy. Not ever.”
You stroked slow circles over his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing begin to deepen. “I promise, my sweet boy,” you murmured against his hair. “I will always be here when you need me. Always.”
His fingers curled into the fabric of your nightgown, a soft, trusting hold that slowly relaxed as the last of his fear melted away. Within moments his body went heavy and warm against yours, the even rhythm of sleep claiming him at last. The wooden dragon slipped a little in his slackening grasp, but he did not stir.
You remained still for a long while, listening to the quiet of the chamber and the soft, steady sound of your third son’s breathing, the promise still warm on your tongue.
You waited until Aerion’s breathing had deepened into the slow, even rhythm of true sleep before you carefully eased his arms from around your neck. The wooden dragon remained tucked against his chest as you drew the furs higher, brushing one last soft kiss to his temple. He did not stir.
The corridor outside was cooler, the torches burning lower still. You moved quietly, bare feet silent on the stone, and turned toward the chamber that belonged to your firstborn.
Daeron’s door stood slightly ajar. Even before you reached it you could hear him, small, broken whimpers that caught in his throat, the restless shift of limbs against the sheets. Your heart clenched the moment the sound reached you.
You slipped inside.
He lay tangled in the covers, hair damp against his forehead, brow furrowed deep even in sleep. Another soft, wounded sound escaped him, and you knew at once what plagued him. The same dreams that had haunted him since he was barely more than a babe, shadows and fire and things too heavy for a child’s mind to carry alone.
It broke your heart.
You crossed the room without a word and sank carefully onto the edge of the bed. One hand found his, small and warm and tightly curled, and you stroked your thumb across the back of it in slow, steady circles. Your other hand brushed the hair from his brow, gentle as a whisper.
“Shh, my love,” you breathed, voice barely more than a breath. “I’m here. You’re safe. The dreams cannot keep you.”
Daeron’s whimpers quieted by degrees, though the tension in his small body remained. You stayed exactly where you were, heart aching, watching over your firstborn as the night pressed close around the both of you.
You leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Daeron’s forehead, letting your lips rest there a moment longer than necessary, breathing in the familiar scent of him, warm skin and the faint trace of the lavender the maids sometimes tucked into the bedding. Only when his breathing had evened into something closer to true rest did you rise and slip quietly from the chamber.
Aemon’s door was next.
You eased it open just enough to peer inside, and caught him in the act. The candle flame vanished with a sharp little puff of breath. In the sudden dark a small shape dove beneath the covers in a frantic rustle of linen, leaving only a tell-tale book abandoned on the edge of the mattress, its pages still open.
A soft, knowing smile curved your mouth.
You crouched low, voice dropping into a deep, rumbling growl that filled the quiet room.
“I am the great dragon of the night,” you intoned, claws of your fingers curling against the floorboards. “I hunt for children who refuse to sleep… children who read by candlelight long past the hour they should be dreaming. Those children must climb onto the bed… and then they vanish. Forever.”
A long, dramatic pause.
From beneath the covers a pair of wide eyes peeked over the edge of the blanket.
“Mommy?”
You lunged.
Aemon’s startled squeak turned into helpless, delighted laughter as you pounced, fingers finding every ticklish spot along his ribs and under his arms. He thrashed and giggled and tried to squirm away, but you were merciless, growling dragon-like nonsense between bursts of his bright, breathless laughter until the whole bed shook with it.
You finally relented, collapsing onto the bed beside him in a warm heap of soft laughter, both of you breathless. Aemon’s cheeks were flushed, hair sticking up in every direction, and the abandoned book had been kicked halfway to the floor in the scuffle.
You reached over and gently tugged the covers up around him again, smoothing them with a mother’s practiced hand. Your voice softened, though a thread of fond amusement still lingered in it.
“Now then, my little night-dragon…” You brushed a stray curl from his forehead. “Why are you still awake?”
Aemon’s laughter faded into something quieter. He tugged the covers up to his chin and looked at you with wide, earnest eyes.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted in a small voice.
You tilted your head, fingers still gently smoothing his hair. “Why not, sweetling?”
He was silent for a moment, lower lip caught between his teeth. Then, so softly you almost missed it:
“I just… wanted you.”
Your heart melted. Before you could answer, Aemon sat up a little straighter, expression suddenly solemn, as though he were about to make a formal declaration before the entire court.
“Mommy… can I marry you?”
The question hung in the quiet chamber, perfectly serious.
A deep, familiar voice answered from the doorway before you could.
“No.”
You both turned.
Maekar stood there, bare-chested, hair still mussed from the bed he had been forced to abandon. His violet eyes were serious, though a faint, reluctant warmth flickered in them as they moved from his second son to you.
“She is my wife,” he said, the words low and final, as though the matter had been settled long ago and required no further discussion.
You rolled your eyes at the pair of them, the fond exasperation of a mother and wife who had heard far too many claims upon her in one night.
But something darker flickered across Maekar’s violet gaze, something heated and intent that made your pulse skip. You knew that look. Knew exactly what it meant.
You turned back to Aemon, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Sleep, my little night-dragon,” you whispered. “I’ll be right down the hall.”
You stayed until his breathing evened and his small hand finally loosened its hold on the covers. Only then did you rise.
Maekar was already moving.
He crossed the chamber in three long strides, caught you around the waist, and in one smooth motion hauled you up and over his shoulder as though you weighed nothing. A startled breath left you as the world tilted. One of his large hands settled firmly across the backs of your thighs to keep you steady.
“I want another,” he declared, voice low and rough with certainty as he carried you from the room, the door swinging shut behind you both.
Your bright, helpless laughter spilled out and echoed down the quiet halls of Summerhall as Maekar carried you with single-minded purpose, each long stride a clear declaration of intent. You knew exactly what that promise meant, knew the heat in his blood and the determination in the strong arm locked around your thighs.
Still laughing, you braced your hands against his bare back and asked, voice soft with hope and amusement both, “Do you think the gods might grant us a little girl this time?”
Maekar’s answer came without hesitation, low and absolute, the words vibrating through his chest and into yours.
“Then I’ll keep trying until I give you one.”
You barely had time to draw breath before Maekar’s shoulder met the closed doors of your chambers. He set you down only long enough to press you back against the wood, one powerful thigh sliding between yours as his hands dragged the soft fabric of your nightshift higher and higher, bunching it at your waist.
His mouth found the side of your neck at once, open, hungry, almost reverent, trailing wet heat along the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. A low, broken sound escaped him, something closer to a growl than a word, and you felt the tremor that ran through his entire body as he pressed closer still.
He loved you so fiercely, so completely, that language had long since failed him. Every urgent kiss against your throat, every desperate grip of his hands on your bare hips, every ragged breath he spilled against your skin was the only way he knew how to say it.
Maekar’s mouth never left your neck. His lips brushed the sensitive skin just below your ear as he spoke, the words rough and low and thick with hunger.
“I’m going to fuck you so full you’ll feel me for days.”
The promise vibrated against your throat. His hands tightened on your hips, dragging you harder against him, the hard length of him pressing insistently through the thin barrier of his own clothing.
He rolled his hips once, deliberate and slow, letting you feel every inch of what he intended to give you, then again, deeper, more demanding, as if already imagining the way he would fill you.
Maekar dropped to his knees without warning.
He shoved your nightshift higher still, hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, and buried his face between your thighs like a man who had been starving for the taste of you.
There was nothing gentle about it, only raw, desperate hunger.
His tongue dragged through your folds in long, greedy strokes, then focused on the sensitive peak, sucking hard enough to draw a sharp cry from your throat. He growled against you when your hips jerked, the sound vibrating through your core as he licked and devoured, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from you before he took his own.
Only when your legs were trembling and your fingers were tangled desperately in his hair did he rise.
He manhandled you across the chamber with effortless strength, spinning you and bending you forward over the edge of the bed. The nightshift was shoved up around your waist, one large hand pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you down, while the other guided himself between your slick folds.
He thrust into you in one deep, claiming stroke, filling you completely, and a low, broken sound tore from his chest.
Then he fucked you from behind, hard, relentless, each powerful snap of his hips driving him deeper, the slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. His grip on your hip was bruising, possessive, as though he meant to imprint himself on every part of you.
Maekar’s hips snapped forward again and again, the wet, filthy slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. Each powerful thrust rocked you hard against the mattress, the ropes of the bed creaking in protest beneath the force of him.
Heat poured off his body in waves.
Sweat slicked the hard planes of his chest where it pressed to your back, and the scent of him, salt and skin and raw, masculine need, filled every breath you took.
His teeth were bared, a low, animal sound tearing from his throat as he drove into you without mercy. The thick length of him stretched you open on every stroke, the drag and burn of it so intense your fingers clawed at the sheets.
“Fuck, look at you,” he snarled, voice rough and broken, hot against the damp skin of your neck. “Taking me so deep. My wife. Mine.”
He leaned over your back, one hand fisting tightly in your hair until your scalp prickled, the other gripping your hip hard enough that you felt the imprint of every finger. He pounded into you harder still, the head of his cock dragging over that perfect, aching spot inside you with every brutal snap of his hips.
“Gonna fill you until you can’t walk straight. Until every fucking soul in this keep knows who you belong to.” His breath scorched your ear, teeth grazing, then biting down just hard enough to sting. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine while I fuck another babe into you.”
He didn’t slow.
Every stroke was deep, punishing, claiming, his body moving over yours like a man possessed, teeth still bared, the wet sounds of your joining obscene and constant, the words spilling out of him in a relentless, heated stream as the whole world narrowed to the overwhelming heat and friction and the raw, consuming way he took you.
Your moans fractured into soft, broken mewls as the relentless drive of his hips stole every coherent thought.
The wet, rhythmic slap of skin filled the chamber, louder now, raw and desperate as heat bloomed low in your belly, sharp and overwhelming, and the words he demanded spilled from your lips without hesitation.
“I’m yours,” you gasped, voice high and trembling. “Yours, only yours. Maekar...”
A savage sound tore from his throat.
He fucked you even harder.
The pace turned punishing, almost frantic, deep, brutal strokes that forced the air from your lungs with every thrust. His grip on your hair tightened, pulling your head back so he could watch the way your body took him. Sweat slicked the places where his chest met your spine.
The bedframe groaned beneath the force of him as you felt every thick inch of him, the stretch and friction so intense it bordered on too much, and still he drove deeper, chasing the promise he had made, determined to leave you wrecked and full and marked as his.
Maekar’s voice was rough, almost broken, as he leaned over you again.
“Do you want another babe?” he demanded, the words punched out between deep, driving thrusts. “Tell me.”
“Yes...” The answer tore from you in a high, helpless cry. “Yes, Maekar, yes...”
Something in him shifted.
The punishing edge softened all at once, though his hips never stopped their steady, deep rhythm.
He released your hair and slid that hand around to cradle the side of your face instead, turning your head so he could press open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.
Soft.
Reverent.
Almost aching.
He still snapped his hips against yours, full, claiming strokes that filled you completely, but the hunger had turned tender, every thrust now laced with the quiet intensity of a man who loved you beyond reason.
His lips trailed warm and lingering over your skin, murmuring your name between kisses, as though the only thing that mattered in the world was the way your body welcomed him and the promise you had just given.
Maekar’s mouth never left your neck as he continued to move inside you, deep, steady, relentless. The tenderness in his kisses only sharpened the way every stroke dragged over that perfect place within you, building the pressure higher and higher until it broke.
You came undone with a broken cry, walls clenching tightly around him. He groaned against your skin but did not stop. He simply held you through it, hips still rolling, drawing the pleasure out until you were trembling and oversensitive, then he kept going.
A second climax tore through you sooner than the first, sharper, your fingers twisting in the sheets as soft, helpless sounds spilled from your lips.
Maekar’s hand slid down your stomach, fingers finding the swollen peak of your pleasure and circling in time with his thrusts, coaxing a third wave that left you shaking and gasping his name.
Only when you were boneless and wrecked beneath him, body fluttering around his cock with every lingering aftershock, did his own control finally shatter.
His rhythm faltered.
A low, guttural sound tore from his chest as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into you in long, pulsing surges, hot and deep and endless, filling you exactly as he had promised while his mouth pressed one last open, trembling kiss to the side of your throat.
Maekar stayed buried inside you for a long moment after the last pulse of his release, his breath warm and uneven against the damp skin of your neck.
Then, with exquisite care, he eased free and gathered you into his arms as though you were something infinitely precious.
He carried you the short distance to the head of the bed and laid you down among the tangled sheets. His hands were gentle now, so gentle, as he smoothed the nightshift back down over your body, then reached for the soft cloth kept near the washbasin. He cleaned you with slow, reverent strokes, murmuring low, wordless sounds whenever you shivered under his touch.
When he was satisfied, he discarded the cloth and climbed in beside you, drawing the covers over you both. One strong arm slid beneath your shoulders. The other curled around your waist, pulling you flush against the solid heat of his chest. His fingers combed lazily through your hair, untangling the strands his earlier grip had left mussed.
He pressed soft, lingering kisses to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth, each one quieter than the last. His violet eyes, no longer fierce, held only a deep and open tenderness as they traced your face in the low light.
“My wife,” he whispered at last, the words barely more than breath against your lips. “My heart.”
He held you closer still, one large hand splayed protectively over the soft plane of your stomach, and simply breathed with you, slow, steady, and content, while the quiet of Summerhall settled around the two of you like a blessing.
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Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Popstar Reader (modern AU)
Synopsis: A popstar made for stage lights falls into the hands of Valarr Targaryen. After being together for years, the topic of marriage comes up more often than not.
Part 1 | Part 2
Part 3
The public decided you wanted to marry Valarr Targaryen long before you had allowed yourself to imagine it.
There was no real evidence.
You had never been photographed leaving a bridal boutique. You had never followed a jeweler online or spoken coyly about rings in an interview. You had not begun wearing white more often, had not changed the lyrics of your love songs, had not planted suspicious sources in entertainment magazines.
In truth, you could barely say the word marriage inside your own head without feeling frightened.
Marriage to Valarr would not be ordinary.
It would not simply mean loving him for the rest of your life. It would mean entering the Targaryen family permanently. It would mean lawyers, trusts, security arrangements and newspaper columns analyzing whether you had earned the right to wear his name.
It would mean tying yourself legally to a man who already struggled to understand where devotion ended and possession began.
Sometimes, when Valarr slept with one arm locked around your waist and his face pressed into the back of your neck, you wondered if marriage would make him gentler because he would finally feel secure.
Other times, you feared it would only give him a more beautiful word for ownership.
You never told him either thought.
The public knew none of that. The public had photographs. And photographs were much easier to interpret than fear.
The rumors began when you joined the Targaryens on their summer holiday.
The family went away every year.
Not to a hotel, naturally. Targaryens did not share swimming pools with strangers or wait for restaurant reservations. They disappeared for three weeks to a sprawling private estate on the southern coast of Lys, owned through a company owned by another company whose name never appeared in gossip columns or is link with the family.
The estate sat high above the sea, built from pale stone and shaded by olive trees. There were private beaches below the cliffs, gardens bright with bougainvillea, an infinity pool facing the water and enough guest villas to house a minor royal court.
Usually, the holiday began with only the immediate family and the people considered too permanent to exclude.
Baelor and Jena.
Valarr.
His brother Matarys and Matarys’s girlfriend, Ceryse.
And, depending on the year, one or all three of Baelor’s brothers might arrive with their entire families in tow—wives, children, cousins and enough luggage to suggest permanent relocation. Their invitations were often vague, their arrival dates even vaguer, and they had a habit of turning what began as a quiet family retreat into a crowded Targaryen gathering almost overnight.
Cousin Aerion was especially notorious for appearing halfway through the holiday without warning, usually accompanied by two cars, several guests no one remembered inviting and some new enthusiasm guaranteed to disturb the peace.
You had not expected an invitation.
The Targaryens’ summer holiday in Lys was not the sort of trip girlfriends joined casually. Even long-term partners were not automatically included. Invitations were treated less like social courtesies and more like quiet acknowledgments that someone had been accepted into the private architecture of the family.
You and Valarr had been together for three years. The relationship was serious enough that the public had begun placing imagined engagement rings on your hand, yet some part of you still assumed there were boundaries around his life you had not earned the right to cross.
The holiday was one of them.
You certainly had not expected Valarr to announce your inclusion as though the matter had already been agreed upon by everyone who mattered—including you.
“You’ll need three weeks free in August,” he said one evening.
You were stretched across the center of his bed in a silk robe, one bare leg bent beneath you, scrolling through the latest draft of your upcoming tour schedule. The document was already crowded with rehearsals, promotional appearances, travel days and recording sessions. Finding three consecutive days of freedom would have been difficult.
Three weeks bordered on impossible.
Valarr stood across the room before the full-length mirror, fastening the silver watch at his wrist. He had returned from work less than twenty minutes earlier and still wore most of his suit, though his jacket had been discarded over the back of a chair and the top buttons of his shirt were undone.
He spoke without looking at you.
Not carelessly. Never carelessly.
Casually, perhaps, but with the unmistakable confidence of a man discussing an arrangement he considered settled.
You glanced up from your phone.
“Why?”
“My family goes to Lys every August.”
You waited for more. He offered none.
Valarr’s eyes lifted to yours in the mirror. “You’re coming.”
Your thumb stopped against the screen.
For a moment you wondered whether you had misunderstood him. Whether there had been a question buried beneath the certainty and you had simply failed to hear it.
You lowered your phone slowly onto the bed. “Was there a question hidden somewhere in that sentence?”
“No.”
The answer came without apology.
Your eyebrows rose. “No?”
Valarr adjusted the watch until it sat precisely beneath the cuff of his shirt.
“No.”
“Valarr.”
Only then did he turn.
His shirt was open at the throat, his sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrists, every line of him controlled and immaculate despite the long day behind him. He looked infuriatingly composed for a man who had just attempted to remove nearly a month from your professional calendar and claim it for himself.
He regarded you with calm expectation, as if he had told you where dinner was being served rather than informed you that you would be joining the most powerful family in Westeros on one of their most private traditions.
“You cannot simply decide I’m taking three weeks off,” you said.
“I have not decided that you are taking time off.”
“You just told me I was.”
“I told you that you are coming to Lys.”
“That would require time off.”
“Then the schedule will need to be adjusted.” The ease with which he said it made something inside you tighten.
There it was—that quiet certainty money and power had given him. Obstacles were not things Valarr endured. They were arrangements waiting to be altered. Meetings could be moved. Contracts renegotiated. Flights redirected. Entire weeks cleared because he had decided they should belong to something else.
To him, your calendar was a logistical complication.
To you, it was your career.
“You say that like rearranging an international tour is the same as moving a dinner reservation.”
“It can be done.”
“That is not the point.”
His expression changed slightly.
Not impatience exactly, but the faint incomprehension of a man who could already see the solution and did not understand why you were still discussing the problem.
“Then explain the point.”
“The point is that it is my schedule.”
“I am aware.”
“It doesn’t sound like you are.”
Silence settled between you.
Valarr’s gaze moved briefly to the phone beside your hand, then back to your face.
“I want you there,” he said.
The change in approach was subtle enough that someone else might have missed it. The command softened into something more vulnerable, though he remained too proud to make it sound like a plea.
Your irritation faltered despite yourself.
He knew it would.
That was another imbalance between you—not his money or his name, but how precisely he had learned your heart. Valarr could move institutions with pressure. With you, he had discovered that honesty was often more effective.
“You could have started with that,” you said.
“I believed it was obvious.”
“It was obvious you expected me to come. That isn’t the same thing.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
You could almost see him forcing himself to remain still rather than crossing the room and physically drawing you into agreement.
“My mother asked whether you would be joining us,” he said.
Your breath caught before you could hide it.
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“She invited me?”
Valarr’s expression softened, perhaps because he understood the significance of the question better than he had understood your objection.
“Yes.”
“Specifically?”
“No, she sent invitations to every pop star in Westeros. You were selected through lottery.”
You threw a pillow at him and he caught it easily.
Valarr placed the pillow back on the bed and came toward you. “You know what I mean. She asked me to bring you.”
You looked down at the silk belt knotted loosely around your waist.
Being wanted by Valarr was overwhelming enough.
Being expected by his family was something else entirely.
It meant they no longer viewed you as a passing distraction. It meant Jena Targaryen had imagined you sitting at their breakfast table, walking through their private estate and spending ordinary days among people who guarded their privacy more fiercely than most families guarded their money.
It meant a place had already been prepared for you inside a life you were still afraid to assume would last.
Valarr watched the realization move through your face.
“And what did you tell her?” you asked.
“That you were coming.” Your gaze snapped back to his.
“You answered for me.”
“I know you.”
“That is not the same thing as asking me.”
“No. I should have asked,” he admitted.
You studied him, surprised by the concession.
“But?”
His mouth curved faintly.
“But I would have been extremely displeased if you said no.”
“That does not make the question feel safer.”
“I did not say it to make you feel safe.”
The honesty of it left you quiet.
Valarr lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. His hand moved slowly from your ankle to your calf, not restraining you, though the warmth of his palm made you acutely aware of how easily he could.
“I want three weeks with you,” he said. “Not stolen between rehearsals. Not an hour after a concert while you are too exhausted to speak. Not mornings when one of us is already thinking about leaving.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“I want to wake with you and know you will still be there at dinner.”
The tenderness in his voice reached you before you could defend yourself from it.
“That sounds dangerously domestic.”
“It is intended to.”
Your heart gave an unsteady beat.
Valarr’s thumb moved once against your skin.
“I want my family to know you when you are not performing for them,” he continued. “And I want you to know them well enough that their opinions stop frightening you.”
“They don’t frighten me.”
“They do.”
You opened your mouth to argue.
He raised one eyebrow.
You closed it again.
“They are important to you,” you said instead.
“So are you.”
The answer came immediately.
No hesitation.
No attempt to make the words lighter than they were.
You looked at him and felt the full danger of loving someone who could make possession sound indistinguishable from devotion.
“You still should have asked,” you murmured.
“Yes.”
“Before speaking to my manager.”
His expression gave him away.
You stared at him.
“You already spoke to her?”
“She said the schedule could be adjusted.”
“Valarr.”
“I did not finalize anything.”
“You should not have contacted her at all.”
“I wanted to know whether there was an actual obstacle before discussing it with you.”
“That is the discussion.”
His mouth tightened as he recognized the trap he had built for himself.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then he lifted your foot into his lap and pressed a kiss to the inside of your ankle, infuriatingly tender.
“I am trying,” he said.
It was not an apology.
Not quite.
But with Valarr, sometimes effort arrived before remorse.
You exhaled and leaned back against the pillows.
“Ask me properly.”
His gaze sharpened.
You held it.
Valarr could have argued. He could have reminded you that the arrangements were already possible, that his mother expected you, that he knew perfectly well you wanted to go despite your frustration.
Instead he placed your leg gently back on the bed.
Then he took your hand.
“Will you come to Lys with me in August?” he asked.
His voice was steady, but you heard the thread beneath it.
The wanting. The vulnerability of permitting you to refuse.
You let him wait.
Perhaps only for a few seconds. Perhaps a little longer than necessary. Valarr’s fingers tightened around yours.
“You will not rearrange anything else without telling me.”
“I will attempt not to.”
“That is not a promise.”
“It is the most honest promise available.”
You tried not to smile.
Failed.
Valarr watched your resistance soften, and something warm and possessive moved through his face.
“Yes,” you said at last. “I’ll come.”
The relief in him was almost imperceptible.
Almost.
His shoulders loosened. His thumb swept across your knuckles. Then he raised your hand to his mouth and kissed it with the solemnity of a vow.
“Good.”
//
The first photographs surfaced before the plane had even left King’s Landing.
You had expected the private airfield to offer some protection from the press. That was what Valarr’s security team had promised, at least. The terminal was small, discreet and used almost exclusively by diplomats, old families and people wealthy enough to consider commercial airports an inconvenience.
But privacy around the Targaryens was never complete.
Someone had been waiting beyond the perimeter fence with a long-range camera.
The photographs captured you stepping out of the car in loose white trousers and a pale blue sweater, dressed for comfort rather than attention. Your hair had been pulled back hastily, and oversized sunglasses covered half your face, though they did little to hide how nervous you were.
This was not simply another holiday.
You were about to spend three uninterrupted weeks with Valarr’s family, inside one of their most private traditions. There would be no stage to retreat behind, no tour schedule to excuse your absences and no carefully timed dinner after which you could return to your own apartment.
For three weeks, you would belong to the rhythm of their lives.
Breakfasts with Baelor and Jena. Afternoons beside Matarys and Ceryse. Relatives arriving without warning and filling the estate with old arguments, private jokes and histories you did not yet understand.
The thought had sat heavily beneath your ribs all morning.
Valarr seemed to sense it.
He walked beside you in dark linen trousers and a matching open-collared shirt, looking as though he had stepped from an advertisement for a life no ordinary person could afford. One hand rested at the back of your neck—not gripping, not directing you, but warm and steady against your skin.
It was a familiar touch between you.
Valarr often placed his hand there when crowds became too loud or when he felt you slipping inward beneath the weight of being watched. His thumb would move once beneath your hair, a quiet reminder that he was there and that you did not have to manage the world alone.
To anyone else, the gesture might have looked possessive.
To you, it felt like reassurance.
A member of the staff followed several paces behind carrying your suitcases, though Valarr had already taken your smaller handbag from you before you left the car. He had claimed it was because you were carrying too much.
In reality, you had been carrying a phone and a cup of coffee.
Matarys and Ceryse walked several steps ahead, speaking to one another in low voices. Ceryse glanced back once and smiled at you, perhaps recognizing the nerves you were trying to hide.
You smiled back.
Then Valarr leaned closer and said something beneath the noise of the plane engines.
The camera could not capture the words.
Only your reaction.
Your mouth opened in surprise, and then you laughed—softly at first, before the sound escaped you fully. Your shoulders relaxed. Your face turned toward him as though, for a moment, you had forgotten the airfield, the security officers and the possibility of hidden cameras altogether.
Valarr did not laugh with you.
He rarely did when he was pleased with himself.
Instead, he looked down at you with that quiet, indulgent expression the public had already begun collecting as evidence of his devotion.
It was not merely affection.
There was something heavier beneath it.
Satisfaction that he had drawn you out of your anxiety. Fondness at the sound of your laughter. A possessive sort of pride in being the person who could soften you when the world made you tense.
His gaze remained on your face long after the joke had passed.
The photograph caught that too.
You laughing beside him, unaware of the camera.
Valarr looking at you as though the plane, the holiday and the powerful family waiting at the other end of the flight were all secondary to the fact that you had agreed to come.
By the time the aircraft began taxiing down the runway, the images were already online.
One showed the two of you leaving the car together.
Another captured Valarr’s hand beneath your hair, resting protectively at the nape of your neck.
The final photograph—the one that spread fastest—caught you laughing up at him while he watched you with a softness entirely at odds with the severe man the financial press knew.
The headline appeared less than twenty minutes later:
POPSTAR JOINS THE TARGARYENS FOR THEIR SECRETIVE ANNUAL SUMMER HOLIDAY—AND VALARR CANNOT TAKE HIS EYES OFF HER.
The comments multiplied almost immediately.
Some people focused on the private plane.
Others analyzed your clothing, your luggage and the significance of Ceryse walking ahead of you as though you already belonged among the family’s long-term partners.
But most of them focused on Valarr.
On his hand at your neck.
On the way his body remained angled toward you even while walking.
On the expression he wore when you laughed.
The public had seen him beside ministers, executives, royalty and women whose families had expected to marry into his for years.
He had never looked at any of them like that.
And perhaps that was why the photographs felt more intimate than a kiss.
They did not show a billionaire displaying his famous girlfriend.
They showed a man quietly watching the woman he loved enter his private world—and looking as though her presence there had made everything fall into its proper place.
//
You had met Ceryse a handful of times before the holiday, always at formal dinners where there had been too many people and not enough privacy.
You liked her, but you had not yet decided whether she liked you.
She came from one of the old banking families of Braavos. She was polished without seeming fragile, clever without constantly displaying it and beautiful in a dark, understated way that made photographers behave respectfully around her.
She and Matarys had been together long enough that the public had begun asking why he had not proposed.
That subject, you would learn, annoyed her immensely.
On your second morning in Lys, you found her sitting beneath an umbrella by the pool, wearing a black swimsuit and reading a paperback with a dragon embossed across the cover.
You stopped beside her chair.
“Is that about them?”
She lowered the book and looked at the Targaryen family gathered in the water.
Matarys was floating on his back. His cousin Daenora was attempting to push him under. Baelor and Jena sat at a shaded table with coffee. Valarr stood waist-deep near the edge of the pool, speaking to Aerion with the expression of a man tolerating a minor diplomatic inconvenience.
“Technically,” Ceryse said, “it is about an ancient magical family that hoards power and reacts badly when anyone threatens what they consider theirs.”
You sat in the chair beside her. “So yes.”
“Essentially.”
You smiled.
Ceryse placed the book facedown on her lap. “Are you surviving?”
The question was gentle enough that you answered honestly.
“So far.”
“They can be a lot.”
“I noticed.”
“The trick is not to let the silences frighten you. Sometimes no one is angry. They simply forget normal families speak to one another.”
You laughed.
Across the pool, Valarr turned his head. He had heard you despite the distance. Or perhaps he had simply been monitoring you in the unconscious way he always did.
His eyes found yours. You smiled to reassure him. Only then did he return his attention to Aerion.
Ceryse followed the exchange. “He does that constantly.”
“What?”
“Checks whether you’re comfortable and happy.”
Heat moved into your face. “No, he doesn’t.”
She gave you a look. “You might not notice because you’re usually the person he’s looking at.”
You glanced toward him again.
Valarr was still speaking to Aerion, but one hand rested on the edge of the pool, body angled subtly in your direction.
“How long did it take you to feel comfortable with them?” you asked.
Ceryse considered.
“With Jena? A year. With Baelor? I’m still not sure I am. Daenora and the other female cousins loved me immediately because them were desperate for another woman at dinner. Matarys made it easy.”
“And Valarr?”
Her mouth curved. “Valarr did not care whether I was comfortable.”
You winced.
“Not because he disliked me,” she clarified. “He simply considered me Matarys’s responsibility. He was polite and distant. It took nearly two years before he started including me in family conversations without checking whether Matarys was in the room.”
You looked down at your hands.
Ceryse’s eyes softened.
“But you,” she said, “he brings into every room himself.”
You swallowed.
“Sometimes I’m not sure whether that should make me feel loved or trapped.”
There it was. Too much honesty, offered almost to a stranger. But Ceryse did not look shocked.
She looked toward the water. “Probably both.”
You stared at her.
She shrugged one shoulder.
“These men were raised to think love means responsibility, and responsibility means control. Matarys is less severe than Valarr, but the instinct is there.” She picked up her sunglasses. “You have to teach them that making room for you is not the same as enclosing you.”
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“It isn’t.” She slid the glasses onto her face. “But it becomes easier once you understand they are much more frightened of losing us than we are of displeasing them.”
You thought about Ceryse’s words long after the conversation had moved on.
They are much more frightened of losing us than we are of displeasing them.
It was difficult to imagine Valarr frightened of anything.
He was too controlled for fear to show itself plainly. He did not pace or raise his voice or confess uncertainty. Fear changed him in quieter, more dangerous ways. It made him tighten security without consulting you. Rearrange schedules. Ask the same question three different ways until he received the answer that allowed him to breathe.
It made him reach for you more often.
You had once assumed that constant touching was simply possession—the hand at your waist, the fingers closing around your wrist, his palm settling on your knee beneath restaurant tables. Valarr liked knowing where you were. He liked the visible confirmation that you belonged beside him and that everyone else could see it.
But sitting beneath the umbrella with Ceryse, watching him glance toward you from the pool for the third time in as many minutes, you wondered whether there had always been something more vulnerable beneath it.
Perhaps his hand at the back of your neck was not only a claim.
Perhaps it was also a question.
Are you still here?
The thought remained with you as Ceryse resumed describing the first Targaryen Christmas she had endured and how Matarys had nearly caused a family crisis by replacing Baelor’s carefully selected wine with bottles bearing forged labels.
You tried to listen
But Valarr was in the pool less than twenty feet away, and now that Ceryse had pointed out his habit, you could not stop noticing it.
He was speaking to Aerion near the far edge, the water reaching just above his waist. The sun caught on the pale white steak in his dark wet hair and moved across the hard lines of his shoulders. He appeared attentive to the conversation, but his body remained subtly angled toward the terrace.
Toward you.
Every few moments his gaze returned. Not enough for anyone unfamiliar with him to notice.
A brief glance to confirm you remained in the chair. Another when you laughed at something Ceryse said. A third when you shifted your legs out of the sun and reached for your drink.
Each time he looked away again only after seeming satisfied that you were comfortable.
Ceryse caught you watching him.
She did not say anything.
The knowing curve of her mouth was somehow worse.
You lifted your glass and took a long drink, pretending not to notice.
A few minutes later, Valarr ended his conversation with Aerion without any apparent conclusion. He moved toward the pool steps, pushing wet hair back from his forehead as he emerged from the water.
A towel had been left for him over one of the chairs. but he walked past it.
Valarr crossed the sun-warmed terrace with water running down his chest and dark swim shorts clinging to his thighs, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the pale stone. He did not pause to greet Ceryse or explain why he had abandoned the pool.
He came directly to you.
It should have embarrassed you, the immediacy of it.
The way the rest of the world seemed to become scenery once he had decided he wanted your attention.
Instead, something warm and helpless unfurled inside your chest.
Valarr stopped beside your chair and bent over you. One hand settled on the back of the lounger while he pressed a kiss to your temple.
His lips were cool from the water.
Droplets slid from his hair onto your cheek.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked.
You blinked up at him.
The sun was bright overhead. Heat shimmered against the stones. You were wearing a swimsuit beneath a loose linen cover-up and sitting beneath only half the shade of the umbrella because the afternoon had become almost unbearably warm.
“I’m sitting in the sun.”
“That is not an answer.”
His gaze moved over you with the familiar, invasive thoroughness he would insist was concern. He took in your bare legs, the untouched water beside you and the slight crease between your brows left behind by your conversation with Ceryse.
You suspected the question had very little to do with temperature.
Ceryse lowered her face toward her book, though not before you saw the smile she was trying to conceal.
You placed your palm against Valarr’s damp stomach and pushed him back lightly.
The hard muscles beneath your hand tightened at the contact.
“You’re dripping on me.”
He looked down at your fingers against his skin.
The complaint seemed to please him more than it should have.
Instead of moving away, he caught your wrist gently. He lifted your hand from his stomach and turned it in his grasp, pressing his mouth to the center of your palm.
The kiss was slow enough to make heat climb into your face.
Ceryse became intensely interested in the page she had not turned for several minutes.
“Come swim,” Valarr said against your skin.
You attempted to withdraw your hand.
He kept it.
“I’m talking with Ceryse.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why are you interrupting?”
His thumb stroked once across the inside of your wrist, directly over your pulse.
“You have been talking for twenty-seven minutes.”
Ceryse looked up from her book.
“Have you been timing us?”
“No.”
“You just gave an exact number.”
“I have an accurate internal sense of time.”
You stared at him. Ceryse stared at him too.
From the pool, Matarys called, “You have an obsession.”
Valarr did not turn his head. He did not dignify his brother’s accusation with a denial, perhaps because there was no convincing one available.
Behind him, Matarys folded his arms over the edge of the pool and watched with open amusement. Aerion stood nearby, looking between you and Valarr as though waiting for the performance to become more entertaining.
Valarr noticed none of them. Or chose not to. His attention remained fixed on you.
“Come,” he said.
The word was soft, but it carried that familiar thread of expectation. Valarr wanted you, and some part of him always assumed the wanting itself should be enough to move you.
Months ago, perhaps it would have.
You would have smiled, abandoned the conversation and followed him because pleasing him was easier than risking the faint withdrawal that came when he did not get his way.
But Ceryse’s words were still fresh inside your mind.
Making room for you is not the same as enclosing you.
You glanced toward her.
Ceryse met your eyes and gave you the smallest, most private smile.
Not mocking.
Encouraging.
She knew what you were about to do before Valarr did.
You turned back to him and lifted your chin.
“Ask properly.”
Valarr became very still. His fingers remained around your wrist, though his hold loosened slightly.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” The faintest line appeared between his brows.
Behind him, the sounds from the pool quieted.
Matarys, sensing the possibility of his brother being challenged in public, suddenly found the exchange far more interesting than swimming. Aerion moved closer to the edge. Even Daenora looked up from where she had been floating on her back.
Valarr’s gaze searched your face.
There was no anger in it, but there was surprise. The subtle offense of a man unaccustomed to having his wording corrected after he had already made his desire clear.
“I did ask,” he said.
“No. You told me to come.”
“I said, ‘Come swim.’”
“That is an instruction.”
“It was an invitation.”
“It sounded like an instruction.”
His jaw shifted.
You could see the conflict in him.
The instinct to argue that you both knew perfectly well you wanted to join him. The desire to pull you from the chair and end the discussion physically. The awareness—newer, more fragile—that the distinction mattered to you even if it seemed unnecessary to him.
For one second, his hand tightened around yours. Then he exhaled.
It was a small surrender.
Perhaps no one else would have understood it that way.
You did.
Valarr released your wrist and straightened slightly, though he remained close enough that droplets from his chest continued to fall across your legs.
“Would you,” he began, each word delivered with conspicuous patience, “like to join me in the pool?”
The careful politeness was so exaggerated that your mouth threatened to curve.
Ceryse bit the inside of her cheek.
Valarr noticed. His eyes narrowed briefly in her direction before returning to you. You let the silence stretch.
Only for a few seconds.
Long enough to make him wait.
Valarr’s expression remained composed, but you saw the flicker beneath it. The faint uncertainty that Ceryse had taught you to recognize.
He wanted you beside him.
He had crossed the terrace because twenty-seven minutes without your attention had begun to feel excessive. He had offered his hand with all the confidence of a man who expected to be chosen, but beneath that confidence was the quieter fear that perhaps, one day, you would not be.
The realization softened you.
You tilted your head as though considering the invitation very seriously.
Valarr’s eyes darkened.
“Yes,” you said at last. “I would.”
The satisfaction that moved across his face was immediate and almost boyish before he smoothed it away.
You shifted forward, preparing to stand.
Valarr did not give you the chance.
One arm slipped behind your back. The other hooked beneath your knees.
“Valarr—”
He lifted you from the chair as though you weighed nothing.
A startled scream escaped you, sharp enough to carry across the entire terrace. Instinctively, you threw both arms around his neck.
The rest of the family burst into laughter.
“Put me down!”
“I asked properly.”
“That does not give you permission to carry me!”
“You agreed to join me.”
“I can walk!”
“I know.”
He said it with infuriating calm as he turned toward the pool.
Water from his body soaked through the side of your cover-up. Your legs swung against his arm while you clung to his shoulders, caught between outrage and helpless laughter.
Matarys watched from the water, grinning.
“That is not what she meant by asking.”
Valarr descended the first pool step with you still in his arms.
“She should have been more specific.”
“You are impossible,” you told him.
His gaze lifted to yours.
The amusement in his face softened into something warmer. Something private despite the family surrounding you.
“And yet you said yes.”
The water climbed around his thighs as he carried you farther into the pool.
Your grip tightened at his neck.
Valarr’s arms tightened around you in answer—not enough to trap, only enough to reassure you that he would not let you slip.
When the water reached your waist, he finally lowered you.
Slowly.
Your body slid against his until your feet found the pool floor, but his hands remained at your waist.
Around you, the family returned to their conversations and games, though Matarys continued muttering about contractual loopholes and Daenora accused Valarr of being incapable of behaving normally for more than ten minutes.
You barely heard them.
You were looking at Valarr.
His wet hair had fallen over his forehead. His thumbs moved absently against your sides. The triumph in his expression was unmistakable, but there was tenderness beneath it too.
“You could have waited for me to stand,” you murmured.
“I could have.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Valarr’s gaze moved over your face.
“Because you spent twenty-seven minutes with Ceryse.”
You laughed in disbelief.
“That is not a reason.”
“It is to me.”
The answer should have sounded controlling.
It did, a little.
But now you heard the quieter truth beneath it.
He had missed you while standing less than twenty feet away.
Valarr Targaryen, who could command entire rooms without raising his voice, had crossed a terrace dripping wet because your attention had remained elsewhere for longer than he preferred.
Ceryse had been right.
His obsession was not made only of possession.
It was also fear. Dependency. The almost childlike need to reassure himself that when he reached for you, you would still reach back.
You touched the wet hair at his temple.
His expression changed immediately.
“Next time,” you said, “ask first.”
Valarr leaned into your touch before he could stop himself.
“I did.”
“Before carrying me.”
A pause.
“Very well.”
You laughed again. This time Valarr smiled with you.
And as he pulled you gently through the water toward the rest of his family, you understood the strange tenderness inside what Ceryse had told you.
Valarr did not look for you because he doubted where you were.
He looked because your presence had become the point around which the rest of his world arranged itself.
And every time you chose to follow him—not because he had commanded it, but because he had finally asked—something in him seemed to settle.
//
The photographs appeared online that evening.
You never discovered who had taken them. The estate had been selected precisely because it could not easily be reached from the public beaches, and the nearest boats were meant to remain far beyond the security perimeter. Whoever had captured the images had used a long-range lens from somewhere out on the water.
Valarr’s security team began investigating almost immediately.
You knew better than to ask what that involved.
By dinner, the photographs had spread across every entertainment page in Westeros.
The first showed Valarr carrying you down the pool steps, your arms locked around his shoulders while you laughed into the side of his neck. He was looking ahead with maddening composure, as though walking into the water fully clothed with you in his arms were the most natural thing in the world.
The second was quieter.
You floated before him in the pool, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders while his remained secure around your waist. The distance between your faces was small enough to feel intimate even through the blur of the lens. Valarr’s attention was fixed entirely on you, his expression softened in the private way the public had become obsessed with capturing.
The final photograph drew the most attention.
You and Ceryse stood together at the edge of the pool, wrapped in towels and speaking closely. Behind you, Matarys and Valarr waited with fresh towels in their hands. The image was innocuous, almost domestic, yet it created precisely the kind of narrative the press had been waiting to tell.
The headline appeared in bold across one of the largest society accounts:
TARGARYEN WIVES’ CLUB? POP STAR BONDS WITH MATARYS’S LONG-TERM PARTNER DURING INTIMATE FAMILY HOLIDAY
Ceryse read it aloud at dinner and stopped halfway through, caught between disbelief and laughter.
“Wives’ club,” she repeated, lowering her phone.
Matarys leaned toward her to look at the photograph. “They are getting ahead of themselves.”
His tone was amused, but his hand settled at the back of her chair with the easy familiarity of a man who did not appear entirely opposed to the implication.
Ceryse gave him a warning look before turning the phone facedown.
The conversation moved on.
Valarr did not.
He sat beside you at the long table overlooking the sea, the article open on his phone. Lantern light moved over the hard lines of his face while he read the headline again.
He looked thoughtful. Too thoughtful. You nudged his shin beneath the table.
You watched his eyes linger on the word wives.
Something low and uncertain shifted inside you.
The headline had been written to provoke. To turn a few harmless photographs into evidence of a coordinated attempt by two women to secure their places in one of the most powerful families in Westeros.
You should have dismissed it.
Instead, you found yourself wondering why Valarr seemed to be considering it rather than rejecting it.
You touched the toe of your sandal lightly against his ankle beneath the table.
His gaze lifted immediately.
“What are you thinking?” you asked.
He locked the screen and placed the phone beside his wineglass.
“Nothing that needs discussing here.”
The answer was too measured.
You studied him. “You weren’t angry.”
“Should I be?" His gaze remained on yours. Heat moved slowly into your face.
Across the table, Matarys looked between the two of you and appeared to understand something you did not. Whatever amusement had been in his expression deepened, but he had enough sense not to speak.
You lowered your voice. “You usually hate headlines like that.”
“I hate the suggestion that you are scheming for a place in my family.”
“But not the rest of it.”
Valarr’s fingers closed around the stem of his glass.
For a moment, he said nothing.
The family’s conversation continued around you. Ceryse was speaking to Jena and Dyanna. Daenora was arguing with Aerion over some forgotten childhood incident. Uncle Maekar watched on. Baelor listened from the head of the table with the weary patience of a man who had endured decades of Targaryen disputes.
Yet the space between you and Valarr seemed to quiet.
At last, he said, “The rest of it is not offensive.”
Your heartbeat changed.
“Yes but it isn’t true.”
“Not yet.”
The words were spoken softly enough that no one else should have heard them.
Matarys did. His mouth twitched before he lifted his wine to hide it.
You stared at Valarr.
He returned your gaze with infuriating composure, but there was something more exposed beneath it now. Something he had not intended to reveal so plainly.
The idea of you as his wife did not frighten him.
It did not feel premature to him.
If anything, the headline had placed a public name upon a future he had already begun privately imagining.
You looked down at your plate, suddenly unable to meet his eyes without betraying how deeply the realization affected you.
Marriage had always felt dangerous when you imagined it.
Too permanent. Too consuming. Too easily transformed into another structure Valarr could close around you and call protection.
But sitting beside him among his family, after an afternoon spent laughing with Ceryse and being pulled into the ordinary intimacy of their lives, the idea did not feel entirely like a cage.
It felt frighteningly close to belonging.
Valarr’s hand moved beneath the table and settled over yours. He did not interlace your fingers immediately. He simply covered your hand with his, warm and steady, allowing you the space to pull away.
You did not.
Only then did his fingers slip between yours.
You felt his thumb pass slowly over the base of your empty ring finger.
The touch was so deliberate that your breath caught.
Valarr continued looking toward the rest of the table as if nothing had happened, his expression controlled and unreadable to anyone who did not know him.
But you knew him.
You knew the weight behind his silence. The careful patience beneath the hand holding yours. The way his mind moved once he had decided something belonged in his future.
//
That night, long after the rest of the estate had fallen quiet, Valarr asked, “Do you like Ceryse?”
You turned your head against the pillow.
The question seemed strangely abrupt in the darkness.
Valarr lay beside you on his back, one arm beneath your head and the other resting loosely across your waist. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, pale enough to soften his face without making it entirely readable.
“Yes,” you said. “I do.”
“She likes you.”
You smiled faintly. “I think so.”
“She does.”
There was no hesitation in his answer. Valarr spoke as if Ceryse’s affection were another fact he had verified personally.
“Did you interrogate her?”
“I asked Matarys.”
“That is only one step removed from an interrogation.”
“He would have told me if she disliked you.”
You studied him. “Would he?”
“Yes.”
“What would you have done?”
Valarr’s hand moved slowly over your waist beneath the sheet.
“Determined why.”
The answer was so entirely him that you almost laughed.
He would not have accepted simple incompatibility. He would have treated Ceryse’s possible dislike as a problem requiring analysis—a misunderstanding to correct, an objection to remove, another obstacle between you and the ease he wanted you to feel.
But there was no humor in his expression.
Only thoughtfulness.
His fingers drifted from your waist to your bare shoulder, tracing the curve with absent care.
“Would it help if she were there more often?” he asked.
You frowned. “Where?”
“At dinners. Family events. Future holidays.”
Something in the phrasing caught your attention.
Not merely this holiday.
Future ones.
You shifted onto your side to face him fully.
“Matarys already brings her.”
“Not always.”
“Because sometimes she has her own plans.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you asking me?”
His fingertips continued moving along your shoulder, but the rest of him had gone still.
“I could make it clear that she is always included.”
You stared at him. “To whom?”
“To my parents. The staff. Anyone responsible for arranging these things.”
The quiet certainty in his voice made the full implication settle over you.
Valarr was not asking whether you enjoyed Ceryse’s company out of casual curiosity.
He had noticed the difference she made.
How your shoulders had relaxed beside her at the pool. How easily you had laughed once you were no longer the only woman present who had entered the family through love rather than birth. How you had spoken to Ceryse without constantly measuring your words or wondering whether you were failing some invisible test.
He had noticed because he noticed everything that unsettled you.
And now, in the only language he had ever been taught to speak fluently, he was trying to arrange the discomfort out of your future.
“You can’t control whether Matarys brings his girlfriend,” you said gently.
“I don’t control Matarys.”
“You try.”
“Frequently.”
Despite yourself, your lips curved. Valarr did not smile.
“If having Ceryse there makes this easier for you, I can ensure that she knows she is welcome whether Matarys thinks to mention it or not.”
There was something almost awkward beneath the smoothness of the offer.
Valarr could purchase homes without visiting them and restructure companies without losing sleep. Yet he seemed uncertain here, trying to construct a sense of belonging from invitations and familiar faces because those were things he knew how to provide.
“You don’t have to reorganize your family around me,” you whispered.
His brow furrowed. “I am not reorganizing them.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“I am making room for you.”The distinction mattered to him.
You heard it in the quiet firmness of his voice.
Valarr shifted onto his side, bringing himself closer. His hand slid from your shoulder to the back of your neck, fingers settling beneath your hair with familiar care.
Valarr’s thumb moved slowly against your skin.
He had watched you carefully since your arrival. You understood that now. He had noticed every hesitation at the breakfast table, every moment you went quiet when old stories began and you did not know enough to join the laughter. He had seen the way you waited for someone else to sit before choosing your place and how you still thanked the staff too many times because you worried they might think you were acting entitled.
He had also seen the moments when that uncertainty faded.
Ceryse drawing you into conversation.
Daenora taking your arm as though you had always belonged beside her.
Jena asking your opinion rather than politely tolerating it.
Baelor passing you the bread without ceremony, no longer treating your presence as something requiring formal acknowledgment.
Those moments had mattered to Valarr because they mattered to you.
“I don’t want you spending every dinner wondering whether you are welcome at the table,” he said.
Your throat tightened.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
His voice held no accusation. Only certainty and something quieter beneath it.
Regret, perhaps, that his family’s power made their approval feel like something you had to earn.
“You watch everyone before you speak,” he continued. “You ask me afterward whether my father was offended when he was only tired. You apologize to my mother for things she has not even noticed. When my uncles arrived, you offered to move to another villa because you thought there might not be enough room.”
“They brought half the family with them.”
“There are fourteen empty bedrooms.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You did not ask because you were afraid the answer might reveal you had taken someone else’s place.”
You looked down between you.
The truth of it embarrassed you.
Valarr touched your chin and gently brought your face back to his.
“You have not taken anyone’s place.”
The words were quiet.
Absolute.
“You are not here because my mother is being courteous or because my father has decided to tolerate a temporary guest. You are here because I wanted you here. They wanted you here. The room was prepared for you before we arrived.”
A small ache opened beneath your ribs.
“It still feels like your family,” you admitted.
“It is.”
The bluntness made your expression fall before he continued.
“And I want it to become yours.”
Valarr’s gaze moved across your face as though he were trying to ensure you understood every part of what he meant.
“I cannot give you my childhood with them,” he said. “I cannot make you understand every joke or argument the first time you hear it. I cannot erase the years they knew me before you.”
Something raw entered his voice.
“But I can make certain you are never left standing at the edge of us.”
The tenderness of it hurt more than a grand declaration would have.
Valarr did not simply want you accepted.
He wanted you at ease.
He wanted you to know which cabinets held the coffee without asking. To interrupt Matarys without worrying you had overstepped. To disagree with Baelor and trust that it would not cost you your invitation. To sit beside Jena in silence without feeling required to entertain her.
He wanted the Targaryens to become ordinary to you.
Not a dynasty you visited on your best behavior, but people whose doors you entered without waiting to be granted permission.
“You cannot force belonging,” you whispered.
“I know.”
His answer surprised you.
Valarr’s hand slipped from beneath your hair, trailing down your arm until his fingers found yours on the pillow.
“I know I cannot command you to feel safe here,” he said. “I cannot tell you that you belong and expect the fear to disappear simply because I have decided it should.”
His fingers folded slowly through yours.
“But I can make the space. I can ensure no one closes it around you. And I can keep bringing you back until you no longer feel like a guest.”
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
There was still control inside the promise. There always was with him. The instinct to solve your uncertainty through repetition, proximity and careful arrangements.
But beneath that was something far more vulnerable.
Valarr wanted his family to love you because they were part of him.
He wanted you to love them because he was asking you to remain.
He was trying to join the separate pieces of his life so completely that you would never again wonder which side of the door you belonged on.
“Is that why you care whether Ceryse comes?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“Because you think I need an ally?”
His thumb stroked over your knuckles.
“She understands what it is to enter this family from the outside,” he continued. “She knows which traditions matter and which ones exist only because no one has bothered to question them. She will tell you things Matarys assumes everyone knows and my mother would never think to explain.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“Couldn’t you do that?”
Something shifted in his expression.
“I could try.”
“But?”
His gaze lowered briefly to your joined hands.
“I am not outside it,” he said. “There are things about my family I no longer see because I have spent my entire life inside them. I may not always recognize what makes you uncomfortable until the discomfort has already happened.”
The admission cost him something.
You heard it in the slight roughness of his voice.
Valarr hated the idea that there might be a danger he could not anticipate, even when that danger was only a cold conversation or a private joke that left you feeling excluded.
You moved closer.
His arm came around you at once, drawing you against his chest, though he held you carefully enough that the final distance was yours to close.
You rested your palm over his heart.
“Why does it matter so much?” you asked, even though part of you already understood.
Valarr was quiet for long enough that you felt his heartbeat beneath your hand.
Then he said, “Because they will remain part of your life.”
Your pulse changed.
The sentence carried more weight than its words should have held.
You lifted your head.
“For how long?”
His hand stilled against your back.
For the first time that night, something like uncertainty entered his eyes. Not uncertainty about what he wanted.
Uncertainty about how much of it he was permitted to reveal.
Then his fingers spread against your spine, holding you with quiet, unshakable care.
“For as long as I do.”
The answer settled between you.
Not a proposal.
Not quite a promise.
Something more dangerous for being spoken as fact.
Valarr was not imagining you surviving one holiday with his family. He was imagining years of them. Summers in Lys. Winter dinners. Birthdays and weddings and ordinary Sundays. Ceryse beside you at the table, Matarys pulling you into old arguments, Jena calling you without going through him.
He was imagining you woven so deeply into the family that no one remembered there had been a time before you belonged there.
Your throat tightened.
“And how long is that?” you whispered.
Valarr held your gaze.
His expression softened into something almost painful.
“As long as you allow me.”
You kissed him before he could say anything more.
Valarr answered immediately, one hand rising to cradle your face. The kiss was slow and deep, weighted with everything neither of you was ready to name.
When you drew back, he stayed close, his breath warm against your mouth.
“I do like Ceryse,” you whispered.
A faint smile touched his lips.
“I know.”
“And I like your family.”
“Most of them?”
“On good days.”
“That is more than they deserve.”
You smiled against his mouth.
Valarr kissed you again, gentler this time.
He did not ask whether you understood what he had meant by for as long as I do.
He did not need to.
His hand remained linked with yours between your bodies, steady and warm, as though he were already guiding you toward a future in which you no longer had to wonder whether you were welcome.
A future where his family did not merely tolerate your presence because Valarr loved you.
They made room because, little by little, you had become theirs too.
This makes his desire for permanence feel less like possession and more like the careful creation of a home you can enter without him granting permission each time.
//
You and Ceryse went into the coastal village without the men three days after the pool photographs appeared.
The idea had been Jena’s. She suggested it over breakfast.
“You should both leave the estate for a few hours,” she said, buttering a piece of toast. “Before my sons decide leisure is another activity requiring schedules, escorts and written approval.”
Valarr disliked the idea immediately.
“The village will be crowded.”
There was nothing openly prohibitive in his tone. That was part of how Valarr had learned to disguise control as discussion. He no longer simply told you no. He presented obstacles with such grave certainty that refusal began to feel like the only intelligent conclusion.
“There will be security,” you reminded him.
“There will be tourists.”
“They generally coexist.”
“There are narrow streets.”
“So?”
“Visibility is poor.”
You stared at him across the table.
He sat beside Baelor in a white linen shirt with the sleeves turned neatly to his forearms, looking far too composed for a man mentally converting a shopping trip into a tactical risk assessment.
“Are we going into a village,” you asked, “or crossing enemy territory?”
Jena did not look up from her coffee. “Let her go, Valarr.”
He turned toward his mother. That was his first mistake. His second was hesitating.
Every person at the table noticed.
Jena’s brows rose with quiet authority. Matarys’s mouth spread into a delighted grin. Daenora leaned toward Aerion and whispered, with no attempt at discretion, “Mother outranks him.”
He exhaled slowly.
“All right.”
You smiled.
“Four security officers.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Two, and they remain far enough away that I can forget they’re there.”
His jaw tightened.
You could almost see the calculations moving behind his eyes: crowd density, escape routes, distance between the village and the estate, whether the two officers could adequately cover both you and Ceryse.
Finally, through visible effort, he said, “Agreed.”
It was not gracious.
It was still progress.
Jena gave him a small, approving nod.
Valarr looked personally betrayed by it.
//
The village outing was ordinary by your current standards.
There were sun-faded awnings, narrow streets paved in pale stone and shops crowded with handmade ceramics, linens and silver jewelry. Tourists drifted between cafés with melting drinks in their hands. Local children ran through the square. Music spilled from somewhere you could not see.
For two hours, you felt almost anonymous.
A few people recognized you. One girl stared for nearly a full minute before nervously asking for a photograph, and a shopkeeper whispered your name to his wife when you entered. But no one pushed. No one shouted questions about Valarr. No one asked whether the Targaryens approved of you.
Ceryse made it easier.
She knew how to exist beside wealth without allowing it to consume the day. She did not rush you or treat your nerves as something delicate. When you lingered over a pale blue linen dress, she told you honestly that the cut would look terrible under stage lights but beautiful barefoot at breakfast. When you bought ridiculous postcards painted with dragons and sunsets, she selected even uglier ones for Matarys.
“You know he’ll frame that,” you said.
“That is why I chose it.”
You stopped for coffee. You bought jewelry from a woman who seemed entirely unimpressed by either of your names. You wandered through a cramped bookshop where Ceryse found an old political memoir and you found a collection of love poems you hid beneath a travel guide when she looked over.
By the time she led you into the antiques shop, the tightness you usually carried through public spaces had loosened.
The shop was small and dim, smelling of cedar, dust and sea air. Glass cabinets lined the walls, crowded with old watches, enamel boxes, silver combs and pieces of jewelry that looked as though they had survived several unhappy marriages.
Ceryse was searching for a gift for Matarys.
“He mentioned wanting an antique compass,” she explained.
“You remembered?”
“He mentioned it twelve times.”
You smiled and wandered toward the back of the shop.
That was where you saw the rings.
They occupied a narrow glass cabinet beneath a brass lamp. Some were ornate and heavy, set with colored stones or clusters of old diamonds. Others were simpler—worn gold bands, tiny solitaires, rings that had probably once belonged to women whose names had been lost while the jewelry remained.
One caught your attention. Not because it looked like an engagement ring.
It was an antique oval diamond set in pale gold, surrounded by a fine border of sapphires. Delicate. Old-fashioned. Beautiful without demanding to be noticed from across a room.
You leaned closer to the glass.
Ceryse appeared beside you.
“That would suit you.”
You immediately straightened. “I’m not looking.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You said it would suit me.”
“So would the blue dress we saw earlier. That does not mean you are secretly planning to marry it.”
Your shoulders relaxed. You laughed, and Ceryse smiled, but the sound carried a small nervousness you could not quite conceal.
Because the ring had made you think of Valarr.
Only his hand closing around yours. His thumb passing over the base of your empty finger at dinner after the wives’ club headline. The unsettling thoughtfulness in his expression when the press had placed the word wife beside your name.
You looked at the ring once more before following Ceryse toward another cabinet.
Outside, someone lifted a phone.
Neither of you noticed.
//
The photograph was taken through the shop window.
It was grainy from the reflection on the glass but painfully easy to interpret.
You stood beside Ceryse in front of a display of rings. Your body was angled toward the cabinet, one finger lifted as if pointing to a particular piece. Ceryse leaned close beside you, smiling.
There was no context.
By the time the car returned you to the estate, the image had already reached every major gossip account in Westeros.
Your phone began vibrating before you passed through the gates.
Once.
Then again.
Then continuously.
Ceryse checked hers first.
The look on her face told you enough.
“What?”
She hesitated.
That frightened you more than if she had laughed.
“What is it?”
Ceryse turned the screen toward you.
BRIDAL BELLS IN LYS? POPSTAR SPOTTED RING SHOPPING WITH MATARYS TARGARYEN’S LONG-TERM GIRLFRIEND DURING INTIMATE FAMILY HOLIDAY
For several seconds you only stared.
Then the reactions began multiplying beneath it so quickly the page refreshed while you watched.
A second account used a cropped, enlarged version of your hand.
HAS THE POP PRINCESS CHOSEN HER TARGARYEN RING?
A society page posted the same photograph beside the pool image from two nights earlier.
FIRST THE “WIVES’ CLUB,” NOW RINGS: ARE THE TARGARYEN BROTHERS FACING A JOINT ULTIMATUM?
Your stomach tightened.
“Joint ultimatum?” Ceryse repeated in disbelief. “I have not issued Matarys an ultimatum in months.”
You looked at her.
“That was a joke.”
“Mostly.”
The car continued up the long road to the estate while the story grew around you.
You had not merely looked at a ring.
You had selected one.
You and Ceryse were not simply friendly.
You had formed an alliance.
You had joined the holiday to secure Jena’s approval, befriend the other long-term partner and pressure both brothers into proposals before the summer ended.
According to one unnamed source, you had been “increasingly vocal about wanting stability.”
Another claimed you had entered “a more domestic stage of life.”
A third, supposedly close to the Targaryens, said you had spent the trip “carefully demonstrating how naturally she could fit into the family.”
That sentence lodged itself beneath your ribs.
Carefully demonstrating.
As though every laugh with the family had been calculated. Every conversation with Jena rehearsed. Every moment beside the pool part of some performance designed to prove that you could behave like a wife if someone gave you the title.
The ugliest article arrived before dinner.
It came from a society columnist who had spent the first year of your relationship insisting Valarr would eventually choose someone more suitable.
THE LEAST SUBTLE CAMPAIGN FOR DYNASTIC LEGITIMACY IN RECENT MEMORY
The opening paragraph praised your beauty.
The second acknowledged your success.
The third suggested neither was sufficient to secure a man like Valarr permanently, and that you appeared to understand this.
The writer described the shopping trip as evidence that you had “progressed from enjoying the benefits of Targaryen attention to actively seeking its legal permanence.”
You read that line twice.
Then locked your phone.
Ceryse watched your face.
“It is garbage.”
“I know.”
“You don’t look as if you know.”
You turned toward the window.
Outside, the sea appeared beyond the trees, blue and impossibly calm.
“They already thought I didn’t belong,” you said quietly. “Now they think I’m trying to trap him into letting me stay.”
Ceryse’s expression hardened.
“They think powerful men must always be reluctant. Otherwise they would have to admit women like us might be wanted without begging for it.”
You looked down at your hands.
The ring had only been beautiful.
You wished now that you had never looked at it.
That frightened you too—the speed with which strangers could make an innocent desire feel shameful.
Your fans began fighting back almost immediately.
Some were furious on your behalf.
Others found the entire thing ridiculous.
@starlightangel:
She looked at ONE ring. I looked at a castle yesterday. I am not now queen.
@dragonwatchdaily:
This photograph was taken through a window by a stranger. None of you heard the conversation. Stop writing fanfiction and calling it society reporting.
@idolguardian:
Every time a woman dates a powerful man, the public decides marriage must be her endgame. She had a career before him. A very successful one.
@valarrdownbad:
Has anyone considered VALARR might want to marry HER? This man has attended twenty-three concerts, owns three homes near her studio and carries hydration tablets because she forgets to drink water.
@cerysefan:
They bought ceramics and postcards for two hours. One of them looked at a ring for six seconds. This is not a coup.
@oldmoneyobserver:
The annual Lys holiday is private. She would not be there unless the family already considered the relationship serious.
@protectouridol:
I don’t care whether they marry. I care that the narrative is already blaming her for a proposal that has not happened.
The other side was crueler.
@societyinsider:
Sources say she has been very focused on “becoming part of the family” this summer.
@capitalheiress:
There is a difference between being invited on holiday and being considered marriage material.
@dynastywatch:
Valarr has dated beautiful women before. She may be mistaking visibility for permanence.
@courtandculture:
Interesting that she suddenly befriends Ceryse just as both relationships reach the stage where marriage questions begin.
That last post was shared more than fifty thousand times.
The comments beneath it debated whether you had selected Ceryse strategically. Whether you were using her to gain information about the family. Whether the two of you had discussed rings before entering the shop.
A blurry photograph had become evidence of ambition.
Your friendship had become conspiracy.
By the time famous people entered the discussion, the rumor had grown large enough to be treated as news.
Maris Tyrell reposted the ring-shopping headline with:
She once took four months to choose a sofa. You think she chose a husband and an engagement ring during one afternoon?
Rhaella Rivers was less amused.
I have known her for six years. She cannot order dinner without asking what everyone else is having. She is not staging a dynastic coup.
A famous comedian posted:
Pop star looks through shop window. Realm prepares state wedding. More at eleven.
An actress who had met you twice wrote:
She is already one of the most successful performers alive. Please explain what “securing her future” means in this context.
A prominent fashion designer commented that you had never once asked her about bridal gowns.
Within an hour, gossip pages reported that denial as proof you had been discussing wedding dresses privately with someone else.
Even Daven Lannister was pulled into it.
He liked a post suggesting you were too young to be pressured into marriage.
The like vanished twelve minutes later.
The screenshot did not.
People interpreted the deletion as fear of Valarr. Others claimed it meant Daven still had feelings for you. A third group decided he had been warned by someone from the Targaryen office.
You had no idea which possibility was most absurd.
Perhaps all of them.
But one question appeared repeatedly beneath every article.
Why had Valarr said nothing?
That was what began changing the shape of the gossip.
Because Valarr did not ignore stories about you.
He corrected them.
Sometimes publicly. Usually privately. He had publications remove invasive photographs. He had lawyers issue statements when lies became actionable. He had destroyed relationships with journalists for implying you were using him.
People knew this.
The press knew it most of all.
Yet the ring story remained.
No legal warning arrived.
No representative called the photograph misleading.
No source close to Valarr insisted marriage was not being discussed.
Targaryen Holdings declined to comment, but it did so with none of the threatening precision normally employed when the family wanted a narrative buried.
The gossip accounts noticed.
@capitaltea:
The Targaryen office usually kills inaccurate relationship stories before lunch. This has been up for six hours.
@dragonwatchdaily:
Valarr’s team forced three outlets to remove airport photographs last month. Why is he allowing the engagement rumor to spread?
@valarrdownbad:
Because the rumor is not bothering him. Next question.
@societyinsider:
Sources close to the family say Valarr is “unconcerned” by the speculation.
Unconcerned.
The word changed everything.
By the time you reached your room to change for dinner, a new theory had emerged.
You were not pushing him toward marriage.
He was allowing the public to become accustomed to the idea.
Chapter Summary: Baelor's family supper does not go as expected. The evening serves as a painful reminder of the disparity between your stations.
Content: slow burn, canon divergence, Baelor lives, mutual pining, crossdressing, master & servant, fear of discovery, identity reveal, injury recovery, devotion, violence, protectiveness, eventual smut, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader apart from hair length
Notes: If you haven't seen it already, I made Baelor's chambers in The Sims 4! I made a post about it here.
With this fic now at 85k words, it is the longest fic I've ever written!
I want to say a huge thank you to my readers, and everyone who has commented. For those who have left comments in the tags, I'm never sure how to respond to tags, but know that I HAVE seen them and your words are very much appreciated!
You make your way to the Tower of the Hand with Baelor's breakfast balanced carefully in your hands.
As always, you quietly let yourself into his chambers and set the tray upon the dining table. Arnol steps out of the bedchamber, laundry draped over one arm, and gives you a nod in greeting.
“His Grace seems much more himself this morning,” he says.
Heat creeps into your cheeks as your thoughts drift to what occurred the previous night.
“It is a relief to see him well again,” Arnol continues.
“It is,” you reply with a smile, hoping the warmth in your face is not as obvious as it feels.
Arnol inclines his head and slips quietly from the chambers. A moment later, Baelor steps out of the bedchamber, already dressed for the day. The instant he sees you, he smiles. It is not unlike the countless smiles he has given you before. Yet somehow it feels different. Your own smile comes just as readily.
“Good morning,” he says as he approaches the table.
“Good morning, Baelor.”
For a little while, neither of you speaks. He takes his seat, and you quietly fill his goblet before setting it beside his plate. The memory of the previous night lingers silently between you.
At length, you clear your throat.
“Arnol remarked that you seemed much more yourself this morning.”
“Did he?” Baelor smiles as he lifts his goblet and takes a sip. “I confess, I do feel rather well today.”
Your eyes meet, and for a brief moment neither of you looks away.
“Please, sit with me.”
He gestures to the chair beside his, and you walk around the table to take it. Having already broken your fast, you simply keep him company while he eats.
After a few mouthfuls, he lowers his fork.
“Valarr should be here shortly.”
“To continue going over Hand matters?”
He nods.
“A few letters require my attention, along with several matters he has been overseeing while I recovered.”
“Will you be returning to council soon, do you think?”
“I believe so.” He smiles wryly. “It cannot be put off forever.”
“You could always take ill again.”
He lets out a quiet laugh.
“Council meetings are not quite so dreadful as that. They merely require… patience.”
A knock at the outer door startles you, and you rise from your chair.
“Come,” Baelor calls.
The door opens, and Prince Valarr steps inside with a small stack of papers tucked beneath one arm.
“Good morning, Father.”
His gaze flicks briefly towards you before returning to Baelor.
“I did not mean to interrupt your breakfast.”
“That is quite alright. I am almost finished,” Baelor replies, taking another mouthful.
“I shall take these documents into your solar,” Valarr says, crossing the room.
“Shall I fetch some wine?” you offer.
“If you do not mind.”
“Not at all.” You smile.
Baelor finishes the last of his breakfast while you gather the dishes, then you carry the tray from the chambers to fetch the wine.
-
Valarr waits in the solar as his father approaches, remaining on his feet while Baelor takes his seat behind the desk, before taking the seat opposite him.
His father's appearance brings him immense relief. The darkness beneath Baelor's eyes has vanished, his complexion has returned to normal, and the heaviness that had weighed upon him is gone. Even the way he moves seems easier, more assured. Valarr had feared that this illness might have left some permanent damage. He cannot put into words how grateful he is that it has not.
Instead, something else occupies his thoughts.
It is clear now that his father does indeed care deeply for his cupbearer. That knowledge troubles him. Such an attachment seems so unlike the man who raised him. Baelor had always been honour itself, always placing duty before desire, always keeping his word, even when it cost him dearly. Valarr never would have imagined…
“Father,” he says at last, a note of hesitation in his voice. “May I ask you something?”
Baelor looks up. “Of course.”
“Do you intend for your cupbearer to become your mistress?”
Baelor's brows lift almost imperceptibly before his expression settles once more.
“I asked your grandfather's leave to marry her.”
Valarr makes no attempt to hide his own surprise.
“And?”
“He refused.”
“Because she is lowborn?”
Baelor inclines his head. Silence stretches between them.
“Then…” Valarr says carefully. “Do you intend to have her as your mistress?”
Baelor lets out a quiet breath.
“If your grandfather will not relent… then I see no other way.”
“You truly would have married a servant, had Grandfather agreed?”
“Yes,” Baelor answers without hesitation.
“You must care for her a great deal.”
“I do.” A small smile touches Baelor's lips.
Valarr lowers his eyes to the papers spread across the desk. He thinks of the rumours whispered throughout the Red Keep. None of them had spoken of this – of his father petitioning the king for permission to marry a woman he loved, only to be refused because of her birth. Knowing the truth makes the gossip seem all the more cruel.
He looks up again.
“I am sorry… that Grandfather refused.”
For a moment, Baelor is silent.
“Thank you, Valarr.”
The quiet lingers between them before Baelor reaches for one of the letters.
“I see Lord Penrose's seal here.” He turns it over in his hands. “Shall we discover what troubles the realm has managed to find without me?”
~-~
Valarr remains for another hour after you bring the wine, and Baelor's chambers stay quiet until just after the midday meal, when servants arrive carrying an additional table and several more chairs. They begin rearranging the dining room to accommodate tonight’s guests.
“Goodness,” you say to Baelor as you watch from the edge of the solar. “Is the entire court coming for supper?”
Baelor chuckles. “No, just my family. The children will be here as well.”
“I see.”
The sounds of wood scraping across the stone floor and the servants' murmured instructions fill the chambers. Baelor watches as another chair is squeezed into place beside the table.
“My chambers were not designed for such a large gathering,” he says, watching the servants adjust the arrangement yet again. “I fear we may have to sit in one another's laps.”
“I don't think it will come to that.” You smile.
The servants step back to inspect their work before making a few final adjustments. When the last chair is finally set in place, the room feels quite transformed.
The servants bow to Baelor, and he thanks them before they file quietly from the chambers.
“And now it feels real.” His gaze drifts over the rearranged dining room. “With my chambers in such a state, there is no pretending the evening is not almost upon us.”
You glance at him.
“You don't want your family here tonight?”
“I do.” He smiles faintly. “I've simply grown accustomed to the quiet. I had almost forgotten how lively my family can be.”
You slip your hand into his.
“They're only coming because they're so glad you're well again.”
“I know.” He gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “I only hope I do not tire before dessert.”
“If you do, Prince Maekar will have everyone out of here within moments.”
Baelor laughs. “I suspect you're right.”
~
As suppertime approaches, you head down to the cellar and fill two large pitchers with wine, carefully carrying them back to the Tower of the Hand. You push the door open with your hip and set the pitchers down on the sideboard, your aching arms finally relieved.
You hear murmured voices from the bedchamber before Arnol steps out.
“Good luck with supper,” he says as he crosses the dining room.
You murmur your thanks, and he slips quietly from the chambers. A moment later, Baelor steps out from the bedchamber.
He has exchanged his everyday attire for a deep green doublet embroidered with gold thread. Peeking out from the sleeves and collar is the shirt you made for him. His hair has been freshly combed, his fringe arranged to conceal most of the new scar upon his forehead. His beard, too, has been neatly trimmed after being neglected throughout his illness.
You cross the dining room towards him, unable to suppress your smile.
“What?” he asks as you approach.
You stop before him, your eyes travelling from head to toe.
“I was simply thinking how handsome you look.”
He ducks his head with a quiet laugh.
“Thank you.” He looks back at you warmly.
“This certainly helps.” You smile, brushing your fingertips lightly over the collar of the shirt.
Your thumb lingers against his jaw. He leans instinctively into your touch before you close the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a gentle kiss. When you draw back, your forehead rests lightly against his.
“If you become too tired for company, there is nothing wrong with saying so,” you murmur. “They will understand.”
“I think I could manage much with you beside me.” His smile softens. “I only wish…”
“It’s alright,” you assure him.
A knock sounds at the outer door, and you both step apart as Ser Duncan opens it.
“Your guests have arrived,” he announces with a smile before stepping aside.
You move quickly to the sideboard just as King Daeron steps inside, followed closely by Queen Myriah. Behind them come Princes Valarr and Matarys.
Then enters a slim man with long silver-gold hair and a pointed beard – Prince Aerys. Beside him walks Princess Aelinor, her expression reserved, her hair hidden beneath an intricate beaded headdress.
Behind them comes Prince Rhaegel. He wears a finely tailored brocade doublet patterned with peacocks, with an elaborate feathered brooch fastened to his breast.
You cannot help but smile. His new attendant must indulge his unusual taste in adornments, and you are glad of it.
On his arm is Princess Alys, her golden hair gleaming in the candlelight. Behind them follow their children – a young man and young woman who are unmistakably twins.
Prince Maekar enters next, followed by a young man with shoulder-length sandy hair who looks as though he would rather be anywhere else. Behind him comes a girl with hair the same shade as her eldest brother, perhaps a year or two older than Egg, who follows close behind. Last of all is a little girl several years younger than Egg, her silver-gold hair braided neatly around her rosy face, one small hand tucked securely into his.
Matarys breaks away from the group and runs straight to his father, throwing his arms around Baelor's waist. Baelor laughs softly, resting a hand atop his son's chestnut hair.
“May I sit beside you, Father?”
“I should like nothing more.”
Your attention shifts as two more servants enter carrying additional wine pitchers, setting them alongside yours on the sideboard before taking their places nearby.
Surely that is more wine than could possibly be required, unless some members of the royal family are particularly fond of drink. Then again, three cupbearers seem equally excessive. Surely you will only end up getting in one another's way while serving.
More servants arrive bearing steaming platters, arranging the first course across the length of the table.
One of the other cupbearers immediately steps forward to fill the king's goblet. You take up one of the pitchers and move to Baelor, remaining a little farther from him than you ordinarily would, and carefully fill his cup. For the briefest moment, your eyes meet. Then you step back, preparing to attend Prince Valarr next.
“My own cupbearers can attend us from here.”
You look up at the king, your grip tightening almost imperceptibly around the handle of the pitcher.
“You may leave us,” he continues.
Your chest tightens, and you glance towards Baelor. His lips part slightly, as though he is about to speak, before he thinks better of it. Instead, his expression softens into what you recognise as a silent apology.
Without a word, you return the pitcher to the sideboard, then turn back to the king and curtsy. You spare one last glance for Baelor. He seems somehow smaller in his chair than he had only moments before. Then you lower your eyes and quietly leave the chambers.
The door clicks softly shut behind you. Only then do you realise you have been holding your breath. Your eyes begin to sting.
“Everything alright?”
Ser Duncan's voice startles you. You had forgotten he was standing guard outside. You glance at him only briefly.
“Fine,” you answer quickly, though the word catches strangely in your throat. You clear it before trying again. “I am not needed tonight. Goodnight, Ser Duncan.”
You incline your head and turn towards the stairs.
-
The door closes behind you with a soft click, and it feels as though a tether – an anchor – between you and Baelor has been severed.
Your sudden absence is keenly felt, and for you to be sent away so unceremoniously...
He had wanted to say something. He had almost done so. But the thought of every eye turning to you because he had chosen to defy the king… no. That would only have drawn more attention to you and risked humiliating you further. He can only hope the look he shared with you conveyed how deeply sorry he was.
Drawing a slow breath, he forces himself to look away from the door through which you departed. His father's gaze is fixed on his goblet, his mouth set in a thin line. Across the table, he catches Valarr watching him with quiet concern, for which he is grateful. Then his eyes find his mother. Her expression remains composed, but when their gazes briefly meet, he catches a flicker of sympathy.
"To Baelor's good health." The king raises his goblet.
Without thinking, Baelor's gaze drifts to the place beside the sideboard where you had stood only moments before.
The toast is met with warm voices and raised cups. Yet all he can think about is the woman who made such a toast possible.
The meal begins, but the appetite he had only just regained over the past few days seems to desert him once more.
-
The Red Keep bustles around you, the castle alive with the sounds and business of supper. You scarcely notice it. Your feet carry you through familiar corridors and down familiar staircases without thought, your gaze fixed somewhere ahead while your mind remains in Baelor's chambers.
You had expected to spend the evening beside him, to be there while he faced the supper he had been anxious about. You wanted to be with him. You had expected to be with him. Then, in the space of a few seconds, a few words from the most powerful man in the realm had undone it all. Was it merely a misunderstanding? Or had it been deliberate? Did he resent you for being the object of his son's affection?
You descend into the servants' quarters almost without realising you've reached them. The passage is quiet, most of the other servants still occupied with the evening meal. You make your way to your little room and close the door softly behind you.
Silence settles around you as you sit on the edge of your narrow mattress. You do not know how many minutes pass while you simply stare at the opposite wall.
You had expected your evening to be spent at Baelor's side. Now, with those plans swept away so suddenly, you are left with nothing but an empty room, and far too much time to think.
~-~
The evening – despite the way it began – proves a pleasant one. It has been some time since the family gathered like this, especially with Maekar residing at Summerhall.
The hours are filled with stories, court gossip, laughter, and the occasional disagreement, though tempers never rise too high.
Yet Baelor's thoughts never stray far from you. Whenever a joke is told that he thinks you would have enjoyed, his hand drifts unconsciously to his pocket. He withdraws the handkerchief you made him, his thumb tracing the embroidered border beneath the table, drawing quiet comfort from it.
As the final course is cleared away and the conversation begins to dwindle, a familiar weariness settles over him. Not the heaviness of illness, but the pleasant fatigue of an evening spent in good company. His mother notices first.
"I think we've kept Baelor long enough." She smiles around the table.
His brother Aerys is the first to depart with his wife, which surprises no one. The others follow soon after. Both his sons embrace him before leaving together, and Maekar bids him goodnight before shepherding his children towards the door. His mother and father leave last, expressing once more their relief at his recovery and how glad they are that the family has finally gathered again.
Baelor smiles as he bids each of them farewell, and the warmth in those smiles is genuine. Yet it does nothing to stop the long breath that escapes him once the outer door closes and he has his chambers to himself.
The servants have already cleared away the dishes, though the extra tables and chairs remain, a task for tomorrow.
For a few moments, the sudden silence rings in his ears after the lively chatter of the evening.
He wanders into the courtyard, letting the cool night air wash over him until Arnol arrives to help him prepare for bed. Once Arnol has gone, Baelor returns to the solar, intending to read for a while. Instead, he sits quietly.
The evening had been enjoyable – better than he had expected – yet he cannot settle. His thoughts return again and again to the moment his father dismissed you, to the brief confusion in your eyes, the hurt you had tried so hard to conceal.
With a quiet sigh, he leans back and closes his eyes. It is late. You are likely already abed. He will speak to you in the morning.
His eyes open and drift towards the bedchamber. The bed waits only a few steps away. He ought to sleep.
He rises and walks inside, pulling back the covers. Then he stills. Tomorrow is not soon enough.
With quiet resolve, he opens the chest at the foot of the bed and retrieves a doublet, slipping it on and fastening it quickly. He does not bother with a belt or brooch, only pulls on his boots before crossing his chambers and stepping into the corridor.
If you are already asleep – if there is no answer when he knocks – he will leave the matter until morning. But if you are awake… He cannot bear the thought of you carrying tonight's hurt alone.
Ser Duncan straightens as Baelor emerges from his chambers.
"Your Grace."
"I'm just heading downstairs," Baelor says.
"You needn't explain yourself to me, your grace." Ser Duncan smiles knowingly. "Will you manage the stairs?"
"Yes. I am quite recovered now." A faint smile touches Baelor's lips. "And I did not indulge too heavily tonight."
Ser Duncan inclines his head. Baelor returns the gesture before turning towards the staircase, his footsteps echoing softly through the quiet corridor as he makes his way down to the servants' quarters.
-
By the time you ready yourself for bed, you have convinced yourself that being dismissed from the supper had been for the best – a difficult situation avoided.
You unlace and remove your kirtle, then step out of your petticoats, folding them neatly before setting them aside. At the washstand, you splash cool water over your face before taking down your hair and drawing a comb through it.
It has grown since you cut it to disguise yourself as Tom, though you suspect it will be at least another year before it reaches its former length.
You set the comb down and turn towards the bed when a soft knock sounds at your door. You stop at once, looking towards it with a puzzled frown. Who would call at this hour?
"Just a moment," you call.
Remembering you are only in your chemise, you reach for your robe and slip it over your shoulders, tying it securely before opening the door. Baelor stands on the other side. Your heart skips with surprise before warmth blooms across your face.
"Baelor… what are you doing here at this hour?"
Before he can answer, you remember where you are. It would not do for the heir to the Iron Throne to be seen lingering outside a servant's room.
"Come in," you say quickly, opening the door wider.
He steps inside, and you quietly close the door behind him. You sit on the edge of the bed and gesture towards the chair beside the washstand. He glances at it, then back at you. Instead, he comes to sit beside you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Turning to face you, he folds his hands loosely in his lap, his fingers bare of their usual rings.
Only then do you notice how simply he is dressed. A doublet, hastily fastened, without belt, brooch, or any of the ornaments he usually wears. Arnol would already have helped him prepare for bed. He must have dressed himself again simply to come here.
"I am sorry," he says quietly. "That my father dismissed you like that."
"It's alright," you reply.
"I have been worried that it upset you." His eyes search yours, as though trying to judge whether the hurt still lingers.
"I was embarrassed at the time," you admit.
"I should have said something." He lowers his gaze with a faint shake of his head.
"No." You place a hand gently on his arm. "I understand why you didn't. To speak against the king…" You shake your head. "That would only have made things awkward for everyone. Besides, I think being sent away was for the best."
He looks at you in surprise. "For the best?"
You nod.
"I spent a long while thinking after I came back here. If I had remained, I would have had to spend the whole evening pretending you were only my prince. I couldn't have smiled at you, or spoken to you as I wished. I could scarcely have looked at you without someone thinking it improper." You let out a small breath. "It all would have felt… false."
He reaches over and takes your hand.
"I told you we could be husband and wife in everything but name. But tonight showed me that I cannot truly give you that." His eyes lift to yours, full of regret. "You cannot sit at my family's table. You cannot dine beside me, laugh with my brothers, or hear Egg's dreadful jokes."
A small laugh escapes you.
"I'm sure I can hear those another time."
"I found myself imagining what it would have been like if you had been there," he continues. "I missed you."
"And I missed you."
You stroke his cheek with your thumb.
"Perhaps, in time, things will change. Your family may grow accustomed to me being by your side."
"Yes." He gives a small nod. "I hope they will."
He lifts your hand between both of his and presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles.
"But this is what matters most." You rest your free hand on his knee. "That we know what we mean to one another."
His expression softens into the warm, gentle smile you have come to cherish. His gaze flicks briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes, as though silently asking permission.
"You can just kiss me, you know," you say with a smile.
A quiet laugh escapes him, and he leans in, his lips meeting yours in a slow, unhurried kiss. You close your eyes, melting into the familiar warmth of him, but too soon he begins to draw away. In gentle protest, you slip a hand behind his neck and guide him back. Your lips meet again, lingering this time, your fingers threading into his hair as he sighs softly against your mouth.
When you finally part, he rests his forehead against yours.
"I should let you sleep," he murmurs, though he makes no move to leave.
"I'm not tired."
A slow smile spreads across his face.
"That is fortunate," he says softly. "Because I find I do not wish to leave."
You smile, fingers moving to the ties at your waist. You pull the knot free and shrug your robe from your shoulders. It drops, pooling around your waist, leaving you in nothing but your thin linen chemise.
His gaze drops, taking you in, at the way your chemise clings to your form, the thin, slightly sheer fabric leaving little to the imagination.
He traces your exposed collarbone with his fingers, then drops his hand lower, cupping your breast through the fabric, gently squeezing and moving his thumb over your hard nipple. Your breath catches and he kisses you again, hungrily this time, as his hand squeezes you gently, then moves from your breast to you curve of your waist, sliding around to the small of your back as if to document the shape of you.
Your own hand rests against his chest, feeling his warmth and his hammering heartbeat beneath his doublet. His hand moves lower, your heart racing as he caresses your lower thigh.
You kiss him wetly, breathlessly, as your hand drops to his lap, fingers brushing over the hard line of his cock straining beneath his breeches. The sound of his breath hitching sends another rush of heat pooling between your legs. As if he can sense it, Baelor’s hand slides beneath the hem of your chemise, fingers tracing slowly up the soft skin of your inner thigh. He pauses, looking up at you, eyes dark with question.
Your heart pounds with nerves and fierce excitement. You nod.
-
Baelor hitches your chemise higher with something close to reverence, baring your thighs to his gaze. His fingers glide upward, caressing the devastatingly soft skin of your upper thigh. He has never seen you like this – never seen more than your face, your hands, the modest lines of your kirtle. Now the thin linen clings to the swell of your breasts, your hardened nipples clearly visible beneath the fabric, and your legs… gods, your legs are beautiful.
His fingers continue their journey until they reach the crease where thigh meets torso. Heat radiates against his fingertips. He can feel the dampness already gathering there, and it makes his cock twitch hard against his breeches.
He glances up again. Your eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide with desire. You give him a small, almost drunk smile and hitch your chemise higher still, fully revealing the dark curls at the apex of your thighs.
The sight of you – already glistening with slick – sends a bolt of pure lust through him. He has never wanted anything more in his life.
Baelor shifts on the edge of the bed, turning you gently but firmly so your back rests against his chest. One strong arm wraps around your waist, holding you securely against him while his other hand returns to your thigh, slowly parting your legs. You settle between his spread knees, your body nestled warmly in the cradle of his.
His breath is hot against your ear as his fingers finally venture higher. He traces the outer lips of your cunt with a feather-light touch, feeling how wet you already are for him.
A soft whimper leaves you as his fingertip brushes over your sensitive pearl. He circles it slowly, learning the way your body responds, the way your hips twitch and your breath catches. He grows bolder, dipping lower to gather more of your wetness before returning, stroking with gentle, steady pressure.
His cock is achingly hard against your back, pressing insistently through his breeches, but he pays it no mind. All his focus is on your you – the soft, needy sounds you make, the way your head falls back against his shoulder, the way you grow even wetter under his touch.
-
You let out a trembling sound, your head falling back against his shoulder. The pleasure builds quickly – warm, radiating waves. Baelor presses a lingering kiss to the side of your neck, then another just behind your ear, his breath warm against your skin.
You turn your head, seeking his mouth. The kiss is messy and breathless, your whimpers swallowed by his lips as his fingers keep their steady rhythm between your thighs. The coil inside you tightens, your thighs beginning to tremble –
Heavy banging on your chamber door makes you gasp, and you slam your legs shut instinctively.
“Will you shut the fuck up in there!” an angry voice barks from the other side of the door. “Some of us are trying to sleep, for fuck's sake!”
Your hand flies to your mouth, absolute mortification washing over you as the moment shatters in an instant. Behind you, Baelor freezes.
Footsteps stomp away down the corridor, and silence hangs for the briefest moment. Then your shoulders begin to shake with silent laughter.
You turn, half burying your face against Baelor's shoulder, feeling it tremble beneath you as his own quiet chuckle escapes him.
“If only they knew who was in here,” you murmur, before another fit of giggles overtakes you.
When your laughter finally subsides, he presses a gentle kiss to your temple.
“Shall we continue in my chambers?” he asks.
“Yes,” you answer without hesitation, climbing from the bed.
Your chemise falls back to your knees as you stand, and you gather up your kirtle and hastily step into it, tugging the laces closed just enough to keep it in place. You leave your petticoats where they are, seeing little point in putting them back on.
You crack the door open and cautiously peer into the passage, checking both directions.
“It’s clear,” you whisper, glancing back at Baelor.
He is already on his feet, smoothing the front of his doublet.
The walk to the Tower of the Hand feels far longer than it ought to in the stillness of the night. You keep your head lowered, your cheeks still burning, while Baelor remains close beside you.
A handful of Kingsguard stand watch along the way. At the sight of the prince, each straightens and bows respectfully as he passes, though you cannot help noticing more than one curious glance flick between the two of you.
When you reach the Tower of the Hand, Ser Duncan stands at his customary post outside Baelor's chambers. His brows lift in surprise as he takes in the pair of you. Seeing you together at such an hour is unusual enough. The lingering flush in both your faces only seems to confirm whatever conclusion has just occurred to him. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Your Grace,” he says, his voice carrying the slightest hint of amusement. Then he inclines his head to you in greeting.
“You may finish for the night, Ser Duncan,” Baelor says.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Duncan bows. “I wish you both a pleasant night.”
His gaze briefly flicks between the two of you once more, his smile threatening to widen, before he turns and strolls down the corridor.
The heavy oak door closes behind you with a solid thud. The instant you are alone inside Baelor's chambers, the outside world seems to fall away.
Baelor leads you through the solar and into his bedchamber, where only a handful of candles still burn, their warm light casting soft shadows across the room.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for the laces of your kirtle and pull them loose, letting the garment drop to the floor. For a brief moment you hesitate, heart pounding, before grasping the hem of your chemise. This is different. This is everything. No one has ever seen you fully bare like this.
You draw the thin linen up and over your head in one motion, letting it fall from your fingers. Cool air brushes over your skin and floods your cheeks as you stand there, completely exposed before him for the first time.
Baelor goes very still. His gaze moves slowly over your body – drinking in the sight of your breasts, the curve of your waist and hips, the dark curls between your thighs. The awe on his face is unmistakable, but you still feel terribly vulnerable under the weight of his stare.
“You are beautiful,” he breathes, almost reverent.
The sincerity in his voice eases some of the nervousness, but your cheeks remain warm. You manage a small, shy smile and step closer anyway, reaching for him. You help him out of his doublet, then tug his shirt up and over his head. Your hands smooth over the warm skin of his chest, fingers tracing the small, dark trail of hair in the centre.
He pulls you into a deep, passionate kiss, his hands roaming over your bare back and hips as if he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.
He guides you gently back onto the large bed. You lie down, heart hammering as he follows, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your body – your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. He lingers at your nipples, sucking and licking until you’re arching and shuddering beneath him. Then he continues lower, kissing down your stomach with deliberate care until he settles between your parted thighs.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, breathing fast. “What are you doing?”
He looks up at you, eyes dark with desire. “I want to taste you,” he says softly. “Unless you object.”
You hesitate for only a moment, a flicker of nervousness running through you, but curiosity and want win out.
“I don’t object,” you whisper.
The first slow swipe of his tongue between your folds makes your head fall back with a shaky moan. Any remaining apprehension melts away. He takes his time, exploring you with long, reverent licks, learning what makes your hips twitch and your breath catch. When he finds the swollen pearl at the top of your sex, he circles it with the flat of his tongue, then sucks gently, sending sparks of pleasure racing through you.
You moan louder, fingers threading into his dark hair. He grows bolder, licking and sucking with increasing hunger, the wet sounds of his mouth against you filling the quiet room. After a while, you feel one of his fingers trace your entrance. He pauses, silently asking permission. At your soft whimper and the subtle roll of your hips, he slowly pushes one finger inside you.
-
Gods, you are so tight and warm inside. The way your walls clench around his finger make his cock ache fiercely, straining painfully against the confines of his breeches. He wants nothing more than to replace his finger with his cock, to sink deep into your heat, but he forces himself to be patient. Tonight is about you pleasure.
-
He curls his finger gently, stroking that sensitive spot inside you while his tongue continues its steady rhythm on your pearl. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Your moans grow louder, your hips rocking against his mouth and hand as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your belly.
Just as you feel yourself nearing the edge again, the deep ache inside you becomes too much. You want more.
“Baelor,” you gasp, tugging gently at his hair. “Wait,”
He lifts his head, lips glistening, eyes concerned. You meet his gaze, breathing hard, body still throbbing with need.
“I want you,” you say, voice trembling. “I want all of you. Please.”
Baelor stills, searching your eyes. “Are you sure?” he asks softly.
“Yes,” you whisper. “I’m sure. But please… be careful with yourself. You’ve only just recovered. I couldn’t bear it if you fell ill again because of me.”
He nods, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I will go slowly.”
He steps back from the bed and removes his boots, then unlaces his breeches and pushes them down his hips. They pool at his feet, and he steps out of them, standing completely naked before you for the first time. Your eyes trace over him – the strong lines of his shoulders and chest, the small trail of dark hair on his abdomen, the hard length of his cock curving upward, flushed and glistening at the tip. He is beautiful.
Baelor climbs onto the bed and settles over you. The warm, solid weight of his body presses you gently into the mattress, and you feel the heavy heat of his cock resting against your thigh. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his thumb stroking your cheek.
“Tell me for certain that this is what you want,” he murmurs, voice thick with restraint and wonder. “I still can hardly believe I finally have you like this.”
“I want this,” you breathe, cupping his face. “I want you.”
He kisses you deeply, slowly, as if savouring every second. His hands caress your body with reverence – gliding over your breasts, your waist, your hips, your thighs – as though he is memorising you. You run your hands over his back and shoulders, marvelling at the feel of his bare skin against yours.
When he finally reaches down to guide himself, he drags the head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. Then, with great care, he presses forward, slipping just the tip inside you.
He pauses, breathing shakily. “Alright?”
You nod, pulling him closer. “More…”
He works himself in gradually, inch by inch, rocking slowly until he is finally fully sheathed inside you. A soft, shared moan escapes you both at the feeling. He stays there for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, bodies flush together.
The sensation of him filling you so completely takes your breath away. After everything – the longing, the secrecy, the fear that this could never truly be – here he is, deep inside you, connected to you in the most intimate way possible. You can feel every pulse of him, every small shift of his body against yours. For so long you had only been able to touch him in stolen moments. Now there is no barrier left between you. He is yours, and you are his.
He begins to move – deep, tender thrusts that keep your bodies pressed close. You kiss constantly, hands roaming, caressing every inch of skin you can reach. His thumb finds your pearl and begins slow, gentle circles that make you whimper against his mouth.
Each slow thrust sends a wave of warmth through you, both physical and emotional. You wrap your arms tighter around him, wanting to hold onto this feeling for as long as possible. This is more than pleasure. It is the quiet confirmation of everything you have been fighting for – that despite every obstacle, despite the difference in your stations and the disapproval of his father, he has chosen to give himself to you completely. And you have chosen him just as fiercely in return. The closeness of it, the way your bodies move together as one, feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Your pleasure builds steadily, overwhelming in its closeness. You feel every breath, every roll of his hips. As his thrusts grow a little deeper and his breathing turns ragged, you cup his face again and whisper breathlessly against his lips.
“I can scarcely believe you’re mine.”
Baelor’s rhythm falters for a moment. “I am yours,” he answers, voice rough with emotion. “Only yours.”
That affirmation sends you over the edge. Your climax crashes through you, hips rocking up against him as you cry out. Your walls pulse and flutter around his cock in powerful waves.
-
The way you tighten around him iss almost too much. You cunt pulses, squeezing him with every wave of you pleasure. The broken, beautiful sounds you make against his mouth nearly undo him. He has to fight every instinct not to spill inside you right then.
-
You ride it out, clinging to him, until the tremors begin to fade. Baelor follows soon after, his thrusts becoming more urgent. Just before his release, he pulls out with a strained groan. His cock pulses hard against your stomach as he spills across your skin in thick, warm spurts. His forehead drops to your shoulder, body shuddering with the force of it.
You slide your hand into his hair and gently guide his head up. You kiss him softly as the last tremors run through him.
For a long while afterward, neither of you moves. Baelor’s weight is a comforting, solid presence above you, his face tucked into the curve of your neck as your breathing slowly steadies. His hand strokes lazily up and down your side, fingertips tracing gentle patterns over your ribs and waist. You run your fingers through his hair, savouring the warmth of his skin against yours.
Eventually he shifts, careful not to crush you, and reaches for a handkerchief from the bedside table. He wipes his spend from your stomach with care, then tosses the cloth aside and pulls you into his arms. You settle against his chest, one leg draped over his, your bodies tangled together.
He presses a lingering kiss to your temple, then another to your forehead.
“Stay with me tonight,” he murmurs, voice low with contentment.
His fingers continue their slow caress along your spine.
“I don’t want you to leave. Not tonight.”
You tilt your head to look up at him, a soft smile on your lips. The thought of slipping back through the corridors to your own cold bed feels unbearable after this.
“I’ll stay,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over the small trail of dark hair. “I don’t want to go either.”
His arm tightens around you, pulling you even closer. A quiet, satisfied hum vibrates in his chest.
“Good,” he breathes.
You lie there together in the warm glow of the candles, trading slow, lazy kisses and gentle touches. The weight of everything you’ve been through – the secrecy, the longing, the disapproval – feels lighter in this quiet moment. For tonight, at least, the world outside these chambers does not exist.
contents (nsfw): Dunk x fem!Reader, Modern AU friends to lovers rom-com with pregnancy. Humour, fluff, blow jobs, teasing, soft cockwarming, sub!Dunk, dirty talk, breeding kink mentioned, mouth-fucking, praise kink, coming in mouth, slight overstimulation, farse, angst (they fight but resolve!), open-ended with a very clear suggestion as to what happens next.
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MASTERLIST
next chapter -> (31/07)
synopsis: In which Rowan gives birth. (Pregnancy status: 33 weeks, III trimester).
word count: 9,6K
a/n: Banner by me, dividers by @strangergraphics, proofread by @hextoken!
Duncan groans softly.
He swears, you're such a tease sometimes. Cuddle with me, let's watch a film, but your hand keeps performing a harrowing torment at his waistline. His shirt has 'ridden up', though it's actually you who's rucked it to his ribs. Little gentle strokes over cotton first, and then, before Duncan knows it, his belly's exposed, and your fingers twirl the hairs at his navel.
He's trying to keep his eyes fixed on the screen, but they drop, every now and then, to the crown of your head. It's sliding lower, he's noted. It started with resting under the wing of his arm, and now your cheek is below his sternum, mouth breathing hot over his ribs. He's forgotten what's on the telly. Your nails scratch round his belly button, and his whole stomach ripples, shaking strands of hair to fall onto your face.
A small, pleased mm falls from him when your fingers brush just below his waistband. You answer with one of your own, then stretch yourself long across the bed. Your legs straighten. Your free arm reaches overhead until the hand lands in his hair.
It's an excellent way to distract him. Duncan must be wired strangely there, for the slightest pull at the roots enters him far lower than it ought to. His eyes fall shut. Heat gathers behind his navel and sinks, slow and heavy, into his groin. You scratch his scalp once, then close your fingers and tug again. His hips give a small, involuntary shift towards you, and only when the side of him meets the warm press of your cheek does he realise how far you have slid. Your face has settled into the crease of his thigh.
He looks down. In the bottom part of his lenses you acquire an odd shape. Your nose corrugates so that its slope dips and makes the tip look smaller. Your eyes set slightly further apart. There's a hand resting over his stomach and that one has an uncannily thin wrist and fingers like warped spider limbs. Below those, he's getting warmer still. It's not so much the feeling, though Duncan's belly's sensitive to any little devotion, as the sight. There's something deeply sensual about having a mouth right next to his cock, no matter if it suggests something or not. He tries to not get outright hard by simply being breathed on. Tries to calm himself, because you've been having a good, low-symptom day and he wouldn't want to impose. How virgin of him. He's had you bent over, on his face, in his hands, and knows every crease of you, and still he ends up with a chubby.
“That is a very low place to cuddle,” he says, thinner than he would like.
"Hm," you purr. "But I like it here."
Duncan puts a hand to the back of your head, meaning only to keep you where he can see you, but your hair threads through his fingers and your cheek turns into his palm. Then, you kiss his groin through the cotton of his sweatpants. His hand closes round your upper arm. "Ah. Right. C'mere, lassie."
He means upwards. He always means upwards. Give him half a kiss below the neck, and he becomes anxious to return the favour, because he is the caretaker. He's had your tongue on his cock more than once, always with some secret fear of becoming selfish or triggering nausea behind it. He tends to stop you, somewhere halfway through it at the latest, and brings you where he can sort you out. There's so much pleasure in it for him that Duncan does not at all consider himself depraved. Lately, it's all been gentler, too. He keeps his mouth tender on you at all times. Keeps his hands wiser between your legs. When he fucks you, it's slow, and he enjoys it tremendously, because instead of seizing him, his orgasms bloom from leniently paced edging and sometimes he feels you coming on him twice while he's still deep in the buzz of his first rapture.
It has not, ever, crossed his mind, that sucking him off might be the end game you seek. You ignore the pull he gives you and put yourself closer to his crotch. Your hand leaves his hair, which Dunk mislikes so much he frowns. It reaches past him, snags a pillow from under his elbow, and tucks it under the side of your belly. You've somehow made yourself heavier so his grip loosens. He brushes a thumb under the sleeve of your T-shirt, and asks, "What're ye doing, girl?"
"Watching a film," you tell him, hooking your fingers under the ribbed band round his lower belly.
He blinks down at you. "Are ye?"
"Mhm," you hum. "Very invested."
He glances at the telly, stupidly. Two people arguing in a kitchen. He has no idea who they are or which of them is winning. Then, he feels a small tug. His hips go up, because this is an instruction and Duncan obeys those, even if the next thing that happens is him getting helplessly exposed. Both layers start going down. His stomach hollows, and to his attempt at sitting up you throw him a cute little glare.
"No moving me," you say.
"But I can—"
"You watch the film."
He sinks back into the pillows doubting he'll be able to tell you anything about the plot or the characters, because his eyes simply won't come off you.
His cock comes free reluctantly. You ease both the underwear and trousers down, then give yourself over to staring, and Duncan suffers it. He rests, half-hard but pulsing, against the crease of his thigh. Even partially sleepy he's still reaching his belly button. Foreskin cradles his polished head and begins to draw back by the slow industry of blood. One clear drop sits at the slit. The hairs covering his balls and groin gather themselves dark on the navel, then disperse again, making a pillow of his stomach. It's a lovely sight, and a rare one for you to admire unabated. Usually by the time you get him in full nude, he's already wanting so badly all of him is flushed and throbbing. Sometimes, you catch glimpses of him when he's changing or stepping with you into the bathtub. He's gorgeous in both forms, and everything that comes between, but soft, Duncan acquires a different kind of beauty. He's guarded and private. Keeps his arm nearby, ready to cover himself if your eyes stay too long. Still heavy, still wide, still large enough to slap loudly against his thigh, but gentle in a way that asks for delicate handling. Lots of him to hurt. Lots of him to love.
Above you, he stirs. "Don't inspect me like that, girl."
You glance up. His ears are red all over. "I've said nothing."
"I can hear ye thinkin'," he says.
"Can you?" you ask, disbelieving him slightly, because it's still odd to think that Dunk would have this sort of dirt in his mind. You know he's capable, based on everything that falls from his mouth when he forgets himself. You doubt, however, that he can tell you want him measured against your face. That you want him to slap you with it. To have him come all over from your forehead to chin, then spread it with his palm and kiss you. "Is there a point in me showing you then?" you say, pressing your lips to his tender side, still benign.
"Ah, fuck—" Duncan breathes. His palm closes over your nape. "You don't have to, girl. You don't have to—"
"Dunk," you say, brushing skin. You give him your heaviest-lidded leer and a girlish little pout. "What if I really, really want to?" Then, you allow your thinking flesh to take over and pat yourself on the cheek with his tip.
His face does a slow, wonderful thing. Such boyish bewilderment. He fights himself there. You can see all the but let me and c'mere and I want to sort ye out first appearing and passing, until all that's left is please. God, yes, please. Take me, please. Break me, pretty, pretty please and thank you.
"A-aye," Duncan says. "All right, just—just mind yourself, yeah?" He brushes hair off your cheek and bands it in his fist.
You nod. Adjust your belly over the pillow and bring your face closer to his lower stomach. It makes a warm bolster under your cheek. Then, you wrap your fingers round the thickening base and guide his hidden crown into your mouth.
"Ah, shite—" he hisses. His head knocks the headboard; thighs quake.
There, he's pliable still. Supple enough that you can press him to your palate, squeeze a little. You lick over him flatly, then tense your tongue into a tip and let yourself brush under the foreskin to taste whatever he's weeping out for you. Your fingers play at his balls—roll them, compress, then let the whole weight rest in the hollow of your hand. Higher, you start sucking him into hardness.
"Oh, sweet girl," Duncan breathes. It makes your cunt tighten some, because your favourite version of him begins to surface: rendered loud by incapacity to keep himself together. Unmanned, even before the main pleasure arrives. He massages the tendon of your neck with his thumb. Murmurs, "Christ alive, ye feel s'good. Ah God, right there. Right there, oh—"
You release him with a wet smack. Gather the spit from the top and guide it down in slow strokes, pulling on skin to reveal him bit by bit. When you look up, his glasses have slipped a little. There's damp above his upper lip, and his mouth hangs open.
"Do you like it?" you ask.
Duncan nods.
“Talk to me,” you say.
His eyes jump to yours. “About what?”
Your wrist moves up until you close his crown in your palm. You twist there. Watch him suck in a sigh and feel his hips lift towards you. "That," you say.
He laughs weakly. Duncan knows the charm of a lover saying exactly what they want. He adores it on you. Every time he hears fuck me harder, or worse, breed me, put a baby in me, he has to squeeze his eyes shut and invoke all sorts of unsexy things in order to last. He knows you like it on him too, so he tries, despite the way getting so exposed has him burning all the way from chest to scalp.
"Fuck," he grits when your thumb presses on the fold under the head. "Ah, fuck, make me hard girl. Put yer mouth back on me, please—"
So you take him back. Since he's asked so nicely. You flatten your tongue and drag it slowly through the tender join beneath the crown. The right there. His belly jerks so sharply that the hairs on it brush your forehead. And then you just… keep him. Suck on him and warm him up until you can feel the flesh getting hotter and roping with blood that swells his veins. He's breathing audibly through his nose. Below, you cradle his thick root in your hand. Massage it, and scrape your nails through the fuzz. Right where he grows out from his groin you press your fingers down and rub them in circles, making his balls come up tightening in response.
Slowly, he begins to fill your cheeks. It feels safe to be there. Special too, because despite Duncan always nodding to your you are allowed to want things, he's still learning. It's almost as if he's used to taking second-hand pleasure from whatever service he's providing. So, you don't tell him this is for you as well. That there is a whim underneath it to check if you are able to wring your man clean without opening your legs.
His thigh firms beneath your cheek. “Slow,” he breathes. “Aye, like that. Christ, look at ye.” A thumb passes over your temple.
Your eyes take him in. Belly bare and quivering. One knee knocked wide to give you room, foot planted as if he needs to brace against the bed. His face has gone helplessly honest. Every stroke of your hand travels visibly through him. “Do ye like it?” he asks.
You let him slide from your mouth, wet and darkened. “Very much.” Then, you kiss the vein on his underside. One small peck. Another, bolder, until your lips part and tongue comes out to make out with his cock. He moans, loud, and squeezes your neck. "Too much?" you ask.
“N-no." He shakes his head. "That’s lovely. Do it again.”
"Mm," you hum, guiding your nose lower. It lands in the webbing of his sack and hauls air greedily. There's a whine, so pretty-sounding you have to rub your thighs together. You lick him all the hard way between the two seams: balls to slit. There, you stop and tell him, "You keep talking."
"Jesus," he whispers. "What're ye doing to me, girl? Put your tongue on me again."
His fingers thread through your hair. His fist closes. There's a small tug you feel at your roots. It makes you moan against him, and Duncan throws his head back.
Yes, this, you think. Show me, tell me. Bear your throat to me. He's not the one to manhandle you, despite having all the necessary equipment. Even when he hauls you, lifts you, holds you, it's all done so considerately sometimes you want to outright tell him that bodies don't break so easily. That it is sometimes nice to nurse a bruise a lover has left you. The hand in your hair is a first. There's an itch within it, a small wicked urge to guide you down. Maybe choke you on him, a little. You pretend he's pushed harder than he did, and swallow as much of him as you can.
“Oh, fuck me,” he whispers. "Oh, my good girl. My best girl, oh fuck—" His pelvis rolls into your mouth. You look up again, waiting. "Yer so—" he manages. "So soft. And warm. I like it when—ah—when ye use your tongue like that. Round the head. Aye, just—" His eyes go shut when your tongue circles his crown. Fingers twitch. "There," he pants. "Oh God, there. God, ye know."
Oh, you do know. You know exactly where his skin pulls tight, where the vein underneath makes him shudder, how far you can take him without your jaw beginning to ache. You know the sound he makes when you play with him like that. You know he will hold his breath until you touch his thigh and remind him to let it out, and still, hearing all that you know already makes it so much sexier. Makes him, in some profound way, even more yours than he was to begin with, and for a moment you forget there is a pregnant belly between you. It's just you, pleasuring your darling in the evening of some nameless day, because you both forsake calendars on the weekends.
Duncan's getting lost in it. It's difficult for him to remain this useless, and near impossible to comprehend that someone would pay his cock so much attention. It makes him want terrible things. He yearns to see your hand jerk him off until he's all sloppy with his own body's drool, preferably while you bite on his lip and have your palm round his neck. When he closes his eyes, an entirely scummy image forces itself into his mind: his cock, sliding in and out of your mouth. Just a little. Shallow, but enough to see your cheeks filling and hollowing. He rubs his fingers on your scalp. “Can ye look at me?” he asks.
You lift your eyes.
His brows draw up. “Oh, girl.”
He's meaning to ask you. His thumb strays to the corner of your lip, right where it shines with spit. He wipes it and spreads it towards your temple. With that tiny pressure your jaw slacks. Tongue lolls out. You lower yourself onto his belly and keep looking up. He gives one, shy roll of his hips. Your mouth pulls in a soft smile. "Is that all right?" he asks.
There's a nod. A hum, too. Your hand stays banded round his base, so when he moves, he's sliding through both things at once. He keeps staring at you, searching for anything that would tell him no, and finds yes everywhere. "Sweet girl," he murmurs. "You've such wicked mouth. That's so fucking lovely." All of it whispered, though there is no one to overhear him.
"Ye always make me feel so good," he says. Cradles the back of your head again. "And yer so pretty. Keep lookin' at me." A swallow.
There is one more thing Duncan wants, but it will give him away horrendously. He starts touching you. Rubbing your back. Brushing through your hair, like he's trying to coax it out of you by begging with his body. You only hum some more and stroke between his root and balls. It's all very maddening. Finally, he brings himself to mumble, "Will ye—would ye roll your eyes for me? Like ye do when you're cross, or when… when you come—oh, please—"
He watches it happen like it's a car crash he's about to be in. Your eyes widen first. Then, recognition settles in them, horrifying and gorgeous, and then oh—your lids flutter and irises travel from one side to the other, and Duncan gasps out your name. "Fuck," he grits. "It's my favourite sight in the whole world. God, I'm close. I'm so close—"
He keeps fucking himself through your fist to your mouth, and reaches the breaking point. His back leaves the pillows. "Fuck, keep going," he breathes, bowing over you. "That’s it. That’s my girl.”
There's a familiar marrow-wring, just this time Duncan is mildly guilty for arriving at it. Stomach ceases to feel like it belongs to him and for a split second he is weightless and stuck in a moment right before the warmth spilling. It's so good already he keeps gasping and moaning, until he ceases to move altogether and just watches the pulsing tip of himself, entirely sure the sight of him filling your mouth is going to destroy him.
Cock stiffens against your tongue. You feel the pull in his sack against your hand, and then the first spurt lands hot and salty; another follows. He groans through various things: your name, countless instances of shredded yes, sweet endearments, all that while you swallow, stroke, and his length throb between your fingers. His belly quakes, and the wave of it moves the whole of his torso. Below the shirt, his chest shudders too. You fix your eyes there and see his heart beating frantically below the breastbone.
Some of the spent slips out of your mouth onto his skin. It milks over the hairs covering his body. You're so enamoured by each of sights that you notice his hands on your shoulders only when he whimpers.
"Too much," he says. "Too much, girl, oh God—"
So you release him. He smacks against his stomach heavily. The shine of him spills around and you can't help yourself—you lick the softened head once and he jerks so violently the bed complains.
“Mercy,” Duncan wheezes. "Sweetheart, please—"
Whether the mercy comes or not, Duncan is certain he could take it. He will never again refuse you if you so much as breathe next to his cock. He knows exactly what he's getting out of going down on you. It's a thing that makes him feel most man of all, to have you clawing at his scalp and suffocating him with your thighs. To hear his name wrapped into moans is his favourite way of being called. That is his purpose in it. Now, he's dazed and confused and beyond blissed, and he's staring at you, staring at his softening cock.
"You're so fucking pretty," you tell him, all serious. "You have the prettiest cock I've seen."
It's so absurd, he giggles. Then laughs out loud, until you frown. Both of his hands get under your arms, and this time you let him lift you. He brings you up with great care and no grace, deposits you across his chest, then catches your jaw and kisses you. The inside of your mouth tastes of him. It's hot. The whole scene excites him so much, Duncan near loses his wits.
"I—" he starts. Hesitates. Dips a thumb in a bit of cum drying on your cheek. "Ye make me so bloody happy, lassie."
You sniff. Smile, then study him with a long glance coming from under heavy lids.
He's looking unbearably dear. Sweaty and pink all over his cheeks. His freckles stand out against the canvas of skin with blood flowing underneath it. You could bust him right there. Tell him you've just learned an extra soft spot on body that's already full of softness. But you decide to keep that one and instead make a mental note to roll your eyes at him in some near future.
Your finger taps his lips. "You know how pretty you are, right? And handsome too."
"Lass." It is at all possible for Duncan to go a deeper shade of pink, it seems. "Don't ye tease me now. I'm already finished."
"'m not," you say. Again, serious. You shift so that your belly fits next to his side. Your hands come to take his glasses off and cradle his face. "I find you incredibly attractive."
It comes out stupidly official, but somehow feels very important to get across. Your thumbs press below his eyes, where the skin is warm and damp. He keeps looking at you, though you suspect he hasn't hidden behind a wince yet only because without the glasses he cannot properly see. Maybe that helps. Maybe it can land cleaner if he does not have to read the whole look on your face.
“You are so handsome, Dunk,” you say. “And just… kind, and—”
The words begin to feel unsafe in your mouth. He's gone awfully still under your touch, shy and pained, as if praise is something that has to be suffered first and enjoyed later in private, when nobody can catch him needing it. This is your way of telling him. A smaller road to the same place. Something that might make him more secure without asking him to repeat it back.
These last few days have been better. Sleepy, sluggish, heavy in some obvious aspects, yet better all the same. The contractions are rare, nausea has left you near entirely, and life has settled into something gentler. You have managed to talk to Rowan a lot. She has been merciful enough to curb her own panic for your sake and lean instead toward being giddy about meeting her girl soon. Duncan has gone out with Raymun twice, and each time he came back with a one-pint flush on his cheeks and an overwhelming urge to kiss you, as if him and Ray had sat on bar stools talking about you and Rowan until missing became physical. Since then, both of you have been waiting for the sign from Ray that labour has started.
Besides that, some old grudges have been vanquished. Your complaints about Duncan coming and going have lost their place. Now he simply comes back, every time. He texts home in 10 when he is on the way, and you know it is only a figure of speech, yet it makes you excited all the same that he has started calling your flat home.
So now you try to tell him. Try to convey, somehow, that he means the world to you in flesh and soul, and all the other worlds you are not sure exist, though the science says they might. He has been doing and saying all the right things, except one. It is almost as if he is too stubborn to say it and his body decided to bleed it out through his pores instead. You know he asked for more time. That is all right. Still, the question of what exactly frightens him gnaws at you. If it is you, you reckon you can make yourself as innocuous as possible.
“Your mouth is lovely,” you say, trembling.
You kiss him once. He lets you. Sits there stunned beneath it, lips soft and parted, breath caught somewhere in the middle of him. You clutch his shirt and kiss him again. Then his cheek, then the place below his eye. “And your teeth,” you whisper. “I love your teeth. And your eyes. Especially when you can’t see a bloody thing.”
“Lassie—”
“You look so sweet without the glasses.”
Your breathing starts to go wrong: shuddery, uneven, too full for the size of your ribs. That animates him. His arm comes round your back, hand firming over your shoulder, and then he plucks you off him just enough to look at you.
“Stop, girl,” he says, frightened. “Yer makin’ yourself cry. What are ye cryin’ for?”
You blink at him. Feel the wetness only then, hot at the corners of your eyes and slipping down. Stupid. You want to tell him properly. Want it so badly your whole body feels too crowded with it, yet the fear of his face changing makes the words retreat. You do not want to corner him or make him feel he has to answer. “Because I need you to know,” you say instead. Your fingers stay twisted in his shirt. “Do you know how dear you are?”
Duncan blinks. His eyes are hazy without the lenses, looking into yours, then away, then back again as if the room keeps moving. He pulls you into him and tucks his face into your neck.
“I don’t,” he says there, muffled. “Not properly. Feels strange hearin’ it.” His mouth presses warm under your jaw. “But I like ye tellin’ me. Even if I look scared while ye do.”
Your hand comes to the nape of his neck.
That is when his phone buzzes on the nightstand. Once, then again. Three more pings come close behind. Duncan keeps holding you while he reaches for it, squinting painfully at the bright screen. “Shite,” he mutters. “I can’t see a thing.” He turns the phone towards your face. “Is it Ray?”
You read the texts with his arm still round you. “Yeah.” Your heart lifts and drops together. “God, it started. They’re at the hospital. He says to come in the morning.”
Duncan goes still for a second. Then he kisses your temple. “Will ye be fit to come? Are ye feelin’ all right?”
You nod and settle against his chest. He puts the phone down blindly and rubs your back, quiet now.
“Dunk?”
“Mm?”
“Will you let me do that more often?”
His hand pauses. “What?”
Your cheeks go hot. “Make you feel good.”
Something changes in the way he breathes. He reaches for his glasses then, gets them on, and looks at you for a long moment. “Sweetheart,” he says, rough and soft together, “how can ye even ask me that?” His thumb comes to your cheek. “I’d beg ye for it if ye didn’t offer." Then, quieter: "Will ye… let me?"
"Yes," you say.
You're not sure if this has settled anything or not. But is assuages enough. Afterwards you let him fuss, despite him being the one with his cock out and cum dried all over it. He showers quickly. Walks around the flat killing all the lights in his very dad-like fashion. Sets the alarms for tomorrow, then comes back to bed and gathers your back to his chest. His hands are wise: one rests on the belly over Aodhán's little kicks, the other covers the crown of your head. He's got his nose wedged into your shoulder and breathes there. The last thing you hear from him is a very sleepy, "You smell so nice, lassie."
Sleep comes easy. Waking not so much. Your bladder practically screams, so the alarm is merely a courtesy that saves you from bursting. You wring yourself out from Duncan's embrace, and by the time you're back he's sitting on the bed and staring at his phone with a hand over his mouth.
"Look," he says. "Fucking Christ, she did it."
You sit beside him and he tilts the screen towards you. There's a picture of Rowan, her red hair looking like some large bird's nest, cheeks and neck flushed, dark circles under her eyes. She's passed out. In her arms there's a baby, also asleep. Long eyelashes and incredibly bushy eyebrows for something so small. Below, caption says: Meet Róisín. Raymun sent it at 4 a.m.
"She looks like Rowan," you say, taking the phone from Duncan's hand to study the picture up close. "She looks exactly like her." It hits you, boulder-heavy, that in approximately four weeks you too will hold a small copy of Duncan and yourself.
Dunk blinks at you. "Ye alright, sweetheart?"
“I’m all right,” you say, and find that it is true enough to count. The feeling is large, yes. Unfriendly in scale. But there is no room for a meltdown when Rowan has just become someone’s mother. “Just strange. Seeing her.”
Duncan watches your face for another second. “Aye.” Then he takes the phone back and looks at the picture again.
It has touched him more than he expected. First, Raymun Fossoway, his best friend in the whole crooked world, has become a father sometime around four in the morning while Duncan was sleeping with his nose against your shoulder. That alone is enough to make the day feel split open. Raymun, who forgets where he puts his wallet twice a week and once tried to dry trainers in an oven, now has a daughter with furious eyebrows and a name. Second, there is the smaller matter of Duncan being next in line.
Soon. Soon enough that the word has begun to lose its general shape and sit on his chest.
You get up to pee again, then wash your face, then start talking from the bathroom about whether Rowan would want food brought in, or if flowers are stupid, or if flowers are allowed, and Duncan sits there a moment longer with the phone cooling in his palm. Last night returns by quieter routes. Your thumbs under his eyes. Your voice saying dear as if the word had been chosen with care. He heard it. He hears it still. He only wishes his body had not been so full of everything else that he sat there useless and never managed to say, You are dear to me too.
The words look simple now. Criminally simple.
“Dunk?” you call.
“Aye.” He rubs a hand over his face and moves. “I’m comin’.”
He dresses in the clothes nearest the chair, then changes the jumper because it has a stain on the cuff, then changes it back because the clean one has a neckline he hates. You pass the bedroom door with your hair half-pinned and one shoe on, and he feels the old fondness strike him in the side. After that he finds the car keys under yesterday’s newspaper, locks up, and follows you out.
In the car he hums under his breath. It takes him three streets to notice he is doing it. You notice sooner and look out the window with your mouth trying not to smile. He stops at a small shop near the hospital and comes back with flowers that are yellow and a little daft-looking.
“No lilies,” he says, getting back behind the wheel. “Thought they’d smell too much.”
You look at the bouquet. “That’s oddly thoughtful.”
“Oddly?”
“Deeply. Terribly. Very thoughtful.”
He gives you a glance and pulls back into traffic.
In the hospital there are white walls, blue signs and floor polish. It's too warm near the lifts and too cold in the corridors. Duncan takes your hand in the car park and keeps it. Across the road. Through the sliding doors. Past reception, where you both speak more quietly for no reason except that everyone else does. In the lift your fingers tighten round his when another family squeezes in with balloons and a foil packet of something that says IT’S A BOY. He rubs his thumb once over your knuckles.
By the maternity ward your palm has gone warm in his. Raymun appears before either of you finds the room number, looking as if somebody has shaken him violently and filled him with light.
“You came,” he says, then laughs at himself. His hair is flattened on one side. His shirt is buttoned wrong. There is a tiny white cloth over one shoulder like a military rank.
Duncan lets go of your hand to hug him.
It happens for a reason. There is a hug, then the flowers to pass over, then Raymun’s nervous pointing towards sanitiser, then the door handle under Duncan’s palm. Still, when he looks back, your hand is empty at your side. The fingers close slowly round the strap of your bag. Your face remains pleasant.
“All right?” he asks.
“Mm.”
Raymun, mercifully too dazed to notice weather in other people, opens the door.
Rowan is sitting propped up in bed like she has survived a duel and intends to give inaccurate statements about it later. Her hair has doubled in size since the photograph and now sits round her head in red disorder. Her lips are dry. One shoulder of her hospital gown has slipped. There is a water bottle on the table large enough to hydrate livestock, a half-peeled banana beside it, and the unmistakable square outline of a pad under the blanket. She looks ruined and victorious.
“Oh my God,” you say, and go to her.
“Careful,” Rowan says, already reaching. “I’m barely held together, hun.”
You bend awkwardly around your own belly and hug her anyway. Rowan shuts her eyes when your cheek touches hers.
“You did it,” you whisper.
“Apparently.” Her voice comes out hoarse and pleased with itself. “I kept asking if I could resign. They said no, can you imagine?”
Raymun makes a helpless sound from near the sink. “She told the midwife she was reporting her to management.”
“I was in pain.”
“You told her birth was a pyramid scheme.”
“It is.”
Duncan laughs, and Rowan’s eyes find him over your shoulder.
“Dunk,” she says, softening all through the exhaustion. “Come here, you massive thing.”
He comes carefully, though he has no idea what danger his largeness presents to the furniture, the baby, Rowan, or the air itself. The room has gained a new centre. He feels it before he properly sees it: a small bundled shape in the clear bassinet beside the bed. Róisín sleeps with one fist by her mouth, scowling hard in her dreams. One ear is folded at the top. Her eyebrows are Raymun’s, ridiculous and dark on a face still deciding what face means.
“Look at her,” Raymun says, and his voice breaks on nothing.
Duncan looks. The baby makes a thin squeak, not quite a cry. More hinge than voice. His heart gives such a stupid jump he nearly steps back.
“She does that,” Rowan says. “It’s normal. Everything terrifying is normal, they tell us.”
“She’s beautiful,” Duncan says.
Rowan sniffs. “She looks like a furious old man.”
“She does,” you say, laughing wetly. “She really does.”
“She’s so beautiful,” Duncan says again, stubborn about it.
Raymun’s face changes. He goes to the bassinet and spends far too long arranging his hands before he lifts her. Already he has the strange care of someone trained for this. Supporting the head. Checking the blanket. Moving with slow cautiousness and panic held between the teeth. He brings her to Duncan.
“Want to hold her?”
Duncan’s mouth opens. “I—”
“Ye don’t have to,” Rowan says.
“No, I want.” He clears his throat. “I want to. If that’s all right.”
Raymun places Róisín into him.
She nearly vanishes against Duncan’s chest. His arms make a fortress round a parcel. For a moment he looks horrified by the difference in scale. Then she settles. Her scowl deepens, as if she has found his heartbeat objectionable, and one tiny pink foot shifts under the blanket.
“Oh,” Duncan says. That is all.
You are standing beside Rowan’s bed with one hand over your mouth. Duncan sees you from the corner of his eye and looks down quickly, because something in your expression makes the room tilt. Love, maybe. Fear too. A look from the shore at incoming storm. His son moves in your belly under the dress, or perhaps Duncan only imagines it because he has another child in his arms and the future suddenly has weight and cheeks and tempers.
He looks at Róisín again. He sees naught of the furious old man Rowan speaks of. Only a child, precious and small enough to fit comfortably in his palms alone. To Duncan, she’s beautiful in some profound way. He holds her for a mere minute and already feels how hard it will be to give her back to Raymun. Then a horrific thought strikes him: how little love must there have been in the person who made him, if they looked at him and did not feel even a poor cousin of this. Or else what an ugly specimen of child he must have been. Red, strange, wrong in the face somehow. A thing easy to set down and leave. His eyes begin to sting.
“You look good with one,” Rowan says.
Duncan coughs and pretends he's red because of embarrassment.
Raymun sits on the edge of the chair beside the bed, then immediately stands again to fetch Rowan’s water. Rowan reaches for it too late. He is already there, cap unscrewed, straw angled towards her mouth. She drinks like she's been rescued from the desert.
“See?” she says after swallowing. “This is what they don’t tell you. You get a baby and also a valet.”
“I was always a valet,” Raymun says.
You laugh. Duncan looks at you over Róisín’s head. Your face has gone soft in a way that makes him want to walk across the room and press his mouth to your forehead for being so loving. He stays where he is. The baby’s folded ear is nearly touching his thumb. He would rather cut the hand off than jostle her.
Rowan follows his gaze. Then she follows yours back to him. Her eyes narrow with a new, exhausted brightness. “Christ,” she says, stretching and sighing. “I’m glad you two finally got on with it.”
Raymun freezes with the water bottle in hand.
You blink. “Red.”
“What?” Rowan says, flushed with the righteousness of operating on no sleep and several hormones at full volume. “I am. The circling was exhausting. I can say shite about Ray all day, and I will, but at least he was blunt with it. He saw me and went, right, you, and now look—” She gestures too widely towards Róisín. Raymun lunges for the water before it tips into the blanket.
“Easy,” he says. “Jesus, Red.”
“I’m only saying.” Rowan’s eyes have gone shiny. “People waste so much time pretending they don’t know what they know. It’s stupid. Look at them. They’re lovely.”
Duncan’s throat closes. The baby gives another little creak in his arms. He looks down at her, then at you, then at Rowan. Heat climbs his neck so fast it feels medical. “Ah,” he says, and tries for a laugh. It comes out wrong. “No, we haven’t—”
Raymun shuts his eyes.
Rowan stops smiling.
You do too.
Duncan burns under it. Three women looking at him, one of them fresh from labour and no less lethal for it, another tiny and wrinkled in his arms, and you with your face gone still in the way that means something has landed and will have to be found later.
“I mean—” he tries. Nothing useful follows. Róisín coos once. A wet, birdlike sound. Then her face folds on itself and she begins to cry. Duncan starts breathing heavily. “Oh, I’m—” He looks down in alarm. “I’m sorry.”
Raymun is there in a second. “It’s all right, mate.” His hands come out. “She’s just hungry. Wasn’t you.”
“A-aye,” Duncan stammers, and gives her back.
Raymun passes Róisín to her mother. The baby roots blindly into the blanket. “Ray, sweetie,” Rowan says, eyes still on Róisín. “Will you bring me a Twirl from the machine?”
“Aye. Course.”
“And take Dunk with you, hm?”
Duncan nods too quickly. Truth be told, he is ready to leave the room for a minute or forever. He cannot quite look at you. His gaze drops to your shoes. “Do ye want anything?”
“Just water is fine.”
“Aye.”
Raymun clasps his shoulder on the way out and steers him through the door.
For a moment the room is held together only by Róisín’s hungry little noises and Rowan arranging herself with a wince. Then Rowan looks up at you. Her face crumples at the corners. “I’m so sorry, hun,” she says. “I’ve said some awful things in the last twenty-four hours, but I had no idea. I saw you two and I thought—”
“It’s fine.” You sit on the chair near her bed and let your hand come to Róisín’s head. Her hair is unbelievably soft, damp in places, warm as something kept under a wing. “I think he’s just… overwhelmed.”
“I caused you grief, haven’t I?”
You do not want the room to turn towards you. Rowan is pale under the flush, and her hand keeps twitching near the baby’s back, counting, checking, learning. You take that hand instead and squeeze it.
“It’s all right,” you say. “It is what it is.” Then, quieter, “Now. Be honest with me. How was the labour?”
“It was fine,” Rowan says flatly.
“Do not lie to me.”
She sighs through her nose and looks at the ceiling. “It was horrible. But not as horrible as I thought it would be. All those stupid exercises they told us to do? They make sense. I hate admitting that. The breathing and the positions and the pelvic floor nonsense. It really helped.” Her eyes come back to you. “You’ll do good.”
You go quiet.
Rowan studies your face. “Are you scared?”
“A little.” Your palm settles over your belly. Beneath it, Aodhán shifts slowly. “I got so used to this.”
“The next thing is better,” Rowan says.
You look at her.
“It is,” she insists, hoarse and certain. “I promise you. I’ve never loved Ray more than I do now.”
That makes you smile. Rowan reaches out and touches your cheek with the backs of her fingers.
“He loves you,” she says. “I can see it.”
The door opens. Raymun comes in first with the Twirl and a bottle of water. Duncan follows behind him, looking so frightened that your chest hurts. Then he sees your face. The smile still there. The absence of disaster. He relaxes by one careful inch.
A thing happens then. For the first time, Duncan has a full conversation with you without either of you opening your mouths.
You give him a look that says act normal, calm down.
He blinks. Are ye cross?
Your eyes drop. Inconclusive. Then you look up again, and Duncan understands: later.
He can do later. He can do this much.
You stay another thirty minutes. Rowan eats half the Twirl and complains that nobody warned her newborns made such aggressive faces in their sleep. Raymun says he did warn her, actually, because he had googled it at six in the morning. Rowan tells him to not act so smart. Duncan stands near the foot of the bed with his hands in his pockets until you pat the chair beside you, and then he sits.
Róisín falls asleep in Rowan’s arms, mouth open, brows still drawn as if dreaming of some adult business. Not long after, Rowan’s head tips back into the pillow. Her eyelids lower mid-sentence.
You rise first. “We’ll go.”
Rowan opens one eye. “Come again.”
“Try and stop me.” You kiss her forehead. She catches your wrist for half a second and squeezes.
Raymun walks you both to the corridor. He hugs you hard and careful round the belly, cheek pressed to your hair. “Missed ye,” he says. “Love ye. You’ve got this.”
Your arms tighten round him. “You too. I love you too.”
Then he turns to Duncan. They clasp forearms first, formal for one second, and then Raymun breaks rank and leans into his chest. Duncan grunts under the contact, then pats his back. “Good man,” Duncan says, rough.
Raymun nods against him. “Yeah.”
When you walk down the corridor outside, Duncan’s chest feels awful. In the courtyard he wants to take your hand again. Instead, he twirls the car keys in his fingers and asks, “How are ye?”
“I… don’t know,” you say, hollow. Your steps slow. “Is there anything I should know about?”
He gulps down a thick glob of spit. “As in—?”
You stop completely. Then you look down at your feet. “How do you—Have you, um. Changed your mind?”
Duncan watches your hands. They keep fidgeting with your rings. “Or not,” you say, “and I just don’t know what’s been on it?”
He is taken aback slightly. It is not that Duncan does not know what he wants. He knows exactly. He just did not want it dissected publicly. “Nothing’s changed,” he says. “I’ve had my mind made a long time now.”
“I don’t understand what that means.”
“Lass,” he sighs. “I’m bein’ as plain with you as I can.” It comes out pained, and Dunk regrets it in an instant.
You huff. Nearly stamp your foot on the pavement, though the movement stops halfway and turns into something smaller and sharper. “You’re not.”
Duncan looks at you, surprised.
“You’re not,” you repeat, more annoyed now. “You say things round the actual thing. You do everything round the actual thing. Then someone says it out loud and you look horrified and start stammering about how we haven’t.”
His mouth opens, then closes again.
“You said you needed time. And I understand that, I really do. But I’m a month away from giving birth and would like to at least have an option to prepare for what comes next,” you tell him. “And being earnest doesn’t equal plain or honest.”
Something odd goes through him. Cornered, maybe. Frustrated, surely, though more with himself than with you. If he had only fallen to his knees and said I love ye madly, perhaps the whole thing would have settled itself. Instead he stands there with the keys biting into his palm and his heart making hard work of the obvious. “I ain’t lyin’,” he says, desperate.
You scoff and kick a small stone across the pavement. “You are not telling me the truth either. You’re not telling me much outside of when we sleep together.”
Something in Duncan boils over. “How else do you want it said, girl?” he asks, and hears his own raised voice too late. “I’ve been there all those months. I proposed. For God’s sake, I sleep with ye every other day and bathe ye and I am there all the damned time, and gladly.”
His voice breaks at the edge. Breath runs short. You only stare at him. “I’d be a real piece of shite if there was nothing coming afterwards,” he says.
There is no response. Duncan wishes, badly, that he could hold your hands now. His voice is very thin when he speaks again. “Ye really think that of me? Ye think I’d… I’d touch ye like that? That I’d braid your hair and sleep next to ye if I was preparin’ to go back to bein’ pub mates?”
“Dunk, I—” You hiccup. Your eyes begin to burn. “I don’t know. It happened to me before, so—” Your hands open uselessly between you, then drop back to your sides. “And you proposed right after I got pregnant. With, if I remember correctly, should we, not I would like to.”
His face tightens all over. “Since when does it matter how it’s done?”
You know where the thing is. It is right there for you to reach. A fistful of mud, a buried little pebble that will hurt him terribly if you throw it just right. So you reach. And you throw.
“Since you fucking tell me you love me while you’re still inside me and while your baby is inside me too and then you take it right back!”
Duncan chokes on something invisible. His chest heaves. His mouth moves once, then again, with no sound coming from it. Then his face cracks. “Because it was badly done!” he yells. “It was cowardly done.”
He turns away, rubs hard at the back of his head, then turns back again. “And I thought I’d been sayin’ it plain all the bloody time.” His hand lifts, pointing at you, though the accusation seems to fail halfway through the gesture. “Fucking shite—”
Then, he turns once more. Starts walking back and forth, one hand at his neck, breathing too hard through his nose. When he speaks, it sounds almost addressed to the pavement. “I thought—I thought you’d be with me after that first damned night, for Christ’s sake.”
“H-how?” you whine, patience snapping clean through. “If I don’t even remember what happened?”
Duncan stops. Scoffs, sharp and disbelieving. “You enjoyed it.”
“What?”
“You enjoyed it,” he says. “You enjoyed it so much you got pregnant with me. You came on my face first. Then I carried you to the bed. Then you said to carry on even though I had no rubber on me. And ye fucked me and told me we were goin' to be all right. Then you left and said you remembered naught of it.”
The words keep coming once they start. Too fast and entirely bare. Duncan looks almost sick with them, and unable to stop.
“Because I—” You gasp. “Because I don’t. Most of it, I don’t. You remember it? Dunk, how could you—”
The hurt comes up hot. Fury too. If only he had been brave then. If only you had been brave and asked outright. Months and months of both of you walking round the same buried thing, each with a different map. God, your head is spinning.
“What?” Duncan says, clipped. “Not tell ye? After that text you sent me, how could I not tell ye, is that it?”
“Well, yes?” He shakes his head. You reach for his arm and he slips away, too wound up to be held. “You don’t believe me,” you say. “Duncan, I was drunk—”
“You weren’t that drunk. You weren’t that drunk, lass.” His voice wobbles, then thickens. “You told me you wanted me. For a long time. And then you didn’t want me, and then you come back and we’re having a baby together and ye ask me if I wanna be around as if I would ever—” He wedges a hand beneath his glasses. His next words come wet. “Don’t do this to me.”
You go still.
“Don’t tell me ye were too drunk to be yourself when you said all that to me,” he says. “Don’t tell me I fucked one girl and got a different one pregnant. I’m bein’ plain. I’m bein’ honest, I’m just—” His breath hitches. “I just. I don’t know the right words.”
You stand there, stunned. Heartbroken, and oddly close to understanding. No matter how ridiculous all of this is, you both seem to be saying the same thing, just badly.
“I’m being plain too. I’m being honest too. So why are we here?” you ask. “Why did you never tell me?”
“Ye’ve always had someone,” Duncan mutters.
“Not when I got pregnant.”
“Cause I—I didn’t want to lose this. I want a… a family. Whatever shape it’s goin’ to have.”
Air puffs through your nose, unbidden.
“What? Don’t ye scoff at me, girl.” His eyes flash, hurt and cross. “Think on it a second before you tell me I’m thick. Look at the men yer with and look at me. Look at how ye acted when I finally got you into my bed—”
You step into his space and put both hands on his chest despite the size of him there, the heat coming off him, and the fact that he looks almost frightening with all that fear turned outward.
“Duncan,” you say, trying to find out if bravery still counts when it comes late. “Three years ago I wanted you to kiss me so badly. And then you didn’t, and avoided me like plague, and grew all judgemental on me—”
Your belly seizes. “Ah, shite—” You fold over the pain.
Duncan catches your shoulder immediately. “What’s wrong?” His tone changes entirely.
“It—it hurts,” you say, cringing. “Fuck, I need to sit—”
“Shite, sweetheart. Luv, c’mere.” He guides you to the nearest bench, one hand at your back and the other under your elbow. “C’mere. Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He sits with you. His palm comes to your stomach. “Where does it hurt?”
You close your eyes. “Here, it’s just—just a cramp.” You breathe through your mouth. “It’s just a cramp, but it hurts badly.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, it’s a contraction,” you tell him. “Fuck—”
“Take my hand.” He grabs your palm and squeezes. You squeeze back, hard. “Breathe with me, aye?” You nod, though your chest has started to shake. “Girl, I said breathe, not cry.” His face bends in distress. “Why are ye cryin’?”
“I’m sorry, but—” You wipe clumsily at your eyes. “I’ve been—I’ve been eating at myself over whether I’m baby-trapping you all this time.”
“What?”
“You’re so fucking obliging you’d stay if I asked you. Don’t look at me like that, you know you would—”
Duncan stares at you as though you have just told him the shite-coloured onesie he bought was green all along and everyone has been lying to him for sport.
“And I do not remember shite because I’m fucking smaller than you and I don’t eat well, okay?” you grit. “Doesn’t mean anything I said wasn’t true. If I said I wanted you, it means I do.”
You keep squeezing his palm. His free hand rubs your back. Eventually the cramp loosens its teeth and goes. You draw a deeper breath, then look him in the eye.
“Duncan, I…” Your voice breaks, then holds. “I love you so damned much. I mean every word I say to you. But I want you to stay because you want to. Not because it’s proper or honourable.”
For a second Duncan hears nothing. His ears ring. His mouth goes dry. Deep inside him, it feels as though someone has put a blanket over his heart.
He is loved. So damned much.
All the anger and inadequacy lose their shape. What comes in their place is tranquility. Clean enough to frighten him less than it ought. Duncan breathes out, and the next breath comes easier. He cups your jaw, thumb resting near the wet corner of your mouth. “I want to,” he says.
You search his eyes. Then you nod. “Good.”
He nods back. His hand moves down to your stomach. “How’s yer belly?” he asks. “Ye want me to take ye home?”
“Please,” you breathe.
He helps you up slowly. “C’mon, sweetheart.”
For a while there is only the sound of walking. Your hand rests on his arm. His keys sit trapped in his fist. Three steps away from the car, you say, “Rowan’s so insane.”
“Aye,” Duncan says, and smiles. “I know.”
He helps you in, gets your seatbelt settled below the belly, then shuts the door. On the drive back, you doze with your cheek against the glass and one hand tucked under the curve of yourself. Duncan keeps the radio low. Every few minutes his eyes flick from the road to you, then back again.
At home, he carries you from the car. When you make a sleepy objection by the door and try to get down, his hold firms.
“Leave it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got ye.”
Somehow he manages the keys with you still in his arms. Gets the door open, kicks it shut behind him, and walks you straight to the bedroom. There, he sets you on the mattress and pulls the blanket over your legs.
“Sleep, my girl,” he says. “Rest some.”
You blink at him, bleary-eyed. A small sound of surrender leaves you, and then you turn into the pillow.
It is early afternoon, though October has already lowered the light. Duncan stands by the bed until your breathing evens. Then he goes quietly through the flat. Dishes first. Cups, plates, a fork with dried egg on it. He puts the washing on, checks the bin, folds the towels from the radiator. Small works. His hands know this part.
When there is nothing left requiring him, he changes into running clothes. At the door he pauses, listening back towards the bedroom. You do not stir.
Duncan takes one long breath, then steps out.
He knows the right words, after all. He has known them all along. His hands have carried them for weeks, passing them from task to task, hiding them in water, buttons, towels, food, the steady place beneath your belly. Now his mouth knows too.
PAIRINGS: Ormund Hightower x Targ!Reader, Aemond Targaryen x Targ!Reader
WARNINGS: 18+ this is a dark fic. no warnings to avoid spoilers, targcest, manipulation, power imbalance, explicit content. No description of reader's appearance, but I do use y/n only when necessary.
Word count: 11k I think
PROLOGUE <- PLEASE READ PROLOGUE FIRST
I. The Father's Judgement
CORRIDORS OF THE RED KEEP. YEAR: 130 AC — MIDNIGHT
You sit upon the cold stone with his hand hanging open before you, and you weigh the taking of it against the older wisdom that tells you to refuse, and then the echo of boot-heels striking flagstone cuts the deliberation clean in half and you seize his palm before another breath has passed. His eyes turn toward the sound. The courteous curve of his mouth thins to something watchful. In one unbroken motion he draws you to your feet, pinches out the lamp between two fingers, sets the smoking vessel into a recess of the wall, and pulls you through a low door into a storeroom given over to brooms and buckets and folded linens. He does it all with such quiet ease that a person might swear he had done the like a hundred times before, were the very notion not so preposterous for a Lord of the Faith or any man alive.
The room is a close and airless box, and it is made worse by the height of him and the width of his shoulders, which leave scarce a hand's breadth between the two of you. His body lies along the length of yours, and neither of you dares stir, for a careless movement might send a pail clattering or set a shelf to rattling and betray you both to the men beyond the timber. The heat of him runs against the cold that had gnawed at you in the corridor, and through the sheer, wretched nightshift Aemond had chosen, you feel the flat of his chest beneath the leather of his doublet. His forearms are braced upon the wall to either side of your head, bearing his whole weight above you, while your own hand rests in graceless uncertainty upon his sternum for the simple reason that there exists nowhere else on this earth to put it.
The footfalls come nearer. The low mutter of talk swells behind the boards. Ormund lifts one hand from the wall and lays it across your mouth, his palm broad enough to cover half your face, the gloved tips of his fingers against the soft skin below your ear.
"I don't trust that dragon-bred bitch," one of the guards says through the wood. "Not for a heartbeat."
"Aye. A blasphemer to the marrow." The second man's voice is thick with scorn. "Were Prince Aemond not so taken with her, she'd be feeding crows by now."
"And rightly so. Her, and them bastard nephews of hers besides."
Your fingers close and fist themselves in his doublet and you feel the pressure of his hand increase against your lips, his gaze fixed upon you in wordless admonition, forbidding any reckless outburst that would undo you both.
The boots pass on. The coarse talk thins to a whisper and dies away down the hall. Only then does he take his hand from your mouth. You let your eyes fall shut, and the grief comes up in you fresh and unhealed, and you set your brow against his chest and weep without a sound. He does not move. He means to complain of the grime and the mold-thick air, and then a loosened strand of your hair drifts against him and the smell of it stops the words in his throat.
His eyes slide close in unguarded pleasure as he draws in the delicate mingling of scented oil, citrus and skin, that faint brightness, so unlike the overwrought perfumes worn by the noblewomen of Westeros, and he finds himself lowering his chin to rest atop the crown of your head, savoring you while you shudder through your sorrow.
It is some while later that you come to yourself enough to know you have been sobbing into the front of a stranger's garment.
"My Lord, forgive me." You reach for the hem of your shift to blot the dampness you have left upon him.
"There is nothing here to forgive." He catches your wrist and guides it to the wall beside your temple. "No shame attends a maiden who mourns her loss." A warmth comes into his face, and he leans the nearer for it.
The mildness of his regard carries something beneath it that turns your face away, and he answers by lifting his other hand and turning your chin back to him.
"It is unbecoming for a lady to look away while she is addressed," he corrects, and the gentle line of his mouth widens by a fraction.
"My apologies, My Lord." The heat climbs into your cheeks as the impropriety of it presses upon your awareness. He appears wholly untroubled by it, for he holds you there in that closeness a while longer, and the instant you catch his eye tracing the length of your form and returning slowly upward, a flutter of alarm rises in your breast.
"Have-have the men gone? Is it safe now to step out?"
He holds the look a moment more, then lets go your arms and pulls the door wide, and the two of you come out into the corridor.
"These are perilous hours for any lady abroad and unattended," he says, brushing the dust from his hands and his clothing, "and more perilous still for one whose name is spoken as yours is spoken. What business drives you down these passages alone?"
You cannot summon the courage to meet his gaze.
"I wished only to see my nephew. He is but seven years of age and utterly alone. I cannot bear to think of the terror that holds him at this hour."
"If you go on in such recklessness, you shall never set eyes on him at all. Your half-brother has not the strength to guard you from every quarter. There are men enough who still want your head, in payment for what your dragon made of their kin."
"Then why should you wish to help me? I am what they name me. A heathen. A blasphemer against the Seven."
"No." There is no doubt in his word. "I behold no blasphemer before me." He advances a single step, and the cold of the corridor seems to draw closer for it, though the heat comes off him all the same. "I behold a soul gone astray. You are stained by the sins of your forebears, and yet a day came when you saw your own flaws, your own defilement, and the Seven showed you mercy for it. I understand it plainly now. They have called me to lead you back into the arms of the Faith, for you have wandered, corrupted by your elders, turned aside from the very purpose you were made for."
"My purpose?"
He stops within a breath of you and peels the glove from one hand.
"To show the realm that even the savagery of your line may be washed clean by devotion. To live a life of virtue, and stand a testament to every other creature that carries that cursed blood." He lifts the bared hand and draws his fingertips in a slow line down your cheek. "You are my calling. This whole war has carried me to this hour. You were fated to be delivered here, before me, that I might purify you once and for all, for it is the will of the Seven and no other."
The tenderness in his face sits so unwavering, marries grotesquely with the meaning of his words that a cold current threads down your spine, and you grope for some means of escape that will not give offense.
"I must go. My betrothed will—"
"Brother," he interjects.
"Hm?"
"Your half-brother." A measured warmth comes back into his mouth as he lowers the hand and works the glove over his fingers once more. "He is no betrothed of yours. The holy texts forbid the joining of those who share one blood." You mark the small tightening along his jaw and the purse of his lips as he says it, and you are near certain it has nothing to do with the fit of his glove.
"Yes, my lord. My-my brother. I shall return to my chambers." You dip into a shallow bow and give ground a step.
"I shall see to it that the Queen Dowager arranges you lodging more fitting." The smile is wider now.
"Th-thank you, my lord. You are most gracious."
"It is my sacred duty, My Lady." He bows to you.
You incline your head and turn away, not failing to dismiss the sensation of his gaze crawling along the shape of your body as you withdraw down the passage.
AEMOND'S CHAMBER, RED KEEP. — MIDNIGHT
By some grace of fortune you gain the chambers scarce a few breaths before Aemond returns, and you burrow beneath the heavy furs of the great bed and draw their warmth up over you. A handful of heartbeats later the door swings inward upon its iron hinges, your King crosses the threshold, and you perceive at once from the tightness of his stride and the set of his shoulders that his temper has soured. Long experience has taught you that nothing wholesome follows in the wake of his black moods, so you rise toward him despite the ache in your body pleading with you to remain in the heat you had only just found.
"Aemond, what has happened?" You extend your hand toward him, but he sweeps it aside and resumes his agitated pacing across the flagstones, quick and short of stride. A portion of you very nearly softens into a smile, for the sight recalls the boy he once was; it would seem that though his body has been remade entirely, yet the old temper walked the floor the same as ever.
"Aemond. Speak to me." It is as though the same memory has surfaced within him, for at the sound of the particular gentleness you always reserved for his troubled hours he finally goes still and comes to you. He stops close, and you lift a hand to trace the ruined skin along his cheek.
"What has happened?"
"They mean to take you from me," he says, raising his own hand to press yours firmly against his face and hold it there.
"Who does?"
"Lord Ormund. My mother. My grandsire."
Your thoughts drift back to what the Hightower Lord had murmured in the black of that storeroom— purify you —and you press the shiver down before it can show.
"You are the king now, are you not? You are in no wise bound to bend beneath their designs and their schemings." Your thumb strokes slow across the seamed and knotted flesh of his cheek, and his arms answer by folding round you and drawing you close against him.
Though every part of your circumstance unsettles you, this is the safer refuge, for you have long known the truth that Helaena had spoken aloud: he has always handled you with care, and though tales of his savage outbursts and cruelty reach you even from the mouths of his own kin, you have never once suffered them, because he has never been able to bring himself to turn that face upon you. You know Aemond, his ferocity and his frailties alike, and you know precisely how to guide him through both. Ormund, for his part, remains a cipher to you and nothing more. A name affixed to the ancient seat of Hightower, and a reputation for zealous and unbending fealty to the Seven.
"Mm. You're cold," he murmurs.
"Yes. You chose this gown for me."
A short breath of a laugh comes out of him.
"And yet you look ravishing in it," he says lower still, his voice descending into some warmer register as he watches the tremor pass through you, a pleased satisfaction settling into his features.
You observe the slow descent of his violet eye down the length of your body, and he closes the distance, tilting his head and setting his lips upon yours once more. This time he is unhurried, careful and coaxing. You raise your hands into the narrow space between your bodies with the intention of easing him back, and instead your own flesh commits its quiet treason, aching after the warmth you had renounced only minutes before, and Aemond's body offers precisely the heat you now desperately crave. In one smooth gesture he shrugs free of his upper garment, and you catch a fleeting glimpse of the hardened muscle of his chest, and the recognition of how thoroughly he has grown into a man raises a subtle flush across your face before you can school it, and then he has already drawn you back against him, one hand splayed at the small of your back, the other sliding upward to cradle the nape of your neck and angle your head so that he might deepen the kiss.
When at last his tongue slips past your lips into the warmth it has been seeking, he hums with a low and unmistakable contentment, tasting you at last after all the years he spent yearning and dreaming of nothing else beside. You lift your hands once again to his chest as your conscience wages its losing campaign against your body, but your fingers meet the fine ridges of muscle and the smooth heat of bare skin, and the whole of you yields the moment his tongue coaxes yours into surrender, your eyes fluttering helplessly closed.
In the place of the refusal you had meant to give voice to, a soft sigh spills out of you instead, and you feel the effect of it upon him at once, for his movements grow the more insistent as his feet begin to shift you both across the floor, his hand hauling your hips flush against his own. With a gentle pressure of his fingers beneath your chin he turns your face aside, that he may bury his mouth beneath one edge of your jaw and lavish his attentions upon the bared and trembling line of your throat.
"Aah—" A strangled little cry breaks from you where you had meant to give only a gasp, and it draws a satisfied groan up from somewhere deep within his chest; and as an unfamiliar heat begins to bloom low in your own belly, you rouse yourself abruptly from the stupor into which his mouth and his hands have so skillfully lulled you, and flatten both your palms against his chest to shove him back. In the very effort of it the arrow wound flares viciously through your side, and you yelp aloud, and Aemond halts every movement of his body in a single instant and pulls away to search your face.
"Have I hurt you?" he says, and every last trace of hunger drains out of his gaze as the concern comes flooding anew across his sharp features.
"No, no. I—"
"Forgive me. I should not to have." His eye travels down to the bandaging bound about the wound at your shoulder. Relief seeps slow through you as the fevered warmth begins to ebb from your skin, leaving you stranded there in an awkward stillness, loathing yourself the while for that which you had felt only moments gone; and you clear your throat in a clumsy bid to turn the whole of the exchange aside.
"It's all right, Aemond. Can we simply rest now? I am rather tired."
His brow remains furrowed still with worry, and he nods, slow and reluctant both, before he guides you toward the bed the two of you are made to share.
"Of course," he says, as he helps to ease you down upon it.
Something in the whole look of him— so wholly consumed with his care for you, and laced through yet with the lingering residue of his earlier vexation— loosens something tight and long-clenched within your chest, and without ever meaning to, you open your arms to him in invitation, offering to hold him as you have held him through every one of his troubled hours since the days of his boyhood.
This time, however, a small and quiet warmth touches the corner of his mouth, and he reaches instead for one of your hands and presses his lips to the back of it.
"Daor," he whispers. No.
"No?" You tilt your head in genuine bewilderment. He releases your hand and you watch him circle to your uninjured side and slide beneath the furs.
"I wish to hold you," he says, and then he waits upon your consent. You nod, slowly, and he gathers you into his embrace, and it is only then, with your cheek laid against him, that you feel the tension bleed out of his muscles as he lets go his breath in one long exhalation.
"I am sorry for all that has befallen you. Truly I am. You have endured far more than ever I have. Do not strain to keep it locked away within you, there is no need to be strong this night. Let it go. Let me be the one to hold you, this once. You are safe with me and I will guard you. I will not let them take you from me," he says, and with those words the tears your grief breaks free of you, and you press your face into his chest. He curls one arm with painstaking care about your shoulders to draw you the nearer, and reaches with the other to pull the heavy furs higher over the both of you.
It is somewhere within the low murmur of his voice soothing you, the tender rhythm of his hand moving slow across your back, the old familiar scent of him, and the steady cadence of his heart beating beneath your ear, that you slip away at last into sleep.
AEMOND'S CHAMBER, RED KEEP. — EARLY HOURS OF THE MORN
You woke to find the two of you settled once more in the same arrangement that had shamed you the night before. For a long moment you did no more than lie still and watch your half-brother's chest rise and fall, deep in sleep, before conscience wrenched you upright with the reminder that the same blood ran in his veins as ran in yours. And a revulsion at your own weakness rose sour and hot at the back of your throat.
With a care that came near to reverence you drew yourself free of the circle of his arms, and when he stirred at the absence of your warmth, his brow furrowing toward waking, you pressed a pillow into the hollow your body had left. By whatever small mercy the gods still granted, his sleeping form took the substitution for truth and sank once more into stillness, his arm gathering the cushion close as his breath drew long and even again as he mumbled your name.
The memory came before your mind had fully opened, unwelcomed, arriving on the pale gold light that crept across the coverlet. You remembered the weight of Aemond's hand at the small of your back, the slow and easy manner in which he had touched you, and the ease with which your own flesh had yielded to him. Worst of all, and least forgivable, you remembered the moment your gaze had found the bareness of his chest and lingered there, finding it, however briefly, pleasing to look upon ,and the shame of it settled in your breast and would not be dislodged.
You had not knelt within a sept in many a moon, and it seemed to you now that so long a neglect must account for the turmoil that clouded your judgement. It seemed too that Lord Ormund had spoken nearer the truth than you cared to grant him. That you had strayed, in your idleness, from the disciplines that had once governed your every waking hour.
Unable to abide the way your body had answered your half-brother, you rose from the bed with all the care your unsteady limbs allowed and dressed yourself in the plain green gown that Aemond had bidden the ladies bring, its cloth unadorned and humble, fit for a morning given to penance. Then you crossed the chamber and drew the doors apart, with a caution that spoke plainly of your unease.
The guards had been posted nearer than you had hoped, two of them planted in the corridor beyond, and they turned upon you the instant the doors gave way.
"Has the king granted My Lady permission to depart?" the first of them asked.
"He has not, for His Grace yet sleeps and has not stirred," you answered evenly, "yet I wish only to go to the sept and offer my prayers."
"Forgive me, My Lady, but I am charged not to permit it. There are those within these walls who would gladly have your head upon a spike, and King Aemond has bound us strictly to the keeping of your safety."
"I shall be swift, and at so early an hour there is scarce a living soul awake to trouble me."
"I cannot allow it, my lady."
You were reaching after some gentler word that might yet soften the man where firmness had failed, when a smooth and unhurried voice came into the passage at your back.
"Perhaps I might have the honor of accompanying the lady, seeing as I am bound for the sept myself, to make my morning prayers before the day's labors claim me."
"Lord Ormund." The guards bowed the moment they marked who addressed them. "The king has given us his orders, My Lord, and we dare not—"
"I am a warrior of some seasoning, as any man who holds a sword in Westeros will gladly attest, and I should think no harm likely to come to the lady while she walks under my protection." He took a single measured stride, and his considerable height rose over the guard until the man's shoulders seemed to draw inward beneath it. "Unless, of course, you would sooner wake the weary king and compel His Grace to rise and escort his own sister to her prayers with his own two hands."
The guard's resistance withered before the prospect.
"Very well, My Lord."
Ormund offered you his hand, and you laid your own within it, and the walk to the sept passed without trouble, quiet and easy, softened here and there by the trilling of songbirds that greeted the early light.
The air carried the cool scent of dew on old stone, and beneath it, faint but plain, the tallow and the myrrh that seeped outward from the holy chambers ahead.
THE GREAT SEPT, KING'S LANDING. — DAWN
At the Great Sept the two of you knelt together, you before the Mother and he before the Father, and the candlelight trembled across the seven altars, the smoke of incense hung thick and sweet upon the still and windless air.
"And for whom does the Lady pray this morning?" he asked, his voice gentler than was its custom, the accustomed conceit for once gone from his face.
"For my sister, that she might find the strength to endure the tidings that have lately come to her, and I beg the Mother to grant her comfort in her grief. And for myself I ask only mercy, and nothing more."
"Mercy?"
"I have not been myself of late. My thoughts have grown clouded with..." The words died on your tongue and would go no further than shame allowed.
"You are a good girl," Ormund told you, "and you must not condemn yourself for the temptations that others have laid before your feet. I have seen with what strength you strive against them. The Father looks upon such struggle and weighs it with a fair and even hand, and the Mother extends her mercy to any maiden who fights for the keeping of her virtue."
You gave him a small smile of thanks, and in the next breath the measured tread of a man's boots rang across the marble at your back.
"The guards were good enough to tell me I should find you here."
"Aemond."
"Ñuhys raqiros." He smiled as the word passed his lips. My beloved.
"I had been given to understand that those of Valyrian blood do not bow before our gods." Ormund speaks from the distance.
"I confess I may have said as much in some careless and unguarded moment, though I should like to trust that the gods have the grace to overlook so trivial an offense." Aemond knelt at your side, and he set himself squarely between you and Lord Ormund, and he let his fingers trail the length of your hair before he settled. You raised your eyes and returned his smile, and across from him the courteous cast of Ormund's face curdled into a distaste that he only barely mastered and hid away.
The three of you knelt together in a silence grown so uncomfortable that the hiss and sputter of the candles seemed to offer commentary upon it. From time to time Aemond turned his gaze toward you to judge whether your devotions had reached their end, and when at last they had, he rose before you might rise yourself, that he alone should have the giving of his hand to help you to your feet. Together you took your leave, bidding farewell to the smiling Lord, whose composure had by then wholly reassembled itself upon his face.
THE RED KEEP, KING'S LANDING. — FORENOON TO AFTERNOON
After the morning bath, Aemond bade the servants carry food to your chambers while he took himself off to another sitting of the council, so that you saw little of him through the forenoon. You chose to remain within the chambers, your heart heavy with worry for your nephew held under lock and key, and heavier still with the grief you carried for Jacaerys.
Come the hour of the midday meal, Helaena sought you out and beckoned you join her at a small repast in the little garden that lay enclosed at the heart of the Keep, her small daughter at her side, and the gentle company of them lifted your mood by some measure. By the time the noon had surrendered itself to a lowering sun, a servant came and fetched you away.
On the walk toward Aemond's chambers you resolved to be resolute, for you desired above all things to look upon your own nephew Viserys with your very eyes. As you stepped within and drew the door closed at your back, you found Aemond newly risen, half dressed from his bath, his silver-gold hair yet damp where it clung to his neck and shoulders as he drew a cloth across the breadth of his chest. At the sight of you he let the cloth fall from his fingers, and in an instant he had crossed the distance and drawn you close against him. You caught the fragrance of the oils worked into his skin, and his hands upon you soothed you at once, though you thrust the comfort of it from your mind and hardened yourself into stubbornness.
"I wish to see Viserys."
"There is no need of that."
"What?" you asked, half confused, and you felt the anger begin its slow, steady climb within.
"I have sent him away aboard a Lyseni merchant ship. Your sister, or else our uncle Daemon, shall retrieve the boy from there."
You knew not whether you ought to believe him.
"How am I to know you do not lie to me?"
"I have given you my word." He drew you flush against him. "Have I ever once lied to you?"
Were it not for the long history of his blunt and open honesty to you, you should never have granted him belief, and yet the war had eaten slowly and steadily away at the trust you had once placed so freely in your own blood, and he could see plainly. He pressed his brow to yours until the tips of your noses touched, and there was no place left for you to look save into his face.
You searched his eye and found there no trace of deceit nor any shadow of ill intent, but only a pure and undisguised admiration, soft at first and then grown more intent with the passing of the moments, and the vexing warmth stirred low within your belly once again while your heart quickened against your ribs. Your hands upon his chest began to move of their own accord, tracing the hardened planes of him and the smooth heat of his skin.
It was the low hum of him that vibrated up through the flats of your fingers that woke you at last to the knowledge of what you did. You drew back sharply and set yourself to rights. His hands moved to gather you back to him and halted at three sharp taps upon the wooden door, and a voice beyond it spoke.
"Milady, the Queen Dowager has sent me to draw the bath early. Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron shall depart at first light, and so the supper is to be served the sooner this evening."
You cleared your throat and bade her enter, keeping your gaze turned well away from Aemond's, and at the last he relented, and took himself to fetch a linen shirt, and passed out through the door.
"See that the water runs hotter today," you whisphered low to the maid.
"Yes, milady."
The heat of the bath had loosened you more than you looked for, yet when supper came the old disquiet found you again, curled low in your belly.
Aemond sat at the head of the table. Otto Hightower took the foot. On Otto's left were Jaehaera and then Helaena; on his right sat Daeron, the youngest of Alicent's sons, and beyond him his mother, and beyond her, you. Lord Ormund had been given the place between you and Aemond, his frame so towering that it seemed a deliberate arrangement, contrived to obscure Aemond's view of you and of the appearance that night. Aemond did not trouble to hide his displeasure at it.
The meal began light. Then Otto brought forth word of the Baratheons. Lord Borros had agreed to give his daughter to Aemond, and to lend his swords to the cause.
Relief came to you first at the news, and hard upon its heels came dread, for you had seen the look that crossed Aemond's face. A third thing came also, quieter than the other two, and you did not wish to name it, yet it was undeniably present, and it quickened your pulse and left your hands cold and unsteady.
So still had the chamber grown that the only speech seemed to pass between knife and plate, and now and again the deliberate setting-down of a cup.
Otto pressed on, glad and eager, speaking of the Lady Floris, one of the Four Storms, of the day appointed for her coming, of the ceremony, and at the last of the bedding. On that count you were glad for him, glad that a highborn lady would take the place you dreaded, that the role might yet be spared you. What you could not abide was the small needling thing that pricked at you each time the old man said the word bedding, a thing that turned first to guilt and then to anger at how your heart reacted. Your fingers gave a twitch before you drew your hand into your lap to worry at it there.
It was a habit you had taken from Alicent, though you did it far less than she, only when you were set against yourself. Aemond marked it while he feigned adjusting his chair.
A nervous Alicent sat at your side, her worries justified as the tension in Aemond's features suggested he might at any moment rise to utter something ill-considered, or overturn his goblet across the fine wood of the table. Every head was now bent to the food, save Ormund's. The lord was enjoying his portion.
"You look very beautiful this evening, my lady," he said, apropos of nothing, and Aemond's head turned toward him. The lord was looking, no, admiring you openly.
Alicent's eyes went wide. She knew the cast that had settled over her second son.
"Be assured, My Lady. Westeros has no shortage of formidable lords, and for a woman of such grace and beauty it would be no hard thing to find a worthy suitor—"
A fist came down upon the table. It startled every soul there, save the Lord who had drawn it out of him. Not one woman at the board, nor Daeron, dared raise their eyes.
"A toast," said Aemond. "To my dear cousin, Lord Ormund. For his wisdom, his generosity, and for answering our call to aid."
Ormund lifted his cup and bowed his head, meeting the eyes of each one at the table in turn. The rest raised their cups after him and drank in silence. Aemond drained his own without once loosing his stare from the Lord, and Ormund wore the satisfied look of a man newly proclaimed sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms.
When the toast was done, Aemond rose and went off in a temper. Alicent made to follow, but you settled a hand upon her arm to hold her back.
"I shall go."
She looked at you with a troubled brow.
"He will listen to me." She could not gainsay it, for it was true. And being so bent upon the calming of Alicent, you did not mark the small way Lord Ormund shifted in his seat.
You rose and followed the way Aemond had gone. It brought you to a balcony nearby, above the whole of King's Landing, the darkness already engulfed the city. He stood with both hands spread upon the carved balustrade, the salt of the evening air stirring the pale length of his Targaryen hair.
"You will not be wedded to another," he said, not turning, for he had known you by your step. "I have no mind to marry her." He turned to you then, and reached a hand to your cheek. "Not when I have given my heart to you."
You stepped back.
"You cannot. You need the Baratheons, and the swords they bring. I know my sister, and I know the allies she commands. Your host, joined even to the whole strength of Oldtown, will not hold against them and her dragons. If you mean to win—"
"Do you remember the day I lost my eye? The day Lucerys took it from me?"
You fell silent at the name. Something soft and sharp turned in your chest, and your gaze went anywhere but to him.
"When they put their questions to me after? It was you alone who held my hand when I was frightened. Not my father. Not my mother. You. Always you." His hand rose once more, thumb following the line of your jaw while his other hand went seeking yours. "When Aegon mocked me with the Pink Dread, it was you who held my hand, you who berated him so fiercely that he had not the stomach to speak of it again the coming morrow. " He came a step nearer. His one violet eye held fast upon your own.
"I trained for you. I studied for you. I did all of it so that our father might one day name me a worthy suitor, so that your hand might be mine to hold, for all the years of our lives."
Slowly he raised your hand, his eyes never leaving yours, but before his lips could touch your fingers you drew them free and gave another ground a pace.
"Skorī syt gaomagon ao rāelagon dëñy’ynngrys yôûr'shëlfrys?" He came on. Why do you keep denying yourself?
"Nyke gaomagon daor gīmigon aōha indigon," I do not know your meaning, you said, and shook your head, though your frozen hands and the tremor in your voice gave the lie to it.
"I can see it in you." He drove you back against a pillar.
"Whatever you think you see, you are mistaken, Aemond." You fought to hold the words level.
"Mm." He let a smile rise. "You have spent years in the learning of me, as I have spent them learning you, and I always know when you are distressed. When you lie to yourself." He bowed his head and let it hang the space of a breath or two, then lifted it and turned full toward you, and drew a slow breath as he did. "You were jealous this night," he said, easy as you please, and every trace of the fury of moments before was gone from his face. "When my grandsire spoke of the arrangements. The bedding ceremony."
Your face drew tight with affront.
"I was not jealous," you said, though the word cracked faintly at the end, and his small smile widened at the sound of it.
"You were, sister, and you will not talk me out of it," he murmured, scarce above a whisper. He closed the last of the distance between you, and you hated yourself for the racing of your heart, for the way your eyes could not stay upon him.
"Why do you pull yourself from me, when you know well that you want me?"
"I do not feel for you what you feel for me!" You had meant it for a defense, a wall, or a thing to remind yourself of, but he did not fall back before it. He gave no sign he believed a word of it, and in the deepest part of you, neither did you.
"Your body betrays you. I first saw it that night, when we danced, when Jacaerys and Helaena danced beside us. The way your sweet eyes could not rest upon me. The way you trembled when I held you. You have labored to deny it ever since, to deny how your flesh answers my touch." His breath fell warm across your skin. You swallowed hard and closed your eyes as he leaned in, and you felt a single finger drift along your arm. "You hunger for me as fiercely as I hunger for you."
"Aemond—"
The moment Alicent's voice came to you, relief ran loose through your limbs, and you turned at once to her scandalized face.
"Mother," said Aemond with a slow turn, and the irritation came back into his voice.
"It grows late. Your brother rides upon the morrow. Would you not sooner spend more time—"
"I wish to go with him," you blurted. "With him, and with Lord Ormund."
The words turned both mother and son toward you, each struck still where they stood. Alicent found her tongue the sooner.
"Good." She nodded slowly, and cast a quick glance at her son, who had not moved beside you. "Good. I shall speak with Lord Ormund, and we will make arrangements—" The fear eased from her face, and a smile had near come to it when her son cut across her.
"You will not speak with him. She will not pass from my sight." He caught your arm and pulled you to walk with him, and the pain of his grip ran up through the limb.
"Aemond—" Alicent hastened forward and set to prying at his fingers, while you hissed and twisted against the hold.
"Aemond, you are hurting her!" Alicent cried at the last, and the words broke through to him. He turned and saw the fear writ plain across your face, and he let you go at once. That he had harmed you cut him. Yet the anger held, for you denied him still, and you had chosen to leave him in the very hour he had, at last, found the means to keep you close.
He only walked away, his shoulders drawn tight with fury while you rubbed at your wrist and watched.
Alicent saw it, and she took you gently by the sides of your arms, careful of the reddening welt his hand had left. You turned into her and folded yourself against her. She startled at the first touch of it, then softened, then secretly overjoyed that you had reached for her once again, and she held you, striving to master the tears that pressed at her own eyes so that she might remain strong for your sake.
"I will speak with Lord Ormund," she said, and patted your back.
"I miss home. I miss all of them. I miss Jace, I miss Viserys, Joffrey, and Aegon (Aegon III)," you wept. "I only wish that all of it might be as once it was, before any of this."
It was true. You had wanted it all to go back, to the way things had been before, when the days were simpler and no sword had been sharpened against one another. Back when your half-brother was only your half-brother, and the thing you felt after you both grew older was easier to contain.
She gave you no answer, for the old grief and guilt seized her chest and stole the words from her.
"May I be given chambers of my own?" you sobbed through the tears.
"Of course, my dearest. Lord Ormund asked it of me earlier in the day." She drew you deeper into her arms and closed her eyes, wishing with a quiet ache that she had turned from her ruinous course far sooner, holding you close while you wept against her shoulder.
And she had not lied. The chamber they had made ready for you smelled of fresh rushes and lye soap, and the linens had been turned down and smoothed until no wrinkle marred them. Aemond did not come to you that night. Whatever anger still festered beneath his stillness kept him behind his own doors, and you were left to the low murmur of Alicent's voice as she moved among the serving girls, directing the packing with the careful precision.
"These gowns must be pressed and cleaned to perfection," she told them, lifting a sleeve of muted grey wool and turning it to the candlelight to study the weave. "Lord Ormund holds a particular disdain for..."
Her words dwindled to a hum you no longer marked, for your mind had gone at last to your elder sister and the grief that must have come down upon her. She had learned that her firstborn, the crown prince, was dead, and that her younger sister had vanished with neither trace nor word. The ache of it swelled beneath your ribs until you could not bear it, and the tears you had held so carefully spilled over unbidden, quiet at the first and then wretched.
Alicent heard. She stilled at once, a blue gown slipping from her fingers back into the open chest, and she turned toward you with an expression of such sudden tenderness that it undid you further.
"Leave us," she commanded the girls, her tone brooking no delay. "All of you. Go."
They fled the room in a rustle of skirts and bowed heads, and Alicent crossed to you and gathered you against her bossom. She held you through the worst of it, her palm moving in slow circles across your back, murmuring comfort, the wordless sounds a mother makes to a frightened child. She remained until your weeping thinned to spent breaths, and only when sleep had taken you did she draw back from the chamber and pull the door soft shut behind her.
THE RED KEEP, OUTER GATES. — DAWN
The clatter of hooves and the groan of carriage wheels turning across the yard dragged you from sleep as the first grey light crept along the walls. You bathed and dressed with the ladies to help you, their hands quick and cold at your laces, and then they led you down through the winding corridors to the gates, where the household had gathered for your leaving.
Otto Hightower stood apart, speaking low with Lord Ormund, the two of them stiff and formal in the pale morning. Alicent waited near the mounting block with Helaena beside her, and little Jaehaera clung to her mother's skirts while they both spoke with Daeron. When Helaena saw you, she hurried forward with her daughter trailing behind.
"I wish you safe upon your journey, Sister" she said, her voice soft and uneven, her eyes drifting to Jaehaera even as she spoke to you. "We will pray for you, each of us."
You smiled at her and kissed her upon each cheek, then knelt before the child so that your eyes met hers. A sorrow came upon you at the sight of the little girl, for you had not been given more hours to know her, this quiet creature who wore her mother's beauty and her mother's shyness in equal measure.
"Be a strong girl for me," you told her, "and mind your mother well while I am gone."
Jaehaera nodded and gave you a small embrace, her arms locking round your neck.
"Precious girl," you murmured, and you patted her head, and she giggled at the touch.
"So you meant it, then." The voice behind you came low and rough at its edges. Helaena did not wait for what would follow. She stepped forward to take up Jaehaera, and embraced you once more the moment you had risen, and then she gathered her daughter and drew her away toward the others.
You turned. Aemond stood restored to himself, his silver hair combed straight and severe, the leather patch settled precise over his ruined socket, every trace of the night's disorder scrubbed clean away.
"We could have one of our own, you know," he said, and the softness beneath his stillness betrayed him though his face did not move. "I know how deeply you have always wanted a child." He crossed the space between you with a single deliberate step. "You do not have to go."
You reached for his hands, and he seized them at once, gripping them with a fierceness that contradicted the quiet slackening of his shoulders at the contact.
"Aemond," you said, and held his gaze. "It will be only for a little while."
He bowed his head and lifted your joined hands to his mouth and pressed his lips to your knuckles.
"I will wait for you," he swore against your skin. "And when you come back to me, I will take you to wife."
You nodded, and could shape no reply that would not crack, and he bent to claim your mouth in a kiss so gentle it seemed he meant to keep the moment whole, untouched by the world beyond it. That was denied him as a voice broke across the space at your back.
"My lady, I trust you have all your belongings made ready?"
You drew away from Aemond and turned to find Lord Ormund in his armour, the Hightower sigil graven proud at its center, the tower and its crowning flame catching the thin light.
"I have, My Lord," you answered.
"Very good. Your carriage stands prepared. You may make yourself ready."
"Thank you, My Lord."
You returned to Aemond and pressed one last kiss to his cheek before you released his hands, and you felt the reluctance in his grip, the faint resistance you were made to overcome before his fingers loosed from yours at the last.
"Take heart, Your Grace," Ormund said, and there was something possessive threaded through his courtesy. "By the time I have finished with her, you shall trouble yourself with these worries no longer. She will come to understand precisely to whom she belongs. Daeron, bring my horse nearer."
The boy obeyed at once and led the animal forward without a word of objection.
Aemond drew a slow breath and gave nothing back, though his weight shifted from one foot to the other while the two of them watched you go toward the carriage, and Alicent moved to meet you before you reached it.
She cleared her throat, and you turned to her.
"Is everything arranged as it should be?" she asked, and there was a tremor in the asking.
"You arranged my belongings yourself," you reminded her.
"Oh. Yes, of course, so I did—" She faltered, and you stepped into her and put your arms about her, and she held you with a sudden strength.
"Lord Ormund will care for you well. I trust that he will," she said, and her hand passed over your back in unsteady strokes. "You will be better there than here." She let a long moment pass before she found the rest of it. "I am sorry." She bit back a sob. "For all of it."
You drew back without a word and kissed her upon the cheek.
"Right, then." She brushed hurriedly past at the tears she had failed to hold. "Go on now."
You gave her one last smile and climbed into the waiting carriage, and she returned it with a gloss standing in her eyes.
HIGHTOWER CASTLE, OLD TOWN. — NIGHTFALL
The road to Oldtown ran on for days together, the country unrolling in fields and forests and river crossings, and full dark had fallen by the time the towers rose against the star-strewn sky. Ormund swung down from his palfrey and watched while you thanked the man who had driven your carriage, and when the fellow bent to kiss your hand in parting, Ormund came forward and stayed the gesture before it was done.
"Ah, there is no need for that," he said smoothly.
The man let go of your hand at once.
"Thank you, good ser." Ormund took your hand in the driver's stead and led you within.
The castle bore no likeness to the Red Keep. Where King's Landing had felt close and grimed with old smoke, this place was luminous and ordered, every corridor swept and every surface aglow beneath the sconces. Daeron met you both at the arch of the entrance and hastened to help strip Ormund of his armour the moment they had crossed inside, his young fingers quick at the buckles.
"I trust your journey proved not too wearisome?" Ormund asked, turning his practiced smile upon you.
"It was bearable, my Lord."
He nodded, and when the last of the plate had been lifted from his shoulders he let his eyes travel over you from head to foot and back again to your face, taking his slow and measured time about it. Then he began to circle you.
"I am certain you know well what the holy texts have set down," he said.
You watched, his gaze keeping to its slow passage across your body. To one side stood young Daeron, stiff and unmoving, his eyes fixed upon the floor and refusing to rise.
"A maiden must guard herself against temptation, and above all against the appetites of men. She must cultivate discernment, for men are burdened with lust and their intentions run ill."
"Are you not a man yourself, Lord Ormund?" You had meant the words for a jest, to lighten the mood after so long a road.
But the chamber fell into a silence so absolute it seemed to press against the ears. The servants who had been about their tasks froze where they stood. Daeron's eye flew wide at the boldness of it. You marked the sudden rigidness gathered all about you and cast a glance around the room, and it settled at the last upon the boy, whose gaze had grown enormous now and bored into you while he shook his head in small, frantic, desperate motions of warning.
You brought your eyes back to Ormund, who had halted his pacing. The smile upon his face had gone dry and brittle, drained of every warmth, and it was in that precise moment that the weight of your own words came down upon you.
"My lord—"
"Prepare a bath for the lady." His voice kept its courtesy, and yet even the dullest ear could not have missed the strain that tightened it, nor the swell of volume beneath the calm. "And a cup of tea. She has endured a long journey."
You opened your mouth to offer another apology, but Daeron remained there at the edge of your sight, his face frozen in silent entreaty, his head giving the smallest shake of warning. You pressed your lips together and held your tongue.
"Take her," Lord Ormund commanded, and the ladies came forward to guide you from the hall, your nerves strung taut beneath your skin.
The bathing chamber they brought you to drove every care from you the instant you passed within. The air hung with a light fragrance, layered and rich, the scent of oils and crushed herbs rising from a bath larger by far than any you had known before. Steam still clung to the water in lazy curls, and near at hand incense burned atop a table carved beautifully from dark wood, the smoke threading through the warmth and mingling with the perfume of the bath. The knots wound through your shoulders and spine began to loosen and give way to the calming richness of it all.
You waited for the ladies to begin unlacing your gown, but they startled you, withdrawing almost at once after one of them had pressed a cup of brewed herbal tea into your hands. They offered no word to explain it, only hasty curtsies before they fled the chamber and drew the door shut behind them.
Your confusion lasted but a moment. The door opened again to admit Lord Ormund, clad in nothing save a dark green robe, his pleasant smile restored to his face. Young Daeron followed close at his heels, his gaze fixed stubbornly upon the floor still.
"The servants prove themselves efficient, it would seem," Ormund remarked, and he lifted his arms, and to your profound shock Daeron stepped forward and drew the robe from his shoulders. Your head whipped to the side on the instant, and Ormund marked the trembling that seized your fingers about the cup.
"My lord, I do apologize," you managed, your voice catching. "I believe the servants made an error and brought me to the wrong chamber."
Your eyes darted to his for the briefest fraction of a breath, and you found him wholly untroubled by his nakedness, standing bare and unashamed, as though nothing untoward had passed between you.
"M-my Lord..?" you tried again, and the word stuttered from your lips.
He raised one hand, and Daeron placed a familiar leather-bound book into his palm, its surface polished to a gleam and stamped with the seven-pointed star. With that, Daeron departed in silence and drew the door shut behind him. You swallowed hard and turned your gaze toward the floor at the edge of the bath, but Ormund's fingers found your chin and lifted it until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.
"Drink your tea, my dear."
You obeyed the moment his touch withdrew, and drained the cup in hurried swallows while he began to pace the chamber.
"You have remained too long upon Dragonstone," he said, his tone unhurried, his manner near conversational. "Your mind has been tainted by the practices of your ancestors, and that is the very reason I have brought you here. Though tragedy delivered you into my hands, the Seven marked your past devotion and stretched out their mercy."
He paused and put out his hand for the empty cup. You surrendered it with trembling fingers.
"I have seen the manner in which you struggle against yourself," he went on, and he set the cup aside with care, "around your... brother—" He spat the word, and it seemed to foul his tongue in the saying. "You fight to free yourself of the taint carried in your blood, and I have been sent by the Seven as their messenger. The Father has taken note of your faithfulness, and he has sent me to judge you and to cleanse you of what pollutes you."
He stepped into the bath and lowered himself into the water, and opened the holy text across his lap.
"It would please me to hear you recite the twelve virtues of a maiden."
The memory of Daeron's stricken face rose before you, and for all the courtesy threaded through Ormund's voice and the practiced charm settled upon his own, something in the very air of the chamber woke every instinct that governed survival. Obedience was the only safe course left to you.
"Truthfulness," you began, drawing upon the verses you had learned in childhood, and you spoke them with as much precision as you could summon. When you faltered and lost portions of the text, he made you begin again from the start until you delivered it whole, and only then did he suffer you to move on to the verse that followed.
You had come halfway through the recitation when a subtle warmth began to bloom across your chest, and the strangeness of it made you pause. Ormund noticed at once.
"Good. Continue," he commanded, and tilted his chin upward in expectation.
You cleared your throat and took it up again while his attention returned to the page, tracking your accuracy with meticulous care. As the minutes gathered one upon another, the warmth turned to something more insistent and spread beneath your skin with mounting urgency.
"Discernment," you recited, and fought to hold your focus. "Judge not by pleasing words nor handsome countenance alone. Look instead upon a man's character, for virtue is revealed by his—"
The sight of your half-bare brother came unbidden, startling and vivid before your mind's eye, and the words died in your throat.
"I was not aware that I bade you cease," Ormund said, and did not lift his gaze from the page.
You swallowed hard and forced yourself onward.
"Purity. Love only that which is righteous before the Seven—" The heat began its slow migration downward through you, and your skin grew keen to every touch. Even the lightest drag of your gown against your forearms summoned back the memory of Aemond's fingers trailing over you, and these recollections you found ever harder to banish.
"Turn away," Ormund prompted, and his eyes rose from the book to watch you with plain amusement.
"T-turn away from e-every affection that corrupts-s innocence," you managed, though even to stand still had become a labour. Each breath you drew came thicker and heavier than the last while the heat kept up its steady descent, kindling every vein it touched along the way.
The remembrance of Aemond's tongue coaxing your own surfaced, and the answering heat that flooded your core came upon you with such force that your knees buckled and you sank to the floor. Your breath came ragged and torn while your mind grew fogged and clouded, and a sudden ravenous hunger woke within you that you could neither name nor understand.
"For the Father," Ormund intoned, and you were so wholly drowned beneath the heat and the desperate yearning of it that you never marked the splash of water as he rose from the bath.
"T-the the F-Father," you tried to go on, and clenched your eyes shut against the flood of improper images surging through you, and every one of them held Aemond, in shapes your waking mind would never have conjured.
"Withdraws His light from such immorality," Ormund finished, and set the book aside. He put out his hand toward you, and whether your dazed senses played you false or no, you could no longer find the smile that had adorned his face only moments before. Something ominous and calculating dwelt in his eyes instead as he drew you up onto your feet, and his fingers set to work at the laces of your bodice. Each time his skin met yours a shiver passed through you, and he marked it with evident satisfaction.
Though your garments fell away piece by piece, you knew no chill upon your bared flesh, only the relentless burning that consumed you from within. He guided you toward the bath with steady hands, and his grip upon you was proprietary and absolute.
Lord Ormund descended into the sunken bath with the slow authority of a man who had never once been made to wait, and the water climbed the polished cedar to break against the rim with a sharp resonant slap. He put out his hand toward you in silence, the fingers spread in command, bidding you take your place before him and you did so.
"Come to me now." The words came from close above you and behind your ear, pitched so low the sound seemed to gather in his ribs and pass through them into your back.
"Recline against me fully." You gave way to the pull of the water and let yourself sink backward into the waiting bulk of him.
He was built to the measure of a warrior in the fullness of his strength. Standing, he stood a head above you and more; here, both of you sunk to the chest in steaming water, his shoulders curved forward to enclose you on either side, broad enough to shut out the lamplight and candles. When he gathered you back against his torso, the coarse wet expanse of his clean chest brushed along the entire length of your vertebrae, from nape to the small of your back. The sound that broke from your throat was thin and sharp, born not of any hurt but of the enormity of it, the sheer sensation of flesh set against flesh with nothing between.
His palm came down upon your uninjured shoulder, heavy as a mailed gauntlet, warmed clean through by the bath. Great hands, these, thickened with the calluses that decades of sword-grip and rein-leather had worn into a soldier's palms. He set to work the muscle beneath his fingers with methodical pressure, the thumbs pressing hard circles into the knotted cords at the base of your neck, the rest of his fingers reaching forward until they very nearly met above your collarbones. The force of it began as pain, and the pain thinned into something near to ease. Your head fell forward of its own accord, and a soft broken breath slipped past your lips before you had the wit to hold it back.
"The Father in his infinite wisdom judges those who carry impurity within the flesh," he said, and every syllable rolled forth in the flat measured chant a septon uses at his prayers. "All who harbor rot and sinful stirring shall be brought low, that they may after be lifted up to grace amongst the Seven. So is the law set down in the sacred texts." His hands forsook your shoulders and slid forward across the high ridges of your collarbones, and then descended, and took the full weight of your breasts into his palms.
Your spine arched from his chest, and the water surged against the wooden rim in restless waves. He molded his palms about the soft flesh with a slowness that took its time in the weighing and the measuring of them, and then he drew the roughened pads of his thumbs across your nipples in languid purposeful passes. Each stir of the disturbed water rasped against your quickened skin, and your body gave you up to him at once, the peaks of your breasts drawing tight into hard aching points that had naught to do with cold. The herb-steeped tea had made a torch of every stroke; each touch struck sparks that spilled down through your belly and gathered in throbbing heat between your thighs, and your hips gave one helpless thrust beneath the surface.
"There. It manifests plainly." His murmur carried approval and a darker satisfaction both, and he compressed the stiffened peaks between thumb and forefinger, the pressure firm but never cruel, rolling each tender point with a patient exactness. "You feel it keenly, that. This is the corruption in your flesh made manifest to the hand."
"S-s-stop this, m-my Lordd—" Even to your own ears the protest came out threadbare and worn thin, for your thighs had already parted beneath the water's cover, and your back still bowed to press you closer against the wiry rasp of his chest, that abrasion upon your shoulder blades yielding its own shadowed sweetness.
One maintained its place at your breast, still turning the nipple in slow rotations. The other flattened to your sternum and began its descent, gliding over the quick flutter of your belly, across the small clench of muscle that leapt there, down into the crease where thigh joined hip. There he stayed his hand and made you wait upon the promise of it. Then his fingers parted the intimate flesh between your legs with an unhurried certainty and confidence.
A soft cry broke from you and rang off the wet stone as both your hands seized the wooden rim in a desperate grip. His middle finger traced the whole length of your entrance with a slowness that near unmade you, gathering the wet proof of your wanting that even the bath could not wash away, before it circled the swollen knot of nerves at the crown. Your whole body went rigid with the suddenness of it. He held you fast with the arm braced across your chest, pinning you against the greater mass of him while that thick finger drew tight lazy circles round the most tender point of you.
"Confess your sins before the Father." His breath came hot against your temple. "Speak them aloud, that they may be witnessed and their burden halved in the telling." His finger slid lower, set itself at your entrance, and pressed within to the second knuckle in one smooth intrusion. Your breath drew in sharp and your head fell back upon his shoulder at the dull ache of the invasion, though the coiling pleasure in your core swallowed the discomfort near as fast as it came. "Tell me who it is that haunts your waking hours and fouls your prayers."
Your inner walls clenched about the intruding presence, and a keening sound escaped your keeping as your hips ground forward onto his hand.
"I have—" You sought to hold your tongue, but his skilled handling had loosed every guard you kept, even as the tea had loosed your will, and the confession spilled forth before shame silence you. "I have thought of him. Many times. His hand upon me, his mouth to mine. Forgive me the weakness, My Lord—"
"Speak his name plainly." He worked a second finger into you, stretching you wider, and set to shallow thrusts, and one of your hands flew to seize his forearm in a useless bid to stay him. The thick pads of his fingertips dragged along the ridged front wall of you while his thumb took up the labor his finger had abandoned, pressing quick and exact circles against your most sensitive flesh. You would not yield that last shame though the heat of it scorched through you, and he did not cease his sanctimonious labor for so much as a breath. "Name him now, girl, or I withdraw my hand and leave you to burn."
"Prince Aemond. M-my half-brother—" The words came broken and beaten out of you.
A low rumble of satisfaction moved through his chest and passed straight into your back. "There. The truth bared at the last. The savage lust with all its pretense stripped away. 'And the impure shall confess their darkness upon sanctified water before the Father's judgment,'" he intoned, his breath hot and even at your ear, "'and the Mother in her mercy shall not turn her face from her plea.'"
Every word you tried to shape came apart into fractured sound upon his working fingers. The pleasure rose with a terrible swiftness, the herb doubling and trebling it until your heels scrabbled against the wooden rim for purchase and your hand shot back to clutch at his heavy forearms, nails clawling and carving little crescents into the toned muscle. Water spilled over the edge in slapping waves, one upon another. His fingers drove deeper and harder, scissoring apart to stretch you wider, opening you with a deliberate care, and the heel of his palm bore down without mercy on the swollen flesh while the sudden sight of your half-brother stripped bare rose up behind your eyes.
"Please, I beg you—" The words came out of you as sobs, and the tears of an overwhelmed pleasure stood hot and bright. "P-p-please, My Lord, cleanse me of this corruption, draw it out from my spirit, I beg of you—"
He stilled, all at once, without warning. Both hands went dead in their works, the one cupping your breast frozen where it lay, the two fingers seated to their full depth within you held utterly motionless, his thumb halted just short of the pearl that pulsed and ached for it. A wail of denial tore out of you at the sudden desertion, your hips bucking uselessly against a hand that gave you nothing but cruel stillness.
"Who shall be your purifier before the Seven?" Lord Ormund asked, and tempered steel had crept now into the low velvet of his voice. "Name the one you wish to cleanse you, girl. Plainly."
"Y-you, My Lord—" It cracked out of your throat at once, desperate. You turned your head and set your open mouth to the wet stubble of his jaw. "You, Lord Ormund. You alone. None but you has the right to cleanse me... P-please. I-I am begging you—"
The rumble in his chest turned to something near a growl, a low sound of self satisfaction, and his teeth found the delicate shell of your ear.
"So shall I give you mercy." His fingers drove back into you with a renewed force, all pretense of gentleness cast off, thrusting deep and quick, the wet obscene sound of it lost beneath the violent slosh of the bath and your own climbing moans and cries. His thumb pressed flush to your most sensitive point and worked it in tight relentless turns. The arm across your chest hauled you back against the furnace heat of him, leaving you no room to resist, his palm crushing your breast flat, and his voice never once let its holy chant fall silent, laying the sacred words against your throat with the weight of a hand set to your windpipe.
"Mercy shall be granted unto the penitent who surrenders whole. Give up your corruption into my keeping. Deliver it unto me this very hour—"
Your peak struck, and the whole chamber seemed to tilt upon its axis. A sharp cry tore from you as your inner walls clamped and fluttered in rhythmic spasm about his thrusting fingers, your spine drawn taut into a hard arch, your thighs snapping shut about his wrist and shuddering. He strained against the urge of his own flesh to spend from the mere witnessing of your undoing, his jaw clenched hard enough to set the muscle leaping and the tendons standing proud in his neck as he fought himself for mastery.
He did not cease though your finish was upon you. He worked you through each pulsing wave, the thumb keeping its circling pressure, the fingers curling and dragging to draw every aftershock out of you one at a time, until your voice thinned to broken fractured moans and your body went slack and boneless within the great cradle of his arms.
The steam hung and settled toward a stillness. Your chest heaved against the bar of his forearm in quick and desperate breaths. Lord Ormund's fingers drew out of you with a torturous slowness, trailing your wetness up across your belly, and he set his mouth to the crown of your damp hair and gathered you closer against his chest.
As the overwhelming heat of it began its slow retreat, the tears spilled hot down your cheeks, and you turned to press your face to his bare chest and wept. For all the fear that coiled in you, a relief moved through you when the intruding sight of your brother at last dissolved and was gone from the depths of your mind. He kept his hold through the whole of your collapse, one hand tracing light idle patterns upon your skin in something that wore the shape of comfort, keeping you shut within the compass of his arms.
"You have done beautifully, and with a most commendable obedience." His voice came low and sated against your hair. "Your sins are cleansed and drawn out from your corrupted flesh." His hand smoothed once more down the curve of your spine and came to rest at the small of your back.
"For now."
<PREVIOUS||NEXT >
A/N: Thank you and I love you all so much for the likes, sweet comments, reblogs, follows, and you too, silent readers ❤️.
pairing: shitty baby daddy!aerion targaryen x fem!reader
summary: … the county fair is full of games nobody can really win ⟢
wc: 2.4k
content warning: 18+ mdni | fluff!! | angst | aerion is pining again | mentions of alcohol/smoking | valarr<3 <3 <3
masterlist ────୨ৎ──── taglist
By the time the fair opened its gates the following weekend, the late summer heat had settled over the Crownlands like a heavy blanket. The air was thick and humid, and the sun was beating down on the dusty parking lot where cars and trucks gathered in clusters. Colorful banners fluttered lazily in the light breeze, and the smell of fried food and popcorn wafted through the air, drawing people toward the entrance.
Aerion pulled his truck into a spot near the back. The engine had been making a strange noise all week, but he'd managed to ignore it—prioritizing the new battery he'd installed in your car instead. Now, as he cut the engine, he hoped it would start again when they were ready to leave.
Maegor was already bouncing in his seat; he had his face pressed against the window as he took in the bright lights and spinning rides visible beyond the fence. Aerion couldn't help but smile at his son's excitement, even as he felt his own nerves begin to surface.
You were meeting them here. Maybe. He’d suggested picking you up, but you’d insisted that if you decided to come, you’d drive separately, which he understood even if it stung. Three years of living somewhat separate lives had created boundaries that weren't easy to cross anymore, even for something as innocent as a family trip to the fair.
"C'mon, bug," Aerion said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Let's go in. And what do you say if your mama shows up?"
"Say daddy got me here on time," Maegor answered promptly, parroting the response they'd practiced.
"That's right. She'll be impressed."
Aerion helped Maegor out of the truck, grabbing the small backpack with sunscreen, wipes, a change of clothes, and cash for the games. As they walked toward the entrance, he kept scanning the parking lot, half-hoping to see your car pull in, half-terrified that you'd actually show up and he'd have to navigate another afternoon of pretending he wasn't still in love with you.
The fairgrounds were already bustling with families enjoying the afternoon. Children with sticky faces ran between booths, older kids gathered near the rides, and couples shared food on benches under the shade. It was the kind of place Aerion had avoided as a teenager—too many people, too much noise—but he'd found himself looking forward to bringing Maegor here, sharing something that felt wholesome. Something that was nothing like his own childhood.
"Where first?" he asked, lifting Maegor so he could see over the crowd.
"'umper cars! An' the ducks! An' the fish game!" Maegor listed, his voice rising with excitement.
They made their way through the gates, paying the entrance fee, and were immediately confronted by the overwhelming noise and color of the fair. Maegor's eyes were wide as they stood in line for the bumper cars. He was chattering a mile a minute about how Cousin Valarr said he would get him any car he wanted when he turned sixteen.
Valarr had visited that Thursday. He'd come by the shop to deliver some parts and had ended up staying for dinner at Maekar's. Maegor worshipped his cousin, hanging on his every word about the city and the company, the cars, and the enormous headquarters that overlooked King's Landing. Aerion tried not to let it bother him. He really did; none of it was Valarr’s fault. But every story about another dealership opening, or another shiny company truck parked outside some glass office building, reminded him that there had been a time his father should’ve been standing beside Baelor. A time when Aerion himself would’ve probably ended up there too. Instead, Maekar had chosen his pride, and Aerion had inherited it.
"He said Mommy could have one too," Maegor added, looking up at him. "A pretty one with—"
"Yeah, well, Val likes showin' off," Aerion cut in. "Don't mean anythin'. Your mama likes her car just fine."
Maegor seemed to accept that, considering he was turning his attention back to the ride as they moved forward in line. But Aerion couldn't shake the irritation that had settled in his chest. He knew Valarr had only been kind—hell, he'd been trying to make the kid happy—but the reminder of everything Aerion couldn't give him stung more than it should have.
They were nearing the front of the line when he caught sight of you through the crowd. You were standing near the entrance, looking around with a small smile as you watched the groups of people pass by. The sight of you hit him right in the chest. You were wearing the same sundress you wore to the car show the last time you were all out together. Your hair was down in waves, and you held your hand up to shield your eyes as you scanned the fairground.
For a split second, Aerion considered staying where he was. Just getting on the cars with Maegor and letting you find them after. But then Maegor spotted you and let out a yell that turned multiple heads in his direction.
"Mommy!"
Your face lit up when you saw your son waving frantically. Aerion forced himself to breathe normally as you wove through the crowd, reminding himself at least twice before you got to them that this was just a day out with the boy. Nothing more.
"Hey, sweet boy!" You scooped Maegor up as soon as you reached them, spinning him around as he giggled. "I was looking everywhere for you two."
"Daddy got me here on time!" Maegor announced proudly.
You set him down, smoothing his hair as you smiled at Aerion. "You did. I'm impressed. Did your daddy tell you to tell me that?"
"We practiced!"
Aerion felt a flush creeping up his neck. "We didn't practice nothin'—kid came up with that himself."
"Sure he did. Thank you for bringing him."
"Just thought he'd have more fun with both of us. 'Specially since you've been workin' so much."
The line moved forward, and it was their turn to board the bumper cars. Maegor insisted on riding alone, despite being barely tall enough to reach the steering wheel. Aerion helped him buckle in, then moved to the car next to him. You found a spot across from them and waved at Maegor before the ride began.
For the next three minutes, Maegor laughed hysterically every time Aerion rammed into your car. His high-pitched giggles carried over the noise of the ride, and you were laughing too, your hair flying as you tried to steer away from his persistent attacks. Aerion found himself watching you more than he was focusing on driving, mesmerized by the carefree joy on your face.
When the ride ended, Maegor ran over to you, still breathless from his earlier laughter. "Mommy, you're the worst driver ever!"
"I seem to recall your daddy teaching me how to drive, so whose fault is that really?"
"Hey now," Aerion protested. "I taught you just fine. You were the one who kept gettin' distracted."
"By what?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You know damn well what."
You did know. You'd both been distracted by each other constantly in those early days, when even a simple drive to the grocery store felt like an excuse to be close. Aerion remembered parking in empty lots where the windows fogged up, your laughter turning into something else entirely as hands explored and promises were made. He pushed the memory away before it could take hold, focusing instead on Maegor, who was now asking about the next ride.
The afternoon passed in a whirlwind of sugary treats and the constant sound of Maegor's delighted laughter. You rode the small ferris wheel, where Maegor insisted on sitting between you and holding both your hands as the car swayed gently at the top. Aerion won a plastic sword at the ring toss. You won a ridiculous stuffed octopus after popping balloons with darts, which Maegor immediately declared was joining his "army."
It was during the fish game that things began to shift. Maegor was determined to win a massive stuffed bear that was nearly as tall as he was, but his coordination wasn't quite there yet. After his third unsuccessful attempt, his bottom lip began to tremble.
"I can't get it..."
"Hey," Aerion crouched down beside him. "It's just a dumb toy. You already got a sword, plus that octopus."
"But I want the bear," Maegor whined. He was one more inconvenience away from crying.
Aerion saw you move before he could start. You’d always been quicker to catch the little things like the hitch in Maegor’s breath and the way his little fists clenched when he was trying not to tear up. By the time he turned his head, you were already kneeling beside your son, rubbing a hand up and down his back. "Bug, maybe we could try another game? Look, they have—"
"No! I want the bear!"
"You'll get the damn bear, Maegor." Aerion grabbed his shoulder, turning the boy to face him. "But you ain't about to raise your voice at your mama 'cause you can't win some rigged game."
"But—"
"No buts. Now, d'you wanna try again, or are we done here?"
Maegor's chin wobbled, but he nodded. Aerion exchanged a quick glance with you before turning back to the game attendant. He didn't let Maegor play alone this time. He stood behind him, guiding his hands slightly as they worked the mechanism together. When the little plastic fish finally landed in the moving bucket, Maegor nearly passed out from the excitement.
"I did it! I did it, Daddy!"
Aerion couldn't help but laugh at the pure joy on his son's face as the bear was handed over. The thing was so big that Maegor could barely carry it, so you ended up holding it while Aerion carried Maegor on his shoulders with the octopus and sword stuffed into his backpack.
As they walked away from the game booth, you fell into step beside them. "That was nice of you, Aerion. He would've been crushed."
"He was bein' a brat. Just didn't want him makin' a scene."
"He's four," you said gently. "Emotions are big when you're little."
"Well, he gets that from his mama. Always has been sensitive."
"Is that right? And what about his temper? Where does that come from?"
"Fuck off. I ain't got no temper."
You laughed. The sound of it made him turn his head to look at you, catching the way the sun caught in your eyes. You were looking up at Maegor with your nose scrunched like you did when you were really happy, and suddenly, Aerion was overwhelmed with the memory of all the times he'd seen that exact expression when it was directed at him.
"Want some funnel cake?" he asked abruptly, gesturing toward a food stand.
"I thought you didn't like sweet things."
"Maegor does." He didn't mention that he also wanted to see you lick powdered sugar off your fingers, but the thought was there nonetheless.
"Okay, funnel cake sounds perfect."
The three of you found a bench a ways off from the petting zoo and food vendors. You and Aerion shared the sticky pastry while Maegor talked about his plan to sleep with all of his new stuffed animals, and his dragon, of course. Aerion tried to focus on his son's excited chatter, but he kept getting distracted by you. By the way you carefully tore off pieces of the funnel cake, by the sugar dusting your lips, by the way you listened to Maegor with your full attention, making him feel like the most important person in the world, which to you he was.
It was the same way you'd always listened to him, back when he'd had big dreams and even bigger insecurities. Back when he'd believed he could be the man you deserved, before he proved himself wrong time and time again.
It was maddening how easily he could slip back into wanting you. You hadn't slept together in months—not since the night you'd called him crying because the plumbing had burst and he'd spent six hours fixing it, only to end up on the floor of your living room with your legs wrapped around him and his face buried in your neck. He'd woken up at 4 AM and driven home feeling like the biggest piece of shit in the Crownlands. It should have been enough time to get over the taste of your skin or the sound of your sighs, but when you hugged him for getting your car running last week, his mind and body remembered exactly how well you fit together. And sitting here now, watching you laugh at something Maegor said, he felt that same pull he'd felt when he was eighteen and being called an idiot by his father for wanting to charge you for a tire. The same pull that had him glued to the seat at the diner until he could justify talking to you again.
The moment was broken when Maegor suddenly announced he had to go to the bathroom. Aerion stood up, but you waved him back down.
"I'll take him," you said, already gathering the remains of the funnel cake. "You can watch the bear."
Aerion grunted out his agreement, watching as you led Maegor toward the restrooms. Left alone with his thoughts, he pulled out a cigarette. As he lit it with slightly shaky hands, he knew he should quit, especially with Maegor getting older and becoming more aware of everything, but some habits were too ingrained to break easily. That, and he didn't really want to. The smoking helped. The drinking helped. He knew it didn't really fix anything, but it took the edge off. Because the edge was the problem. That constant simmer that threatened to boil over when he least expected it. The same temper that had ruined his relationship with you, the same pride that kept him from properly apologizing. The constant feeling of not measuring up. The nights when he'd look at his son and wonder how the hell he was going to make sure he didn't end up like him.
"You look like you're plotting something."
He recognized that voice the second he heard it. He didn't even need to look up to confirm; that nasty feeling crawling up the back of his neck was enough. He knew the moment that he did, his otherwise perfect day would be ruined by the sight of a polo shirt and polished leather shoes in the middle of a county fair.
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PAIRING: sworn protector!gwayne hightower x fem!targtower reader
SUMMARY: ser mark mullendore has been put to rest, leaving you defenseless and without a knight. your mother, queen alicent, remedies that quickly, finding you a new sworn protector who hits a little too close to home
WORD COUNT: 4.6k
AUTHORS NOTE: welcome to chains of love!!! i am so excited to start writing for gwayne and targtower!reader!!! it’s going to be a total roller coaster of emotions and feelings, and i can’t wait to get into it!!! this is also my first time writing asoiaf incest, so bare with me. this chapter also contains mentions of death and creepy, unwanted behaviour from men, so read at your own risk.
HIGH VALYRIAN IS IN ITALICS
ser mark mullendore took his last breath on the day of your twentieth name day. a testament to the years he spent protecting your life, harbouring a care for you as if you were his own kin.
the funeral pyre laid smokey in front of you; moonfyre, your midnight blue scaled dragon, swirling the sky over your head. it was only you in this barren field, your family and members of court and council not thinking it important that a man had died. mark came from a noble house in the reach, yet he had no family, and the families occupying the red keep, people he called his closest friends, didn’t seem to care about him.
it was only you honouring his death. the girl he called his daughter. the girl who he had been sworn to protect since she had turned six name days old. you stood in front of his wrapped body with a spine straight back, fire dancing across the gold of your silken dress as the mount holding mark’s body engulfed in flames. you had demanded a firm dracarys from moonfyre, yet your words had cracked, emotion blanketing the edges of your voice with a firm grasp.
this was a man who lifted you up easily and threw you over his shoulder when you were eight, catching you sneaking into the kitchens to thieve a batch of lemon cakes. that same man, who didn’t scold you harshly, yet shared a pastry with you and told you to not do it again, had died of sickness, and you would be damned to let people forget him.
“my princess!” a voice drifted through the air of the cliff, high pitched and squeaky in its announce. you lifted your tear stained face up from the pyre, taking in the sight of a young squire running up the grassy hill. you glared at the boy, not waiting for him to come closer before you unleashed your torrent of fury onto him.
“can’t you see i’m busy?!” you snapped, moonfyre growling and snapping her jaws behind you. the two of you were always in tuned. anytime you were grumpy, happy, or sad, moonfyre was similar, the dragon keepers being able to guess her mood for the day for all they would need is a moment with you and she was understood.
the squire halted a couple paces away from the burning body, a cherry hued blush on his cheeks as he wrung out his fingers in nervousness. people knew you were quick to temper, and it was never fun being on the receiving end. “i’m sorry, princess. it’s just that her grace — the queen, has called you back to the tourney grounds. it is your name day after all.”
a sneer rocked its way into your lips, eyes turning into slits as you stared at the squire with a molten glare. he shrunk under your gaze, not being able to hold a second of eye contact before he was shrinking into himself like a petulant child being caught on grounds they weren’t supposed to wander.
“ser mark has died,” you breathed, red hot anger radiating off of you in waves. if you were a dragon, fire would’ve been breathing from your lips, the fury coating your blood heating up your body and making you feel like you were going to explode. “i think it’s easy to understand that i don’t give a fuck about my name day, or the tourney for that matter. are you that daft that you cannot comprehend that?”
a deafening silence blankets the cliff as the squire shrinks even further into himself, mouth agape as he tries to come up with words to combat your snark. you stare at him with a raised brow, and before he can even utter a word, you snap at him again, words sharper and more cutthroat than before.
“that’s what i thought.” you say, crossing your arms over your chest before staring back down at the still burning body of mark mullendore. “you can leave now.”
“as you wish.” the squire scurries off before you can snap again, leaving you in a peaceful silence that is only interrupted by the beat of moonfyre’s wings. it dawns on you that this is what ser mark would’ve wanted. a serene moment for just himself and his daughter. the gods knew king viserys didn’t treat you as such, so what was a problem in stepping up?
a sigh tore from your lips, hands itching to touch ser marks sword withered skin. it didn’t matter how much he trained or how people called him a brute, ser mark was always kind and gentle with you, and you’d remember that until your dying breath.
no one had ever been as sweet to you as ser mark had. your parents were ghosts, your father melting away as your mother tried and pretended she cared, but you knew you weren’t her favourite deep down. your elder brother aegon was a drunk, too busy drowning in his cups and fucking whores to notice you. and when he did? he was cruel, making jabs at you that always left you wondering your worth.
helaena, your elder sister, was a sweet and gentle soul, but she liked to be by herself. sometimes you’d visit her and her children in her chambers, but she was always quiet, the visits usually spent with you playing with jaehaera and jaehaerys instead of talking with your sister.
your younger brothers, aemond and daeron, were vastly different, the latter having gone off to oldtown when he was very young, leaving you to only know snippets of his personality in letters you sent once every moon. from what you could gather, he was kind, and to you, a targaryen man known for his kindness was a good thing.
aemond was an enigma in his own, the one-eyed man more reserved and quiet than talkative. you guys bonded on the grounds of being the black sheep of the family, but aemond felt like he held a brighter candle to the name, sulking around corners and training to the sword with ser criston cole, a man who you loathed for no apparent reason other than he made your bones rattle with irritation.
it dawned on you at a young age that you held a syndrome only middle children could understand, the one where you felt left out even in a crowded room. it made you feel isolated as a kid, yet ser mark always made you feel seen, cheering you up when the trials of being a targaryen got too much.
now he was gone, and at the realization that you were invisible once again, a tear slipped down your cheek, a watery gasp leaving your lips as you clutched at your chest in agony.
“gods, ser.” you sobbed, holding onto your heart as it broke in your chest, the muscle feeling like it was spasming and burning all at once. “why did you leave me alone in this wretched world! it was supposed to be you and i forever, and i don’t know if i can live without you.”
behind you, moonfyre flew down in a fellow swoop, landing beside your shaking frame and nuzzling her snout into your chest. a shaken laugh left your lips, your head leaning down to lay on top of her nose, nuzzling into her deeply.
“i love you, my girl.” you breathed out the words in a soft breath, holding onto her a little tighter. the smoke was starting to make your head spin, and you knew it was time to go back to the tourney grounds before your mother sent a whole batch of kings guard to look for you.
with a sigh, you patted moonfyre’s neck, caressing her midnight blue scales before commanding to her deeply in high valyrian. “go back to the dragon pit,” you said firmly, backing away so the midnight monster could descend into the air and fly away towards her resting place.
a deep dread wallowed in your gut was you watched moonfyre fly away, your fingernails digging into the beds around your cuticles in worry. you didn’t want to leave ser mark, but you also knew he wouldn’t want you to hold back your life just for him. this thought made you sigh yet another breath, moving forward towards the noise of the tourney that was being celebrated in your name.
many minutes of aching feet and sniffling sobs finally led you to the tourney grounds, your eyes taking in the extravagance of all the tents and vendors that lined the field. you walked through with your head held high, the feeling of ser mark not behind you uncommon and saddening, yet you tried to get used to the feeling.
the royal pavilions came into view as you walked a little further, the sight before you complete and utter chaos. alicent stood frantic, her fingers twisting the green sleeves of her dress as she spoke harshly and sharply to her sworn protector and leader of the kings guard, ser criston cole, the rest of the white cloaks being spread around evenly. helaena sat on a bench beside the yawning mouth of the main pavilion, butterfly in hand as jaehaera and jaehaerys ran around wildly close by.
aegon was slumped over beside helaena, drunk off his arse even though it was only half past midday. aemond was nowhere to be seen, and you were certain he was probably off training somewhere.
your lips twisted in displeasure, the thought that you were abandoning ser mark for this terror one of pure unbridled anger. no words left your lips as the chaos ensued around you, and it wasn’t until your mother caught onto the sight of your silver curls and golden dress that she finally let go of all the tension that was building up in her shoulders.
alicent turned to ser criston and said a few more words before stalking over to you, her face a mask of anger as her dress billowed behind her in a storming fury. “where in the sevens name have you been?” she seethed, grabbing onto your upper arm with malice. her nails dug into your skin, and you felt a hiss leave your lips as she started tugging you towards the pavilion. “i’ve been worried off my wits for hours!”
a roll of your eyes had alicent digging her nails harder into your upper arm, leaving a gasp of pain to breach through your mouth. “don’t give me attitude, or i swear to the seven, i will send you to oldtown to become a septa!”
“i was on the cliffside by blackwater bay,” you mumbled, tripping over your slippers as your feet slid on the grass. “i laid ser mark to rest. a feat none of the imbeciles in this gods forsaken realm had the honour to do.”
a drunken laugh was heard from your left, your head whipping to the side to encounter a drunk yet somewhat coherent aegon. a lazy smirk was thrown on his face, disgust rolling in your gut as he eyed you up and down with the lustful eyes of a snake. “what’s with your incessant need to drone on about that mullendore nobody?” aegon slurred, gaze landing on your breasts with a smirk. “a good fuck would do you good. get your mind off that animal. you know which chambers to come to if you need aiding between your thighs, sister.”
“focus on your wife, you drunken craven!” a gasped yell left your lips, ripping your arm out of your mothers hold to charge at aegon. “and don’t speak of ser mark again! or i will cut off your cock and feed it to-“
“woah there, m’lady.” arms wrapped around your waist in a firm grip, your body spinning as the perpetrator pulled you away from aegon’s grinning frame. your arms clawed at your brother, glaring daggers and yelling curse words at aegon as the mystery man held you in a firm grip. “you mustn’t make a scene.”
a half scoff, half snort left your lips, spinning your head to glare at the stupid hedge knight who dare speak to you in such way. why wasn’t anyone stepping in? why wasn’t your mother calling the kings guard to unhand this treasonous man from you? it was all blinding, and you couldn’t help the sneer that blanketed your words.
“pardon me, ser. but if you don’t mind letting me the fuck go.” the words died in your throat as your lilac gaze caught onto that of warm brown, alabaster skin marred with freckles and soft auburn hair the only thing in your sight as you took in your captor. you knew now why your mother or the kings guard hadn’t acted, for the man holding you was non other than your uncle gwayne, proud knight of oldtown and a man you hadn’t seen since your tenth name day.
he’s grown in the decade since you last saw him. sharper, acute, and definitely more handsome than before. his eyes were wide, taking you in with a startled smile that rendered you speechless. he held you firm around the waist, fingers digging into the divots in your back as he pulled you away from aegon’s giggling frame. you could hear your mother sigh behind you, her fingers most definitely pinching her nose in exasperation.
“can you ever be proper, my dear?” she asked in a withered breath, auburn hair billowing behind her in the wind as she glared at aegon with sharp eyes. “gwayne. you can let my daughter go. and aegon. one more word from you and i’m enlisting constant surveillance around your chambers.”
aegon’s drunken protests were sparked on deaf ears as gwayne squeezed the flesh of your hips, smiling at you dashingly before letting you go all together. you fixed your wind swept silver curls, cursing yourself for deciding to go with your hair down today for it now resembled a birds nest. your lips blew at strands as you smoothed them down your head, doing the same motion to your rumpled dress before placing your hands on your hips and staring at gwayne with eyes thinned into slits.
“what are you doing here, dear uncle?” you asked suspiciously, watching as gwayne fixed his chest plate with a boyish grin. “you should be holding down the fort in oldtown. not halting me from attacking my disgrace of a brother.”
gwayne only laughed at your accusation, shaking his auburn hair out of his eyes before looking you up and down swiftly. it wasn’t leering or lustful in the way that aegon did it. gwayne seemed to be sweeping you for injuries, making sure his firm hold on you from earlier hadn’t harmed you.
“your mother hasn’t told you, i presume?” he questioned, looking past your shoulder to alicent with a raised brow. you whipped around at his remark, taking in your mothers too stoic face and knowing she was about to be the harbinger of bad news.
with another sigh, alicent reached forward and placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing lightly before explaining what your uncle had meant. “i know you’ve been heartbroken by the sudden passing of ser mark,” she responded, his name on her tongue shooting a pang of sadness to your heart. “but you need a protector, my dear. you can’t go around unsupervised.”
gears starting winding and turning in your brain; gwayne’s sudden appearance. why he had rushed to save you when you charged aegon. it was all starting to make sense, and the realization had you letting out a dry, humorous laugh.
“no.” you stated firmly, moving your head back and forth between alicent and gwayne, taking in your mothers firm yet motherly stare and your uncles apathetic eyes. “mother! you’ve got to be joking.”
alicent squeezed your shoulder tighter, nails digging into the blade as a warning to stop acting like a brat. after five kids you would’ve thought she was trained well in deflating their temper tantrums, but you and your siblings all had targaryen blood running through your veins, and nothing could stop the swell of wrath that sparked when any of you got mad.
“it needs to be done,” alicent responded, looking around to see if anyone had caught onto the crowned princess throwing a fit. “ser mark had passed, and i trust little in the kings guard by my own sworn protector. gwayne is a fine enough choice, and he took this role was grace and apathy.”
you only scoffed, ripping your shoulder out of your mothers hold to spin around on your uncle. he stared at you wide eyed, taking in the fiery lilac embers of your eyes and the wild untamed energy that radiated off of you in waves. “ser mark just perished not even a fortnight ago,” you quipped, rounding on gwayne with the predatory act of a dragon. “you dare steal a dead man’s position?”
“there’s little to steal, princess.” ser criston thought it perfect to put in his two cents, a sneer sucker punching itself across your face as you whirled on him in fury. “he’s passed. the position isn’t his anymore.”
“i’m sorry, who the fuck asked for your opinion?” alicent gasped at your language, her cheeks flaming in anger. gwayne tried to hide his snicker, agreeing with you on your hatred for the knight. he’s heard about ser criston’s lack of honourable behaviour, detesting him for breaking his vows and becoming the thing the warrior would loath.
a crack sounded through the air as alicent slapped you across the cheek, your head snapping sideways as a red hot print latched itself onto your skin. a gasp was heard from her brother behind you, yet no reaction came your way, your head turning back to your mother as she glared at you deeply.
“you watch your tone, young lady. and stop acting like a petulant child.” her words were sharp, cutting into your skin like glass. you just glared at your mother, seeing the deepness of her aversion towards who you really were. alicent never really saw you, and because of this, she never saw your relationship with ser mark, not understanding why appointing you a new protector so soon made you upset.
a silence blankets over your small gathering, the only noise being the merchants and nobles wandering around camp. you just stare defiantly at your mother, waiting for her to make the next move.
alicent only sighs for the umpteenth time, looking past you to her brother who is wide eyed at the display you and your mother just made. “gwayne. please escort my daughter back to her chambers. she’s had a rough morning, and i think some rest would do her good.”
your defiant stare turns into an open gaping mouth, wide eyed and angry as your mother turns her back on you to talk again with ser criston. it was heartbreaking, being on the receiving end of your mother’s indifference. she only seemed to care for helaena these days, her favouritism clear as she shooed you away to your chambers on your own name day.
a soft hand blanketed your shoulder, the feeling almost comforting as you whirled around to see gwayne looking at you sadly, a soft smile on his lips that showed how much care he held for you.
“come, sweet niece,” he whispered, trying his best to keep his words low and out of earshot of alicent and ser criston. “let’s get you back to your chambers. i know you detest this tourney anyways.”
the kindness of his words seeped into your bones, making a warmth bloom underneath your skin. gwayne was always kind. he never picked favourites like your mother did, doling out his affections for each of his nieces and nephews evenly. if ser mark’s death wasn’t weighing heavy on your chest, you would’ve been glad that gwayne was your new protector, for his knightly virtues and honourable behaviour made him a good man.
with a defiant huff, you pushed aside that warmth in your chest, remembering ser mark and how it was supposed to be him with you right now. you fluttered past gwayne with the grace of a disgruntled fairy, dress swishing behind you as the wind lifted your silver hair.
gwayne hurried after you in measured steps, his armour clanking as he tried to keep your pace. nobles and common folk looked on earnestly and confused as the young princess tore through the camp grounds, her exasperated uncle following behind her. it was a sight for sore eyes, the whispers starting to already form.
“it’s been a while since i’ve made your acquaintance, princess.” gwayne’s voice was smooth, his attempt at trying to form small talk making you irritable. “you’ve grown into a fine young lady since our last meeting.”
“i was ten when i last encountered you,” the words that came out of your mouth were clipped, your head turning to the side to eye gwayne as you continued to walk towards the red keep. “it would be concerning if i didn’t grow.”
a huff of laughter left gwayne’s lips, his arms placed demurely behind his back. “you’re quick to wit, dear princess. i must say though, it evades my memory if you were always this smart tongued as a child.”
it was easily detectable to see the prying of gwayne’s questions, how he inquired cryptically on your upbringing, wondering on the difference between you then and you ten years later. a raise of your brow showed your knowledge of gwayne’s ulterior motives, your face passive as the red keep’s scarlet bricks came into view.
“growing up in my family leaves you moving down one of two paths,” you responded, the bustling sounds of stable boys and maids hitting your ears the closer you got to the castles yawning mouthed entrance. “either you become quiet and meek, or you become steeled and hardened. i learned early on the quietness gets you nowhere in life, so being a cruel bitch must do.”
a soft silence came over both you and your uncle, the only sound being the howling wind ghosting through your ears and over your skin. you looked over to gwayne to see a mask of thoughtfulness over his usual muted expression, his eyebrows drawn tight as he bit his lip and stared down at the rubbled sand beneath his feet.
“i don’t think your cruel.” gwayne’s words were finite, his bitten lip twisting as he stared head of you towards the halls of the red keep. “mouthy? yes. headstrong? definitely. but not cruel.”
laughter left you in a quick, loud shout, your head thrown back in merriment as gwayne stared at you with a smile, a soft yet quizzical look on his face. “what’s so funny, princess?”
“i’m sorry, uncle. it’s just that no one has ever spoken of me in such manner.” you grinned at him as you continued walking, silently taking in his ethereal beauty. gwayne was seriously gorgeous, and you realized that you don’t recall what he looked like from when you were ten. the only image you have of him is gwayne now; a godly beauty that is steadfast and strong in his words and actions.
it was refreshing, how gwayne didn’t diminish you like aegon did with his lewd words, or how he didn’t ignore your requests like your mother did. you weren’t fond of him taking ser mark’s place, but you could see yourself warming up to him in the future. for now, you’d stew in your anger, for it’s the only way you could hold onto your best friends memory.
gwayne shook his head, a grin on his face that rivalled the brightness of the sun. you could tell you were getting closer to your chambers, and some deep part of you didn’t want this conversation to end. “that’s too bad,” gwayne responded, spine straight and poise in a knightly manor. “i’m honoured to be the first one to acknowledge your kindness.”
“kindness?” you snorted, ignoring the spark of warmth that ignited in your stomach at gwayne’s words. “dear uncle, you just held me back from attacking my brother. how is that me demonstrating acts of kindness?”
a mask of displeasure twisted over gwayne’s face as you mentioned aegon, a soft sneer igniting on his lips that made you hold back a smirk. “don’t mouth this off to anyone but me, but aegon is far from honourable, and if your mother or that craven ser criston weren’t there, i would’ve let you get a few scratches in.”
more laughter danced from your lips, the knowledge that gwayne hated ser criston just as much as you did brightening. you spotted your chamber doors in the distance, sighing as you could now finally get some peace and quiet. talking to your uncle was all nice, yet the toll of putting ser mark to rest started weighing heavy on you, leaving your bones weary and your body in need of rest.
“well, i’m glad to hear that you’re on my side, dear uncle. but i fear it’s time for me to retire.” you stopped in front of your door with a wave of exhaustion, your eyes tired and your quick whit dwindling. gwayne only bowed his head in response, grabbing your free hand that wasn’t reaching for the door handle to bring it up to his mouth.
the kiss he placed on the back of your hand was delicate, one that sent shivers wracking through your bones. in this moment, it was hard to see this man as your uncle. in this moment, all you could see was a dashing man who treated you with respect. one who cherished you.
his lips lingered on your skin, their warmth leaving you in a trance even as he pulled away, staring at you with kind eyes.
“get some rest, darling niece.” he whispered, a unfamiliar cherry blush dancing across your cheeks. “and sorry for the loss of your old protector. i remember you mentioning his name was mark mullendore, and i can’t help but think back to meeting him at a tourney.” a smile dusted his lips, one of remembrance and good memories. “he was a fine knight, and i hope to protect and keep you unharmed to the degree that he upheld.”
with a reverent nod of his head, gwayne spun on his heel and moved back down the hall, your eyes following his purposeful gait before he turned a corner and you lost him.
something deep furled in your gut, and you didn’t know if it was his acknowledgement of ser mark, something not one singular person had done since his death, or that gwayne seemed steadfast in his protection of you. he was always a noble man, a follower of the seven and honourable enough to cover a whole army, but something in his words left tingles in your veins, a feeling you hadn’t felt since you developed a silly crush on a kitchen boy when you were twelve.
your hand clutched tightly onto the door handle of your chamber, mind reeling with emotions that hadn’t been unearthed since you were a girl. what you were feeling was dulcet, but it was forbidden, and that made your stomach clench so tight, you felt like you were going to be sick.
“seven hells.” you breathed, throwing your chamber door open and slamming it in a fellow swoosh, your body flinging itself onto your bed in agony.
Summary: After a poll I did, obsessed Aerion x Velaryon reader was the most voted! The reader is one of the last Velaryon's (I know they died out by AKOTSK but the request was specific so let's pretend), Aerion loses his mind when you are betrothed to his cousin, Valarr.
Warning: Irratic love, but not as far as I could have gone, mentions of death, unhealthy attachments.
Reblogs, comments and likes are very appreciated :)
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Aerion Targaryen’s obsession with you was the furthest thing to a secret. He did not care that all within the realm knew; he wanted them to. He needed them to.
You, one of the two last living Velaryon’s, were seen as precious by all within the kingdom. Though Aerion regarded you as the most important woman to walk the land; the most vital human to ever exist. Not because of your name, or your dying house, but because of you as a person.
His obsession with you started when you were children, and at no point in either of your life times did he ever bother to hide it.
Entertainers sung the tale to all, even in the free cities, for the tale of the bonded dragons intrigued all that had ears to hear.
The songs, contrarily, were once only written of you. You were the subject of them in their entirety- your beauty, your grace, your flowing hair, your sweet ways. The Prince, naturally, was angered by the songs. The mere thought of another man writing songs of your beauty ignited a fire within him.
And so, driven by both fume and jealously, Aerion made it his mission to destroy said songs, and ensure that afterwards there were little trace of them ever existing in the first place. He sent men, unbeknownst to his father, to travel to every place known to man- including Dorne and the free cities, and apprehend any singer who dared to sing of the song of you.
The writer of the song, a random Westerosi singer, found himself captured. Though, Aerion did not kill him- no. Instead, he forced him to rewrite the song- one where it spoke of Prince Brightflame and his obsessive love for you. Aerion thought it was a perfect idea- not only would the song proclaim his love for you, but would also act as a warning for anyone whom dared to think of you as available.
Aerion wanted the reality to be that if anyone even thought of you for a split second, he would appear in their mind shortly after.
Because there was no you without him. And there was no him without you.
You loved him, of course. There was no possible way that you wouldn’t. You had been born together, and you had grown together. You had been conditioned to adore him as he did you.
Admittedly, however, you were not as obnoxiously vocal about it. You were not vocal about anything, unless you were alone with him. That was the only time that you felt as though you could truly be yourself.
There was one common theme that held itself firmly throughout your life, and that was your lack of opinion. You had one, of course. In fact, you had many. Yet all but one person, regardless of how much they claimed to love you, or care for you, cared to listen to how you felt.
And that was something that niggled at your brain while the son shone, and while the moon beamed.
Everyone spoke of how precious you were, yet no one seemed to think of your emotions as equally as precious. You felt as though you were an object- something that in your eyes, was unforgivable.
Aerion the cruel, some called him. Aerion Brightflame: the Prince whom cared for none but himself.
Those people were wrong.
He cared for himself- yes. But he cared for you more. Aerion was the one human being that actually cared for your feelings, your opinions, your worries, your likes, your dislikes. He would sit for hours on end, while you lay your head on his lap and spoke and spoke and spoke. His fingertips would gently massage your scalp as you offloaded your worries onto him, and he did everything he could possibly do to take those very worries and keep them for himself.
Your words, regardless of tone or subject, were like honey to his ears- as sweet as sweet could possibly be.
As you both grew older, you knew that your betrothal would be pending.
Aerion never worried as you did; he viewed the matter as simple. You would marry him, of course. That would be the only option.
You knew it more complicated than that. You, an object, would be bound to a political arrangement, and although marrying Aerion would be politically favoured, you knew that he would not be the first option.
He was too clouded by love to understand that.
Part of you wondered why you would be forced into such a situation, for regardless you would not carry the Velaryon name onwards, only your brother could do that. Surely, his betrothal would be much more important than your own.
Of all your worries, this was the one that tapped at your brain the most. Ironically, this was also the one worry that Aerion refused to listen to.
“Ridiculousness, my love.” He would respond every time you brought it up, in a quiet and hushed tone. Ritually, he would then kiss your forehead, and hold you tighter.
Then one day, Aerion’s delusional bubble burst when he was informed that you were be betrothed to his cousin, Valarr Targaryen.
Aerion had left his chambers in search of you. As he walked down the spiralled stairs, he came face to face with his father, Maekar, whom had a strange look upon his face and stood before him as though he had something to say. Aerion’s brows raised in anticipation.
“Aerion, I must speak with you.”
“It will wait, father.” Aerion said, his boredom growing with each millisecond. “I have more pressing matters to attend to.”
Both parties knew that the pressing matter was in fact, just to see you.
“It shan’t wait, boy.” Maekar sighed, before turning Aerion around and guiding him back to the room in which he came from.
Maekar, aware of the coming moments, closed the door behind him and stood blocking it.
“You will not marry her.” Maekar’s words blurted from him, for he knew better than to dance around the matter.
Aerion almost laughed in response, the ridiculousness of his father’s words making little to no sense to him. Yet, his face stiffened when he realised that Maekar’s meaning was true.
“She will marry Valarr. He is better suited.”
The dragon within Aerion screamed, and with that, so did he.
Maeker watched as his son proceeded to grab objects and throw them at both the window and the walls. The glass of the window shattered loudly as a frame was tossed towards it. Once the smaller objects had been broken, he turned to the larger ones, such as his bed.
Once calmer, he turned to his father. “Does she know?” His teeth stayed clenched together as he spoke.
Maekar shook his head. “No. We shall tell her on the morrow,” he plucked a feather from the seam of his leg, “I thought it best that you were informed separately.”
And with that, he left.
Aerion, of course, ran directly towards your chambers to inform you.
You had begun to worry, for usually he came to you much earlier. As you sat on your furs, pouting like a child who had lost a game, a loud flurry of knocks caused you to jump out of your skin. Though you felt calmer once you heard Aerion call your name, even though his tone sounded desperate.
You swung the heavy door open as quickly as you could, and in front of you was a panting, red version of the Prince. Beads of sweat coated the top of his head, and he looked as though he would burst into tears at any given moment.
Your brows furrowed, and naturally, your body reached out for him.
“What ever is the matter?”
You pulled him in by the fabric of his cloak and shut the door behind him.
“You are to marry Valarr.” His words exited him loudly, and caused you to gasp. Your heart dropped within your chest, and your toes suddenly felt numb.
You liked Valarr, of course. He was kind, exceptionally so. He was pleasant, and funny, and gentle. But he was not Aerion. He was not the love of your life. He was absolutely not the man that you had spent your entire life imagining a future with.
You could not help but feel like your extended family had made such a damning decision with thoughts of power and politics, with no regards of the torment that Valarr would now have to endure at the hands of his cousin.
The whole realm knew of Aerion’s love for you, and they have seen it first hand throughout your entire lives, and yet still they made such a poor decision, without even thinking of consulting you first. You wondered if Valarr even knew of the betrothal.
You had never seen Aerion portray such a sad anger. You had seen him when he had been seething, of course, most people within the realm had. This anger was different, this was an anger carried entirely by disappointment and hopelessness. This was an anger fuelled by something that he had never considered possible; the complete and utter betrayal of his own family.
You watched as the Prince paced your large room, talking aloud- yet mostly to himself- of possible options going forward, each one making less sense than the last.
You gulped and decided that you needed only one thing in that moment: wine, and lots of it.
You sprung upwards from your bed, the fur atop it rippling at your sudden movement, and crossed the room to your dresser. On top of the dresser sat a large jug of Dornish red, and two diamond encrusted cups beside it. You filled both of them to the brim and turned back around to find Aerion still walking upwards and downwards.
You held your right hand out and signalled the cup towards him. He did not see it initially, and although it only having been a moment, you lacked patience. Tutting at his lack of awareness, you gulped your entire cup. The liquid burned as it crashed down your throat, giving you a brief moment of calmness.
Your gulps seemed to bring Aerion back to your world, and he stopped abruptly to take the cup from your hands, then proceeded to drink the wine with as much haste as you had moments before.
He used his sleeve to wipe the remaining droplets that coated his lips, and held the cup out at you again, signalling for another.
“What are we to do?” You sighed, filling the cups once more. Aerion was already looking at you when you turned around, his teeth still gritted and his skin having turned a slight shade of pink.
He shook his head, seemingly showing that he had no idea what they were to do about the situation.
“Put them down.” He instructed, peering down at the cups in your hands. You did as you were told.
Once your hands were free, Aerion crossed the small space between you and held both sides of your face with his hands.
“I would rather die than see another man claim you.” His words were firm, and cold. His eyes stared into yours, almost as a way to convey the message subconsciously as well as verbally.
You knew that he meant it.
You kept your gaze locked onto his as you raised both of your own hands to his wrists, and held them firmly in place.
“I too would rather die than be without you, Aerion.”
Your words cracked his heart clean in half, causing his eyes to flutter closed for a moment, and forget his growing anger, even if only for a brief time.
“Whatever happens from now, you will never be without me.”
And so, the following night consisted of very little sleep for the both of you. You could not stop the ongoing sea of tears that flowed from your eyes, every thought of helplessness and forced marital circumstances meant that you cried more and more. By the time the sun had risen and the birds began to sing, your eyes were stained, red and puffy. You wished to stay in your chambers for all of eternity, never wanting anyone to view you in this way.
With your tears, Aerion’s fume grew stronger. Aerion, who barely felt sadness, realised that this may be the most somber he had ever been. Although, his sadness manifested itself firmly within his rage. He lay there, all night, holding you as tightly as possible, listening to your cries. Something had to be done. He just was unsure as to what could be done.
People came knocking the entire morning in the hopes to get you ready for the lunch in which you would inevitably be told that you have been sold off. Yet, you had no interest. Aerion reassured you that no one would come to forcibly take you, which you knew to be true. No one would dare place their hands on the Velaryon Princess.
You wondered where your brother was, and why no one seemed to care that the man whom would carry on the Velaryon name was no where to be seen while his little sister was a pawn in a political game.
That was the thing with men, they could do what they wanted.
Idiots.
A loud knock rang throughout your room, one that could not possibly be issued by a servant or handmaid. One that made Aerion shoot up from the bed and stand to attention.
“Open the door, Y/N.”
Baelor’s voice made itself apparent.
You shot a brief look at Aerion, whom was already looking at you. He placed a hand on yours and squeezed.
“She has been taken ill.” Aerion called back. “We are not accepting visitors.”
“Open the fucking door.” Maekar called, lacking formalities as usual.
Begrudgingly, Aerion opened the large door, allowing both his father and uncle to walk through.
“Why do you think it appropriate to be here? Why do you think it appropriate to command men to write yours and her name all over the walls of the castle!”
Your head cocked slightly, and despite your tears, you felt the need to laugh at Aerion’s childish actions.
“She is my woman, that seems entirely appropriate to me. Why do you think it appropriate to promise her to another?”
You watched hopelessly as Aerion and his father took part in a heated exchange, neither party listening to the other. You had not realised the tears that began to cascade down your face, your skin numb enough to not register the warm feeling of the liquid.
“Look at what you have done to her!” Aerion exclaimed, pointing to you. He then sat next to you, and placed both arms around you.
Baelor and Maekar exchanged a look of unease, seemingly and stupidly not foreseeing the reaction that would entail.
“Y/N,” Baelor began, ensuring that the room was silenced before continuing, “this is a duty, one that you must accept.”
His eyes were kind, as always. Yet, that did not stop them from cutting through you like a knife. Aerion scoffed.
“No.” You said simply.
All eyes widened, never had you ever denied anything. Ever.
“No?”
“No. I will not marry Valarr.”
Your tears finally stopped, and you used the sleeve of your night down to rub the remaining ones from your cheeks.
“You do not understand.” Maekar said.
“I understand very well. I have always done what is expected of me. Now, it is my brother’s turn.” You stood up, and used both hands to part through the men whom stood in the way of the cups upon your dressing table. They allowed you to pass, and so you picked up your warm wine and sipped it slower than before.
“Find my brother, the true Velaryon, and allow me to be with the only man I have ever loved.” You looked into Baelor’s eyes with a pleading look. “Please.”
“If I must beg, I will.” Aerion’s voice cut through the brief silence. “I will not watch her marry Valarr, you know that I will not.”
“Then perhaps we shall remove you.” Maekar retorted.
“Then perhaps we shall both be gone before you have the chance.” Aerion shot back instantly.
Maekar shook his head, knowing the seriousness of the threat.
Ignoring his son’s comment entirely, he responded, “come and discuss this further,” he then turned to you, “you stay here and get dressed.”
“No, from now, until there is a solution, we shan’t be separated at all.”
You could not help but smile at Aerion’s words.
“Fucking hopeless.” His father grimaced. Baelor stayed silent, yet allowed a small nod and the two men left, the door shut heavily behind them, causing a thud to echo through the room.
“I love you.” You told him as you looked up. Aerion, now strangely much calmer, leant down and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, and then on your lips.
“I love you.”
Naively, the two of you felt hopeful. You believed that there would be little to no chance of a potential marriage with Valarr after your exchange, but unfortunately, it was not as easy as it seemed.
That evening, you entered the hall. Many people sat in attendance, and as you realised quite how many people there were, your heart began to thunder. You walked arm in arm with Aerion, who noticed your sudden nervousness and used a hand to pat your arm. The room was silent as you walked, so much so that every step was heard. People whom you did not recognise looked at you both wearily. You could not have cared less about their opinions.
Aerion had a plan- not a great one, mind. One that even you were not aware of.
Looking over at the Targaryen’s, your family, you noticed Valarr before anyone else. He looked more anxious than you and Aerion combined.
Aerion carefully pulled out your chair for you, and with a shaky breath, you slowly sat upon it. Valarr sat beside you, which was something that Aerion could not and would not allow.
He glared down at his cousin. “Move.”
Valarr looked up at him, and then down to the audience whom watched the tense exchange, and then back up at Aerion.
“Now.” Aerion said through gritted teeth.
You could not help but notice the reaction of both Aerion’s brothers; Daeron, probably already intoxicated, rolled his eyes. Aegon, his youngest brother looked worried.
Baelor sighed as he watched his son do as he was told, standing up and moving so that Aerion could sit next to you.
For what felt like an eternity, Baelor spoke to his guests about loyalty, togetherness and all other irrelevant things that strayed from the point of the gathering.
“It is with great spirit, that I announce my son’s marriage to Y/N.”
The hall did not cheer, they did not even force a smile. For they knew the consequence of such a decision.
Aerion growled, before throwing his cup of wine across the table. The sudden movement caused you to jump slightly.
“No, no, no.” Each no grew louder. Without thinking, he stood up abruptly. Valarr seemed to wince from across the large table. You kept your gaze downwards, playing with a piece of fabric that had come loose on the hem of the tablecloth.
“I told you in private and I will now tell you with an audience that I will not,” his fist slammed onto the table below, “allow her to be married to another man. She is mine. No one else’s. Mine.”
Some people whispered in disbelief, some people showed no reaction at all, expecting nothing less from Prince Brightflame.
“Even people in the free cities sing the tale of our love.” Aerion said, more so to the strangers watching than the family whom he truly spoke to.
He risked bringing shame to you, but you did not care. In fact, it was possibly the last thing in the world you could have cared for.
“Stop talking before you bring shame to us all.” Maekar seethed, attempting to control his anger.
Aerion let out a loud laugh. “You think that I care for shame?”
Without thinking, Aerion lingered above you, looking down at you. “I love this woman more than I have ever and will ever love anything in the world, and if that brings shame to us both, then so be it.”
And with that, with all people of importance as a witness, he forcefully untucked your chair with you still in it, and turned the chair so that he had better access to you. Bending down, he used one hand to hold your neck lightly, and slammed his lips onto yours in a passionate kiss.
You heard the gasps, you heard the curses, yet all you felt was pure bliss.
You did not care to be seen as shameful, you did not care to be exiled. All you cared for was him, and the way his lips and body felt like home to you.
Description: House Hightower secures an alliance with the Roses. They underestimate your allegiance to the rightful queen. (Ormund Hightower kidnaps you and forces you into a marriage to control your lands.)
Pairing: ormund hightower/rose!reader (oc house)
The first hour of the battle was filled with arrows aimed down at the Hightower troops. By the second hour, your advisors had demanded for your escape to the crypts.
And now you have no idea how long it has been.
Now, you were kept with the women and children in the crypts.
Two of your guards were standing beside the door leading up to the spiral staircase—that was the only way out of here, and you prayed the Hightowers would not find it.
Your mind drifted towards the battle above you.
You wanted nothing more than to fight alongside your soldiers. Alas, you had no skill with a sword. You were raised to be a wife—to rule your husband's castle. Your uncle did not have the foresight to predict his family's doom. He did not think that his little niece would end up ruling.
We make do with what we have.
The battle has been raging for half a day now, and it has shown no signs of stopping.
The Hightowers have a dragon. Your teeth burrow into your cheeks.
Fort Rosebush might be impenetrable against men—it has protected your house against invaders, but to put it up against a dragon? Your ancestors decided to kneel rather than find out.
And you have no desire to see your keep in ruins.
You glanced at your people in front of you.
The women were huddled in a corner—it was the farthest corner from the door. The hallways of the crypts were littered with people. Some exchanged knowing glances, their mouths dry with fear.
The room smelled like concrete and mold; the river brings water through the tunnel when it rains. Your people cannot stay here for long.
"You need not fear the battle." You opened your mouth to speak.
They turned their heads to look at you.
"They will not harm you or your children." You promised.
"And what of our husbands?" A bright-eyed woman asks.
"They stand guard to protect our lands; the enemy seeks to burn our crops and enslave our people. We cannot yield," you answer.
Your presence seemed to satisfy them, for now.
The heat and the constant mental torment will turn them against you. It is only a matter of time—once they realize that they are stronger than the two guards who were standing watch, they will do anything in their power to storm the spiral staircases and side with the enemy.
Anything to save their skin. You mused.
But you cannot blame them.
They are merely smallfolk caught in your highborn games.
You sink into the floor, sitting beside Ser Arlan.
He gives you a comforting smile before returning to his guard.
What did you do for the gods to grant you such misfortune?
Half a year ago, your family had been struck by an unnameable disease—all of your lord-uncle's sons had fallen to their graves. Your cousins, your sweet cousins, had died in pain, clawing at their necks as the heat from their fever grew too heavy for their lungs.
Theirs was a slow death.
Cousin Alastair was taken by some malady. He vomited blood for an entire month. His stomach could not handle any food, not even the rice porridge that Old Diana had fed all your sick cousins. He'd puke after every meal, and by the end of the month, you figured that he had already vomited out his entire stomach.
Alastair was the last.
Now all that is left is you.
You are the Lady of House Rose. Your seat is Fort Rosebush. It is your duty to protect these lands and their people.
And you will.
Even if it takes all that you have.
It was the Hour of the Wolf when you heard ragged footsteps going down the spiral staircase.
Round and round and round until you could hear them land on the floor.
"Who is there?" Ser Arlan asks as another knight shook you awake.
"It is Ser Frederick," a weak voice answered. "—where is the Lady Rose?"
"I am here," your voice was hoarse, muffled by the steel doors.
Your eyebrows furrowed in concern; the sound of battle still rang from above you. All hope must be lost if Ser Frederick sought retreat here.
Your lips pressed into a thin line as you thought about the final stand.
"My lady, we must surrender!" he bellowed.
"Lord Hightower says he'll flood the crypts through the rivers!" He adds.
That was all it took for the steel doors to open wide.
"I thought the Tyrells were the only ones who used roses for their sigil," Prince Daeron says while pressing his dagger to your neck.
You glanced at him using your periphery.
He looks so much like Rhaenyra in this light—his soft button nose and his petulant scowl. You are bitterly reminded of how you're trapped in the Royal family's crosshairs. It is a war between a single family, yet your people are the ones suffering.
You forced yourself to look forwards, your eyes meeting Ormund's.
"The Tyrells are more thorns than roses; your uncle knows that." You glared at him.
Your men fought valiantly—but they were no match for the might of Tessarion. Hundreds of your men were engulfed in flames in the first hour of the battle; then, as the hours dragged on, you had no other choice but to surrender.
They threatened to drown you.
"—Is that why you are here? Because the Warden would much rather starve us to death than choose a side." Your eyebrows furrowed, feeling the dagger press harder.
"The King sent you a letter asking for your loyalty in exchange for Highgarden." Ormund opened his mouth to speak.
You fancied him in some twisted way when you were younger. Air always seemed to shift its weight when he drew near. But he was cruel.
Ormund takes a step forward.
"I don't agree with his terms, and it's too late to agree to them now." He teases. The only reason that you were offered Highgarden was because of your Gardener Blood, that and Fort Rosebush's position between the Westerlands and Riverrun. He begrudgingly tolerated the ordeal.
You rolled your eyes at his statement.
"I have no desire to have my head on a spike before supper," you scoffed. Daeron pressed his dagger closer to your neck, drawing blood. His uncle raised a hand, motioning for him to stop, and he did.
You breathe a momentary sigh of relief.
"Be thankful that I ignored the usurper," you insulted.
“You will watch your tongue. He is your king,” Ormund corrects with a cold stare.
“—The Tyrells might not command a dashing army, but they control our storages. A single word from them could plunge us into famine. Your dragons know nothing but to ruin the lands; they will not feed us when winter comes.” You warned, echoing the words of your forefathers.
There is a moment of silence between you three.
Ormund takes another step forward, and you gaze up at him.
You've been aware of the darkness inside of him ever since you were a little girl serving as handmaiden to his lady-mother. There has always been an unspeakable cruelty hiding behind his green irises. The fact that he is glaring at you right now does nothing to ease that fear.
He could kill you. Strike you dead.
But there were also fates more terrible than death...
“You may kill me now.” You nodded your head after a moment of thinking. There was no way in the seven hells that you would kneel for Aegon—he’s spent too much time in Flea Bottom to earn your respect.
Ormund scoffs.
“The Mother tells men to protect the weary and the innocent.” He recites a vow from the Seven Gods. He looks down at you, catching a whiff of your floral scent—Roses and peonies. He makes a mental note.
You could never forget the look in his eyes as he looked down on you.
His eyes were filled with wroth and ungodly lust.
Lord Ormund held you captive—imprisoned in Oldtown.
You were lucky enough not to spend your days in the underground cells. Instead, you were imprisoned in your chambers.
Every morning, a septa would arrive for your morning prayers. Every night before you slept, a maester would force you to read a passage from the list of prayers.
You had nothing to do but pray, weave, and read.
Sometimes you'd stare off to the far east and dream of Rosebush.
How long has it been? You asked.
It's been six moons—it feels much longer.
Your eyelids fluttered gently as you continued reading the passage.
You wanted to sleep hours ago, but the maester was caught up in his work; he had almost forgotten about you.
"Your uncle did not pay his tithes; that is why your house perished." The Maester opened his mouth to speak.
Your eyebrows furrowed.
What is this old cunt talking about? Your lips pressed into a thin line.
He's been trying to get under your skin for a while now, but you've always kept your thoughts to yourself. There was no need to argue over something that the Maester had already decided to himself about.
"Lord Ormund has taken Rosebush as payment," he continued.
Your eyes widened ever so slightly.
"It's not his to take as payment," you snapped—though your words meant nothing to the older man.
"What belongs to the gods must be surrendered to the gods." He replied calmly, leaving no room for discussion.
A scowl painted your face as you continued to read.
Old fucking miserable cunt. You cursed him in your mind.
One day I'll get out of here, and I'll get my retribution.
Since the moment you assumed ladyship of your lands, you had been met with disagreement. The men of your uncle's council believed that you were not fit to rule—that there was no world in which a woman could have the wisdom to rule her lands.
You know what it feels like to be doubted and robbed just because of your womanhood. And now, like Rhaenyra, you know how it feels to be usurped.
“I am done reading, maester.” You said with practiced coldness. "—Call my maidens to prepare my bath." You commanded.
I will not cower at the sight of my enemies. I will return home, even if it is the last thing that I do.
The water felt tepid against your body.
You've been here for half a year, yet Lord Ormund hasn't spoken to you—he must keep you here for a reason. You are the last of your name. If he wants to conquer Rosebush in the King's name, you are his hope.
Your mind drifts to Rhaenyra.
When you were a young girl, you were sent to stay with Cousin Orly in Kingslanding. Your father had recently perished in a hunting accident—your grandfather could not be bothered to take care of you. You were a child, not yet ripe for marriage. Your presence in Rosebush would be a conflict to your uncle's inevitable reign and so, you were sent away.
Cousin Orly was initially kind.
In the beginning, he treated you like his own daughter.
He was one of Princess Rhaenyra's suitors—he'd follow her like the stars following the moon, but she did not choose him. He came from a noble house, but he was a blind believer of the faith. He did not have the fire that the princess was looking for, so Cousin Orly ended up marrying a comely girl named Ashara from Starfall.
The marriage was unhappy.
Cousin Orly slowly became cruel and manipulative.
He grew to raise a hand against you.
You remember seeking refuge with Princess Rhaenyra.
"And who are you?" She asked with a kind smile.
To a girl who was ten—the Princess looked like a goddess.
She was fair-faced and beautiful. She had a crooked nose that amplified her beauty, and her pale alabaster hair made her face shine in the sun. She was beautiful. She was enchanting. She looked like the princess in your novels, and you were in awe of her.
You looked down on the floor and meekly muttered your name.
"Why are you crying?" she inquires while wrapping you in a warm embrace.
You do not remember what you said—only that you told her about Cousin Orly. The next day, your cousin was sent to his death, not because he hurt you, but because the crown found evidence of treason.
After that, Queen Alicent graciously offered a place in Oldtown as her aunt's handmaiden. That is where you first met Ormund—he was handsome. He had beautiful curls and a muscular physique that had everyone swooning. Now he's the devil.
Those days will never return again.
You are trapped in Oldtown—with no plans of escape.
There are bars on your windows, and you hardly speak with the people around you.
You are a prisoner—stripped of your titles, your lands usurped.
You closed your eyes for a second.
Rhaenyra was the first person to save you, and the thought of being saved once more feels like a warm embrace.
The gods, as if hearing your plea, arranged for a meeting with Ormund. He had demanded a luncheon the following day. He invited you, but it wasn't as if you had the choice to decline his invitation.
"I hope my servants have treated you well in my absence," Ormund sits on the chair parallel to you.
The room smelled like jasmine—you could almost taste it on your tongue. The Hightowers love the smell of jasmine, but in your family, the flower means death.
"They were kind, especially the Maester." You answered sarcastically, though you doubted that he'd be able to understand.
Ormund gives you a polite smile, one that reminds you of Queen Alicent when King Viserys sits beside her.
"You must be wondering why you are here," he states the obvious.
You try your best to avoid his gaze.
He still has that same muscular physique you've once cooed at.
"Does the King still hold hope that I'd change my mind?" You ask.
"The King is...indisposed." He speaks vaguely, like he's in on a joke that you don't know the meaning of.
Why must he always speak in riddles?
"It does not matter if you change your mind. I have already convened with my council, and we have great plans for Rosebush. Your lands are in a position valuable to the Crown—and since a woman is not of sound mind and body to rule her own lands, we have decided an advantageous match for you." He speaks, his tone chastising.
"I am ten and eight. If I had any desires for marriage, I would already be married." You answered, your eyes meeting his.
"I was not asking for your opinion," he scoffs.
"—and neither was I asking for you to convene your council on my behalf." You scoff.
"Aren't you going to ask who the council has chosen to be your husband?" He inquires with an amused stare.
"Fine, who?" You rolled your eyes, at the edge of losing your temper.
Summary: The cold fire runs wild. Some might says you brought this upon yourself, but truly, what choice did you actually have?
Content: verbal abuse, physical abuse, attempted SA (not by the main love interest), canon-typical violence (blood mentioned but it doesn't get too gory), Aerion is a bad guy here, angst, arranged betrothal, forbidden romance, reader is afab, over twenty (not specified), has long-ish hair, no physical descriptions beyond that
Author's note: Please be mindful of the content warnings! There is an attempted SA scene in this chapter - I tried my best to not make it seem gratuitous and it stops before it goes too far - but it's here. Feel free to skip if you're not in the right headspace, your mental health is a priority. Other than that - whoof, this was a challenging chapter to write. I hope it works well. We're nearing the end, chapter 7 will be the last! (I might have a surprise after that but let's not get ahead of ourselves).
Chapter 6: Give me back my heart you wingless thing
If gods exist they must surely hate you. Or maybe they are simply cruel and take pleasure in your suffering.
Because how else could you explain this? How come that the last two men standing for the final duel are Lyonel and Aerion?
As if the situation wasn’t terrible enough. You’ve spent the last few hours beside prince Maekar. Just you and him, since Daeron decided to not show up. Maekar didn’t talk much and you were, frankly, very grateful for that today. Because every time you spoke you had to forcefully strip your words of the fear lingering on your tongue. You pushed that fear down, made it settle under your ribs. The sting grew more violent every minute. Every breath you took had to fight against that tightness. Aerion’s eyes were on you the whole time, as if waiting for your body to fail you.
But you couldn’t let it. You had to keep it together. Because if prince Maekar started to suspect something, if he took one longer look at you, he would see the signs you couldn’t hide. Your paleness. Your hands, cold, sweaty and trembling, the part of your body you never had any control over. The only thing you could do was fold them in your lap. Stare ahead and smile. Meet Aerion’s eyes like everything was fine. And just hope you could keep it up for the rest of the morning. Because if you couldn’t… gods help you.
When it became clear who the last competing champions would be, when Lyonel raised his lance, when the cheer swelled along the barriers - you almost cracked. Your stomach dropped. Your vision narrowed. For a moment you really thought you might faint. Like a proper romance heroine.
Then, a warm hand lands on your arm. A gentle squeeze.
Daeron looks like hell. Bad enough to shift your attention from the disaster unfolding on the tiltyard. Judging by his sunken eyes and the paleness of his face, his absence this morning must’ve had something to do with emptying a few bottles of wine from the castle cellar.
His voice is low, mindful of his father’s presence.
‘I’m here.’
You don’t respond. Just try to start breathing again.
‘I need to tell you something although it might be too late already.’ He sneaks a glance at Maekar, making sure he’s not listening, but he is too occupied with the joust to notice his son’s arrival. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. But I had another dream. It was a bad one.’
Lyonel and Aerion take their positions. Sunlight reflects golden and blinding in Lyonel’s helmet as he lifts his head, his gaze finding you among the crowd.
‘I was trying to convince myself it wasn’t about you.’ Daeron continues. His hand falls from your arm to hold one of your hands, hidden from the onlookers. ‘But something already has happened, hasn’t it?’
They couch their lances; you grit your teeth. Daeron’s gaze stays fixed on you. The gentle squeeze you give his hand suffices for an answer.
‘I told you I know only when it’s too late. And it’s probably too late already.’
First charge; you bite the inside of your cheek. Aerion’s lance shifts at the last moment - as if he lost control - almost hitting Lyonel’s horse. Lyonel manages to parry it with his shield, but he has to reach so far that he nearly loses balance. You clench your jaw. Taste the iron blood in your mouth.
‘I dreamed of flowers. But there was blood upon them. And…’ Daeron’s free hand lifts to his mouth, as if in thought. But his fingers tremble, betraying him before he can still them. ‘There is no use in telling you the rest. It won’t do you any good. Just know that I’m here.’
On the bare ground below, churned up by the hooves of dozens of horses, lies your green ribbon. The favour that must’ve fallen from Aerion’s arm. He hadn’t noticed. Or hadn’t cared.
You glance towards Daeron.
‘Aerion knows.’
His chair creaks as he leans back.
‘Fuck.’
Squires hurry with fresh lances.
You don’t care about the outcome. Whatever it is, it won’t change anything. But Aerion is furious and he’s already proven that he’s not above playing dirty. The words circle in your mind, like a prayer to no god in particular. Don’t hurt him.
You can’t help but shut your eyes when the signal to ride breaks over the field. The murmur of the crowd swells, the dry crack of the lances rings in your ears. Then a loud thud - a body hitting the ground. You open your eyes slowly. Lyonel is taking off his helmet. Your eyes catch. He runs the back of his armored hand over his sweaty forehead, pulling away the curls falling in his eyes. A smile you cannot reciprocate tugs at the corner of his lips. He turns to face the roaring mass, lifting his lance in triumph.
Aerion struggles to rise. He swats his squire’s outstretched hand, as if that could prove anything after his spectacular loss. Then finally pulls himself up with a slight wobble, the weight of his armor nearly pulling him off balance. Nobody seems to acknowledge his presence, not even Lyonel, as the prince storms off the field. Only the metallic clink of armor signals his departure.
The herald’s announcement sounds clear, carrying over the cacophony of voices. The time has come for the winner to choose his queen of love and beauty. Another burst of shouts and whistles erupts from the crowd, following Lyonel as he marches through the beaten earth, removing his armor gloves on the way. The crown gets placed gently in his hands. Cream roses glow against the backdrop of leaves, interspersed with tiny yellow flowers.
Daeron’s hand slips from yours. His eyes appear more sunken, his complexion even paler than before. It hits you. The flowers. But he cannot be right about this. Lyonel wouldn’t do something this stupid, would he?
A small shy smile forms on Lady Tully’s face when Lyonel jumps over the barrier in one swift motion, landing very close to her seat. He had danced with her twice; she has every right to hope for the crown. But he doesn’t even look at her. Instead, he chooses to climb the steps leading to the highest point of the galleries. Where the royal family is seated. Where you are seated.
He stops before you, holding the flowers like an offering. The crowd goes completely silent.
‘Will you accept this title, My Lady?’
His eyes are locked on you. Warm and golden and terrifyingly determined at the same time. The question is pure formality. There is no way in which you could deny him. His touch lingers for a moment too long as he places the crown upon your lowered head. He bows; looks at you again, as if posing a question. But he must know that whatever it is, you cannot answer now. The crowd remains silent as he descends the steps, followed by confused looks.
You lower yourself slowly onto your chair. Prince Maekar is gone.
…
The conversations quiet around you as you walk through the great hall. People step aside, as if even brushing your shoulder would condemn them as traitors to the crown. You can’t blame them. Prince Maekar sits by the table perfectly stiff, his controlled demeanor betraying his anger more than any outburst would. The air around the table feels stuffy as you take your place, wondering if coming here was a smart choice, if your presence was even expected. Maekar for one made a point of not acknowledging your arrival. But not coming could be read as an admission. The same was true about your flower crown. Not wearing it was a declaration that something went wrong; but still you opted to leave it in your room, so as to not further provoke your betrothed. Who wasn’t here. His absence glaringly obvious by the emptiness of the chair between you and Maekar. Aerion’s revolting presence would at least put a barrier between you and his father’s rage, which is becoming more obvious and more frightening by the minute.
The other end of the table is unusually quiet. Even after the first course is served, wine poured into every cup, the voices don’t rise. The booming laughter doesn’t carry across the hall. Lyonel’s voice reaches your ears from time to time, but its lowered quality makes it almost unrecognizable.
Daeron sneaks you glances over his cup, too hesitant to speak with you openly in his father’s presence. At least he’s brave enough to look at you. It couldn’t be said about anyone else here. These curious, gossip-starved hyenas. You lower your head and the room watches; raise it and every set of eyes finds somewhere else to be. Except once. When you look up and meet the glare of your father. The disapproving look that made you cower your entire life. And that is your first instinct - avert your eyes, make yourself small, accept your guilt. But you’re either too tired or simply too fucking fed up to do that. You hold his gaze. The corner of your mouth lifts at the sight of his cheeks blooming red with anger. You stand abruptly, your chair pushing back with a loud squeak against the stone, finally causing Maekar's face to turn your way.
‘I’m sorry, I have to excuse myself.’
The words leave your mouth like an afterthought, uttered to no one in particular.
After a few hurried steps down the dark corridor the sound of the feast becomes only a memory. You breath out. It feels like you’ve been holding it in since the joust. But as you inhale the damp air back into your lungs and steady your step the uneasiness returns. You’ve escaped for now. But what comes next? What comes tomorrow?
The light from the sconces flickers on the ground, disappearing and reappearing in a familiar rhythm as you pass them by, treading the familiar path to your room. Nobody disturbs you on the way. The sound of your steps bounces off the stone walls.
The door to your room was left open. It must’ve slipped your mind to close it, too preoccupied with the perspective of that godforsaken feast. You plop onto your bed unceremoniously, letting your head hang down, stretching the muscles of your tense shoulders.
‘I thought I would have to wait longer.’
The unexpected voice makes your head snap up. His eyes are what you notice first. Glowing silver in the moonlight. Fixed on you from the corner of your room, where the shadows pool behind the large dresser. Aerion stands up from a chair and steps into the light.
‘See, I even found myself something to read.’ He holds up one of your books, taking another step closer. The light of the hearth dances on his face, sculpting his features sharp and distorted. Your gaze drifts to the door, but he’s too close now. You wouldn’t stand a chance.
‘What are you doing here?’
He sneers.
‘What are you doing here, My Prince. You’re forgetting yourself.’ Your book lands on the floor with a loud thud, the leather-clad cover falling open to reveal the white pages inside. ‘What am I saying, you forgot yourself a while ago, didn’t you?’
You try to get up from the bed, but he reaches you in one swift motion. His hand lands on your shoulder, pushing you back down.
‘I should have you whipped for that little stunt. But I’m not a monster.’ He leans over you. The alcoholic smell on his breath carries sharp notes of decay and fermentation. ‘I decided to give you a chance to make it up to me. That’s only fair, don’t you think?’
‘Don’t you dare-’
His hand pushes harder against your arm urging you to lay down on the bed. You try to resist; he catches your wrist before you can reach him. Then it happens so fast that you can barely register what he did before it’s too late. Something hits your chest, pushing the breath out of your lungs. Your back hits the mattress. His body is looming over you. You try to wriggle away; his hold over your wrist tightens. Holding them over your head.
‘Feisty, aren’t you? Were you this mouthy with him too? Does he like this sort of thing?’
A broken, raspy scream leaves your lips. His hand clasps over your mouth, head jerking toward the door. He waits. Seconds pass, uninterrupted by any sign of presence outside the door. The disturbed smile returns to his face.
‘Seems like everyone’s at the feast. You’re alone with me, pet. But that’s not a problem, right? You are used to spreading your legs.’
In the last desperate attempt, you open your mouth as far as the firm grasp over it lets you and bite down with full force. His hand snaps back, droplets of his saliva landing on your face as a hiss escapes through his teeth. You try to use this moment of distraction. Your legs push against the bed frame, your lips open to let out a scream.
The feeling of cold metal on your neck freezes the voice leaving your lips.
‘I like a challenge, but biting is a little much.’ Aerion pushes the knife to your jaw, not enough to bleed you, but enough to make a point. 'Now, be a good whore and shut your mouth.’
Your eyes shut close. His cold hand trails down your neckline. He tugs at the fabric once, twice. The loud snap of threads rings in your ears. His breath lingers over your skin. Tears threaten at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction, you try to keep them in.
As his hand breaches the hem of your torn neckline, pushing lower and lower, you clench your teeth and-
It pulls back.
His whole body pulls back.
A groan. A thump.
You open your eyes slowly. Push your body up.
It takes you a moment to realize what you’re seeing. Aerion is on the floor; Lyonel is pushing him down.
A wet crack.
Aerion’s face is bloodied. Lyonel raises his fist again.
You can’t move, eyes glued to the scene before you. There is a movement in the corner of your eye. Soft fabric wraps over your shoulders. Somebody’s arm settles on your back, pulling you to your feet.
‘Come now, let’s get you out of here.’
Daeron leads you out of the room. You glance back once, only once, just to see Lyonel standing up over the bloodied, unconscious body on the floor.
…
The soft mattress dips under your weight as Daeron helps you lower onto his bed. You wrap the cloak he gave you tighter around your body.
He hesitates before touching you. The sensation of his arm finally settling on your back tears a small sob out of your throat. He freezes for a moment; but then pulls you closer and it all comes rushing out.
‘You’re safe now.’
His hands shift nervously over your shaking back, not quite sure what to do in this situation. His voice however remains completely calm.
‘You’re going to be alright. I can see it now.’
You sit in silence for some time. Only once does he leave you, to talk to Lyonel. He refuses to let him in - they speak outside the closed door of Daeron’s chamber. Some fragments of the conversation reach your ears when their voices rise. Daeron urges Lyonel to go back to the party; Lyonel asks to speak with you; Daeron yells something about the blood on his face.
He looks calm when he comes back and joins you on the bed again.
‘Daeron?’
‘Yes?’
‘Is Lyonel going to…’
You can’t bring yourself to finish the question. But from the look he gives you, you’re sure he understands.
‘Don’t think about any of that now. Just rest. Please.’
Soon a maid comes, sent by the host, to take you to a fresh chamber. Some of your belongings have been transferred there; not all, just the most important things. Daeron waits outside as you change into your nightgown. The room is bigger than your previous one; the fire in the hearth has been set up with a generous amount of wood, the Baratheon tapestries hung over the walls are meant to keep the warmth inside. But since the chamber has been prepared so hastily, it will take a few hours for the space to heat up. You let Daeron in as soon as you’re done changing. He decides a settee under the window to be the best place for him. You offer him one of the blankets before slipping under the covers yourself. While your body warms up quickly under the plush sheets, your mind is far too shaken for sleep. So you just lay there, listening to the sea outside. Sneaking a glance at Daeron from time to time, as he props his head up on the palm of his hand, looking through the window.
A quiet knock on the door makes your head jerk up. Daeron calms you with a gesture of his hand as he stands up from the settee. He opens the door just a crack, to see the visitor outside.
‘Is she still up?’
Lyonel’s quiet voice comes from the other side of the door. You lift yourself up, shifting to sit on the edge of your bed. Give Daeron a nod. He moves back to let Lyonel in.
His step is careful, like he’s afraid to startle you. He had to change his doublet; you don’t even want to think about what state his clothes must’ve ended up in after his encounter with Aerion. The new one is black as well, what differentiates it is the golden thread running through the samite, forming delicate leaf ornaments over his shoulders. The bracelet on his wrist clinks as his hands come together, playing with one of his golden rings.
‘I think I will leave you alone.’
Daeron takes one last look at you, then slips away quietly, closing the door behind him with a dull creak.
This is the first time you’re left alone where he actually looks like a lord. His clothes are in perfect order. A little speckle of blood left on the back of his hand is the only imperfection.
You need to avert your eyes from his soft gaze before it can make you burst into tears again.
‘How are you holding up?’ His voice cracks on the last words. ‘That’s a stupid question. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m fine.’
The bed beside you dips. His warmth reaches you through the flimsy fabric of your nightgown.
‘No you’re not. I can see that you’re not.’
You can’t force yourself to look at him. He waits for you to say something, but when nothing comes, he decides to continue.
‘Listen, I-’ the words get stuck in his throat. He swallows, tries again. ‘I don’t know what to say. I should’ve come sooner. I followed you after you left the feast. To speak with you. But I didn’t want to be too obvious, so I waited. If I knew he would-’
‘Lyonel.’ you cut him off bluntly, tears swelling in your eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’
Silence. He shifts on the bed.
‘I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?’
You muster up the courage to look at him. His sad eyes make you want to forget the whole thing. Sink into his arms. But the anger holds its ground.
‘Why did you crown me? You knew how it would look.’
‘I couldn’t just sit back and watch you marry him.’
‘But you didn’t give me a choice!’
‘I know!’
Lyonel snaps back, springing to his feet. Starts pacing the room. Your tears decide to flow again and shutting your eyes does nothing to stop them. The warmth spreads across your puffy lids, feeling almost soothing. He finally stops. Runs a hand over his face, letting out a loud exhale. The tears in your eyes distort the image; moonlight floats blue across his curls, shifting and swirling as he moves, turns toward you. His gaze softens when he sees your face. Coming closer, he can’t help but reach out. The only response you can manage against his finger running slowly down your cheek is leaning into his touch. He lowers himself slowly. Settles on his knees before you. His hand finds yours between the folds of your nightgown.
‘I know. And I’m sorry about that. But I’m not sorry about anything else.’
You finally let his eyes meet yours as he comes closer, tilting his head to see you better.
‘When you told me… in the woods, you told me you would marry me if you could. And this - this was the only way I could ask.’
You don’t respond; your hand shifts in his, fingers running across his palm.
‘And I wouldn’t do it if I wasn’t certain you-’ His gaze breaks away from you, eyes shut, a small wrinkle forming between his furrowed brows. ‘I know this has caused you so much pain. And I will be apologizing for that for the rest of my life. If you let me.’
The moonlight pools in the corner of his lashes, a tear threatening to fall. His hold on your hands trembles.
‘What about him?’ You speak after a moment of hesitation. ‘He won’t let this go. Not now, not after you-’
Your voice pulls his gaze back to you.
‘I will take care of that. I promise.’
‘You attacked a prince.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s treason.’
‘I know.’
The small tear falls down his cheek, almost imperceptible. You squeeze his hand. Lift it up to your lips and place a soft kiss on his fingers. And he looks at you like you’ve given him something he doesn’t deserve. When you pull your mouth away, his hand shifts to cup your face, thumb stroking gently against your skin, wiping away the tears that have since become cold on your cheeks.
‘I'm still angry with you.’
His quiet laugh makes you smile despite yourself.
‘Fair.’
Lyonel helps you get back into bed. Tucks you in, placing the covers carefully over your body. Then crawls under the blankets beside you. One hand placed over your waist, the other resting on the back of your head, stroking your hair like he did in the forest. He places gentle kisses upon your aching, puffy eyelids.
‘Lyonel?’
His eyes lift up, glimmering golden under the cover of his dark lashes.
‘Yes?’
‘There is one thing that I still don’t understand.’ Your teeth graze the skin of your lip. ‘When I came to you in the solar you said you didn’t want to marry. So what changed?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ He looks positively bewildered, even more so when your brows furrow at his reaction. ‘Wait, you thought I meant- Mother’s blessed cunt I’m an idiot. Is that why you were so… cold after that?’
‘Well, you did tell me you get bored of people after one night. And the moon tea sealed the deal.’
‘First of all, if you mention that bloody moon tea again I might actually swing myself from a window.’ The corner of his mouth lifts at the sound of your laughter bouncing off the walls of the chamber. ‘What I said was true, even if looking back it makes me sound like a complete rake. I won’t deny, that has always been my pattern. But it was never meant to deter you.’ His fingers smooth the fabric of your sleeve, tracing the flower patterns embroidered onto the soft cambric. ‘When I said it I rather foolishly thought it would sound like a- a wish, maybe? Because it was exactly that.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Well… I knew it was different with you. In some way, I knew even before you came to me that night. Not only because I couldn’t sleep. Although that was uncharacteristic.’ The roguish tilt of his mouth almost makes you want to roll your eyes, but then he continues and the sudden softness of his voice takes you by surprise. ‘It was the way you looked at me. Like you’ve seen through the act and saw that pathetic man underneath it all and you still… you still came to me that night. And then you left and I didn’t feel any relief. Gods no, it was only worse.’
‘So you simply like being tortured?’
This time it’s his laugh that moves the brisk air in the chamber.
‘It makes me sound even more desperate when you put it this way. But yes, I guess I would prefer to be tortured by you than to not have you at all.’
His lips are next to your ear, warm words tingling against your skin. Your breath hitches, mouth moving aimlessly as you try to form an answer. He doesn’t give you a chance to say anything; his beard nuzzles into your neck, lips pressing light pecks against your skin, sending you into a fit of laughter.
His arms wrap around your waist after he decides the attack accomplished its purpose - whatever it was. You let your breath steady, hiding your head between his arms.
‘Sleep well, my love.’
My love. It sounds strangely right coming from his mouth. Maybe it always lurked at the end of his tongue. Just waiting for the right moment to escape.
When sleep finally takes you, he holds you through the nightmares. And as you wake up through the night, eyes searching for his form, desperate to find reassurance in it, he remains there. His raspy breath and the hum of the sea lull you back to sleep.
Alliances and duty brings you to Westeros, with your sisters courtship with the prince well in hand, you never expected that one trip and fall would land you bound to Prince Valarr over your sister. (3.1k Words) (requested)
Valarr Targaryen x fem!reader
Content: MDI, 18+, angst, forced betrothal/marriage. Slow burn. mutual yearning and denial. Enemies to lovers lowkey? Jealously. Miscommunication (from you and Valarr and everyone else kinda) reader has dyed pink hair like Keira - they’re sisters and want to match (cute). No other descriptions of reader. insecurity. Autistic!reader,? oblivious!reader? duel pov. People pleaser reader. Ooc valarr but only in readers head?
Masterlist | one | two
“And Prince Valarr, he is so sweet and charming. A true prince,” your sister, Keira, rambled. Talking endlessly about her courtship with Prince Valarr. You had both been sent here, as daughters of the archon of Tyrosh, you were both deemed valuable to the protection of Westeros, and your father, ever looking for a chance to boost his power, eagerly sent you both. Praying for two princely matches. Your sister had easily been swept up by Valarr, he had met her first and hadn’t cast you a glance since meeting her. To you, he was rude and vain. Not worthy of your sister's hand and definitely not the gallant prince your sister saw him as.
You nodded along to her ramblings, your eyes searching the keep's gardens for a means of escape. “Though I am sure Prince Daeron is also-“
“Keria,” you interrupted, stopping her from her endless attempts to get you interested in one of dragon princes, “ I have no desire to talk of men, and there prettiness or to be so glad for their galanteness,” you hummed, “we have no knights in Tyrosh, why would I care to know he is a good one,” you huffed, your eyes darting to the entrance of the garden, where the very man you had hoped to avoid started to appear.
“Gods,” you muttered, watching as your sister jumped with joy, switching from Valyrian to the common tongue as she greeted the young prince.
He was handsome, you supposed. Entirely vain, though, so you should never admit it. He would most likely spend most of his marriage to your sister fussing over his hair to ensure his silver streak is prominent, rather than fussing over the care of your sister. You weren’t sure what she saw in him. He lacked a personality, any joke you made was met with a blank stare, and the few times you had tried to be nice and laugh at his dull joke or pay him a compliment, you were met with a grunt and the swift turn of his head. He was rude, and you hated him. Hated more so the fact that you would be forced to watch your sister wed the man and no doubt soon after be forced to marry one of his boorish cousins.
He greeted your sister with a smile on his face, his eyes, however, drawn to your form as you moved to slump on a nearby bench.
“Is the prince Daeron coming?” Keira asked, taking the arm offered to her as she looked about for the other prince. She seemed more obsessed with the idea of him courting you than her own courtship with Valarr.
Valarr cleared his throat, sending you an annoyed look, no doubt a sneer on his lips at the sight of you, “No, I believe he is…busy,” he drawled, tapping Keira's arm as he began to lead her away from you.
“Oh, such a shame, isn’t it, sister?” She called, watching as you began to remove invisible dirt from your fingernails, trying desperately to ignore Valarr's presence.
You sighed, moving to follow your sister and the prince, rolling your eyes as Valarr's back straightened in your presence. “I am sure we shall see him later at dinner.” You moved to grab your sister's other arm, leaning in to her as your hair, dyed pink just like hers, fell across Kiera’s shoulder as you leant into her as you walked, letting the couple drag you along as they droned on about whatever dullness Valarr had chosen to speak of that day.
Valarr's eyes flickered to yours as he spoke, drawn to you and no doubt praying for you to leave, but as he continued his stroll, Kiera's grip on you tightened, forcing you to remain by their side.
Valarr did not understand you. Did not understand why you occupied your sister's entire time, why you rejected the advances of every lord and prince. And why, since the second he laid eyes on you, had not once left his thoughts.
Your every move, every word from your lips. Every laugh and throw of your head, had haunted him. He had been inexplicably drawn to you since the day he met you and hated every second of it. He knew he was to marry Kiera, had been told as much since the alliance was still in the early throes of negotiation, and being the good and dutiful prince that he was, he had cared for your sister, paid her his every attention, courted her in a way that the princes in fairytales would envy. And yet despite that, it was you that he dreamed of, your pink hair, darker than the soft blush tone of Kiera's head, that appeared in his dreams; your voice echoed in his mind, and guilt ate away at him. He hated it. Hated you.
Or at least tried to. He chose to ignore you, gave you blank stares whenever you talked about your interests. Interests he too had but knew that to stay loyal to Keira he had to ignore the endless similarities between you.
But the one thing that did help in his attempts to hate you was the clear annoyance you had towards him. And well, most things. You seemed to take every kindness offered to you with a grain of salt. A hand offered to you in greeting was met with a blank stare, until Kiera whispered for you to take the hand, as if common courtesy was something you needed to be reminded of.
You were rude. That's what Valarr told himself. He chose not to notice how your eyes darted to look everywhere but someone’s eyes, how you grew uneasy when no one replied to
Your comment or a conversation strayed into a topic you did not know. And most of all, he pretended your unease did not bother him. That it was better for you to believe he hated you rather than craved the air you breathed.
It was cruel for the gods to create you, to dangle you in front of him only to bethroth him to your sister.
Kiera was a sweet girl, kind and in truth a little naive. But a perfect lady. She would make a perfect queen. The very words your father and his had both said to him when she had been introduced. The words he replayed like a mantra. And the words that made him resent you. For being so perfect for him and not his.
Resent your presence and your likeness to him.
He watched you closely now: how you laughed at Kiera’s jokes, how you avoided him entirely, didn’t even look at him as he spoke, your eyes never on him but also not entirely on your sister either. Watched how your face crinkled when his cousin Daeron was mentioned, more specifically the prospect of your betrothal to each other.
“Oh!” Keira gasped, watching as a bird landed on the fountain in front of them. She moved forward, breaking away from you both as she went to greet the bird. Valarr's eyes darted toward you, watching you stumble slightly from her sudden movement. Kiera followed after the bird as it flew off the fountain and towards the garden’s hedges.
You both lost sight of her quickly as she followed after the bird, leaving you in one another's company.
“Will you-”
“Do you-”
You both spoke at once, fumbling into an awkward silence as both of your questions died in your throat as you both continued the walk of the gardens, your eyes searching for her sister who had run into a few ladies of the court, all admiring the bird she had convinced to rest on her arm. As if she were a princess in a child's story..
You sighed, causing Valarr's gaze to flicker over to you, watching as you moved forward, tripping over your dress as you did so. His hands reached for your waist to steady you.
“I don’t need your help,” you scoffed, steadying yourself, paring daggers into Valarr as he looked at you, his annoyance clear on his face.
“My apologies, I just wished to help.” He sighed, looking from you back to where Keira and the ladies had last stood, only to find neither them or the bird had remained.
“Where did she go?” You asked, looking for the familiar blob of pink hair.
“Mayhaps the maze?,” Valarr shrugged, following after you as you began to head there, his arm itching to offer itself to you. “My lady, wait!” He called, following after you as you walked the maze in hurried steps, “We need not search the maze for her, I am sure you sister is content with the ladies, we may wait for her..”
“I do not wish to wait, I wish to search the maze,” you interrupted, continuing in your path, Valarr hot on your trail, hot enough that he caught the ends of your dress, causing you to fall and he with you.
He lay atop you, your face pressed against his, his leg between your thighs.
“My lady I am sorry,” he gushed positing his hands to get up.
“I it is -“ you began flushed red from the position, your mind scattered as he Valarr seemed to hesitant in moving, “it is alright, I-“
“Oh my!” A voice called at the entrance to the maze alcove you had tripped into.
“My prince!?” Another voice called, starling Valarr enough to turn from where he lay, his face turning red as he caught sight of Kiera and her now seemingly endless horde of ladies.
“Valarr, sister?” She asked moving closer as Valarr finally began to move up from your form, “what is this- I” her eyes darted between you both, understating, of the wrong kind adorning her features, “oh I see…well” she breathed in slight ire though a small confused smile did appear asshe took in the sight before her.
“What is this?” A voice called, Daerons familiar voice though it lacked its usual drunkenness , “cousin, my lady?” He seemed to laugh, looking to Kiera “it seems the prince has chosen his bride, rather passionately,” a few ladies laughed behind them, as Daeron made his way over to Kiera offering her his hand to lead her away.
“Chosen my bride? What-“
“You had the chose between the two of us your grace,” Keira interrupted, taking Daerons hand as she began to turn away, “I had hoped you would choose me over my sister but alas if you are both this…passitonate about one another…i- I cannot fault you for your decision,”
“No!” Valarr called out crawling after Kiera, “ I did no such thing I -“
“I need no explanation my prince,” Kiera sighed walking off with Daerons and the rest of the ladies.
“No?” You questioned as you got up from the floor, watching as Valarr rubbed his face furiously, “I know you favoured my sister but surely you cannot hate me enough to leave me ruined?”
“I did not mean that my lady I-“ you cut him off walking away swiftly not bothering to hear his excuses.
“I wish you had told me you shared affections for Valarr,” Kiera spoke, watching as you stare at the letter Valarr had sent you.
meet me in my chambers for dinner tonight, my squire shall escort you.
V
You stared at his words, you had no desire to talk to the man let alone fine with him. And certainly not marry him.
He had ruined you. A mere accident and you were bound to him against your will. You had hoped to escape back to Tyrosh after your sister's wedding but now you were fated to die in these stones shores and never feel the heat of Tyrosh again. A fate worse than death in your eyes.
“Are you even listening to me?” Kiera snapped, walking towards you and sitting beside you with a huff.
“I am I just, I am so sorry Kiera I never meant-
“Never meant to kiss Valarr in a secluded maze the second I left your company?” She spoke, though she had no malice in her words, she spoke flatly.
“I did not kiss him.”
“No? You mean to make me believe he merely lay on top of you and did not kiss your pretty face!” Your head snapped to hers, her face now red with anger, “oh do not look at me like that! You are clearly prettier than me! It is why he chose you, that and well you and he are one and the same!”
“I am not prettier than you! And I am not like Valarr I do not like him I wish you were marrying him not me!”
“Stop arguing with me!” She shouted, “you are prettier because you look like mother and I’m stuck with fathers face!”
“You do have his nose,” you agreed, causing Kiera to snap her head around to you, eyes widening before a loud snort fell from her lips, causing you both to descend into a ball of laughter.
“I am being truthful Keira,” you said after a moment, both your laughter easing as you settled beside each other, “none of this was meant to happen, I have no desire to marry Valarr,”
“And yet you are,” Kiera spoke, softly, “I just wish you had told me of your affections I- I did like him but I would have…”
“Would have what? Stepped back?” You asked, knowing your sister wouldn’t have, and in truth she knew you never would have asked her to. You and always been second best and even if you did truly covert Valarr you would have blindly ignored it for your sister and her happiness.
“Yes…well maybe I-“ Kiera sighed, “I just I don’t know how I missed it, he clearly favoured you and he just…”
“Sister, I promise none of this was meant to happen -“
“But it has! And you- you knew I liked him and still you and he I- I don’t know if you’d elsk the truth if it being a mere accident and a matter of circumstances, but when I came across you he seemed perfectly convent between your thighs, both of you flushed red I- he would have kissed you and lady Reyne not gasped I-“ she stood up suddenly, leaving your sighed, her face flushed, “I need time I - I cannot…” she stuttered her mind switching between the common tounge. and Valyrian as she grew flustered.
“Kiera-“ you began eyes following her as she stormed out of your room.
You had already felt emended guilt over the situation. But to have your sister fail to understand the mistake? It hurt, it hurt you both and you feared you wouldn’t be able to fix it.
Your maids dressed you, with much more care than usual. And with more pomp that a typical dinner required. They seemed to act as if this were your coronation, not a dinner with your Bethrothed who you had no doubt would be casting you aside, leaving you to ruin so he may marry your sister.
Your sister had ignored you for the reminder of the day and you suspected she may ignore you until long after the wedding. If Valarr did not candle it, you very much doubted he would , believing that he would rather leave you in ruin than be bound to you
“You look every picture of a princess” the maid spoke as she added the last touch to your hair, “prince valarr will be begging for the marriage to happen even soon!”
You shook your head, your eyes snagging on your reflection on the mirror. You looked every part the lady, dressed in one of Kieras lavish gwosn, your hair twisted and braided in to a delicate and complex pattern across your head, your mothers jewels resting on your neck. You were the image of a perfect lady, and yet you felt entrily like a cheap rendition of Kiera.
“Are you ready my lady?” your maid asked, as Valarrs squire stood at the door a shy smile on his lips as he awaited you to follow him.
“Only if i have to be,” you scowled, moving to follow after the young squire.
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Summary: After the Battle of the Gullet, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should be dead, instead, he washes ashore on a mysterious island, where a lonely woman nurses him back to health. As the days pass, Jace finds himself falling in love with his beautiful savior.
CW: The relationship contains themes of coercion, emotional dependency, and captivity. SMUT
Genre: Dark Fantasy
AN: First Jace fic! Different from what i usually write, comments are appreciated!
WC: 26K
He should be dead.
The last thing he remembered with any coherence was the sky, a sky choked with smoke and screaming. Beneath that memory lay only fractured images that swam behind his closed eyelids, fragments of chaos that refused to assemble into anything whole.
Vermax.
The name pierced through the darkness like a blade. His dragon. His beautiful, loyal Vermax, who had hatched from an egg placed in his cradle when he was nothing more than a squalling babe with a tuft of dark hair that already marked him as different from his silver-haired mother. Vermax had shrieked as the grappling hooks tore into his wings, as the Triarchy ships surrounded them, as the sea rose up to swallow them both.
Jace’s chest seized, he remembered the impact. He remembered the bone-shattering crash as Vermax slammed into the churning waters of the Gullet, and he remembered the dragon’s terrified, agonized roar. That sound had carried more than pain. It had carried something that felt like betrayal, as if Vermax could not understand why the sky had abandoned them. The cold of the sea had been absolute, salt water flooding his mouth, his throat, his lungs.
He had surfaced somehow. He had gasped and choked and reached for something, a piece of wreckage or a shattered mast, though the memory refused to sharpen. The waves had tossed him like a child’s toy. Through the spray and the smoke, the first bolt had taken him in the shoulder. The second had buried itself in his side, just beneath the ribs. The third was a blank space in his memory, a sensation his mind had simply refused to record.
What remained was the feeling that followed. A slow, spreading numbness. The way his limbs had stopped obeying him. The way the sky had tilted and spun, grey and gold and red bleeding together like watercolors on parchment. His last conscious thought had not been of his mother, nor of his brothers, nor of duty or the Iron Throne or the war that was tearing the realm apart. It had been of Vermax.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
—
He woke to the glow of candlelight, the light came from dozens of candles, the air smelled of salt and something else, something green and living. Herbs, perhaps, or flowers. It was an earthy smell, a growing smell, utterly unlike the smoke and blood and terror that had filled his nostrils before the darkness took him.
Jace tried to move, and his body screamed in protest. Every muscle, every joint, every inch of skin felt like an open wound packed with burning coals. Pain lanced through his shoulder, his side, his ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, and even that small motion sent fire racing down his spine.
“You shouldn’t move.”
The voice was soft and female, carrying an accent he had never heard before. The vowels were rounder than he was used to, the cadence lilting and unfamiliar, Jace turned his head slowly, every vertebra in his neck protesting, and saw you.
You were kneeling beside the bed, on a cushion of deep blue silk, and you were looking at him with an expression of such open relief that Jace forgot, for a moment, how to breathe.
You were beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the powdered faces and elaborate hairstyles of court ladies. You wore no jewelry, no rings, no gems at your throat. Your dress, if it could even be called that, was unlike anything he had ever seen, layers of fabric in pale ivory and soft gold that had been draped rather than tailored. The cut left your arms bare, and the neckline was wide and flowing. It was clothing from a warmer world entirely, bearing no resemblance to the heavy velvets and structured bodices of Westeros.
“You’re awake,” you said, and your smile was like dawn breaking over still water. “I was beginning to fear you wouldn’t open your eyes again.”
Jace opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was a dry, rasping croak. His throat felt as though it had been scoured raw.
You reached for a clay cup beside you, glazed deep blue, and lifted it to his lips with a careful hand. “Drink. Slowly. You’ve been without water for a long time.”
The water was cool and impossibly clean. It slid down his throat like mercy. He drank until you pulled the cup gently away, your expression soft but firm.
“I said slowly. Your body has been through a great ordeal.” Jace sagged back against the furs, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Even drinking had exhausted him. He could feel the heat radiating from his own skin, a fever burning beneath the surface. “Where…” His voice was barely a whisper, cracked and ruined. “Where am I?”
You set the cup aside. “My home. I found you on the shore.”
He tried to form another question, but his thoughts were slipping away from him like water through fingers. The shore. The battle. The arrows.
“Your body was full of arrows,” you said quietly, as if you had followed the path of his scattered thoughts. “You looked dead. I do not know how you survived.” A pause. “But I am glad you did.”
Jace stared at you, his vision blurring and sharpening in turns. The candles made halos around your silhouette. The cave walls curved around you both like cupped hands. He lay in a bed of soft furs with clean linen bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder. The space around him was strange, a blend of cave stone and polished wood and silk cushions.
He tried to focus on you again, on your strange dress and your unfamiliar accent and the way you looked at him without the calculating gaze of a courtier. Your expression held only simple, unguarded relief.
“You…” he started, but the words crumbled before he could shape them. He was so tired. The heat in his blood was growing worse, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air of the cave.
“Shh.” You leaned closer and pressed a cool cloth to his brow. Your touch was impossibly gentle. “You have a fever. The arrows were laced with something, I think. A poison, or something like it. It will take time to burn it out.”
Jace’s eyes fluttered. The cool cloth was a mercy, and your hand was steady against his skin.
“Where is this island?” he managed, the question barely a whisper. “How far from the battle…”
You shook your head, a small and quiet movement. “This is my island. That is all that matters now. You are here, and you are safe.” Your hand brushed the dark, sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead. “You are my guest. I will take care of you.”
He should have questioned you. He should have demanded to know where he was, who you were, how any of this was possible. He was a prince, raised on suspicion, trained to trust no one. But the fever was burning through him, and you were so calm, so steady, and your hands were so gentle, and he was so gods-damned tired.
“Rest,” you murmured. “You are not strong enough to stay awake. But you will be. In time.”
Jace’s eyes closed against his will. The darkness pulled at him, soft and warm. The last thing he felt was the cool cloth on his forehead and the gentle weight of your hand smoothing his hair back from his face.
“Sleep, Jace,” you whispered.
—
The days blurred together like watercolors left in the rain, Jace measured time by the changing quality of light that filtered through the cave's entrance, a distant glow that brightened and dimmed in a rhythm he slowly came to recognize. Morning, afternoon, evening, night. The cycle repeated itself over and over. He could not see the sky from his bed, only the rough stone ceiling and the flickering candles and, whenever he turned his head, the soft silhouette of you moving through the chamber.
You were always there, that was the first thing he truly understood once the fever broke and his mind began to piece itself back together. You were always there. When he woke gasping from nightmares of Vermax screaming, the arrows striking, the water closing over his head, you were beside him with your cool hand on his forehead and your voice murmuring words he could not quite catch but that soothed him anyway. When the pain in his wounds flared hot and unbearable, you were there with the medicine, spooning bitter liquid past his cracked lips and following it with cool water to wash away the taste. When the fever spiked and he thrashed in the furs, soaked in sweat and half-delirious, you were there with cloths dipped in cold water, pressing them to his chest, his neck, his brow.
He did not know how you slept. He did not know when you ate. He only knew that every time he opened his eyes, you were somewhere nearby, kneeling beside his bed or mixing herbs at the stone table or simply sitting on your silk cushion with your hands folded in your lap, watching the candles burn.
“You don’t have to stay,” he rasped one night, though it might have been day for all he could tell the difference. His voice was still weak and still cracked, but it no longer hurt to speak. “You must have other things to do.”
You looked up from the bowl you were mixing, and your lips curved into that soft, patient smile he was beginning to recognize. “I have nothing more important than keeping you alive, Jace. That is a full-time occupation, it seems.”
He wanted to argue, but exhaustion pulled him back under before he could form the words, the fever broke on what might have been the fifth day, or the sixth, or the seventh. He had lost count.
He woke drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead and the furs kicked to the foot of the bed, but his head was clear. For the first time since he had opened his eyes in this cave, his thoughts were not swimming in a haze of heat and pain. He could feel the wounds in his shoulder and side, still tender and still healing, but they no longer burned with the sharp, insistent fire of infection.
He was alive. He was going to stay alive, and that meant he had to get back.
His mother. His brothers. The war. Every day he spent lying in this bed was another day the Blacks fought without him, another day his family believed him dead, another day the Greens advanced their stolen throne. He had to get stronger. He had to return to Westeros.
“Your thoughts are very loud.” Jace turned his head. You were sitting on your cushion beside the bed, a piece of fabric in your hands and a needle moving in small, precise stitches. He had no idea how long you had been there. He had not even noticed you.
“My thoughts?” he repeated, his voice hoarse but steadier than before.
“You are frowning at the ceiling as though it has offended you.” You did not look up from your sewing, but there was a hint of amusement in your voice. “I assume you are planning your escape.”
Jace blinked. “I was not planning an escape. I was only thinking about how to leave.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It is absolutely not the same thing.” Now you did look up, one eyebrow raised, and Jace felt his face warm. He had walked directly into that.
“You want to go back,” you said, and your voice was quieter now, the teasing edge softened into something more serious. “It is natural. You have people waiting for you. A family. A war, perhaps, judging by the state of you when I found you.” You returned your attention to your stitching. “I understand.”
He was quiet for a moment, watching your hands move. The fabric you were working on was pale blue, the stitches neat and even. You were making him more bandages, he realized.
“Yes,” he admitted finally. “I have to go back. My family needs me. They probably think I am dead.”
“Then we will work to make you strong enough to leave.” You bit off the thread with your teeth, smooth and practiced. “But you cannot rush it. The wounds are healing well, but if you push too hard, too fast, you will undo all my hard work. And I have worked very hard, Jace.”
There was something almost stern in your tone, and despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “I would not dream of undoing your hard work.”
“Good.” You set the sewing aside and rose to your feet, your gossamer skirts rustling softly against the stone floor. “You have been lying in that bed for days. I think it is time you tried to sit up properly. Do you think you can manage it?”
Jace took a breath. His shoulder throbbed. His side ached. But the fever was gone, and his head was clear, and he was so gods-damned tired of lying flat on his back.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I can.” It was harder than he had expected.
His muscles had atrophied during the days of fever and stillness. His arms shook when he pushed himself up, and the wound in his side pulled sharply, and by the time he was sitting upright against the carved headboard, he was breathing hard and sweating again. But he was sitting. He was upright. He was looking at the cave from a new angle, and it was strange and wonderful and disorienting all at once.
“There,” you said, and you were smiling now, truly smiling, something brighter than the gentle curve of lips he had grown used to. “That was not so terrible, was it?”
“Terrible,” Jace managed, still catching his breath. “Absolutely terrible.”
“But you did it.”
He looked at you, at the way the candlelight caught the strange color of your eyes, and he found himself almost smiling back. “I did it.”
—
The days that followed fell into a pattern, you would help him sit up in the mornings, propping him against the headboard with pillows and furs. You would change his bandages, your fingers quick and efficient, your touch never lingering longer than necessary but never cold or impersonal either. You would bring him food, strange fruits he had never tasted before, sweet and tangy, and a porridge made from some grain he did not recognize, and fresh water that tasted cleaner than anything he had ever drunk in his life.
And you would talk about small things, the weather on the island, the herbs you used in your medicines, the fish you caught in the tidal pools below the cliffs. You had a dry, quiet sense of humor that surprised him, and a way of tilting your head when you were thinking that he found himself watching for.
In return, he told you things about himself. He was still a prince, still trained in caution, and so he held back the details that mattered most. But he told you about Dragonstone, about the volcanic rock and the sea winds and the dragons that wheeled in the sky. He told you about his brothers, careful to speak of them in the present tense even though Luke was-even though Luke had become something he could not yet say aloud.
He told you other things instead. That he missed the sea. That he had never been good at dancing. That his mother had taught him to read when he was four years old, and he had been so proud that he had carried the book around for a week straight, showing it to anyone who would look.
You laughed at that, a real laugh, bright and surprised, as if you had not expected him to say something so ordinary. “A week?”
“I was very proud of myself.”
“I can imagine. A little prince with his book, demanding that everyone admire his genius.”
“I did not demand. I simply made strong suggestions.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It is absolutely not the same thing, and I will not have my diplomatic skills insulted.”
You laughed again, and Jace realized with a jolt of surprise that he liked making you laugh. It was a good sound, your laugh, unstudied and unguarded, the sound of someone who spent too much time alone and had forgotten to be self-conscious about joy.
You were his only companion. His caretaker. His only visitor.
He had not seen another person even once in all the days he had been lying in this bed. No one came to the cave. No one called your name from outside. No one brought supplies or messages or news. It was only you, always you, appearing and disappearing through the winding passages of the cave system with the quiet confidence of someone who knew every stone by heart.
He had not asked about other people. It felt rude, somehow, when you were taking care of him and feeding him and changing his bandages and sitting beside him through the long, fevered nights. To ask about the absence of others would have sounded like an accusation, as though your company were insufficient, as though he had grown bored of you.
So he did not ask, but the question sat in the back of his mind, growing heavier with each passing day.
—
The day he walked for the first time was the day everything began to shift.
It was morning, the pale silver light filtering through the distant cave entrance, and you had just finished changing his bandages. The wounds were healing well, the flesh knitting together into angry red scars that would fade to white in time. You told him he would have a collection of them, a constellation across his shoulder and ribs. He said he would wear them with pride. You called him ridiculous.
“Today,” you announced, rising to your feet and brushing off your skirts, “you are going to walk.”
Jace looked up at you. “Walk.”
“Yes. Walk. Put one foot in front of the other. I assume you knew how to do it before you arrived here.”
“I knew how to walk.”
“Then today you will remember.”
It was harder than sitting up. It was harder than anything he had done since waking in this cave. His legs felt as though they belonged to someone else, weak and unsteady, the muscles wasted from days of lying still. You had to help him, your arm around his back and his arm across your shoulders, bearing some of his weight even though he tried very hard not to let you. You were smaller than him and slighter, and he was terrified of crushing you.
“You will not crush me,” you said, as if reading his thoughts. “I am stronger than I look. Stop trying to hold yourself up with pride alone and lean on me.”
He leaned on you, by the time he had taken five steps across the chamber, his legs were shaking and sweat was dripping down his face. But he had walked. Five steps. Then ten. Then, a few days later, he crossed the entire chamber without help, his hand braced against the wall and his breath coming hard and fast.
And the day after that, you smiled at him and said, “I think it is time you saw the sun.”
The cave system was a maze, Jace knew, that your home was larger than the single chamber where he had been lying. He had seen you disappear down passages and emerge from different directions, had caught glimpses of other rooms, a kitchen carved into the rock, a storage chamber lined with jars and barrels, a space where water trickled down the wall into a natural basin. But he had not grasped the full scale of it until you led him through it yourself.
The passages twisted and turned, branching off into side tunnels and dead ends. Some were narrow, barely wide enough for a single person to squeeze through. Others opened into wide chambers with high ceilings, lit by candles placed in alcoves and by thin shafts of daylight that pierced down through cracks in the rock. The walls were rough in some places and smooth in others, worn down by time and water and the patient labor of whoever had carved this place.
“Did you build all this?” Jace asked, his voice echoing strangely in the stone corridors. He was walking slowly, one hand on the wall for balance, but he was walking.
You glanced back at him. “The caves were here long before me. I only furnished them.”
“You furnished them very well,” he muttered, stepping around a carved wooden chest that would not have looked out of place in a merchant’s manse.
“I had time.”
That was all you said, as if it explained everything. As if it explained anything at all.
The light grew brighter as you walked, the grey-silver of filtered daylight giving way to a warm golden glow. Jace could smell the outside now, salt air and flowers and something green and growing. His heart beat faster. He had been underground for so long that he had almost forgotten what the sky looked like.
Then you stepped through the cave entrance, and he followed you, and the world opened up around him.
It was beautiful, there was no other word for it, no word that could possibly capture what Jace saw as he stood at the mouth of the cave, blinking in the sudden brightness, his eyes struggling to adjust after so many days of candlelight and shadow.
The island spread out before him like something from a dream, the cliffs where the cave was carved dropped down to a shoreline of white sand that gleamed in the morning sun. Beyond the beach, the water was the most extraordinary shade of blue he had ever seen, turquoise at the shore, deepening to sapphire further out, clear and calm and glittering with reflected light. The sky was vast and cloudless, a pale, soft blue that seemed to go on forever.
But it was the island itself that stole his breath, flowers grew everywhere, wild, sprawling, abundant blooms that cascaded down the cliffs and carpeted the meadows in explosions of color. He saw flowers in shades he had never encountered before, deep violet, vivid orange, a blue so pale it was almost silver. Trees heavy with fruit he did not recognize bent over natural pathways, their branches laden with something golden and round, something dark and pear-shaped, something that resembled a pomegranate but was the color of honey.
The air was warm and sweet, thick with the scent of blossoms and salt and damp earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance, strange, melodic calls that were not quite like any birdsong he knew. A waterfall tumbled down the cliff face to his left, a thin silver ribbon that caught the light and threw rainbows into the air.
Jace stood there, swaying slightly on his still-weak legs, and he could not speak.
“I know,” you said quietly, standing beside him. “It is a great deal, after so long underground.”
“I have never seen anything like this.”
“It is home.” Your voice was matter of fact, but there was something softer underneath it, something almost sad. “Come. There is a place to sit not far from here. You should not stand for too long yet.”
He let you lead him to a flat outcropping of rock cushioned with moss and ferns, and he sat down heavily, still staring out at the impossible landscape. The flowers swayed in the breeze. The waterfall sang its endless song. The sea glittered and danced.
And there was no one here, the realization crept up on him slowly, settling over his shoulders like a cold cloak. He looked out at the island, the meadows, the fruit trees, the white sand beach, the cliffs, and he saw no houses and no fishing boats pulled up on the shore. He saw no paths worn by the tread of many feet and no smoke rising from chimneys. He heard no voices calling in the distance. He saw no sign of human life at all.
Only the flowers. The birds. The waterfall. The sea.
And you.
—
He did not say anything at first, you helped him walk a little further each day, down to the edge of the meadow where the strange golden fruit grew on low, sprawling trees, up to a ridge that overlooked the eastern shore where the water was even bluer and the sky even wider. You showed him the tidal pools, teeming with tiny creatures he had never seen, brightly colored shells that moved on dozens of legs, star-shaped animals that clung to the rocks, fish that darted and flashed like living jewels.
And everywhere you went, you were the only person, he saw no footprints but yours, he saw no structures but the cave. The only signs of cultivation were a small vegetable garden tucked into a sheltered hollow behind the cliffs, neat rows of plants he recognized, mostly herbs and some kind of root vegetable, and further back, half-hidden by a grove of flowering trees, a low stone wall enclosing a patch of churned earth.
He heard the pigs before he saw them, a grunting, snuffling chorus rose and fell, punctuated by the occasional indignant squeal. Jace followed the sound, moving carefully along a narrow path between two rock formations, and emerged into a clearing where at least two dozen pigs were milling about in a large stone enclosure. They were fat and healthy, their coats glossy, their ears flopping. Piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt while larger sows dozed in the shade of the trees.
And you were in the middle of them, you were scattering something from a woven basket, scraps of fruit rinds and vegetable peels and some kind of grain, and the pigs crowded around you like old friends. You were speaking to them in a low, affectionate murmur, and your hands moved among them with the ease of long familiarity.
You looked up and saw him standing at the edge of the enclosure. Your expression shifted, just slightly. Something guarded, something wary, flickered behind your eyes before you smoothed it away.
“You found my pigs,” you said, Jace leaned against the stone wall, catching his breath. The walk had been longer than he had realized, and his side was aching. “You have a lot of pigs.”
“They keep me company.” You tossed another handful of scraps into the enclosure, and a particularly large sow shouldered her way forward to claim it. “And they are useful. The meat, the fat, the leather. Nothing goes to waste.”
He watched you for a moment. The pigs jostled around your legs, grunting and snuffling, and you moved among them without the slightest hesitation, like a shepherdess, like someone who had been doing this for years.
“Where are the other people?” he asked.
Your hands stilled on the basket. You did not look up.
“What other people?”
“The villagers. The farmers. Whoever else lives here.” Jace gestured vaguely at the enclosure, at the pigs, at the island beyond. “You said this was your island. But someone has to help you with all of this.”
He trailed off. You were looking at him now, and your expression was strange, as though you had been expecting this question and dreading it in equal measure.
“There are no other people, Jace,” you said quietly.
He stared at you. “What do you mean, there are no other people?”
“I mean it is only me.” You set the basket down on the stone wall. Your hands, now empty, folded together in front of you. “There is no village. There are no farmers. There are no fishermen or shepherds or traders. There is only me, and the pigs, and the birds, and the fish in the sea. That is all.”
The words refused to make sense. Jace shook his head, a short, sharp movement. “That cannot be right. You cannot live here alone. How do you survive? How do you get supplies? There has to be someone else, a trader who comes by ship, a neighboring island, something.”
“There is no one else.” Your voice was calm and steady, but there was something raw underneath it now. “No ships come here. No traders. No neighbors. The island is hidden. It does not appear on any map. No one knows it exists.”
“That is impossible.”
“It is simply true.”
Jace pushed himself off the stone wall, ignoring the protest of his healing wounds. His heart was beating too fast. His thoughts were spinning. “How did you get here, then? How do you live? You cannot simply be alone on an island forever.”
“I did not say I chose it.”
The words stopped him cold, you were still standing in the middle of the pig enclosure, surrounded by grunting, oblivious animals. Your strange dress fluttered in the breeze, the pale fabric catching the sunlight. Your face was composed, but your eyes were dark with something old and heavy and carefully buried.
“My brother sent me here,” you said. “As punishment.”
Jace opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Punishment for what?”
“For disobeying him.” Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings. “I did something he could not forgive. And instead of killing me, he sent me here. He had the means to do it, the ships, the men, the knowledge of this place. He left me with supplies and seeds and animals and told me I would never leave.”
“You have been here ever since,” Jace said slowly.
“I have been here ever since.”
“How long?”
You looked away, out over the blue water, and for a moment you were utterly still. “A long time.”
Jace’s mind was racing, scrambling to fit the pieces together. A brother with enough power to exile someone to a hidden island. Ships and men and the means to keep the place secret. A lord powerful enough to make his sister disappear without anyone asking questions.
“Who is your brother?” he asked.
Your jaw tightened. “A lord. That is all you need to know.”
“A lord of what? Where? What house?”
“It does not matter.” Your voice sharpened, just slightly, the first hint of steel he had ever heard from you. “What matters is that he is powerful enough to do this. Powerful enough that if I try to leave, if I find a way off this island and set foot on the mainland, I will be found and I will be brought back, and the consequences will be worse than exile.”
Jace stared at you, you were alone. Completely, utterly alone. You had been alone for what might have been months or years or decades. You had built a life in a cave, furnished it with silk and polished wood, grown a garden and raised pigs and taught yourself to heal. And no one had come for you. No one had visited. No one had even known you were here.
Until a dying dragon prince washed up on your shore.
“I am sorry,” he said, and the words felt pathetically inadequate. “I did not know.”
“How could you have known?” You picked up the basket again, your movements brisk and practical, as if you were eager to change the subject. “You were unconscious when you arrived. It is not as if I introduced myself and gave you a tour. Welcome to my prison, please enjoy the flowers.”
“It is not a prison.” You looked at him, and your smile was tired and sad and strangely kind. “It is a very beautiful prison. But it is a prison nonetheless.” You turned and walked away, the basket tucked under your arm, the pigs trailing after you like a strange, grunting entourage. Jace watched you go, your bare shoulders and your flowing dress and the way you moved through the meadow as if you had memorized every inch of it.
And he understood, suddenly, why you had never hesitated to save him. Why you had sat beside his bed for days on end. Why you had laughed at his stupid jokes and argued with him about the proper way to brew medicinal tea.
You were lonely.
Jace stood at the edge of the pig enclosure, the sun warm on his face and the sea glittering in the distance, and he thought about his mother and his brothers and the war and the throne.
He had to go back. He had to, but as he watched you disappear into the grove of flowering trees, your figure growing smaller and smaller against the impossible beauty of the island, he realized that leaving might be harder than he had thought.
—
In the days following your revelation—it is just me, there is no one else—Jace threw himself into the work of recovery with a ferocity that surprised even him. He woke early, before the light through the cave entrance had shifted from silver to gold, and he pushed his body harder than was probably wise. He walked the island's paths until his legs stopped shaking. He climbed the low cliffs until his arms stopped burning. He ate everything you put in front of him, slept when you told him to sleep, and bit back every complaint when you made him drink your bitter medicines.
"Someone is motivated," you remarked one morning, watching him pace the length of the chamber. He had been doing laps—back and forth, back and forth—testing the strength of his newly healed legs. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to pink, then to white, and the pain was a distant memory now, only flaring when he moved too quickly or twisted the wrong way.
"I have to get home," he said, not breaking stride. "My mother needs me. My brothers need me. Every day I spend here is another day they think I'm dead."
You nodded, your expression unreadable. "Then we had better build you a boat."
The boat took shape slowly, you showed him a grove of trees on the eastern side of the island, tall and straight, their wood pale and close-grained, ideal for shipbuilding. You had an axe, kept sharp and well-oiled in one of the storage chambers, and you handed it to him without ceremony.
"I will help where I can," you said, "but I am not a shipwright. You will have to figure out most of it yourself."
Jace had never built a boat before. He had sailed on dozens of them but knowing how to sail and knowing how to build were two very different things. He felled the first tree through trial and error, the axe handle blistering his palms, the sweat dripping into his eyes. By the time the trunk crashed to the ground, he was exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure.
"Not bad," you said from where you sat on a nearby rock, a pile of mending in your lap. You had been watching him work for the better part of an hour, offering no advice but plenty of company. "For a prince who has never done a day's labor in his life."
"I've done labor."
"Name one example."
He opened his mouth and swung the axe into the fallen trunk with more force than necessary. "I trained with swords. That's labor."
"Swords are not labor. Swords are play for princes."
"Then what do you call this?" He gestured at the tree, the axe, his blistered hands.
You smiled, that slow, warm smile that was becoming as familiar to him as the sunrise. "I call it a good start."
The days passed, Jace shaped the wood as best he could, stripping branches and hewing planks with tools you provided from the depths of the cave. Some of them were strange—shaped for hands slightly different from his own, their handles worn smooth by use that was not his. He didn't ask where they came from. He was learning that there were questions you would answer and questions you would not, and the line between them was invisible until he crossed it.
But you were always there, always nearby.
He had grown accustomed to the rhythm of your presence, the rustle of your strange, flowing dresses, the soft pad of your bare feet on stone, the quiet humming you did when you worked. You brought him water when the sun grew hot. You checked his scars every evening, your fingers against his skin, pronouncing him healed and healing well. You sat with him while he ate, and you talked about nothing and everything, and your laugh was the brightest sound on an island full of bright sounds.
"I should be further along by now," he said one evening, staring at the skeleton of the boat with frustration. The hull was taking shape, but slowly—too slowly. At this rate, it would be months before it was seaworthy.
"You are one person building a boat by hand," you pointed out. You were sitting cross-legged on a flat rock, sorting through a basket of herbs. The setting sun caught the planes of your face, the curve of your bare shoulders, the way your dress draped across your lap in soft folds. "I think you are allowed to take your time."
"I don't have time." He ran a hand through his hair—longer now, curling past his ears, in desperate need of a trim. "My mother—she needs me. The war—"
He stopped.
The war.
What war?
The thought slipped through his mind like water through fingers, there and gone before he could catch it. There was a war. Of course there was a war. He was fighting in it. Or he had been fighting in it. That was why he had been in the Gullet, why Vermax had—
Vermax.
His chest tightened. He remembered the dragon's scream. He remembered the water closing over his head. He remembered the arrows.
But what was the war about?
"The war," he repeated, more quietly now. "I have to get back to the war."
You looked up from your herbs, and your expression was gentle. Unreadable. "You will. When the boat is ready, you will."
"Right." He nodded, the motion jerky. "Right. The boat."
He picked up the axe and got back to work.
—
One afternoon you were down by the shore, sitting in the shade of a flowering tree while Jace worked on the boat's hull. "Brothers," he said, sanding down a rough edge of wood. "Three of them. Well—two full brothers. Two half-brothers. That's four. No, wait." He frowned. "Joffrey and... and the little ones. Aegon and..."
He stopped, the name wouldn't come.
"Viserys," you said quietly.
"Viserys. Right. Viserys." He shook his head, laughing at himself. "I don't know why I couldn't remember that. He's the youngest. Named after my grandfather."
You said nothing. You only watched him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and your fingers were very still on the mending in your lap.
"And Luke," Jace continued, the name coming easier now. "Lucerys. He's the second one. He's..."
Dead.
The word surfaced from somewhere deep, cold and sharp as a blade. But it didn't hurt the way it should have. It was distant. Muffled. Like a scream heard through a closed door.
"He's what?" you asked.
Jace blinked. "He's... he's at Dragonstone. With our mother. Waiting for me to come home."
You nodded slowly. "I am sure he misses you."
"He probably thinks I'm dead." Jace turned back to the boat, running his hand along the smooth wood. "I have to get back soon. Before he does something stupid. He's always doing stupid things, Luke. He's impulsive. Reckless. He doesn't think before he acts."
Luke is dead. Luke was torn apart by Vhagar above Storm's End. You weren't there. You didn't protect him.
But the voice was fading. Growing quieter. Harder to hear over the sound of the waves and the breeze and your soft, steady breathing.
—
The boat took longer than it should have, some days Jace worked on it from sunrise to sunset, his hands raw and calloused, his back aching, his mind fixed on the singular goal of getting home. But other days—more and more days, as the weeks wore on—he found himself... distracted.
The waterfall, for one thing.
It tumbled down the cliff face on the western side of the island, a silver ribbon that caught the sunlight and scattered it into rainbows. The pool at its base was deep and clear and shockingly cold, fed by some underground spring that kept it cool even in the heat of the afternoon. Jace had discovered it on one of his exploratory walks, and he had been drawn back to it again and again.
You came with him sometimes. You would sit on the rocks at the edge of the pool, your feet dangling in the water, your dress hiked up to your knees. You would tilt your face toward the sun and close your eyes, and Jace would find himself watching you instead of the waterfall.
"Are you going to swim or are you going to stare?" you asked one day, not opening your eyes.
"I wasn't staring."
"You were staring."
"I was... appreciating the scenery."
You opened one eye. "The scenery."
"The waterfall," he said, gesturing vaguely. "It's very nice."
You laughed—that bright, unguarded laugh that he had come to love—and he felt something warm bloom in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with the sun.
"Come on, then," you said, and before he could react, you slid off the rock and into the water with a splash that sent droplets arcing through the air like diamonds.
Jace stared at you. You surfaced a moment later, your hair plastered to your head, your dress clinging to your skin, the wet fabric rendered nearly transparent. The water lapped at your collarbones, and you were laughing again, and you looked—
You looked beautiful.
He had known you were beautiful from the moment he opened his eyes in the candlelit cave. But there was something different about you now. Something that had shifted, the curves of your face seemed softer. The color of your eyes seemed deeper. The way you moved—the way you laughed—the way you looked at him—it all seemed more vivid. More precious.
"Are you coming in or not?" you called, treading water in the center of the pool.
Jace pulled his shirt over his head and dove in after you, the water was cold and clean and wonderful. They splashed each other like children, chasing each other around the pool, ducking under the waterfall and emerging gasping and laughing. Jace couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like this—freely, openly, without the weight of duty pressing down on his shoulders.
Your dress clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric outlining every curve of your body. Jace tried very hard not to notice. He failed. "You're staring again," you said, but your voice was different now. Quieter. Almost shy.
"Sorry." He wasn't sorry.
—
"I was betrothed," he said one evening.
You were sitting on the rocks overlooking the western sea, watching the sun sink toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and pink. Jace sat beside you, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your arm near his. The boat sat half-finished on the beach below, forgotten for the day.
"Was?" you asked.
"Am. I am betrothed." He frowned. "I think. We were supposed to marry before... before I left."
"Before the battle."
"Before the battle, yes." He stared out at the sunset, trying to conjure her face. His betrothed. She was a Targaryen, he was sure of that. Silver hair. Purple eyes. A dragon. But her name—her name wouldn't come. "She's my cousin, I think. Or my step-sister. Both, actually. It's complicated."
"What is her name?"
Jace opened his mouth. The name wasn't there.
"I can't remember," he said, and the admission felt strange. Not frightening—it should have been frightening—but strange. Like discovering a pocket in a familiar coat that he had never noticed before. "I know her face. She's... she's fierce. Brave. She has a dragon. A small one, I think. Or maybe it's large. I can't..."
He trailed off.
You were quiet for a moment. Then, very softly: "Do you love her?"
"Love?" He considered the question. "I don't know. She's family. She's duty. She's... she's what I'm supposed to do, but i care for her, a lot."
"That is not the same as love."
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
He didn't say anything else. Neither did you. But your arm was warm against his, and the sunset was beautiful, and when he finally walked you back to the cave, his hand found the small of your back without thinking, and you leaned into the touch instead of pulling away.
—
He forgot about the betrothed entirely by morning.
—
The days grew warmer. Or perhaps they didn't—perhaps it was only that Jace had stopped paying attention to the passage of time. The boat sat on the beach, half-finished, and he told himself he would work on it tomorrow. Tomorrow came and went, and he spent it with you instead—walking the island paths, gathering fruit from the strange golden trees, sitting by the waterfall and talking about nothing.
What are you doing? a voice whispered in the back of his mind. You have to go home. Your mother needs you.
But what did his mother need him for? There was something—something important—something about a throne, a war, a betrayal. But the details were foggy now, blurred like ink left out in the rain.
He remembered her face. Her silver hair. Her voice saying his name, but the rest was slipping away, piece by piece, day by day, and the more he forgot, the more he noticed you.
The way you moved through the meadow, your skirts brushing the wildflowers. The way you hummed when you cooked, some melody he had never heard before but that felt familiar anyway. The way you looked at him sometimes, quick glances from beneath your lashes, as if you were checking to make sure he was still there. Still real. Still alive.
The way your hand felt in his when he helped you over a rocky patch of ground.
The way your laugh echoed off the cliffs and came back to them multiplied, a chorus of joy.
The way your eyes caught the light of the setting sun and held it, like they were made of something more than flesh.
He loved you.
He loved the sound of your voice and the curve of your smile and the gentle patience with which you had nursed him back from the edge of death. He loved your dry humor and your quiet strength and the way you never pressed him for answers he didn't have. He loved the life you had built here, alone on an island that should not exist, and he loved that you had let him into it.
He loved you.
And the more he loved you, the less he remembered.
—
The morning was hot and still, Jace had woken early, as he always did now, but instead of reaching for the axe or walking down to the beach where the half-finished boat sat waiting, he had gone straight to the waterfall.
The pool was cool and clear, fed by the endless rush of water that tumbled down the cliff face in a silver curtain. He shed his clothes on the rocks, just the loose linen breeches you had sewn for him from fabric found somewhere in the depths of the cave, and dove in without hesitation. The cold shock of the water stole his breath and cleared his head, chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep.
He floated on his back, staring up at the pale blue sky, watching the birds wheel overhead. His dark hair fanned out in the water around him. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to thin white lines, barely visible now. He was stronger than he had ever been, his muscles hardened by weeks of manual labor, his skin tanned golden by the sun.
He should have been thinking about the boat, about going home, about his mother and his brothers and the war.
He was thinking about you. Your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes caught the light. The way your hand felt in his. The way you looked at him sometimes, soft and searching, with something unspoken hovering just behind your lips. He had kissed you before, small kisses, brief and chaste, a press of his lips to your forehead when you fell asleep beside him, a brush of his mouth against your knuckles when you handed him a cup of water. But he had not kissed you properly. He had not kissed you the way he wanted to, the way he had been imagining for weeks, the way that left no doubt about what he felt.
He was thinking about that when he heard your footsteps on the rocks above. "You started without me."
Jace turned in the water, treading easily, and looked up at you. You were standing at the edge of the pool, barefoot on the smooth stone, wearing your dress of pale purple gossamer that drifted around your ankles in the faint breeze. The sun caught the planes of your face and the curve of your neck and the dip of your collarbones, and the sight of you struck him silent for a moment.
"Someone has to," he called back, forcing his voice into something approaching normal. "You sleep too late."
"I was gathering herbs. Some of us have work to do."
"Swimming is work. It builds character."
You laughed, that bright, warm sound that he had come to treasure more than anything else on this island. "Is that what you are doing? Building character?"
"Come in and find out."
You hesitated for just a moment. Your eyes met his across the water, and something flickered in your expression, something tentative and questioning, as if you were making a decision and waiting to see if he would notice.
Then you reached up and untied the clasps at your shoulders.
The dress fell and Jace stopped breathing.
You stood above him in nothing but the sunlight, bare to the sky and the water and his gaze. The curves of your body were soft and smooth, your skin glowing in the morning light. Your breasts were full and round and tight in the open air. Your waist dipped inward in a graceful curve before flaring out to the swell of your hips.
You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"Are you coming in or not?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.
You smiled, then you dove into the water in one clean, graceful arc, slicing through the surface with barely a splash.
You surfaced inches from him, the water lapped at your collarbones, but beneath the surface he could see the pale shape of your body, distorted by the ripples, impossibly close. Droplets clung to your lashes. Your hair floated around you like ink spilled in water. Your lips were parted and slightly wet, and you were looking at him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and Jace forgot how to think.
"The water is nice," you said, and your voice was teasing and light, but there was a tremor underneath it.
"Nice," he repeated. He could not stop staring at your mouth.
"Very refreshing."
"I had not noticed."
"No?"
"No."
His hand found your waist beneath the water. Your skin was cool and slick and impossibly soft. You did not pull away. You drifted closer, your bare legs brushing against his, and the contact sent a jolt through him like lightning striking water. He could feel the heat of your core through the cool water, a promise of the warmth waiting for him, and his cock stirred against the confines of his breeches.
"Jace," you whispered.
That was all. Just his name, but the way you said it, breathless and aching and full of want, broke something open inside him.
He kissed you, his mouth strong against yours. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand came up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. You made a small, desperate sound against his lips and kissed him back just as fiercely, your arms winding around his neck, your bare breasts pressing against the hard plane of his chest.
You were bare beneath his hands, there was nothing between his palms and your skin but water. He could feel every curve of you against the hard muscle of his own. His thumbs traced the ridges of your middle, and you shivered, and he swallowed the sound you made. His hands slid lower, cupping the full curve of your arse, kneading the firm flesh, pulling your hips against his so you could feel the rigid length of him pressing against your belly through the wet linen of his breeches.
"Jace," you gasped against his mouth. "Jace, I—"
"Tell me to stop." His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "Tell me to stop and I will stop."
"Do not stop." Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting into his sun-warmed skin. "Please do not stop."
He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened for him with a shuddering breath. The taste of you, sweet and clean and faintly herbal from the medicines you were always brewing, flooded his senses. He explored your mouth thoroughly, learning the texture of your tongue, the ridge of your teeth, the softness of your inner cheeks. You moaned into his mouth and sucked on his tongue, and the sensation went straight to his groin. He could feel your heart pounding against his chest, or perhaps that was his own heart, hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.
Your legs wrapped around his waist beneath the water. The movement was instinctive and natural, and it brought your hips flush against his, the heat of your sex pressing against the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches. He groaned against your mouth, low and rough, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. You were so warm. Even in the cool water, the core of you radiated a heat that he could feel through the fabric separating them.
He walked you backward through the pool, still kissing you, still holding you, until your back met the smooth stone of the cliff wall. The waterfall rushed beside them, a curtain of silver sound. He kissed the hollow of your throat, feeling your pulse flutter against his lips. He traced the delicate line of your collarbone with his tongue, tasting the clean, mineral tang of the spring water on your skin. He let his mouth drift lower, over the swell of your breast, and when his lips closed around one tight, pebbled nipple, you gasped and arched against him, your fingers fisting in his hair.
He lavished attention on your breasts, suckling first one and then the other, his tongue circling the tight buds, his teeth grazing them with just enough pressure to make you moan. Your breasts were perfect in his hands, full and soft, fitting his palms as though they had been made for him. He kneaded them gently, thumbs brushing over the wet peaks, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your head had fallen back against the stone, your lips parted, your eyes squeezed shut. The sight of you like this, bare and wanting and completely surrendered to his mouth, made his cock throb painfully against his breeches.
"I have wanted this," he breathed against your skin, his voice ragged. "Gods, I have wanted this for so long."
"Then do not wait any longer."
He lifted his head and looked at you. Your eyes were dark with want, your lips swollen from his kisses, your chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. The water lapped at your breasts, revealing and hiding, and he could feel every inch of you pressed against him, every curve, every soft place, every point of contact where your body met his.
"Are you sure?" he asked. He needed to hear it. He needed to know.
In answer, you cupped his face in your hands and pulled him down to you. "I have never been more sure of anything in my life."
He kissed you again, soft and sweet this time, a promise and a question all at once. Then his hand slid down your body beneath the water, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your legs tightened around his waist, and he felt you tremble against him. His fingers found the heat of you, warm and slick even in the cool water, and he traced the folds of your sex with a feather-light touch. You gasped and bucked against his hand. He explored you slowly, learning the shape of you, the soft outer lips, the slick inner petals, the hard pearl of your pleasure at the apex. When he circled that sensitive nub with his thumb, you cried out, a sound half-lost in the rush of the waterfall. He swallowed it with his mouth, kissing you through it, his touch gentle and searching and patient. He slid one finger inside you, feeling the tight, wet heat of your body grip him, and you moaned against his lips. He added a second finger, stretching you gently, his thumb still circling your sensitive peak, and you writhed against his hand, your inner walls clenching around his fingers.
"Please," you whispered, the word broken and beautiful. "Please, Jace. I need you inside me."
He withdrew his fingers, and you made a small sound of protest that he silenced with a kiss. He reached down and freed himself from his breeches, his cock springing out, hard and thick and aching. The head was dark with need, a bead of moisture already forming at the tip. You glanced down through the clear water and your eyes widened at the sight of him, long and rigid, curving slightly upward toward his belly.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured, positioning himself at your entrance. He rubbed the head of his cock against your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing you both with the promise of what was to come. "I want to watch your face when I enter you. I want to see what I do to you."
Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back. "Then do it. I want to feel you."
He pushed into you slowly, so slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The water made everything liquid and easy, but he wanted to savor this, the way your eyes fluttered closed, the way your mouth fell open, the way your body welcomed him. You were so tight and so warm and so perfect around him. He could feel every ridge and fold of your inner walls as they gripped him and fluttered and stretched to accommodate his size. Your heat enveloped him, searing even through the cool water, and he had to stop and breathe when he was fully sheathed, his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back.
"Look at me," he murmured. "Please. Look at me."
Your eyes opened. They were dark and shining, full of something that looked very much like love. "You feel incredible," you breathed. "I am so full."
He began to move, he withdrew almost completely, feeling the drag of your body against every inch of his length, and then pushed back in with a slow, deep thrust that made you both gasp. The sensation was overwhelming, the tight clutch of your body, the heat, the way your inner muscles rippled around him. He set a steady rhythm, each stroke deliberate and full, sliding into you to the hilt and then pulling back until only the head remained inside you. The water splashed gently around them, ripples spreading outward in concentric circles with every movement. Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper with every thrust. Your hands slid down his spine, tracing the ridges of muscle that flexed with every movement. You were making soft, breathless sounds, gasps and moans and fragments of his name, and he caught each one with his mouth, kissing you, drinking you down like wine.
"You feel incredible," he groaned against your lips. "So tight. So perfect. I could stay inside you forever."
"So do you," you gasped, your words barely coherent, slurred with pleasure. "Harder, Jace. Please."
He did not need to be asked twice. His pace quickened, his hips slamming against yours with increasing force. The sound of their coupling echoed off the cliff walls, wet and rhythmic, the slap of skin against skin beneath the water. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and he watched them, mesmerized by the way they moved, the way the water lapped at the peaks. He bent his head and captured one nipple in his mouth again, sucking hard, grazing it with his teeth, and you cried out sharply, your inner walls clenching around him.
He shifted his angle slightly, tilting his hips, and on the next thrust you cried out sharply, your head falling back against the stone, your whole body arching against his. He had found the right spot, that sensitive place deep inside you, and he drove into it again and again, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your brow furrowed and your lips parted and your eyes lost focus, and you were babbling now, a stream of broken words, his name and pleas for more and incoherent praise.
"There," you gasped. "Right there. Do not stop. Please do not stop."
He did not stop. He could not have stopped if the world was ending. There was nothing but you, your body, your voice, your hands on his skin. He felt your inner walls begin to flutter around him, the first warning signs of your approaching climax, and he moved his hand between your bodies, finding the slick, sensitive pearl of you beneath the water. He pressed his thumb against it in tight, circling strokes, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
"That is it," he murmured against your ear, his voice low and rough. "Let go. I want to feel you come apart around me."
Your climax took you by surprise. He felt it building, the way your breath quickened, the way your nails bit into his shoulders, the way your body tightened around him until he could barely move. And then you shattered, crying out his name, your head thrown back, your whole body arching and shuddering against his. He felt the rhythmic pulsing of your release gripping his cock, your inner walls milking him in waves, and he watched your face contort with pleasure, your mouth open, your eyes squeezed shut, your cheeks flushed dark. The sight of you, bare and beautiful and completely undone, was enough to push him over the edge. He drove into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and let go. His release surged through him in hot, pulsing waves, spilling deep inside you, and he groaned your name against the curve of your neck, his body shaking with the force of his climax.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breathing slowed, your chest rising and falling against his. Your fingers traced lazy patterns on the back of his neck. He remained inside you, still half-hard, reluctant to separate from the warmth of your body. He could feel his seed and your slickness mingled together, warm and wet around him, and the sensation was so intimate, so perfect, that he never wanted to move again.
"Jace," you whispered, and your voice was hoarse and sweet and utterly content.
He lifted his head and looked at you. Your cheeks were flushed. Your lips were red and swollen. Your hair was a wild tangle around your shoulders. Your eyes were soft and hazy with satisfaction. You had never looked more beautiful.
"I love you," he said.
The words came out before he could stop them, before he even realized he was thinking them. But once they were spoken, he knew they were true. He loved you. He loved you so completely and so absolutely that he could barely remember what his life had been before you. You were everything. You were the sun and the sea and the stars. You were the only thing that mattered.
Your eyes widened. "I love you too," you said. "I have loved you since the moment you opened your eyes."
He kissed you again, softly this time, tenderly, a kiss that tasted of water and salt and promises. And then he held you, your body still wrapped around his, the waterfall cool against his back, the sun warm on his face.
They did not leave the pool for a long time. When they finally climbed out, their skin pruned and their limbs heavy with satisfaction, they did not bother to dress. Jace carried you to a patch of soft grass beneath the flowering trees, and he laid you down among the fallen petals, pink and white and gold. He knelt between your spread thighs and looked down at you, at your bare body glistening with water droplets, at the place where his seed was already beginning to leak from your swollen folds, and he felt himself harden again at the sight.
He made love to you again, slower this time, sweeter. He kissed his way down your body, his mouth tracing the hollow of your throat, the swell of your breasts, the plane of your stomach. He paused to dip his tongue into your navel, making you squirm, and then continued lower, pressing kisses to your hip bones, the sensitive crease where your thighs met your body. When he reached the junction of your thighs, he settled between them and looked up at you. Your scent was intoxicating, musky and sweet and mixed with the salt of his own release. He could see the evidence of their earlier coupling, the glistening slickness that coated your folds, and the sight made him groan with want.
He tasted you properly for the first time. His tongue parted your folds, tracing a slow path from your entrance to the peak of your pleasure. The taste of you combined with the taste of him was earthy and raw and utterly intoxicating. You cried out and fisted your hands in the grass, your hips rising to meet his mouth. He took his time, learning what you liked, alternating between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and focused, circling attention to your sensitive peak. He slid two fingers inside you as he sucked on that tight bundle of nerves, curling them forward to press against that sensitive spot on your inner wall, and you came apart against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head, your voice breaking on his name, your body gushing wetness that he lapped up eagerly.
After that, they walked back to the cave hand in hand, bare and unashamed, their clothes forgotten on the rocks by the waterfall. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, and the island was alive with birdsong and the scent of flowers. Jace kept his hand on the small of your back as you walked, unable to stop touching you, his thumb tracing small circles against your skin.
When you reached the bedchamber, the bed where he had first woken, the furs soft and the candles flickering on the walls, he took you again. This time you pushed him down onto his back and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. You looked down at him and you reached between your bodies to guide him to your entrance. He watched his cock disappear inside you, inch by inch, watched the way your folds stretched to accommodate him, and the sight was almost enough to make him spend right there. You sank down until he was fully seated inside you, and you both moaned at the sensation.
You began to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sinuous rhythm. He watched you move above him, your breasts swaying with each roll of your hips, your stomach flexing, your head thrown back in pleasure. He reached up and cupped your breasts, rolling the tight peaks between his fingers, and you gasped and increased your pace. Your thighs flexed as you rose and fell, taking him deeper with every stroke. He guided you with his hands on your waist, helping you find a rhythm that made you both moan, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your hips.
"Look at you," he breathed, his voice full of wonder. "You are so beautiful riding my cock."
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and the new angle made you gasp. He thrust up into you from below, meeting your movements, and the wet sound of your bodies joining filled the chamber. Your inner walls were fluttering around him again, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He moved one hand to where your bodies were joined and pressed his thumb against your sensitive peak, circling it in time with your movements. You cried out and shattered above him, your body clenching around him, your back arching. The sight of you, lost in pleasure, pushed him over the edge. He thrust up into you one final time and spilled his seed deep inside you, groaning your name, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.
You collapsed against his chest, spent and trembling, and he wrapped his arms around you and held you close, still buried inside you. Your breath was warm against his neck. Your heart hammered against his chest. He could feel the thrum of your pulse where your bodies were still joined, and he never wanted to let you go.
You fell asleep like that, joined together, your body draped over his, and when you woke an hour later, the candles had burned lower and the light through the cave entrance had shifted to the gold of late afternoon. You stirred against him, and he felt himself harden again inside you, still buried in your warmth. You smiled sleepily and began to move your hips in a slow, lazy rhythm, and he rolled you onto your back and made love to you again, gentle and tender, whispering your name like a prayer.
After that day, they could not keep their hands off each other, it was as if a dam had broken. Every moment they were together, they were touching. His hand on the small of your back, your fingers tangled in his hair, his lips on your shoulder, your thigh pressed against his beneath the dinner table. The boat sat forgotten on the beach, the wood beginning to weather and grey in the salt air. The days blurred into a haze of sun and water and skin.
He took you in the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, the grass tickling your bare skin as he moved inside you, your legs wrapped around his waist and your fingers digging into his back. The sun was warm on his shoulders and the scent of blossoms was thick in the air. He rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him without breaking their connection, and you rode him among the flowers, your head thrown back, your breasts bouncing with every movement, the bright petals clinging to your damp skin.
You pulled him into the storage chamber one afternoon and pressed him against the cool stone wall. You sank to your knees before him on the worn stone floor, looking up at him and you freed him from his breeches with practiced hands. He was already hard, his cock springing out, the tip glistening. You wrapped your hand around the base of him, feeling the weight and heat of him in your palm, and then you leaned forward and took him into your mouth.
He groaned and buried his fingers in your hair as your lips closed around him. You took him slowly, deliberately, your tongue tracing the ridge on the underside of his shaft, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked. You worked him with your mouth and your hand in tandem, your head bobbing in a steady rhythm, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head on every upstroke. He watched you move, mesmerized, watching his cock disappear between your lips again and again, feeling the wet heat of your mouth, the gentle scrape of your teeth. When you took him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate his length, he groaned your name and tightened his grip on your hair.
You pulled back, your lips slick and swollen, a strand of saliva connecting you to his tip. You looked up at him and smiled, a slow, wicked smile, and then you took him deep again, hollowing your cheeks, increasing your pace. Your hand cupped him gently, rolling him in your palm, and the dual sensation pushed him closer and closer to the edge. When he could not hold back any longer, he warned you, his voice ragged, but you only took him deeper, and he spilled into your mouth with a ragged cry of your name. You swallowed everything he gave you, your throat working around him, and you did not pull away until he was spent and trembling.
You looked up at him, your lips slick and swollen, a tiny bead of his release at the corner of your mouth that you caught with your tongue. The sight of you, kneeling before him, having taken everything he had to give, made his spent cock twitch with interest. He pulled you to your feet and kissed you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue, and then he spun you around and bent you over the stone table where you mixed your medicines.
He bunched your skirts around your waist, baring you to his gaze. Your folds were already slick and glistening, your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. He ran his hand over the curve of your backside, kneading the firm flesh, and then he positioned himself at your entrance. He entered you from behind in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and you gasped and clutched at the worn stone surface. He set a hard, fast rhythm, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints and the other braced on the table beside yours. The sound of his hips slamming against your backside filled the small chamber, wet and rhythmic, punctuated by your breathless gasps and his low groans.
"Is this what you wanted when you got on your knees for me?" he asked, his voice rough. "Did you want me to bend you over and fuck you until you screamed?"
"Yes," you gasped, pushing back against him. "Yes, I wanted this. I wanted you."
He reached around and found your sensitive peak with his fingers, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The angle was perfect, driving him deep, hitting that spot inside you with every stroke. Your gasps turned to cries, your cries turned to screams, and when you came, your body clenching around him so tightly that he could barely move, he followed a heartbeat later, groaning your name into the curve of your shoulder, spilling himself deep inside you.
He stayed inside you until he softened, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade, both of you breathing hard. Then he pulled out gently and turned you around, and he kissed you softly, tenderly, his hands cupping your face.
Every night, they fell asleep tangled together in his bed, their bed now, and every morning they woke the same way. Sometimes he would wake first and simply watch you sleep, the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips curved into a faint smile as if you were dreaming of him. Sometimes you would wake first and trace the lines of his scars with your fingertips, until he stirred and rolled on top of you and the day began the way all their days began now, with your legs around his waist and your soft cries filling the candlelit chamber.
He could not get enough of you. He could not get enough of your taste or your scent or the sounds you made when you came apart in his arms. He could not get enough of the way your eyes fluttered closed when he kissed your neck, or the way your back arched when he ran his hands down your sides, or the way you whispered his name in the darkness, over and over, like an incantation. He learned every inch of your body, every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and every place that made you moan. He learned the rhythm you liked, slow and deep when you were tender, fast and hard when you were hungry. He learned how to read your body well enough to know which one you needed before you had to ask. He learned that you liked it when he talked to you while he moved inside you, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he loved you, how he wanted to stay buried in your warmth forever.
And every time he was inside you, every time you came apart in his arms, every time he lost himself in the heat and the pleasure and the overwhelming, consuming love he felt for you, something else slipped away.
In many ways, you were. You were his world now. You were everything.
And he was forgetting that there had ever been anything else.
—
The ship appeared on the horizon like a ghost from a life Jace had almost forgotten, he was down by the shore, skipping stones across the glass-flat water while you gathered shells further down the beach.
Then he saw it, a dark shape cut against the glare of the sun. At first he thought it was a cloud, or a trick of the light, or one of the strange birds that sometimes wheeled overhead. But the shape grew larger and sharper and resolved itself into masts and sails and a hull cutting through the water.
Jace's hand froze mid-throw. The stone dropped from his fingers and plunked into the shallows.
"Jace?" Your voice came from further down the beach, laced with concern. "What is it?"
"A ship."
The word felt strange in his mouth, foreign. He had not seen a ship in how long? Months? Years? He could not remember. Time had stopped meaning anything on this island.
He squinted against the sun, his heart beating faster. The ship was large, a warship by the look of it, three masts and a reinforced hull. As it drew closer, he could make out the banner snapping from the mainmast.
A seahorse. Silver on sea-green.
Velaryon.
The name hit him like a wave. His grandfather's house. His mother's allies. His family. The memories surged up from wherever they had been hiding, Dragonstone, Driftmark, the fleet, Lord Corlys, the war.
The war. He was fighting a war. His mother needed him. He had to go home.
"They are here for me," he breathed, and then he was running down the beach, waving his arms over his head, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Here! I am here!"
The soldiers came ashore in a longboat, six of them, their armor gleaming in the sun, the Velaryon seahorse embossed on their breastplates. They were grizzled men, seasoned fighters, and when they saw Jace standing on the beach, their faces broke into expressions of shock and relief and barely contained joy.
"Prince Jacaerys," the lead soldier breathed, dropping to one knee in the sand. "We thought you were dead. The Queen, your mother, she sent ships to every corner of the Narrow Sea. She never gave up hope."
Jace pulled the man to his feet, his hands shaking. "My mother. Is she well? Is the war still—"
"The war continues, my prince. The queen has taken Kings Landing. She will be overjoyed to see you. Everyone believed you had perished at the Gullet."
The Gullet. The arrows. Vermax screaming. The water closing over his head.
Jace shoved the memories aside. "I am alive," he said, and he was laughing now, giddy with relief and adrenaline. "I am alive, and I am coming home."
He turned to find you, you were standing a few paces back, your hands clasped in front of you, watching the soldiers with an expression he could not read. Your strange dress fluttered in the sea breeze, and your eyes were dark and unreadable.
"This is Y/N," Jace said, pulling you forward. You came reluctantly, your bare feet dragging in the sand. "She saved my life. She pulled me from the water and nursed me back to health. I would not be alive without her."
The lead soldier bowed to you, respectful. "The Queen will want to thank you personally, my lady. You have done the realm a great service."
You said nothing. You only nodded, a small, stiff movement.
Jace pulled you aside while the soldiers began unloading supplies from the longboat. His hands were still shaking. His heart was pounding. He felt more alive than he had in weeks, or months, or however long it had been.
"You are coming with me," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I know what you told me about your brother and the exile. But I am a prince, and my mother is the Queen. Whatever power your brother holds, it is nothing compared to the Iron Throne. We can protect you."
Your eyes widened. "Jace..."
"I mean it." He took your hands in his, squeezing tight. "You saved my life. You have been alone here for so long, and I am not going to leave you behind. Come with me to Westeros. I will keep you safe. I swear it."
For a long moment, you only looked at him. Your sea-glass eyes searched his face, looking for something he did not recognize. It might have been doubt or hesitation or some reason to refuse, then you smiled.
"Yes," you said. "I will come with you."
Jace pulled you into his arms and held you tight, his face buried in your hair, breathing in the scent of you, salt and flowers and home. "We leave at dawn," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we leave at dawn."
That night, you cooked a feast, the soldiers were camped on the beach, their tents pitched in a neat row above the tide line. They had offered to share their rations, but you had insisted, telling them in that quiet, gracious way of yours that they were guests on your island and that you would feed them.
Jace helped you carry platters of food down to the beach. There was roasted pork, crackling and golden, seasoned with herbs from your garden. There were strange fruits sliced and arranged in intricate patterns. There was fresh bread baked in the stone oven at the back of the cave, still warm and fragrant. And there was wine, more wine than Jace had ever seen in the cave, deep red wine in clay amphorae, rich and dark and potent.
"Where did you get all this?" he asked, watching you fill cup after cup for the soldiers.
You smiled, your hands steady on the amphora. "I have been saving it. For a special occasion."
The feast was a joyous affair. The soldiers laughed and sang and told Jace stories of the war, battles won and lost, allies gained and betrayed, the endless, grinding struggle for the Iron Throne. He listened with half an ear, nodding in the right places, but his attention kept drifting to you.
You moved among the soldiers like a ghost, refilling cups, offering plates of food, your smile never wavering. The men thanked you with drunken enthusiasm, their faces flushed with wine and gratitude. Jace felt a swell of pride watching you, his savior, his love, soon to be his companion in Westeros, where he would shower you with every luxury you had been denied on this lonely island.
"To the Prince!" one of the soldiers bellowed, raising his cup. "To Prince Jacaerys, returned from the dead!"
"To the Prince!" the others roared.
Jace raised his own cup and drank deep. The wine was stronger than he expected, and it went to his head almost immediately. The stars above seemed to blur and swirl. The fire on the beach danced and flickered. Your hand found his under the table, and he squeezed it tight.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, we go home
—
He woke to sunlight and the sound of birdsong, his head pounded. His mouth was dry and sour with the aftertaste of wine. He groaned and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to drive back the ache that throbbed behind them. How much had he drunk? He remembered the feast. He remembered the soldiers laughing, the wine flowing, your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered the fire on the beach and the stars wheeling overhead and the giddy, overwhelming relief of knowing that he was finally, finally going home.
The soldiers, Jace sat up so fast that the furs tangled around his legs and nearly sent him sprawling. The soldiers. The ship. They were leaving at dawn. He had to get up. He had to get dressed. He had to—
He stumbled out of the bed and through the winding passages of the cave, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone. The light grew brighter as he ran, golden and warm, and then he burst through the cave entrance and stopped dead at the edge of the cliff.
The beach was empty, his eyes swept the shoreline, back and forth, back and forth, searching for the tents and the longboat and the supply crates. He looked for the ship, the great Velaryon warship with its three masts and its silver seahorse banner, riding at anchor in the bay.
There was nothing there, the white sand stretched out below him, pristine and unmarked. The sea glittered in the morning sun, calm and blue and utterly empty all the way to the horizon. No ship. No sails. No sign that anyone had ever been here at all.
"What..." Jace's voice came out hoarse, cracked. He turned and ran down the path to the beach, his legs still unsteady, his heart pounding against his ribs. He reached the sand and walked through the place where the camp had been, his eyes scanning the ground for any trace of the soldiers. A footprint. A scrap of cloth. A ring of stones where the fire had burned. A spilled cup. Anything.
The sand was smooth and unblemished. The tide had come in during the night and erased whatever marks might have been left behind.
"Jace?" Your voice drifted down from the cliff above, calm and curious. "What are you doing?"
He looked up. You were standing at the mouth of the cave, barefoot, wrapped in one of your flowing dresses, your hair loose around your shoulders. The morning light caught the soft curves of your face and made your eyes gleam.
"The soldiers," Jace called up to you. "The ship. Where are they?"
You tilted your head, your brow furrowing slightly. "What soldiers?"
The question hit him like a physical blow. He stood there on the empty beach, staring up at you, waiting for you to laugh or smile or tell him it was a joke. You only looked back at him with mild, patient confusion.
"The soldiers," he repeated, his voice rising. "The Velaryon soldiers. Six of them. They came yesterday in a warship. They landed on the beach. We had a feast. You served them roast pork and wine. They were going to take us home this morning."
Your expression did not change. That small, puzzled frown remained, as though he were speaking a language you did not quite recognize.
"Jace," you said gently, "I think you must have dreamed it."
"I did not dream it." He was breathing hard now, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "They were here. They said my mother sent them. You spoke to them. You—"
He stopped, you were walking down the path to the beach now, your bare feet moving sure and steady over the rocks. When you reached the sand, you came to stand beside him, and your hand rose to rest against his cheek.
"You had a great deal of wine last night," you said, your voice soft and soothing. "More than I have ever seen you drink. Sometimes wine can make dreams feel very real."
Jace shook his head, pulling away from your touch. "It was not a dream. They were here. They were real."
"Then where are they now?" You gestured at the empty beach, the empty sea, the empty horizon. "Where is the ship? Where are the footprints? Where is the fire? If six men camped on this beach last night, where is the evidence of it?"
The sand was smooth. The sea was empty. There was no smoke rising from the ashes of a campfire. There were no tent pegs driven into the earth. There was no ship, no longboat, no sign that anyone but the two of you had ever set foot on this island.
"I do not know," he said, and his voice sounded thin and uncertain even to his own ears. "I do not understand."
You stepped closer, and your hand found his cheek again, and this time he did not pull away. Your palm was cool against his flushed skin.
"You have been through so much," you murmured. "Your body is still healing. Your mind is still healing. Dreams and memories and wishes can all blur together. But you are here with me, and you are safe. That is what matters."
Jace stared down at the sand. His head was pounding. His thoughts were tangled, slipping over each other like stones in a landslide. He remembered the feast so clearly, the taste of the roast pork, the sound of the soldiers' laughter, the weight of your hand in his. He remembered the banner snapping in the wind, silver seahorse on sea-green. He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, the shock and relief on his weathered face.
But the beach was empty.
"Perhaps you are right," he said slowly, and the words felt like surrender. "Perhaps I dreamed it."
You smiled, and your smile was warm and gentle and full of something that might have been relief. "Come back inside. I will make you something to eat. You will feel better once you have eaten."
He let you lead him back up the path and into the cave. He let you sit him down at the stone table. He let you place a plate of fruit and fresh bread in front of him, and he ate without tasting it, his mind still chasing the fragments of the dream that had felt so real.
That was what you had called it. A dream. And perhaps you were right. Perhaps the longing for home had grown so strong that his mind had conjured a rescue where none existed. Perhaps the wine had done the rest, weaving the longing into something that felt like memory.
Perhaps.
He did not think about it for the rest of the day, it was not until late afternoon that he noticed the pigs, he was walking past the enclosure without any particular destination in mind, his feet carrying him along the familiar path, when he stopped and frowned.
The pigs had always been numerous, he had never bothered to count them exactly, but now, looking at the enclosure, he could see that there were more than there had been the day before. Many more.
The sows jostled and grunted. The piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt. They were fat, healthy animals with glossy coats and floppy ears, rooting in the churned earth of the enclosure, there were at least twice as many pigs as there had been the day before.
Jace stood at the stone wall and stared at them. The pigs stared back, their small dark eyes unblinking, he stood there for a long time.
—
Days later, Jace found the hole by accident, though later he would wonder whether anything on this island ever happened by accident at all. He had been exploring, something he did more and more often now, wandering the island's paths and cliffs and hidden coves as if searching for something he could not name. He had walked further than usual that afternoon, following a thin stream that wound through a cleft in the cliffs, its water cold and clear and tasting faintly of minerals when he cupped his hands to drink. The stream led him deeper into the interior than he had ever gone before, past stands of flowering trees whose blossoms released a sweet, drowsy perfume, past moss-covered boulders that loomed overhead like the shoulders of buried giants and that was when he saw it.
A dark opening in the rock face, half-hidden by a curtain of flowering vines that spilled down from the cliff above in cascades of white and purple. The vines were thick and tangled, but they did not quite conceal the gap behind them. An opening wide enough for a man to walk through without ducking his head.
He should not have gone in. He knew that, even as his feet carried him forward, even as his hands reached out to push the vines aside. A voice in the back of his mind, the voice that had once belonged to a prince trained in caution and suspicion, whispered that he should turn around and walk back to the sunlit meadow and forget he had ever seen this place. But that voice had grown very quiet in the months he had spent on this island, and something else had grown louder.
The darkness swallowed him whole. He stood motionless for a long moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust, one hand pressed flat against the cool stone of the wall. The passage sloped downward, the floor worn smooth by the passage of time or water or the tread of feet. He could not see more than a few feet ahead, but he could feel the space around him opening up, widening into something larger than a simple tunnel. The air was dry and still, the silence so complete that he could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.
He walked deeper, the passage twisted once, then twice, then opened abruptly into a chamber so vast that Jace's footsteps echoed back to him from walls he could not see. Thin shafts of daylight pierced down through cracks in the ceiling high above, illuminating the space in pale, dusty columns that fell across the floor like the bars of a cage made of light and in those columns of light, Jace saw them.
Armor.
Dozens of sets, perhaps hundreds, arranged against the walls and stacked in corners and laid out on stone slabs that rose from the floor like altars. Breastplates and greaves and gauntlets and helms, their surfaces catching the thin light and throwing it back in dull gleams. Some were polished and gleaming, as if they had been cleaned and oiled with meticulous care. Others were rusted and crumbling, their edges flaking away into red-brown dust, their shapes barely recognizable beneath the corrosion of years or decades or centuries. Swords and axes and spears and maces, their blades dull with age and disuse, their hilts wrapped in leather that had rotted away to nothing.
And clothes, stacks and stacks of clothes, tunics and breeches and cloaks and boots and belts and gloves. They were piled against the walls in drifts that rose nearly to the ceiling, some of them neatly folded as if awaiting a return that would never come, others tossed carelessly into corners in tangled heaps of faded fabric. Some were new, the dyes still bright, the wool still soft, the linen still crisp and clean. Others were ancient and moth-eaten, their threads crumbling at the slightest touch, their colors bleached to ghostly echoes of what they had once been.
Jace stood in the center of the chamber and turned in a slow circle, his breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a fist beating against a locked door. The scale of it was incomprehensible. There were so many. Too many. More than one person could ever need. More than a dozen people could ever need. More than a hundred people could ever need. This was not a collection. This was a graveyard for the belongings of the dead.
His eyes caught on a breastplate near his feet, and the world tilted sideways, it was newer than the others. Its metal still held a faint gleam beneath a thin layer of dust, and its leather straps were still supple, and on its chest, embossed in silver that caught the light like a blade, was the seahorse of House Velaryon.
He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, his weathered face breaking into shock and relief. He remembered the feast on the beach, the crackling fire, the roast pork and the wine and your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered waking to find the beach empty and the sea bare and you standing at the mouth of the cave with your head tilted and your brow furrowed, asking him what soldiers he meant, telling him it was only a dream, only a dream, nothing more than a dream.
The soldiers who had never been here. The soldiers he had only imagined. Their armor was lying at his feet.
He stumbled backward. His heel caught on a gauntlet and sent it skittering across the stone floor with a sound like a startled crab. The noise echoed through the chamber and died away into silence, and Jace stood there with his hands shaking and his mind blank with a terror so absolute that it felt almost like calm. He could not think. He could not breathe. He could not make sense of what he was seeing, and some part of him understood with terrible clarity that making sense of it would destroy everything he had built on this island. Every moment of peace. Every hour of love. Every whispered word in the darkness. All of it balanced on the edge of this pit, and if he looked down, if he truly looked, he would fall.
"What are you doing here?"
He spun around so fast that his boots skidded on the stone floor, his heart slammed against his ribs, once, twice, a frantic drumbeat of pure animal terror.. "Nothing. I was only looking, I wanted to understand—"
"You were only looking." You stepped out of the shadows and into the thin light that filtered down from the cracks in the ceiling, and the expression on your face made his stomach drop. The gentle warmth he had come to love was gone. The softness was gone. Your jaw was tight, the muscles corded beneath your skin, and your hands were clenched into fists at your sides, and your eyes were fixed on him with a glittering intensity that pinned him in place like a butterfly on a board. "At what, precisely? At the belongings of dead men? At the evidence of my sins? At the proof that I am not the gentle, lonely woman you thought you loved?"
Your hands unclenched and clenched again, the fingers curling and uncurling in a rhythm that seemed almost involuntary, as though you were strangling something invisible.
"I asked you a question, Jace." Your voice dropped, soft and dangerous. "What are you doing here?"
He should have been afraid. He was afraid. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, and his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, and every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to run. But something else rose up inside him too, some scrap of the prince he used to be, some stubborn remnant of the boy who had faced down enemies on the battlefield and never flinched. He straightened his spine and met your eyes and refused to look away.
"Why are they here?" he asked, gesturing at the armor that surrounded them. "All of these. Dozens of sets. Hundreds, maybe. The soldiers who came for me, their armor is here. The same breastplate, the same sigil. It wasn't a dream was it? What happened to them?"
You stared at him. A muscle in your jaw twitched.
"It does not matter."
"It matters to me."
"It does not matter, Jace." Your voice was rising now, cracking at the edges, splintering into something raw and desperate. "It should not matter, Jace. Those men are gone. Let them stay gone. Let the past stay buried. We were happy. We were so happy. Why could you not leave well enough alone?"
"Because I need to know the truth."
"The truth will not make you happy. The truth will not keep you warm at night. The truth will not hold you when you wake from nightmares and tell you that everything is going to be all right."
"The truth is the truth. I deserve to know it."
You laughed, it was sharp and bitter and jagged, the laugh of someone who had been hurt too many times to believe in fairness anymore. "You sound just like them. Every single one of them. They all wanted the truth. They all thought they deserved to know. And do you know what happened when they found it?"
Jace did not answer. He did not need to answer. The armors answered for him.
"What happened to the soldiers?" he asked instead. His voice was very quiet. "The ones who came for me. The ones whose armor is lying at my feet. What did you do to them?"
Your face crumpled, the coldness shattered and the fury crumbled and underneath it was something far older and far more terrifying, a grief so immense it had calcified into rage over centuries of solitude. The tears that spilled down your cheeks were real, hot and sudden and utterly convincing.
"Why do you want to leave me?" you screamed, the sound echoed off the stone walls and came back multiplied, a chorus of accusations that battered him from every direction. Your voice was raw and ragged, shredded at the edges, and the pain in it was so enormous that Jace felt his own heart clench in response. The anger that had been building in him, the righteous fury at being lied to, began to waver. How could he be angry at someone who was in so much pain? How could he accuse someone who was so clearly suffering?
"Why do you want to leave me?" you cried again, and your voice broke on the last word. "Why do they always leave? Every single one of them, they wash up on my shore and I save them and I nurse them back to health and I give them everything I have, everything I am, and they tell me they love me, they look me in the eyes and they swear they love me, and I believe them every time, every single time I believe them because I am so desperate to be loved by someone, anyone, and then they remember. They always remember. And they always leave. They always want to go home. Why am I never enough? Why am I never enough for anyone?"
The question hung in the air, raw and bleeding. Your chest was heaving. Your hands were shaking. You looked at him with those burning eyes, and Jace felt his resolve crumbling, you were not a monster, you were wounded, a woman who had been abandoned and betrayed so many times that she had forgotten how to trust. How could he blame you for what you had done?
"I love you," he said, and his voice was shaking but he meant it with every fiber of his being. "I love you. I do. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone."
"Then why do you want to leave me?" Your voice was small now, wounded, the fury draining away to reveal the vulnerability beneath. "If you love me, why isn't that enough? Why do you need to go back? Why can't you just stay here with me? Why do you need a mother and brothers and a war and a throne? Why can you not just stay here and be mine?"
"Because I have a family." He was pleading now, hating himself for the pain he was causing you. "Because I have a mother who needs me and brothers who are waiting for me. Because there is a war, a war I was fighting, a war I was supposed to win. Because I have a duty."
"A duty." You laughed, but it was a broken sound, a laugh that was really a sob. "Duty. Honor. Family. I have heard all of this before. Every single one of them said the same thing. They had to go back. They had responsibilities. They had people who needed them. And what about me? What about what I need? I needed them. I loved them. And they left me anyway. They all left me. Just like you will leave me."
"I don't want to leave you," Jace said, and the words felt inadequate, pathetic. "I want to go home, yes. I want to see my mother. I want to protect her from the enemies who would see her dead and her throne stolen. But I want to take you with me. I want you to meet her. I want to marry you properly, before the whole court, with a septon and a cloak and vows spoken in the light of the Seven. I want to make you my queen. When I sit the Iron Throne, you will sit beside me."
He reached for you, desperate to comfort you, to wipe the tears from your cheeks. You did not pull away, but you did not lean into his touch either.
"I do not care what you did to these men," he said, his voice low and fierce. "I do not care what you have done. I love you. I love you more than I have ever loved anything in my life. I just want you to come with me. Please. Come with me."
For a long moment, you were silent, then you shook your head. Slowly. Miserably. With the exhausted certainty of someone who had heard these same promises too many times to count.
"It is not true," you whispered. "They always say this. When my brother sends them here, they always tell me they love me. They always promise they will stay. They look at me with those earnest eyes and they swear they are different from the others, and I believe them. I always believe them. Because I want to believe. Because I want so desperately for it to be true. And then they remember who they were before, and everything changes."
You pulled your hands out of his grip and wrapped your arms around yourself, your shoulders hunching inward as though you were trying to make yourself smaller, harder to hurt. Jace felt a surge of protectiveness so strong it almost knocked the breath out of him. He wanted to hold you. He wanted to shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.
"They remember their old lives," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "and they tell me they will save me. They tell me they will break the curse and take me away from here and marry me in a real sept with real vows. They promise me everything I have ever wanted. And for a little while I let myself hope. I let myself believe that this time will be different. This time the love will be real."
Your voice caught on the last word, splintering into something that was almost a sob. Jace felt tears prick at the corners of his own eyes. Gods, how could anyone have done this to you? How could anyone have been so cruel?
"But they never mean it," you said. "They are only saying what they think I want to hear. They are only trying to placate me, to buy themselves time, to find a way to escape. And when they try to break the curse and they fail, when they realize their love is not strong enough, when they understand that they do not really love me at all, they run. They try to leave. And I—"
You stopped. Your hands were trembling violently now, the fingers twisting together in front of you.
"What do you do?" Jace asked, though he already knew the answer. He knew it, and it horrified him, and yet somehow he could not bring himself to judge you for it. You had been hurt. You had been betrayed. You had been left alone for so long that you had forgotten what it felt like to be held. How could anyone expect you to react with grace when another man tried to abandon you?
"I do not let them leave." Your voice was barely a whisper, so quiet he had to lean closer to hear it. "They do not get to leave. They do not get to go back to their families and forget about me while I rot here alone. They stay. They stay here with me. Forever."
"The pigs," Jace said.
"They are happier as pigs," Your voice took on a defensive edge, almost childlike in its insistence. "They do not remember their old lives. They do not feel the disappointment. They do not want to leave. They are content. They have food and shelter and each other. I take care of them. I take better care of them than anyone ever took care of me." Your eyes searched his face, looking for understanding, looking for absolution. "They are better off this way. I gave them peace. I gave them a life without pain. Do you know what my brother gave me? Do you know what it feels like to be left here, alone, for centuries, with nothing but the sound of the waves and the crying of the gulls and the knowledge that no one is ever coming for you?"
Jace's throat was dry. "Why did you not do it to me?"
"Because I thought you were different." Your voice was small now, so small it was almost swallowed by the shadows of the cave. "Because when I looked at you, when I held you through the fevers and listened to you talk about your home and your family, I thought—I hoped—that you might really love me." A tear slid down your cheek, and you did not wipe it away. "I thought you would stay."
The guilt hit Jace like a physical blow. You had hoped. You had let yourself hope, despite everything, despite centuries of betrayal and abandonment, and he was about to become just another name on the long list of people who had disappointed you. He was about to leave you, just like all the others. He was about to prove that your hope had been misplaced, that love was a lie, that no one would ever truly choose you.
"I am sorry," he said, and he meant it with every part of himself. "I am so sorry. I do not want to leave you. I want to stay. I want both things. I want to go home, but I want you to come with me. Can I not have both things?"
"No one ever wants both things." You pulled your hands away, and your expression was hardening again, the vulnerability sealing itself back behind walls of old resentment. "They want to leave. They always want to leave. As soon as they remember their old lives, they want to leave. And when they realize they cannot break the curse, they run. They all run. And I have to stop them because if I do not stop them they will leave me alone again, and I cannot be alone again, Jace, I cannot, I would rather die than be alone again—"
"What curse?" Jace cut through your spiraling words, his voice urgent. "You said they could not break the curse. What curse?"
"It does not matter," you said. Your voice was empty now, drained of all the fury and grief that had filled it moments before. "You are going to leave me too. You are going to try to break the curse, and you are going to fail, because no one has ever succeeded, and then you are going to run. Just like all the others."
"Tell me what the curse is. Please. Let me help you."
You stared at him for a long, long moment. The candles flickered in their alcoves, their flames guttering in a draft he could not feel. The armor gleamed dully in the shadows, the relics of a hundred men who had stood where he was standing now and made the same promises he was making. Somewhere far away, muffled by stone and distance, the pigs grunted in their enclosure. The men who had failed. The men whose love had not been strong enough.
"My brother exiled me here," you said finally. Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings, as though you had told this story so many times that the words had lost all meaning. "Centuries ago. So long ago that the world I came from does not exist anymore, and when I disobeyed him, when I refused to do what he asked of me, he put a curse on this island as punishment. I cannot leave. No ship will carry me. No boat will bear my weight. If I try to swim, the sea itself will rise up and drag me back to shore. I am bound here, bound to this rock, until the curse is broken or the world ends."
"How do I break it?"
You looked at him, and your eyes were ancient and exhausted and utterly without hope. Jace felt his heart twist. You had been disappointed so many times. You did not believe he could do it.
"There is a cave," you said. "Behind the waterfall on the western cliff. There is a statue inside, a statue of me carved from black stone, wrapped in chains. I cannot enter the cave. It is spelled against me." Your hand rose unconsciously to your neck, as if feeling for the links of a collar that was not there. "If the statue is broken, the curse will be lifted. The chains will fall. I will be free."
"Then I will break it."
"It is not that simple." Your voice was quiet now, almost gentle, and there was something in it that felt like a warning, a kindness, an attempt to protect him from the disappointment you were certain was coming. "Only a man who knows my true nature can destroy the statue. Only a man who has seen what I am, what I have done, every monstrous thing I have committed in my long and miserable existence, and still loves me truly. Not charmed. Not tricked. Not fogged by the magic of this island. Real love. Clear-eyed love. Love that looks at the worst of me and does not flinch." You paused. "If his love is false, if it is only gratitude or loneliness or the lingering effects of my enchantments, the statue will not break. It will not even crack. And I will know. I will know that his love was a lie."
"I am not them," he said.
"You are. You are exactly like them."
"No." He stepped forward and took your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks. "I am not them. I am going to break the curse. I am going to set you free. I am going to take you away from this island and give you the life you deserve. I swear it."
"You cannot promise that."
"I can. I am." He pressed his forehead against yours. "I love you. I know what you are. I know what you have done. And I love you anyway. I love you not despite the worst of you but because of it. Because the worst of you was born from pain, and I want to heal that pain. I want to be the one who finally proves to you that love is real. That you are worthy of it. That you have always been worthy of it."
You let out a sound that was half laugh and half sob. "You are a fool, Jacaerys Velaryon."
"Take me to the cave behind the waterfall," he said. "Let me prove it."
"Alright," you whispered, as if you had expected him to ask. "I will take you. But do not say I did not warn you."
You turned and walked out of the cave, and Jace followed you, his heart pounding and his mind clear and his love for you burning in his chest like a flame that no wind could extinguish. He was going to save you. He was going to be the one. He was going to prove that love was stronger than any curse, stronger than any magic, stronger than centuries of solitude and betrayal.
He had to be the one. The alternative was unthinkable.
—
The walk was silent, you led him along the familiar path, the meadow with its strange flowers swaying in the breeze, the grove of fruit trees with their golden bounty hanging heavy from the branches, the rocky outcropping that overlooked the western shore where the sea stretched out blue and endless and utterly indifferent to what was about to happen. The waterfall was roaring louder than usual, or perhaps it only seemed that way. Perhaps it was the blood pounding in his ears. Perhaps it was the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him like a physical thing, a stone laid across his chest that made every breath feel shallow and insufficient.
You stopped at the edge of the pool, where the water churned white with the endless cascade. Your face was pale. Your hands were shaking at your sides, the fingers twisting together in that nervous gesture he had come to recognize, the one that always made him want to pull you into his arms and promise you that everything would be alright.
"There," you said, pointing, Jace squinted through the spray. Behind the curtain of falling water, barely visible through the silver torrent, was a dark opening in the rock face. A cave mouth, smaller than the one you lived in, half-hidden by the cascade. It looked like something that did not want to be found.
"I cannot enter," you said, and your voice was quiet, almost reverent. "The spell prevents me. The moment I step through the water, I am pushed back. It burns." You wrapped your arms around yourself, your fingers digging into the flesh of your upper arms. The gesture was meant to look vulnerable, meant to make him feel protective. It worked. "You have to go alone."
Jace nodded. He had expected this. Of course he had expected this. The hero always had to face the trial alone. That was how these stories went.
"I will come back," he said.
You did not answer. Your eyes were fixed on the waterfall, dark and terrified, and your lower lip trembled just slightly, just enough for him to notice.
"Hey." He touched your chin, turning your face toward him. Your skin was cold beneath his fingers. "I will come back. I promise."
"Everyone promises." Your voice was barely a whisper, and there was something in it that snagged at his heart like a fishhook. "Everyone who has ever stood on this shore has promised to come back."
"I am not everyone."
He kissed your lips and for just a moment he felt something move beneath the surface. A flicker. A pulse. Something that was not quite human. Then the moment passed, and you were just you again, fragile and frightened and looking at him with those sea-glass eyes that held all the sadness in the world.
He turned away before he could lose his nerve. He dove into the pool, and the water closed over his head like a fist.
The cold was shocking. It was more than cold. It was the absence of warmth, the absence of life, a cold that sank into his bones and wrapped around his heart and squeezed. He surfaced gasping, his breath torn from his lungs in a ragged gasp, and swam toward the waterfall with strong, desperate strokes. The roar grew louder as he approached, a wall of sound that pressed against his eardrums until he could hear nothing else. The spray blinded him, stinging his eyes, filling his mouth with the taste of minerals and stone. The current tried to push him back, tried to shove him away from the cave entrance as if the water itself did not want him to pass.
But he kept swimming. He had promised. He had promised he would come back, he reached the rock face and pulled himself up onto a narrow ledge, slick with moss and running water, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wet stone. The cave entrance yawned before him, dark and silent and somehow hungry, as if the darkness itself was waiting for him to step inside. He looked back once. You were still standing at the edge of the pool, a pale figure in a pale dress, your hands pressed to your mouth. You looked like a ghost. You looked like a memory of someone who had died a long time ago.
Then he turned and walked into the darkness.
—
The cave was small, smaller than he had expected. The passage was short, barely twenty paces, the walls rough and wet beneath his trailing fingers, the floor sloping downward into the heart of the rock. The roar of the waterfall faded behind him, muffled by the stone, until the only sound was the drip of water and the soft scuff of his bare feet on the rock and the steady, insistent pounding of his own heart.
The passage opened into a round chamber no larger than your bedchamber back in the main cave. The walls were smooth and wet, glistening with moisture, catching the light and throwing it back in a thousand tiny reflections. The only illumination came from somewhere above, a thin shaft of daylight that pierced through a crack in the rock and fell in a single golden beam onto the center of the chamber. It was like something out of a sept, that beam of light. It was like the light that fell on an altar, or a tomb, or a place where something sacred had been buried and forgotten.
And in the center of the chamber was the statue.
It was you, smooth and luminous, carved with such skill that it seemed almost alive. The surface of the stone had been polished to a soft gleam, catching the golden light and holding it, and the details were so fine that Jace could see the individual strands of hair. The statue knelt on a stone pedestal, its head bowed in an attitude of submission or prayer, its face frozen in an expression of such profound sorrow that Jace felt his chest tighten just looking at it. The eyes were closed. The lips were slightly parted, as if caught in the middle of a sigh. The shoulders were hunched forward, the spine curved, every line of the body speaking of exhaustion and despair and the weight of an eternity spent alone.
And the hands, the statue's hands were raised in front of its chest, palms facing each other, fingers slightly curled as if holding something invisible. And around those marble wrists, coiled so tightly they seemed to be part of the stone itself, were two snakes.
No. Not snakes. Bracelets. Golden bracelets, each one shaped like a serpent eating its own tail. But the serpents were not connected to each other. They were separate, independent, each one locked around a single wrist, each one devouring itself in an endless cycle of consumption and renewal. Their golden eyes gleamed in the shaft of daylight, bright and watchful and aware. Their scales were so finely detailed that Jace could count every one, each scale overlapping the next in perfect, reptilian precision. Their jaws were clamped tight around their own tails, and their bodies were wound around the marble wrists in coils that looked tight enough to bruise.
They were not chains. Not exactly. They were something worse. They were a trap that could not be escaped because there was nothing to break. The snakes held her wrists, and her wrists held the snakes, and neither could let go, and the whole thing was a perfect, closed loop of imprisonment that had no beginning and no end.
Jace stood in the darkness at the edge of the chamber, staring at the statue. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. His hands were slick with water and sweat. The marble figure knelt in its beam of light, motionless and patient, and the golden snakes watched him with their glittering eyes, and the silence was so complete that he could hear the blood rushing through his own veins.
He bent down and picked up a rock from the floor of the cave. It was heavy, sharp-edged, big enough to do damage. He turned it over in his hands, testing its weight, feeling the rough edges bite into his palm. Break the statue. Break the curse. Simple. You had told him what to do. You had told him it was simple.
He took a step toward the pedestal.
"Are you quite certain about this?"
Jace froze, the voice was male. Low and smooth and echoing, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It bounced off the wet stone walls, slid through the darkness, coiled around him like smoke, like water, like something that had been waiting in the shadows for a very long time. It was not a human voice. It was too resonant for that, too layered, as if many voices were speaking at once in perfect, dissonant harmony.
"Who is there?" Jace demanded. His voice sounded too loud in the silence, too harsh, too frightened. He hated how frightened he sounded.
No answer. Just the dripping of water. The distant, muffled roar of the falls.
"You should think very carefully before you do something you will regret for the rest of your life. Which, I should warn you, may not be very long."
Jace spun around, the rock raised like a weapon. The chamber was empty. The passage behind him was empty. The shadows pressed against the walls, still and silent and utterly unoccupied.
"I said who is there?"
"A friend." The voice was almost gentle now, almost kind. It was the voice of a father speaking to a wayward son, a mentor guiding a confused student. "Someone who does not want to see you make a mistake you cannot undo. Someone who has watched this same scene play out more times than I can count, and who is very, very tired of seeing young men throw their lives away."
Jace's grip tightened on the rock. The edges cut into his palm, grounding him. "Show yourself."
"I cannot. I am not really here. I am just a voice in the dark. A warning. A kindness, if you will let me be." The voice paused, and when it spoke again, it was softer. Sadder. "I am the only person on this island who is actually trying to help you, Jacaerys."
"Don't listen to it," Jace muttered to himself. He turned back toward the statue. "It's just another part of the curse. It's trying to stop you. She said there would be things trying to stop you."
"Is that what she told you?" The voice sounded amused now, deeply and darkly amused. "That the curse is the villain? That she is the victim? How very convenient for her. How very convenient that she has a story that makes her the helpless damsel and everyone else the monster. She tells that story very well. She has had centuries of practice."
Jace ignored it. He stepped closer to the pedestal. The marble woman knelt in her beam of light, motionless and sorrowful. The golden snakes glinted.
"She is very beautiful, isn't she?" the voice continued, and now it was almost conversational, almost casual, as if they were two old friends discussing the weather. "Of course she is. She's had centuries to perfect the act. The dresses. The smiles. The way she looks at you like you are the only man in the world, like you are the answer to every prayer she has ever whispered into the darkness. It is all very convincing. It is meant to be. She has been refining it for longer than your entire bloodline has existed."
"You do not know anything about her."
"I know everything about her." The voice was sharper now, the amusement draining away to reveal something harder underneath. "I know what she is. I know what she has done. I know how many men have stood exactly where you are standing now, holding a rock just like that one, thinking they were going to be the one. The special one. The one whose love was strong enough." A pause, heavy with meaning. "Do you know how many of them succeeded?"
Jace did not answer.
"None. Not one. In all the centuries she has been trapped on this island, not a single man has broken that statue. Do you know why? Because it cannot be broken. It is a trap. It is the bait, and you are the fish, and you are swimming toward it with your mouth wide open."
"You are lying." Jace's voice was shaking now. He hated that it was shaking. "You are just another part of the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."
"I am trying to stop you from destroying yourself." The voice was closer now, seeming to come from just behind his left shoulder. He spun around, but there was nothing there. Only shadows. Only the dripping of water. "Let me ask you something, Jacaerys. Can you remember your mother's name?"
He opened his mouth but nothing came out, the name was gone. It had been there a moment ago, he was sure of it. He could see her face, silver hair and sad eyes, could feel the shape of her in his memory. But the name, the name would not come.
"Your brothers," the voice continued, relentless and calm. "How many brothers do you have? What are their names?"
"I have brothers. I know I have brothers." His voice sounded desperate, even to his own ears. "Luke-Lucerys. And the others. The little ones."
"You are reciting words. You are not remembering. She has taken them from you, piece by piece, day by day. She has been stealing your memories since the moment you arrived. The food she feeds you. The wine she pours you. The herbs she puts in your medicine. They do not just heal your wounds. They erase you. They hollow you out. They make room for her."
Jace's mind was blank. Empty. There was nothing there but fog, thick and white and impenetrable, where his memories should have been.
"She has taken them from you," the voice said, and now it was almost gentle again, almost pitying. "Piece by piece. Day by day. Every moment you spend in her presence, she is stealing more of who you are. Your family. Your home. Your past. Your very self. And you call that love? You think that is what love looks like?"
"She saved my life."
"She kept you alive because she needed you. There is a difference. She needs a man to break the curse. She always needs a man to break the curse. That is how it works. That is how it has always worked. She lures them in with her beauty and her vulnerability and her sad, sad story, and she makes them love her, and then she sends them here to die. Because no one can break the curse. No one. The statue does not break. It has never broken. And when the man fails, when he realizes his love is not strong enough, she has her excuse. She was right all along. No one really loves her. So she turns them into pigs and waits for the next shipwreck, the next castaway, the next fool who will believe her lies."
He kept going "You think that is love?" The voice laughed, a soft and pitying laugh. "You think a woman who erases your past and steals your future and traps you on an island where you can never leave loves you? You think any of this is real?"
"I love her." Jace's voice cracked. "I know I love her. That is real. Whatever else she has done, my love for her is real."
"Oh, it feels real. I am sure it does. But do you know why it feels real?" The voice paused, letting the question hang in the darkness. "Because she makes it feel real. That is what she does. That is what the magic does. It wraps around your mind and makes you think you are feeling something true. But it is not true, Jacaerys. It is a trick. A trap. You have been ensnared since the moment you opened your eyes in that candlelit room and saw her kneeling beside your bed like a worried bride."
Jace's arm was lowering. The rock felt heavier now, so heavy he could barely hold it. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.
"She told me you would say things like this," he said, but his voice was weak. Uncertain. "She told me the curse would try to stop me. She warned me there would be voices."
"The curse is not stopping you. I am not the curse. I am the only thing standing between you and an eternity of rooting in the dirt with all the other men who believed her lies." The voice was right next to his ear now, so close he could feel the cold breath of it against his skin. "Do you want to know the real story, Jacaerys? Do you want to know who she really is?"
He did not answer. He did not want to know. He wanted to cover his ears and run back through the waterfall and hold you in his arms and forget this voice had ever spoken to him. But his feet would not move. His body would not obey him.
"She is not a victim," the voice whispered. "She is not a lonely woman trapped by a cruel brother. That is a story she invented centuries ago because it makes men feel protective. It makes them feel noble. It makes them want to save her. The truth is much simpler, and much uglier. She is a goddess, a thing that was worshipped before your ancestors crawled out of the mud. And she was imprisoned here not as punishment, but as containment. Because she is dangerous. Because she feeds on devotion the way a spider feeds on flies."
"You are lying."
"Am I? If you break that statue," the voice said, "she will be free. And the moment she is free, she will have no more use for you. Her love for you, such as it is, will vanish. It is not real love, Jacaerys. It is bait. It is a lure. It is the promise of everything you have ever wanted, dangled in front of you to make you do what she needs. And once you have done it, once you have served your purpose, she will discard you like all the others."
"Stop." Jace's voice cracked on the word.
"That is the part she did not tell you, is it not? She did not tell you that her love is conditional. She did not tell you that it lasts only as long as she is trapped. The moment she is free, the magic breaks both ways. The chains fall from her wrists, and her love for you falls with them."
"You are lying." Jace's voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the distant roar of the waterfall. "You are the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."
"She told every man before you the exact same story. Word for word. The cruel brother. The lonely exile. The curse that can only be broken by true love. She told it to the knight in rusted armor whose bones are rotting in that cave. She told it to the merchant captain whose shield is propped against the wall. And you are just the latest audience."
"Stop."
"She does not love you. She cannot love you. She is not capable of love. She is capable of hunger, and she calls it love because that is what makes men stay. But it is not love. It has never been love. It is just need. Just appetite. Just the endless, grinding loneliness of a creature that consumes everything it touches and is still never full."
Jace opened his eyes. The statue knelt in its beam of light. The golden snakes watched him with their glittering, knowing eyes. The marble face was frozen in its expression of eternal sorrow.
What if the voice was right?
What if none of it was real?
What if he broke the statue, and your love disappeared, and he spent the rest of his life chasing a ghost?
What if he was just the next fool in line?
"Go back," the voice whispered. "Go back to the beach. Build your boat. Leave this place while you still can. While you still remember enough of yourself to want to leave. She will try to stop you. She will cry and plead and tell you she loves you. But it will be a lie. It has always been a lie. Go back, Jacaerys. Go home. Save yourself."
—
You had been waiting for hours. You stood at the edge of the pool, your bare feet sinking into the damp sand, your eyes fixed on the curtain of falling water. The roar of the waterfall filled your ears until you could hear nothing else, but you were listening for something beneath the roar. A shout. A crash. The sound of stone breaking. The sound of a man drowning.
Anything. Please, anything.
Jace surfaced at the edge of the pool, gasping, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his skin slick with water and gleaming in the sunlight. He pulled himself onto the sand, his chest heaving, his arms trembling with exhaustion, and for a moment he just knelt there on his hands and knees, catching his breath, water streaming from his body in rivulets. You just stared at him, searching his face for some sign of what had happened, some clue in the set of his jaw or the light in his eyes. Was the curse broken? Had he succeeded? Had he been the one, the only one, the man whose love was finally strong enough?
"I did it," he said, and his voice was warm and triumphant and full of a joy you had never heard from him before. "I broke the curse."
You stumbled forward, your legs barely supporting you, your hands reaching for him before your mind had fully registered what he had said. "You—you did? It is broken? I am free?"
"You are free." He rose to his feet, still smiling, and opened his arms to you. "You are free, Y/N. We can leave. Together. Just like I promised."
A sob tore from your throat, raw and jagged and utterly involuntary. You threw yourself into his arms, your body shaking, tears streaming down your face in hot, messy rivulets. He caught you and held you tight, his hands warm on your back, his lips pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, your cheek, his voice murmuring reassurances that you could barely hear over the pounding of your own heart.
"I love you," you gasped, the words tumbling out between sobs, unstoppable, irrepressible. "I love you, I love you, I love you—"
"I love you too." His voice was soft. Tender. Everything you had ever wanted to hear. "I told you I would save you. I told you I was different. I told you I was not like the others."
He kissed you, it was a deep kiss, a passionate kiss, the kind of kiss that spoke of relief and joy and a future finally within reach. You melted into him, your body pressing against his, your hands sliding up his chest, his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his wet hair. The waterfall roared behind you, but it sounded different now, less like a threat and more like applause. The sun was warm on your skin, warmer than it had ever been. You were free. You were finally, impossibly free. After centuries of solitude, centuries of hoping and losing and hoping again, someone had finally loved you enough.
You did not notice anything until you felt the cold metal snap shut against your skin, you tore away from him, stumbling backward, your hand flying to your wrist. Something was there. Something heavy and cold and horribly, sickeningly familiar. You looked down, and the world stopped.
A golden snake. Coiled around your forearm, its tail clamped in its own jaws, its scales gleaming in the sunlight with a wet, organic sheen. Its eyes were bright and watchful and alive. It was warm against your skin, warm like something that had a heartbeat, warm like something that was feeding.
Identical to the ones in the cave. Identical to the ones that had bound the statue for centuries, the statue that was supposed to be destroyed, the statue that he had told you he had broken.
But the statue was not destroyed. You knew that now with a cold, creeping certainty. He had not broken it. He had done something else. Something worse.
"What—" Your voice came out strangled, barely a whisper, the words catching in your throat like bones. "What is this?"
Jace was still standing by the water's edge. His smile was gone. His face had changed, shifted into something you did not recognize. The warmth in his eyes had drained away, replaced by something flat and cold and terribly, terribly calm. He looked at you the way a scholar might look at a pinned insect, curious and detached and utterly without feeling.
He raised his own arm.
The matching snake was coiled around his wrist. Twin to yours. Identical in every detail, from the curve of the scales to the glint of the golden eyes. Linked by nothing visible. Linked all the same. You could feel it, the connection between them, an invisible chain that stretched from your wrist to his and bound you together tighter than any iron ever could.
"I could not break the curse," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The voice of a man who had made a decision and was at peace with it. "The statue would not break. I struck it with the rock, and the rock shattered. I struck it with my fists, and my knuckles bled. I threw myself against it, and it did not even crack." He paused, his dark eyes fixed on yours, unblinking. "The voice, your brother, he told me the truth. He told me what you really are. He told me what you have done. He told me what you would do to me the moment you were free."
"No." You shook your head, backing away from him. Your wrist was burning where the snake touched your skin, a cold fire that spread up your arm and into your chest. "No, Jace, whatever he told you, it is a lie. It is always a lie. He is trying to trap you, he is trying to turn you against me—"
"Is it a lie?" He tilted his head, regarding you with that terrible calm. "He told me the curse made me love you. He told me you have been feeding on my devotion since the moment I opened my eyes. He told me you would leave me the instant you were free."
"That is not true!" You were screaming now, your voice raw and cracking. "I love you! I have never loved anyone the way I love you! You have to believe me!"
"Then why can I not remember my mother's name?" His voice cracked on the word mother, just slightly, and beneath the coldness you saw something flicker. Something wounded. Something that still hurt. "Why can I not remember my brothers' faces? Why did I wake up this morning and realize that I could not recall the sound of my father's voice, or the color of my brother's eyes, or the name of the dragon I rode into battle? You took everything from me. Everything I was. Everything I loved. You hollowed me out and filled me with yourself, and you expected me to believe it was love?"
"I did not mean to!" You were sobbing now, the tears hot and bitter on your cheeks. "I did not want to take your memories, i loved you so much i did not want you to leave me."
"You loved being loved." His voice was flat. Final. "There is a difference."
You stared at him. Your chest was heaving. Your wrist was throbbing, the golden snake pulsing against your skin like a second heartbeat. You could feel it now, the thing that bound you together. It was not just a chain. It was a tether. A leash.
"The statue forced you to have a physical body," Jace said, and his voice had shifted again, becoming almost conversational. Almost pleasant. "You are not mortal. You are not human something that was bound to this island and trapped in the stone. The chains kept you here. The statue kept you solid. Touchable. Real." He paused. "Without the statue, you would have no body. You would be nothing but mist and memory. Is that not what your brother wanted? To keep you contained? To keep you in a form that could touch and taste and take?"
You did not answer. You could not answer. Your throat had closed around the words.
"I could not break the curse," Jace said, and he took a step toward you, his bare feet silent on the sand. "I could not destroy the statue. But I could transfer it. I could take the chains off the stone and put them onto something else. Something living. Something that could carry them." He raised his arm again, showing you the snake coiled around his wrist, and his smile returned. It was not a kind smile. "You are not bound to the island anymore. You are bound to me."
The world tilted. The roar of the waterfall seemed to fade, replaced by a high, thin ringing in your ears. The sun was too bright. The sand was too soft. The golden snake was too warm against your skin.
"You—" Your voice would not work. "You did not—"
"I did." He was still calm. Still cold. Still looking at you with those eyes that used to be so full of love. "The voice told me it was the only way. The only way to make sure you could not leave me. The only way to make sure your love was real. The only way to be certain that when I woke up tomorrow, you would still be there, and the day after that, and the day after that."
"You trapped me."
He laughed. It was a soft laugh, a quiet laugh, but there was nothing warm in it. "I freed you. You can leave the island now. The chains that bound you to this rock are gone. You can walk onto a ship and sail away and see the world again. Is that not what you wanted? Is that not what you have been begging me for since the moment we met?"
"You bound me to you!"
"And you bound me to you first." His voice sharpened, the calm cracking for just a moment to reveal the fury underneath. "You made me love you. You made me forget my own mother's name. You drugged my food and whispered in my ear and wrapped yourself around my mind so tightly I could not tell where you ended and I began. You trapped me on this island long before I ever trapped you. The only difference is that my chains were made of kisses and lies, and yours are made of gold."
"I loved you!" The words tore from your throat, raw and ragged. "I loved you! Everything I did, I did because I loved you!"
"You made me forget my mother's name," he said again, and his voice was quieter now, almost sad. "Do you understand what that means? Do you understand what you took from me? She is out there somewhere, fighting a war, grieving a son she believes is dead, and I cannot remember her name. I cannot remember her face. I know I love her. I know I owe her everything. But when I try to picture her, there is nothing there. Just fog. Just you."
You opened your mouth, but no words came. What could you possibly say? What defense could you offer that would not sound hollow and selfish and monstrous?
"You stole my memories and drugged my food and lied to me for months," Jace continued, and now he was walking toward you, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. "You let me believe I was going home. You let me build a boat I was never going to finish. You let me dream of a future that did not exist. And when I found out the truth, when I confronted you in that cave full of dead men's armor, what did you do? Did you apologize? Did you offer to help me leave? No. You cried. You made yourself the victim. You told me how lonely you were, how sad you were, how much you had suffered. You made me comfort you. You made me feel guilty for discovering your lies."
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, close enough that you could see the pulse beating in his throat. "And I did feel guilty," he said. "I felt so guilty that I almost forgot what you had done. I almost let myself believe that you were the victim. That I was the one who had wronged you by wanting to go home. That is how good you are at this. That is how deep your hooks go."
"Please." Your voice was barely a whisper now. "Please, Jace, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I only wanted to be loved. I only wanted—"
"I know what you wanted." He reached up and touched your face, his fingers gentle against your tear-streaked cheek. The gesture was almost tender. Almost loving. It made your skin crawl. "You wanted someone to stay. You wanted someone to choose you. And now someone has. I have chosen you. I have chosen you over my family, over my throne, over my memories, over everything I ever was. I have given up my entire life to be with you. Are you not happy? Is this not what you wanted?"
"You have made me your prisoner."
"I have made you my equal." His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. "We are connected now. Bound together. What happens to one of us happens to the other. If you leave, I will feel it. If you try to run, I will know. And if you try to hurt me—" He shrugged. "The snakes will not let you. They protect what they hold. That is what the voice told me."
"The voice. He told you to do this?"
"He gave me a choice. Break the statue, free you, and watch you leave me the moment we set foot on the mainland. Or bind you to me, keep you close, and never wonder again whether your love was real." His smile returned, and it was the saddest smile you had ever seen. "It was not a difficult choice. I love you. I cannot lose you. So I made sure I would never have to."
You stared at him. The man you loved. The man who had just destroyed you. The man who had looked at your chains and decided to put them on himself rather than break them, because he could not bear the thought of you walking free.
"This is not love," you whispered. "This is possession."
"Is there a difference?" He tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering. "You tell me. You have been doing this for centuries. You tell me where love ends and possession begins. You tell me whether what you felt for me was really love, or just the desperate hunger of a lonely creature who needed someone, anyone, to fill the void. You tell me whether I am any different from you, or whether I am just the first man who was willing to sink to your level."
You opened your mouth. Closed it. The words would not come.
"Exactly," Jace said. "You cannot tell me. Because you do not know either. Because you have been confusing love and hunger for so long that you cannot tell them apart anymore. And now I am the same. You have made me the same." He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. "We are equals now. Partners. Two monsters bound together for eternity. Is that not romantic? Is that not what you always wanted? Someone who would never leave you, never abandon you, never choose anything over you?"
"You are insane," you breathed.
"I am what you made me." He pulled back and looked into your eyes, and his expression was unreadable. "You wanted me to stay. I am staying. You wanted me to love you. I love you. You wanted me to be different from the others. I am different. I am the one who did not run. I am the one who looked at the chains and chose to wear them. I am the one who gave up everything to be with you." He cupped your face in both hands, gentle and terrible and utterly inescapable. "Why are you not happy? If you really loved me, you would be happy. This is what you wanted. This is what you have been asking for since the moment we met. Someone who would stay. Someone who would choose you. Someone who would never leave."
He kissed your forehead, and his lips were warm, and the golden snake pulsed against your wrist like a second heart.
"I am going to build us a boat," he said. "A real one this time. One that can carry us both back to Westeros. And you are going to meet my mother, and I am going to take back my throne, and you are going to be my queen. Just like I promised. Just like we planned. The only difference is that now I know you will not leave me. Now I know your love is real. Because it has to be. Because you have no choice." He pulled back and smiled, and his smile was beautiful and broken and utterly terrifying. "You are free now, Y/N. Free from the island. Free from your brother's curse. Free from the statue and the chains and the centuries of solitude. You can go anywhere you want. You can do anything you want. The whole world is open to you." He took your hand, the one with the golden snake coiled around the wrist, and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. "As long as you never leave my side."
You looked down at the snake. At his hand holding yours. At the invisible chain that stretched between you, unbreakable and eternal.
summary: second part of loose thoughts on Lyonel’s family life. first part can be found here
warnings: none, family fluff stuff, a bit of swearing
pairings: Lyonel Baratheon/Reader
wc: ~ 1,100
a/n: yooooo thank you so much for the warm reception of the first part 💕 especially comments kept me warm at night 🫶🏻
⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who loves to build bunkers with children, not like few pillows and call it a day. not on his watch. he’d even get a real tent, spread it across the room and build up. then some touch-ups like lanters with candles, extra cushions, blankets, you know the drill. plus, as it’s really dark in the nursery because of such set up, he’ll conduct shadow theatre with help of his minions and wooden figurines, inviting you as a special guest for such a spectacle - children playing parts in his over exaggerated stories
⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel/husband!Lyonel who, much to your dismay, has the ability to calm each and every single one of your babes at instant. You can rock them, sing them, lull them and nothing.
You would chew up the ugly feeling of defeat walking across the room, as some sorts of council is brought to a halt by your intrusion. Yours and the wailing toddler’s on your hip. You walk firmly straight to Lyonel as child couldn’t be consoled for three straight hours and at this point, you are simply exhausted, as well as the child. The moment it’s handed to the father it stops and takes a normal breath, biting on its fist. You let a quiet huff along with the look it’s your problem now, and you leave the room. Nine months of carrying this child around and for what?
Lyonel, on the other hand loves to take care of that particular issue, relieving you. Besides, if anyone in the room makes fun of it or comment, even in the whispers, he makes a mental note to levy extra tax on that fellow. Afterwards, he always makes sure to tell you how well you’re doing with the children and that you’re a good mother no matter what
⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel/husband!Lyonel for whom piggybacking, playing horses, pretend-play or dressing up, is totally fatherhood 101, impossible not to do, especially if there are six of children to spend time with.
You are lead to the nursery by one of the servants and as the door opens you see Lyonel in the middle of the room, surrounded by cushions, draped in a wide stripe of fabrics, face bearing some kind of make up, holding one viciously kicking toddler, “I’m sorry to lure you here, darling,” he says with grin, fixing his crooked tiara, “but we were in a need of somebody to be –.”
“Why?” you inquiry, though moments later you are attacked by the swarm of children shouting kill the beast! “me? I have no weapon to defend!?”
You shout and try to fight off, “are you not going to help me?”
“No, cannot do, love, because… what am I exactly? – fairest of them all! – you heard, I’m the fairest of them all and cannot leave my tower along with the little dragon of sorts. My hands are tied, really,” you just mouth, I’m going to kill you later, as you must kneel in the face of overwhelming numbers of the enemy.
⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who lets play with his antler crowns (I refuse to believe he’s got only one tbh) + each child has one on their own, that are personalised so on special occasions everybody can wear theirs and look like one big stag party with Lyonel grinning in the middle, totally embodying “yep, i did all of these”; you’d never admit it openly but in a hidden box you keep the first crowns/tiaras they got for the first name day (Lyonel knows about it but says nothing)
⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel/husband!Lyonel who will in all seriousness look for a missing toy trumpet or toy drum, that both of you hidden after a week or so of listening to the worst music group in westeros.
“I don’t know where it is, maybe under your bed?” the herd of children run away to the next door room as instructed, and you could hear a soft rumble of moving lighter furniture and mattresses.
“Did you check under the bed? If there is any more of these devilish instruments?” you ask suddenly frightened.
“No, I thought you did it.”
You don’t have time to respond as you hear a joyful roar and high-pitched sound of pipes and flutes, “seven help us.”
⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who really, really tries not to swear in front of children, but for the half of them first words would be either fuck or cunt as they heard him saying it in close proximity
⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who has got the most creative way of “punishing”, as if turned into little, mean spirit who would ask for weird things like go and find the book that is 100% not in the library, or count how many metal rings are in a chain mail, or if this is the storm’s end, where does it start?
⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who is always listening intently and catching up all the little shenanigans he missed, when he was away, to the point you get in trouble as the youngest one is spilling the tea like its life depended on it.
“–and then mother was laughing,” she added between the bites.
“What’s wrong with that? Your mum loves a good laugh.”
“Yeah, but she laughed the way she laughs only with you, father,” your fork stops working as you frown. No idea what the child means.
“Love, what are you talking about?” you inquiry unknowingly dooming yourself.
“You laugh is higher and —“ with growing terror you listen to the description and little by little you sink in your chair deeper and deeper, feeling the hawk-like glare from Lyonel, who was absolutely enjoying your slow downfall.
“Did she now…” he muses, taking his cup, leaving the food entirely and feasting upon your reddening complexion, “Well, I’ll have to talk with mum later.”
and by seven, you exactly know how the conversation will look like. and your offspring? happily eating, kicking her too short legs to touch the ground, completely unaware and unphased.
⋆˚࿔ husband!Lyonel who, would always choose you when it comes to pregnancy and childbirth, secretly holding a dread of you dying in childbirth. he’d brush it off later saying that he wouldn’t know what to do with all the children. though he’d never admit it, you perfectly know what haunts him days before the babe is born, as it also fuels your nightmares
⋆˚࿔ husband!Lyonel who after each child is welcomed to the world, is of course above the moon with the babe, but is more focused on pampering you. anything you want you have it before saying it aloud. the more babes came the easier it was for him to predict your whims and be ready for them. also with each babe you’d be gifted with some ridiculously lavish and extravagant jewellery. in his humble opinion is the least he can do after all the labour you went through
a/n 2: part 3 maybeeee but i feel like i need some time; + I have like at least 2 new ideas for fics because of these 😅🫠 ; dividers by @saradika-graphics ❤️
