ᥫ᭡

He’s just been floating a few feet above the roof of your apartment building, stock still ever since he zoomed over five minutes ago.  

He didn’t mean to, he really didn’t mean to, but when he first heard your groan he thought you were hurt. Then he picked up the quiet sucking and even the faint sound of your slick.  

You let out a sound that was far more lewd than the first and Jon’s hand shot up to cover his mouth, as if there was anyone around to hear the man’s sharp intake of breath.  

Sheets rustle and Jon imagines you clutching the fabric between your fingers. He hears a lewd slurp and imagines Damian right between your thighs, lapping and sucking at just the right places.  

Jon’s fists clench at his sides when he hears your moans grow louder and a little higher. Sheets shuffle and he pictures your back arching off the bed, grinding up into his best friend’s face. 

You groan his name so unabashedly, in a way Jon never dared to consider you could. You sound like you’ve been waiting for this all day and your boyfriend’s finally giving it to you and giving it well.  

Jon can almost see it, your fingers in his friend’s dark hair, your thighs squeezing around his head as you cum around his apparently deft fingers and skilled mouth.  

He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought of you two like this before. You were a hot couple and you were both such good friends to him.

You’d always ask him to tag along on what could’ve been dates between just the two of you; you invited him to sleep overs where you’d both squish him between you on the couch and you’d cook dinners with him at your apartment. You'd bring him along on vacations, to the park, the beach, the movies.

You've done an array of things with him that you could’ve just done as a couple but instead chose to invite him along because you’re both such good friends to him-- even if Damian can’t admit it outright most of the time.  

It’s only natural then, that he’d think about what other couple things you’d want him to participate in...right? 

How was he supposed to constantly see the way you look at Damian and not imagine you looking at him the same way? How was he not supposed to imagine Damian giving him gentle little touches like he did with you. Honestly, his restraint so far has been admirable.  

Now all that’s out the window. He just heard Damian make you cum on his tongue and as red as his face probably is, he’s not flying an inch further away from your apartment like he should.  

All he can hear are soft kissing sounds and you trying to even out your breathing, and suddenly, a new wave of guilt hits him.  

He doesn’t even want to think about what he’ll do with his hard-on but he has to leave. He runs his hands through his already wild hair, trying to will himself to move. The moment is so tender and quiet, he wants nothing more than to be in that room.  

Then he hears fabric shuffling and a belt buckle hit the floor.   

 “Look at me, Hayati.“ 

It’s such a simple, gentle command yet it has both you and Jon at attention. He hears the bed creak, a short silence. 

“Just keep your eyes on me.”  

You reply with a breathy, “'kay.“ 

There’s a pause before you let out a choked groan, and then a wet squelch. Jon has to squeeze his thighs together when he imagines his friend bottoming out in his other friend’s soaked heat, their eyes never straying from the other's.  

“So good to me, Beloved.”  

And now that his lips are free, Jon makes a new world-shattering discovery: Damian’s a talker.  

“Ya Rouhi, I’d be a happy man if all I ever lived for was to pleasure you.”  

His voice is thick, accompanied by your soft sounds of pleasure and the slow, slick plaps that make it to Jon’s red ears.  

“I’ll always give you everything, Hayati. You deserve more than I can give.“  

You both let out deep grunts in time with his steadily increasing pace. The sheets shuffle and Damian must have switched the position up because you curse and cry out. 

“I’m yours in every way and I know you’re mine.” 

It must be beautiful, Jon thinks, Damian’s lidded eyes matching yours, your hips matching his thrusts, bodies sticking together, shared breaths. Jon ignores the worsening wet spot in his underwear, his suit feeling tight on his growing hardness.  

He holds his breath so he can better hear the exact moment you and Damian cum together. Maybe you’re still locking eyes, maybe your foreheads are pressed together, but all he can hear is your mixed moans and the stalling of your hips as Damian fills you up.  

Once more, the only thing left to hear after the high is soft kissing and harsh breaths. Nothing but Damian’s husky,   

“I love you, Hayati.”  

Between kisses and your croaked hum in return, “Love you too, babe. S'good to me.” 

You mumble the sweetest praises in-between kisses and Jon can hear Damian’s heart beat a bit faster, can hear the sheets shuffle as he imagines the man shoving his face into his girlfriend’s neck at such sweet words being uttered to him. You always did say he was a secret sap, not that it was much of a secret between you three, but Jon only realises now just how true that really is.

As the moment grows quieter, Jon’s guilt only grows again. The sound of the city comes rushing back and his head spins around the various apartment buildings around him as if someone could’ve possibly known what he was doing.

Regardless, he can’t stay here, listening to your extremely private moment. There's no pretense of shock keeping him here anymore, he's just being a creep! No better than a criminal!

Unbeknownst to Jon, both you and Damian heard his distinct sonic boom when he flew off and you’re now staring at each other with matching wide eyes.  

You’re the first to break the silence with a laugh, shoving your face in your hands. “You don’t think he...?”   

Damian runs a hand through his hair with a groan that doesn't hide his embarrassment.

“I told him he should come over today.”  

“And you forgot?!” 

“I was distracted.”  

---Then poor Jon jerks off to his bffs and then cries because he feels bad about it. 😭💔

You stand again, taking a few more steps down. Your mind drifts as you fall into a rhythm of checking these nets, pocketing pretty shells and scraps of metal. Wonder pricks at the back of your neck as you imagine the war. As the lone tenant of this pier, you had never had to consider the rites of the Targaryen rulers. Most of your neighbors had already chosen their sides, even if it did not really matter in the scheme of things—neither of those fighting for the throne cared for their subjects, especially not those at the bottom, like you.

Rulers like these bled the common man dry while claiming it to be an act of love.

You move a little rougher with the next net. Nothing but rocks and debris in this one. You imagine it will be a while until you find a worthy treat. The Gods are usually not as generous on solemn days like these. War makes monsters out of men, and the Gods scorn those who partake.

When you stand again, your eyes drift a little further down the bank. At the edge of the shore, a clump of trees catch your gaze. The water is darker there, cloaked in shadow. The shrubbery bends so far, it almost touches the water. You draw closer, eyebrows furrowed.

A dark lump sits entangled by brush, barely concealed by the cluster of foliage. You draw closer, hesitantly. As your eyes adjust, you realize it is not a lump of debris, but a body. Your breaths quicken.

If the person is alive, would it hurt you? Never trust a soldier, your father had once told you.

You bend your knee just as if you are checking a fish net. Your hands unfurl from your sides, reaching out hesitantly. You can only see his body. It is clothed in thick leather, a quality of which you’ve never seen before. Several arrows stick out of his torso. A pool of blood stains the sand maroon beneath him.

You pull back the shrubbery to see his face. You startle at the sight, falling back onto your bum.

His eyes—they were open—albeit, he did not seem to see much of anything. His skin was not grey and placid like the bodies that you had seen before. Worse, you’d heard something when you held yourself over him. A breath, shuddering through his parted lips.

“Alive,” you whisper in awe. To survive so many arrows, then the tumultuous sea… it would take more than just courage. It would take something otherworldly. You know then that your decision has been made.

A huge piece of driftwood sits beneath him in the sand. You push it aside to straddle him. Gently, you grab his arm and sling it around your neck.

The rest of your journey back to the cabin passes in a frenzied blur. You move quickly, trying to spend as little time as possible forcing the grievously hurt man onto his feet. He lets out little grumbles as you move, head lolling this way and that like a puppet cut from its strings. You make it inside and push open the door that your father used to live, laying him onto his back on the bed.

Blood immediately infiltrates the off-white of the duvet, crimson floating before your vision. He groans continuously as you break the ends off of the arrows—serving as a reminder to the heart that still valiantly pumped beneath his ribs. Once they are off, you are able to slide the armor off. 

The tunic comes easily. It seems to be made of a material that deflects water, so when you drop it onto the floor, a puddle of liquid forms in its spot. You struggle a little with his breeches—though, those too come easily with a little pull.

After he is naked, you stare at his body in silence for a moment. You have helped men with injuries before. Arrow injuries just like these, even. But you’d never helped a man with this many. 

You reach out to touch his cold cheek. He is so young—had to be your own age. Too young for the cruel, unflinching hold of war. Gently, you close his eyelids, shutting away the dark brown of his unseeing gaze. He did not need to be witness to this.

You steel your nerves and clench your fists a few times to breathe life back into your numb fingers. Reaching into the bedside table, you grab your supplies—bandages, a bottle of rum, a couple cloths, and several blunt blades.

“I’m sorry, if you are awake,” you tell him, poising the knife along the edge of one of the arrow heads. “This will hurt a lot.”

Hours pass quickly under your blade. Each of the five arrows is cut away, sewn with fishing line, disinfected with rum, and bandaged tightly. Sweat falls into your eyes as you step away triumphantly, and you lift a hand to brush it off. As they are levelled with your eyes, you realize your hands are a bloody mess. Your stomach churns and you force the appendages away.

You hover over him a moment longer. You study the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering of his eyelids. He had a strong nose and jaw, thick dark eyelashes and a head of water-matted brunet hair. By all appearances, he was quite common-looking. He had the complexion and hair of any man you’d pass on the way to town. But something about him—the quality of his armor, the blemishlessness of his skin, it screamed something ethereal.

But even Gods can be killed. 

Your mystery man is not out of the woods yet. The chances of any of those arrows not nicking anything inside him is next to none. He’s also lost a lot of blood. The sheets are covered in it, not to mention the amount he was sure to have lost at sea.

You draw the hair sea-slicked to his head away from his forehead. Your hand slides to cup his cheek. He might never wake again. Your kind hand may be the last he knows. You wonder how many people missed him—if they were sitting with baited breaths, waiting for him to write. If only you could ease their worries.

You pull away and leave the room before your eyes can fill with traitorous saltwater tears.

There are few certainties in life. Ever since you were but a child, you had recognized this. Life is tumultuous and unfair. It takes and it takes, until you can give no longer. 

The sea is a comfort. She does not take, she gives. Usually, she gives you more valuable things than a body, but you try not to question her motives.

It’s been a day since you patched him and he still has not woken. His chest continues to move despite this disconcerting sign, and that remains your only comfort. You stood near-vigil at his beside for most of the hours following. Anticipatory nerves fill your every waking second, even at night when you lay awake trying to sleep.

You recognize that the danger has not fully passed for him. He had not had water in who knows how long. Eventually, his organs would fail due to dehydration and blood loss. That is, if the internal bleeding didn’t kill him first.

You also cannot help the hope that blooms in your chest as you gaze upon his face. Perhaps it is the fact that his skin seems more alive as of late. The fact that you have seen his eyes move behind his eyelids more and more often. The fact that you were quite insufferably lonely, and therefore latched onto any individual who came your way—alive or barely, as in the case of this man in your cabin.

You want him to survive because you want to know him. It is a thought that scares you as much as it invigorates you.

By his bedside, after a long morrow of scavenging by the tide, you dump your satchel of goodies on the now-clean duvet. (Now that had been annoying to do—having to move his admittedly quite heavy body over to remove the sheets). You begin to sort through them, cataloging them.

The silence is unsettling, so you begin to speak.

“The sea has been kind this morrow,” you say softly. You pick up a smooth rainbow shell, twisting it this way and that in the light. “These will sell for a couple of silvers.”

You put the shell down and then grab your cloth, gently stroking away sand and debris.

“My father taught me to do this,” you tell the man, “he taught me everything I know.”

Satisfied with its shimmer, you trade the shell for a clam. You pop it open forcefully—apologizing profusely to the creature as you did—and stick your fingers into the dark crevice you created.

“No pearl,” you report when your fingers come up empty. You bring the clam up to your eyes, stroking its now-broken shell. “I’m sorry, friend.”

The last piece had been one you were excited for. You grab the shrapnel of metal gently in your palms, categorizing the weight and feel of it with your hands. 

“Probably off a shield,” you decide. “I’m sure a blacksmith would like this.”

You put the metal down and let out a heavy sigh. You stare at the man, worrying your lip between your teeth. Perhaps some foolish part of you had hoped he would wake up to the sound of your voice, like the stories you had read as a girl.

But life is no story, as you had to continually remind yourself. Things like that just didn’t happen.

You go through a few other bits and bobs in silence, mood dampened by reality. A couple of small shells, a nail, and a scrap of maroon fabric. You aren’t sure why you grabbed the fabric—perhaps you’d wanted to try and sew something. It is quite pretty, you decide. It had belonged to someone once.

Once you finish polishing the items, you lift your head up to look at the man. Thoughts and images flash through your mind. What was he like? You wonder. He seems strong, based on his broad shoulders and defined stomach. But he also didn’t have the worn skin of a common man. He didn’t have callouses on his hands or fading scars upon his torso. He had to be a prince, you decide. A prince of a faraway land, hoping to bargain peace between the two feuding Targaryen houses.

You nod, satisfied with that recreation of events. Yes, a prince. A just, altruistic one. Perhaps he knew of the war and wished to come and save the small-folk.

You look down at his pale hand resting lifelessly upon the duvet. You swallow thickly. 

“You must wake soon,” you whisper, “the kingdom needs you.”

He does not stir. You sigh and gather your things into your satchel. If he is still not awake by the morrow, you decide, you will return his body to the sea.

That evening, you sit at the table with a plate of roasted fish and a glass of water. The fish is one of two meals you eat regularly. The other was for special occasions, depending on if you were able to procure bread and potatoes at the markets. 

You always eat the eye of the fish first. You do not like it looking at you as you eat its flesh. It feels wrong. The eye is not very tasty, though. The odd texture always makes you vaguely nauseous–the gooey, chewy ball. Your father had always laughed at you when you ate fish. He was not of an imaginative mind. He did not see the fish as being once alive, like you did. He did not imagine it swimming beneath the tide, with all its other fishy friends–before it was snared by ruthless hands and suffocated by the open air.

You stare at the vacant chair across from you with an empty feeling in your chest. It had been so long since you had a companion at supper time. Your father had not spoken much, but his presence alone was always enough to keep you happy. He is gone now, like with the ebbing of the tide, and all that is left is the shadow of the person he used to be.

His fishing pole, next to the door. His journal, where he kept extensive notes about what he found out on the sea during the day. His bed that now had a new, warm body sleeping in it.

You wonder what your father would have done, had he found the man. You take another bite of the fish, forcing it down with a thick swallow. Would he have left him? You had never thought of him as being cruel, but you also know he loathed unwelcome responsibility. He had enough of an imagination to conjure horrible images of betrayal and hurt, and so you decide he probably wouldn’t have brought him home to you. He had too much to lose to do so. Everyone did.

And so why did you? Perhaps, you think, you have lost everything that matters most to you already.

You stare down at the limp skeleton of the fish on your plate. You had never seen a person die of dehydration. Your father had once told you a story about a man he knew that had, and it sounded awful. 

You pick up your dinner knife, a sharp, clean-edged blade, and hold it in the candlelight. The silver edge catches the light, highlighting the sharp point. Your hand trembles as you study it.

Would it be quick, painless—slitting the sleeping prince’s throat? Or would it be messy and painful? Would it draw him out of sleep and would he gaze upon you with hurting eyes as he clutched the gaping hole in his neck?

Regret gnaws at you. As time draws on, you begin to think that the mercy you had granted your prince had been nothing but a farce. That by saving him for one moment had only just prolonged his suffering.

You put the knife in your satchel and stand. It is cruel, keeping a person alive only to die in a violent manner like this–it is inhumane. 

You take quick steps to the bedroom. 

You have never killed a person before. Your father had plenty. He always said the eyes, you can hear his voice in your mind now, the eyes are always the worst part. 

You can’t eat the prince’s eyes like you can the fish’s. No matter what you did, you would have to see those eyes. And with it, the betrayal. You stand over his prone body now. 

A sliver of moonlight streams in from the open window behind you, casting cool light across the heaving chest. He remains impassive, completely unaware of what you were about to do. You do not realize you are crying until you bring the knife up to your eyes and catch a glimpse of your face in the silver.

“I…I am sorry, friend,” you repeat the same mantra you had told so many clams before as you pried your fingers in their mouths, looking for a pearl. “But this is a mercy.”

Your hands tremble like windblown seagrass as you lift the knife against his skin. A moment of hesitation prevents you from acting. And it is just enough for a pale hand to wrap around your own and for dark eyes to snap open.

“Waaa-ter.”

You let out a sharp gasp and yank your hand away. The man watches you, his visage crumpled with pain.

He repeats himself, voice quieter than the first time. “Water, please…”

You move into action. You dart out of the room, hands fumbling with the metal bucket by your door. You run across the moonlit shore to the well that sits on the edge of the woods. Quickly, you fill the bucket. You curse yourself all the while–mind racing in what-ifs and guilt-ridden condemnations. 

You heave the bucket back into the house and grab the same goblet you had used with your own water. You take a huge scoop and shuffle back into the bedroom like a child caught with their hand on the sweets plate.

The man is still awake when you re-enter, his eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. You drop next to him on the bed and angle his head and neck up onto the pillows behind him. Finally, you fulfill his request. He drinks like a man in Essos who has wandered the Red Waste for weeks; heavy, desperate gulps of the liquid. Some fall and drip down his side, which you dab away with a nearby cloth.

When he finally drinks it all, he pulls back, his breaths labored and eyes half-lidded.

“W…Where am I?” he finally says once he has caught his breath. You notice him scanning the room as if trying to find the answer written in the stone.

You decide not to answer honestly. You fear what his reaction will be if he forces himself to recall the battle. Instead you say, “you are safe.”

He stares at you as if only just noticing you. His dark eyes are swallowed almost completely by night, exhausted and ridden with heavy bags. He lifts a hand, as if to touch you, but it falls short. His eyes flutter, and then shut.

He falls unconscious. You touch two hands to his chest to confirm his heart still beats steadily. You let out a breath you had not realized you captured when you find his pulse.

Shame hits you like a tidal wave. You were going to… you were going to kill him. You are shocked at the tears that swim in your eyes. You stand in a hurry–not without remembering to pull the duvet back up to his chest–and stumble out of the room. 

The adrenaline has all but worn away now. Tears clog your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. You allow yourself to feel the emotions–all of them. Relief, shame, exhaustion, and fear overwhelm you completely and you can do nothing but sob. On the table in front of you, the skeleton of the fish and the silver knife mock you without having to say a word.

Waking feels like drowning. Fighting against the wave ahead of you, trying to get your head above water. Then when you finally surface, you fall behind the waves again.

Jacaerys wakes to the sun in his eyes and a warmth around his waist. He thinks for a moment, perhaps, he is in a dream. Another barrier between him and wakefulness. Then, the pain hits him. No, dreams don’t feel like this.

The groan stumbles past his lips before he can stop it and his eyes shoot open. Everything is pain. It surrounds him like dragonfire and steals his breath. He trembles as he uses all his strength to cradle his side.

“Gods,” he murmurs. He feels beneath his fingers the familiar texture of a bandage. Someone helped him.

Helped him. Helped him from what? He gasps as memory rolls over him. Drowning. Arrows piercing through skin and muscle. A dragon’s roar of pain. No, not just any dragon—

“Vermax,” he cries out, tears springing to his eyes. No, no, no…

But it was true. His mind had never failed him before. His dragon. His beautiful dragon. Falling to the bottom of the ocean like a ship’s anchor. He tries to move, to jump to his feet, but he can’t. Pain ricochets up his side, and he can literally feel the side of his chest pulling taut. 

He stares at the ceiling above him with tears fogging his eyes and coating his tongue in salt. For one long moment, he despairs. Why? Why would he be punished this way? Forced to live without Vermax? The bond between rider and dragon could not—should not be severed. Not by something as futile as war. He can’t breathe, can’t think. Everything is despair.

He should have died. Living is not a gift in this condition. His knuckles go white against the duvet. Anger sweeps over him—hot, potent fury.

He curses everyone who caused this. Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, even fucking Helaena. He doesn’t care. They’ll all pay.

But not like this. He finally shuffles himself into a seated position, cringing at the pain that shoots from every direction. Every small movement feels like another arrow tearing his skin. 

His feet are unsteady as he finds his footing. For a second, he fears he might not be able to even walk. Then, he finds himself. He grabs his breeches off the table and slowly, painfully, shrugs them on. He leaves his chest bare—unable to even think about having to lift his arms over his head. He keeps one hand on the wall and the other around his waist as he stumbles across the room. 

The place he is in is frighteningly humble. There’s nothing unnecessary here. Everything has a purpose, a function. No gilded armoires, tall candlesticks, or commissioned portraits. Bare, cobblestone walls, sparse furniture (all glaringly handmade and rustic), and cobwebs hanging in every corner. 

Jacaerys moves slowly from the room he started in to the short hallway that opens into a tiny living area. A large fireplace is the only comfort to him. A pot of a molten, unappetizing glob bubbles above the waning fire. 

There are very few personal effects here. Nothing to propose any kind of hint or insight. Out the window of the front of the ramshackle building, he sees amber light flickering across a wide sea.

His breath shudders out of his lips. He doesn't recognize this place at all. He’s hurt. He has no dragon. He’s never felt worse in his entire life.

All of what energy he summoned flees him in that moment. He practically collapses into a nearby chair and it creaks pathetically under his weight. He hangs his head and a soft sob escapes his lips. 

Tears tremble down his cheeks and onto the wood table beneath his hand. His mind races, memory and pain and fury collide in a war of its very own. Vermax, his mind strays. The perfect dragon. Gone. He digs his nails into the grain of the table beneath his hands, trying to recapture something to ground him. Short, hyperventilating breaths escape his lips—his vision fogs.

Then, everything clears. His hands unclench and he leans back in the chair. He stares at the ceiling, measuring his breaths. You are still alive, he tells himself. Therefore you are still useful.

Because perhaps that was his real fear. That he would no longer be of use—that he would no longer be worth fighting for. He’d always measured his worth in terms of what he could provide to his mother. Perhaps the truth is that his worth stretches beyond that.

He hears the sound of crunching footsteps outside. He sits up in the chair, eyes flickering toward the door. Ahead of him, he notices with a jolt, a knife lay discarded on the table. He grabs it before he can think the better of it, brandishing it like he actually could fight his way out of this mess.

He ignores the pain throbbing in his side and pushes himself to stand again. He won’t die now. He can’t.

The door creaks open slowly, and he angles the knife in front of himself protectively. 

But the figure that crosses the threshold isn’t what he’d been expecting. Wide eyes and a mouth fallen open into an oval. Hands clutching a satchel of… is that a seashell? 

She drops the satchel with immediacy, hands flying into the air. Jacaerys thinks he hears something break inside.

He keeps the arm holding the knife up despite the involuntary tremble that has begun in his arm. A cool sweat travels down his temple. His vision wanes. Despite her… figure (she hadn’t brandished a weapon a day in her life, he thinks), he knows looks can be deceiving. 

“You’re up.” She does not immediately acknowledge the weapon in his hand. She’s either brave or simply ignorant. Jace is not sure what he’s more afraid of.

“Who—“ he starts to speak, but he breaks into a coughing fit. His throat feels like it is on fire. She takes a step forward, as if to help or harm him, but he freezes her in place when he turns his gaze back onto her warningly. “Who are you?”

She tells him her name. Then she quickly adds, “you washed up on the beach in front of my cabin. I found you.”

He bends over to clutch his side. He notices her eyes widen.

“Please, I’m not sure you should be up. You sustained massive injuries,” she tells him. “Your body needs rest.”

“I cannot—“ he scoffs, then coughs again. “I cannot simply rest. I must leave. I must…” 

A pang in his side makes him gasp and hunch over. The knife falls with a clatter against the floor but he can’t seem to bring himself to retrieve it. Everything feels like it is in slow motion, out of his reach and control.

She grabs him around the waist before he tips over. He stays conscious long enough for her to lead him back to bed, but he falls within the waves again the second his head hits the pillow.

Consciousness returns to him in fragments. The sound of footsteps by his head. A burning pain spreading up his chest, to which he thinks he shouts, but cannot prevent. The feeling of a wet cloth soaking his tears and sweat. 

When his eyes finally flutter open, it is dark in the room. A candle burns to a nub on the nightstand next to him, wax coating the wood. Sorrow fills his chest again so quickly it nearly steals his breath.

He sees her slip into the room like a wraith come to haunt him. It is ridiculous, he thinks, that she should be the one to stand over him. On any other day, in any other circumstance, she would not put up much of a fight. Now, he is at her mercy.

“You tore one of your stitches.” Her voice is soft, but it reverberates in his ear drums and skull like a dragon’s final roar. He clenches his jaw and turns his head toward the moon that hangs like a silver noose in the sky. “I had to sew it back while you were resting.”

Jace doesn’t reply. He isn’t sure he would know what to say. How does he encompass all his feelings—or even one of them, into a coherent thought? It isn’t possible.

She draws closer and he tenses. She notices. “Are you going to try and hurt me again?” 

He considers her for a moment, then shakes his head.

She pauses, thinking about something, then she settles upon his side of the bed. Jace notices for the first time since she’s entered the room, that she has a bowl of that wretched-looking soup in her hands.

“Here,” she says, outstretching the bowl. He leans back. She pulls away slightly. “Sorry.” She cringes like even she realizes that the soup is nothing to write home about. “It is all I have.”

Jace swallows thickly. He reaches a trembling hand out. She smiles, relieved.

He goes to take the bowl, but his arm feels weak. He pulls back. “Perhaps…” he pauses, clears his throat. “Perhaps you could…”

Asking for help has never come easy to him. Being weak is not something he is accustomed to. His other hand clenches the sheet in his fist.

She nods. He does not have to be explicit. He untenses his hand as she leans forward, a small bit of soup in the wood spoon.

The first bite makes his face twist. She laughs.

“I truly am sorry,” she says. “I know it is probably not what you are used to.”

It takes every bit of his strength to swallow the offending liquid. It is strangely salty. It tastes like the brine that filled his mouth when he— 

He cuts the thought short. No need to ruin his own mood again.

“Something happened to you out there,” she says as if she’d read his mind, and although it should be a question, it is not, “something bad.”

He swallows another gulp of the soup. He does not reply. 

She must realize he does not want to speak on that, for she does not press the matter. She lifts the spoon again and he forces down another sip.

“The soup has fish and some potatoes—oh, and they had carrots at the market today, so I put those in too. Perhaps those are the disgusting parts. I won’t purchase them again.”

Jace does not have the energy, or perhaps the heart, to tell her it is certainly not the vegetables that have made the soup taste like what sea captains scrape off the bottom of their ships.

She scoops another bit of soup and he forces it down. His mouth had begun to retain that saltiness even when he no longer had the soup in his mouth, like a stain one can’t wash away with soap and water.

She does not speak for a long pause, but Jace suddenly feels a bit antsy. It feels too intimate an act to not be speaking.

He swallows another mouthful, then clears his throat to speak. “Did you catch the fish?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“Oh, no, no,” she replies to him like it is a preposterous suggestion. Like killing fish is below her standards. “I just buy them.”

He frowns around the spoon in his mouth and hurriedly swallows the liquid. “Then why were you on the shore when you found me?”

She stirs the foul soup around for a moment, thinking hard about something, then she looks up at him. “I collect things. Shells, scrap metal, and fabrics. You would be surprised what comes with the morning tide, and even more what people would pay for them.”

An odd business, Jace can’t help but think. It seems like a hard thing to have to rely solely on the Narrow Sea for food and shelter. The Narrow Sea, he remembers with a sudden clarity. That is near where they fought.

“Are you going to tell your name?” Her head is tilted as she asks this, the soup bowl now empty and forgotten upon her folded legs.

He ponders the question for a moment. He could tell her his full name, but it might backfire, especially if she harbors a grudge against his family. He doesn’t think she has it in her to cause him harm, but he knows that many do not until they are cornered.

“Jace,” he finally tells her. “Just Jace.”

She smiles and her entire face lights up like nothing he’s ever seen before. Something twists in his stomach. “Nice to meet you, Jace.”

One, two, three, four. You count the shells noiselessly as you thread them onto the fishing line. They clink together softly as you pull the line taut around your wrist, measuring the width mentally. You remove the bracelet and add a few more of your little shells.

A few days had passed without much event. Jace drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day and slept soundlessly through the night. He did not complain, but you had seen his thinly-veiled winces and his shuddering breaths. You know that he is suffering more than he lets on. 

It is an odd thing, you think, to be harboring a man in your home that you know next to nothing about, but had inexplicably formed an attachment to. You still know nothing more about Jace than his name and even that had not been an answer easily wrought.

You slide the shells all to one side and swiftly tie a knot at the end of the line, forming a perfect circular bracelet. Putting it to the side, you cut a new piece of fishing line and begin sorting through your shells again.

Just as you go to slide the first shell on, you hear something behind you. The creaking of wood as light footfalls go across.

You turn your head, body tense.

“Jace,” you say, surprised by his appearance. You stand.

He had not been up since he’d ripped that stitch a few days ago, actually heeding your pleas to rest. But a part of you knew even then that the peace would not last long. He is a restless creature, like a bird stuck behind the bars of a cage.

“Do you need something?” You clutch your fingers together across your front, as if doing so could somehow steel your nerves.

He takes a step into the room. You notice his gait seems more steady today. He looks around every bit of the room, his eyes taking in all the pieces that make up your home. You gnaw your lip between your teeth. Did he approve of what he saw?

His voice comes suddenly, a blade cutting through the silence. “What are you doing?” 

It is not accusatory nor standoffish, instead it seems almost curious. You grab the bracelet you just finished and hold it out to him.

“A bracelet.”

Jace steps closer, tilting his head. “For what purpose?”

You let out a short laugh. “It has no purpose. It is just pretty.”

“Hm.” He stares at the offending object like he’s never thought about making something just for the sake of making something before. You smile. He averts his eyes to the other side of the room.

“You said you do not fish,” he says, “and yet you have a fishing rod.”

You follow his eyes to where the thing sits near the door. It sits, forgotten, in the corner of the room—there to haunt you and the person you’d never become, you’re sure.

“My father…” you start to say, but something gets caught in your throat. You forcefully swallow past the blockage. “My father used to fish.”

Jace’s accusatory eyes soften around the edges. He hobbles closer and takes the seat across from you at the table. Your father’s seat.

“And your father—“

“He is dead,” you answer curtly, “he has been for two summers now.”

You pick up the bracelet you had only just starteda nd slide a seashell onto the line. Hurt does not fill your chest like a cavity anymore—now all you feel is numbness as it spreads from your lungs to your heart. 

Jace turns his head to look out the window at the night sky. “My father is gone too.”

Your eyes leap toward his in a flash. He does not look at you, his hand tracing repetitive shapes on the table. The deep circles beneath his eyes have all but faded now, but the weariness to his expression remains. He possesses the gaze of someone who holds more than they can carry–a gaze your father shared.

Your throat bobs as you force yourself to swallow. You feel hollow, but a bit of warmth has reentered your chest. Two children, you think, without a parent—an awful thing, certainly, but not especially rare in Westeros.

You slide another shell onto the bracelet, fingers trembling. “He went mad.” Telling the truth, those three words, stings like betrayal. “He was a knight before I was born. He never… he never forgot what he had to do. The faces of the men he killed… they haunted him.”

Jace goes pale. His dark eyebrows furrow, the line of his mouth pulling down. “I-I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”

You nod. Put another two shells on the line. Desperately, you search for a way to change the subject. “He always wanted to teach me,” you say, gesturing to the rod, “but he never did.”

He drags a quick hand through his curly brown hair, then pauses as he gets caught in a tangle. He huffs irritably.

“Perhaps,” he says, onyx eyes catching the amber light of the candle flickering on the table, “if I could summon the strength to get dressed and brush my hair, then I could show you how.”

You swallow thickly. “You do not have to—“

“It is the least I can do,” he murmurs. “You saved my life.”

To smile feels inappropriate, so you avert your eyes and begin to tie a knot in another bracelet.

Jace stares at himself in the mirror that stands in the corner of the bedroom with solemn eyes. His eyes glaze over the bandages that wrap around his chest and lower torso, then the unfamiliar slightness to his shoulders and waist. He feels as though he looks at a person he no longer recognizes, like his mind has been transported into the body of someone much weaker than he used to be.

The old house is quiet in the morrow. Every once in a while, a soft breeze will make the house creak. One may occasionally hear a sea bird calling in the distance. Other than that, everything exists as if completely removed from reality; untouched by the war that rages just beyond the sea’s reaches.

His eyes flick back to the mirror and he sees her standing behind him with a deep green doublet wrapped in her arms. 

“It was my father’s,” she says, drawing closer. “It might be a little large on you.”

Jace nods. She hands him the doublet. The material feels like cheap linen, nothing to the quality he had worn before. He does not mind. It would be odd, he thinks, for him to expect anything better.

He lifts the top over his head and she helps guide it over. She seems to be trying not to touch his skin, like she thought he might be made of glass. He clenches his jaw when he feels the familiar tightness in one of his wounds as his arms stretch over his head.

The doublet falls over his body easily, but it does hang on him a bit like the robes a septa might wear.

He hears the sound of muffled laughter from behind him and he turns his head.

“My apologies.” She can barely get it out through her thinly-suppressed amusement. “You do look a bit funny, though.”

Jace feels his lips tug upwards in the first semblance of happiness he’d felt in days. It feels odd and out of place, and so it disappears with his next blink.

“Shall we go?” 

Jace nods. He follows her out of the bedroom and into the living area, watching as she bends to grab the fishing pole. He walks behind her as she leads the way outside, too slow to match her pace.

The brush of a briney mist against his skin feels like flying across the humid air on top of Vermax. His chest pangs and he forces the thought away. His eyes brush the swaying grasses that stand cloistered around the sea’s edge, each one caught up in a current of air drifting by. He watches the woman as she strides ahead of him.

She is quite plain. She does not have the dresses of the courts he is used to, nor the manners of a highborn lady. She moves unhindered by corsets and the plumes of expensive dresses. Her soft legs pump quickly across the sands, barefoot, like she has mapped every inch of the shore to near-perfection and knows without looking where she must go.

Seeing her slip ahead, her hair tangled in the sea’s mist, then as she turns over her shoulder with a jovial grin, it feels so different than anything he’s ever known before.

Baela is beautiful. She is poised, and gentle, but with a rough edge that assures him she could—and would—easily hurt him if pushed to it. But his stomach never flipped when she spoke. He never searched for her eyes from across the room. He never grasped her hand and wished he never had to let it go. He had known her for so long, he assumed she was all he’d ever need, that the feeling of content he felt in her presence was love. Now he isn’t so sure. 

She reaches the shore and stops when her feet hit the tide.

He meets her gaze as she turns to him. His heart pounds in his ears.

“Is it not wonderful?” She sweeps her arm in a half-arc as she speaks, eyes glimmering beneath the high morrow’s sun.

Jace draws his eyes away from her figure to the open waters. It is wonderful, he thinks. If not wrought with pain and regret.

He forces his gaze away. “Yes.”

“So,” she says, shifting on her heels, “how do we begin?”

Jace steps forward and picks up the rod. He retrieves the little scrap of maroon fabric that she had found a few days back and attaches it to the end of the hook. 

“It is always a good idea to have some kind of bait,” he explains, “fish are attracted to movement. If you can find insects or worms, those work even better. But this fabric may do. We will have to see.”

He moves close to the edge of the water and lets the rod scrape the top of the ocean. “Most fish do not swim right by the shore, so you will need to throw the line out a little ways. Make sure that you do not catch your skin with the hook.”

She nods, eyebrows drawn together in deep contemplation. Jace nearly smiles at the way she’s taking this all so seriously, before he catches himself and schools his expression.

Jace steadies his hand and propels the line out into the ocean. One of the wounds on his side complains at the movement, but he ignores it. He watches the line bob in the water with a softened expression. His memory flits between days spent under the sun at Driftmark and Dragonstone, laughing while he chases Lucerys with a wood sword; Laenor showing him how to fish among the tidepools; a fierce burn from the sun that is soothed by his mother’s affectionate hand.

“Who taught you this?” Her voice breaks through the silence that had settled between them. Her eyes keep steady on the line, lashes squinting against the harsh light.

“My father,” he replies after a moment’s hesitation. 

Another pause. 

He feels her shift to look over at the side of his face. “I’m sure he would be quite proud of the man you have become.”

Jace’s breath halts in his throat. Hands suddenly feel clammy. His heart hiccups and thuds against his skin. He had not thought of Laenor in a long time, Harwin even longer. It feels like decades had passed since he had seen either of them, a forgotten moment in his life overshadowed by tragedy after tragedy.

“Oh, look,” she says suddenly from beside him. “A conch shell.” 

She wields the massive thing toward him. Her entire face is bright with delight as she shows him the object that any normal person would completely disregard. She is anything but normal, though.

“These always sell for a few silvers at the markets,” she informs him, “the rich folk think they are good luck.”

He is not able to reply before his arm suddenly jolts and he is pulled a few inches forward. On the end of the line, something stirs in the water. 

“Come,” he orders her urgently. “Something is biting.”

She draws close, her eyes wide. The conch shell drops to the sand. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” he says, “here, you hold the rod.”

“What? I don’t know how to catch a fish!”

He thrusts the rod into her hands. “I am too weak to reel it in. You have to.” It is a lie, but she does not seem to recognize it.

Her hands slip all over the rod as she tries to fight the beast at the end of the line. Jace, pitying her struggle, slides behind her and steadies her hands by placing his on top of hers. She freezes for a moment, then begins to pull. Jace clutches her hands gently within his own and he notices that they tremble like seagrass beneath his own. 

“Hold it steady,” he says against the shell of her ear, “pull only when you feel it stop fighting. You do not want–”

Suddenly, the pressure is removed from the end of the line and they are both sent stumbling backwards onto the sand. Jace lands on his bum, but she is able to catch herself as she tumbles beside him. The line must have broken. The fish is long gone now.

“Oh Jace, are you okay?” He looks over at her as she crouches beside him. “You did not reopen your wounds, did you?”

The laugh that tumbles out of his lips makes her jolt back. Distantly, he is not sure why he is laughing. The fish got away, he landed on back on the sand, and now one of his cuts hurts. But he had just felt so alive. So unburdened by responsibility, like any man of ten and eight without the entirety of their mother’s empire resting upon their shoulders ought to feel. 

The laughter eventually abates, and all that is left is the open sky atop him and the sun beating down on his skin.

“Do you think that the fish I cooked last night was spoiled?” she asks in response to his exuberant mood. “Once, my father caught ill from bad potatoes…”

Jace feels another chuckle escape his lips. “Sorry,” he tells her. “I have… not felt that free in a long time.”

She lets out a soft ‘oh’ and moves to lay next to him in the sand. Far enough away that there is no chance that they will touch, but close enough that Jace can smell the lavender on her skin.

Jace stares at the clear sky ahead of him until he begins to feel his body ache with exhaustion. He pulls himself into a seated position, but she does not move immediately. She looks at him with soft eyes from where she lays against the sand, a small, affectionate smile upon her lips. Her chest rises and falls slowly, hand absentmindedly drawing pictures in the sand.

His stomach churns as he turns away. He stares out at the rippling current with half-lidded eyes. 

“How far is the nearest town?” His words are nearly carried away with the next tide that pulls up the shore. She hears him all the same, sliding to sit up next to him.

“Not far,” she replies, a toothy grin on her breath, “would you like to come and help me pick out a fish for dinner tomorrow?”

Jace does not reply. The hope tinged in her words makes something inside him feel rotten. Like he is corrupting the world wherein she lives. As he takes longer and longer to reply, he notices something settle upon her face. A realization that fades into melancholy.

“Oh.” She looks to the sea in an attempt to hide the dewiness in her eyes, but Jace notices all the same. “You wish to leave.”

“My mother,” he says, “she will be looking for me. She will not stop until she finds me.”

She nods.

Something compels him to continue. “I would stay. I would, truly,” he says, “but this is bigger than me. Bigger than this–”

“I understand, Jace.” But Jace is not sure she does. Her lips purse, her eyebrows drawn to form a small wrinkle between them. 

“I would at least stay a couple more days,” he tells her, “I need to make sure I do not simply hurt myself again by leaving too soon.”

She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her head upon them. “It sounds like a good plan,” she agrees quietly. “Perhaps… Perhaps I could pack you some food as well.”

“Yes,” he says this far too enthusiastically, but he notices her brighten at the joy in his voice and so he continues to smile. “That would be wonderful.”

She nods, pulling at a frayed edge of her dress. “Then it will be done.”

The two of them watch for a few more moments as the red sun burns a hole against the sky and as the water ripples with wrath.

“I will leave on the morrow”--That is what he had told you over dinner the previous evening. 

In the morrow, the sky opens and floods them with her tears. 

You stand by the window of the cabin looking out at the frightful weather. Rain falls like daggers against the darkened, tumultuous sea. Waves crash against the shore. A crack of lightning makes you flinch.

“The Gods are angry,” you say to the still air of the cabin. 

Jace sits halfway over his plate of roasted fish as you say this. Then he straightens, his eyes flickering briefly outside. The dark brown of his irises reflect the grey of the clouds swirling above. “Or they do not grant me leave.”

You force yourself to pull away from the window. Turning your head, another flash of brilliant light comes across the floor, painting everything white. You fall into a silence as you step carefully across the cabin.

You knew that from the moment you found him, that it would not be permanent. Just like the rains that fall from above now, this momentary storm in your life will too pass. You had not even wished for him to stay, initially. You recall that first night, sewing his wounds with fishing line, as your eyes stretched across his alien visage. You had told yourself that his presence would be temporary as a comfort then, now you tell it to ground yourself in reality.

Jace had become more friendly in the past few days. Conversation came easily to him and made the thought of him leaving that much harder. Now you were the one that deflated at the sound of his voice across the hall, the one that shrunk from revealing the parts of yourself that had not seen the light in years.

You are selfish. It is a quality that had always lurked behind your eyes, but had sharpened since your father’s death. It is a survival tactic. Every animal, even humans, wish to hold onto the things they hold dear. It does not matter if it is not much. Everything you have is in some way worth keeping–including Jace.

But you could not fight logic. His mother, his family–they had a higher claim to him than you did. You could not keep him like a bird with clipped wings. It is cruel to even think it. 

You scrub the dish in your hands until your hands feel raw and achy. The only light comes from behind you in the smoldering fireplace and the flash of light that illuminates the sky. You hear the clatter of the bowl from behind you as Jace finds his footing–the screech of the chair as it rubs harshly against the floor.

You feel his warmth as he comes to stand beside you. He reaches a hand into the soapy mess over the wood bucket and fetches your hand from the fray. 

“You have made yourself bleed,” he observes quietly, a finger stroking over the cuts. 

You feel your throat bob under the weight of his probing stare. You slip your hand away from his and turn your back to dip the bowl in the bucket of soapless water.

“Have I done something to upset you?” he murmurs. His words are echoed by a rumble of thunder in the distance.

You still your movements for just a second before continuing. Your cuts throb at the feeling of the cool water cleansing the blood from your hands. “No,” you reply simply.

“Then why have you been so quiet as of late?”

You drop the bowl onto the wood surface in front of you and turn, drying your hands with a near cloth. “I just haven’t had much to say, I suppose.”

Another flash of light. Rain as it beats ceaselessly against the metal roof. You face him, clenching the towel in your fist.

“Shall we remove your stitches?” It had been suggested a few days ago as the first thing he would do before departing, so he would not have to bother with finding someone to do it for him on the road. 

Jace looks like he might say something. Then he shakes his head. “On the bed?”

You nod. “That would be easiest.” 

You slip behind him as he moves toward the bedroom. On your way, you light the spill near the fireplace and bring it with you. Your eyes find his figure as it slinks through the darkness. He’s healed so much better than you had ever expected he might. He should not have survived his injuries—should not have been able to heal so quickly. You think the Gods must favor his survival much more than they favored the own laws they stipulated.

He slides off his doublet and lounges back into the bed. You let the flame on the end of the spill touch the end of the wick of the candlestick and the room is bathed in a soft glow. You suffocate the flame and put the spill onto the table next to the bed.

Jace watches you as you do this quietly. When your eyes move up to his face, you notice his eyes are lidded, the tips of his ears red. You feel a warmth catch hold of your skin at his gaze and you avert your eyes to his chest.

You begin your work in silence. You lift the knot of each stitch and easily slice through it with the sharp edge of your knife. At the end of your first removal, you are happy to see that the wound has faded to a pinkish stripe.

“Who taught you this?” 

You startle at the sound of his voice after several long minutes of silence. It is a deep baritone, rough around the edges. Its unexpected richness has you shifting in your place on the edge of the bed. A flash of white light from out the window bathes his face in color. 

“My father.” You do not elaborate further. You think it self explanatory. Your father taught you everything.

“Was he hurt often?” 

You cut another knot. “There are no maesters in the far reaches,” you tell him. A hint of bitter frustration lines your words. “I have assisted several people who have needed help in the village.”

“I did not know,” he replies softly, “that is quite kind of you.”

“We all share responsibility here, no one is without duty.” You put another piece of the fishing line to the side. “It is how things function when you do not have the entire Seven Kingdoms at your disposal.”

You notice Jace’s eyebrows furrow. His stomach tenses beneath your hand. “How did you…”

“It is obvious,” you say, “your voice, your cadence, the way you were dressed when I found you… you have no scars, no callouses. You did not offer your house’s name, so I can only assume—“

“Jacaerys Velaryon,” he says, “that is my name.”

You still. Your eyes dart to his, alarm filling your chest and stealing your breath. “Velaryon,” you echo, heart racing. “That is the name of…”

“Perhaps you know of Corlys Velaryon,” he offers, “the Sea Snake. He is my grandfather. Or Rhaenyra Targaryen, my mother—“

You stand, breathing panicked. “You must leave,” you say, “why did you stay so long? The realm… your mother… the Seven Kingdoms need you.”

Jace leans forward to grasp your arm. You allow him only because you fear you may topple over without the stability.

“I am of no use to them in this condition,” he scoffs. You notice a faraway look in his eyes. The same look he sometimes got when he stared upon the ocean or recalled stories of his father to you. “My dragon is dead, my body a wreck. There is nothing left of me for them to scavenge.”

“T-That is not true,” you stutter. “You must at least find out if they are safe. You have been healed for days… you could have left—“

“I stayed for you.” You fall silent at the sincerity in his voice. His hand drifts down the bare skin of your wrist to thread between your fingers. He cups your hand between his own.

“You cannot stay,” you tell him.

“It does not matter if I stay one more day. The realm will not fall today,” he replies, “we cannot travel in this ruinous weather, anyway.”

Your eyes drift to the window, where the wind throws its tears against the pane. You nod slowly and find your seat again.

You grasp the knife from where you sat it on the duvet. You slide the other to rest upon his warm stomach. His breaths quicken beneath your hand as you drag it up to the next wound.

“I almost killed you the day after I found you,” you whisper, “I thought it would be a mercy. The fact that you are here at all… alive, breathing. It is a gift from the Gods.”

He leans forward. “What stopped you?”

Your movements pause from where you had started to cut away another knot. “You did.”

His throat bobs. His hand moves from where it clutches the sheets to where your hand rests upon his sternum. He strokes the skin of your hand gently.

You lean forward without realizing what you are doing. He does not allow you to back away. He brings his other hand to the nape of your neck and leans forward to seal your lips with his.

The kiss is languid. His tongue probes the seal of your lips and you allow it to slip inside. You bring your hand up to cup his jaw and he drags the hand cupping your neck to your hair. You let out a soft moan against his lips and he responds to the noise by pulling you forward onto his chest.

You do not lean your weight onto him in fear of hurting him, but you feel his hands crawl to settle upon your heaving ribs. You gently settle your lower half onto his hips, settling your hand down on a part of his chest that had no injuries.

You and Jace continue to kiss for what feels like hours. It is exhilarating. It feels like flying. Your stomach feels warm and fluttery, and your lips are throbbing.

You shift your hips and Jace lets out a groan. You pull away from the kiss, concerned. His hand moves to grab the flesh of your hip, sliding you back some. There is a hardness beneath you that makes a pleasant chill slide down your spine.

“Are you alright, Jace?” 

“Unless you wish for us to have sex,” he grumbles, “you should move off my hips.”

You swallow thickly at the insinuation. Sex. A novel thing. A thing that should be saved for marriage. But marriage seems so far from your mind now, drifting away like a current.

“And what do you wish for us to do?” you murmur. You slide forward an inch and he throws his head back onto the pillows. His chest heaves.

“You know what I wish,” he groans. “Is it not obvious?”

You lean forward so that your lips barely brush his own. “Then take it.”

Sunlight streams through the window ahead of you, branding the side of your face with heat, and your eyelids flutter against the intrusion. You fist your fingers in the sheets and twist your legs close to your body. As you shift, you feel an arm pulling you backwards.

You grasp the hand splayed across your stomach between your trembling fingers.

“Stay,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. Tears bead in your eyes, but you keep them at bay.

Your thumb finds the pulse that thrums beneath his skin and you count his heart beats. The Gods are cruel, you think. They had kept Jace here long enough for you to miss him when he leaves.

You turn your body over to face him. You are not surprised to see him already staring back at you. His dark curls are a mess on the pillow beneath him. His lips pull upwards at the corners, but do not reach his eyes. He brings his hand up to stroke your cheek.

Your chin wobbles and he blinks away a frown.

“It will not be forever,” he tells you softly, reverently,

“I will return to you one day.”

You bring a hand up to wipe away the stubborn tears. “I suppose you do not know when that will be.”

He leans forward to give you a kiss and you know that is the only way he can possibly tell you no. 

Pulling away from the kiss feels like saying good-bye.

You stay in bed as he stands, sluggishly dressing himself as if he was still looking for reasons not to leave. You do not think he finds one. He turns his head to look back at you and his expression falters. 

A small smile curls at your lips as you mouth the word—go.

He heeds your instruction and leaves your cabin with a satchel of roasted fish, a map to the nearest town, and a bracelet strung with seashells.

ONE YEAR LATER…

The nets are full this morrow. The tide ebbs and flows, slinking across the silver sands. Birds let out cries of rejoice overhead for the plentiful bounty gifted by the sea. 

You bend the knee to heave the first net out of the water. You clutch your chest protectively as you search through the things with the other hand. 

“Hm,” you murmur, “a rainbow shell.” 

You bring the shell up to the light and small reflections bounce across your vision. Tucking it into your satchel, you search some more. A piece of metal, two scraps of fabric, and a clam.

You pocket the metal and one of the ratty pieces of fabric, but allow the clam to slide back under the tide. You bring your dry hand to rest upon the head of the babe swaddled against your breast.

“Shh,” you whisper to him as he begins to stir. “It is alright, my prince.”

He brings his head up slowly to peer at you. A splatter of sea foam settles on the side of his face, but he does not seem to mind. He gives you a gummy smile and you return it lovingly.

He watches with bleary eyes as you sort through the next net of things. You show him each individual item as you retrieve it. Your heart skips when you feel a familiar shape and weight in the palm of your hand.

“A conch shell,” you inform him with a giddy grin, “these sell for several silvers at the market.”

He stares at the shell with wide eyes. The pattern, a dark brown and white mottling, you think, must confuse or enrapture him by the way he looks at it.

The small of your back has begun to hurt. You straighten up and lift a supportive hand to rest underneath the baby’s bum.

“This will be enough for today,” you decide. “The sea has gifted us more than we need.”

The little boy smacks his lips as if agreeing with the statement. You nod and carry your satchel and the boy up the familiar path to the cabin.

However, your footsteps slow as you grow closer until you stop right before the door. Something is not right. You protectively cradle the back of your son’s head as you touch a hand to the door.

It pushes open with little resistance. You slide the knife you kept on you at all times to your hand in one swift movement as you step inside.

You take not but two steps beyond the threshold before you freeze. The knife clatters to the ground and a gasp shudders from your lips at the sight in front of you.

He stands across from you like he never left. He’s dressed in black gilded leathers, his body a tad leaner and steadier. His face looks older, more mature and shaped by circumstance, just as you imagine yours must too. His mop of dark hair curls around his ears, longer than when you saw him last.

His lips with awe. He stares at you and your face as if trying to map something with his mind. 

“Jace,” you say breathlessly. “How…”

“I saw you by the shore as I rode in from town,” he murmurs, taking a hesitant step forward. He lets out a soft laugh that sends your stomach aflutter. “I thought I might surprise you. I guess I am lucky to not have received a knife in my throat.”

Your throat bobs. Mistiness clouds your vision. “You came back for us.”

“For us?” Jace echoes, eyebrows furrowed. He comes so close he can reach out to you with his arm and you know that he has seen him then, by the shock that melts his features.

The boy turns his head to the best of his ability in your swaddle, his eyes searching for the unfamiliar voice. Jace’s mouth comes nearly unhinged, a trembling hand lifting as if to stroke his head, but it falls short.

He forces his eyes to look at you. “He… he’s mine?”

You bite your lip to suppress your smile as you nod. You reach around your neck with one arm while the other supports the baby’s bum. You unravel the swaddle easily, and the chubby baby flails his arms with relief. Never one to like a cage.

You outstretch him toward Jace and he takes him eagerly. He holds him with practiced ease. He supports the baby’s head and bum as he gazes down at him, tracing his forehead to the slope of his nose to the flutter of his lashes with only his eyes.

Jace finally breaks away from the baby long enough to look up at you. “And I just… I just left you. You and my son.”

Your heart skips a beat at the name. Son. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning like a fool.

“You had to,” you say, stepping forward to lay a gentle hand upon his upper arm. “Your family needed you.”

He clenches his jaw. “Nothing we did… nothing we accomplished… equals this.”

He strokes a featherlight touch against the boy’s cheek and he wrinkles his nose.

“Will you…” you pause. You try to steel yourself for the rejection that may very well follow, hands clammy by your sides. “Will you be staying long?”

Jace’s eyes rush to meet yours. He steps forward. The baby whimpers in his arms at the movement. 

“I would stay forever if you would have me.”

You feel your heart skip a beat. “What? What of the throne? Of your family?”

He shakes his head. Your stomach drops.

“My brother Aegon will be the next ruler. Wed to his cousin.”

“And you?”

His dark eyes soften as they consider this question carefully. He clutches the lost prince to his chest protectively.

“I am right where I want to be.”

When the septon bound your hands together with a ribbon and declared you one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, Ormund had smiled. It was a slow smile, a satisfied smile, the smile of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted.

You should have noticed that. You should have understood what it meant.

The feast afterward had been a blur. The great hall had been transformed into a sea of candles and flowers and glittering silver, and the noise of a hundred conversations had washed over you like a wave. You had been seated beside your new husband on the dais, your hand in his, and course after course had been presented to you. You had barely eaten. Your stomach was too tight, too fluttery, too full of nerves.

But you had drunk. Oh, you had drunk.

The wine was sweet and it went down like honey, and every time your cup was empty, a servant was there to refill it. You had not meant to drink so much—you had never been much of a drinker, had never developed a taste for it—but the wine warmed your belly and softened the edges of your anxiety and made everything feel slightly distant, slightly dreamlike, like you were watching yourself from very far away.

Ormund had encouraged it. His hand had rested on your knee beneath the table, heavy and warm, his thumb tracing slow circles through the silk of your gown. Every time you glanced at him, he was already looking at you, and his eyes were so dark, so hungry, that you felt yourself blushing and had to look away.

"Drink," he had murmured in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "It will help with the nerves."

And so you had drunk.

Now the feast was over. The guests had retired to their chambers or continued their revelry elsewhere. Your ladies had undressed you an hour ago their hands efficient and fast as they unlaced your wedding gown, unhooked your corset, removed your stockings and your slippers and your jewels. They had chattered as they worked, offering congratulations and advice and sly, knowing comments that made your cheeks burn.

They had dressed you in the shift. The bridal shift. It was beautiful, you could not deny that, pale ivory silk so fine it was almost transparent, the fabric clinging to every curve and hollow of your body like a second skin. The straps were thin as spider silk, the neckline dipping low enough to show the swell of your breasts. The hem barely reached your thighs. When you moved, the silk slid against your skin in a way that made you acutely aware of your own nakedness beneath it.

It was meant to entice. It was meant to be removed.

Your ladies had left you then, retreating with final words of encouragement and knowing smiles, and the door had clicked shut behind them with a sound that felt terribly final. You were alone. Alone in your husband's chambers, in your chambers now, yours and his together.

You had been standing by the window for what felt like a very long time. The wine cup was still in your hand—you had refused to give it up, had clung to it like a talisman—and you raised it to your lips again, letting the sweet liquid coat your tongue. The windows looked out over the city, over the Honeywine River glittering silver in the moonlight, over the distant shadow of the Citadel and the dark expanse of the Whispering Sound beyond. Somewhere out there, beyond the city walls, Aegarax was sleeping in a field. You wished, suddenly and fiercely, that you were with him. That you could climb onto his back and fly away, fly home to Dragonstone, fly anywhere but here.

But that was foolish. That was childish. You were a wife now. You had a duty to perform.

You heard the door open behind you. The soft click of the latch, the whisper of the hinges. Footsteps on the stone floor, heavy and deliberate. The door closed again.

"Are you well, my love?"

His voice was low and warm. The voice that had spoken so many sweet words to you during your courtship. The voice that had told you that you were beautiful, that you were precious, that you were the most desirable woman he had ever seen.

You did not turn around. You could not turn around. Your heart was beating too fast, your palms suddenly damp against the wine cup.

"Yes." Your voice came out smaller than you intended, almost childlike. "I am just... I am a bit nervous."

"There is nothing to be nervous about." His footsteps drew closer, slow and measured. You could feel him approaching, feel the heat of his body, the weight of his presence filling the room behind you. "It is only me. Only your husband."

"I know." You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. The wine had made everything soft and hazy, but it had not quieted the anxious flutter in your chest. "It is just that I have never... I mean, I do not really know what to..."

What to do. What to expect. What to say. What to feel. You did not know anything. Your mother had told you that it was your duty, that you must submit to your husband and let him guide you, that there might be some discomfort at first but that it would pass. She had spoken in euphemisms and poetic metaphors, her hands clasped around yours, her violet eyes searching your face as if looking for something she did not find.

"Shh." He was right behind you now. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell him, leather and wine and something musky underneath, something that made your stomach tighten with an emotion you could not name. "There is nothing to be afraid of, my sweet girl. I am going to take care of you. I am going to make you feel things you have never felt before. Do you trust me?"

"Yes." The word came out automatically, the way it had a hundred times during your courtship. "Yes, I trust you."

"Good girl. Turn around."

You took one last sip of wine for courage. The cup was almost empty now, and you wished it were full again. You wished you had drunk more. You wished you had drunk enough to make the world disappear entirely, and then, because you could delay no longer, you turned around.

The wine cup slipped from your fingers.

He was completely, utterly naked.

He stood not three feet away from you, and he was so much. So much bigger than you, so much more solid. His shoulders were broad and heavily muscled, his chest covered in a thick mat of dark hair that trailed down his stomach in a narrowing line. His arms were thick with muscle, his hands large and strong. And lower—

Your eyes dropped before you could stop them, a horrified fascination drawing your gaze downward. The hair continued, thickening again at his groin, and jutting from it, unmistakable and impossible to ignore, was his—

You jerked your eyes back up to his face, your cheeks flooding with heat, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. Your hands were shaking. Your whole body was shaking. You had never seen a man's naked body before. You had never seen that before, that thing, that part of him, and it was so much larger than you had imagined, so much more intimidating. It stood erect, curving upward toward his stomach, and you could not comprehend how it was supposed to fit inside you. It looked impossible. It looked like it would split you in half.

He was smiling. It was a slow smile, a knowing smile, the smile of a man who had seen your shock and found it deeply satisfying. He stood there in his nakedness with the absolute confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and had no doubt that he would get it.

"You are shy," he said. It was not a question.

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. You could not stop staring at his face now, clinging to eye contact like a lifeline, terrified that if your gaze dropped again you would see it again, that thing, that impossible thing.

"I—I have never—" The words came out in a stammer, broken and breathless. "I did not realize you were—that you had already—when did you—"

Your eyes flickered involuntarily to the pile of clothing on the floor behind him. His tunic, his breeches, his smallclothes, all discarded in a heap near the door. He must have undressed while you were standing at the window. He must have stripped himself bare while your back was turned, and you had not heard a thing. You had not heard anything except your own panicked heartbeat.

"I did not want to waste any more time." He stepped closer, and you instinctively stepped back. Your bare shoulders pressed against the cold stone of the window frame, and you realized with a jolt of panic that there was nowhere else to go. You were trapped between him and the wall. "I have been waiting for this night for a very long time. A year. More than a year. Every moment I spent with you during our courtship, I was thinking about this. About having you. About what it would feel like to finally be inside you."

The word inside made your stomach clench. You pressed yourself harder against the window, the stone cold through the thin silk of your shift. "Ormund, I—"

"Do you know how many nights I lay awake thinking about you?" He took another step, and now he was close enough to touch. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that if you reached out, your hand would press against his bare chest. "Do you know how many times I imagined this? Imagined you? Imagined all the things I was going to do to you once you were finally mine?"

Your breath caught in your throat. His words were meant to be romantic—they were the words of a man who desired his wife, who had been patient, who had waited—but there was something in his voice that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

"I thought about you too," you whispered, because it seemed like the right thing to say. "I thought about... about tonight. About being your wife."

"Did you?" His hand came up, and you flinched before you could stop yourself. He noticed but he did not comment on it. Instead, he reached past you and took the wine cup from the windowsill where it had come to rest. He set it aside, his movements slow and deliberate. "And what did you imagine?"

You shook your head, your cheeks burning. "I do not know. I do not... my mother told me some things, but I do not really understand. I do not know what to expect."

"Your mother." He said the word with an edge that you did not quite understand. "And what did your mother tell you?"

"She said..." You swallowed hard, trying to remember the exact words. "She said that it was my duty. That I must submit to my husband. That there might be some discomfort at first, but that it would pass. She said that it was how children were made. That it was the marriage debt."

"The marriage debt." He smiled again, and this time there was something almost predatory in it. "Is that what you think this is? A debt to be paid?"

"No, I—I do not know. I do not know what to think."

"Then let me tell you." He reached out and touched your face, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. His hand was warm, almost hot, and you felt yourself trembling beneath his touch. "This is not a debt. This is a gift. The gift of your body to me, and my body to you. The gift of pleasure. The gift of children. The gift of becoming one flesh, the way the septon said. Do you understand?"

You nodded, even though you did not understand. You did not understand anything except that his hand was on your face and his body was so close and you were trapped against the cold stone window and you could not stop shaking.

"You are trembling," he said. His thumb stroked your cheek, gentle and slow. "Are you afraid of me?"

"No." The word came out too quickly. "No, I am not afraid. I am just... I am nervous. I told you. I have never done this before."

"I know you have not." His voice dropped lower, becoming almost a purr. "That is what makes this so precious. You are untouched. Pure. No man has ever seen you like this, has ever touched you, has ever been inside you. I am the first. I will be the only. Your body will know no one but me, for the rest of your life."

The words should have been romantic, but they did not feel like it.

"Lift your arms," he said.

You hesitated. Your arms felt heavy, weighted down by something you could not name. But he was waiting, his eyes fixed on your face, and you did not want to disappoint him. You did not want to be a bad wife on your very first night.

You lifted your arms. He grasped the hem of your shift and pulled it upward. The silk slid over your skin, cool and whispering, and then it was over your head and gone, discarded somewhere on the floor. You were naked. Completely, utterly naked, standing in front of your husband with nothing to hide behind.

The air in the room was warm from the fire, but you felt suddenly, terribly cold. You wrapped your arms around yourself instinctively, trying to cover your breasts, trying to hide, but he caught your wrists and gently pulled them away.

"No," he said. "Do not hide from me. You are my wife now. I want to see you."

He stepped back, just slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes traveled over your body with an intensity that made your skin prickle. You had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, so utterly seen. He looked at your breasts, at the curve of your waist, at the curls at the juncture of your thighs. He looked at you the way a collector looks at a new acquisition. The way a hungry man looks at a feast.

"Beautiful," he murmured. His voice was thick now, roughened by something that made your stomach clench. "More beautiful than I ever imagined. And I imagined you a great deal."

His hand reached out and touched you. Just the tips of his fingers, tracing the line of your collarbone, down your sternum, between your breasts. Your skin broke out in goosebumps, and you shivered, and you did not know if it was from cold or fear or something else entirely.

"Please," you whispered, and you did not know what you were asking for. Please stop? Please continue? Please be gentle?

"Please what?" His fingers continued their slow exploration, circling one breast, brushing over the nipple. You gasped at the sensation, it was strange and sharp and not entirely unpleasant, a tingling that seemed to travel from your breast down to somewhere much lower. "Please what, my sweet girl?"

"I do not know," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "I do not know what to ask for. I do not know what I want."

"Then let me show you." He cupped your breast fully now, his palm warm and rough against your sensitive skin. "Let me teach you. That is my role now, as your husband. To teach you what your body is capable of. To show you pleasures you have never dreamed of."

He leaned down and captured your mouth in a kiss. You had been kissed before. Chaste kisses, the kind of kisses a betrothed couple exchanged in chaperoned parlors. This was not that. His mouth was hot and demanding, his lips pressing against yours with a force that made your head spin. His tongue pushed past your lips, filling your mouth, and you made a small, startled sound against him. You did not know what to do with your tongue—no one had ever told you—so you just let him take what he wanted.

One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, holding you in place. The other continued its exploration of your body, sliding down your stomach, over your hip, around to grasp your arse. He pulled you against him, and you felt it, that part of him, that impossible part, pressing hard and hot against your bare stomach. You whimpered into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound.

"You taste like wine," he murmured against your lips. "Sweet. So sweet."

He kissed you again, deeper this time, and his hand slid from your backside to your thigh, gripping it, lifting it. He pressed himself against you, and you felt him there, right there, so close to where you had never been touched.

"Ormund," you gasped, breaking the kiss. "Wait. Wait, please. I am not—I do not—"

"Shh." He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. "I know. I know you are nervous. But I have waited so long. So very long. And you are so beautiful. Can you feel what you do to me? Can you feel how much I want you?"

You could feel it. Gods, you could feel it. It was pressed against you, insistent and impossible, and you did not understand how this was supposed to work. You did not understand how any of this was supposed to work.

"Come," he said, and it was not a request. "Come to the bed."

He did not wait for an answer. He bent and scooped you into his arms as if you weighed nothing at all, one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. You clutched at his shoulders instinctively, your face pressed against his neck, your heart hammering so hard you were certain he must be able to feel it. His skin was hot and smelled of sweat.

The bed was soft beneath you when he laid you down. The sheets were cool against your heated skin, and you sank into the feather mattress, feeling very small and very exposed. He stood over you for a moment, looking down at you with those hungry eyes, and then he was on the bed with you, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

He was so heavy. So much heavier than you had expected. You had never had a grown man lying on top of you before, and the sensation was overwhelming—the weight of him, the heat of him, the sheer size of him surrounding you on all sides. You felt trapped. Pinned. You could barely move.

"Relax," he murmured against your throat. His lips were trailing down your neck now, kissing and sucking, and you felt a strange, tingling warmth spreading from each place his mouth touched. "Relax, my love. I am going to make you feel so good. You just have to trust me."

You tried to relax. You tried to let go of the tension coiled in your muscles, tried to surrender to the sensations washing over you. His mouth found your breast, and you gasped as his tongue circled your nipple, as his teeth grazed the sensitive peak. The sensation was sharp and strange and not entirely unpleasant, it sent sparks of something through your body, sparks that seemed to travel downward, settling low in your belly.

"Ormund," you breathed, and you did not know if it was a protest or an encouragement.

"Good," he murmured against your skin. "Good girl. You feel that? That is pleasure. That is what your body is made for."

His hand slid down your stomach, over your hip, between your thighs. You tensed immediately, your legs trying to close, but he was already there, his body blocking you, his hand pressing insistently against your most private place.

"No," you whispered, your face burning with shame. "Please, not there—"

"Yes." His voice was firm. "Yes, there. You are my wife. Every part of you belongs to me now. Even this part. Especially this part."

His fingers began to move, stroking and exploring, and you turned your face into the pillow, unable to look at him. No one had ever touched you there before. You had barely even touched yourself there—it had always seemed forbidden, shameful, something good girls did not do. But his touch was insistent, and despite your embarrassment, despite your shame, your body was beginning to respond.

The heat was building. That strange, unfamiliar heat, coiling low in your belly like a spring being wound too tight. Your hips moved without your permission, pressing into his touch, seeking something you did not understand. He made a low sound of approval.

"That is it," he said. "That is my good girl. Your body knows what it wants, even if you do not."

His fingers found a particular spot, a place that made you gasp and arch off the bed, and he laughed softly. "There. That is what I was looking for. Does that feel good?"

You could not answer. Words had deserted you. There was only sensation, his fingers, his mouth, his weight pressing you into the mattress. The pleasure was building and building, and you did not know what was happening, did not know what to expect, only that it felt like you were climbing toward something vast and terrifying and unknown.

"Let go," he said, his voice low and hypnotic. "Let go, my sweet girl. Let me see you fall apart."

And you did. The pleasure crested, and your body arched off the bed, and a sound tore from your throat that you had never made before, a cry, almost a sob, your fingers clutching at the sheets, at his shoulders, at anything you could reach. The world went white and hot and overwhelming, and for a long, suspended moment, you forgot where you were. You forgot your name. You forgot everything except the feeling of his hands on your body and the pleasure crashing through you in waves.

When you came back to yourself, he was looking down at you with a smile of pure, male satisfaction. His fingers were still between your legs, gentle now, stroking you through the aftershocks.

"Good," he said. "Good. Now you are ready."

He shifted his weight, settling more firmly between your thighs, and you felt him pressing against the place his fingers had just been. Your eyes widened, and the haze of pleasure began to clear, replaced by a cold trickle of fear.

"Ormund, wait—"

"This will hurt," he said, and his voice was strained now, tight with something that sounded almost like pain. "But only for a moment. Try to relax. It will be easier if you relax."

You tried. You tried to relax, tried to do what he said, tried to be good. But when he pushed inside you, the pain was not just a moment. It was sharp and tearing and all consuming, and you cried out—a real cry this time, high and startled, your hands flying to his shoulders to push him away.

He did not stop. "Shh," he said, but his hips were already moving, pushing deeper , forcing his thick cock deeper into a body that was not ready for him . "Shh. It will pass. Just breathe. Just breathe."

You breathed. You wrapped your arms around his neck and held on and tried to breathe through the pain. Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes and slid down your temples into your hair. You felt yourself stretching around him, felt a burning ache that radiated through your entire lower body, and you did not know if this was normal. You did not know if it was supposed to hurt this much. Your mother had said there might be some discomfort. She had not said it would feel like being torn apart.

"Fuck, there," he groaned against your shoulder, voice thick with lust. "Gods, your cunt is so fucking tight. So perfect."

He began to move. Slow at first, then faster. The bed frame creaked beneath you, a rhythmic counterpoint to the sounds he was making, low, guttural grunts that vibrated against your neck. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as his cock plunged in and out of your clenching hole, each thrust punching deeper than the last.

You lay pinned beneath him, body jolting with the force of his fucking, your body rocking with each thrust, and tried to find the pleasure he had shown you before. It was there, somewhere, buried beneath the pain and the discomfort and the overwhelming strangeness of it all, but you could not reach it.

"Taking my cock so well," he rasped, sweat-slicked skin sliding over yours. "You were made to be fucked like this. Made to take every inch. Made for me. Say my name."

"Ormund," you whispered, and it came out as a sob.

"Yes. Yes. Again."

"Ormund—"

He slammed in to the hilt and came with a guttural roar, cock pulsing thick ropes of cum deep inside your stretched pussy. Hot seed flooded your insides, overflowing around his shaft and leaking down your crack as his fingers bruised your hips. You felt every heavy spurt, the wet heat filling you until it had nowhere else to go but out, you realized with a distant sort of shock that you did not even know what it was. Your mother had not told you. No one had told you anything.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, and you lay there pinned beneath him, staring at the canopy above the bed, feeling the tears drying on your cheeks and the soreness already beginning to bloom between your legs.

"That," he said, his voice muffled against your neck, "was worth every moment of waiting. Every single moment."

You did not answer. You did not know what to say. You stroked his hair because it seemed like something a wife should do, and you waited for him to move, to roll off you, to let you breathe.

But he did not move. Not for a long time.

When he finally stirred, you felt a rush of relief. It was over. You had done your duty. You could rest now, but he lifted his head and looked down at you, and his eyes were still dark. Still hungry. Still unsatisfied.

"Again," he said.

You stared at him, uncomprehending. "What?"

"Again." He pulled his cock free, leaving your raw, cum slicked cunt gaping and dripping. The sudden emptiness made you wince. Thick white seed leaked from your stretched hole and slid down your thighs "We are not finished. This is our wedding night, my love. Did you think once would be enough? I have waited a year for this. I am going to have you in every way I have imagined. And I have imagined a great many ways."

"But I am—I am sore—"

"This is your duty." His voice hardened, and the tenderness from a moment ago evaporated like mist in the morning sun. "You are my wife. Your body belongs to me now. And I will have it when and how I choose. That is what you agreed to when you said your vows. That is what it means to be married."

You opened your mouth to argue, but no words came out. Because he was right, wasn't he? This was what you had agreed to. This was what marriage was. Your mother had told you that your body would no longer be your own. She had told you that you must submit to your husband in all things. This was just... this was just what wives did.

Wasn't it?

"On your hands and knees," he said. "Like a bitch. I want to take you from behind."

The word bitch made you flinch, but you obeyed. You did not know how to disobey. You rolled onto your stomach, wincing at the soreness between your legs, and pushed yourself onto all fours, ass raised, thighs parted, your dripping pussy fully exposed. The position felt filthy and degrading. The position felt obscene, degrading, your body exposed and vulnerable in a way that made your face burn with shame.

"Good girl." His hand stroked down your spine, and you shivered. "You learn quickly. That will serve you well in this marriage."

He positioned himself behind you, and you felt him pressing against you again—still hard, still impossibly large. How was he still hard? You did not understand. You did not understand anything about male bodies or male desires or what was normal and what was not.

"Look at that pretty cunt already leaking my cum."

This time, there was no gentleness at all. He entered you in one rough thrust, and you cried out, your arms nearly buckling beneath you. He gripped your hips hard and started pounding you—fast, merciless strokes that made your ass ripple and your tits swing beneath you. There was no pretense of making you feel good this time, no gentle words, no coaxing. This was for him. Only for him. You cried out as his cock speared your sore walls again, forcing more of his previous load out around his shaft.

"This is what you were made for. To be bent over and used. To milk my cock until I fill you again, your cunt is clenching. You like being fucked like this. You like being my breeding bitch on our wedding night."

Each savage thrust punched deep, the wet slap of his balls against your clit sending sparks through the ache. His hand reached under you, fingers finding your swollen clit. He rubbed it in tight circles while he fucked you harder, the mix of rough pounding and steady stimulation making your thighs shake.

He grunted, his hips slamming against your backside. " This is your purpose. To take my cock. To give me pleasure. To give me children. Nothing else matters."

You buried your face in the pillow, trying to muffle the sounds you were making. Your body was still responding despite everything, your hips pressing back to meet his thrusts without your permission, your body betraying you in the most intimate way possible.

"You feel that? Your body is hungry for me. Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind does not."

The pleasure built fast and sharp. Your body betrayed you again, hips rocking back to meet every thrust. The dual sensations, his cock battering your cervix and his fingers working your clit, pushed you over the edge. You came with a broken moan, walls pulsing and fluttering around him as fresh wetness gushed down his shaft.

Your body obeyed. Your body had always been a traitor. The pleasure built and crested and crashed over you, and you collapsed onto the mattress, your arms no longer able to hold you up. He followed moments later with hot cum pumped deep, mixing with the first round until it overflowed and ran down your legs in thick rivulets. He stayed buried inside you, grinding slow as the last spurts emptied into your twitching cunt.

When he pulled out, and you lay there face, down on the bed, trembling, trying to catch your breath. You thought it was over. You thought surely, surely it must be over now.

But it was not over.

He let you rest for perhaps ten minutes. Maybe less. You could not track time anymore, it had become meaningless, measured only in the spaces between his desires. He lay beside you, his hand stroking your back, your hair, your thigh, and he spoke to you in a low, soothing voice. He told you that you were beautiful. He told you that you were doing so well. He told you that he loved you, that he had always loved you, that he would love you until the end of time.

And then his hands were on you again, and he was pulling you on top of him. "I want to see you ride me," he said, positioning you so that you were straddling his hips. "I want to watch your face while you take your pleasure from me, I want to watch that tight little cunt swallows my cock." he ordered, voice thick with lust.

You looked down at him, at his expectant face, at his hands gripping your thighs, and you felt a wave of exhaustion so profound it made your bones ache. "I do not know how," you whispered. "I do not know what to do."

"I will show you." His hands guided your hips, lifting you, positioning you over him. "Lower yourself. Slowly. Yes, like that. Gods, yes."

He lined his thick cock with your entrance and pushed your hips down. The fat head breached you again, stretching your swollen walls wide. A wet squelch filled the room as you sank onto him, his previous loads already leaking out around the intrusion. The new angle forced him deeper than before, the blunt tip grinding straight against your cervix and you gasped at the sensation. He began to move beneath you, thrusting up into you, and his hands guided your hips into a rhythm that matched his own.

"Good," he said, his eyes fixed on your face. "Good. You are learning.''

Each time you dropped down, his cock punched up to meet you, the wet slap of your soaked pussy against his pelvis loud and obscene. Your breasts bounced with every impact, nipples stiff and aching.

"Look at me," he growled. "Eyes on mine while you fuck yourself on my cock."

You met his gaze, cheeks burning, as he drove up harder. His hands slid to your ass, fingers digging in, spreading you wider so he could watch his shaft disappear inside you. "Say it," he demanded. "Tell me who this cunt belongs to." face was flushed, his eyes dark and intense, and there was something in his expression that made your stomach twist.

"Y-you," you gasped, the word breaking as another thrust knocked the air from your lungs.

"Louder."

"You! My cunt is yours!"

He snarled in approval and slammed upward, the brutal pace making your thighs shake. One hand left your ass to find your swollen clit, rubbing it in fast, rough circles while he fucked you from below. Your orgasm hit hard. Your pussy spasmed around him, pulsing and milking his shaft as fresh slick gushed out, mixing with the cum already inside you. You collapsed forward onto his chest, body jerking, but he kept thrusting up into your twitching hole, chasing his own release.

With a guttural groan he buried himself to the hilt and pumped another thick load deep into your womb. Hot spurts flooded you, forcing even more of the previous loads to squirt out around his shaft and run down his balls in sticky rivulets. He stayed buried inside you, grinding slow as the last pulses emptied, keeping you impaled and full.

You thought it was over. You thought surely, surely it must be over now.

But it was not over.

He took you twice more that night. The fourth time was on your side, your leg hooked over his hip, his mouth on your throat, his hands gripping your body with a possessiveness that left bruises. The fifth time, he woke you from a deep sleep—you had finally drifted off, your body giving out from sheer exhaustion—and took you from behind again, roughly, quickly, with no gentleness at all.

By the end of it, the sky outside the window was beginning to lighten. The bells rang for dawn, and you heard them as if from very far away, as if you were underwater and the sounds of the world above were muffled and distorted.

You were lying on your back, staring at the canopy. Your body was a landscape of unfamiliar sensations—soreness and exhaustion and a strange, hollow ache that had nothing to do with the physical. Between your legs was wet and sticky and sore, and you could feel his seed leaking out of you, soaking into the sheets. There was blood too, you thought, though you had not looked. You did not want to look.

He was asleep beside you. Finally, mercifully, asleep. His arm was thrown across your waist, heavy and possessive even in unconsciousness, and his breath came in slow, even rhythms. You stared at the canopy. You stared at the ceiling. You stared at the fire burning low in the hearth, and you tried to make sense of what had happened.

This was marriage. This was what wives did. This was your duty.

Was this normal? You had no one you could ask. The only married woman you knew well was your mother, and your mother had spoken of the marriage bed in such vague, poetic terms that you had no way of comparing her experience to yours.

Perhaps it was always like this. Perhaps the first night was always overwhelming, always painful, always disorienting. Perhaps you would get used to it in time. Perhaps you would learn to find pleasure in it—he had shown you that pleasure was possible, had coaxed it from your body even when you did not want to give it. Perhaps that was the key. Perhaps you just needed to learn.

You turned your head on the pillow and looked at him. Your husband. Lord Ormund Hightower, the man who had courted you so tenderly, who had written you such beautiful letters, who had made you feel like the most cherished woman in the world. In sleep, his face was relaxed, almost boyish, the lines of age and command softened by the grey morning light. He looked like a different man than the one who had taken you five times over the course of the night. He looked like the man you had fallen in love with.

His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer even in sleep. You felt his breath against your hair, warm and steady. You felt the heat of his body, the solid weight of him, the overwhelming reality of his presence.

Mine, you thought. He is mine now. And I am his.

The thought should have brought you comfort. It should have made you feel safe, protected, cherished. Instead, it made you feel something you could not name. Something that sat heavy in your chest like a stone.

You closed your eyes and tried to sleep. Your body was exhausted, wrung out, desperate for rest. But your mind would not quiet. It kept circling back to the same questions, the same confusions, the same half-formed doubts that you did not know how to examine.

Was it supposed to be like this?

Was this what love was?

You had no answers. You had only the grey morning light and the distant sound of bells and the weight of your husband's arm across your waist.

And the knowledge, slowly dawning in the back of your mind, that your life would never be the same again.

—

You woke to the feeling of lips on your neck. Soft and persistent. A mouth pressed to the curve where your shoulder met your throat, trailing slow, open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. You stirred from the depths of exhausted sleep, your mind foggy, your body heavy with a weariness that seemed to have seeped into your very bones.

For a moment, you did not remember where you were. The bed was too large, too soft, the pillows too many. The light filtering through the heavy curtains was grey and pale, early morning, the hour when the world was still half-asleep. The air smelled of sweat and sex and burned down candles, and beneath it all, the faint, musky scent of a man.

Ormund.

Your husband. He was behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his arm wrapped around your waist. His body was warm—almost too warm—and you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your spine. His lips continued their exploration, moving from your neck to the curve of your ear, nibbling gently at the lobe. His breath was hot against your skin, and you felt the soft scrape of his teeth, barely there, a ghost of a bite that made you shiver.

"Good morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and something else. Something darker. "I was beginning to think you would sleep through the entire day."

His hand moved from your waist, sliding up your stomach to cup your breast. His palm was warm, slightly calloused, and he cupped you with a tenderness that seemed at odds with the roughness of the night before. His thumb found your nipple and brushed across it in a slow, deliberate circle. The sensation was electric, a jolt that went straight to your core, and you gasped—a small, involuntary sound that seemed to please him.

"You are so sensitive this morning," he said. "I like that. I like knowing that I am the first thing you feel when you wake."

His thumb continued its lazy circles, and you felt yourself responding despite everything. Your nipple hardened beneath his touch, pebbling against his palm. Your hips pressed back against him, between your thighs a pulse of heat bloomed, shameful and undeniable.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt the evidence of his own arousal pressing against the curve of your backside. He was hard again, thick and insistent, and the knowledge sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

"That is it," he whispered against your ear, his voice low and rough. "Your body remembers last night. It remembers what I taught you. It wants more, does it not?"

You shook your head weakly, even as your body betrayed you. "I am tired," you managed. "I did not sleep."

"Neither did I." His hand slid lower, over your stomach, his fingers splaying across your belly before moving down to the thatch of hair between your legs. "I lay awake for hours, watching you. You looked so peaceful. So beautiful. I wanted to wake you, but I did not. I let you rest."

His fingers found your center, parting your folds with practiced ease. You were wet—embarrassingly, shamefully wet—and he groaned softly when he felt it.

"Oh, sweet girl," he breathed. "You are so ready for me. Even after everything. Even after I kept you up all night. Your body knows what it wants."

His fingers moved in slow, gentle circles, tracing the outline of your most sensitive places. The sensation was overwhelming—too much and not enough all at once. Your hips bucked against his hand, and you heard yourself whimper, a small, desperate sound that seemed to come from somewhere outside yourself.

"Ormund," you whispered. "Please. I am so tired."

"I know." He kissed your shoulder, your neck, the hinge of your jaw. "I know you are tired, sweet girl. I am not going to do anything you do not want. I only want to touch you. I only want to feel you. Is that all right?"

You should have said no. You should have told him to stop, to give you space, to let you breathe. But his fingers were moving in slow, gentle circles, and your body was betraying you, softening beneath his touch, your hips tilting to give him better access.

"That is not a no," he said. His voice was soft, almost playful. "That is a I do not know how to say yes because I am too shy. Am I right?"

You buried your face in the pillow, your cheeks burning. He laughed and kissed the back of your head.

"It is all right to want this," he said. "You are my wife. You are allowed to want your husband. There is no shame in it."

He rolled you onto your back gently, positioning himself above you. The weight of him was familiar now, the heat of his body pressing you into the mattress. But he did not push inside you. He only looked at you, his blue eyes soft, his curls tousled, his face relaxed in a way you had not seen before.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. He studied your face as though memorizing it, as though you were something precious and rare. His gaze moved from your eyes to your lips to the hollow of your throat, and you felt seen in a way that made your breath catch.

"Before you say anything," he said quietly, "I need to apologize to you."

You blinked up at him, confused.

"Last night," he continued. "I know I was... I know I got carried away. I promised you I would be gentle, and I was, at first. But then..." He exhaled slowly, his thumb still stroking your cheek. "It has been a long time for me, sweet girl, years since my wife died, years since I have laid with anyone. I had forgotten how overwhelming it could be. How consuming. The feel of you beneath me, the sound of your voice, the way your body responded to mine—I lost myself in it. I was too rough with you at times. I know I was. And I am sorry for that."

He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm on your lips. His eyes were closed, his expression vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache despite everything.

"I did not mean to hurt you," he said. "You must believe that. I would never hurt you on purpose. You are my wife. You are the woman I have dreamed of for years. The last thing in this world I want is to cause you pain."

He took your hand and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. You felt it beating beneath your palm, steady and strong. His skin was warm, the hair on his chest soft against your fingers. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the way it quickened slightly as you touched him.

"Can you forgive me for last night? For being too rough when I should have been more careful?"

You swallowed. Your throat was tight, your eyes stinging with something that might have been tears. You had not expected this. You had expected him to be pleased with himself, to preen and boast and make you feel small for your weakness. Instead, he was asking for forgiveness. He was acknowledging his fault. He was promising to do better.

"Yes," you whispered. "I forgive you."

His face broke into a smile, relieved and almost boyish. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. Each kiss was soft, lingering, as though he was trying to pour all his gratitude into the gesture.

"Thank you," he said. "You are so generous. So kind. I do not deserve you."

He kissed you then gently, the way he had kissed you at the altar. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. His hand cradled your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you felt yourself melting into him despite everything. His tongue traced your lower lip, asking permission, and you parted your lips for him, a small surrender that made him groan softly against your mouth.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with desire, but he did not push further. He only looked at you, his thumb stroking your jaw.

"It will get better," he said. "I promise you. The first time is always the hardest. But as you grow accustomed to me, as your body learns to welcome me, it will become easier. It will become pleasurable. And one day, you will wake up and you will want me. You will ache for me. You will not be able to imagine a morning without my hands on you."

His hand slid down your body, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hip. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as though he was learning the geography of you by heart. His fingers trailed over your stomach, and you shivered at the sensation.

"I love the way you feel," he murmured. "So soft. So warm. So perfectly made for me."

He kissed your collarbone, then lower, his lips brushing the swell of your breast. His mouth was warm, his breath hot on your skin, and you felt yourself arching into him despite your exhaustion.

"I am going to be so good to you," he said against your skin. "I am going to take care of you. I am going to give you everything you deserve. You will never want for anything, sweet girl. Not while I draw breath."

His hand found your breast again, cupping it gently, his thumb circling your nipple. He lowered his head and took it into his mouth, and you gasped at the sensation, his tongue warm and wet, his lips soft, his teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through you. Your fingers tangled in his auburn curls, holding him there, and he made a sound of approval against your skin.

He moved to your other breast, giving it the same attention, and you felt yourself spiraling, the pleasure building despite everything. The pain of last night was still there, a dull ache between your thighs, but it was overshadowed now by the heat of his mouth, the tenderness of his hands.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were red, his eyes dark. He looked at you with an expression that made your heart stutter.

"Beautiful," he said. "So beautiful."

He kissed you again, deep and slow, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as though he could taste your pleasure. His hand slid between your legs, finding you wet and ready, and he groaned against your lips.

"I want to make you feel good," he whispered. "I want to make you forget everything but me. Can I do that, sweet girl? Can I touch you? Make you come apart for me?"

You should have said no. You should have told him you were tired, that you needed rest, that you could not bear any more. But his fingers were stroking you, circling that sensitive place that made your vision blur, and the word that came out of your mouth was not no.

"Yes," you breathed. "Please."

He smiled and lowered his head to kiss your neck as his fingers continued their work. He was gentle, so gentle, nothing like the rough urgency of the night before. He took his time, building the pleasure slowly, watching your face as you gasped and moaned beneath him.

"That is it," he murmured. "Let go for me, sweet girl. I want to see you fall apart."

And you did. The pleasure built and built until you could not hold it back, and then you were crying out, your body arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. He held you through it, his fingers still moving, drawing out every last shiver of pleasure.

When you finally came down, you were trembling, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth.

"So perfect," he whispered. "So beautiful. I could watch you come apart forever."

He rolled you onto your side, pulling you against his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist. His hard length pressed against your backside, but he did not push inside you. He only held you, his lips pressed to your hair.

The scene that would dominate the internet for weeks had taken nearly an entire day to film. It began after your character ignored direct orders and rode alone into enemy territory to warn a neighbouring house of an ambush, returning battered but successful hours later. The reunion wasn't gentle. It was loud, emotional, and raw, the sort of argument that only happened between two people whose feelings had been buried beneath years of duty and pride.

You still remembered standing opposite Harry beneath the blazing studio lights while the director quietly reminded both of you not to hold back.

"I don't want them arguing because they're angry," he had explained. "I want them arguing because they're terrified."

The difference had changed everything.

Your character barely managed to cross the threshold before his was demanding to know what possessed you to risk your life alone. Every sentence interrupted the next. Every accusation was answered with another. Your character insisted someone had to go. His argued that it should never have been you. Neither of them noticed how close they had moved until there was barely any space left between them, voices breaking under the weight of weeks of fear neither had known how to express.

The script originally ended the confrontation with silence.

During rehearsal, however, the director asked the two of you to let the scene breathe before cutting away.

Instead of stepping back, Harry's character reached for yours almost instinctively, his hands settling firmly around your arms as if reassuring himself that you were actually standing there. Your character looked ready to argue again before every remaining word simply disappeared. The kiss that followed wasn't planned as an interruption or a grand romantic gesture. It happened because neither of them could think of another way to say everything they had spent two seasons refusing to admit. It was messy, desperate, and emotional, beginning in the middle of an argument before gradually softening into something infinitely more tender. By the time your characters finally pulled apart, they were both laughing through tears, foreheads resting together while the anger quietly dissolved into relief.

When the director called cut, nobody spoke.

Even members of the crew who had watched dozens of takes throughout the day stayed unusually quiet before applause slowly spread across the soundstage.

Months later, millions of viewers experienced that same moment for the first time.

You had refused every invitation to watch the episode with the rest of the cast. Sitting beside Harry while the biggest romantic scene of the season played across a cinema screen sounded like an experience you were perfectly happy to avoid. Instead, you invited your closest friends to your flat, imagining a quiet evening with takeaway food and comfortable sofas would make the entire thing considerably less embarrassing.

The mistake became obvious almost immediately.

Mia walked into your living room carrying enough snacks to feed an army before stopping dead in her tracks, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at the television.

"This is the episode, isn't it?"

You busied yourself arranging drinks on the coffee table. "There are eight episodes."

"Don't play innocent."

"I genuinely don't know what you mean." 

She looked at the others with a triumphant smile. "She's lying. This is absolutely the kissing episode." Within minutes someone had balanced a phone against a stack of books facing the sofa.

You noticed instantly.

"What are you doing?"

"Filming."

"No."

"We're filming ourselves."

"No."

"You're not the subject."

"I know exactly where this is going." Another friend reached over and pressed record anyway.

The opening shot captured everyone settling onto the sofa before Mia cheerfully announced to the camera, "POV: You're reacting to your friend kissing her ridiculously hot co-star."

You groaned so dramatically that everyone burst into laughter. "I hate all of you."

"We love you too."

For most of the episode, your friends behaved surprisingly well. They became invested in battles, loudly criticised terrible political decisions, and celebrated every victory your character achieved. Every so often someone remembered to glance toward you with an amused smile, but as the story unfolded, they became genuinely absorbed by the episode itself.

Everything changed when the final sequence began. The corridor appeared. Harry's character spotted yours stumbling through the doorway, bruised but alive.

Nobody in your living room said a word.

On screen, he crossed the room in seconds before demanding to know what you had been thinking. His voice echoed through the stone corridor as he listed every reckless decision your character had made, while yours argued back with exactly the same amount of passion. The argument escalated until both characters were practically shouting over one another, neither willing to admit that fear—not anger—had fuelled every word.

Your friends leaned so far forward they were practically sitting on the edge of the sofa. Then Harry stopped speaking. He simply looked at your character. Really looked.

His shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly as every trace of anger gave way to overwhelming relief. His character reached for yours so gently it felt accidental, one hand lifted carefully to your face, brushing a strand of hair away before lingering against your cheek.

The room exploded.

"Oh my God!"

"WAIT."

"LOOK AT HIM."

"HE'S ABOUT TO—"

Before anyone could finish the sentence, the kiss happened—not a fleeting television kiss, but something slow. Your friends screamed. Mia snatched the remote and paused the episode halfway through, freezing the two of you on screen as absolute chaos erupted in the room. She pointed dramatically at the television.

"The forehead touch afterwards!" someone yelled.

"The way he looks at her!" another added. "He looks devastated and in love at the same time."

You laughed, already hiding your face behind a cushion.

"No," Mia insisted, pointing at the frozen screen again. "Because what was that? The way he's looking at you..."

"It's acting."

Mia slowly turned to stare at you. "He looks at you like you invented happiness."

The room fell suspiciously quiet before everyone nodded in agreement.

"That's what I'm saying," someone whispered. "I've never seen someone look at another person like that."

You rolled your eyes, despite feeling your face grow warmer. "It's called acting."

"Is it?" Mia asked.

"Yes."

"Hmm."

The silence lasted for about ten second before another of your friends said,  "You kissed Harry Collett."

"I kissed my co-star."

"You kissed Harry Collett."

"I am aware of who my co-star is."

"You got paid...”

"I KNOW."

Another friend replayed the kiss, then replayed it again.

"You know what's crazy?" she laughed. "The chemistry is actually ridiculous."

"I've seen the scene," you replied.

"No, but seeing it as a viewer..." She shook her head dramatically. "I would've believed you two were actually together."

Your cheeks warmed. "Good thing neither of us has to convince you."

"Oh, honey," she said. "You've convinced everyone."

Another friend zoomed in on the paused frame.

"And don't even get me started on the hand."

"Oh, the hand deserves its own discussion."

The room dissolved into laughter as the argument continued. Every time you insisted the scene had been carefully choreographed, someone countered by replaying another few seconds before pausing again to analyse expressions, body language or the way Harry's character softened the instant he realised yours was safe. The TikTok captured every second of it.

Your increasingly desperate attempts to defend yourself. Your friends shouting over one another. The repeated cries of, "She kissed Harry Collett!" and, "Look at the way he's looking at her!" The TikTok ended with all four of them screaming while you slid lower and lower into your chair, trying unsuccessfully to disappear beneath the restaurant table.

“You know what’s even funnier?” Mia laughed, looking up from her phone. When you asked what, she grinned. “We’re posting this.” Your eyes widened in panic. “No, you’re absolutely not.”

“It’s already uploading,” she countered.

“…Mia.”

“Too late.”

You sighed dramatically, muttering that you hoped it would flop. In fact, It did not flop. By the following morning, the video had reached over five million views, and by lunchtime, it had easily crossed twelve million.

People stitched themselves reacting to your friends reacting to the kiss. Editors added dramatic music beneath Mia yelling, "SHE KISSED HARRY COLLETT!" Someone even animated little fireworks around your increasingly embarrassed expression. The comments somehow became funnier with every refresh.

"She's acting like she accidentally kissed him."

"I'd tell every single person I met."

"Her saying 'it's called acting' while refusing to look at the screen..."

"The friend pausing every three seconds is literally all of us."

Around lunchtime the next day, your phone buzzed. Harry had sent you a link to the TikTok, nothing else. You replied almost immediately: Don't.

Three dots appeared, then: Your friends are hilarious.

-They're humiliating me, you typed back.

They're representing the entire fandom.

-They're never allowed in my house again.

Another message arrived: The bit where they paused to discuss my hand placement made me laugh.

You stared at the screen. -You watched the whole thing?

Twice.

-Traitor.

I prefer supportive co-star.

You rolled your eyes despite yourself, a smile slipping onto your face. He was enjoying this far too much.

By the end of the week, fans were using the audio beneath edits of your characters, bts clips, and red carpet photographs. It quickly became one of the most recognizable quotes in the fandom. By the time you arrived at the London premiere a few days later, you knew someone would bring it up, you just hadn't expected it to be the very first question. The interviewer smiled the moment you and Harry stepped in front of the microphone. "So... I have to ask about the TikTok."

You sighed. "I knew this was coming."

Harry laughed beside you. "I thought it was brilliant."

“Of course you did.”

"I liked it."

"I know you liked it," you muttered, as the interviewer grinned and held up her microphone.

"My favorite part is when your friend pauses the episode and says, 'He looks at her like she invented happiness,'" the interviewer said. "After watching the scene... I have to admit, I understand what she meant." Harry rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly far more interested in the carpet beneath his feet than the cameras. Noticing his sudden shyness, you laughed awkwardly. "They're very dramatic."

Harry smiled to himself before looking up. "I suppose that's a nice compliment."

"For who?" you asked.

He looked at you for a beat longer than usual. "For both of us."

"So," the interviewer continued, catching the look, "what do you both think about that observation?"

Harry glanced toward you again. "I think our intimacy coordinator would be very pleased that people believed the scene."

"That's the diplomatic answer," you teased.

"It is," he admitted.

"But...?”

His smile softened. "But... I do think it's one of the best scenes we've ever filmed together."

You nodded, your voice softening as well. "So do I."

The interviewer noticed. The photographers noticed. The fans watching the livestream definitely noticed. Neither of you realized how quietly you'd spoken until the interviewer lowered her microphone with a knowing smile. The clip spread across social media almost as quickly as the original TikTok. For the first time in weeks, fans stopped talking about the fictional kiss. Instead, they talked about the way Harry had looked at you on the red carpet.

“Forget the kiss scene.”

“Someone explain why they're looking at each other like that in real life.”