iya

Nonetheless, it was not your problem. Your hands clasp together, fingers interlinking tightly. Then you redirect your gaze forward, towards the altar where the fire burns bright. Your eyes linger for a moment, watching the flames dance in the wind, then you bow your head while raising your hands to meet it halfway.

You try to refocus, to allow your mind to focus on praying. Life. You’re asking R’hllor for life; for the soil to be fertile. Because that will lead to a good harvest. A good harvest means better bread and crackers, as well as thicker livestock. Thicker livestock means the citizens of Myr will be well fed. If the citizens are well fed then they become more fertile, and coupling results in more human life being brought forth.

This is normal. The prayers are ones that any followers of R’hllor know. Yet your thoughts keep being drawn towards the body resting on the shore. 

On its dark curled hair.

On the darkness of its doublet and trousers.

On the glinting pommel of the sword at its side.

Did you see sticks protruding from his body? That was nonsensical. It would need to be a sharp stick, and the barbarians who used weapons like that were not near Myr. 

Perhaps they were arrows. Arrows would make sense because those had a sharp end. But that would mean he was attacked; or that he attacked someone else who was provoked to protect themself. 

You were not getting back to your prayers, this boy has thoroughly distracted you and he has not moved an inch since appearing. Perhaps the boy would be wearing a sigil, something, anything that would define where he came from. You rise, the silks of your dress cascade around your legs as you walk your way to the shore. 

Where could he be from? Whom in the region had problems with one another; and at that, problems enough to draw fire? You rack your brain for any answers on the short walk. Very few come, but it does not matter.

You will look upon the boy's right chest and see the sigil of his house and you will know. And if he does not have a sigil, then he is simply not important enough to worry about; one of many who lost their lives over something trivial. 

He is lying on his back, but it is jagged–his left shoulder somehow higher than his right. You kneel next to him. It gives your eyes a better angle to assess him. He is wearing a cloak, and it is attached to the front of his doublet. But there is no sigil where it is clasped. Your eyes move lower, perhaps he is haughty and has it on his belt buckle. 

Again no sigil. Lower again, this time to his boot clasps. It is an odd place to have a house mark but it is nothing you have not seen before. Your brows furrow when there is once again no sigil in sight. There is one last place, one last hope to know who this boy is. 

You look at his sword. Eyes rove over the pommel, up one side and down the other. You unsheath it, it’s heavy in your palms. You assume this to be because you do not wield swords, it seems too slim and too small to truly be something of great weight. The thought almost brings you to laughter because how could a boy who looks so strong and so worthy wield a light sword?

The only thing that stops the laugh from bubbling through your chest was the fact that you once again didn’t see a damned sigil. So this boy was truly no one. Simply a casualty of unknown grievances. 

Why then, did you feel as if you could not leave him? 

You willed your legs to move, for your feet to fold under themselves and push you to stand, but they did not. Willed your hands to press against the sand as leverage, but they simply fisted the grains until they fell from your palms. Your eyes tried to move back towards the temple, back to the fire that you can barely see from the shore, but they stay locked on this boy. 

They rove over his body, briefly locking onto bits of him. The broken arrows you can see in the back of his left shoulder – the ones that are making him lean a little off kilter. The blood on the right side of his face and the bruises that accompany it. 

However, they stick on his neck. On the Myrish bolt, that is deeply lodged into it. Is that what is drawing you to him? The fact that a bolt made by your people is the one that likely ended his life?

Instinctively, your fingers move towards it. You don’t think anything of it; you just want to touch the metal, to confirm it's something you’ve felt before, that your people crafted this. Your fingers burn when you touch the metal.

A full body jerk takes over you. First recoiling at the fingers, then everything else falls after. A hiss leaves your lips and your fingers stroke against your palm as a primal attempt to assess the damage. 

You can still feel everything though, and the skin between your brow gains a crease. Your eyes dart to the tips of your fingers, expecting to see them flushed and pulsing from the burn. There is no visible damage however; you turn them every which way, and nothing changes. But, a  tingle has settled in them.

At first you try pressure, squeezing your fingers to your palm to cease the sensation. When that doesn’t work you put the tip of each finger between your teeth and gnaw at them. It’s primitive and very much below your station, but you cannot think of anything else that may help. You drop your hand when that does not work either, it’s then that the tingling fades a bit. 

It goes from fireworks in your capillaries, to simple twinkles. You have an idea, a thought that seems very otherworldly and stupid. But, perhaps, it is linked to this boy.

So your fingers drift back to him, back to the bolt in his neck. The twinkles fade into a slight hum. When your fingers slide off the bolt and to the thick, clammy skin of the boy's neck the sensation finally stops. 

At least it stops in you. You can still feel it faintly. Thrumming under the boy’s skin like war drums. It must be magic!

Magic that is calling you to him. Magic that is demanding the presence of R’hllor in this boy's blood. Magic that is demanding you to perform the kiss of life. 

You've never done this before. Never seen it successfully completed in front of you either. But it feels like R’hllor himself is calling to you; commanding you to reignite the fire in this boy's blood.

You know the idea. The concepts run through your mind manyatimes since you’ve learned of its existence. You still take care to remove the arrows. One from his back, one from his chest. Then a Myrish bolt from his neck. 

What if he wakes and the wounds are still open? You cannot think of any words in the ancient scrolls that speak of it. So you tear the silks of your dress and wrap them around the wounds to stem any bleeding.

Your right hand places on his chest, where his heart should be beating. The skin is cold and clammy, devoid of any signs of life. Well, at least you can rest assured he cannot be harmed more from your experimenting, cannot be more dead.

Ancient hymns and prayers leave your lips. They're spoken softly at first – because you truly cannot believe you're trying to bring back someone from the dead. But how can you expect R’hllor to bring him back if you do not have faith? So it becomes louder, more confident in the fact that it will work, that this boy will live again.

You take some oil into your mouth from a vial at your waist, just enough to coat it before taking one of the sticks that was supplying the fire into your hand. 

R’hllor, what were you doing? You were going to get yourself killed – mangled at the very least – for some boy you did not even know.

You think about it for a moment, but ultimately the urge to prove you could do it outweighs your fear. The fire is brought to your lips igniting the oil, then as quickly as you can you press your lips to his. Breathing the fire into his lungs and urging his blood to warm once again. 

When you pull back you realize you are not burnt. It seems that the fire has extinguished itself in the process. Your inner cheeks and lips are simply warmer than usual but no harm has befallen you. But what of the boy?

His chest is not rising. His eyes are not open. You must be mistaken, your eyes deceiving you, so you lean closer. Your ear is pressed closely to his lips, your head angled to allow your eyes to wait for a rise and fall of his chest, and your hand rests on his chest.

It is warm, still clammy, but warm. That is good, it must be good. You’ve done it correctly–you’re sure of it. But why is he not breathing? Why have his eyes not snapped open? 

Maybe R’hllor didn’t want to resurrect this boy. Maybe you misinterpreted the pull in your chest. Maybe it was for the steel that rested on the boy's waist instead of the boy himself. 

He must have simply gotten warm because he was out of the sea and his sopping clothes. A sigh of disappointment sneaks past your lips. Your hand moves off his chest to the ground, preparing to be used as leverage to stand. Before you can, a rough, garbled breath is inhaled.

Your eyes snap to the boy's chest, watching the rapid and deep inhale. Watching it heave as he coughs up water. After a minute or two the heaving slows, returns to what you will accept as a normal rate, and your eyes snap to his face. 

His eyes open – he’s already been watching you. They’re wide, his pupils dilated to take in as much information as possible. There's a quivering in them, an unsteadiness that makes you feel worse for him than you already had. 

“Who are you?”

You try to keep your voice soft. Light. Untensed. The boy's eyebrows furrow ever so slightly but he does not respond. Maybe he was highborn and too full of himself to learn the language of commonfolk.

“Qilōni issi ao?”

His face morphs at that. Brows raise on his forehead, mouth drops open just a fraction. He is shocked? Surprised? That you know Valyrian? Sure, you look common, but he does as well, who is he to judge?

His mouth moves, and he finally speaks. You’re stuck on the sound of it. How rough it is, how distorted it sounds, how painful it seems. After a moment you see his eyes narrow a bit, brows creasing in confusion once again, it’s then that his words register.

“Qilōni issi ao?”

You would think that he is repeating your sentence in confusion of the language. That he is curious to know what you meant. But he speaks it so well. His vocal chords, tongue, and lips, all accustomed to speaking Valyrian already. He also has such an emphasis on the last word, there's a mix of emotion in it. Confusion, anger, distaste. 

“Aōha kaerīnio,” (Your savior) You will not give him your name, if he hadn’t been so audacious in his asking you might. You try again, “sir qilōni issi ao?” 

“Jace.” He mumbles, lips barely opening to form the syllables. 

You save him, give him live again, and he refuses to be amicable. You’re beginning to get irritated. It’s evident in your voice, losing your softness you speak again, “Ȳdragon bē.” (speak up.)

“Brōzio ñuha iksis Jace.”(My name is Jace.) It is spoken louder now. 

You break eye contact, gaze drifting as your thoughts have. “How uncommon,” You say it dismissively. The words slip out and do not require a response.

The boy says something about how it's not uncommon, but you cannot bring yourself to care. Jace. Jace. Jace. Where have you heard that name before?

Was it a highborn son you had considered marriage with? The son of a magister in the south perhaps?

No. You would have married him if that was his truth. 

Was he a blacksmith you commissioned a dagger from? One that had amethyst embedded into the handle because you thought it was beautiful. 

No. His hands weren’t calloused enough for that.

“Who are you?”

“I ought be a Priestess.”

“Ought be? So you are not a Priestess. What is your name?”

“Yes, ought be, R’hllor does not simply grant this ability to anyone.” 

A silence settles over the two of you. The boy, Jace, is probably still stunned that he is breathing again. You, similarly, are stunned that you performed such a miracle. You’re too pleased to notice Jace shifting-thinking about how you’re going to inform the Head Priest of your feat, and how by the end of the week you’ll be named as a Priestess. 

“You are from Essos.”

Your eyes blink back in his direction. “I am.”

You watch the way he swallows. Assess how his pupils have dilated again in fear. How his fingers now seem to tense a bit.

“Which part?”

“You are in Myr.”

Jace’s face falls. It falls so quickly that it seems inhuman. A deep frown settles on his face, his brows crease and you think you can see a tear or two brought to his eyes. He seems like a man who has accepted his fate. You don’t get to ask what fate that is.

Once again his face changes. A stone mask hiding his true thoughts and feelings on the current situation. You watch as the gears turn in his head. Watch as his hand tries to subtly inch towards his sword. Watch as his eyes harden with what he believes he must do. 

“Why do you wish to harm me when I have saved you?”

He blinks at you.  “I do not wish to harm you.”

“You reach for your sword,” Your eyes flick to where his hand is resting on the hilt, pointedly raising your eyebrows, “Do you not?”

“I simply wish to…” His gaze flicks around. To your eyes, to the sand, to his boots, to the arrows that still rest beside the two of you, then finally back to you. “To protect myself.”

You run your tongue along your teeth. Before smiling and rising to a stand. “You needn’t worry about that.” Your palm extends towards him, “Come, you may recover in my fathers manse.”

You do not parade Jace around the temples as you wish.

The first day he claimed exhaustion. That his body was sore from the time at sea being pushed and pulled by the current. How it must have been twisted uncomfortably while his soul was with the stranger.

The second day it was nausea. You assumed it was something spoiled or raw that the cooks had served. Before you could go ream them for their incompetence, Jace told you that he simply ate too much. That his eyes sampled everything and his stomach got jealous so he consumed much more than he should have. 

The third day Jace finally became plain with you. You had followed the same routine as the first two days; waking, directing your handmaids as to how you’d like your hair, dabbing your oils behind your ears, then sauntered your way to Jace’s chambers. 

Your knock was a light rap of your knuckles, barely enough pressure behind it to be heard. He always answered promptly – as if he had been waiting on the other side just for you. 

“Come, we must go to the temples today. Just briefly–the Priests and Priestess’ will lose their belief in me if I do not show you off soon.”

You watch as Jace steels himself. It’s a subtle shift in his demeanor, but you’ve been watching him since you brought him back to this world, so of course you notice it. His eyes harden and the bright brown of his eyes darken to a deeper hue. 

“I do not wish to be paraded around like a trophy,” His eyes have fallen to your feet–or to the floor, you cannot be certain. But you know this is a way of showing submission, that he does not want to seem ungrateful for the hospitality you’ve shown him thus far.

You probably could force him, call for your guards to grab him by his arms and drag him forth to the temples. But you believed everyone deserved some sense of autonomy. You suppose you don’t need to show anyone that you’ve successfully performed the last kiss. A sigh leaves your lips.

“Alright.” You extend a hand towards his arm, prepared to loop it through and grasp his bicep should he allow you to do so, “Will you meander through the gardens with me?”

Jace steps out of his room and allows you to hold onto him. As you walk through the lavish gardens of your fathers manse you notice a curiosity gleaming in Jace’s eyes. He does not ask you what any plant is, but you take to explaining them anyway, pointing with the hand that is not secured on his arm.

His intrigue in the information you gave never stopped. Not on the tiny miniscule vines that climbed their way up the manse walls. Not on the lilies, or the bougainvillea, or the oleander bushes. 

You have believed him to be from Essos. From somewhere you have not had the privilege of traveling to. Perhaps a wealthy son from a smaller village up north. His status was clear by the pristine leathers he was wearing when you had found him – yet you could not get a family name out of Jace no matter how much you questioned. 

It had been fine. Privacy and secrecy were allowed in some senses. You couldn’t understand why he would not want to have word sent to his father and mother of his livelihood though. Surely they would have sent for him, at the very least demanded that he return home so they could confirm his safety themselves. 

Two days you spend thinking of this. Trying to create scenarios in which he would not want to return home. But you cannot think of any strong enough to justify not returning home–at least not when someone is highborn as he clearly is. 

A wide array of different delicacies to choose from are set in front of the two of you. A servant is cutting a large juicy piece of roast duck for you when you ask, “What of your parentage?"

Jace looks up from the plate of stuffed squash he was assessing. He blinks deep enough that his eyelashes brush the apples of his cheeks. 

“What of it?”

“Who are they? What house do you hail from?”

His posture goes straight. Muscles rigid and he sets his utensils back onto the table. His gaze floating around the room at all the extra eyes. If he wishes for privacy then he will receive privacy. “That will be all, leave us.” Your voice does not hold much weight, but the command is clear. The servants try to disagree, mumbles of still having plates to divide and serve at their lips, but you raise your hand dismissively and shoo them away. 

“I will not judge you, I am only curious.” Your voice is even softer now.

Jace clears his throat. His eyes stubbornly on your plate instead of your face when he finally speaks, “I am a bastard.”

If he thinks that would shock you, he would be wrong. Many in Essos are bastards–it only matters if you make it so. “So it is your mother who is highborn?”

“No, no. None of me is highborn.”

A hum leaves your throat, a whores son perhaps?

“Where did your fine leathers come from then?”

“My father gifted them to me. I believe he is trying to gain my favor as the older I get the more I look like him.”

Ah. So his father is highborn. Or at least someone with enough coin to commission fine clothes. You try to imagine the man, imagine Jace a bit older, and think of if you have seen a similar man walking through the streets before.

No recognition comes to mind, so you continue with your questions. “And your mother?”

“She is of Valyrian descent.” 

You laugh at that, “Everyone here is, be a bit more specific.”

Jace has fallen back into comfort, now slicing into a piece of boar on his plate as he speaks. “She has long silver gold hair, it is straight in nature, but curls easily after being braided.” You nod in acknowledgement so Jace continues, “Her eyes are purple, but not one of the dark purples that may be mistaken for blue. A lighter purple, akin to the lilacs that you have in the garden.”

You could think him to be lying, for he has just described nearly every woman of Valyrian descent in the entirety of Essos. You let the thought bounce around your head as you chew, it was not uncommon for someone to be born with plain features even if they had Valyrian ancestors. But he is so guarded and gives you so little that it almost brings a pain to your chest. You’ve brought him back to life and it seems that he cannot trust you. 

Then again, you suppose if she is a whore, then mayhaps he does not know much more than what he has told you. Mayhaps he left and became a servant for his father. 

“What of your parentage, My Lady?”

You glare at him from under your lashes, “I have told you not to refer to me as such, we are friends enough that you may call me plainly by name.”

He should know of your parentage. Paintings of your mother reside over many of the halls in the manse. Her plain–but beautiful–features on display for any and all visitors to see. Her dresses are silks and satins, never any heavy fabrics for it is too warm here. And she always had some bit of Myrish lace upon her; it could be embroidered on the bodice and neckline of her dresses, a shawl made of it, or sometimes even a cardigan. 

“I am sure you have seen the paintings of my late mother. Her mother was also of Valyrian descent, but she got all of the plain features of her father. I imagine you could have bonded over that.”

You inspect a sugar filled date as you speak, trying to assess if it is too early into the meal to indulge in sweeter tastes.

“Your late mother?”

“Yes, late. She passed many years ago.”

“I am sorry –”

“Do not be. My father is a Magister. You have not met him because he is occupied in Tyrosh.”

Jace’s fork stops an inch from his plate, nearly impaling a charred sprout, “He has business in Tyrosh?”

Your lips closed around the date, humming as you bite into it. You chew for a moment before shoving it into the side of your cheek so you can speak, “I suppose you could call it that. He is aiding in devising plans for the Triarchy.” You sigh, “One of the lucky eleven–at least that is what everyone says.”

The atmosphere shifts. 

From outside the room it would be unnoticeable. You and Jace are still positioned the same, still slicing through meats, and spearing vegetables. Servants who have reappeared are still attentively pouring more wine into your goblets and offering to serve another portion onto your plates. The flames of the candles still flicker in the slight gusts of wind.

But inside you can feel the tension explode. It did not grow; stemming from a small comment and engorging based on a continuation. It erupted the moment you mentioned the Triarchy. The air grew thick, swallowing felt like a chore, eyes darted back and forth attempting to understand where the displacement came from. 

When Jace sliced through his boar softer than before. Barely enough pressure in his forefinger to push the knife into the protein. His wrist shifting in the slightest of motions, sawing at the meat instead of cleanly slicing through it. 

He had not graced you with even a semblance of a laugh. Not a huff of air. Or a charming smile. 

Taking a look at his posture you could see the change. His shoulders hunched inwards and he almost slouched forwards, his chest rose and fell shallowly, his knee began to jerk a rhythm. But most importantly he had scooted to the far side of his chair.

Away from you.

Why was he trying to make himself small?

“Does my fathers position offend you?”

His head snaps at that. Eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. “No. No of course not,” His voice is not the same timber that it usually is. It’s a pitch higher, just enough off that you notice it. 

“I must have then, for you have gone stiff and sparse in your chair.”

Jace is silent for a moment longer. His eyes lift from his plate to your face when your cutlery is set down with a soft clang. “I simply do not… favor, speaking of Magisters.” The words are small when they come out of Jace's throat. Spoken in nearly a whisper, as if he is ashamed of the fact.

Oh!

His father must be a Magister. Perhaps even one of the ten others with your father. That's why he's so uncomfortable. His father does not claim him, yet he is able to do such great things in raising the Triarchy. Embarrassment clouds your memory, but you vaguely recall apologizing.

Despite your swift change of conversational topics and insistence to speak of anything else, Jace stays closed off for the remainder of dinner. He also disregards your request for a late night stroll in the gardens. You must have truly upset him.

Since that night, you refuse to ask about parentage again. You like hearing Jace’s voice–the timber, tone, and cadence of it–and he tends to speak less when you bring up parentage. So if he does not wish to speak of it then you have no desire to speak of it either.

Instead you ask other things.

His favorite color? Purple; specifically the lilac hue, like his mothers eyes. He says he likes blues as well, but he prefers wearing reds and blacks over anything. 

The next morn servants bring him doublets made of various shades of red silks and satins, and trousers made with deep black linens. When Jace thanks you, you wave him off dismissively. 

His favorite meal? Salted and seared cod, with spinach and onions in a dragon pepper sauce served on a bed of rice. 

The dragon peppers run you a heavy cost at the market, but you think it worthwhile when you see the smile on Jace’s face. Not the respectable smile from you simply trying to recreate his favorite. But the true, elated one that overtakes him like a wave when the flavors dance along his tongue. 

His favorite book? One of Westerosi history. Of Aegon the Conqueror. But Jace says he does not care for Aegon, that he truly fancies the story of Visenya. That her passion was such an inspiration and he could only hope to be the slightest bit like her one day.

Westerosi history is not a common book to keep in libraries in Essos, so you doubt that your father has it among his rows of books. You check anyways; late when even the servants have gone to sleep and only the guards remain awake. You stand atop chairs and raise your chamberstick to every book on the high shelves. Sink to your knees to check the lowest shelves as well.

The book is not there. 

Most would have ceased searching. They would have been too anxious to allow the swords of the city see them interested in Westeros. But you were the only child of one of the richest Magisters of Myr–your wish was everyone else's command. 

You go to the market again for this find. Cloaked and protected by one of your guards, you head to the darker parts of it. To the alleys that don’t have torches lining them. You find a man there, one known to deal in contraband.

You give him the coin on a promise he will retrieve the book. It’s too much for a single book; you know this, your guard knows this, the man knows this. But you still drop the pouch into his hand without much concern over the price. For Jace’s delight, you believe it to be worth it.

Three nights later your guard delivers the book to your chambers. You wrap it delicately in a light purple silk and tie a knot with ribbon.

You keep it tucked behind your back as you stalk towards Jace. He is in the gardens, in an alcove with a bench and table fit for gossiping. The table has been fitted with breads, cheeses, grapes, baked sweets, a pot of tea and two cups. When he sees you approaching he begins to pour the tea; yours first so it may cool and you can drink as soon as you sit. 

He looks up, brown eyes finding yours before falling to the downturned smirk that adorns your lips. Some heat rises to your cheeks when you notice where his gaze has fallen. You wonder if he thinks them plump, if he wonders how plush they'd be against his own.

Jace calls your name softly, “What are you hiding?” 

Your smirk widens to a full blown smile and you bring the wrapped book forward.

“What is this?” 

You press the book into his palms, “Open it.”

Jace does as you instruct. He unties the ribbon by its curled edges, then carefully unwraps the silk.

The cover of the book is plain. A simple brown leather that has not been oiled in many moons if you had to guess. The edges are frayed and lightened with age. Jace lets his fingers glide over it for a moment before looking at you with confusion in his eyes.

You jut your chin at him gently, encouraging him to continue with his present.

He opens the cover and flips to a random page–why he does not start from the beginning, you do not know. His eyes rove over the words, scanning the page like a hawk, then the flick up to you. 

“This is the book–the history of the Six Kingdoms.”

You nod, a pleased grin on your face.

Jace continues, “Where did you procure this?”

A small, mischievous laugh leaves you, “A woman must keep some secrets.” Your fingers twist together in anticipation, “Do you like it?”

“Yes. Yes, I like it.” Jace swallows deeply and you can see his adams apple bobb before he sniffs a bit, “I may even love it.”

“Will you read it to me then?”

It is Jace's turn to laugh, “Can you not read, My Lady?”

“Of course I can read,” you scoff in mock annoyance. Jace has seen you read–perhaps he's flirting with you and disguising it as a joke. “I simply wish to hear your voice.”

If that was too bold Jace does not tell you. He simply opens the book and begins the recount of Aegon the Conqueror. He continues for a long while, until one of the maids comes to alert you to the midday meal being ready.

It becomes routine; you eat breakfast together before separating for a few hours, then you reconvene in the gardens. Jace begins reading where he left off the day before and you grow more bold everyday.

At first sitting an appropriate distance. Then inching closer, and closer until your shoulder brushes his. And it's just oh so wide, surely he could allow you to rest your head. For a time that's enough to satiate you.

Unfortunately the closeness only makes your hunger grow.  You know then that you are infatuated with him. 

With his brown curls that somehow perfectly framed his face. His matching brown eyes that had just the slightest hits of amber and gold flicking about in them. The bridge of his nose, the natural pout that his plush lips seemed to fall into.

Over the days your head shifts lower and lower down his frame. At first just small distances down his arm, where it’s more muscle and less bone; where you can claim comfort from the shifts. You continue with this until one day, you simply forgo the theatrics and place your head in his lap. 

A slight raise of Jace’s brow is all the reaction you receive. No formal comment is made from either of you. No acknowledgement of the shift in atmosphere or change in course of whatever relationship you’ve been curating. 

Some days you’re flat on your back, gaze flicking from the sky to Jace's face. Others you’re curled on your side with his large palm and fingers stroking your head and scratching at your scalp. Occasionally on those days, you fall asleep to the timber of Jace’s voice and the repetitive motions.

Every once in a while, the conversation drifts. Back to things you originally cared about. Things that help you learn about his person–what musics he likes, what toys he used to play with, what other hobbies he had besides reading. And Jace, in turn, asked you similar questions–what your lessons were like as a child, if you stole sweets from the kitchens, if you embroidered and what the subjects were.

Intimacy grows between the two of you like a cluster of zinnia; quickly, resulting from the continuous attention and time spent in the sun. Seemingly endless hours spent on that same bench either reading from a book of histories that you frankly could not care less about or learning about a man you could not get enough of.

You shouldn’t have to tell him of your fondness; it ought to be obvious. Your maids have noticed a constant sparkle in your eyes and how the apples of your cheeks are always raised in smile. The guards have noticed from your constant meandering in the training grounds. The chefs have noticed from the increased gold you’ve rationed them so that they can easily purchase the strange western cuisine your guest prefers. 

At dinner you had invited Jace back to the gardens. He believes it to be so that you may finish the chapter you were in the middle of. You want to take the opportunity to see if he is as entranced with you as you are him. 

Your thoughts had drifted from the story being told. Away from the conquest and back to the man whose thigh your head rested on. The firm muscle under your cheekbone doing less to bring you back to reality, and more in dragging you deeper into the vast ocean your mind has created. 

Despite the moon of whatever this was, Jace himself has yet to make a move. Has yet to do anything more than you’ve instigated. He does not place a hand on the small of your back as you pass him. He does not lean in, as to create a bubble for only the two of you when you speak to him at dinner. He does not ask for your hand to dance when you have the musicians play his favorite tunes. 

Besides opening himself to you, he does not give you anything. You do not need a grand gesture, only a simple sign. It feels foolish to believe that him simply speaking to you is one. But you delude yourself anyhow. 

He does not speak so willingly about himself to anyone else. He does not allow others to rest on his lap. He does for you and that must–must–account for something.

There are very few things you have not gotten in your life. Not enough that you could count on your hand, and honestly, none of them of importance enough where you truly remember what they were. Jace was a person however. He was not something to be bought or won, and even if he was, you would not want him if his affections were not real. 

Jace’s voice catches in your brain. You work over the words before they truly begin to make sense. Something about Aegon and his wives. Not wife. Wives. Plural. That’s right. Aegon, despite typical Westerosi traditions, took two wives. Mayhaps this was your opening.

“What do you think of it?” 

Your head turns the slightest bit so that you may catch Jace’s gaze. He’s already looking at you of course, eyes snapped in your direction the second you cut him off. 

“Think of what?”

“Aegon having two wives.”

“Well, he took one for duty and the other for love.”

“Do you think it was honorable?” You shift once more, up onto your knees. Close enough that they press into Jace’s thigh. “That the people did not shame him in the streets?”

Jace’s lips purse, thoughtfully considering your remark towards this story he loves so dearly. “The smallfolk have found reason to dislike anyone who has come to power. But I think the unity between all three was equally as visible, and it aided in the smallfolks acceptance.”

“Would you have–if you lived all those years ago and across the narrow sea–would you have accepted him?”

“Yes, I would have.” Jace nods along as he speaks, doubling down on his statement. 

You had inched forward when he had finished his declaration. Miscalculating the way his head was moving and only catching his top lip in your kiss. It was awkward, but he did not move away. 

You lingered for a moment, allowing the realization to settle in before attempting to move back. Once you backed up you could assess how Jace took it. If he was blushed in excitement, or ruddy with rage. If he finally understood how badly you wanted for him, and if he accepted or declined.

But you never got that far. You could still feel Jace’s exhales on your upper lip when he rushed forward. His lips met yours in a proper kiss. One that he was able to put pressure behind and add motion to. 

Something wet slides across your lips, and they part by instinct. Allow Jace’s tongue to snake into your mouth and map the area. Over your teeth at first, because your lips aren’t parted enough. A bit of the cheeky flesh behind your lip. Then finally, it glides across your own tongue. 

You can feel the bridge of his nose pressing into your cheek. It feels like he’s trying to nudge you back. To inch you until your back rests against the armrest of the bench and he can situate himself between your hips. But you initiated this kiss, so dominance should be yours.

Without parting, you begin to shift. A hand on the nape of his neck, tilting his head back in fragments only millimeters wide. Rising on your knees to a high kneel so you can swing a leg across Jace’s lap. 

His hands fly to your hips, fingers flexing and caressing at whatever bits of you he can grab. The new angle allows you to fully steal control. For your tongue to slide into his mouth. For you to learn the taste of him straight from the source. 

Your lungs begin to tighten. Lack of airflow causing them to strain and search for more. You have to part from his lips. Oxygen rushes into them like a tide returning to the ocean. Rough and unstoppable. 

Your eyes flutter open, blinking rapidly to try and clear the fog from your head. Instead of looking at his face, your eyes fall to Jace’s chest; it's rising and falling rapidly, greedily attempting to take as much oxygen as possible from the atmosphere. Up and down. Up and down. Up, down.

Through your transfixation you hear Jace clear his throat and your eyes rise to his lips. Watch as his tongue tries to clean some of the spare slick saliva from them. Watch as a flush comes into them, and as a slow quirk accompanies the color. “We cannot do this.”

“Why not?” 

A pout has found your lips, and a furrow in your brow. Why would he be smiling if he was against allowing this to progress?

Jace’s hands have begun caressing your body; one moving up and down your spine while the other caresses your hipbone. Trying to soothe you as one would an angered housecat. “I cannot debauch you. It would be uncouth to do so in the open.”

“No one would come near, they are well trained.” You think him foolish for believing your servants would willingly interrupt you during such an intimate time. 

“Still. I will not risk having your honor sullied.”

A huff leaves your lips.

Stubborn, stubborn man.

You begin to rise from your position, moving to dismount from Jace’s lap. But his hands trap you in place, their grip suddenly going iron at the idea of you leaving him. Now his brow is furrowed in confusion.

Before Jace can actually voice his displeasure at your sudden movements, you move again. Hands grasping at his wrists, squeezing them just enough for him to release his grip on you. Once standing, you slide your fingers down his wrist, across his palm, and lace them through his fingers.

He simply said he would not debauch you here, not that he would avoid it entirely. You lead him back through the maze of your gardens. Through the long marbled hallways of your fathers manse. All the way back to your apartments. You drag him through the entryway, and nearly fling him upon the bed.

Perhaps fling was an overstatement. For Jace simply sits at the edge of your bed, awaiting for you to mount his lap again so he can restart his prior ministrations. 

“Is this the proper place to partake in debauchery?” You’re standing in front of him, just out of reach. Tapping your pointer finger to your chin in faux thought. Bottom lip jutting out as you begin to seemingly mull over perfect spots for improper things to take place.

Jace’s hands once again find your hips, hauling you back to your proper place on his lap. “Yes, a perfectly proper place, My Lady.”

His lips are back on yours before you can retort. Once again encouraging you to open your mouth and allow him to lick into it. 

You’re hot. Abnormally so. And your skin feels like it's tingling. Little sparks going off under the surface whenever Jace does…well, when he does anything. 

His fingers scratching at the base of your neck? Sparks. His tongue gliding across yours and nudging it to remind you that you can be an active participant? Sparks. His other hand roaming your hips and thighs, squeezing and groping the fat? Sparks. The muscles of his thighs tensing against the insides of yours in what you can only believe to be restraint? Sparks.

It's overwhelming. Too many sensations that are all causing something warm to begin to pool low in your belly. Perhaps it was simply strain–you had been nearly levitating on his lap. Not even allowing the slightest bit of your bottom to rest since you reached your apartments. 

You sit, rest your full body weight on the boy below you, as you did in the gardens. This time, however, something hard meets you. Jace groans into your mouth, and you don’t have to guess what you’ve just sat upon. 

Halfway through a courtesy apology, Jace speaks again. “Are you tired?” He’s barely pulled away and you can feel his lips move against yours with every word.

All it takes is a nod from you, and then the whole world has shifted. Your back now resting on the plush of your mattress. His hands are still on you, one on your neck and the other on your hip, positioned to stabilize you from the flip.

Jace’s hand slides to your mid thigh, dragging the appendage up to wrap around his hip, inadvertently hunching your dress around your hips. He kisses you again, his tongue slicking against yours out of pure instinct. Then he presses against you, grinding himself into your smallclothes. 

The sparks turn into full blown explosions. Starting from your core and causing a chain reaction up through your chest until it bursts out of you in the expression of a moan.

You'd be embarrassed at how it came up on you, leaving you with no other option but to voice your pleasure. But Jace wasn't in a better state, groans and whimpers falling into your mouth as well.

He breaks away, one of his hands leaving you so he can grasp at the buckle of his belt. “You're sure?” He asks softly, like requesting such a thing may break the fragile orb the two of you are consumed in.

You’ve never gotten this far. Never had the desire to with any of the other Magisters' sons, nor the Lyseni courtesans or local boys of pleasure houses. None of them ever ignited such a fire inside your blood.

Never made it feel like you were burning from the inside out. 

You nod, a soft mhm, coming from your throat before you reseal your lips to his. Surely he could unbuckle himself without looking upon the clasp. 

You've never had a real prospect like this: one that you reciprocate the desire for. A childish, girly, glee fills your chest along with the growing fire. The joy slithers around the fire and serves to further fuel it. 

Skin is scorched anywhere Jace touches and you break from his lips to whine something insignificant about taking your dress off. He obliges with little reluctance, splitting from your lips only to lift the silks over your head.

The night blurs a bit from there. Your only hope is that the promiscuous noises don't drift too far down the hallway. That they fall flat before any curious ears of servants or guards can hear them. You wish to bask in whatever this is that you’re cultivating with Jace–not to have your father hear of it because of a raven sent from a scullery maid.

Fifteen days later your dressmaker comes to you with a finished piece.

It is one that you’ve highly anticipated. One you’ve spent weeks fleshing out the details of. One that you wanted to be perfect, more than any of your other commissioned pieces.

The dress was made from silks dyed with lilacs to give them a nice purple hue. You had it fashioned like many of your other dresses; in only the most flattering ways for your body. It accentuated on the parts you found desirable, and drew attention away from whatever you did not.

By itself, it was something simple. You did not have it embroidered, or embossed. Simple, soft, swaying silk would encase your body. However that would not be befitting of your station, so you accessorized with golds and jewelry made of opal. 

The white stone to symbolize the white of Jace’s mother’s hair–if he would notice such a fact, you did not know. You hoped, because he had been nothing but attentive since you met him, but men have a tendency to disappoint. Golds because they were expensive and complemented the purple color much better than a silver could.

Your lady in waiting, Eliana, dressed you with much excitement. She murmured on and on about all the different small details she noticed. Layered your jewelry to make sure each piece perfectly complemented the next. Pulled back your hair just slightly so that every feature on your face could be properly looked upon. 

And then you were on your own. To face a storm of your own creation. Hopefully, Jace would see this as a declaration of your affection. Understand that you made certain decisions based solely on stories you’ve heard him speak fondly of. 

You meet Jace in the foyer of the house, prepared to leave for the street of sales. Your breath stalls in your chest when his eyes first land on you. His eyes rove over you for a good few moments, taking in the dress for every detail that it has, before finally lifting to your own.

“This is…” Jace speaks slowly, because he is processing. He does not want to assume and be embarrassed if he is wrong. “For me?”

“No, I had it made because I favor the colors.” You sass, “Of course it is for you.”

It was possible that even with the night the two of you had spent, and the others after it, Jace would see this as moving too fast. That you having a dress made from scratch specifically to his preferences was something only a betrothed woman would do, or perhaps something you’d only do once fully wed. It is very possible that Jace was simply biding his time, returning to full health while devising a way to return home, wherever that was. 

Equally as possible that he had a lover there, someone to go home to, someone to call his own. That he was just warming himself in your bed because he had missed whomever he had before his unfortunate event. 

Despite your typhoon of thoughts and corresponding emotions, you decide to commit. Twisting into a delicate spin that shows off the faint shimmer in the silk of the dress. You would at least have Jace accept your beauty before he turned you down.

“It is beautiful–you are beautiful.” His flattery brings a flush to your cheeks. 

“You really think so?”

“Yes,” Jace seals his admission with a light peck to your lips. A sweet lovers kiss to seal the truth he is admitting. 

You begin tugging him towards the entrance of the manse, “Come, I wish to shop before the day is gone.”

Biarves hen vēzos was in a few days time. 

The Celebration of the Sun, as the non Valyrian speakers knew it.

Merchants have made their way in from all regions to try and sell goods in preparation. Dyed silks and satins–made to be orange, yellow, reds, and pinks. Gemstones, some in casings to make necklaces, others just the stone themselves so you may fashion it how you please–rubies, topaz, garnet, and opals. Wines–sweet reds from Volantis, pale ambers from Pentos, sours from Andalos, pear tastings from Tyrosh, and whites from Lys. 

Anything you could possibly need for a celebration could be found. Threads for tapestries, spices for meals, beads for embroidery. You would be attending a celebration instead of hosting, so Jace was thoroughly confused when you insisted on coming today.

While some may have only wanted to indulge in the colors of the sun during the festivities, you would wear them any day. This was the perfect time to collect any and everything you desired for the upcoming year.

Your hand is ghosting over a deep blush colored satin. The cobalt beads you picked up a few stalls ago would contrast it perfectly. Now what pattern would fit? Ah. It did not matter, your dressmaker would figure it all out. 

Absently you hand the merchant a few gold coins. When you see the fabric in your handmaids grasp, your mind drifts. You’re finally nearing the end of that damned book. Despite how much you feigned interest, the story lingered in your mind even when you didn't want it to. Only a few mere chapters to wrap up the conquest of Aegon and his sisters. 

“I am excited to hear about how they conquered the North. I've heard stories of how the Northerners are savages–beasts that cannot be tamed.”

Jace's bicep flexes a bit in your hold. A short, small tense and untense of the muscle.  “I believe you may be disappointed in the battle.”

“Why is that?” 

You pull Jace to a halt in front of a jewelers stand. An intricate garnet piece has drawn your attention. 

“There is considerably less dragonfire than you’d prefer.” As if sensing your bubbling curiosity Jace speaks again before you can open your mouth, “But you will have to wait.”

Your fingers trace the necklace. Feeling the dips and curves, the way the silver curls around the gem, before you ultimately decide to pass on it. “I do not know why. If I had a dragon, everything would be burned in my path.” Anyone would think the same if they had a dragon, a beast with unstoppable capabilities.

“They are magnificent creatures.” 

When you look up at him Jace has this far off stare in his eye that you cannot understand. Like he’s transported himself from the street of sales to an entirely different realm. His imagination must be vivid after reading and rereading this history so many times.

“Are they?” Your voice lilts gently in question. “Tell me how so.”

“Well, for starters, they are temperamental. Usually only allowing their rider to close any sort of distance between them.”

You hum, encouraging him to continue.

“Dragonfire is hot, hotter than any forge could ever be. Some legends say that it had melted stone before.”

You laugh, “Stone, truly?”

“Yes. And the riders tend to smell of cinders after a ride because the dragons use the fires to form their nests and the scent lingers. Cinders and scorched leather oils if their dragon has breathed fire on the ride.”

Where would Jace have heard of such a thing? Surely history books don’t indulge in all these little details. But they must, for your boy still seems to have more to say. You continue to egg him on, “Mm, anything else?” 

“Their scales are rough–almost like tree bark. If you manage to retrieve one it's sharp as well, enough to where it could be repurposed into a blade.”

Jace speaks of Dragons as if he knows them. As if he has physically run his fingertips along their scales, as if he has slid down them on his way back to the ground. As if he has felt the flames produced from them on his very skin, and smelt like cinders after a long flight.

There's only one remaining family with Dragons though. And they do not reside anywhere in Essos. In fact–they've personally terrorized your people in the stepstones. Daemon Targaryen did, upon his mount Caraxes. 

Was this.. Prince Jacaerys? You suppose you could shorten it to Jace, but the commonfolk would never risk disrespecting a child of the crown in such a way. And his hair was different from a Targaryen’s. 

Then again, you'd heard the stories of how Rhaenyra Targaryen birthed bastards. Of how her three oldest children all had brown hair despite both her and her husband's silvery gold strands.

Nonetheless Prince Jacaerys died in the battle of the Gullet. His dragon shot down into the sea and the Prince assaulted with Triarchy arrows. 

That was how you found him, was it not? Two arrows lodged deep into his shoulder and a bolt of your own people's creation secured in the muscles of his neck.

The realization does not hit you like a wall. Not like a slap, or a tidal wave. It reaches you with a primal sense of dread; one that sends ice through your veins and makes it difficult to breathe. As if he was a predator, simply biding his time with the prey.

Your hand tightens around Jace's–Prince Jacaerys’–arm before realizing your mistake. This is not a friend, a companion, someone you could be besotted with. 

This was the enemy.

One that you wrapped in your silks. 

One that slept in your walls. Who has slept in your very own bed.

One that you revived because you could not quench your own curiosity. 

Your hand slips from its perch at the acceptance of these facts. Your face falls into a carefully crafted picture of indifference as your steps falter.

Jace–Prince Jacaerys, not Jace, Jace would not have deceived you in such a way–notices the second that your hand begins to move. His eyes dart to yours, and he's able to watch with startling attention as you school your expression.

“What is it?” Jace's voice is tight and low, reserved only for you. His eyes are frantic, searching the area for what could have possibly caused you such distress.

You don't respond automatically and your eyes aren't fixed on someone or something in the distance. So Jace raises a palm to your cheek, tilting your head so you're forced to gaze upon him.

“What is wrong?”

“You–you are a Targaryen.” The words tear through your vocal chords. They bring you a physical pain from the center of your lungs all the way to the tip of your tongue. Despite that, they're quiet – well aware of what would befall Jace if anyone were to find out.

Time seems to freeze for a bit. 

A few moments that may seem sweet to outsiders. A young couple so lost in each other that they cannot be bothered to move from the center of the market. Trying to avoid public indecency, but too entranced with another to step away.

You know you should kill him, or more likely, have him killed. Should return him to his previous state. Bolt through his neck and all. His family has caused your people much distress. Your own father fights against his parents and grandsire.

The thought is pushed aside, just barely as it fights for the stage that is the forefront of your brain; R’hllor would not have called you to him if he wanted you to simply kill him again. He would not have let the boy be revived no matter how hard you tried if he did not wish it to happen. But why? This boy was from Westeros. He did not worship R’hllor, nearly no one in that region did. 

Jace's face falls in complete dejection. As if he is accepting his fate, accepting that either you will attempt to kill him or you will hand him over to someone who will. Your heart squeezes at the realization.

“I will not have you killed,” Now you watch as he falters. As his hand stutters in its descent from your face. How his eyes constrict again and allow you to see the brown of his irises once more. 

Jace remains skittish. Eyes darting between you, your guards, and handmaids–attempting to assess how much they’ve heard and if they’re already conspiring against him. Then back to you. A seeming calm in the middle of whatever storm is coming for him. Then to the citizens surrounding you, and the merchants, trying to determine if any of them had overheard your realization.

“Why?” One simple word is all Jacaerys can muster. 

You’ve moved back a few more inches. To give both him and yourself personal space. You wish to say it is because of your traitorous heart, but, you are unsure if that is the reason anymore. You inhale a deep, shaky breath before continuing, “R’hllor wanted you alive for a reason, I will not see you killed while under my care.”

You can see a thousand thoughts swirling in his mocha eyes. Watch as his lips twitch, attempting to speak before his mind has found the words. But whatever he has to say, you have no desire to hear.

“We should retire.” You command, turning your attention to those who serve you. “The sun has exhausted my energy for the day.”

At your words your small group retreats from the street of sales. The entire way back to your fathers manse you can practically feel the energy radiating off of Jacaerys. By the time you push the doors to the foyer open you can only assume that his skin must be buzzing with the urge to speak.

His fingers ghost over your palm–attempting to ground you for a second. You do not give him the opportunity though, rushing past and ignoring his faint ‘wait’. You need a moment.

A moment to process.

A moment to breathe.

Hell, a moment to grieve.

Just a moment with your thoughts, by yourself.

Jacaerys avoids you the next day. Well, not particularly you, but he avoids the gardens, the library, even the kitchens. He takes detours through the halls to prevent even catching a glimpse of your silks.

He does not know if it was for your sake or his. If he is so fearful that you would call the guards on him at the first sighting. Or if the carefully placed mask you wore yesterday struck him so deeply with the urge for solitude.

The second day continues similarly. He avoids the gardens and the library. Only heading to the training grounds to practice his swordwork. Even taking supper in his rooms so that you may have the hall to yourself.

But the whole day is filled with a pit in his stomach, one weighted by dread. 

At night, tucked into the soft linens of his bed, Jacaerys allows himself to truly elaborate on his inner thoughts. Head on his pillow and fingers fisting the sheets. 

He feels pathetic. Ashamed even. Him a Prince of the realm, heir to the Iron Throne. Smitten with an opposer's daughter. 

So far gone in his emotions that he let his guard slip. That he truly allowed himself to believe that she felt as deeply for him. That once she knew of his real parentage, she would still care for him. That after four moons you would have imagined a future together that you could not bear to part from. 

Stupid. Naive. Childish.

Of course you would care more for your people, for your fathers cause. It was only right. He probably would do the same if he was stuck in your position. 

He tries to ignore the tears stinging on his lash-line. Tries to ignore the stinging that rests there even when he closes his lids. Bites his bottom lip until he's sure he can taste the metallic of blood on his tongue to prevent a sob from ripping through his vocal chords.

When he wakes on the third morning Jacaerys chooses to ignore the salt that has crusted from his tears the night before. He reasoned before he fell asleep that this avoidance was on purpose. 

That you were carefully crafting your schedule so that you did not run into him. Or simply avoiding places you knew he knew you enjoyed. Hiding in alcoves you've never shown him and slipping around corners at the tiniest sound of his boots.

Perhaps you were trying to tell him of your disgust without actually having to speak to him. Keeping true that you would not see him killed, but you would not help him anymore. 

If that were true, he would have to find a way home. A way out of Essos. A way out of Myr at the very least.

But Jacaerys had little of his own. The silks, satins and linens he wore? Supplied by you. The jewels that adorned his hair, neck or wrists? Supplied by you. 

His eyes drift to his sword, resting near the balcony in its holster.

It was the only thing he had that was his anymore. No dragon. No family. Not even a spare bag of coin on his person when he had been found.

He supposes he could try to work. Head into the city and offer his strength in exchange for passage. Make use of himself as a sellsword and make his way back to Westeros on a ship for hire. It wouldn't constitute as ‘safe passage’ but it would still put him in the general location of home.

Or, Gods, he could sell the sword itself. 

It had to be worth something. Definitely enough to get him a space on a ship back to Westeros. Possibly with enough extra to pay for a new set of clothes to hide himself behind. 

But it was a gift from his mother. The only thing remaining from his life before–from the life he was trying to return to. He could always get another one, have the blacksmiths curate him a new piece, something more beautiful, or more merciless, whatever his heart desired.

It would not hurt to simply have it appraised. To see how much coin he could procure, and while he was already out of the manse, assess how much passage to Westeros costed.

He dons a simple black cloak to at least slightly obscure his person on his endeavors. He leaves the hood down as he leaves the manse–it'd be stupid to act as if the servants and guards didn't know him. As if they didn't know his posture and his particular saunter.

He gets through the foyer fine. Out into the forecourt and through the front gates before a guard begins to flank him.

Someone less on edge most likely would not have noticed. Not have heard the shifting of the metal armor plates, missed the added set of steps behind them. But Jacaerys has been nearly ready to pounce since the moment you went cold with him four days ago on the street of sales.

He turns back to look upon the guard. It is Thane, a man who he has sparred with many times. He knew every one of Jacaerys’ moves, knew better than anyone in this city how he fought, surely he was preparing to strike Jace down.

Jace tries to wave him off, “I do not need chaperoning today Thane,” his tone dismissive.

“Apologies Jace. Orders from the Lady.” Thane rests his hand on the hilt of his sword casually. Nearly as relaxed as Jace is tense. If he notices the tautness in Jace’s muscles, he chooses not to mention.

Why though, would you not simply have him killed in the manse if you wanted him gone? Did you simply not want to deal with the blood staining your marbled floors? Did you send Thane to murder him if he tried to leave? Were you going to hand him over to your father, to the Triarchy?

Too many possibilities. The variables that he had previously written off all came back tenfold. He needed to get out of here, out of Myr.

So with a shadow, a man matching his steps prepared to slay him whenever the moment arose, Jace charges to the market. He whispers with merchants, assessing who would help him, who was overcharging and who was worth the coin. He needed to know who exactly he was going to run to when night fell.

After he had established a decent enough understanding, Jace made his way to the first blacksmith he saw. 

“You can wait here Thane, I will only be a mere moment.” Jace tries once again to dismiss the guard you've imposed upon him. 

“No can do.”

Jace steps up the stairs, retching the door open, still trying, “I want to commission a surprise piece for the lady.”

“My lips are sealed.”

Fine. Jace could speak quietly. Bring his head in close and whisper to the blacksmith about his proposal. He knows it won't matter when he unsheaths the sword to have it appraised, but some semblance of privacy is nice.

Jace speaks for a few moments of the details of the sword. The gold on the pommel, the type of steel it was crafted from. Anything to try and increase the value before the blacksmith demands to actually lay his eyes on the piece. It's only when Jace reaches for the hilt that Thane steps in. 

“Don't think you need'ta be doin’ that.” His hand pressing Jace's back into the sheath, “Bout time we be gettin’ back anyhow.”

Well. He supposes going back to the manse was not the worst thing ever. He could be slain, but he is not. His lungs still inhale, pressing oxygen into his muscles. His head could be rolling on the wooden floors, but it still rests upon his shoulders. His heart still beats a steady, fast but steady, rhythm in his chest. 

Jace was clever; he could figure an escape plan out as soon as he was alone. Six hells, he could cultivate one now as long as he stayed silent. 

On the fourth day Jace voices his concerns. To him it is as if you have implemented a self imposed exile to the four walls of your apartments. Certainly his presence was not daunting enough for you to ignore him so?

Where might the Lady of the manse be?

Would she like to go out to the market?

He tries to keep his voice light and curious. To seem as if he simply missed your presence. 

Yet he does not get a response from the servants sent to help him dress. Does not receive a response from the guards who are dispersed throughout the manse, nor the ones in the training yard. Eventually, though, around midday, your handmaid comes to find him.

He’s sweaty, face and forearms caked with dust, panting from the exertion when Eliana approaches. “The Lady wishes for you to join her for dinner.” 

Jace knows it must be the truth–you wouldn’t send your handmaid otherwise. So was this it? Would tonight be where he met his cruel end?

He supposes he should look nice at least. If it was the last time you would lay your eyes upon him, the smallest, most selfish bit of him hopes to haunt you with his image. That the browns of his hair and eyes, along with the bridge of his nose and plush bowed lips will linger in your mind long after his flesh rots from the bones.

Jace washes his face, scrubbing until there are no signs of obvious stress visible. He combs and styles his hair, and dresses in his house colors. A fine deep red satin shirt, paired with trousers so dark they look like a void.

Before he knows it, it's time for the show. He can only hope that it is a quick, merciful end.

You're already seated when Jace makes his way into the dining hall. You're sitting at the far head of the table–a little unusual, because you'd normally be sitting to the right of the head, but it does not make Jace waver. His step does falter for a split second when he notices his seat far from yours. He'd prefer it to be next to you, no matter how improper; he'd settle for adjacent, so he could at least gaze upon your features.

Instead it is directly across. At the end nearest the entrance. As far away as possible. This is most definitely what he believed it to be. You’re final goodbye before you have him slain somewhere in the streets of Myr. 

“How are you, My Lady?”

He can see the faintest bit of a smile on your face. From this distance it seems like a polite, political smile; one that you’ve learned and practiced since you were a young girl. 

“Well, I hope you are too. Please,” You make a faint gesture towards his seat, “Sit.”

Jace sits as you ask. It is a bit janky however. His leg catches on the arm of the chair before he finally slips into a seated position. Truthfully, you hoped Jace was distracted. Distracted by you–but you were not going to ask. Instead you motioned for the meal to be served.

Tonight, your dress is made in Westerosi fashion. A deep red velvet for the fabrics, along with a corset back to tie you deeply into the fabrics. The sleeves just barely hold onto your shoulders, but they're tight enough on your upper arms to secure them into place. At the elbow the fabric opens into nearly a cape along your forearm of black Myrish lace.

Rubies are sewn into the center of your chest, helping accentuate the fatty tissue there. The jewels trail down your torso and ends just above your belly button. Another singular rubie rests above your navel amongst intricate stitching. 

You purchased the velvet for cheap because the merchants usually cannot sell such heavy fabrics in the warm regions of Essos. It leaves you feeling suffocated from the inside out, but you know that velvet is proof of nobility in Westeros and you're hoping to give Jace a taste of what could have been.

You’ve felt his eyes on you since he walked into the dining hall. Felt them rove over your face, your hair, your bust, and the dress. 

“Do you like it?” You ask, far too immersed in your plates for Jace to be sure what you’re speaking of.

Jace chews and swallows the remaining venison in his mouth, “Like what?”

“My dress.”

You take a deep sip of Dornish wine, swishing it around your cheeks as you wonder if he understands. If he grasps the implication, or if he forms it to be what he wants in his mind.

This is acceptance of his heritage. You saying in a different language that you see him as he is, a Westerosi man, and that you welcome him anyway. Maybe he sees it as proof that you’d cross the narrow sea with him–proof that you would adapt to the ways of his people; dress how they dress, eat how they eat, read what they read, sleep how they sleep.

Is he thinking of the future? Of you wearing similarly fashioned dresses as you walked the halls of the Red Keep or Dragonstone?

Were you round with child? Was there one running around your legs and clinging to your skirts? Perhaps he saw both at the same time. Or maybe a few years flashed in his mind, he saw the progress of your life together in bits until it settled on a favored image of your could be family. 

Unfortunately for him, this was not that.

This was your, unintentionally, cruel way of sneaking deep into his brain. 

If he thought of you–when he thought of you– he would see this. What could have been. You in his house colors, in the finest fabrics that his homeland had to offer. Slicing into meats spiced to his liking even if it wasn’t traditional here. The fruitage of your love clear and abundant.

“Yes, I think I favor it. Though you did look delightful in the other piece.”

Good. At least you knew he would look happily upon the memory. It meant you too, could look back on this day without regret. You also could imagine a future of what could have been without feeling guilty.

The two of you make small talk as you eat. You speak of new blooms you’re planning on adding to the gardens, Jace mentions practicing his swordwork with some of the guards. Typical, boring, mundane conversations. Simply had to fill the space.

Your mind drifts throughout them all. Back to the idea of being with Jace. Marrying him. Living in a place unknown to yourself just for him. 

In the moons since you've rescued him, you've become undeniably close. You think you love Jacaerys Velaryon. Cannot be sure because you’ve never been in love before, but you’re nearly sure this is it. When you think back on your parents, when your mother was alive, you see parallels. Thinking of the love you’ve read about in fictional novels, you see parallels. 

It wouldn’t happen, couldn’t happen, even if you both desired it. 

“I have found you safe passage back to Westeros.” You reveal with a carefully blank expression on your face. Would Jace revel in this information, barely able to hide his excitement? It would hurt, but you imagine he has been wishing for an opportunity like this to arise.

“How?”

“I am very persuasive, My Prince.”

“Don’t-don’t do that.” Jace stammers, clearly taken aback at your use of his title.

He has stopped pretending that he is enjoying his meal, stopped pretending to eat at all actually. Clearly thinking the idea over. You can see a flurry of emotions fly across his face. But mainly confusion that eventually fades to elation.

You speak to him of the logistics. Whom he will be sailing with, how long the journey will be, what alias he must hold until they arrive in King’s Landing. Answering any questions he might have had along the way as well. 

“You could come with me.”

Blinking up at him, you squint trying to assess if Jace was being serious or not. Surely he did not interrupt your ramblings to present such a foolish idea. “What?” The word leaves you breathlessly.

“Come with me. To Westeros.”

There is this frenzied look in his eyes. Wide enough so that you can see all the whites of them, You can see the blacks of his pupils wider than they should be, and they certainly should not be visible from this distance. They’re moving erratically, fixing on certain points of your face for a mere second before moving to the next feature. 

“I cannot.”

“You can. You’ve already found safe passage!”

You stand, making your way towards Jace before sitting yourself atop the table next to his plates. Your hand rises to cup his face and he leans into your palm. Calmly you begin to explain, “I cannot go with you Jacaerys. We both have our roles in this life–Yours in Westeros and mine here.”

“But–”

“However, I can give you one last night before your voyage.” Your fingers begin to stroke simple patterns into the curve of his jaw. “Something to remember me by if you will.”

Jacaerys was a strong man. A good man. A thoughtful man. So he knows he would be stupid to deny himself this. Knows that he will be heading home to Westeros, to wed Baela, and to be Lord of Dragonstone with her as his Lady wife. But with this, he could at the very least have fresher memories of your love.

Jace stands, grabbing your other hand to bring it to clutch at the other side of his face. He situates himself between your legs before slotting his lips to yours. 

He kisses you slow. Relishing in the pressure of your lips and the smoothness of them before even thinking of trying to part the seam with his tongue.

He tastes you slow too. Sliding his tongue against and across yours in miniscule movements, like he wants to lave over every individual tastebud. Like he wants to steal the taste of dinner off of them until there's only you, you, you.

He would not ravish you on the table, it was improper, so instead he hoists you up. Hands stopping their constant meandering over the planes of your dress to secure on the underside of your thighs while Jace rushes through the hallways to your apartments.

Jace thinks of all the ways he will bed you as he unties your corsets. He does not believe that he will rest tonight; there are too many things he wishes to try. Too many sounds and pleasures he wants, no needs, to tear from you before he is stripped of your presence forever.

You return his fervor tenfold, of course. Eagerly tearing at his trousers and doublet, preparing to memorise the planes of muscle that were usually obscured. Something to think about when you eventually married some Magister’s son that you could only barely care for because you were stuck with him all day.

You allow yourself to be as loud as possible, moaning and whimpering Jace’s true name into the night air. The servants could send all the ravens they wanted, Jacaerys would still be gone before anything could be done. 

The next morn you wake to a rhythmic beating below your ear and a warm palm caressing your arm. You shift, digging your cheek deeper into the lean place of muscle beneath it, you can feel Jacaerys inhale in a slight laugh.

“You know, I meant what I said.”

Blearily, you blink up at him. Trying to get your eyes to focus on him through the slight crusts at the edges. As you wipe them away you hum in confusion, egging him to explain his statement.

“You can come with me. Back to Westeros.” His eyes have lost that crazed look from the night before. Instead swimming with hope, “I will not see you harmed for your parentage, and you would live as lavishly as you do here.”

You know he's telling the truth, earnestly holding eye contact for as long as you'd allow him before you blink away. His breathing never changed, nor his repetitive motions. If he were lying something would have changed.

“You know I cannot.” You break your statement with a press to his lips before continuing, “I would love nothing more, but I cannot.”

Your last moments together are spent tenderly. You help Jacaerys dress, attach the hilt of his sword to his waist, and sweep some of his crazed curls back behind his ear. All gentle touches and soft words. 

A perfect bubble that’s only bursted when you see him off in the forecourt. 

Tears brim at your lashline and you have to swallow back a sob more than once. This was Jace’s last vision of you and you would not have it sullied because of some emotion that you could not reign in. 

Perhaps you would meet again. Perhaps R’hllor would reunite you in whatever came after death as a thank you for saving his life. 

Or perhaps not. Perhaps you had simply completed a thankless miracle, and your paths would never cross again.

You’d simply have to wait and see. 

epilogue

Nearly a full year has passed since you saw Jacaerys off from the gates of your forecourt. Eleven moons spent twisting and turning at every boy around his height with curly hair, presuming them to be him. Foolishly believing that he has come back to you.

His mother, Rhaenyra, had spent the time fully establishing herself as Queen. Jacaerys was by her side, of course, learning the proper ways of court and preparing for his future. 

You still ask of him, from traveling merchants and storytellers. What is he doing? Are the smallfolk taking to him nicely? Do they believe him fit to be King or do rumors mull about?

You try your best to ignore thoughts of him when with your father.

Yet even now, as you sit poking at salted cod, your mind drifts to him. The meal was one of his favorites and instead of desiring to devour it you wish to save it. As if the meal alone will draw him back into your arms.

Your father clears his throat, taking a deep gulp of wine before speaking.

“A raven came today.” An unpeculiar thing, and your brow creases in confusion as he continues, “With no house seal, simply a piece of twine to hold it together.”

He extends his hand to give you the letter, and you take it from him as if it may burn you. Why is he not revealing more information? Unease sets in your stomach as you unroll the parchment.

The war for the Iron Throne is long won. Rhaenyra Targaryen sits upon it as the God's intended.

I am sure this is tragic news for you, as tragic as losing much of your fleet in the Battle of the Gullet. However I write with the hope of peace. 

My betrothed has found someone, someone she loves, and cherishes. In a true way, not one forged out of political necessity. So I have had our betrothal renounced, I could never prevent one from being with the person they truly love. 

I am sure you question what this has to do with you. I am told you have a daughter, and that she remains unwed. The crown suggests offering me her hand–as a show of good faith. Showing the Triarchy’s submission in their losses, and their willingness to cooperate with nearby lands.

Know that she will be treated well. Future Queen is the second best position a woman can hold in Westeros after all. 

Take a few days to mull over your options. But do make haste, these peaceful terms will not be available forever.

- Jacaerys Velaryon

A grin has overtaken your features while reading the short letter. Before meeting your fathers gaze you school it back to indifference.

“I am to be Queen of Westeros?” You ask, as if not believing the writing before you.

“Only if you desire, I am sure that we can discuss other appeasable terms.”

You don an assured smile, trying to hide the glimmer of excitement in your eyes, “It is all right Father. We all have our parts to play.” 

Dividers by @cafekitsune

Now, he stood in your chamber, the door closed behind him, turning the pages of your book with the same hands that had wielded Dark Sister for decades. His expression was unreadable.

"This is dangerous knowledge," he said at last. "Where did you find it?"

"Here," you said. "In the library. In the vaults below. Dragonstone is old, father." You swallowed hard. "Tyanna was not the only one who knew these rites. The Valyrians practiced blood magic for thousands of years. They used it to bind their dragons, to shape the very stone of their towers. This is just…another application."

Daemon looked at you, and for a moment you saw something flicker in his gaze. Pride, perhaps, or recognition. You were his daughter, after all, no matter which marriage had produced you. You had his blood in your veins, his fire, his refusal to accept the world as it was when you could bend it to your will instead.

"You want to do this for the boy," he said.

"He is my betrothed," you said, and your voice cracked on the word despite your best efforts. "He has been my betrothed since I was old enough to understand what the word meant. I was meant to marry him, father. I was meant to stand beside him when he took the throne. I was meant to…" You stopped, pressing your lips together, forcing the tears back. You would not weep. Not yet. Not while there was still something you could do.

Daemon was silent for a long moment. Then he closed the book and set it aside.

"The maesters believe he will die," he said. "They will not say it to Rhaenyra's face, they value their heads too much for that, but they have stopped trying to remove the arrow from his neck. They say it is too close to the artery. They say he has lost too much blood. They say even if he wakes, the wound will fester and poison him from within." His jaw tightened. "He is dying, daughter. Slowly but surely. If you do nothing, he will be dead anyway."

"Then I have to try," you said.

"Yes," Daemon agreed, and there was something almost gentle in his voice, something you had not heard from him in a very long time. "You do. And I will help you."

"Rhaenyra..."

"Rhaenyra must not know." Daemon's voice hardened. "She is already half-mad with grief. If she knew what we were attempting, she would forbid it. Or she would hope too much, and the disappointment would destroy her if you failed. No. This stays between us. I will stand guard outside the door. I will make certain no one disturbs you. Whatever you need, candles, herbs, a blade, I shall provide it. The rest is up to you."

You nodded, your heart beating so fast you could feel it in your throat. "Tonight," you said. "It has to be tonight. The maesters say the hour just before dawn is the most dangerous. If he survives until morning, it will be a miracle. I need to act before then."

Daemon reached out and put his firm hand on your shoulder. "You are my daughter," he said. "You have my blood. Whatever you need to do, do it without hesitation. Do it without doubt. The magic will know if your will wavers."

"I won't waver," you said.

He looked at you for a long moment, and then he nodded. "I know you won't."

The hour was late when you made your way to the chamber where Jacaerys lay. The castle was quiet, the servants and guards moving through the corridors like ghosts, their footsteps muffled by the weight of impending tragedy. Everyone knew. Everyone was waiting. The heir to the heir, the bright young prince who had flown to the Gullet with fire in his heart, was slipping away, and there was nothing anyone could do.

Except you. You could do something. You would do something.

Daemon walked beside you, a silent shadow in black and red. When you reached the door to Jace's chamber, he stopped and turned to face you.

"I will be here," he said quietly. "No one will enter until you open this door from the inside. Take as long as you need."

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The room was dim, lit only by a single candle on the bedside table and the faint glow of the hearth fire. The windows were shuttered against the night air, and the scent of medicinal herbs hung thick in the air: poultices and tinctures and the smell of boiling wine used to cleanse wounds. But underneath it all was the smell of blood, old and new, and the sickly-sweet undertone of a body fighting a losing battle against death.

Jacaerys lay on the bed, and the sight of him made your heart clench like a fist.

He was so still. Jacaerys, who had always been in motion, always talking, always planning, always reaching for the next thing, lay utterly motionless beneath the furs. His face was ashen, his cheeks sunken, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. His lips were cracked and dry, parted slightly, and his breathing was so shallow you had to watch his chest for a long moment to be sure it was still moving. The arrow had been removed from his shoulder and the one from his side had been cut out, the wounds stitched and bandaged. But the third arrow, the one in his neck, was still there. The maesters had cut the shaft short, leaving only a few inches protruding from the swollen, angry flesh, but they had not dared to remove the head. It was lodged against something vital, and any attempt to pull it free would tear the vessel and kill him in moments.

You stood beside the bed for a long time, just looking at him. Remembering.

You remembered the first time you had met him, when you were both children, before you understood what betrothal meant. He had been solemn and serious even then, trying so hard to be worthy of the inheritance that had fallen to him. You had thought him stuffy at first, too concerned with duty and honor to be any fun. But then he had smiled at you, a quick, surprised smile, and you had seen the boy beneath the prince, and something had shifted in your heart.

You remembered the day your dragon died. The Battle of Rook's Rest. The sky had been full of fire and screaming, and you had been on your dragon's back, trying to stay alive, trying to fight, trying to do something, anything, to help. And then Rhaenys had fallen. Meleys had plunged from the sky in a tangle of scarlet wings, and Vhagar had turned. The ancient she-dragon had fixed her terrible eyes on you, and Aemond's voice had echoed across the battlefield, shouting something you could not hear over the roar of wind and flame. He had wanted to take you, you learned later. A prize. A hostage. A trophy to hang on his wall. But your dragon had fled, faster than Vhagar could follow, and had carried you all the way back to Dragonstone before succumbing to her wounds. She had died on the beach, her great head resting on sand, her eyes fixed on you with an apology you could not bear to receive. You had held her until the light went out of her, and then you had stood and walked up to the castle and begun to plan how you would make the Greens pay.

Jace had held you that night. He had not said anything, there was nothing to say, but he had held you, and let you weep into his shoulder, and when you were finished he had kissed your forehead and told you that you were the bravest person he had ever met.

Now he was dying, and you were going to save him, no matter what it cost.

You set down the small bag you had brought with you and began to prepare. From the bag you drew a candle of black wax, a small silver knife, a bowl of beaten copper, and a roll of parchment covered in the symbols and words you had copied from the old texts. You arranged them on the floor beside the bed, your hands steady despite the trembling in your heart. Then you drew back the furs and looked at Jace's wounds.

The bandages on his shoulder and side were fresh, changed that evening by the maesters. But the wound in his neck was the one that mattered. You leaned close, examining it in the dim light. The flesh around the arrow shaft was red and swollen, hot to the touch even from inches away. The skin had begun to take on a greyish tinge at the edges, and when you inhaled carefully, you caught the faint, foul scent of corruption beginning to take hold. The maesters were right. If the arrow was not removed, the infection would spread. It would poison his blood, and he would die in fever and delirium. But if they tried to remove it, the arrowhead would tear the great vessel in his neck, and he would drown in his own blood in moments.

Unless you changed the rules.

You had studied the accounts of the Valyrian blood mages for years. You had devoured every scrap of knowledge you could find about the old sorceries, the fire magic that had raised the Freehold to its terrible glory. And you had learned that blood was the key. Blood was always the key. Blood was life, and life was power, and power, properly channeled, could reshape the world.

The ritual Tyanna of Pentos had used, or something very like it, was described in fragments throughout the texts you had found. It was not healing in the traditional sense. It was something older, darker and more profound. It was the transference of life force, the binding of spirit to flesh, the rekindling of the inner fire that kept the soul tethered to the body. The subject would not simply recover. They would be remade, their body repaired not by natural processes but by the direct application of magical will. And the cost would be paid in blood. Not Jace's blood. Yours.

You knelt beside the bed and lit the black candle. The flame burned with a strange, bluish light, and the air in the room seemed to thicken, growing heavy and still. You picked up the silver knife and positioned the copper bowl on the floor before you.

"I don't know if you can hear me," you said quietly, looking at Jace's still face. "But if you can…hold on. Just a little longer. I'm going to bring you back."

Then you set the blade against the inside of your left forearm and cut.

The pain was immediate. Blood welled up from the wound, you held your arm over the copper bowl, letting it drip down into the metal basin. The candle flame flickered, then steadied, burning brighter than before. You closed your eyes and began to speak.

The words were High Valyrian. They were harsh, full of consonants that scraped against your throat and vowels that burned on your tongue. You had practiced them for hours, mouthing them silently in your chamber, but speaking them aloud was different. They had weight. They had presence. Each syllable seemed to hang in the air, resonating with something deep beneath the world.

We ask the Lord to shine his light, and the debt of blood to be paid.

With fire and blood, the debt shall be paid.

Your blood continued to flow, more than you had expected, more than seemed safe. The copper bowl was filling, the dark liquid swirling in the candlelight, and you felt a strange pulling sensation in your chest, as if something vital was being drawn out of you along with the blood. The candle flame rose higher, no longer blue but a deep, angry red, and the shadows in the room began to move.

You reached out with your bleeding arm and pressed your hand against the wound in Jace's neck, your fingers circling the broken arrow shaft. The moment your blood touched his skin, you felt it: a connection, a bridge, a channel opening between your life and his. You could feel his weak heartbeat, fluttering against your palm like a trapped bird. You could feel the poison spreading through his veins, the infection that was eating away at his flesh. And you could feel the arrowhead, a cold sliver of metal lodged against the pulsing wall of his artery, a hairsbreadth from the arms of the Stranger.

No, you thought, and poured yourself into him.

It was like falling. Like drowning. Like being unmade and remade in the space of a single heartbeat. Your vision went white, then red, then black, and you were somewhere else, somewhere vast and dark and full of fire. You could feel Jace there, a flickering ember in the darkness, barely holding on. And you could feel something else, something vast and hungry, watching you from the shadows. The magic. The old power. It wanted what you were offering. It wanted the blood, the life, the sacrifice. It wanted you.

Take it, you said, or thought, or screamed into the void. Take whatever you need. Just give him back to me.

The darkness surged forward, and you knew nothing more.

You woke in your own bed, with sunlight streaming through the windows and the sound of shouting echoing through the corridors.

For a long, disorienting moment, you had no idea where you were or how you had gotten there. Your body felt strange, heavy and hollow at the same time, as if someone had scooped out your insides and replaced them with lead. Your left arm throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and when you lifted it to look, you saw that someone had bandaged it. The white linen was spotted with red, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

The shouting grew louder. Footsteps pounded past your door. Someone was calling for the maester, and someone else was weeping, and beneath it all was a rising tide of voices, excited and frightened and disbelieving.

And then you remembered.

You sat up so fast the room spun around you. You grabbed the bedpost, steadying yourself, and swung your legs over the side of the bed. Your head pounded, your vision blurring, but you forced yourself to stand, to walk, to open the door and step out into the corridor.

A serving girl was running past, her eyes wide and her face flushed. You caught her arm.

"What's happening?" you demanded, and your voice came out rough and strange, barely recognizable as your own.

"My lady!" The girl's words tumbled over each other in her haste. "It's the prince! Prince Jacaerys! He's awake! He's awake, and the maester says his wounds are healing, and the Queen is with him now..."

You let go of her arm. She kept talking, but you were already moving, pushing past her, walking as fast as your unsteady legs would carry you toward Jace's chamber.

The corridor outside his room was crowded with people, servants and guards and minor lords, all craning their necks and whispering among themselves. They parted when they saw you, their eyes wide with surprise or curiosity or something else you didn't have the presence of mind to identify. You didn't care. You didn't care about any of it. You only cared about the door at the end of the corridor and what lay beyond it.

Daemon was leaning by the door. He saw you coming, and his expression flickered, relief and what might have been pride or might have been concern. He stepped forward to meet you.

"It worked," his voice was pitched low so only you could hear. "The maester examined him this morning. The swelling in his neck has gone down. The corruption is receding. They were able to remove the arrowhead safely an hour ago. He is weak, but he is alive, and he is awake."

You closed your eyes for a moment, swaying on your feet. The relief that flooded through you was so intense it was almost painful. "I need to see him."

"Rhaenyra is with him now. She has been there since they told her. She is…" Daemon paused, searching for the right word. "Overjoyed. She thinks it's a miracle."

"It is a miracle," you said.

Daemon's eyes met yours. "Yes," he agreed. "It is. But not the kind she thinks." He put his hand on your shoulder, steadying you. "You did well, daughter. Better than I dared to hope. But be careful with him, he hasn't quite come back to himself yet."

He opened the door, and you stepped inside.

The first thing you saw was Rhaenyra. The Queen was sitting on the edge of the bed, her silver-gold hair unbound and disheveled, her face wet with tears. She was holding Jace's hand in both of hers, and she was speaking to him in a low, urgent voice, her words tumbling out too fast to follow. She looked exhausted, wrung out, the way a person looks when they have been holding themselves together for so long that the relief of letting go is almost as painful as the fear.

And then you saw Jace.

He was sitting up against the pillows, his dark hair brushed back from his face, his eyes open and alert. The bandage on his neck was fresh and white, and his color was better than it had been in days, still pale, but no longer grey, no longer the ashen hue of a corpse waiting to happen. He was thinner than before, the bones of his face more prominent, but he was alive. He was alive.

He looked up when you entered, your eyes met, and you felt as though your heart would burst.

"Jace," you breathed.

His expression shifted. For a moment, he looked almost confused, as if he didn't quite recognize you. Then his face cleared, and he smiled, a small, tired smile, but a real one, and held out his free hand to you.

"There you are," he said. His voice was hoarse, rough from disuse, but it was his voice. "I was wondering when you would come."

You crossed the room without thinking, barely aware of Rhaenyra moving aside to make space for you. You took his hand, his fingers closed around yours, and he was warm. He was warm. You had been so afraid that he would be cold, that the ritual would have taken something essential from him, that he would be a shell wearing Jace's face. But his hand was warm, and his pulse beat steady in his wrist.

Except.

Except there was something different in his eyes. A gleam. A light that hadn't been there before. When he looked at you, you felt the weight of his attention, focused and intense. There was none of the softness you remembered, none of the gentle uncertainty that had always lurked beneath his princely composure. This was a Jacaerys who had looked into the darkness and come back with something of it still burning behind his eyes.

"Your Grace," you said to Rhaenyra, remembering your courtesies even as your heart hammered against your ribs. "I came as soon as I heard."

"He's going to be all right," Rhaenyra said, and her voice broke on the words. "The maester says he's going to be all right. I don't understand it. None of them understand it. But I don't care. My son is alive." She pressed a hand to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks again. "I'm so relieved. I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd lost both of you."

She meant Luke, you realized. Lucerys, who had died at Storm's End, whose death had started the cascade of violence that had led here. Rhaenyra had lost one son already. She could not bear to lose another.

Jace's expression softened. "I'm here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere. But if I could speak with my betrothed now. Alone, if you don't mind."

Rhaenyra hesitated, looking between the two of you. Then she nodded, pressing a kiss to Jace's forehead before rising from the bed. "I'll be just outside," she said. "I'll send for some broth. You need to eat. You need to regain your strength."

She left the room, and the door closed behind her with a soft click. You and Jace were alone.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You were still holding his hand, and he was still looking at you with that strange, intense gaze, and you didn't know what to say. What did you say to someone you had pulled back from the edge of death? What did you say to someone who might owe their life to a ritual you barely understood and a power you had no right to wield?

"You did something," Jace said at last.

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn't come. His eyes were too sharp, too knowing. He could see right through you.

"Yes," you said quietly. "I did."

"What did you do?"

You told him everything. You were too tired to lie and too frightened to hold it in, and because he deserved to know what had been done to him.

When you finished, he was silent for a long moment. Then he reached up with his free hand and touched the bandage on his neck, his fingers tracing the edge of it with a strange, detached curiosity.

"I died," he said. "Didn't I?"

"No," you denied quickly. "No, you were still alive. The maesters said..."

"The maesters said I was going to die. They said there was nothing they could do." His eyes met yours again. "I remember the water. The cold. I remember Vermax screaming. And then…nothing. Darkness. Just darkness, for a long time. And then something else. Something pulling me back. It felt like fire. Like dragonfire, but inside me. In my blood. In my bones." He paused. "Was that you?"

You swallowed hard. "I don't know. I don't know what I did. The texts said the ritual could transfer life force, could bind spirit to flesh, could rekindle the inner fire. But they didn't say how. They didn't say what the cost would be. I just…I couldn't let you die. I couldn't. Not when there was something I could try."

Jace looked at you for a long moment. Then he pulled you toward him, and before you knew what was happening, his arms were around you and your face was pressed against his shoulder and he was holding you so tightly you could barely breathe.

"You foolish, brave, tricky woman," he murmured into your hair. "You could have died. You could have killed yourself. For me."

"There was no choice," you said, your voice muffled against his chest. "There was never a choice. Don't you understand? Without you, there's no point. There's no point to any of it."

You felt him exhale a shaky breath. His hand came up to stroke your hair, gentle despite the new strength you could feel in his grip. "I understand," he said. "I understand better than you know."

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him. Your eyes were wet, you realized. You had been crying without noticing it. He reached up and wiped the tears from your cheeks with his thumb, his touch warm and achingly familiar.

"When I was pulled from the darkness," he whispered, "I dreamed. I dreamed of fire and blood and a throne made of swords. I dreamed of our enemies burning. I dreamed of Aemond Targaryen dying in the mud, with my hands around his throat. I dreamed of victory, absolute and total, with no mercy and no quarter and no hesitation. I dreamed of everything I was too weak to do before." His voice hardened, and that gleam in his eyes grew brighter, more dangerous. "I'm not weak anymore."

You stared at him. There was something new and terrible and fierce in his voice. The boy you had known was still there, but there was something else now, something that had been forged in the darkness and brought back with him into the light.

"The Greens took my brother," Jace said. "They took my dragon. They took my birthright. They tried to take my life. They tried to take you." His hands tightened on your arms. "They will fail. They will all fail. I am going to recover from this. I am going to get out of this bed, and I am going to be there when my mother takes King's Landing. And then I am going to find Aemond Targaryen, and I am going to make him pay for every drop of blood he has spilled."

"Jace," you said, and you didn't know if it was a warning or a plea or a prayer.

"When I woke up," he continued, as if you hadn't spoken, "I felt different. I feel…more. More alive, more aware. Better, altogether." He laughed without humour. "I feel like someone lit a fire inside me and it's never going to go out. Is that what you did to me? Is that what the magic made me?"

"I don't know," you whispered. "I didn't know what it would do. The texts said…"

"The texts said Maegor came back changed. Crueler. Stronger. Unstoppable." Jace's eyes met yours. "Maybe that's what I am now. Maybe that's what you made me."

"No. You're not Maegor. You're not cruel. You're not..."

"I'm not what I was before." He said it calmly, as if stating a simple fact. "I can feel it. The part of me that hesitated, that second-guessed, that worried about being good enough, worthy enough, it's gone. Burned away. All that's left is the fire." He cupped your face in his hands, his palms were warm against your cheeks. "But I'm still me. I'm still yours. That hasn't changed. That will never change."

He kissed you. It was not like the gentle, tentative kisses you had shared before. It was fierce, demanding, full of that new fire, and you found yourself responding to it despite your fear, despite your uncertainty. His lips were warm, his hands were strong, and he was alive. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.

When he pulled back, his eyes were still burning with that strange, fierce light. "You brought me back," he said. "You gave me a second chance. I'm not going to waste it. I'm going to win this war. I'm going to put my mother on the Iron Throne. I'm going to marry you, and we are going to build a dynasty that will last a thousand years." He smiled, and it was a crazed and beautiful thing. "I swear to you."

You looked at him. Your betrothed, your prince, the boy you had loved since before you understood what love was, and saw the man he had become. The fire in his eyes. The steel in his voice. The fury and the purpose and the unshakeable certainty. The old texts had warned that those brought back by blood magic were never quite the same. They came back changed. They came back wrong. But looking at him now, you couldn't bring yourself to believe it.

He wasn't wrong. He was more.

"Rest now," you said, pressing him back against the pillows. "Regain your strength. The war will still be there when you're healed."

He caught your wrist, his strong grip still surprised you. "Stay," he said. "Stay with me."

"I'm not going anywhere," you promised.

You stayed by his side as the days passed, watching as his strength returned with unnatural speed. The maesters marveled at his recovery, calling it a miracle, a blessing from the Seven, the indomitable will of the dragon blood. They didn't know. They couldn't know. Only you and Daemon knew the truth, and you kept it locked away in your hearts, a secret that bound you together in shared complicity.

Part 2: see here

a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to this series' taglist.

Rn I'm tagging those who commented that they'd like me to post this fic: @ilovefoolishknights @mellowpeacequeen @disturbedturtle @pinkypurplez @oh-miniso @brlghtflame

Real life doesn't come with a soundtrack or a lighting crew. It just comes with humiliation, piled one mistake on top of another, until somehow, against every possible odd, it turns into something good.

Before any of that chaos began, you already knew who Jacaerys Velaryon was. Everyone did. You could have been living under a rock and you still would have heard his name at least once a week. He was the top student in your entire batch, the one professors used as the gold standard when they wanted to shame the rest of the class into studying harder. He had a 4.0 that never seemed to slip, an easy confidence that made him look like he belonged wherever he stood, and the sort of effortless style that made you wonder if he'd woken up already fully put together. Someone completely out of reach.

Then he sat down next to you in an 8 a.m. lecture, and your entire semester fell apart.

There were a few things you could always count on in that lecture hall. The air conditioning was always cranked way too high, cold enough that half the room kept hoodies stuffed in their bags just for that one class. The coffee from the cart outside tasted like lukewarm dishwater no matter how much sugar you dumped into it. And Jace was always there early, sitting straight backed with his notebook already open, looking like the concept of being tired simply didn't apply to him.

You, meanwhile, looked like something that had crawled out of bed and directly into a lecture hall without stopping anywhere in between, which was more or less exactly what had happened. Three hours of sleep and a fistful of dry cereal eaten on the walk over will do that to a person. Your hair was shoved into a bun that had already started falling apart, and you were fairly sure you still had a pillow crease on your cheek.

The professor dimmed the lights to click through a slideshow on statistical variance, and that was it for you. The room went dark and warm and quiet, and your body made the decision for you before your brain even had a say in it. Your head tipped back against the chair, your mouth fell open, and somewhere in the fog of half sleep you stopped caring about anything at all, including the fact that you were sitting two feet away from the top student in your year.

Then his voice cut through, suddenly loud as the lights snapped back on without warning. "And that brings us to the core hypothesis. Let's ask our sleeping friend in the third row."

You jolted awake so hard your whole body flinched, your arms flying out on instinct like you were bracing for a fall. In the split second of pure panic that followed, trying to look like a person who had definitely been paying attention and not someone who'd just been drooling in front of two hundred classmates, your knee shot upward and caught the bottom of your metal water bottle sitting on the edge of the desk. It went flying, hit the floor, and rolled a few feet before slamming into someone's backpack with a metallic CLANK! so loud it might as well have been a gunshot in that quiet room.

Every head turned. You felt your face catch fire, heat crawling up your neck and into your ears, as you leaned down to grab the bottle just to have something to do with your hands. That's when you realized the truly horrifying part. There was a thin, shiny line of drool running down your chin, and it had clearly been there for a while.

Beside you, Jace froze for half a second before his instincts kicked in. He reached back for his bag, clearly trying to play the smooth rescuer, digging for a tissue. He moved just a little too fast, probably more aware of the class watching than he wanted to admit. His fingers snagged on the inside lining of his jacket, a brand-new one by the look of it, still stiff at the seams. Before either of you could process what was happening, there was a sharp RIPPING sound.

The front pocket tore wide open. Mints, pens, a stray USB drive, all of it spilled out and scattered across the floor in a chaotic little avalanche, rolling under desks and skittering across the tile in the dead silence of the room.

Jace stared down at the mess, a single mint still rolling past his shoe. His ears went bright red, the kind of red that spreads fast and gives everything away. He didn't say anything for a second, just reached into his bag, pulled out a slightly crumpled napkin from the cafeteria, and slid it over to you without quite meeting your eyes.

"Uh," he muttered, voice cracking before he cleared his throat and tried again. "For the... yeah. And for the record, I meant to redesign this jacket anyway. It's fashion now."

You took the napkin and said nothing, because there was genuinely nothing you could say that would make this better, and wiped your chin as discreetly as a person can wipe their chin in front of an entire lecture hall.

Two weeks passed. You spent every single one of them avoiding Jace with how things ended last time, moving your usual seat three rows back to the safety of the back benches where the top student in the batch had no reason to look.

It was a Friday, ten minutes before the end of class, and everyone in the room was silently begging the professor to let them go early. You could feel it in the air, that restless energy of people already packing their bags. Naturally, that was the exact moment Jace raised his hand and asked a question so specific and so unnecessarily detailed that you felt the collective will of the room shatter around you. A groan rippled through the hall, low and tired, the sound of two hundred exhausted students made in unison when they realize freedom just got pushed back another ten minutes.

Your friend Jessie was sitting right beside you, arms crossed, glaring at the back of Jace's head with the exact same betrayal you were feeling. You were running purely on spite at that point. You pulled out your phone, zoomed in on the back of his perfectly styled head, and snapped an unflattering, slightly blurry photo. Underneath it you typed, if golden boy asks one more question I am going to throw my textbook at his perfect hair, and pulled up the share sheet to AirDrop it to Jessie like you always did when you wanted her to see something without whispering across the row and getting shushed.

Multiple names popped up on the screen, starting with the same letter. Your thumb moved faster than your brain did, tapping the first one without actually reading it, and you went right back to glaring at the back of Jace's head, waiting for Jessie's reaction.

It took a second to register that something was wrong. Jessie's phone never buzzed. Yours did instead, a small delivery confirmation lighting up your screen, and your stomach dropped straight through the floor before you even opened it to check. You looked at the name still sitting there under the AirDrop icon and felt every bit of blood leave your face.

Jace's iPhone.

Three rows down, his phone lit up in his hand. You watched his shoulders go stiff as he looked at the screen, and then, slowly, a grin spread across his face, which told you he already knew exactly how he was going to make your life difficult for the rest of the semester. He started turning around in his seat, clearly getting ready to deliver some devastating comeback, looking far too pleased with himself for someone about to embarrass you in front of the entire class.

What he forgot, in that moment of triumph, was the iced caramel macchiato sitting open on his desk. His elbow caught the edge of the table as he spun toward you. The cup tipped sideways in what felt like slow motion, and a whole wave of sugary, icy coffee dumped straight into his lap.

The sound he made was not dignified. It landed somewhere between a gasp and a yelp, and he shot up out of his seat so fast his chair nearly toppled backward, frantically patting at his lap with a single sheet of loose paper while half the row dissolved into laughter around him.

Through all of it, his eyes found yours, wide with betrayal and something that might have been the start of a laugh he refused to let out. His face went beet red, coffee still dripping off the edge of the desk. He pointed a sticky finger in your direction and mouthed three words.

This is karma.

The moment class ended, you were already moving. You crammed your laptop and binders into your bag and yanked the zipper shut with more force than necessary, because the top priority right now was getting out of that building before the smartest person in your year could catch up to you and demand answers.

You practically ran for the exit, dodging around slower classmates and taking the steep concrete steps of the lecture hall two at a time. Then you heard it. A sharp pop from somewhere behind you, and a second later your overstuffed backpack gave up entirely. The zipper split clean along the seam and the whole bag burst open at once, spilling everything down the stairs behind you.

Your laptop slid out and went sliding down the steps like it had somewhere better to be. A half-eaten granola bar launched out of the side pocket and sailed through the air in a small, tragic arc, hitting Jace, who happened to be walking a few steps ahead of you, directly in the back of the neck.

"Ow, what the-" He spun around fast, one hand flying up to rub his neck, just in time to watch you trip over your own misstep.

You went flying down the last two steps and collided with him at full speed, no time to catch yourself or even brace for impact. There was no graceful way to describe what happened next.

Both of you hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, scattered papers, crushed oats, and rolling highlighters, the granola bar wrapper somehow ending up stuck under someone’s shoe a few feet away. Jace took most of the impact, landing hard on his back with a breathless “oof” underneath you.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You were completely wrapped around each other on the floor, your face only inches from his, close enough that you could count his eyelashes if you'd been in any state to think that clearly. Jace, who always had something clever ready to say, seemed to have lost the ability to speak entirely. His hair was a mess, sticking up on one side where it had hit the tile, there was a piece of almond stuck to his collarbone from your granola bar, and his cheeks had gone a soft, embarrassed pink that had nothing to do with the coffee stain still drying on his jeans.

He looked up at you and blinked, twice, before a nervous laugh slipped out of him.

"You know," he said, breathless, his arms already wrapping around your waist to keep you both steady on the slick floor, "most people just ask for my Snapchat or number. I have to say, I respect the commitment to a full-body takedown."

He didn't rush to let you go. His eyes softened, and a small, slightly dorky smile crept onto his face, nothing like the composed, untouchable version of him you'd been watching from three rows back for weeks. "You good? Nothing broken?"

"Just my dignity," you whispered, wishing more than anything that the floor would open up and take you with it.

That night, your phone buzzed with a text from a number you didn't recognize.

“Hey. It's Jace. The guy you bruised, slandered, and spilled coffee on today.”

A second message followed almost immediately, like he'd typed it out in advance and hit send before he could talk himself out of it.

“My ribs are fine but my pride took some real damage. Only fix I can think of is you letting me take you out tomorrow night. No backpacks allowed. I'll buy the coffee this time, since I clearly can't be trusted to hold my own.”

And so, the next evening, his car pulled up outside your apartment right on time. When you opened the door, there he was, looking suspiciously put together in a brand-new jacket with all its pockets fully intact, holding a small, neatly wrapped box like he wasn't sure what to do with his hands otherwise.

"Open it," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, a faint blush already creeping up his cheeks.

You tore off the paper. Inside was a heavy-duty metal water bottle and a roll of industrial-strength duct tape, both wrapped like they were something precious.

"For your backpack," Jace said, leaning over to help with your seatbelt once you'd climbed in. "And in case you feel the urge to tackle me again later. Though, honestly, I wouldn't mind if you did."

You and Jacaerys were wed before his family in Valyrian tradition. You felt a bit out of place with his family's customs, but he was there every step of the way. He held your hands carefully and murmured his words to you. He was every bit of the gentlemen he was raised to be. It was a love match, that bit was known. His mother was quite proud of it and made sure to spoil you as if you were one of her own daughters.

Rhaenyra had not said it aloud, but she was worried that Jacaerys would be stuck in a loveless marriage and not be able to find one he holds dear. She knew he would be honorable, but the gods had found him a partner he cherished as much as his honor. Now, she was watching her eldest son be arm in arm with his new wife.

It was supposed to be a happy ending. The crown prince and his new wife, the future rulers of Westeros after her. However, the gods had other plans for them.

— —

You were only three moons with child, yet Jacaerys made sure that servants were at your every hand and foot. He claimed that the future queen consort was to not stress herself. You called it ridiculous while he called it proper treatment. You were sat in bed while he had a hand over your belly and recited stories in High Valyrian.

Only a few words were familiar to you, he promised to teach you more once the impending war was over. You merely smiled at his words and relaxed a bit into bed. Only you and your future child were a comfort for him after the loss of his beloved brother. He would cry almost every night to you since he received word of the incident.

He promised to be careful. He truly did.

— —

Now, you were stood beside Jacaerys listening to his mother speak when Baela rushed to you all with news of a battle in the Gullet. Rhaenyra rushed to prepare to go while you all followed behind her. Jacaerys was protesting and urging her to reconsider. 

It was quickly turned to an argument between mother and son regarding her safety.

You could only watch helplessly as Rhaenyra shut the door on all of you to ready herself. Jacaerys's mind was quick to convince Ser Lorent to lock her inside her own chambers. You did not like the look he had, it was unfamiliar to you. You could sense his upcoming brashness to keep his mother safe, it was evident.

You followed him as he walked away from Ser Lorent and Baela tried to reason with him as well. It was almost as if you weren't there for the way he spoke of winning the war for his mother. It was the way he talked that scared both you and Baela.

Nerves were overcoming your body and he instantly brought all focus to you. He went to your side and called for servants to help bring you back to your chambers. You tried to change his mind and tell him to leave it for others like his mother intended. He was stubborn, just like her.

He said it was not right on how he should stay behind while there is a battle that he can help change the tide for. He told the servants to leave and let you sit on the bed. He brought himself to one knee beside you and brought one of your hands to his lips.

He brought his free hand to smooth back loose strands of your hair, "I swear to come back to you and the babe." He pressed another kiss to your hand. "I swear.before the gods themselves that nothing will part us." Your voice wavered, you wanted him to stay, "You promised to be careful. To not put yourself in danger."

He pursed his lips for a moment and squeezed your hand in reassurance, "I must do this for my mother's claim. My brothers need me. I shall be back to take care of you and the babe soon enough." It was as if he was trying to convince himself more than you.

— —

You could only wait. 

That was the hard part.

You rubbed your stomach in hopes of some form of comfort. You had a horrible feeling and you could not rest like he wished. You paced heavily within your chambers. A maid had brought you lemon cakes to try and calm you.

It wasn't until you heard a dragon did your pacing stop. You exhaled in relief and climbed down the stairs and halls to meet Jacaerys. For some reason, the tension in your shoulders did not leave, but you continued on. There was an uncomfortable feeling in your stomach that you pinned on the restless babe. Only Jacaerys's touch would calm the babe on nights you could not sleep because of it.

Your steps faltered the moment you heard his mother's voice cracking and the weariness sunk in. You slowed in turning the corner and that is when you saw your mother-by-law hugging Jacaerys close to her body. She was cradling your husband, the same very face who kissed you and the babe goodbye was now pale and bloody.

A sound had left your mouth in a mix of disbelief and shock. Baela instantly went to your side to brace you as you slumped into her hold. Your vision became blurry as you forced yourself up to walk to your husband. Your beloved husband who was now lying still and Rhaenyra who stood abruptly demanding to know what happened, distraught from her grief. 

You have no recollection of dropping to your knees so fiercely to form the bruises you'll find later on, you could only remember the sweet husband who had fallen and was now presented to you. You let out a strangled noise and ran a hand through his curls. Your other hand grabbed the same hand that had reassured you hours before.

You did not care for the crestfallen faces of those around you, not the looks of sympathy, grief, or Rhaenyra's commands. You were stuck on the paleness of your ruined future. You don't remember being guided to your chambers or the condolences from those who have heard the news.

The only thing on your mind was that your child would have to grow up never knowing their father.

— —

You were in pain, hysterical, and giving birth to your child. 

You were in Winterfell, sent away after your husband's funeral and under protection of Lord Cregan Stark. Lord Stark had promised Queen Rhaenyra that you would not be put in danger and would be kept safe from prying eyes. 

She had parted with you with a heavy heart and said it was for the best. You struggled with the pregnancy, but you refused to lose the child. The child would be your only thing left of Jacaerys and you'll be damned before you let your child lose another parent.

"A girl! It is a girl!"

You were gasping for breath and stared with a heavy heart, a daughter, just as Jacaerys predicted. Rhaenyra. That was what Jacaerys wanted for a girl and that was how you would honor him. Soon, Rhaenyra Targaryen was bundled in thick fur and in your hold, both of you embracing the warmth of the thick fire burning to keep you warm from the Northern cold. You nursed her yourself and barely parted from her, you couldn't. 

Cregan Stark said his congratulations himself when you were by a weirwood tree. He lost his words the moment he spotted the babe in your arms and the thin curls already atop. The girl opened her eyes at him and he almost took a step back. It was the same eyes he had once sworn brotherhood with. 

The lord bowed his head in disgrace and you looked to him sadly. Both of you grieved him and forever would until your last breath. You looked back at your sweet Rhaenyra and rubbed her cheek, the giggles had a calming wave for you. 

Those same eyes had been the one to introduce you to his traditions and house so eagerly. It was almost as if Jacaerys himself stared right at you. You remembered the night the two of you met at a feast his mother hosted and your mother had been a close friend of hers. He had found you alone in the gardens admiring the different flowers.

When the two of you were betrothed, he made sure to spoil you and show you off to the court. He had even shielded your honor when the two of you married and denied the bedding ceremony. He had almost taken the hand off a lord who had made a comment on it. You remembered the way he comforted you when it was confirmed by many maesters that you were indeed with child. 

He had reassured you that he would have no care for the gender, his firstborn would be heir. He promised. He made all sorts of promises for when the babe would be born and what he would do for them. Now, his promises had fallen into the gullet and remained unmet. 

The last of his desires were gone the moment he was burned at the pyre, leaving behind a young wife and an unborn child.