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📮 request open
my name is marie, you can call me mae and i’m graphic design student, 22, vietnamese✨
in this account i’ll make GIF, write and reblog some of my favorite fic, mainly for ewan and hotd.
i’m not a writer, nor called myself one (not now). but i do publish a few of my works that i wrote few months ago, you can freely discuss with me through my ask box or message
please give credit if use GIF by aemondwhoresworld
just like my username, yea i am aemond’s whore and don’t fucking judge me but even if you did i don’t care. so yea •3•
just imagine you’re the wife of ewan mitchell, who’s soon heading off to war. this is what you keep, safely inside your bible, your wallet, even under your pillow.
your "scenes that look like paintings" series (?) is wonderful! may i suggest tagging the posts with a specific #, however, if it is not too burdensome? i fear i have missed some. sorry. as for suggestions, aegon, criston, sansa and the tyrells surely have plenty of scenes that would beautifully lend themselves to your project!
thank you so much, that means a lot!! i’m really happy you’re enjoying the scenes that look like paintings series! and that’s a great idea, i’d love to make them easier to find, do you have any tag recommendations in mind? would love to hear your thoughts!
also, totally agree!! aegon, criston, sansa, and the tyrells have so many stunning scenes, i’ll definitely keep them in mind for future posts. thanks again for the suggestions! <3
summary: you are aemond targaryen’s wife, married for love in a union that defied the cold traditions of westeros. just days after giving birth to your first child, a son named daeron, a raven arrives bearing a letter from alys rivers.
warnings: angst, themes of betrayal, postpartum vulnerability and exhaustion, heartbreak and doubt in a romantic relationship, no physical violence, but intense emotional conflict.
author notes: do you guys want a part 2? also… would you forgive him? personally, i wouldn’t, i’d take my babe and leave. but what do you think?
your body still ached from the birth, a quiet soreness that lingered beneath your skin, but there was a warmth too, a fierce love for the babe you’d brought into the world, little daeron slept in his cradle beside you, his tiny chest rising and falling with soft, shallow breaths. he was only four days old, a perfect blend of you and aemond with your gentle features and his sharp targaryen silver hair. aemond had been there, holding your hand through the long hours, whispering promises of a future for the three of you. his love had always felt like a steady flame, unyielding and true.
you were propped against the pillows, tracing daeron’s little fingers with your own, when the door opened. aemond stepped in, his long stride quieter than usual, as if he feared waking the babe.
his eyepatch was off, something he only did with you and the sapphire in its place glinted faintly.
“you should be resting,”
he said, warm voice, crossing to sit beside you on the bed. he brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch tender.
“i will,”
you murmured, offering a tired smile.
“he’s been fussy. i think he misses you.”
aemond’s lips quirked upward, and he leaned down to press a kiss to daeron’s forehead, then yours.
“i’ve missed you both,”
he said, settling beside you. for a moment, it was perfect, the quiet, the closeness, the family you’d dreamed of.
then came the knock. a servant entered, bowing low, a small scroll clutched in her hand.
“my prince, my lady, a raven came for you,”
she said, placing it on the table before slipping out.
you frowned, a letters for you were rare, especially now, when all of westeros knew you’d just given birth.
aemond’s brow furrowed.
“who’s it from?”
he asked, but there was a tightness in his voice, a shadow you didn’t catch at first.
“i don’t know,”
you said, reaching for it.
the wax seal was plain, unmarked, and your fingers hesitated as you broke it. the parchment unrolled, and as your eyes skimmed the words, the warmth in the room slowly drained away. your breath caught, sharp and painful, and you read it again, silently, to be sure. then, with a voice that shook despite your efforts, you read it aloud.
“to the lady targaryen, wife of aemond,
i am alys rivers, a woman of the riverlands. i write with a heavy heart, for i know the joy you must feel with your newborn child. yet i cannot keep silent. your husband and i shared a night together, months past, when he rode through my lands. he spoke of you even then, of his love for you, but the gods saw fit to leave me with a piece of him. i carry his child, soon to be born. i seek no claim on his heart, only acknowledgment of what is true. i leave my fate to you, trusting in the kindness your house is known for. may the old gods and the new watch over you and your babe.
in humility,
alys rivers”
the words heavy as a storm cloud. the parchment slipped from your hands, fluttering to the floor, and you stared at it, numb. aemond didn’t move, didn’t speak, his silence louder than any confession. you turned to him, searching his face the face you’d loved, trusted, clung to through every trial. his eye was fixed on the floor, his jaw tight, and that alone cracked something inside you.
“when?”
your voice was a whisper, fragile and raw.
“when did this happen?”
he swallowed hard, still not meeting your gaze.
“before daeron,” he said, barely audible.
“during the campaign in the riverlands. it was once. a mistake.”
a mistake. you pressed a hand to your chest, as if you could stop the ache spreading there.
“you never told me,”
you said, louder now, though your throat burned.
“i gave you everything, aemond, my heart, my trust, this child and you kept this from me?”
aemond finally looked at you, and the guilt in his eye was a blade twisting deeper.
“i didn’t want to hurt you,”
he said, reaching for your hand. you jerked it away, the motion instinctive, and his face fell.
“it was nothing, i swear it. i love you. i’ve only ever loved you.”
“then why does she write to me?”
your voice broke, tears stinging your eyes.
“why does she carry your child, aemond? how am i supposed to believe you when i’m lying here, still bleeding from giving you a son, and she’s out there with another?”
he flinched, as if your words had struck him, and maybe they had.
“i don’t know what she wants,”
he said, desperation creeping in.
“i didn’t ask for this. i didn’t—”
the room spun, the exhaustion of childbirth and the weight of this betrayal crashing over you like a wave. your family was known for kindness, for strength and you’d borne pain with grace, faced every challenge with a steady heart.
but this? this felt like a wound you couldn’t mend.
daeron stirred in his cradle, a soft whimper breaking the silence, and you moved to him instinctively, lifting him into your arms. you held him close, tears slipping down your cheeks as you looked at aemond.
“i thought we were different,” you whispered.
“i thought your love was mine alone.”
“it is,”
he said, standing now, his voice rough with emotion.
“gods, it is. i’ll write to her, send her away, anything you want.”
“what i want?” you laughed, bitter and broken.
“i wanted a husband who didn’t lie to me. i wanted to believe you when you said i was enough.”
you rocked daeron gently, his cries quieting, but your own storm raged on.
“she’s asking for my kindness, aemond. my mercy. how do i give that when i feel like i’m falling apart?”
he stepped closer, hesitant, his hand hovering near your shoulder.
“i’ll spend my life making this right,”
he said, voice cracking.
“i swear it on daeron, on you, on everything i am.”
you didn’t answer.
you couldn’t.
the letter lay on the floor, a cruel reminder of the crack in the life you’d built. your heart, so full of love for him just hours ago, now ached with doubt. you looked down at daeron, then at aemond, and the question burned in your chest.
could you forgive this? could you still believe in him?
summary: in the harsh, frostbitten lands of the north, you, the fierce valyrian-blooded wife of cregan stark, find your world unraveling with the return of arra norrey. pregnant with your first child, your strength is tested as arra’s presence stirs doubt and jealousy, threatening your place as lady of winterfell.
author notes: hi! in this one-shot, i picture the reader as having valyrian blood running through their veins, but without the signature silver hair or purple/blue eyes like the targaryens. however, they do speak high valyrian and ride dragons just like them. of course, this is an imagine, so feel free to picture the reader with any appearance you like. as always, enjoy and happy reading!
“do you think the babe will have your eyes?”
cregan’s voice rumbled low, a rare softness threading through it as he rested a hand on the swell of your belly. the fire crackled in the hearth, his calloused fingers traced absent circles over your gown, and for a moment, the world felt warm, safe.
you tilted your head to meet his gaze, your dark hair spilling over your shoulder like ink against the pale furs.
“i hope they have yours,”
you murmured, a faint smile tugging at your lips.
“grey like the north, steady and strong.”
he chuckled, a sound that vibrated through you, grounding you.
“strong, aye. but they’ll have your fire, i reckon. that valyrian blood of yours, it burns brighter than any hearth.”
you wanted to hold onto that moment, to bottle it and keep it close. your hand found his, pressing it tighter against your stomach, where the babe stirred faintly.
“a wolf with dragon’s blood,”
you said, your voice teasing but laced with pride.
“the north won’t know what to make of them.”
“nor will i,”
he admitted, his grey eyes softening as they held yours.
“but i’ll love them all the same. as i love you.”
the words wrapped around you like a cloak, and you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. his heartbeat was steady, a drumbeat against the howling wind outside.
but the peace shattered when the doors creaked open, a servant stepping in with a hesitant bow.
“my lord, my lady… arra norrey has arrived. she’s in the great hall.”
the name hit you like a gust of winter wind, sharp and unyielding. cregan’s hand stilled on your stomach, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. you watched him, searching his face for a crack in the mask he wore so well.
“arra?”
you asked, keeping your tone even despite the sudden knot in your chest.
“i thought she’d settled in the mountains.”
“so did i,” he said, rising to his feet.
his voice was clipped, not cold, but distant like he was already halfway out the door.
“i’ll see what she wants. rest, love. i won’t be long.”
he pressed a kiss to your forehead, firm and fleeting, before he left. and as the door shut behind him, you felt it, the first splinter in the foundation you’d built together.
arra norrey was no stranger to winterfell.
she was a ghost from cregan’s past, a woman of the north with wild auburn hair and a sharper tongue. she’d been his companion in youth, a friend, a whisper of something more before you’d swept into his life like a storm from the south. the youngest daughter of a valyrian line, your black hair and fierce spirit had captivated him, binding him to you in a way that felt unbreakable. or so you’d thought.
you didn’t mind her shadow at first. you were secure in your place, in the way cregan looked at you, in the child growing inside you. but when she swept into the great hall that day, her presence was a tempest you hadn’t braced for. she was all sharp edges and familiarity, her voice cutting through the air as she greeted cregan with a smile that lingered too long.
“it’s been years, cregan,”
she said, her tone warm, almost possessive.
“the north hasn’t changed, but you… you’ve grown into it.”
you stood at the edge of the hall, unnoticed at first, watching as he returned her smile, not the one he gave you, but something softer, older.
“you’ve not changed either, arra,”
he replied, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes you couldn’t name.
nostalgia?
affection? it clawed at you, that uncertainty.
she barely glanced your way, her focus locked on him. and as the days bled into weeks, it only grew worse. she found reasons to be near him, of bringing tales of the mountains, offering to scout with him, brushing his arm as she laughed at some shared memory from a time before you. you told yourself it was nothing. you were his wife, carrying his heir. but every touch, every glance she stole, chipped away at the steel you’d forged around your heart.
one afternoon, you watched from a window as they stood in the courtyard, her hand resting on his arm as she spoke animatedly. he didn’t pull away. he laughed, a sound that once belonged to you alone and the sight twisted something deep inside you. your hand pressed against your belly, where the babe kicked harder, as if sensing your turmoil.
“i don’t know what to do, sara,”
you confessed one evening, your voice trembling as you sat with sara snow in the quiet of the godswood, the air was bitter. sara, with her dark eyes and gentle demeanor, had become an unexpected anchor in the storm. she carried no judgment, only understanding.
she tilted her head, studying you.
“you’re his lady, his wife. she’s a memory, nothing more. why let her haunt you?”
you pressed a hand to your belly, feeling the faint kick of the life within.
“because he doesn’t see it, the way she looks at him, the way she tries to pull him back to what they had. and i… i feel like i’m fading. like i’m not enough.”
sara’s hand found yours, her grip firm.
“you’re more than enough. you’re valyrian steel in flesh, stronger than she’ll ever be. but you’ve got to tell him, not me. he’s a man, thick as they come sometimes. he won’t know unless you make him see.”
“i’ve tried,”
you whispered, your voice breaking.
“but every time i look at him, i see her shadow behind him. i see the way he softens when she speaks, and i wonder… did he settle for me? did he choose me because i was here, because i was convenient?”
sara frowned, shaking her head.
“you think cregan stark, lord of winterfell, would marry a woman out of convenience? he chose you because you’re a force, a flame in this frozen hell. arra’s a spark that’s long gone out. don’t let her make you doubt that.”
you wanted to believe her, but the doubt had taken root, spreading like frost over glass. that night, when cregan slipped into your chambers, his hands cold from the yard, you couldn’t meet his eyes. he sensed it, kneeling before you as you sat by the fire, your hands folded over your swollen belly.
“what’s wrong, love?”
his voice was gentle, but it broke something in you.
“arra,”
you said, the name tasting like ash.
“she’s everywhere, cregan. every time i turn, she’s there, pulling you away. and you let her.”
his brows furrowed, confusion etching his face.
“she’s an old friend. she means nothing—”
“don’t,”
you snapped, your voice rising despite the tears burning your eyes.
“don’t tell me it’s nothing when i see the way she looks at you, the way you smile at her. i’m your wife, cregan, carrying your child, and i feel like i’m losing you.”
the silence that followed was suffocating. he reached for you, but you pulled away, the ache in your chest too raw.
“i thought i was your fire,”
you whispered, your voice cracking.
“but maybe i’m just the shadow she’s casting.”
he stood then, his expression hardening not with anger, but with something deeper, something pained.
“you think i’d choose her over you? over our family?”
his voice was low, strained, each word deliberate.
“i’ve been a fool not to see it, how it’s hurt you. but you’re wrong, my love. you’re everything.”
you wanted to believe him, but the wound was too fresh, too deep.
“then why does it feel like i’m fighting for you?”
the words slipped out, fragile and broken.
“why does it feel like i’m begging for a place that should already be mine?”
he didn’t answer right away. instead, he turned and left the room, the door closing with a soft thud that echoed in your bones. you sank into the chair, tears streaming down your face as the fire dwindled to embers. the babe kicked again, harder this time, and you pressed your hands to your stomach, whispering apologies to the life you carried, for the fear, for the doubt, for the cracks in the love you’d thought unbreakable.
the next morning, arra was gone.
you heard it from the servants first, she’d been sent back to the mountains, her horse saddled before dawn. the news came like a cold wind and unexpected, and you stood in the courtyard, watching the empty space where she’d last been. the snow crunched under your boots, your breath clouding in the frigid air.
when cregan found you, he looked weary, his eyes shadowed with something you hadn’t seen before, regret, perhaps, or resolve. he stopped a few paces away, his cloak dusted with snow.
“she’s gone,” he said simply, his voice rough.
“i told her to leave. for you.”
you stared at him, your heart pounding.
“why?”
“because i saw it, how she looked at me, how it tore at you. i’d never dishonor you, never let anyone come between us. arra… she was a piece of my past, a friend i thought i could keep at arm’s length. but i was wrong.”
he stepped closer, his hands reaching for yours, and this time you didn’t pull away.
“i should’ve sent her off the moment she arrived. i was blind, and i’m sorry.”
tears spilled down your cheeks, hot against the cold.
“i thought… i thought you regretted me,”
you admitted, your voice trembling.
“that i wasn’t enough. that she was the one you wanted, deep down.”
he cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears, his touch warm despite the chill.
“regret you? gods, no. you’re the fire in my blood, the steel in my spine. i’d burn the north to ashes before i let you doubt that. arra was a memory, a ghost i didn’t bury well enough. but you… you’re my life, my heart, the mother of my child.”
you broke then, a sob escaping as you fell into his arms. he held you tight, his warmth seeping into you, thawing the ice that had settled in your chest.
“i love you,”
he murmured against your hair, fierce and unwavering.
“only you. always you.”
you clung to him, the weight of your fears lifting, replaced by the steady beat of his heart against yours. the babe kicked between you, a reminder of the life you’d built, the love that held despite the cracks. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands framing your face as snowflakes caught in your dark hair.
“i’d fight the world for you,”
he said, his voice low but steady.
“every inch of it. you’re my lady, my wife, my flame. no one else.”
you reached up, your fingers curling into his cloak, pulling him down until his lips met yours. the kiss was desperate at first, all the pent-up fear and longing spilling out, but it softened into something tender, something sure. the cold faded, the shadows retreated, and all that remained was the heat of him, the strength of you, and the promise of what lay ahead.
as the snow fell silent around you, you rested your forehead against his, your breath mingling in the frozen air.
“i believe you,”
you whispered, and it felt like a release, a weight you hadn’t known you carried.
“i love you too.”
he smiled then, the one he saved for you alone, soft, unguarded, and full of the north’s quiet strength.
“good,”
he said, his hand slipping to your belly.
“because this little one needs us both.”
and in that moment, with the wind howling and the world vast and wild around you, you knew no shadow could dim the fire you shared.
summary: you have fled to the stormlands with queen rhaenyra’s leave, seeking solace with your mother and father after the fractures in your marriage to jace deepen. as you dine with your parents one stormy night, grappling with the ache of being second in jace’s heart, he arrives unannounced. your parents, aware of the strain between you, bear witness as jace humbles himself, offering an apology to them for his failings as your husband.
author’s note: heyy! hope you like part 2 as much as the first one. there’s a possibility of a part 3, so stay tuned! also, if you have any feedback, i’d love to hear it. enjoy!
the stormlands roar tonight, rain hammering the high walls of raventhorne keep, you sit at the long oak table in the hall, the hearth’s warmth warring with the damp chill seeping through every crevice. your mother, lady ellyn, slides a goblet of spiced wine toward you, her keen eyes tracing the shadows beneath yours. your father, lord cedric, carves a slab of roasted boar with a steady hand, though his silence cuts deeper than the storm’s din. they know, queen rhaenyra’s raven granted you these days away, but it’s your hollow gaze and restless fingers that betray the state of your marriage.
“you’ve scarce touched your plate, y/n,” your mother says, her voice soft but piercing.
“is it the journey, or does dragonstone still cling to you?”
you muster a smile, fragile as dry leaves.
“the sea road wearies me, mother. that’s all.”
your father grunts, setting his knife down with a thud.
“wearies you, she says. yet here you sit, with the queen’s leave and no word of your husband. we’re not blind, girl.”
before you can even reply, the hall’s heavy doors groan open, a gust of wind sweeping in alongside a figure cloaked in black. the servants falter, but you recognize that stride, the faint clink of a sword sheath against leather.
jacaerys velaryon stands there, drenched, his dark hair plastered to his brow. his eyes lock on yours across the hall, and the air tightens, sharp, electric, like the calm before a thunderclap.
“jace?”
your voice slips out, small and unsteady, as you rise. your parents trade a look, their expressions hardening.
“lord cedric, lady ellyn,” he says, bowing stiffly despite the water pooling at his feet.
“i beg your pardon for coming unbidden. i rode from dragonstone without rest.”
your father leans back, arms crossed.
“a hard ride in wretched weather. what drags the heir of driftmark to our door, and not at his wife’s side where he belongs?”
jace straightens, a tremor in his stance exhaustion, perhaps, or shame.
“i’ve come to speak with y/n. and to you both.”
he pauses, then steps forward, firelight catching the regret in his eyes.
“i’ve not been the husband she deserves. i’ve wronged her, wronged your house and i seek your forgiveness for it.”
your mother’s brows arch, her tone cold as forged steel.
“bold of you, prince jacaerys. you think words stitch up what’s been unraveling for years? we entrusted our daughter to you, not to see her return to us a shell.”
“i know,”
he says, voice breaking, raw and unguarded.
“i know what she’s endured my silences, my choices. i thought duty could hold us together, but i see now how it’s wounded her deeper than any sword. i’ve let… baela’s shadow stretch too far, and i’ve no defense but my own failing.”
you stand rooted, your heart a snarl of anger and longing.
“you say this now?” you whisper, stepping closer.
“after i’ve begged, after i’ve broken, you ride here to confess to my parents what you couldn’t face with me?”
“i tried, y/n,”
he says, turning to you, his gaze pleading.
“in dragonstone, i tried, but you were right, i’ve been a coward. i thought i could bury what i felt, for baela, for the past, and offer you what remained. but it wasn’t enough. it’ll never be enough until i reckon with it.”
your father stands, his presence looming.
“and what do you reckon with now, boy? a wife who’s given you her loyalty, her name, and what have you given her? a cold bed and a colder heart?”
jace doesn’t waver, though his hands clench.
“i’ve given her my shortcomings, lord cedric. but i swear on my honor, on my blood i’ll do better. not for duty, but because y/n worth more than i’ve allowed myself to see.”
your mother’s eyes shift to you, softening.
“y/n, what say you? this is your hearth, your pain. we’ll not choose for you.”
the hall falls quiet save for the storm’s fury, all eyes on you. your throat tightens, tears you’ve held back for days prickling hotly.
“you think words mend this, jace?” you say, voice quaking.
“you think riding through the rain erases the years i’ve been your second choice? i stood by you when baela turned away, when the court sneered, when i wanted to hate you but couldn’t. and now you come here, to my father’s hall, and heap your guilt at my feet?”
“i don’t ask forgiveness tonight,”
he says, stepping nearer, his voice low and fierce.
“i ask you to let me try. to prove i can be more than the fool who let you slip away.”
you meet his gaze, the boy you once raced through the vale warring with the man who’s shattered your heart.
“and if i say no?” you ask, barely a breath.
“if i choose to stay here, with storms i understand, instead of the ones you carry?”
he falters, pain etching his face.
“then i’ll ride back to dragonstone alone. but i’ll not stop trying, y/n. not until you tell me there’s nothing left to save.”
the weight of his words presses down, heavy as the rain-soaked cloak he wears. your parents watch, waiting, but you feel the choice looming a ledge you’re not ready to leap from.
“stay,”
you say at last, the word slipping out before you can stop it.
“the storm’s too fierce to ride back tonight. take a chamber here for a few days. we’ll speak when the skies clear.”
he blinks, surprise flickering in his eyes, then nods slowly.
“as you wish. my thanks, y/n and to you, lord cedric, lady ellyn, for your hospitality.”
your mother rises, gesturing to a servant.
“see him settled. dry clothes and a fire, he’ll catch his death otherwise.”
then she turns to you, her voice low.
“show him, y/n. it’s your home.”
you hesitate, but nod, stepping forward.
“come, jace.”
he follows you through the shadowed corridors, you lead him to a guest chamber, its wooden door creaking as you push it open. inside, a small fire already crackles, and a servant has left a stack of dry linens on the bed. jace lingers at the threshold, water dripping from his cloak onto the stone.
“you’ll need to shed that,”
you say, nodding to his sodden clothes.
“it’ll only chill you more.”
he glances down, then begins unclasping his cloak, his fingers stiff from the cold. you step closer without thinking, reaching to help him with the stubborn knot at his shoulder. your hands brush his, and he stills, his breath catching. for a moment, you’re children again, untangling nets by the river, laughing as the wind tugged at your hair.
“you didn’t have to come,”
you murmur, not meeting his eyes as you work the knot free.
“not through this.”
“i did,” he says softly, watching you. “i couldn’t leave it as it was.”
the cloak falls to the floor with a wet thud, and you step back, fetching a dry tunic from the pile.
“here,” you say, handing it to him.
“warm yourself. i’ll have broth sent up.”
he takes it, his fingers grazing yours, and the touch lingers, a quiet ache.
“y/n,” he starts, but you shake your head.
“not tonight,” you say, turning to the fire.
you kneel to stoke it, the flames leaping higher, and feel his eyes on your back.
“rest. we’ll talk when the storm breaks.”
he doesn’t argue, and you hear the rustle of fabric as he changes. when you rise, he’s by the hearth, the dry tunic clinging to his damp skin, his hair still a mess of wet curls. you pause, then reach for a cloth, tossing it to him.
“dry your head, at least. you look half-drowned.”
a faint smile tugs at his lips a small, fleeting, but real.
“thank you,” he says, rubbing the cloth through his hair. it’s a simple thing, but it softens the air between you, if only for a moment.
“sleep well, jace,” you say, stepping toward the door.
“the keep’s yours for now.”
he nods, the firelight casting shadows across his face.
“goodnight, y/n.”
you leave him there, the door clicking shut behind you, and return to the hall. your mother takes your hand as you sit, her voice a whisper.
“what will you do, my raven?”
you stare into the flames, their heat a distant comfort, and murmur,
“i don’t know, mother.”
outside, the storm rages on, and with it, the question of what these days will bring.
summary: you, y/n raventhorne of house raventhorne, have spent your life tied to jacaerys velaryon. first as his childhood companion, then as his wife through a political marriage. though your bond once held promise, it’s now a shadow of what it could have been. jacaerys’ heart has always belonged to baela targaryen, his intended bride, until she refused him. you stepped into her place, a willing substitute, but never his true choice.
warnings: angst, emotional distress, themes of unrequited love, political marriage, heartbreak.
author note: my first ‘hotd’ fanfic! hope you like it. any questions or requests are very much appreciated! i’m not sure if i’ll write a part 2 yet, but if you really want one, just let me know. xx
“you’ve been staring at that fire as though it holds answers i cannot give,” jacaerys says.
his voice cutting through the quiet of the chamber. the stone walls of dragonstone loom around you, the salt-heavy air seeping in from the sea. he stands near the door, his dark curls tousled, the faint clink of his sword sheath brushing his thigh a sound you know too well.
you don’t turn from the hearth, your hands clasped tightly in the folds of your black velvet gown. the silver raven sigil of house raventhorne glints at your breast, a cold reminder of your name, your duty.
“perhaps it does,”
you reply, your tone clipped, honed by years of swallowing words you longed to speak.
“the flames do not lie, jace. they burn what’s false and leave only… the truth.”
he steps closer, his boots scuffing the stone floor.
“and what truth do you see there, y/n? that i’ve wronged you somehow? that i’ve failed you?”
you laugh, a bitter sound that surprises even you, and finally face him. his brown eyes meet yours, steady, guarded, achingly familiar.
“failed me? no, my lord. you’ve honored our vows, kept me fed and cloaked and housed. a fine husband, by the measure of duty. but we both know where your heart lies.”
his jaw tightens, a flicker of guilt shadowing his face.
“baela has naught to do with this.”
“baela has everything to do with this,”
you counter, stepping toward him, your skirts whispering against the cold floor.
“do not stand there and weave half-truths. i’ve borne them long enough. every choice you make carries her name, and when she refuses, i am the one who steps into the void. i am your wife, jacaerys, bound by blood and oath, and yet i am ever the shadow of what you wanted.”
“she made her choice,” he says, voice low, almost pleading. “she refused me. you know this.”
“and yet she lingers,” you press, the words spilling out like a wound breaking open.
“in your silences, in the way you pause before you touch me. i see it, jace every time you ride to war, whose favor do you seek? when you return, blood-stained and weary, whose name do you murmur in the dark? i’ve stood by you, carried the weight of this alliance, of our houses, of a crown you might one day claim. and still, i am second.”
he flinches, running a hand through his hair, a gesture you once found endearing, now a dagger to your chest.
“you think i don’t care for you? we were friends, y/n… more than that, once. i’ve tried—”
“tried?” you cut him off, your voice trembling despite yourself.
“i do not want your efforts, jacaerys. i want your heart. i want to be seen not as the one who took baela’s place, but as me. y/n raventhorne. your wife. not the consolation you settled for.”
he steps forward then, closing the gap, his hand hovering near your arm.
“you speak as though i’ve cast you aside. i’ve honored our marriage, our duty—”
“duty,” you spit, stepping back from his reach.
“i am no child to be placated with talk of duty. i’ve played my part, smiled at feasts, held my tongue when you lingered too long at her side, endured the court’s whispers. but i am flesh and blood, jace, not stone. i feel every wound you deal me, every moment you choose her over me.”
his hand falls, his shoulders slumping as though your words have struck true.
“what would you have me do?”
he asks, raw and unguarded. “i cannot unmake the past. baela was my first betrothed, yes, but you… you are my wife. my future.”
“and yet you do not love me,”
you whisper, the truth slipping free, sharp and final. it hangs between you, heavy as a storm cloud. his silence answers, and your chest tightens, tears prickling at your eyes.
“y/n…” he begins, but you shake your head, cutting him off.
“do not offer me pity,” you say, voice breaking.
“i’ve had my fill of it.” you turn toward the window, the sea a restless blur of black and silver beyond the glass.
“i thought i could bear it, being second in your heart. i thought time might shift the balance. but i am weary, jace. weary of chasing a shadow i’ll never outrun.”
he’s quiet, the crackle of the fire and the distant roar of waves filling the void. when he speaks again, his voice is soft, threaded with something you can’t name.
“if you wish to be free of this, if you wish to return to the vale, to your house… i would not stop you.”
your breath catches, a fresh pain blooming within you. freedom. he offers it like a mercy, but it cuts like a blade. to leave would be to surrender, to abandon the years you’ve given him. to stay would be to break beneath the weight of his indifference.
you face him, eyes blazing through unshed tears.
“and what then, jacaerys? you’d summon baela the moment my ship sails? or find another to fill my place, as i filled hers?”
he doesn’t answer, and that silence carves a deeper wound than words ever could. you step toward the door, your voice steady despite the storm within.
“i’ll not decide this night. but know this, my lord husband, i am done being the one you settle for.”
you brush past him, the scent of leather and steel clinging to him as you go, and you don’t look back. the hall stretches dark and endless before you, and as you vanish into its depths, one question burns in your mind.
