synopsis . you are wed to a Hightower who despises you, and desired by another who cannot have you, until Gwayne decides that he shall be to you all that Ormund never was. words. 5.1k
contents. +18 (MDNI) ⋆ targ! reader ⋆ based on this ask ⋆ smut ⋆ age gap ⋆ angst ⋆ forbidden romance ⋆ cheating ⋆ dangerous desire ⋆ praise kink ⋆ loss of virginity ⋆ masterlist⠀ಣ
The audience chamber of Oldtown was too vast for a conversation that ought to have been private. The stone walls rose in high arches, the Hightower tapestries hanging between the coloured glass windows, and the fire in the hearth crackled without warming the room. Ormund stood near the oak table, his fingers drumming against the wood as though he were counting the seconds until he could be quit of the place.
Gwayne stood at his side, arms crossed, his gaze fixed upon some distant point upon the wall. He tried not to look at you, not to mark the way the candlelight caught the dark strands of your hair, or the way your fingers clutched at the hem of your gown as though you were holding fast to something to keep yourself from unraveling entirely.
"The agreement with my mother is not a suggestion, Ormund," you said, your voice pitched higher than you had intended. "It is a condition. If we do not have a child, all this, your lordship over the Reach, will be taken by her, and the realm will be divided once more, and war will return."
Ormund raised his eyes to you, bored as ever when the matter of your marriage was raised. His green eyes traced your face with a disdain you had come to know well, and his mouth curved into a smile altogether contemptuous.
"You need not remind me of my duties, princess."
"Duties?" you repeated, your brow furrowing. "We have been wed more than a year, and you have not once called me by my name. How many nights have I begged you to lie with me? How many times have I humbled myself before you?"
Gwayne's hand, at his side, closed slowly into a fist. You saw the knuckles go white, the muscles of his forearm tightening beneath the skin.
"You do not love me," you went on, taking a step toward Ormund. "You have never loved me. I am but a Targaryen to legitimise your station. But you forget that your station depends upon me."
Ormund stared at you for a long moment.
"You are hysterical," he said, pointing at you. "You think I shall lie with you simply because your mother is the queen?"
"I am speaking the truth," you retorted, and the tears began to fall. "My mother might have wed me to anyone, might have sent me to the farthest ends of the world, but she chose you, Ormund, because she believed you would honour the agreement. And you..." your voice broke, and drawing a deep breath, you tried to compose yourself. "You do not even look at me."
You took another step toward him, reaching out to touch his arm. The fabric of his tunic was thick beneath your fingers, and you felt the stiffness of his body, the way he drew back slightly from your touch.
"What must I do?" your voice was broken now. "What must I do for you to treat me as your wife?"
Ormund pushed you as though he were shooing away a fly. You stumbled, your feet slipping upon the woolen carpet, and you tried to catch yourself upon the oak table, but Ormund seized your wrist with force, his fingers closing about the bone, preventing you from finding your support.
"You shall do as you do every day, and stay in your chambers, princess," he said, his jaw tight, fury consuming him. "And do not dare address me by name again."
"I hate you!" you screamed.
His hand struck your face with a dry crack, the force turning your head aside. You felt the pain explode across your cheek, the heat spreading through the skin in waves, and the shock was so great that you could not even gasp. You stood frozen, your hand pressed against your burning cheek.
The sound of hurried footsteps came, and Gwayne placed himself between the two of you before you could process what had happened. His body blocked Ormund, creating a barrier between you and your husband, and his hand seized Ormund's wrist, forcing his cousin's fingers to release you immediately. Gwayne's jaw was tight, his pale eyes fixed upon Ormund.
"What are you doing?" Gwayne demanded, furious. "She is your wife, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra. You cannot lay hands upon her so, even if she were any common woman."
Ormund wrenched his wrist free from Gwayne's grip. His face twisted into a disdainful grimace.
"You are giving me commands?" he asked, his voice rising. "I am the Lord of Oldtown, Gwayne. Not you."
"And I am your cousin," Gwayne retorted. His pale eyes did not waver from Ormund's face, and you saw the muscles of his shoulders tighten beneath his tunic. "And I am telling you: if you touch her again, I shall see that Queen Rhaenyra learns how you treat her daughter."
Ormund stared at him for a long moment, his green eyes narrowing, his jaw tightening, and you saw his hands close into fists at his sides.
"You would not do that."
"Try me."
The silence stretched between the two men, and you stood frozen, your hand still pressed against your burning cheek. The tears were beginning to fall, and you could not stop them. They slid through your fingers, wetting your skin, and you tasted their salt upon your lips.
Ormund stepped back, adjusting his tunic with a brusque gesture. His gaze swept over you for an instant, and you saw the pure contempt he held for you.
"Take care of her, then, cousin," he said, sardonic. "Since you seem so eager to do so."
He turned and left, the door closing with a heavy thud behind him. You stood still, your hand still upon your face, the tears streaming through your fingers. Your cheek burned, the heat spreading through your skin, and you felt your body trembling with a dull rage that began to simmer in the depths of your chest.
Gwayne did not move for a moment. His shoulders were still tense, his breathing heavy, and you saw his fingers open and close at his sides, as though he were trying to control himself. You realised he was as shaken as you were.
And then he turned.
"Let me see," he said, and he seemed to be forcing calm into every word.
You hesitated, but he drew closer, his hand finding your wrist with gentleness; his fingers were warm against your skin, and he drew your fingers away from your cheek with a slow, careful motion.
The skin was red, the mark of Ormund's hand beginning to form. You saw his gaze trace the area, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"You are hurt," he said, worrying his lip in frustration. "That—"
"I am well, Ser Gwayne," you lied, your voice trembling. The tears were falling, and you could not stop them.
Gwayne stared at you, his eyes tracing your face, and you were almost certain he would go after Ormund to renew the argument, but Gwayne... oh, Gwayne was a good knight.
"You are not well," he said at last. "And you need not pretend otherwise. Nor am I."
The tears you had been holding finally fell, and you felt your body shake with silent sobs. The humiliation, the rage, the pain, all of it came at once, and you could no longer contain it.
Gwayne hesitated for only a second. You saw the struggle upon his face, the battle between duty and desire, between the honourable man and the man who wanted you too much. And then his arms opened, and he drew you close, his body against yours, his hand finding your back with gentleness.
"I am sorry," he murmured against your hair. His voice was low, rough, and you felt the vibration of it against his chest. "I am sorry he treated you so."
You buried your face in his chest, your hands closing in the fabric of his tunic. His scent was serene, and perhaps there was the smell of leather from the armour he wore on patrols, or perhaps simply him. The feeling of his arms about you was strangely comforting, and you felt the tension begin to dissolve slowly.
"Why does he hate me?" you whispered against his tunic.
"Ormund does not hate you," Gwayne said, and his fingers moved upon your back, tracing slow circles through the fabric. "He simply could not best your mother, and was forced to make an agreement with her, and as a way to vent his rage, he is using you."
"Then why does he not let me go?" you raised your eyes to him, the tears still falling. His face was so close that you could see the tiny specks of colour in his pale eyes. "Why does he keep me here, if he does not want me?"
Gwayne looked at you for a long moment, and you saw a spark of desire, perhaps, or of struggle, or of both.
"He is a fool," he said, his thumb wiping away the tear that traced down your cheeks. "Who does not know what he has. Who does not see what stands before him."
The distance between you was too small, and you could feel his breath, the warmth of his body, the way his eyes were fixed upon yours.
"I wish I had been wed to someone like you, Ser Gwayne," you said, your voice coming out softer than you had intended.
He stopped the caress upon your face and drew back a small step, his face studying yours completely.
"My mother should have wed me to you," you repeated, touching his hand gently where it rested upon your face. "She gave me to a monster when she might have given me to the most honourable and gentle man in this house."
"You do not know what you are saying, princess," Gwayne said, his voice rough.
"I know what I am saying," you answered. "You have never treated me as he has."
His hand hesitated for a moment, but he resumed the caress, glancing briefly at the door through which Ormund had departed and turning back to you.
"You ought not say that," he said, his voice tense.
"Why?"
"Because I am but a knight," he said, sighing. "Because this would never lead anywhere. I am not one who should think of you so," he said.
"Think of me as what?" you asked.
Gwayne watched you for a long moment. His eyes traced your face slowly, moving down to your lips, then up again.
"As a woman," he said, his voice so low you almost did not hear. "As a woman who should not be in my arms, nor be the chief cause of my desires."
You felt your heart miss a beat, and you squeezed his fingers gently upon your face, your eyes moving down to his lips and slowly up to his eyes.
"And if I wish to be in your arms, Ser Gwayne?" you asked.
His hand stopped.
"Princess..."
"You have known me a year. You have seen me try, humble myself, beg for crumbs of attention from a man who does not want me. And you have always been kind to me. Always patient. Always listening."
"I am an honourable man," he said, and his voice was tight, as though he were forcing each word out. "I cannot—"
"You cannot what?" you asked, touching his face. "Cannot desire me? Cannot wish to be the first man to treat me as a woman?"
His body seemed to stiffen beneath your touch. You felt his hand upon your cheek begin to tremble slightly, and his breath grow heavier.
"You do not know what you are doing," he said, and there was a warning in his voice. "You are hurt, you are wounded, and I will not be the man who takes advantage of that, princess."
He stared at you for a long moment, and you saw the struggle in his eyes.
"You are young," he went on, tender. "You are pure. I could not..."
His hand found your chin, his fingers closing with gentleness.
"You do not know what you are doing to me," he murmured, his voice almost broken.
"Ser Gwayne...?"
"You are making me want things I ought not want," he whispered. "You are making me think of you in ways I ought not think."
You felt the heat rising between your legs and did not know what it was— whether it was desire, whether something was wrong — you only knew that you wanted to kiss him then and there.
"You are making me want to be the first," he said, and his voice was so low you almost did not hear. "The first to touch you. The first to show you what it is to be desired. The first to make you forget that Ormund exists."
You felt your heart quicken, and his hand tightened upon your chin, his breathing heavy.
"If I do this," he wet his lips, "I will not be able to stop. Do you understand that? If I touch you, if I kiss you, I will not be able to turn back."
"It will be reason to set aside my marriage, and my mother will wed me to you," you said.
And then he leaned in.
The kiss was slow, hesitant, as though he were testing something, as though he were waiting for you to draw back. His hand still held your chin, his fingers pressing gently upon your skin, and you felt the warmth of his lips against yours.
The kiss deepened, his hand sliding into your hair, his fingers tangling in the dark strands, and he drew you closer. His mouth opened against yours, his tongue sliding, and you tasted him; you felt his free hand find your waist, pulling you against him, and the feeling of his body against yours made your heart race. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling against yours, and when his hand tightened upon your waist, you heard a moan escape your lips.
The sound seemed to break something within him; his lips drew back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath still heavy.
"You do not know what you are doing to me," he murmured. "You have no notion of what I want to do with you."
"Then show me, ser," you whispered.
He looked at you for a long moment, his eyes tracing your face, moving down to your lips, and you saw the decision forming in his eyes. The hand that still held your chin tightened slightly, and he drew you closer, his forehead still resting against yours.
Gwayne drew back slowly, his fingers still touching your face, and walked toward the door. You heard the sound of the key turning in the lock; when he turned, the mask of the honourable knight had fallen, and what remained was a man who had decided to yield at last to what he felt.
"Come here," he said, his voice low.
You obeyed, walking slowly toward him, your legs trembling, your heart beating so loudly you could hear the blood pounding in your ears.
Gwayne did not move when you drew near, only watched you, his eyes tracing your face, moving down to your neck, to the neckline of your gown, and up again. His breathing was heavier now, and you saw his hand close and open at his side.
His hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours, and he drew you close. Your body collided with his, and you felt the heat radiating from his skin, the solidness of his chest against yours.
His free hand found your waist, sliding to your back, pulling you against him. His mouth found your neck, his lips kissing the skin softly, and you felt shivers run up your spine.
You felt his hand slide slowly down to the curve of your back, to the beginning of your bottom, and your breath caught. It was not a rough touch, but it was firm, and you felt the heat spread through your whole body.
"You have never been touched so?" he asked against your skin.
"No," you whispered, your eyes closed.
"By him?"
"Never."
His hand tightened gently, and you felt your body move toward his without any control on your part. The sound that escaped your lips was something between a moan and a sigh, and you did not recognise it as your own.
"You heard that?" he asked. "That sound you made?"
"Yes," you whispered, your voice trembling.
"Did you know your body could do that?"
"No," you said, and the honesty of the answer made your face grow warm.
His hand slid upward, finding the laces of your gown. His fingers moved slowly, untying the knot with patience; you heard the fabric give way, the feeling of freedom upon your skin, and the gown slid from your shoulders to pool at your waist.
You were exposed, your breasts bare beneath the candlelight, your skin goosefleshed by the cold air. You felt shame take hold of you, and your arms began to rise to cover yourself, but Gwayne's hand found your wrists, holding them firmly.
"No," he said. "Do not hide from me."
"I—" you began, but the words died in your throat.
"Do not hide," he repeated, and his hand slid to your waist, pulling you close. His chest met yours, skin against skin, and you felt his body against yours.
His lips found your shoulder, kissing the skin softly, moving down to your collarbone, and his fingers traced the curve of your waist, moving down to your hip, and his hand tightened upon the skin, pulling you against him. You felt his hardness against your thigh, and the heat spread through your body like fire.
"You feel that?" he asked. "Feel what you do to me?"
"Yes," you gasped.
"That is what happens when a man desires you," he said, and his hand slid to your hip, tightening with more force. "That is what you do to me, princess."
You felt his fingers find the hem of the gown that still lay at your waist, pulling it down. The fabric slid over your thighs, falling to the floor, and you stood naked before him, your eyes fixed upon his.
His pale eyes traced your body slowly, and you felt his gaze like a touch. His hand found your face, his fingers tracing the red mark upon your cheek.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured, contemplating you.
His hands found your waist, and he pulled you closer, bodies pressing together; he lifted you as though you weighed nothing, and his fingers found the oak table, setting you upon the cold wood. The feeling of the wood against your bare skin was strange, the surface rough, and his hand found your thighs, parting them.
"Do you trust me?" he asked, his eyes fixed upon yours.
"Yes," you whispered.
His lips found yours, and the kiss was different now, deeper, and his hand slid downward, his fingers finding the hot centre between your thighs. You felt the touch and held your breath, your body moving toward him without control. His fingers slid slowly, finding you wet, and you felt the shock of pleasure course through your body.
"You are wet," he murmured against your lips.
"I—" you began, but you hesitated.
"That is what happens when you are desired," he said, and his fingers moved in slow circles, and you felt the pleasure spread.
"I did not know—" you gasped. "I did not know I could feel this."
"You did not know," he repeated, his fingers moving faster.
"No," you whispered, and his fingers moved faster, and you felt the tension building in the pit of your belly, a strange feeling you had never known before.
"What are you feeling?" he asked.
"I do not know," you gasped.
"It is pleasure. This is what happens when someone touches you the right way," he said, his fingers pressing against the sensitive spot.
Your body moved against his hand, and the sound that escaped your lips was loud, and you felt his free hand find yours, fingers intertwining.
"Do you want to feel more?"
"Yes," you whispered. "Please."
His hand withdrew, and you felt the emptiness, but before you could protest, his fingers found your entrance, sliding slowly, and you felt the stretching, the filling. The feeling was strange and wonderful at once, your body opening to him.
"This is what happens," he murmured, his fingers moving slowly. "You are learning."
"Yes," you gasped, and his fingers moved faster, and the tension built again.
"Do you feel that?" he asked.
"Yes," you whispered.
"Let it happen."
The tension broke, and you felt the pleasure spread, your body arching against his hand, and the sound that escaped your lips was loud, unbridled. His hand continued to move, prolonging the pleasure until you could scarcely breathe.
When at last he stopped, you lay, gasping, your body trembling. His hand found your face, his fingers tracing your cheek.
His hand found your hip, and you felt his cock press against your entrance.
"This will hurt a little," he said, his eyes fixed upon yours. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes," you whispered.
He entered slowly, and you felt the stretching, the sharp pain that mingled with pleasure. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining, and he paused, giving you time to grow accustomed.
"Are you well?" he asked, his voice rough.
"Yes," you gasped, nodding.
His body moved slowly, finding a rhythm, and the pain began to turn into something more, into pleasure, and your body moved against his, following the rhythm. His hand tightened upon yours, his thumb tracing your skin, and his lips found yours.
"You are so tight," he murmured. "So perfect."
His hand slid downward, his fingers finding the centre, and the sensation intensified, and you felt the pleasure building again. His body quickened, and you felt yourself arching against him, your fingers closing upon his shoulders, the moan escaping your lips.
His body continued to move, his fingers tightening upon your hip, and his free hand found your face, his fingers tracing your cheek, but then he moved.
Gwayne drew back slowly, the absence leaving a cold emptiness where the warmth of his body had been. You felt the loss like a shock, and your eyes opened, finding his. He stood, looking at you.
"Rise," he said, his voice low.
You obeyed, your legs still trembling, your body still vibrating with the ecstasy of the pleasure he had given you. His hand found yours, pulling you away from the table, and he guided you toward the stone wall. The surface was cold against your back, and you felt the shock of the temperature contrasting with the heat of his skin as he drew near again.
His hand found your face, his fingers tracing the red mark upon your cheek.
"Do you trust me?" he asked again.
"Yes," you whispered.
His hand slid into your hair, his fingers tangling in the dark strands, and he pulled you into a kiss. It was not like the first; it was hungry, urgent, as though he were trying to make up for all the time he had spent holding back. His mouth opened against yours, his tongue invading, and you tasted him, the desire, the need.
His free hand found your thigh, lifting it, and you felt his hardness press against your centre. He lifted you against the wall, your back scraping against the stone, your legs opening about his hips.
"Do you want more?" he asked against your lips.
"Yes," you gasped.
He entered again, and this time there was no hesitation. The feeling was deeper, more intense, and you felt every inch of him filling you. His hand found your hip, pulling you against him, and his hips began to move possessively.
"Do you feel that?" he asked, his voice rough against your ear. "Feel how much I want you?"
"Yes," you moaned.
"Feel how much I need you?"
"Yes."
"Feel how much I have thought of you? Every night, every day, since you came here?"
The words struck you like a shock. You felt the tightening of his fingers upon your hip, the way his body moved against yours with greater intensity.
"You thought of me?" you asked, your voice breathless.
"Every night," he gasped. "Every damn night. I saw you in the corridors, and I wanted to pull you into a dark chamber. I saw you with Ormund, and I wanted to tear him from your side. I saw you smile at me, and I wanted to be the only man who made you smile so."
"Gwayne—"
"You have no notion what you have done to me," he went on, his hips quickening. "You have no notion what I want to do with you."
His body pulled you away from the wall, carrying you as though you weighed nothing. The sofa was there, and he cast you upon it with a thud that sent the cushions tumbling to the floor. You lay, gasping, your body exposed beneath the candlelight.
Gwayne stood still for a moment, looking at you. His eyes traced your body, from breasts to belly, from thighs to your drenched cunt. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling.
He leaned over you, his body covering yours. His hand found your breast, his fingers closing upon the flesh, and his mouth descended, his lips closing about your nipple. His tongue moved in slow circles, his teeth grazing, and you arched your back, your fingers tangling in his auburn hair.
His free hand slid downward, finding your cunt, and his fingers entered slowly. You felt the stretching, the filling, and his fingers moved within you, finding a rhythm that made your body move against his hand.
His fingers moved faster, and you felt the orgasm approaching. His hand found your clit, his thumb pressing, and you felt the tension building.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
His fingers stopped.
"Gwayne—" you moaned, the desperation in your voice.
"I want you to wait," he said, and there was a smile upon his lips. "I want you to learn to wait."
"Please, ser," you begged.
"Please what?"
"Please, touch me. Please, let me feel."
"You want to come?"
"Yes."
His eyes were fixed upon yours, and you saw the desire, the need, the way he wanted to see you unravel.
You felt the tears beginning to gather. They streamed down your cheeks, and he saw them.
His hand slid downward again, his fingers finding your cunt, and his thumb pressed against your clit. The sensation was unbearable, the tension building.
"Turn over," he commanded.
You obeyed, your body turning onto your belly. His hand found your waist, pulling you up, your hips raised. You felt his cock press against your cunt, the head sliding through your wetness.
He entered deeper this time, the new position allowing him to reach places you did not know existed. You felt every inch, the stretching, the filling.
His hand found your hair, pulling your head back, and his body began to move. Each thrust was deeper than the last, and you felt the pleasure building again.
His body quickened, and you felt the orgasm approaching, and this time, he did not make you wait.
"Now," he commanded. "Come for me."
The orgasm exploded like a storm at Storm's End, your body arching against his, the scream escaping your lips. He continued to move, prolonging the pleasure until you felt the tension in him, his breathing heavy.
His body moved over you, and you felt his weight against yours, his cock already hardening again against your thigh. His hand found your hip, pulling you close, and his mouth descended to your neck.
He pulled you up, your bodies meeting, and his hand slid downward, his fingers finding your wet cunt.
His hand withdrew, and he pushed you back, your body falling upon the bed. His hand found your hip, pulling you to the edge, and you felt his hardness press against your entrance.
"Look at me," he commanded.
You obeyed.
"You are so innocent," he said, seizing your face. "And here I am, corrupting you."
"You are not corrupting me, ser," you said, your voice trembling. "You are showing me what I deserve to feel."
He entered slowly, and you felt every inch, and his hand found yours, fingers intertwining, and he began to move.
"You are a dragon," he said, his voice rough. "And I am riding you."
The words made something within you clench. You felt the heat spread through your body, the feeling of being possessed, of being dominated.
"You will not go back to him," he went on. "You will stay with me."
He laughed lowly, the sound vibrating against his chest, and his hand found your face, his fingers tracing the line of your cheek.
"You want to ride me?" he asked.
"Yes," you gasped.
"Then ride me."
You rose upon your knees, your hand finding his hardness, guiding it toward your cunt. The pressure was hot, and you felt the tip slide through your wetness.
"Slowly," he commanded, his hands finding your hips. "Slowly."
You descended slowly, feeling every inch, the sensation intense, and you paused when he was fully inside you.
"What do I do now?" you asked.
"You move," he said, and his hands guided your hips, teaching the rhythm. "Like this. Slowly."
You moved upon him, your hips moving in slow circles, and you felt the pleasure spread; his hand found your breast, squeezing, and the other slid downward, his thumb finding your clit.
Your hips quickened, each movement deeper than the last, and his hands released your hips, and you moved upon him again.
Your body arched against his, the scream escaping your lips. You felt the tension in him, his breathing heavy, and then he pulled you down, his body turning, and you were on your belly again, your hips raised, and he was behind you.
His body continued to move, trembled, the spasms running through his muscles, and you felt the tears fall.
When at last he stopped, you lay, gasping, your body trembling. His hand found your face, his fingers tracing the red mark upon your cheek. His body leaned over yours, his warm breath against your neck. His lips found your skin, kissing, biting, leaving marks.
"Every night," he murmured against your skin. "Every night, I will make you forget that any other man ever existed."
His body turned, pulling you close, and you felt his lips kiss your hair.
✧—Pairing: Daeron Targaryen x fem!Reader
✧—Synopsis: you set off for ashford meadow on your own, with nothing to your name and only one goal in mind. just a day's ride away, you happen upon an inn. little did you know, your stay at that inn would change your life forever. as you get tangled up in the petty affairs of knights and princes, you find yourself repeatedly drawn to a handsome drunk haunted by his dreams.
✧—Content/Warnings: fem!reader, reader has no physical description, commoner!reader, no targcest, reader’s background is a mystery, pathetic yearner!daeron, strangers to lovers, slowww burn, mutual pining, jealousy, dunk x reader can be interpreted, love triangle???, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff and romance, alcoholism, follows/parallels the events of AKOTSK season 1 so there will be spoilers
✧—A/N: welcome to my very first reader-insert fic series! AKOTSK (daeron especially) tickled my fancy leaving me inspired to create this fic. the brainrot has been real lol. feel free to use my ask box for questions about this series! thank you for reading, and enjoy!
જ⁀➴ this series has been cross-posted to ao3 for those who prefer reading there!
ˋ°•*⁀➷ CHAPTERS:
Part One: A Lovely Dream
Part Two: A Falling Star
Part Three: A Drunken Prince
Part Four: A Last Day
Part Five: A Forked Path
Part Six: ... (to be determined!)
ˋ°•*⁀➷ EXTRAS:
Drabble: the first thing i ever wrote about the reader and daeron
➻ ➻ ➻ based off this headcanon i have about daeron and horses
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale... but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. in a dance of dragons and throes of fire and blood, where will each of you stand when your sisters are pitted against each other for the iron throne?
genre: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, romance and fluff, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), pregnancy, childbirth, spoilers! from house of the dragon and fire & blood
:: MASTERLIST ::
001 — to court a princess
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
002 — light the hightower
ser gwayne hightower may be known for his chivalry, but beneath his courtly smile is a man of steel and blood. vows have made you his lawfully wedded wife, and when his most peculiar cousin starts weaving his traps for you to fall into… you will see another side of him you have never seen before
003 — bundle of joy
pious, devout and charming, your knight is hopelessly in love more than ever when you are expecting your first child! however, not everything is smooth sailing...
004 — the princess and the knight
(synopsis coming soon...)
:: DRAMATIS PERSONAE ::
you — princess of the realm. younger daughter of king viserys i targaryen and the late queen aemma arryn, sister to princess rhaenyra, and a dragonrider bonded to grey ghost. strict and reserved, you mostly keep to yourself. as a young girl, you harbored feelings for the dashing ser gwayne hightower—the brother of your and your sister’s childhood companion, lady alicent. but the moment your father took her as his second wife, you buried those feelings deep, well-aware that it’s the design of the power-seeking lord hand. however, in an attempt to tie the blacks and greens together, a betrothal binds you to the knight you have long admired, dooming you both as the house of the dragon fractures
gwayne hightower — noble knight of house hightower. the son of the hand of the king, and brother to queen alicent hightower. gwayne was left and raised in oldtown, and despite his estrangement with his father and sister, he has deep familial love for them. honorable, noble, yet possessing a touch of highborn arrogance, he has quietly carried a flame for the younger princess of the seven kingdoms ever since you offered him grace following his defeat by your uncle in the heir’s tourney, but was hesitant to act on his affections until his betrothal to you. his love for you is pure and genuine, but conflicts against his duty towards his house
FEATURING: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader, minor Aegon II Targaryen x fem!reader
SUMMARY: After eight years away, Jace finally returns to King's Landing and comes face-to-face with you for the first time since the two of you were children. You have always been cruel and capricious, but Jace does not know what to make of your sudden interest in him—is it genuine, or another scheme you've concocted to humiliate him? He cannot tell, and he cannot seem to stop himself from being drawn into a game whose rules only you seem to understand.
WARNINGS: fem!reader. targtower!reader. reader is a Targaryen (daughter of Viserys & Alicent)—no physical features are explicitly described (silver hair, purple eyes, etc) BUT it is implied through the way she bullies Jace. On the topic, she is a bit of a bully LOL, she gets a kick out of antagonizing Jace, and though she does have some depth, we don't really get into it until the second part. Jace is unfortunately very, very into it too LOL. Jace is highkey going through the ringer, he's constantly spiraling because of her and doesn't know what to think LOL. He wants her bad but is going through it. Targcest (aunt-nephew). Explicit smut. Oral (m!receiving). Bit of face-fucking. Implied dacryphilia. Semi-public-ish.
NOTES: EUHUUHUHUUH I rlly was going to post this all in one part but it just got too long, so this first part is 15k and the next part (posting next sunday) will prob also be around the same length. I'm having sooo much fun with targtower!reader, she is such a bitch, but she's a bitch with DEPTH I swear. That being said, the depth is not really shown in this part LMOAOOOOOO the two parts are essentially structured 1) shit I want her (sexual) and 2) SHIT I want her (emotional) LOLLLLLLL. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Comments and reblogs always appreciated!
"I do not know why you drag me here. I have no interest in watching our brother spar with Cole, sister," Aegon sighs as he leans against the pillar next to you, a goblet of wine dangling between his fingers. "I would literally rather be anywhere else."
He raises his eyebrows at you when you do not respond, and you loll your head back against his shoulder to give him a teasing smile.
You drawl, "Perhaps I hope you might learn something." Aegon snorts beside you, taking a long sip of his wine before letting out a heavy breath, head tipping back against the stone. You add, "Perhaps one day I shall have the pleasure of watching you spar with Aemond."
"Hah!" Aegon laughs, the arm draped around your chest flexing slightly as he lowers his face to your ear. "If you are so eager to see me sweating and out of breath, sweet sister, you only need ask. There are far easier ways to arrange it than putting a sword in my hand."
You wrinkle your nose, though you cannot quite suppress your smile. "You are disgusting."
"So you tell me," he says. His lips brush the shell of your ear as he speaks, his voice dropping low enough that it's nearly lost beneath the clashing of sword and morning star. "And yet, you never seem to complain when I am in your bed, do you?"
You drive your elbow into his ribs hard, and he grunts, nearly spilling his wine.
"Careful," he complains.
"Then behave."
"You would know very well if I stopped behaving, sweet sister," Aegon murmurs, and you can feel his lips curved up into a sharp smile as he ghosts a chaste kiss below your ear when no one is looking. "I could be doing far worse right now."
You roll your eyes and turn your attention back to the yard. Aemond has managed to drive Cole halfway across it now, the two of them circling each other beneath the afternoon sun. Even from here, you can see the determination carved into your brother's face, the set of his jaw each time Cole manages to turn aside one of his blows.
"How much longer do you think mother will allow you to get away with postponing your wedding?" Aegon questions, rolling his head back against the pillar. The apparent mockery in his voice is betrayed by the way his thumb stills from where it had been tracing absently at your shoulder. "Not too much longer, surely."
You hum, considering the question. "I imagine for as long as I continue asking her."
Aegon lets out an incredulous laugh. "Mother spoils you far too much. Do you know what she did when I asked her to postpone my wedding, sister?" You raise your eyebrows, not really listening. "She slapped me, and then had me dragged to the sept."
"Well, it is not my fault mother loves me best," you say, taking a sip of your own wine and ignoring how Aegon rolls his eyes at you. "What? Do not be cross—you know you would take advantage of it too, sweet brother."
It has been this way for as long as you can remember.
When you were sick as a child, it was your mother who dismissed lessons for the day and stayed beside your bed until you slept. When you cried over a scraped knee, she had carried you herself despite your protests that you were far too old. When you want jewels from Yi Ti or silk from Naath, it is your mother who makes the necessary arrangements for trade during the next Small Council meeting.
Your mother loves all her children, of course—you have never doubted that—but loving them have never come as easily to her as loving you.
Aegon had frustrated her from the moment he was old enough to defy her, and Aemond had been easier in some ways, dutiful and serious, but difficult in intensity. And Helaena—your mother loves her dearly, you know that she does, but she has never understood her. She never knows what to do when Helaena begins speaking of things no one else understands, or how to respond when she recoils from a comforting touch.
With you, everything had been simple.
You were close enough to your mother to allow yourself to be loved, unlike Helaena, who seemed forever just beyond reach, but you had never clung to her with the same desperation Aemond sometimes did. You were not openly defiant like Aegon, forever testing the limits of her patience and forcing her to choose between anger and forgiveness, but neither were you so desperate for her approval that you shaped yourself entirely around pleasing her.
Loving you required no effort at all—and your mother was ever-stressed by the men of the Small Council and your rotting father, so it was you she came to when she needed to be with someone who would not bring her more problems.
Of course, that would bring its own issues for you, because your mother has much higher expectations of you than your elder siblings, but you can relish in the boons and deal with the banes as they come, as you always have.
"If she loves you so much," Aegon drawls, "then why does she force you to marry him at all, hm? Surely, she sees how much you loathe him?"
"I do not loathe our brother, Aegon," you say immediately. "He did me a favor by winning the tourney five years ago, you know that." Aegon's gaze averts to the side at that. "He is just dull. Boring. I loathe the idea of wedding him, not him himself. He does not wish to marry me either. I rather like him, actually—he brings me pretty jewels."
Aegon raises his eyebrows at you and then gives you a mocking smile. "The question remains, I fear."
You exhale through your nose and look back out to the yard, watching as Aemond narrowly avoids a swing of Cole's morning star.
Because she does not want to send you away. If you wed some lord, you would be expected to leave King's Landing and go wherever his miserable castle happens to be. Casterly Rock, perhaps, or Highgarden, only the gods may know where you might be cast out to. After what happened at the tourney for your hand five years ago—that marcher lord that nearly won and thought to take his prize early—she has been ever paranoid about your father wedding you off. It spooked her how close you were to being sent away, and she thought, since Aemond won the tourney following the incident, that at least if you marry him, the threat of distance and mistreatment disappears, because Aemond is a prince of the blood, and his place is in King's Landing.
"You know why," you finally say, tiring of this conversation as you settle against him. "Have our half-sister and her plain-featured sons arrived yet? I'm quite eager to see them. It has been years."
Your eyes drift searching around the training yard, giddy at the prospect of your nephews arriving in King's Landing for Vaemond Velaryon's petition. You have missed Jacaerys—you always found yourself seeking him out before your half-sister dragged him away to that dreary stone across the Blackwater. He was fun to toy with—sweeter than your brothers, and always eager to please.
"She should have just wed us," Aegon says at last, ignoring our question. When you start to roll your eyes, his arm tightens around you, head dropping slightly so that he can look at you. "Think of it, sweet sister. Mother gets to keep you here, you get a husband who is not painfully dull, and I might have actually enjoyed my marriage. Everyone wins."
"Except Helaena," you say dryly.
"Helaena most of all, I should think," Aegon counters. "She could have married Aemond. They could sit together in silence for hours, or she could speak of her insects, and he could brood ominously beside her. A perfect match."
You snort despite yourself. "You are horrible."
"Perhaps," he agrees, mouth curving as he drops his chin on your shoulder. "You and I would have had fun together."
"We have fun as we are," you say simply. "You would have hated being married to me."
Aegon laughs at that, though there is a distinct lack of humor behind it. "Would I?"
"Oh, yes," you say simply, gaze drifting along the outskirts of the crowd to all of the knights and squires pretending to focus on the spar taking place, and not the two of you. "Within a moon."
"A fortnight, perhaps."
"A week," you counter
"Three days, most like," Aegon says with a sharp grin. Then he looks down at you, a bit more serious. "But I would have had you."
Aegon inhales, eyes drifting over your face, something unreadable crossing through his eyes before his attention returns to the yard again.
"I am not some horse to be had," you finally say, rolling your eyes.
"No." Aegon takes another long drink of his wine. "I would be considerably less vexed if our brother were marrying my horse."
You do not know how to respond to that, so you turn your attention back to the training yard, gaze idly wandering the crowd gathered around the sparring ring. You think you should return back to your chambers and change into a new dress—your mother had new silks imported from Lys that you've been meaning to wear, and you mislike being around sweaty men, you just found yourself bored with tea and cake.
Then, you see them.
You tilt your head curiously when your eyes land on the newcomers. At the opposite edge of the circle stand two boys you do not recognize at first, dressed finely enough in black and red that they could only be royal, though neither has the pale silver hair that marks the majority of your family. The younger one is watching the spar with wide eyes, but the elder is the one who catches your attention.
You straighten against Aegon, absently fixing your hair.
Surely not.
"Are those our nephews?"
Aegon follows your stare.
Jacaerys Velaryon is no longer the little boy you remember teasing until his eyes welled up with tears, ever-following Aegon around everywhere through the halls of the Red Keep. He has grown taller in the years since you last saw him, the childish softness gone entirely from his face. His dark curls fall loosely around features that have sharpened considerably with age, and when he turns his head to say something to Lucerys beside him, you find yourself staring.
He has grown handsome.
Very handsome, actually.
"Oh," you murmur.
Aegon's head turns sharply toward you, but you barely notice. Jacaerys laughs at something his brother says, and your eyebrows lift with sudden interest.
"They look rather comfortable," you say absently. "Shall I, ah, draw some attention them?"
"Hm?"
You are distracted as you pass your goblet of wine to Aegon. "Hold this."
"What?" Aegon demands, fumbling with your cup, but you're already walking away, crossing right through the sparring ring.
Cole's eyes widen as he sees you step directly into the sparring ring, and whatever blow he had been preparing to deliver dies instantly. The head of his morning star crashes harmlessly into the dirt instead, kicking up a spray of dust a few feet from your skirts.
"Princess," he murmurs, inclining his head
Aemond lowers his sword with an irritated huff, following Cole's stare until his gaze lands on you.
"Must you interrupt everything?"
"Hm?" Your eyes skim over him without lingering, already searching beyond his shoulder. "Oh. Yes. Apologies. Do continue."
His brows furrow, following your gaze.
You step past him, hands locked behind your back, ignoring all of the eyes suddenly pinned on you, dress swishing at your feet as you approach the two boys at the edge of the crowd.
"Nephews," you call brightly, watching as their heads lift from where they are bowed together, both startled at being addressed. "It's been so long."
Lucerys looks rather like a deer caught before a hunter, eyes widening as you approach, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from mocking.
Jacaerys, however, merely straightens, surprise flashing across his face before his gaze settles properly upon you. You watch the recognition dawn slowly in his dark eyes, followed by something else entirely as they slide over you—the loose fall of your hair, down to the cut of your gown, lingering for half a heartbeat before returning to your face, flustered, as though catching himself doing something he ought not.
You smile.
It would seem, you think with a thrill of satisfaction, that you are not the only one pleasantly surprised by what the years have done.
It is rather inconvenient, you think mildly as you finish making your way across the yard. You have always been drawn to your nephews, but it was easy to ignore when you spent years hearing your mother speak poorly of them. Rhaenyra's plain-featured boys with their dirt-brown hair and equally brown eyes—all unmistakable evidence of their bastardy written on their faces. They were cute enough as children, but as cute as you imagine any stablemaster's son would look, not how a prince should look. You had expected them to remain unfortunate-looking things, if you are being entirely truthful—common beside the silver-haired beauty of true Targaryens.
Yet there is nothing unfortunate about either of them now.
Lucerys still has the softness of youth about him, rounder in the face than his elder brother, with wide brown eyes that make him appear younger than he likely wishes. He is sweet-looking, you decide, though the thought does little to hold your attention when Jacaerys stands beside him.
Jacaerys is something else entirely
Perhaps it is because he looks so unlike the men you have grown accustomed to that you are so… compelled. There is no silver in his hair, no violet in his eyes, none of the Valyrian beauty you have been taught since childhood to admire above all else. He is dark where Aegon is pale, warm where Aemond is sharp, and somehow the very features that ought to make him look painfully ordinary have arranged themselves into something you find inexplicably captivating.
"Aunt," Jacaerys murmurs, voice smooth in a way you do not expect. He adds politely, "It is good to see you again." Though you do not think he means it from the way the corners of his lips tighten.
Your lips curve into a faint smile. "And you."
You extend both hands toward them, palms turned down expectantly.
Lucerys looks briefly startled by the gesture, but recovers quickly enough. He takes one of your hands politely, bowing his head to brush his lips against your knuckles.
Jacaerys takes the other hand in his, and you cannot help but notice the difference. His hands have outgrown the boy you remember, fingers long and lithe, callused across the palm and pads from years spent with sword and reins alike. They are warm around yours, and his grip is gentle.
He bends dutifully to kiss your knuckles, dark curls slipping forward over his bow.
You watch him for a heartbeat, admiring him openly. Then, before his lips can leave your hand, you turn your wrist within his grasp. His brows knit in confusion as your fingers slide beneath his chin.
Jacaerys stills as you tilt his face upward, brown eyes meeting yours from beneath the fall of his curls, surprise plain in his expression, and you take shameless advantage of his momentary confusion to study him more closely.
Yes, you think. Definitely handsome.
"My," you murmur, tilting his chin slightly to one side, examining him with such open interest that the tips of his ears begin turning red. He tenses, and you wonder if he expects the familiar barb—a cutting remark about his brown eyes, his brown hair, or the father everyone whispers he bears no resemblance to. Instead, you smile, thumb brushing lightly along the line of his jaw. "You have grown to be quite handsome, haven't you, Jacaerys?"
Jacaerys's lips part slightly, and it is an effort for you not to slide your thumb up to rest against the fullness of his lower lip.
"Have I?" he manages, his cheeks flushed a light pink, confusion shifting into suspicion. His gaze flickers across your face, as though searching for mockery, but when he finds none, he looks even more flustered.
"Very."
For a long moment, Jacaerys only stares at you, still half bent over your hand, chin still resting between your fingers.
You can almost see the confusion turning over in his mind—you know your half-sister and her brood have returned to King's Landing for the Driftmark petition that you and Aegon have been laughing endlessly about. He must have braced himself for ridicule, and you suppose you cannot blame him, you had planned for ridicule until you saw just how handsome he had become over the years.
Unfortunately, your biggest weakness has always been a pretty face—it is why Aegon has charmed his way into your bed so many times over, despite his despicable personality—and it seems your nephew appears to have grown into one pretty enough to make you forget entirely that you are meant to dislike him.
"You are kind," he finally says.
"Observant, perhaps," you murmur, fingers finally slipping from beneath his chin, though you linger just long enough to smooth an errant curl away from his forehead before letting your hand fall to your side again.
Lucerys watches the exchange, bewildered, gaze darting from your face to his brother's and back again.
"… Jace?" he ventures.
Jacaerys seems to remember himself all at once, clearing his throat and taking a step backward, though the color stubbornly remains high in his cheeks
"It has been many years, aunt," he properly greets at last. "You have—"
He falters, and you raise your eyebrows expectantly. You prod, "I have what?"
Jacaerys's throat bobs.
"You have changed as well," he finishes diplomatically.
You stare at him, displeased. "Changed?" you echo scornfully. "That is all you have to say?"
"I—"
"You disappear to Dragonstone for eight years and return to find your beloved aunt transformed into a great beauty, and all you have to say is that I have changed? I believe I was far more generous to you."
"You were," Jacaerys concedes, lips curved up into a small smile.
"Then?"
His gaze returns to you. This time, when his eyes move over your face, there is nothing accidental or subtle about it. They linger upon you with a newfound boldness that sends a pleasant little thrill through, and you wonder whether he has decided that if you are permitted to admire him so openly, he ought to be afforded the same privilege.
Ah, you think, thoroughly intrigued. You had always liked playing with Jacaerys when the two of you were young—you think you are ready for some new games with your nephew.
"You have grown very beautiful, aunt," he finally murmurs, gaze lingering on your lips for just long enough that you notice before it lifts back to your eyes. "I hardly recognized you."
"Much better," you say, before your gaze drifts over to Lucerys.
He gives you a tentative smile. "It is good to see you again, aunt."
Your lips curve up into a smile, lips parting to reply, but before you can, an agitating, grating voice comes from behind you.
"You seem very comfortable," Aemond's cool voice observes.
Your eyes roll up in irritation as you toss your hair over your shoulder to look at Aemond from the corner of your eye.
He stands several paces away, sword still held loosely in one hand, silver hair disheveled from exertion, and face decidedly unimpressed. His gaze moves from you to Jacaerys, lingering upon the latter for a long, unpleasant moment. Both of the boys stiffen at the arrival of your brother.
"Quite, until you arrived," you drawl, huffing a breath through your nose. "Your talent in souring a perfectly pleasant moment remains unmatched, brother."
Aemond's jaw tightens. Jacaerys glances between the two of you, clearly uncertain whether he ought to speak up, while Lucerys's eyes slide shut as though he would prefer to be anywhere else.
"I had not realized you were so eager to welcome our nephews home," Aemond notes disdainfully.
"Neither had I." You glance back at Jacaerys, gaze traveling over him once before meeting his eyes. "But I find myself suddenly quite eager to become reacquainted."
Jace's cheeks flush instantly, lips parting in confusion as he looks at you, and Aemond notices, mouth pressing into a thin line. You can practically feel whatever unpleasant remark is forming on his tongue before the sudden sound of the doors to the yard opening draws the attention of you all.
Your gaze lifts as a small party of Velaryon men passes beneath the archway, dressed in sea-green and silver, the sigil of House Velaryon flying above them. At their head walks Vaemond Velaryon himself, a scornful expression crossing his face when his gaze lands on Jacaerys and Lucerys.
All of the warmth disappears from Jacaerys's face.
Ah, you think woefully, you almost forgot
You glance at Lucerys. Whatever tentative ease had begun to settle over him has vanished entirely, jaw set and anxiety plain in his eyes when Vaemond's lip curls up in disdain as he passes by.
"Well," Aegon says from behind you, shattering the silence. "How delightfully ominous."
You turn as he approaches, still carrying both goblets. He hands yours back so that he can drape his newly freed arm across your shoulders and draw you into his side, grinning wildly.
"I believe we have endured enough familial affection for one afternoon," he declares. "Come, sweet sister. Let's go find more wine."
You hum, glancing down at your goblet, frowning when you see there's significantly less than there had been when you had passed it off to your brother. He gives you a boyish grin and a wink, and you roll your eyes.
"Yes, let us," you agree with a sigh. "It appears my cup has garnered a hole in it since I passed it to you, Aegon." Your gaze flicks over to Aemond. "Come with us. You have sparred enough today."
Aegon rolls his eyes, barely withholding a groan, and Aemond looks at you, frowning, because it is not often you invite him anywhere with you, much less with him and Aegon. Truthfully, you are just hoping to avoid a scene between him and your nephews, lest he ruin any game you might choose to play before its even begun. He blinks once before he nods.
Pleased, you turn your back to leave, but then Aemond speaks again.
"I suppose we shall all discover soon enough whether Ser Vaemond's journey was worthwhile, nephews."
Your eyes slide shut. You look at Aegon from the corner of your eye, and he immediately forces the amusement off his face, clearly recognizing the warning in your expression.
"Though I confess," Aemond continues. "I find it curious that a matter of succession should require such extensive debate. One would think blood would make the rightful heir obvious."
It is a familiar jab. One you have heard countless times over the last decade. On any other day, you might have smirked, offered some clever remark of your own, delighted in watching your half-sister's sons squirm. Today, you feel no such compulsion—not now, Aemond, you think bitterly
Instead, your gaze drifts to Jacaerys, how he shields his younger brother by shifting to angle himself partly in front of him.
"It does," he says, voice clipped
Aemond's mouth curves. He asks softly, "Does it?"
Aegon lets out an overly dramatic sigh as he reaches for Aemond, grabbing the taller prince's doublet and yanking him hard so that he comes stumbling along with the two of you.
"Come, come," Aegon says, ignoring the flinty look Aemond shoots him to drop his arm back around your shoulders, steering you toward the castle. "Before our dear brother remembers another insult he has been rehearsing for the past eight years. We have more pressing concerns."
Aemond scoffs, irritated both by the insult and how Aegon had handled him. "Such as?"
"My empty cup," Aegon says with a sharp grin.
"And mine," you sing, lifting to dangle it in front of his face. Before you can stop yourself, you look back over your shoulder at Jacaerys. He is already looking at you. You call, "Do try not to become any less handsome before I next see you, nephew."
His mouth twitches. "I'll endeavor not to disappoint you, aunt."
This will be fun, you think. Let the games begin.
—————————
Jace hated you when you were both young.
Hates you.
Hated you?
He isn't sure.
His relationship with all of his mother's half-siblings was—well, complicated. He's not sure he really cared for any of you, in truth, but some of you were decidedly easier to tolerate than others.
Aegon had probably been his favorite of the four of you back then—five of you, he supposes, because that other brother of yours is back in Oldtown, but he hardly counts. Aegon had seemed endlessly exciting to Jace, who was five years younger and endlessly bored, wanting friends in a court that seemed to dislike him before he was even old enough to speak.
Jace had followed him around for years, and Aegon had been irritated by it for perhaps three days before he realized how easily his younger nephew could be led into trouble. He had never been malicious enough to place Jace in genuine danger, but he had found his fun in convincing him to sneak into the Dragonpit, prank Aemond, and hide from maesters until half the Keep was searching for him. Every time they were caught, Aegon somehow escaped the blame, and Jace never did.
His relationship with Aemond was the simplest—he did not like him. Even before Vhagar and the lost eye, there had always been a severity to the older prince that made Jace uneasy. He disliked losing, disliked foolishness, disliked noise, and, Jace had eventually concluded, disliked him, so Jace disliked Aemond in turn.
You and Helaena were different—because you were girls, maybe, and harder for him to connect with when he was just a boy. But also because he never quite knew what to make of either of you.
Helaena, at least, was easy enough to categorize. She was simply… strange. Sweet, certainly, and far more gentle than the rest of you, but she spoke in riddles that frightened him when he was younger, and he'd never enjoyed being near the insects she kept around her. He tended to give her a wide berth when he could, though looking back on it, Jace supposes she was really the only good one of the four of you.
You, on the other hand, defied categorization altogether. He has never quite met someone as unpredictable as you are, and it has infuriated him his entire life.
You were the crown jewel of King's Landing when you were all young, even now, he supposes—beautiful and charming, the perfect princess, the court would sing, eyes following you as you laugh brightly at whatever poor joke a suitor made in hopes of wooing you. Everyone adored you, and Jace did too, to an extent. He has never felt so high as he did when your full attention was on him, his little heart fluttering in his chest whenever you were near.
But what the court did not know was that you were vicious and cruel as soon as the attention drifted from you.
Jace cannot count the number of times you had pranced around him with veiled insults toward his parentage. Mocking him with Aegon, or Aemond, or even just by yourself. You would go on and on until Jace's face burned hot with humiliation and his hand twitched at his side, fisted and trembling with restraint.
It was an ugly, violent feeling, one that only you seemed capable of drawing from him, and by the time you inevitably grew bored of him and skipped off to find one of your brothers, all that remained was shame. His mother had taught him that a prince did not raise his hand against a woman, no matter how furious she made him, yet there were moments when he wanted nothing more than to make you regret provoking him.
Those days, he hated you so terribly that it made him sick. Made him want to cry. Made him want to make you sorry. He would grind his teeth as the ladies of the court tittered at your stupid jokes, roll his eyes when men twice your age would bring you gifts to curry favor—if they knew how terrible you were, he would think, they would not like you at all.
Except maybe they would, because Jace knew just how cruel you really were when the mask dropped, and yet every time your attention turned toward him pleasantly, he would forget it in hopes of things being different this time.
You would appear beside him in the library after spending a day tormenting him, ask what he was reading, and spend hours listening with such genuine interest that he would forget entirely what you had done hours before. You asked thoughtful questions. You remembered the names of the heroes he liked best and recommended him books that included them. When he mentioned starting a new story, you would read it too, and you would argue with him over endings as though his opinions genuinely mattered to you.
Eventually, of course, you would flash him that infuriating grin and remark that perhaps brown-haired almost-princes were not entirely hopeless after all. The jest itself was harmless—tame compared to what you usually say—but it always landed harder than the crueler remarks, because by then, he had already begun to convince himself that you genuinely liked him, saw him beyond the hair and whispers.
You had an uncanny talent for making him lower his guard before reminding him exactly who you were. The only consistent thing about you was that you somehow managed to make him feel foolish every time you crossed paths.
That, at least, has not changed in the years of separation, even if everything else has.
His jaw tightens as he makes his way up the final flight of stairs to the top of the eastern tower. His skin still burns at his jaw where your fingers had held him still, tilting his face toward the light as though you had every right to touch him—perhaps you thought you did.
The idea of it infuriates him, vexes him like none other, because you have always believed the world belonged to you—the perfect princess, he thinks again scornfully, beautiful and charming, ladies flocked around you for your favor, men fought for your hand before you were even of age. He loathes the idea that, for one bewildering moment, he had acted as though he belonged to you, too.
He should have stepped away or laughed in your face. He should have reminded you that he is no longer the gullible little boy who fell for your pretty smiles and soft words when he knew all you wanted was the satisfaction of knowing how easily you could ensnare him.
Instead, he had stood there while you turned his face this way and that, studying him with shameless curiosity, and when you called him handsome, all he had managed to do was stare at you like a fool.
He had even blushed.
He grimaces at the memory as he reaches the top of the stairs.
It should not have affected him so much, truly.
You had called him handsome, that was all. Baela has called him handsome in passing. A servant girl whispered it while he was passing through the halls at Dragonstone when she thought he wasn't listening. His mother tells him all the time. Jace knows he is handsome—it is hardly a declaration of love, nor even an especially intimate compliment. He is not sure why, when the words left your lips, he felt so thrown off-kilter.
Perhaps it was because the way you said it made it seem more intimate, he thinks, mind drawing back to that moment for the hundredth time just in the last hour—your voice was soft and your gaze drifted over him with an intimacy that left him feeling strangely exposed, as though if given the chance and privacy, you would unlace his clothes to assess him properly, fingers running along his skin like they belonged there.
Or perhaps it was because it almost sounded sincere. Mockery from you, he understands—you have mocked him since the two of you were children, and he had learned long ago to expect it from you. Sincerity is something he's not sure what to do with, floundering just at the prospect of it. Because what does that mean?
Even now, hours later, he cannot decide which possibility he dislikes more—that you had been toying with him all along, or that you had actually meant it.
He despises the idea of the former, because then you have once again succeeded in making him dance to whatever tune amused you most, and somehow, after eight years apart, you still know exactly how to make him feel like the most gullible little boy in the Red Keep.
Yet, for some reason, it is the latter that makes his stomach twist.
There is a lump in his throat and heat runs through him as he pushes open the door to the small room at the top of the tower, intent on taking in the old, familiar view of the city since sleep continues to evade him.
Because if you had meant it—
"Jacaerys, isn't it past your bedtime?"
Jace stills instantly, breath hitching and gaze lifting from the floor to where your mocking voice had come from.
You are sitting on the narrow windowsill, one leg hanging over empty air, head lolled back against cool stone. Moonlight spills through the narrow opening behind you, turning the dark green silk of your gown almost black wherever the light does not touch. Your eyes settle on him beneath half-lowered lashes, drifting over him carefully before returning to his face—not hurried enough to be mistaken for surprise, nor bold enough to be entirely indecent like earlier today.
His throat bobs as he stares at you, and your gaze sharpens, eyes tracking the movement the way a cat watches the flutter of a bird's wings.
The corner of your mouth curves.
Jace feels distinctly like prey.
He should turn back.
"Were you looking for me?" you ask with a teasing smile, head tilting slightly to the side. There is a brightness to your eyes and a sweetness to your smile that makes you unbearably pretty, and Jace suddenly cannot breathe under the weight of your full attention. "Hm?"
"No."
The word comes out too harsh and too fast, but you do not look bothered by it, humming lightly as your gaze slips over him again.
You say simply, "Pity."
Then you look away as though he isn't even there, and Jace can breathe again, inhaling deeply through his nose to fill his burning lungs.
What the hell was that? How had you managed to steal the breath from him with just a look?
You rest your head against the stone and peer out over the darkened city below. King's Landing stretches in every direction, Blackwater Bay shimmering beyond the walls.
For several long moments, you say nothing at all, and Jace frowns, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, waiting for you to turn your attention back to him, but you do not. He expects another teasing remark or a question that would make him want to bite his own tongue off, or even for you to start mocking him as you used to, but instead, you seem entirely absorbed by the horizon.
Irritation blooms in his chest. He hates that he can never anticipate you. Hates that he is always rendered dazed and confused every time you cross paths. How has he let you have so much power over him? Even now, after all this time?
"What are you looking at?" he asks at last, hating how obvious it is that he's seeking your attention, and pressing his lips together when you neither turn your head to look at him nor immediately speak.
He hates you, he thinks so viciously that he's almost embarrassed by the violence that thrums in his chest. He hates even more that the longer you do not respond, the more antsy he is for you to address him again, mortified as his lips part to ask you again.
"Māzigon kesīr, mandianna," you finally murmur.
Come here, nephew.
The breath leaves his lungs again.
Jace has heard High Valyrian his entire life. He has spent the better part of eight years studying it until it rolled easily off his own tongue, until he could read ancient histories and speak to his mother without ever slipping into the Common Tongue, and yet, somehow, he has never heard it sound quite like this. His mouth is dry as he stares at you for a moment—mandianna, mandianna, mandianna—the pretty, syrupy word ringing through his head on repeat.
By the time he realizes he has moved, he has already crossed the room.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye, satisfaction flickering across your face, gone almost as quickly as it appears. His jaw tightens because, of course, he obeys without putting up a fight, just like he did earlier, just like he's done his entire life, only for you to laugh in his face without fail every time.
Jace swallows again, frustrated now, but falters when you track the movement once more. This time, your gaze does not immediately flit away, fixated upon his throat as though you have forgotten yourself.
It almost appears to be an effort for you to lift your gaze back to his face.
Oh?
A thrill runs hot in his chest. What does that mean? Were you being genuine earlier when you called him handsome? Could you actually be att—
"Closer," you tell him quietly.
Jace frowns, then takes another tentative step toward the narrow window you're seated on, close enough that the tops of his thighs brush the fabric of your dress.
"Closer."
He looks at you, bewildered, before he finally understands what you mean—you are seated, and he is standing, even this close, he stands over you. He presses his lips together, bracing himself, before bending at the waist until his head is level with yours. His lashes flutter when he takes a breath, the faint scent of rose oil clinging to your hair, dizzying.
He is close enough that were he to turn his head, his lips would brush your temple. That he can feel the warmth of your body against his, can see the tip of your tongue dart out to wet your lower lip. His gaze drops lower, to the slope of your neck—lower still, and Jace suddenly feels flushed, gaze snapping back up to your face.
You are already looking at him, lips curved up, eyes glittering.
Jace has to stop himself from shutting his eyes in mortification, certain his face must be beet-red.
You lift your hand to his chin, and his breath hitches when he feels your fingers trace along the front of his throat, right over where you'd watched it bob as he swallowed, until your middle and ring fingers settle beneath his chin, tilting his face up just enough so that his gaze is forced to the sky.
You turn your face toward his, lips brushing his ear, breath hot and pleasant against his skin as you murmur, "Watch."
Jace does not know what he's looking at. His skin is on fire, tingling beneath your touch, breath unsteady, the longer your lips remain at the lobe of his ear. He cannot think, he cannot even breathe straight with you so close, so warm, so—
A trill rings through the air, drawing his gaze upwards, and Jace's lips part as a black blur sweeps through the sky above before swooping down low, circling around the tower the two of you are in, coming so close that the rush of air messes his hair.
"That is—"
"Starchaser," you say with a fond smile, face no longer tilted toward him as you look out at your dragon. Jace glances at you, momentarily struck by the adoration plain on your face—it makes you look softer, younger. He has only ever seen mockery and scrutiny; this is… "She enjoys taking night flights. I come up here to watch her. Sometimes she drags Sunfyre along with her, but—"
You falter when another, sharper trill cuts through the air, brows furrowing slightly, leaning forward to try to figure out which dragon had joined yours for a flight, and Jace suddenly cannot breathe again because Jace would recognize that noise from anywhere. His chest is tight, lips parted; that is—
That is Vermax.
His lips part as he watches Vermax swoop down after Starchaser, playful and impossibly swift.
Starchaser lets out another happy trill before veering sharply away, silver-edged wings catching the moonlight as she twists through the air. Vermax follows without hesitation.
They sweep over the rooftops of King's Landing in great looping arcs, one forever just out of the other's reach. Starchaser dives. Vermax dives after her. She climbs, rolling gracefully onto one wing, and he answers by matching her ascent, their paths weaving together so closely Jace is certain they'll collide, but they never do. Instead, they separate at the last instant, only to circle back toward one another again.
Beside him, you have fallen silent.
He risks a glance.
Your lips are parted slightly, eyes wide and openly wondrous as you watch the two dragons chase one another through the night sky.
You are beautiful.
The thought comes so suddenly that it catches him off guard, heart in his throat. He knows you are beautiful—all of King's Landing, Westeros, even, knows you are beautiful. Bards have sung of your beauty, and poets lyric tales of it; as much as he has loathed you for your cruelty, he has never been able to deny your beauty without feeling foolish.
But this is… different.
This is not the knife-like smiles he is used to—it is not the poisonous words or the careful calculation, it is not even the facade you put up before the court, the pretty flutter of your lashes to whoever you deign to give your attention and the honeyed compliments that he knows damn well are fake. You look—you look unguarded, as though, for a few precious moments, you have forgotten there is anyone beside you to perform for.
He wonders, distantly, whether this is the truest version of you he has ever seen.
Then, if anyone else has ever seen it.
"I have never seen her fly like this," you finally admit, voice soft. He cannot tell if you're talking to him or not, and he almost doesn't want to risk ruining the moment. Luckily, you do that yourself, because you seem to catch yourself, tone sharpening into something ar more familiar: "And to think it is with your dragon of all of them, how quaint."
Jace's gaze cuts to the side, jaw tightening. "And what does that mean, exactly?" he asks, voice low.
The wonder has disappeared from your face, replaced with a calculating look in your eyes and a curve of your lips that sets him on edge.
"Oh, nothing," you say easily. "I just thought Starchaser would have developed more, ah, discerning taste."
Jace's heart sinks, even though he knows he should have expected this. He lets out a low scoff and steps away from the window, away from you, trying to mask the wounded expression that he knows crosses his face before you can see it. He does not know how he always lets you get away with this—does not know how he always manages to fall for the honeyed words and syrupy smiles he mocks others for being fooled by when he knows better than anyone that you only plan to lure him in to twist the dagger.
"Of course," he says bitterly, shaking his head. He hates that despite everything, he had thought of your words earlier in the day and wondered maybe if things might be different now that you were both older, that maybe you weren't playing another game with him, that maybe you might want him, the same way he has always—he does not dare finish the thought. "I do not know what I expected. I should return to my chambers. Have a good night, aunt."
His voice is strained to hide the hurt and rage that threaten to creep into it in kind—he is not sure if he is angrier at you or himself. He has always been prone to being hard on himself, eager to blame himself before anyone around him, but you have always been the one person who could successfully get under his skin enough for him to want to direct that anger at you. He hears you shift on the windowsill, feet dropping lightly on the stone floor.
"I upset you," you note.
Jace's eye twitches—is it not enough to get the dig in? You must bring attention to the fact that he's wounded by it, too? You have always been cruel, he has known better than most, but still…
"Of course, you upset me," he hisses before he can think. "I thought—"
He thought what? He thought that you meant it when you called him handsome? That the way your fingers lingered beneath his chin had been something more than another elaborate jest? That the softness in your voice, the look in your eyes, had been meant, at least partially, for him? That this was more than just another twisted way for you to lure him in to sink the knife in his back as soon as he allows himself to hope?
Gods. He had actually believed you might like him—again. Heat floods his face, equal parts humiliation and anger. He has not felt so spectacularly foolish in almost a decade.
He should not be surprised, he thinks, not for the first time this night. You have always been fond of toying with him in these ways. Perhaps Aegon is somewhere nearby even now, slumped against a doorway with a wineskin in hand, waiting for Jace to leave so the two of you could laugh at the gullible nephew who had mistaken your amusement for affection. It would hardly be the first time the pair of you had made sport of him.
He lets out a humorless laugh.
"I ought to know better," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "You always do this." His eyes lift to yours. "I am only disappointed I let myself believe, for even a moment, that you might have grown tired of it."
You tilt your head to the side, eyes glittering with amusement in a way that makes his fist curl at his side, shaking, like it did when he was young, and you would push and push and push until everything threatened to break.
"You misunderstand. I only mean to say, nephew, that it should not be so surprising," you say, hands locked behind your back as you approach him with a teasing smile and an unreadable look in your eyes. Jace thinks he should step back, but cannot bring himself to do so. He hates that you are as beautiful as everyone praises, and he hates that he cannot drag his eyes away. "Dragons do tend to take after their riders, after all."
All of the air whooshes from Jace's lungs as he stares at you, words registering much too slowly.
His mouth opens, then closes again. He stares at you dumbly, tongue-tied for the second, third, fourth time—he doesn't even know anymore. He hates the effect you have on him, and he hates that even now his chest blooms traitorously with the hope you'd just crushed moments before.
You lean in so close that your lips ghost his ear, and his nearly brushes along your jaw. He does not dare to breathe in fear that you'll hear how unsteady it is.
"She has clearly inherited my taste," you murmur. "I should think that if our dragons are inclined to pursue one another all evening, it would be rather rude for their riders not to become better acquainted, don't you?"
What?
"I do not understand you," he says through his teeth, breath ragged as he inhales, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. He feels your hand ghost along his torso, as though testing to see if he'll withdraw from your touch. "You are so—"
"Cruel?" you offer, though you sound distracted.
When he does not pull away, your hand settles atop him, fingers pressing lightly into his body. He is grateful that your face is tilted up toward his so that you cannot see how tight his pants are.
"Impossible," he corrects, though cruel fits too, his voice strained and body wound tight. "I do not—"
Jace falters, lips parting when he feels you brush your mouth against his jaw, and every single coherent thought leaves his head. He forgets where he is, what he's doing, skin prickling, hot and burning where your mouth had just touched.
His gaze cuts to the side, and instead of the smug expression he's used to, he sees a tentative one, gaze sharp still as you search his face, but uncertain in a way he isn't sure he's ever seen you before. It vanishes so quickly that he almost convinces himself he imagined it.
"Ah," you murmur, recovering your usual composure with infuriating ease, smile teasing again. "You make this entirely too easy."
Jace's jaw tightens. "Do not."
"Do not what?"
"If this is a game, then find someone else to play it with. I will not let you make a fool of me again."
You study him for a long moment before the familiar smile returns.
“How disappointing,” you sigh. “And here I had thought you were finally beginning to let loose.” You incline your head, all false courtesy. “Forgive me, then, Lord Strong. I will leave you be”
The words strike like a slap. He inhales so sharply, drawing back, that he does not notice the wince that crosses your face as soon as the words leave your mouth. He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he turns away from you, planting both hands on the cold stone ledge of the window.
"I do not know why I keep expecting you to stop reaching for the cruelest thing you can say."
He stares out across King's Landing, refusing to look back, refusing to let you see the way his chest aches at how effortlessly you can dismantle him. His cheeks burn with humiliation at the number of times you have managed to make a fool of him in the span of a single evening.
Worse still, he has no one to blame but himself. He had seen the softness in your smile, the wonder on your face as you watched the dragons, the uncertainty after your lips had brushed his jaw, and, like the hopeless fool he has always been where you are concerned, he had mistaken each of them for sincerity. He is furious with you for wielding his hope against him—and even more furious with himself for handing it to you so willingly.
He hears you move in his direction—soft footsteps cross the stone floor, each one quieter than the last, until he feels your presence at his back.
He closes his eyes, jaw clenching. "Have you not had enough?"
The only answer is a soft hum. Jace's breath catches when he feels your arms snake around his waist from behind. Your palm flattens against his abdomen, and your lips press to his ear.
"Jacaerys," you say softly, and Jace shivers at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue so naturally—he is sure you can feel it. "Forgive me. I'm sorry. I cannot help myself, it seems."
His throat spasms, lashes fluttering as your hand creeps down his abdomen, lower, lower, until the tips of your fingers dip beneath the waist of his pants. You hold them there steady, ghosting your lips to the shell of his ear before you kiss beneath it once.
Did you just—did you apologize? You're touching him—your arms are around his waist, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his pants, your lips are pressed to his ear, and Jace cannot think, his heart is beating frantically in his chest and his ears are rinning. He blinks wildly, lips parting, what is happening? Why—
"I should not have said that," you continue quietly, and you kiss him again, lower on his neck, lingering. Jace is hardly breathing, dizzy from your mouth, your breath, your fingers pressing lightly into his pelvis. Fuck, he thinks, breathless. "It was unkind."
"Everything you do is unkind," he forces himself to reply, voice far raspier than he would have liked. "You make me feel like a fool."
"I know," you agree, and you sound regretful—but is this a trick too? Another performance to get him to lower his guard? Jace doesn't know; he can't fucking think straight when you're touching him like this. He thinks it must be intentional. "It is easier for me to be cruel than to be honest. I do not like being hurt."
Honest? he thinks distracted by your hand on his body and your lips at his neck. He should press—honest about what? What are you worried will hurt you?
Instead, he breathes helplessly:
"I have never wanted to hurt you. Never—" The admission is mortifying to speak out loud, but the words spill out before he can think better of it. "—and yet, you have always—I have only ever wanted—"
You.
He has only ever wanted you; defying all sense and logic, everything that screams at him to keep away from you or make you sorry for being cruel. It all boils down to the frustrating reminder that no matter how much time passes, he will always be the stupid little boy who wants your attention. Years can pass of him convincing himself that he hated you, hates you, but a single moment in your presence will remind him that it was never hate at all—only the bitterness of wanting someone who never seemed to want him back. Hatred would have been easier—safer—because hatred would not unravel the moment you brushed your fingers against him.
"Oh, mandianna, iksā tolmiot tolī dōna," you breathe, and Jace's pulse jumps when your fingers work at the laces of his pants, breath hitching when you mouth gently at his pulse. "Skorkydoso kessa nyke mirre jiōragon ao naejot shijetra nyke?"
Oh, nephew, you are too sweet. How will I ever convince you to forgive me?
Jace's eyes slide shut, lips parting over a silent moan when your free hand drops to his waist, gently turning him around so that his back is to the narrow window you'd been sitting on and the two of you are face to face. Your hand slides up his chest as you look up at him through your lashes, and Jace can hardly breathe when his gaze meets yours—the soft smile on your lips, how your pupils are blown wide, you can't be faking that, can you? This must be real, but—
—but what does that mean? What does this mean?
"You've always been my favorite, you know?" you tell him, leaning so that your lips ghost his teasingly.
Jace almost finds himself chasing when you pull back before your mouth touches his, the near-taste of you drawing him in like a moth to flame—he smells the sweet arbor red you've been sipping at, and his mouth waters at the thought of tasting it off your tongue.
Desperately, he tries to regain some control over himself before he makes a bigger fool of himself than he already has.
His heart pounds as he leans in before he can think better of it, nose bumping yours lightly, close enough that he can feel your breath on his lips.His mouth curls up into a smile he hopes is mocking as he breathes, "And you've always been a pretty liar, aunt."
A thrill runs through his chest when you lean in to close the distance, lips not quite touching because Jace pulls back to deny you. You're thrown off by the sudden distance, blinking once, then twice, before you look up at him with a bemused expression. He wonders if this is the first time anyone has denied you anything—wonders how many other men you've lured in with those pretty words and prettier smiles.
The thought settles poorly in his stomach for some reason.
You compose yourself quickly, tilting your head to the side carefully as you look over him. He barely catches his breath from hitching when he realizes that you've finished unlacing his trousers, one hand lingering at his pelvis as you lean in to ghost your lips against his jaw, trailing your mouth up the sharp line to his ear.
"It's the truth," you insist, free hand slipping beneath his tunic so that you can slide your hand up his slim torso. "You don't believe me?
No, he wants to say, but his lips part over a silent moan, abdomen tightening when he feels your nails scratching lightly against his skin, palm warm and electrifying as you map out his body with your fingers, tracing each and every line with reverence. His lashes flutter when you rest your forehead at his temple, and he can feel how unsteady your breath is against his jaw.
"Do you know why I was always so cruel to you?" you ask him softly.
He lets out a short laugh, fingers tight around the edge of the windowsill as he stops himself from reaching for you. It is a terrible enough effort to focus when he can feel your chest flush to his, one hand exploring his body while the other settles far, far too close to his aching cock—he does not need to deal with his own wandering touch on top of it.
This is a mess, he thinks, but does not push you away. He came here to be alone, to think on what had happened today, to get his mind on straight before the petition tomorrow, and now you have reduced every coherent thought of his to the dizzying warmth of your hands and breath—is that why you are here? To distract him?
No, you had already been here when he arrived. You couldn't have sought him out.
Fuck, Jace can't even think straight anymore.
His voice is hoarse as he forces out, "I imagine you're about to tell me."
Your fingers trace lazily over the lines of his abdomen. You tilt your face up slightly so that your lips are almost pressed to his jaw again, nose bumping his cheek. You say simply, "I liked looking at you."
He stills, words drawing him from his haze. "We both know that's not true," he scoffs. "You were the biggest offender when it came to insulting my—"
His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring as he takes a breath to calm himself.
"It is," you say simply. "I needed a reason that wouldn't draw suspicion from my mother or brothers, so I made certain everyone believed I couldn't stand the sight of you. It was easier to mock you than explain why I kept watching you."
You're lying. You must be.
Jace's breath is unsteady as your words register, mind racing, hardly able to keep up. You have him distracted with every sweep of your fingers against his tense muscles, every time your lips press lightly to his skin as you speak—he can hardly focus on what you're actually saying, but he knows that is a lie.
"And then I realized, I liked looking at you more when I could finally make you forget yourself. When you were angry." Your thumb brushes against his ribs. Jace's heart hammers. "When you tried so desperately not to cry." Your lips curve faintly. He can feel the smile against his jaw. He hates that it makes him shiver. "Especially when you failed."
What?
"Your cheeks would flush. Your eyes would shine. You would bite the inside of your cheek because you were too proud to let anyone see. You were the prettiest boy I had ever seen," you breathe out, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your fingertips ghost over his chest before your palm settles there firmly. Jace wonders if you can feel how hard his heart is pounding in his chest. "I wonder, you've grown to be so handsome. If you cried for me now, would I still think you were the prettiest thing I'd ever seen?"
The words should strike him like a slap—just like Lord Strong did not too long ago. It sounds less like a confession than a warning, as though you are placing every card on the table before inviting him to lose anyway. It should be enough to wrench him free of you, to remind him that this—whatever this is—began with an admission that you had delighted in making him miserable. That perhaps you still would. He should hear the trap snapping shut around him. He should step back while he still can.
Instead, he finds himself searching your face for the answer to a question he has no business asking.
Would you?
It is humiliating, he thinks. He sees the snare, understands exactly how it is baited, and still cannot bring himself to turn away.
"So that's what this is?" he asks after a moment, voice low. "Another way to make me weep? What insult should I expect that you haven't already spoken a dozen times before?"
"We are older now, nephew," you say with an easy smile. "There are more pleasant ways of making you cry than cruelty."
Your hand slips out from beneath his tunic, both sliding up his body until you're holding the back of his hair, fingers threading through the dark curls at his nape as you lean in so close that your nose bumps his gently. Jace cannot bring himself to move away this time, gaze dropping down to your lips just as your tongue darts out to wet them. His breath is unsteady, and his heart is pounding so hard that he can hardly hear himself breathing over the sound of it.
"Any more clever retorts?" you breathe, and Jace relishes in the fact that you sound just as wrecked as he does just from touching him.
"You've made them all quite difficult to remember," he replies, voice wrecked.
"Good."
In truth, Jace does not know what he is doing.
He is not inexperienced by any means. He has courted women, kissed them, lain with them, but the moment your lips are on his, Jace's brain shuts off. His hands fly to your waist on instinct, head tilting to the side and lips parting before he can remember every sensible reason he ought to stop.
Your lips are soft and sweet, and just as he thought he would, he can taste the remnants of your wine on your tongue as it curls against his—it is intoxicating, you are intoxicating. He is like a fly that has dared too close to the spider's web, a moth drawn too close to flame. This is not something he will be able to stop, will want to stop, now that it has begun.
One hand stays at your hip to pull your body close to his, breath hitching when your thigh presses into aching cock, while the other slides up your body. He savors in the way you arch into his touch, in the soft moan that spills into his mouth, and how, for a moment, you forget you're kissing him entirely—lips parting, lashes fluttering as his hand palms over your breast, lingering for a moment longer there than he should, thumb rolling over your nipple through the fabric of your dress before he continues upward, until his fingers can entwine with your hair, holding the back of your head and your hip to pull you close and kiss you deeper.
It is mad, he thinks, drowning in the sounds of your shared, ragged breath and the wetness of your lips sliding against one another. If someone had told him that his first night back in King's Landing would be spent in the tallest tower of Maegor's Holdfast with you, of all people, he would have laughed in their face.
And yet, here he is—years of mockery and cruelty slipping through his fingers as his grip tightens on your hip and hair.
You pull back enough to catch your breath, forehead pressed to his, eyes sliding shut as you share the same sliver of air. His own breath is shuddering, head a bit light as he tries to get some air into his burning lungs, but he still slides his hand from where it's resting at the back of your head to cradle your face, fingers slipping beneath your chin, thumb resting over your bottom lip as he tilts your face up just enough to force you to look at him.
Your pupils are blown wide, lips slick and swollen from his—he is sure he likely looks no less disheveled, but cannot help the satisfaction that curls low in his gut, because there is no hiding the faint bits of astonishment in your eyes, much as you seem to be trying to mask it away.
"Where…" you start to breathe, blinking once, then a second time as you desperately try to compose yourself, sucking in a quick breath.
Jace's lips curl up into a mocking smile as he leans down so that his nose bumps yours again, tilting the lower half of his face close enough so that he can brush his lips briefly against yours before he murmurs, "You did not think you were the only one who has noticed I've grown handsome over the years, did you?"
Something hot flashes across your face, eyes sharpening and lips pressing together, but it is gone before he can place exactly what it is—jealousy? Possessiveness? The mere prospect makes his pulse jump.
"Careful, nephew," you whisper, lips curving. "For someone so pleased with himself, you are making it rather obvious that you are not as composed as you'd like me to believe."
Jace's eyes slide shut, head hanging forward slightly, lips parting in a silent moan as you put more pressure on his cock with your thigh. His abdomen tenses as he clings to a sliver of dignity in his attempts not to spill his seed in his trousers just from that bit of friction, breath ragged.
You huff out what sounds like a laugh as you brush your lips against his again.
"If you ask me nicely, Jacaerys, I'll help you with it," you purr into his mouth, kissing him again, deeper this time. Jace moans into your mouth as you grind your thigh against his cock, tongue dragging along the roof of his mouth.
You are going to be the death of him.
"Please," he breathes, eyes barely half-lidded as he looks down at you through his lashes, not able to stop himself from chasing your lips this time when you pull just out of reach. "Haven't I already made fool enough of myself? Have some mercy on your favorite nephew, aunt."
You hum into his mouth, considering, and Jace shivers. Your lips finally leave his, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, starting down his neck. Jace expects your hand to slip into his pants, expects to feel the warmth of your fingers around his cock, the softness of your palm as it glides over the length of him. He tilts his head back slightly as your lips trail down his throat, lashes lowered and breath hitching when your teeth graze over the apple of his throat, and then—
—then your lips disappear, and he hears a rustle of fabric.
His gaze cuts down, bemused, and then his whole chest seizes when he sees you on your knees in front of him, green dress pooled on the floor around you as you busy yourself with finishing unlacing his pants.
Oh, he thinks dumbly, lips parted as he stares down at you. His cock twitches, dizzy just from the sight of you—you—on your knees before him like this.
He has fantasized about this, he recalls absently, shamefully, one hand reaching out to caress the side of your face before he can stop himself, the backs of his fingers running along your cheek, over your lips.
Many times over the last few years, when word reached Dragonstone about whatever feast or tourney was hosted in your honor, and he would be tortured by the endless chorus of praise bestowed upon a woman he knew intimately to be merciless beneath the pretty smile, he would find himself in a restless obsession over you for days at a time. His family learned to keep a respectful distance, mistaking his foul temper for stress or exhaustion; they did not know every passing mention of your name set flames beneath his skin that threatened to consume him whole.
He would replay every slight you had ever dealt him on repeat in his head; in his mind, he won arguments that had long since ended. He thought of clever retorts he should have made, humiliations he wished he had returned in equal measure; he imagined finally leaving you speechless instead of standing there dumbly, red-faced and teary-eyed, wounded as you've left him countless times before.
And some nights, when Dragonstone had long fallen silent and sleep would not come, his thoughts would take an even more mortifying turn. His head would fall back against the frame of his bed, eyes sliding shut, and he would wonder—would you run your mouth so much when he had you beneath him? Would you be so quick to insult when it was his hand that would decide whether or not you would find pleasure that night? Would you still find it in you to get a taunt in while you were stretched open, or would you look up at him with those pretty eyes of yours, wide and teary, not a single thought running through that cruel little brain of yours while he had you at his mercy?
It was shameful—he was always filled with a certain type of guilt in the aftermath, jaw tight as he cleaned himself. He did not enjoy thinking of any woman in such a degrading way, even one as vicious as you, but you have always managed to bring out the very worst of him.
Heart racing and barely able to stop his fingers from trembling, he grabs your hand to stop you before you can slide his trousers down his thighs. You look up questioningly, and Jace swallows thickly, taking a moment to steady his breath and voice.
His lips dart out to wet his dry lips. "Are—are you certain?"
You give him a droll look that makes him feel stupid. "I would not be on my knees if I were not, Lord Strong."
Jace's nostrils flare, grip tightening on your wrist slightly as you look up at him with eager, glittering eyes—are you trying to make him lose his temper? Are you—
I liked looking at you more when I could make you forget yourself.
Gods, you are insufferable.
Jace hates that some shameful part of him enjoys it. It is odd, he should think, that he craves someone so determined to draw the worst from him.
Anyone else would be appalled by the viciousness of his tongue and the flashes of resentment he spends every waking hour concealing so that he may be the perfect prince for a court that has already decided it will not accept. He has spent his life learning restraint—swallowing his temper, smiling when slighted, bowing his head when insulted—but you pluck at his temper as though it were the strings of that harp you so enjoy playing, smiling brightest only once he's finally abandoned every pretense of civility.
You make him sharper, crueler, quicker to anger. You draw retorts from him so petty they would embarrass him if they came from anyone else's mouth, and you reduce years of discipline to ash with a single taunting smile. And yet, there is something liberating about it, he thinks, that there is someone who does not flinch when he gives into the uglier sides of himself.
Or, perhaps, he is just trying to justify the way his cock is weeping as you finally slide his trousers down over his thighs, the way his lashes flutter when you press your lips to his hipbone.
"My, you have grown pretty everywhere, haven't you, nephew?" you murmur, both hands coming to rest on his thighs as you lean in, gaze sharp and appreciative as you study the length of him.
Jace notes, absently, that you do not seem discomforted, or even surprised, by the sight of him so near to your face, which leads Jace to the unfortunate conclusion that this is probably not the first time you've been so close to a man's cock, and that only serves to aggravate him for reasons beyond his understanding.
You are betrothed to Aemond, are you not? Have you lain with him already? Aegon? Both?
His fingers slide from where they're resting atop your cheek to beneath your chin, lifting your face just a smidge so that your gaze shifts up to meet his. He nearly loses his train of thought when he sees how your attention lingers on his cock, pupils blown wide when you finally look up at him.
"You are bold, aunt," he notes, still stuck on the fact that you had the nerve to call him Lord Strong again when you are on your knees before him. Your audacity truly knows no bounds. "To insult me, considering the position you are about to be in. Do you not fear being at my mercy?"
Your lips curl up into a pretty, pretty smile that knocks the breath from his lungs. You breathe out, "I long for the day you finally give me a reason to, nephew."
You do not give Jace a chance to make a retort this time, leaning in to press your lips against him. He inhales sharply through his teeth, eyes sliding shut as you press open-mouthed kisses along the length of his cock, tongue teasing at the vein that runs on the underside.
His hand instinctively slides from your chin to the back of your head, while his other tightens around the edge of the windowsill he's leaning on. Desperately, he tries to use the cool night air to ground him, but it proves futile when you reach his tip, tongue flicking along his slit as you lap up the seed already leaking from it.
Breath ragged, he dares to spare a glance down at you, teeth nearly sinking through his bottom lip when he sees how you've devoted your whole attention to his cock, nails stinging at his hip and thigh as you hold him for leverage as you take him fully down your throat.
You have done this before, the thought hits him more severely, fingers tightening in your hair as the warmth of your throat fully envelops him, as his abdomen spasms, thighs tensing beneath your touch. The idea of it—of you on your knees for anyone else, of you allowing one of your cunt brothers to sink his cock into your mouth the way he is now—infuriates him more than he can articulate.
He hisses when he feels you moan around him as soon as he inadvertently tugs at your hair, heat spreading fast and all-consuming through him, cock twitching in your mouth, hips jerking slightly as he forces himself further down your throat. Your throat spasms around him, choking, fingers digging so deep into his skin that he thinks you draw blood, and instantly, his grip loosens on your hair, an apology on his lips.
"Sorry," he gasps, chest heaving, a bit dizzy as he forces himself away from the peak he nearly found himself on. Thighs still trembling as he tries to regain some control of himself. "I did not mean—"
He feels you pat his leg, and his eyes slide back open, focusing on you again. He almost cannot keep his gaze on you, because the sight of you on your knees, lips stretched around his cock, eyes stinging with tears, nearly undoes him entirely. He sucks in another sharp breath, jaw tightening as he wills away the tightness in his stomach, but it proves impossible. His breath hitches over something closer to a whine than anything else, because he does not want to finish, not yet, but—
You pull off his cock before he can make a fool of himself, and somehow that's even worse, because he can hear the way you laugh when you see how he hisses at the loss of your warmth around him, knees nearly buckling.
"Lose your restraint," you tell him. "I can handle it."
Lose his—
For a moment, he isn't sure what you're implying, blinking down dumbly at you, still reeling from how close he'd been to finishing and how easily you'd denied him. When your words finally begin to process, his face flushes a deep red, throat bobbing.
Are you telling him what he thinks you're telling him?
"Come, tell me you haven't imagined it, nephew," you murmur, voice hoarse from having his cock in your throat, but you are still unbearably smug—more than you ought to be, he thinks spitefully. You kiss his hip, his thigh, and then the tip of his cock, flicking your tongue against it lightly, savoring in the way it twitches beneath your lips. "Prove to me that there's some bite to your bark, Lord Strong."
He knows you are trying to provoke a reaction from him.
He knows it.
His jaw clenches, his fingers tighten in your hair, and he knows he is giving you what he wants because your lips part in anticipation, eyes half-lidded and waiting as you look at him through your lashes. And he doesn't want to give you what he wants, he doesn't. He loves the idea of denying you when he knows no one has ever denied you before, wants to see your lip pushed out in a pretty pout, wants to see the confused expression on your face as you tilt your head and look at him, but—
—but his hand slides behind your head again anyway, easing you forward until your lips brush his tip again.
"You will tap twice if you need me to stop," he tells you, waiting for you to acknowledge his words. He sees the thrill that runs through you when you realize he is actually going to go through with it, and he feels it himself, low in his stomach, hot and tight and so, so dizzying. "Hm?"
"Yes, yes," you agree absently, and he is not sure if you are listening to him at all, and he can hardly focus with the way your warm breath is fanning over his aching cock. "Not that you will be able to make me, my lord Strong."
Jace presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, rage and desire flooding him in earnest as his grip tightens just enough on your hair to coax another soft, breathy moan from you. Your gaze flicks up to his, somehow still mocking, somehow still behaving as though you are the one in control, and Jace does not hesitate this time as he guides your mouth to his cock, down his length until your lips are flush to his pelvis and your eyes are watering with tears.
Instinctively, you try to pull back, but his hand is firm at the back of your head, holding you in place. He tilts his head to the side, lips curled up into a lazy smile that he hopes belies the way his entire body feels as though it's on fire at the feeling of your throat wrapped tight around his cock.
"Already, aunt?" he mocks, relishing in the irritation that crosses your eyes. "I would think—hah—"
Jace stumbles over his words, choking on a breathy moan when he feels you purposely work your throat around his cock. His eyes fly open, lips parting—your throat tightens around him, and Jace cannot think, all coherent thought slips from his mind, reduced to the warmth of you, the tightness, you, you, you.
This is you on your knees for him. Your lips stretched around his cock, your nails in his thighs, your eyes tearing up at him. You, you, you. The girl who has always held herself above him, mocked him, teased him, tormented him until he was angry to the point of violence and hurt to tears. Every fantasy of petty revenge slips away because this—this—is all he ever needs, is all he's ever wanted.
He rolls his hips slowly against your face once he regains some slivers of control, watching as your lashes flutter, a soft moan spilling from his lips when he hits the back of your throat and feels your tongue drag along the underside of his cock.
Jace is not one for violence or pain—where other men chased screams and took their pleasure roughly, he has always preferred sighs and caresses—even you, with your insufferable taunts, he's careful not to rock his hips too hard as he begins to set a steady pace, because he has no desire to hurt you.
His hand slides from the back of your head to your neck, cradling your throat in his palm, fingers stroking along your skin as he feels the small bulge when your nose presses to his abdomen again.
Fuck, he thinks, breath hitching as he feels himself moving inside you. He lets out a long, shaky breath as his abdomen tightens, cock twitching so hard in your throat that it makes you choke again.
His lashes flutter shut, head tipping back out the window behind him; the cool night breeze does nothing to quell the heat rushing through him as your nails dig deeper into his thighs as you brace yourself for leverage to retake control, lips sliding up and down the length of his cock in earnest now, each time his tip hits the back of your throat drawing another pitched gasp from him.
His eyes half-roll back when you press your tongue flat against his slit, a louder moan spilling from his lips. His vision is blurred and lidded as he tries to focus on the sky above, the stars, your dragon and his still dancing around each other, but every small thing he tries to grasp onto so that he doesn't spill his seed down your throat slips between his fingers.
"Hah, I—" he stumbles over his words, another groan that pitches into a whine when you swirl your tongue around him. "I'm close, fuck, I—"
He thinks you will pull off him as most have done in the past, but your grip tightens on him, and you take him into your mouth in full one last time, holding yourself there as he lets out a string of incoherent babbles—your name, aunt, please, fuck—each one caught between a breathier moan than the last, hips grinding against your face as though he can press himself impossibly deeper inside you before his vision knocks white and the coil inside him finally snaps.
He chokes on a moan, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he spills his seed down your throat, entire body trembling as you keep him in your mouth, lips sliding up and down his length as you ease him through his high.
He does not know how long he stays there, panting, head tipped back out of the window as he desperately tries to regain some control, but it is only when you finally pull off him that he dares to roll his head to the side to look back at you.
You are sitting back on your heels now, your own breath ragged, lips swollen and wet. You lean forward to rest your head against his hip, breath hot and unsteady against his thigh as you try to catch your breath.
Jace's eyes slide shut again, an indescribable feeling settling over him—regret? shame? or, perhaps, shame but only because he does not regret this at all when he knows he should. His fingers absently card through your hair, trying to catch his own breath, thighs still trembling in the aftermath of his high.
At last, you shift as though to move, pressing your lips to his thigh, his hip, his sternum, his pulse, jaw, and then you ghost your lips against his face, tongue darting out to lap at the tear he hadn't even noticed had slipped from his eye.
"I was right," you breathe, brushing your lips against his. "You are still the prettiest thing I've ever seen."
Shit, Jace thinks, chest heaving as he stares down at you, heart pounding. What did he just let happen?
FEATURING: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader, minor Aegon II Targaryen x fem!reader
SUMMARY: Life changes when you spend years apart from those you care for most, but your love for Jacaerys never does—except his for you does, and not in a way you anticipate. OR, Jace returns to King's Landing after ten years apart, fully intending to steal you from Aegon, and nothing goes according to plan.
WARNINGS: fem!reader. TARGCEST (aunt-nephew, half-sibling). reader is a Targaryen (daughter of Viserys & Aemma)—no physical features are explicitly described (silver hair, purple eyes, etc) BUT it is implied through Jace's insecurity that he does not look like her because he references not looking like "everyone else". forced marriage (reader & Aegon). Reader & Aegon are VERY young when they have their kids (14 & 13 respectively), and reader has some complications/health issues following the birth because she was so young/her body wasn't ready for it. Post-partum depression. Smut. Oral (f!receiving). Jace is very sloppy and very eager and very inexperienced. Overstimulation. Dubcon-ish (not really, but Jace worries in the aftermath that he pressured her). Infidelity (technically—Aegon and reader are both cheating on each other LOL but neither gaf). Jace is wildly unhinged about reader and everybody but reader knows. Codependent relationship. Slight age gap (5 years between reader & Jace)
NOTES: Warning: this is 40k words, please read it anyway, I promise it will be worth it euhuhuhuhhh. ALSO, some of the fic might look as though it's oddly formatted (paragraphs are smushed together when they should be separated) that is because it is formatted oddly—I had to smush together 150 paras so that I could post it all in one post, so unfortunately I feel as though it lost some of the effect </3 but it should still read as I intended. Just know that if you look at it and there are some points where it's like paragraph after paragraph </3 that is not my fault, I had it separated very easily and very readable. Also, I messed up the timeline somehow, suspend thy disbelief, the dance still plays out as its supposed but for some reason it's happening a year earlier LOL. Anyway, love you all! All reblogs & comments are appreciated, especially on this one because 1) it is a lot of writing all at once, and 2) it was literally the most discouraging moment of my life when I tried to post and got an error and had to spend an hour and a half condensing my perfectly structured fic. On that topic, sorry for the lazy description, I fear my heart was not into it after I had to massacre the structure of this fic. If there's any warnings missing, pls let me know and I'll add them!
JACAERYS, 10; READER, 15; 120 AC
Two years have passed, but the ache in your chest has never quite subsided since you parted ways with your sister and her sons.
"How does it feel? That you get to see our sister anddearest nephews again? It has been what? Two years, has it? Are you excited, wife?"
You exhale hard through your nose, turning your face away from Aegon when you see him leaning over the rail trying to make eye contact with you, a shit-eating grin on his face. You do your best to ignore the way your heart sinks at the reminder of the silence you have faced from Dragonstone.
Aegon, naturally, is always quick to rub it in your face. You turn a half-hearted glare onto him when he pointedly shifts back into your field of vision, but you do not even have the energy to snap a snide comment back . Your chest is weak, and your fingers are trembling, nausea eats away at the back of your throat every time you open your mouth. Even just holding yourself upright is an effort—all you want to do is go sit in the captain's cabin, but your pride refuses.
"Leave her alone, Aegon," Aemond says, leaning on the rail of the ship next to you, looking up wistfully as Dreamfyre trills above the ship, spinning in the air before swooping down closer to the water. "Why do you always have something to say?"
Aegon scoffs, folding his arms over his chest as he looks away. "Mind your business, Aemond" he mutters. "I thought she would be pleased to see them again. It is not my fault she remains so sensitive."
Your eye twitches, and a familiar screech cuts through the sea air above.
Every head on deck turns skyward. High above the ship, Zūgaxes circles lazily through the clouds, always close enough to keep you in his line of sight, pale white scales gleaming beneath the afternoon sun as he follows the royal envoy to Driftmark for Lady Laena's funeral. Sunfyre dives after him, always keen on playing chase with the larger dragon, but Zūgaxes is in no mood for fun today, same as you—the moment Sunfyre comes within striking distance, Zūgaxes snaps viciously at his throat, forcing the young dragon to dive away with an indignant shirek, barely avoiding the bite.
"Your dragon is a vicious beast," Aegon mutters, downing another cup of wine, face a bit paler at the sight of his dragon nearly meeting an untimely end at the teeth of yours. "Keep him away from Sunfyre, would you?"
"You wouldn't have to worry about it if you would concern yourself less with your cups and more with my disposition," you reply wearily, rubbing at your temple. "Zūgaxes only takes issue with Sunfyre when I take issue with you."
Aegon looks up at the two dragons, then back at you. "… Right," he replies, clearing his throat and lowering his goblet. "Then I will take care not to bother you today, sister."
"Aegon the Sagacious," you murmur sarcastically, eyes sliding shut as a wave of dizziness hits you.
Beside you, Aegon grins boyishly and agrees, "Aegon the Sensible."
You find yourself smiling, despite how your hand drifts to your chest as your heart flutters weakly. Above you, Zūgaxes makes a noise closer to croon than roar, coming dangerously close to the ship, and Aemond hesitantly looks between the two of you, offering his arm for you to lean on.
You shake your head and say quietly, "I am fine, valonqar."
He stares at you for a moment, unconvinced, but returns his gaze to the sky as Zūgaxes swoops down lower, trying to remain as close to you as he can.
Over a year has passed since the twins' birth, but your body still behaves as though it had happened yesterday. You nearly died giving birth to them—fourteen years old, and the maesters had already begun speaking over your body as though you were no longer there, debating whether to save you or the children when the bleeding refused to stop, ignoring you when you begged them not to let you die. It was your father who stepped in when Aegon fled to the bottom of a flagon, trembling violently at the idea of having to choose between you and the children. The king ordered the maesters to save you first, voice carrying through the chamber with a fury you'd never seen from him before.
Somehow, all three of you had lived, though you reckon death may have been kinder if this is to be your fate. You tire too quickly now, and your hands shake when you hold the children for too long. Some mornings, merely fastening your gown leaves you breathless enough that your ladies insist you sit before attempting the stairs. The maesters tell you that you should be resting every time they catch you up and about, but there is only so much time you can stay abed before you would sooner collapse on the stairs than remain still.
In the beginning, they give you a general range for when they believed your body would return to what it was, but they stopped with that moons ago—you fear that this might be your life now. Even Aegon had stopped arguing with them, no longer laughing when they forbade you from flying or carrying both twins at once.
You hate it. You feel as though you've lost a part of yourself that you do not know how to live without. You have always been up with the sun, running about the castle long after the moon had risen. You were in the yard with Ser Steffon every morning until your hands blistered and your shoulders burned, and in the sky any other given moment, flying recklessly over King's Landing and the Blackwater with Zūgaxes every chance you got. You spent a year with your uncle, Daemon, perfecting your form and skill so that you could be the best—you were determined that one day you would beat him and claim the Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister for yourself.
When the court whispered that you should be gentler or softer, you would toss your hair over your shoulder and laugh, because you were neither gentle nor soft, and anyone who had a problem with it could face blade or dragon—you would be kind enough to give them a choice.
Now, you struggle to leave your bed in the morning and can scarcely make it to the dragonpit, much less climb atop Zūgaxes. There are days you look at yourself through a looking glass and do not recognize the girl staring back at you. Her face is thin, and dark circles linger beneath her eyes that no amount of sleep can erase—there is always a child in her arms and a shakiness to her limbs. She is a wife, a mother, a princess—all of the things the court had wanted her to become.
Yet, you are no longer entirely certain who you are. Somewhere between the wedding feast and the blood-soaked sheets, all of the endless, sleepless nights, you feel as though you lost the girl who spent entire days racing through clouds and challenging knights twice her size simply because she could. The girl once called hāedar and muña, whose greatest worry had been whether Rhaenyra would get upset with you for sneaking Jacaerys more snacks than he ought to have, had slipped through your fingers before you even knew you were losing her.
And no one cared to mourn her besides you. Rhaenyra had not come to your wedding, and Jacaerys had never come to visit. You sent ravens to Laenor asking if you could join him at sea and gifts to Lucerys from Pentoshi merchants who had arrived with the spring, and they had gone unanswered.
When your belly had begun to swell beneath your gowns, and you sent ravens with trembling fingers to tell Rhaenyra that you were scared, you would go to Maester Orwyle, eyes wide with anticipation only for him to give you a disparaging smile as he told you none had arrived for you. When the twins were born and the maestars whispered that the young princess might not survive the night, you cried every night because all you wanted was your sister.
Every morning for the better part of a year, you found yourself glancing toward the skies before you even realized you were doing it, looking for the familiar gold of Syrax or even Vermax's small green wings crossing the Blackwater, but they never came.
At first, you had made excuses for them. Rhaenyra has duties and children to tend to, and Jacaerys is too young to come on his own. But weeks turned to months and months turned to years, and there came a point where no excuse could rid you of the resentment. Because how could they leave you alone when you needed them most? You would never do that to them. Never.
And you had needed them. Not for the wedding—you endured standing beside Aegon in the sept without them after the two of you downed a flagon of wine together—but when the twins came too early, and the world narrowed to blood and pain and fear. You thought your final breath would be spent calling for people who you knew were not there, and the childish part of you had still waited for the doors to burst open anyway.
But every raven had gone unanswered, and every nameday passed without a visit. You wonder if something had happened on Dragonstone—maybe Rhaenyra had wanted to come and could not, maybe Jacaerys still asked after you. Or maybe they had learned to live without you—out of sight, out of mind.
"Driftmark!" the captain shouts from the quarterdeck.
You tense instantly. You do not know if you're ready to see them.
Aemond inches closer to you. "Do you want to come sit in the captain's cabin with Helaena and I, mandia? I become terribly seasick during docking."
You do not think Aemond has ever been seasick before, and concern is plain in his eyes when he glances down at how your fingers tremble on the wood rail. It is more for your sake than his, you realize, but he is courteous enough to allow you a sliver of pride, unlike his brother.
"Aemond the Chivalrous," you say with a small, teasing smile, causing the younger boy to flush when he holds his arm out for you to take.
"Aemond the Gallant," Aegon immediately echoes with a sharp laugh, mocking to your sincerity. "You will be a fine knight, if not dragonrider, dearest brother."
Aemond immediately scowls, gaze dropping to the ground, shoulders hunching slightly. You squeeze his arm lightly and say, "Do not listen to him. I fear a fish has more sense than he does. You will bond with a dragon one day, Aemond, that I have no doubt." He gives you a small smile as he looks up at you, but his violet eyes are still riddled with insecurity. You promptly change the subject and ask, "Did Helaena find the spiders she was looking for?"
"There are five," Aemond confirms. "She is trying to determine whether they might be a family."
Aegon makes a noise in the back of his throat, and you know he is rolling his eyes, but he follows the two of you as you make your way across the deck, hovering at your other arm in case you lose your balance.
Your teeth grind in frustration again. Once upon a time, you would have bounded across the deck three steps ahead of them, laughing when the ship lurched beneath your feet and Aegon lost his balance. Now, Aemond shortens his stride without comment, pretending not to notice when your hand tightens around his arm after a particularly rough swell, and Aegon tosses his cup to nearby servant so that he can catch you in case your legs give out.
Just as you reach the captain's cabin, the ship's bell sounds overhead. A voice calls, "Prepare for docking!"
Your step falters, gaze slipping to the side to settle on the pale stone of High Tide in the near distance. You see Syrax on the hill, golden head lifting when she notices Zūgaxes soaring above the royal envoy—she lets out a familiar trill, but he does not echo it the way he used to, the dread you feel undoubtedly weighing on him as heavily as it does you.
Somewhere on the island is Rhaenyra, Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey. You have spent two years imagining this moment. You have practiced what you would say in mirrors and anticipated every excuse you would be given for their absence, but somehow, none of it had prepared you for how much it would hurt.
————————————
You have always associated your sister's smile with warmth. Before she left for Dragonstone, seeing her smile could be the difference between a ruined day and a perfect one. It chased away every lingering stare from the court and soothed every anxiety faced. It reminded you that for all the loneliness of the Red Keep, you would always have her.
You're not sure what you expected, you think later, long after the services for Lady Laena had ended, and you are sitting in the chambers Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys had set up for you and Aegon as the sun sets across the sea. Your half-brother is nowhere to be found—likely drunk in a ditch or in some whore's bed—you do not care either way. You are happy to be alone, so that you may finally let yourself feel whatever it is you have been holding at bay all day.
Rhaenyra smiled at you when she saw you step off the ship beside Aegon, and you felt nothing.
You had imagined this reunion a thousand different ways over the past two years. You would throw yourself into Rhaenyra's arms, laughing as Jacaerys threw himself into yours, and you would shout at her until your voice gave out. You planned all of the angry questions: why did you never come, why did you never write, why did she let you face your wedding, pregnancy, and labor all alone? Why, why, why?
But you had only smiled faintly at her back and turned your gaze away.
You could feel her occasionally watching you throughout the services—gaze pinned on you, red and black in a sea of green and gold, the twins, the handmaidens that tend to you whenever your body weakens. The longer she stares, the more frustrated you become. Does she not even care to ask how you've been? To learn the twins' names? What had you done to make her so cold?
As difficult as it was ignoring her, ignoring Jacaerys was harder. You forced Aegon to run interference through use of threat of Zūgaxes to Sunfyre, but it was clear that the boy was angry with you. Every time you looked over at him, he was already glaring at you. His brows were drawn together in a furious scowl that you've only ever seen reserved for Ser Criston, and the moment your eyes met, he would raise his chin until you looked away. It was a far cry from the open adoration that you had become used to years ago.
You do not understand it. You had been the one abandoned and ignored. You were the one who had waited for people who never came.
There is a knock at your door, drawing you from your thoughts. You tense, glancing over to where the twins had only just fallen asleep after hours of wailing, but they do not stir.
"Come in," you call, uncertain of who it might be—Aemond or Helaena, you wager, because Aegon does not knock when he barges in.
Your gaze lifts to as the door creaks open, and you falter when you recognize Rhaenyra. You inhale deeply, shifting to sit up straight on the settee as you say quietly, "Sister."
Rhaenyra hesitates before she motions toward the cushions next to you. "May I?"
You almost tell her no. You stare at her so long that you see her visibly falter, looking uncertainly between you and the door as she considers taking her leave. Before she can, your gaze drops and you nod.
When she sits down next to you, she sits close enough that you can smell the faint scent of vanilla in her hair. Your heart aches—you have missed her. You have missed all of them—her and Laenor and Jacaerys and Lucerys—being near enough again to inhale the familiar scent of her hair oils only serves to make that longing worse.
She reaches for your hands, and you let her hold them.
"I…" Rhaenyra hesitates as she gathers her thoughts. "I confess, I have prepared many times what I would say to you when we met again, but I find myself at a loss anyway. I have missed you, sweet girl. I had… been under the impression that our father would wait to wed you and Aegon until your sixteenth nameday. I did not think—"
She cuts herself off abruptly, grimacing as she looks away.
You stare down at your joined hands, trying to push away the hope that rises, because how does this explain anything? A royal wedding is no trivial affair, and she expects you to believe that word did not reach Dragonstone that the King's secondborn daughter and firstborn son had wed? She expects you to believe that word did not reach Dragonstone when you gave Aegon a son and a daughter? That she did not receive any of your ravens?
It's nonsensical. She had to have known.
"I sent ravens," you say, voice clipped. "Dozens of them. More. I was alone, and I did not know what to do, and I—"
I needed you, you do not say—you do not need to say, because Rhaenyra's expression instantly drops as she shifts closer to you. She does not hesitate now when she moves to pull you into her arms, cradling the back of your head so that you can press your face into the crook of her neck.
You tell yourself that you want to remain strong—you want to question her, you want real answers, not excuses—but the next breath you take in breaks over a sob, fingers twisting into the red velvet of her dress as you sink into her familiar warmth.
"I did not receive them," Rhaenyra whispers, pressing her lips to the top of your head. "Hāedar, I would have come. I would have come in an instant, had I known."
You tremble in her arms—you have had your half-siblings over the last two years, but it is not the same. There is always a degree of distance between you and them because of Queen Alicent; they are not the woman who raised you, who snuck you snacks when you were sad and shielded you from the cruelty of the court. That was always Rhaenyra, and two years without Rhaenyra—
"I do not believe you," you rasp. "You had to have known. I do not believe you. I—"
"I knew you had wed," she admits, stroking your back and your hair. For the first time in two years, you feel as though all of the weight that has been bearing down on you lifts from your shoulders. You are hāedar, muña, the girl you thought dead in place of a mother and wife. "By the time word reached Dragonstone, weeks had already passed. I was furious with father. I wrote to you that very night. Then another raven after a week had passed. Then another." She shakes her head. "When none returned, I thought… I wondered if perhaps you blamed me. That you no longer wished to hear from me."
Your stomach turns, breath ragged as you press your face harder into her skin. What does she mean? What does she mean that she sent ravens? What does she mean that she only knew after the wedding took place? You sent ravens weeks before the wedding took place.
"I am a fool, sweet girl," Rhaenyra says softly, pulling back to look at you. There are tears spilling over her cheeks, though she does her best to wipe them away before you notice. You suck in a terrible, choked breath, because you know your sister well enough to know that she is not lying to you. "I should have known better. I should have flown to you the moment you did not respond. Someone must have been interfering with the ravens, I—" Her expression twists into one caught between fury and heartbreak. "—I will figure it out. I swear."
"I was so scared, mandia," you dare to say out loud for the first time now that you are back in your sister's arms, lifting your hand to wipe at your eyes messily. "I thought—"
I thought I was going to die, you cannot bring yourself to say, breath hitching as the fear you felt in that blood-soaked bed finally returns. You have pushed it down for months, pretended it did not exist every time your gaze fell upon a maester or septon who was in the room, and suddenly, you were back in that bed, fourteen and crying, drowning in your own blood while strangers tried to convince Aegon that the children's lives were worth more than yours.
"They stopped talking to me," you say, words tumbling out, because now that you have begun, there is no stopping the avalanche of fear you've held in for the last year. "The maesters and the septons—they were all talking over me like I wasn't there anymore. I kept telling them that I didn't want to die, that I wanted someone to send to you, but nobody listened. I thought—I thought maybe it was my fault. That the gods were punishing me."
"For mother," you whisper. "They cut her open to save me, mandia. I thought perhaps this was the gods' way of making things right. That they had decided a life for a life was only fair. That they would cut me open and I would die the same way."
"Do not ever say that again," Rhaenyra hisses, eyes meeting yours as she holds your hands tight. "Our mother loved you, hāedar. She sang to you while you were a babe in her womb; she could only sleep when she could feel you kicking against her hand. Her death was not your fault. She died because men demanded too much of her—and they demanded too much of you. You were a child, hāedar."
A wail escapes your lips before you can catch it, hand flying to your mouth to smother it—it is an ugly thing, loud and helpless, far from the silent tears and grief you swallowed every morning when you looked at yourself in the mirror. You crumple against Rhaenyra as she gathers you into her lap, like you weigh no more than you did at eight years old. Your fingers twisting in her gown as months of fear, exhaustion, loneliness, and resentment pour out of you all at once.
"I didn't want to die, and I didn't want to get married, and I didn't want to have children. I thought of you every day. I wanted to go to you, I tried, but I couldn't—I can't—"
Your words dissolve into another cry. Rhaenyra holds you for a long, long time—until your eyes start drooping and the wails turn to sniffles and even the sniffles fade to silence. She holds you still after you've calmed, lips pressed to the top of your head, humming the old lullaby she used to sing when you were a babe plagued with nightmares.
Your eyes linger on the cradles across the room. You have never sung to them.
"I hate them sometimes," you whisper after a few moments of silence pass, voicing the wretched words aloud for the first time now that you are safe in your sister's arms. "It is not natural that a mother should hate her children, I should think."
You regret them as soon as they've left your mouth, heart pounding and fingers shaking as you stare at where they are lying in their cradles, fast asleep, ignorant to the words their own mother has just spoken.
"Hāedar…" you hear your sister start to murmur, and you rush to continue, filled with shame.
"I do," you insist, shaking your head violently. "Sometimes I do. When they cry and cry, and my chest hurts so much I cannot even lift them without my arms shaking… when I wake and my whole body aches before I have even opened my eyes. I look at them, and I hate them."
The words taste sour.
"I hate that they took everything from me," you continue, voice breaking. " I look at them, and all I can think is that I used to be someone else."
You do not dare to look at your sister. You rub your face hard, trying to rid yourself of your tears.
"And then they laugh or reach for me, and they are so tiny, and they never wanted me to suffer." You curl into yourself, voice barely audible. "They deserve a better mother. There is something wrong with me, I think."
You almost expect Rhaenyra recoil, but she only gathers you close, tucking your head under her chin as she strokes your hair.
"You are too hard on yourself, sweet girl," Rhaenyra asks quietly. "All I hear is a little girl who was made a wife before she understood what marriage was, and a mother before she had finished being a child herself. It is not your fault, hāedar."
"But I should not think those things."
"You should not have been put in a position where you could."
"I wanted to love them immediately," you whisper. "The way you loved Jacaerys, but I—"
There is a loud noise from right outside your room, startling the both of you. Rhaenyra immediately stiffens, rising to her feet to stand between you and whoever is there.
She demands, "Who is there? Show yourself?"
The door creaks open, and Jacaerys stands there, tears streaking his round cheeks. He is dressed in his nightgown—your heart sinks. How much did he hear? He must have followed Rhaenyra when he heard her leave their shared chambers to see you.
"I—" he starts to say, voice wobbly. "I wasn't trying to listen, I promise. I—"
He is lying. His nose bunches and he cannot hold your gaze, the same he has always acted every time he tried to get away with a lie. When neither of you reply, Rhaenyra's brows knit together in disappointment and your lips parted in anxiety, Jacaerys shifts uncomfortably on his feet, looking between the two of you desperately before his gaze lands on you, brown eyes big and pleading.
"Nobody told me," he whispers so quietly you barely hear him. "I didn't know. I—"
The anger that had clouded his face throughout the funeral is gone, and in its place is only fear. The same fear you had seen on his face when he was running to you through the Keep after Ser Criston had struck him, the fear from the day you left for Pentos, and the fear from the morning you were forced to remain in King's Landing while he left for Dragonstone. The anxiety drains from you with haste as you let out a soft breath,
"Mandianna," you murmur, holding your hand out for him.
Jacaerys immediately rushes to you. Before you can say anything else, he drops to his knees in front of you, arms tucked around your legs. Your hands settle on the top of his head, fingers absently toying with his dark curls as he buries his face into your lap.
"I'm sorry!" he sobs. "I thought—you didn't come say hi. I thought you hated me because I broke my promise, and that's why you never wrote me back." His shoulders tremble violently beneath your hands as you smooth circles on them. You look at Rhaenyra desperately for help, but she only gives you a small smile. "I wanted to go back for you. I asked mother all the time when we would come, I promise. I asked and asked, and she always said soon, and then—" He hiccups. "Then it was never soon."
"Jacaerys," you start to say.
"I thought you didn't love me anymore," he continues, looking up at you with watery eyes. "Then I heard you saying you almost died, and I—I wasn't there. I should have been there, muña.
You pull back just enough to cup his cheeks. He presses his nose into your hand, still sniffling as you smile at him. You say quietly, "There is nothing you could've done, mandianna."
"It doesn't matter. You don't know that!" Jacaerys disagrees, eyes welling up with tears again as he looks up at you from the floor. "I could have been there. I could have held your hand. I would have told them to save you—" Your eyes slide shut briefly when you realize he heard everything "—I would have made them listen. I knew Aegon wouldn't take care of you. I knew it."
"Jacaerys—"
"What if you'd died?" he blurts. "What if I'd never seen you again? I was angry with you all day. I didn't even come say hi because I wanted you to be sorry, and—but if you had died—what if you had died thinking I hated you? Or that I broke my promise? Muña, I'm sorry, please forgive me."
You lean down to grab him beneath the arms, ignoring the way your whole body aches and screams for you to put him down so that you lift him up to sit him on your lap before he can spiral any further. You wrap both arms tightly around him as he collapses into you. He clings to you desperately, fingers twisting into your gown, face pressed to the crook of your neck, the same way you were with Rhaenyra just moments before.
"I'm right here," you tell him. "It's okay. There's nothing to forgive."
Slowly, his breathing starts to even out. "I don't want you to die," he says at last, sniffling still. "Please don't die, muña."
You laugh lightly and say, "I do not intend to, Jacaerys. Not for a very long time, if I can help it."
Jacaerys sniffles one last time, the tension gradually leaving his small frame as he melts into you. For a long moment, the room is quiet save for the crackling and occasional hitch of his breath, your fingers combing through his hair automatically, just as they had done countless evening before the world ever came between you.
Then, there is a soft cry from the opposite side of the room, and all three of you look toward the far side of the chamber. Jacaerys startles, as though he has just remembered the twins are there at all, and Rhaenyra cannot help the curiosity that slips onto her face as she looks in the direction of the cradles.
"Would you want to… meet them?" you ask hesitantly after a moment, looking between Jacaerys and Rhaenyra.
Jacaerys wipes hastily at his eyes with the heel of his sleeve before nodding frantically. Rhaenyra gives you a soft smile, reaching out to cradle your face briefly as she says, "Of course, hāedar."
You rise to your feet a little unsteadily, feeling a little faint from lifting Jacaerys onto your lap. Before you can take a step, both Rhaenyra and Jacaerys reach for you at the same time.
You tell them with a strained smile, "I'm all right."
Jacaerys's brows furrow as he insists that you hold his arm anyway, so you indulge him, crossing the room carefully with the two of them. You stop beside the cradles and stare down—for the first time since giving birth to them, you are not immediately filled with that familiar knot of dread and guilt.
"This is Maegelle," you say, brushing your fingers against the girl's face, watching as she reaches for your hand on instinct. She is quiet, unlike her brother, who is always babbling one thing or another unless he is asleep, and even then, sometimes. "And this is—"
His name catches in your throat, and your smile falters. Rhaenyra notices, casting you a concerned look.
"Maegor," you say at last, quieter, not daring to look at their reactions to your chosen name for your son.
The name feels different now than it had a year ago. You insisted upon it while still confined to your bed, too weak to sit upright for more than a few moments. Aegon had gone missing after they demanded he choose between you and them, so the choice of name was left to you. The septons had balked immediately, muttering that it was an ill-omened name, cursed by history. Alicent and Otto had looked scandalized. Even your father was surprised, eyes widening in confusion.
But you had not cared—not then, at least. The decision had been born of pure, childish spite—a tiny act of rebellion from a girl who had been denied every greater one. At the time, it had felt like the only decision in your life that had truly belonged to you in a long time, because you had looked them in the eye and, for the first time since your wedding, felt something other than fear and anxiety.
But looking at your son now, asleep and blissfully unaware of the burden his name carried, you feel only regret. You have cursed him to the same fate you have spent your life suffering—the same fate you have tried to shield Jacaerys from—with a single, stupid decision.
Rhaenyra seems to understand, because she always does. She gives you a small smile, leaning down to ghost her lips against your head. She says softly, "It is a strong name. We need not let one man own it forever."
"They are very tiny still," Jacaerys declares. There is an odd expression on his face as he reaches out to touch Maegor's silvery hair—he gnaws at his bottom lip and looks away uncertainly, pulling his hand away. "They are not as fussy as Joff was."
You laugh. "Give it a few hours," you tell him. "When they decide they would rather scream than sleep, you may change your mind."
"Can I help tomorrow? If they're awake?" Jacaerys asks, brown eyes wide and searching as he looks up at you. "Please." When your lips part to tell him to ask you properly on instinct, he corrects hastily, "Kostilus. Kostilus, kostagon nyke dohaeragon?"
Please. Please can I help?
"You've been practicing," you praise, smiling when he preens at the acknowledgment. "I'd like that very much, mandianna."
Rhaenyra watches the two of you for a long moment before she brushes a kiss against your brow, then another atop Jacaerys's curls.
"It grows late," she murmurs. "Lucerys is undoubtedly searching every corridor for his brother by now… Though, I suspect he may not be finding him tonight, so I should go find him."
Jacaerys looks up hopefully.
"May I stay?" he pleads before turning to you. "I'll be quiet, I promise, and I'll help if the twins wake, and I won't steal all your blankets. Maybe some of them."
"Of course, you can stay, silly boy," you murmur.
Jacaerys's face lights up in delight as he turns a questioning look on his mother, who smiles and inclines her head in approval.
"Sleep well, both of you. In the morning, we shall settle this mystery of the missing ravens."
————————————
It is still night when you wake up, and Jacaerys is gone.
One of your ladies in waiting, Lady Melynda Darklyn, sits near the cradles of the twins. She has always been the most dutiful of your companions, checking in when the moon is high to see if the twins are comfortable so that you might get a full night's rest. You push yourself out of bed, ignoring the weakness in your chest, so that you can make your way over to her.
She catches the movement from the corner of her eye and rises to her feet. "Princess," she says, taking a step in your direction and holding out her arm to you, but you hold your hand up to signal for her to stay seated.
"Melynda, did you see Jacaerys?" you ask, an uncertain feeling weighing on you as you glance back at your bed. Jacaerys is a horribly heavy sleeper—you'd once joked to Rhaenyra that the boy could sleep through Doom if given the chance. He has always slept later than you, and you doubt that he has suddenly become a light sleeper after two years apart. "He was spending the night in here."
Melynda shakes her head. "No, princess. Would you like for me to send someone to go search for him?"
"No," you reply immediately, lips pressed together as your gaze sweeps over the large room one last time. "Would you stay with the twins, please?"
"Of course,," Melynda tells you, unable to push the concern from her face when she sees how your hand instinctively lifts your chest when you move toward the door, but she knows better than to push when you have your mind set on doing something yourself. "Be careful, princess. It sounded like there was a bit of a commotion coming from the Hall of Nine."
You glance at her over your shoulder, brows furrowed slightly, but then you nod in thanks before pushing the heavy door open to your chambers to step out into the cool hall. Ser Steffon, Melynda's brother and your sworn sword, is nowhere to be found.
You reach back into your room to grab your cloak, sliding it over the nightslip you wear to make yourself presentable before you make your way down the winding hall in the direction of the Hall of Nine. Your body is always weakest before dawn. The maesters say it is because you do not sleep enough—if you remained in bed more and gave your body more time to heal, the weakness would ease—but you have stopped believing them. You have given yourself moons of rest and nothing has changed. You cannot remain abed forever.
By the time you reach the first flight of stairs, your legs are already trembling. You pause long enough to steady yourself against the cold stone wall before continuing onward down to the main level of the castle.
As you round the final corner leading toward the Hall of Nine, you finally hear the commotion Melynda had mentioned.
"He attacked Baela!" / "He broke Luke's nose!" / "They attacked me!" / "He stole my mother's dragon!" / "Enough." / "He was going to kill Jace!" / "I didn't do anything!" / "Enough!" / "It should be my son telling the tale!" / "He called us—"
"Silence!"
"What happened?" you ask quietly when you see Daemon leaning against the door, looking into the Hall of Nine. He tilts his head to the side to look at you, gaze slipping over the cloak you tugged around yourself and the weakness plain on your face. He holds his arm out to you silently, beckoning for you to lean on it; you exhale through your nose as you do so gratefully. "Do you know?"
"It appears your nephews and my daughters have taken the eye of your dearest half-brother," Daemon says flippantly.
You shoot him a wide-eyed look, unsure if you heard him properly, but Daemon only nods in the direction of where Aemond is being tended to by a maester. Your stomach drops at the sight of the stitches running through his eye, and your gaze cuts over to where Jacaerys and Lucerys are standing with their mother, blood running down both of their faces—Baela and Rhaena, too, curled into the dress of Princess Rhaenys. What has happened?
"—legitimacy of my sons' birth was put loudly to question," you hear Rhaenyra say as you focus back on the conversation at hand instead of the blood spilled.
Beside you, Daemon straightens slightly, and your own eyes widen, breath catching as you look from Aemond to Rhaenyra to Jacaerys. Aemond raises his chin as he stares at Rhaenyra and her sons, and Rhaenyra—she looks cornered. Alone. She knows that by voicing this, she will be doing something irreversible, but what choice does she have when faced with a half-brother who has lost an eye and accusations of murder being cast toward Jacaerys and Lucerys? You make a move as though to step forward, but Daemon stops you, shaking his head slightly.
Your father is the first to speak up. "What?" he demands.
Suddenly, all of the fears that have been festering in your gut since you were a child and first realized the whispers of the court had turned on your nephews resurface with a vengeance.
This is what you have feared, this is what you have dreaded—the whispers are about to be given life, and once they are given life, there is no returning to how it had once been. The accusations will haunt Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey for as long as they live and more.
"He called us bastards," Jacaerys says at his mother's shoulder, voice small, expression twisted. He tries to stand tall under the eyes of everyone in the room, but he cannot help the way he shrinks back slightly when the tension in the room triples after the word is spoken.
And Aemond—Aemond, who has walked you back to your chambers every night since the twins were born because he worried you would grow faint on the stairs, who spends entire afternoons searching the gardens for strange spiders because Helaena smiles whenever he finds one, who has sat beside Maegor's cradle reading aloud from histories he knows the babe cannot possibly understand because you were too exhausted to keep your eyes open—smirks as it is said.
He does not know better, you tell yourself, swallowing thickly. He has consumed his mother's poison like milk. He is only reiterating the filth she spews.
You know that your half-siblings dislike Rhaenyra and her sons. You know that Alicent has spent years cultivating that resentment, just as Otto Hightower has spent years whispering in your father's ear. But this is not childish spite—to openly accuse the crown princess's son of bastardy is to accuse her of treason, it is to declare that the heirs to the Iron Throne are no heirs at all.
To speak such a thing before the king—you know your father has spent years turning a blind eye to what the rest of the court knew as truth, but if push came to shove and he was forced to choose between throwing the Realm into chaos by upholding the lie or condemning his grandchildren, you do not know what he would choose.
And if he should choose to protect the realm, Rhaenyra, Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey could all lose far more than just their names—they could lose their heads.
"My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, your grace," your sister says, stepping forward in the direction of your father. "This is the highest of treason. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders."
Your eyes widen, gaze flicking over to Aemond, who instantly shrinks at the order, looking wildly between his mother, his father, and Rhaenyra. You feel sick to your stomach, fingers tightening on Daemon's arm.
Alicent scoffs, staring at Rhaenyra in disbelief. "Over an insult?" Alicent breathes out. "My son has lost an eye."
The king turns on Aemond and says, "You tell me, boy, where did you hear this lie?"
You feel light in the head again, all of a sudden. It is always worst before dawn, and worse still when you are under stress. Your hand instinctively finds your chest, eyes sliding shut—not here, not now.
Not while Aemond is shrinking in his seat as his father's demands. Not while Jacaerys stands trembling beside his mother with blood dripping down the side of his face. Not while Lucerys cannot breathe properly with a broken nose and tears in his eyes. Not while Rhaenyra stands alone before the king and queen, forced to defend her sons against accusations that could have them all hanged.
You force yourself to breathe slowly, but the room sways. Daemon's gaze cuts back down toward you, hand settling more firmly beneath your elbow.
"Easy," he mutters. "Not now."
As though you do not already know that, you think viciously and shoot him a look in kind that only serves to amuse him. If you could control when your body was weak, you would never be weak at all.
Your eyes turn back to Jacaerys—he is almost as tall as Rhaenyra's shoulders now, but he still looks so small. Only hours ago, he had buried his face into your lap, crying because he thought he had lost you, and now he stands before his grandsire, the king, trying to hold himself strong because he knows what is at stake. Lucerys does not understand the way Jacaerys does, but he knocks his shoulder against Jacaerys's anyway.
"—Aegon!" Viserys shouts, and your gaze lifts again to your half-brother, your husband, the father of your children, as he flinches under your father's demands. "Tell me the truth of it!"
Aegon does not reply right away, staring ahead blankly as though he is not sure what to say. His gaze lifts, meeting yours briefly, and you shake your head slightly, warning him. Do not do it. Do not say what I know you are about to say.
Aegon swallows and looks away, and then he says exactly what you fear: "We know, father. Everyone knows. Just look at them."
Your heart sinks, eyes sliding shut. You hear Daemon let out a breath through his nose just as you let out a trembling one through your mouth. Ten years you have dreaded the day that these words were given voice and life, and it is Aegon who has condemned them.
Your father shouts, but it is terribly muffled—garbled words spoken beneath water. Your pulse pounds, deafening in your ear, and your head aches. The air that reaches your lungs is shallow, not nearly enough to give you what you need to breathe. Your hand creeps up to your chest again—not now, not now, not now.
"—but I cannot restore his eye."
"No, because it has been taken," Alicent says desperately, taking a step toward your father.
"What would you have me do?"
"There is a debt to be paid," she insists, and you find yourself stiffening before you even truly understand what she is saying. Beside you, Daemon straightens, hand dropping to the sword at his side. "I shall have one of her son's eyes in return."
"Is she mad?" you breathe out as the hall erupts into murmurs. You see Rhaenyra push Lucerys behind her, and Jacaerys presses into her shoulder, looking between her and the king and queen uncertainly. "Do something, kepa."
Uncle.
"Not yet," Daemon murmurs, watching the scene carefully, gaze much sharper now.
"Ser Criston," Alicent says, gaze lifting to the knight standing on the opposite side of the room—far too close to Rhaenyra and the boys. You brush Daemon's hand off your arm, alarm subsuming all weakness as you take half a step forward. "Bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon."
For a heartbeat, no one moves, because the words seem too monstrous to belong in the same room as children, and then Lucerys lets out a frightened noise in the back of her throat
"Mother," Lucerys cries, scrambling behind Rhaenyra so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet. His small hands fist desperately in the back of her gown as he peeks around her, face drained of all color. Fresh blood stains his doublet where it had run from his broken nose, and now his whole body is shaking.
Jacaerys's eyes are wide as he looks between his mother and Alicent, reaching out to grab Lucerys's hand despite the fear plain in his eyes, and Lord Corlys is there an instant later, pulling Lucerys further behind him, placing himself between the boys and Ser Criston.
"He can choose which eye to keep," Alicent continues, voice breaking with grief and fury alike, "a privilege he did not grant my son."
She cannot mean this, you think desperately. She cannot.
"You will do no such thing," Rhaenyra hisses, voice cold, one hand instinctively reaching for Lucerys until she realizes Corlys has him safely tucked behind him while the other shields Jacaerys.
"Stay your hand," Viserys orders.
"No! You are sworn to me," Alicent says desperately.
For one terrible moment, you cannot tell whether the man standing across the hall is weighing the Queen's command or the King's.
"He is sworn to the blood of the dragon," you say, finally making your presence known, grateful that your voice is louder and stronger than you thought yourself capable of in this state. You step closer to the center of the room, halfway between your sister and the queen. "To protect and serve. To obey the King before all others. It is curious, however, how readily you expect him to forget his oath in favor of your… whims. It does make one wonder whether there is some precedent in place that leads you to believe that a sworn brother of the Kingsguard would draw his blade on a prince of the blood in the presence of his king at your behest. Does Ser Criston often set aside his vows whenever Your Grace asks it of him?"
The hall silences at the implication of your question, but you stand unrepentant, raising your chin and staring at Alicent, who lets out a disbelieving scoff as she looks over you. Daemon makes a noise in the back of his throat—a laugh, you think—as he peels off the wall to pace closer to Rhaenyra, positioning himself in line of Ser Criston.
"Muña!" Jacaerys gasps, moving to take a step in your direction, but Rhaenyra stops him from leaving out from behind her.
"Take care with your tongue, daughter," Alicent says after a moment.
"Gladly," you reply evenly. "As soon as your grace takes care with her commands."
"Enough," your father snaps at you, looking thoroughly exhausted. You press your lips together and look away, trying desperately not to roll your eyes. "Do not make this worse than it already is."
How does he not see what is plain before his eyes? It is Alicent who poisoned the ears of your half-siblings. Alicent, who has caused this terrible divide. Alicent, Alicent, Alicent. But your father proves blind to her true nature every day that passes.
There is a long moment where you think that perhaps that will be the end of it. You have made your bold commentary, and maybe it is enough to pull the attention off of the boys for the time being—you will suffer for it, surely, when you return to King's Landing alone, because your place is with Aegon now, whether you like it or not, but you would suffer endlessly if it spared Rhaenyra's boys even a little more time.
Then, Alicent says, "Then I will do it myself."
Your eyes widen, turning too slow as Alicent darts forward, pulling the Valyrian steel dagger from Viserys's hip sheath and lunging in the direction of Rhaenyra and Lucerys. Lucerys's scream tears through the hall. Everything happens at once.
Before you even register what's happening, Rhaenyra darts forward to meet Alicent, eyes wide, moving on sheer instinct to protect her sons. Lord Corlys draws Lucerys back behind him and Princess Rhaenys with Daemon's girls, but Jacaerys tries to run after his mother, shouting for her as he reaches for her arm.
You grab him by the bicep hard, yanking him out of the line of danger and behind you, panic flaring hot and fast in your chest when you see Ser Criston running down from the steps. You force Jacaerys to stay behind you as you put yourself between him and Ser Criston, ignoring the way Jacaerys tries to break free to get to his mother, but Daemon steps forward before the kingsguard can involve himself in the conflict, a smirk on his face as he press his hand to Ser Criston's chest plate and shoves him backward, daring him to draw his sword and give him a reason to draw his own.
Jacaerys clings to your cloak now, adrenaline fading to fear, as he stares at his mother and Alicent, then looks up at you. Blood streams down his face, crusted over his temple and jaw, eyes wide with unshed tears. You lift your hand to wipe the blood from his skin, and he instinctively presses his face into the palm of your hand. You catch the tears that threaten to fall with your thumb before they can, turning his face away so he cannot see as the blade cuts through Rhaenyra's arm.
Jacaerys jerks in your hold as Rhaenyra gasps in pain, and the nobles around scramble away. He tries to move toward her again, but your grip on him tightens.
"Stay," you order, and he immediately stills, eyes wide and throat bobbing as he stares at you helplessly.
You want to tell him that everything will be okay, but there is a terrible look on Rhaenyra's face that you have never seen before as she stares at Alicent, holding her wounded arm, and you have a distinct feeling that things have only just begun.
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"You should have woken me immediately," you tell Jacaerys firmly as you clean the blood from his face. He shrinks at your words. "I mean it, Jacaerys. I'm furious. How could you go out there on your own with your little brother and cousins? What were you thinking?"
"You were so tired, muña," Jacaerys whispers. "I didn't want to wake you. I wanted to take care of it so—"
"And look how that turned out," you say harshly, pinching his cheeks between your hands until he squirms and pouts. "You cannot be so reckless, do you understand? We are lucky that all that happened was—" You cut yourself off from saying what you were about to say, inhaling deeply. "You could have been killed. You, Lucerys, Baela, and Rhaena. You cannot be so reckless. Say you understand."
Jacaerys's throat bobs as his gaze drops down to your lap. He says quietly "I understand."
You let out a huff, hardly satisfied, but you busy yourself with wetting the warm rag and patting it lightly to his temple instead, grimacing at the blood still dripping from the shallow head wound.
"He's right, isn't he?" Jacaerys says after a few moments, shoulders hunched. "I'm a bastard. I'm Harwin Strong's son, not Laenor's."
You sigh, eyes sliding shut. Your head aches too much to have this conversation with him. The exhaustion of lack of sleep and the excitement in the Hall of Nine weigh your body down terribly. You say tiredly, "Jacaerys—"
"I know it is true," Jacaerys interrupts, voice small. "It is obvious, like Aegon said. I have known for a while, I think. Since we left King's Landing. Luke didn't know yet. I tried to keep it from him."
You do not answer for a long while, busying yourself with gently wiping away the blood crusted at his temple, because you do not know how to respond. Your heart hurts at the idea of Jacaerys knowing all along but trying to shield Lucerys from the truth—having no one to talk to about any of this because even just referencing it in passing could condemn his little brothers to a terrible fate. He has always tried to take more on his shoulders than he should, no matter how often you and Rhaenyra reminded him he was only just a child. His fingers are trembling in his lap, so you reach out with your free hand to hold his carefully; he immediately latches onto you, nails digging into your skin.
You finally tell him, "It does not matter."
Jacaerys whips toward you, brows pinched and lips pressed together. "How can you say that?" he demands. "You know that isn't true."
"What matters, Jacaerys, is that you are your mother's son. My nephew. You are fire and blood, and one day, the Iron Throne will be yours," you say, grabbing his chin to force him to look at you. "The Realm will whisper that Aegon deserves the throne more than you because his hair is silver and his eyes are purple, and you will prove them wrong just by being as you are."
"But what if being myself is not enough?" he asks quietly. "They will keep whispering, even after I am grown and am king. Even if I've done good. What if one day—"
He does not dare voice the question you know he wants to ask. What if one day steel is drawn? What if one day dragons fly against dragons? What if, what if, what if?
"Then, we will show them what we are," you tell him simply, stroking his jaw with your thumb. "They will learn swiftly that every man who rises against a dragon is burned by one."
"We cannot burn everyone who speaks out against us," Jacaerys says quietly, looking away, shoulders hunched slightly.
"Spoken like a true king," you tease lightly, and then lean in to brush your lips against his forehead. "You cannot, mandianna. A king must know mercy before he knows wrath. He must seek peace before war." A faint smile tugs at your lips. "That is why the gods, in all their wisdom, gave you me."
Jacaerys cannot help the giggle that spills from his lips as he rests his head against your shoulder. Your eyes slide shut as you lift a hand to cradle the side of his face, absently running your fingers through the ends of his hair.
You must get stronger again. The girl who once spent every waking hour in the training yard until her palms bled and fought her father, the king, because she sought to wield a sword like Visenya herself, the one who could remain astride Zūgaxes from dawn to dusk and dreamed of once taking Dark Sister from Daemon's hand, still lives somewhere beneath the exhaustion and aching in your bones. You know it. You felt her today in that hall, after two years of uncertainty.
There is no room for weakness anymore—not when steel has been drawn and you could not draw your own, not when Jacaerys looks to you with frightened eyes and Lucerys screams after being openly threatened and you can do nothing to ease their fear, not when your sister's blood has been shed on the pale floors of Hide Tide and you could not spill blood in kind.
"I will see anyone who should seek to raise hand or blade against you answer for it with their lives," you tell him quietly, pressing your lips to the crown of his head absently as you stare at where the twins lie in their cradles, ignorant of the conflict brewing around them. What would become of them, you wonder, if mother and father stood on opposite sides of a war? "Anyone who threatens my family, my queen, or my future king will learn exactly why our words are fire and blood."
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JACAERYS, 18; READER, 23; 128 AC
When Jace was six years old, his mother knelt before him and told him that his muña is very lonely and sad far more often than she allowed anyone to see, even though she has become exceptionally good at pretending otherwise. She told Jace it takes a very skilled eye to see when you are pretending, and Jace insisted that he knows you well enough to tell. His mother had kissed the top of his head with a fond smile and asked Jace to keep you company and try to make you smile in her place, when she could not be there herself.
He had not fully understood what she meant back then. Now he does, he thinks, looking back on all of the times he had caught you staring out windows with dull expressions before you noticed him looking and forced a smile. But he knew that you needed him and his mother had entrusted him with the important task of making you smile when you are sad, and that was more than enough.
Jace had taken that responsibility very, very seriously. From that day forward, every frown became an enemy for him to vanquish and every tear a personal failure. If he caught you looking particularly solemn, he would crawl into your lap or tug insistently at your skirts until you paid attention to him, armed with some ridiculous story or childish joke he had spent all morning preparing solely because he knew it would make you laugh.
Then, two years later, his family left for Dragonstone, and you remained behind in King's Landing, and he was tortured with the knowledge that he had left you alone, surrounded by people who did not know how to make you smile the way he did—who might not even notice when you were sad in the first place.
Now, after a decade away, he has returned, and you are nowhere to be found.
Jace stands toward the back of the throne room, jaw tight, hands locked behind his back as Vaemond Velaryon makes his petition for Driftmark, content—for once—to remain unnoticed.
It suits him better this way today. No one pays much mind to him while others argue over inheritance. They are too busy paying attention to Vaemond's accusation and his mother's reaction to realize the dark-haired, dark-eyed man lingering in the shadows is the heir to Dragonstone, firstborn son of the crown princess. So he is well able to overhear conversations that would shift into syrupy smiles and false pleasantries around his mother and Daemon.
Strong. Bastard. Plain. Lord Fossoway. Lady Ambrose. Ser Roxton.
It is about what Jace expected from a court full of Reachmen. More than half the throne room dons green, Faith heraldry has replaced the three-headed dragon wherever he looks. Jace's memories of the Red Keep are hazy, so in truth, he could not tell whether or not it is truly different from what it had been nigh a decade ago, but he does know for certain one thing is missing—you.
Every memory he has of this place begins and ends with you, and it is jarring that you are nowhere to be seen. You reading to him in the gardens until he fell asleep against your shoulder. You carrying him back to his chambers after he had faked dozing off during his lessons, giggling with him as soon as the two of you were out of sight from Maester Geradys. You waiting at the edge of the yard whenever Ser Criston was leading training, because you knew Jace was uncomfortable around him and would step in if things took a wrong turn. You laughing as Jace tried and failed to get Vermax to listen to him, slinking your arms around him when he pouted and pretended to be angry just so you would give him more attention. He has been to every place he once stood with you, and has found you at none.
Without you, it feels—it feels wrong. Unfamiliar. And it is all he can think about, even though he needs to be paying attention to what is being said around him. He tries to remind himself that what is said today could change everything. Vaemond is not just asking for Driftmark—he is asking the court to declare Lucerys no true Velaryon, and in doing so, to admit what half the realm has whispered since Jace was born with dark hair instead of silver.
And if Lucerys can be stripped of his inheritance because he is not Laenor's son, then Jace can be stripped of his for the same reason. Worse, if the court is willing to question the succession before his grandsire lives, Jace fears what they may do once the Iron Throne stands empty. And yet—
His thoughts invariably return to you.
He thought you would be waiting for him.
He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheeks as he fights the terrible mixture of frustration and disappointment that has been threatening to consume him since he stepped onto the docks and you were nowhere to be found. Maybe he was being foolish. It has been eight years since he had last seen you at Driftmark for Laena's funeral—ten since you were close enough for him to run to whenever you frowned.
Things had already changed in two—just in the time between Laena's funeral and when they had left for Dragonstone and you had stayed behind in King's Landing. Two years of unanswered ravens and sleepless nights had taught him that wanting someone did not mean they would come. More than once, his mother had let him cry into her skirts because he missed you so terribly his chest hurt. More than once, she had promised, soon, Jace, soon we will go to her.
But soon had become two years, and when Jace had finally seen you again at Driftmark, he had scarcely recognized you. Gone was the girl who had chased him through the Red Keep, laughing as he shrieked that she was cheating. Gone was the dragonrider who was more comfortable in the air than afoot and taught him the basics of swordplay so he would not embarrass himself in front of his father and Cole.
In her place was someone Jace could hardly stand to look at without being filled with rage. He thought, at the time, that he was angry at you. Angry at you for changing, angry at you for never answering his ravens, angry at you for abandoning him.
He knows better now—he had never been angry at you.
It had been he who promised to come back for you, he who promised to take care of you, to keep you safe, make you feel loved, devoted to you the same way you'd been to him for as long as he remembered. Instead, Aegon had married you. Aegon had stood beside you when you nearly died and left when you needed him most. Aegon had watched you become a shadow of the girl Jace had loved with every piece of his heart.
All Jace had done was arrive too little too late.
If so much had changed in two years, how much could have possibly changed in another eight? It has been a long time, he acknowledges. Long enough for people to become strangers. Long enough for memories to become distant. But he has never forgotten you, he thinks bitterly. How could you have forgotten him?
You couldn't have, he rationalizes. You exchanged ravens frequently enough that Maester Geradys grew irate every time Jace showed up with another to be sent. Several times a week, Jace had filled pages with every detail he could think to share, recounting the smallest happenings of his days simply because he wanted you to know them, because he wanted some part of himself always with you. And you had always written back with pages of your own, telling him of your days, your thoughts, the twins, all the little things that mattered only because they mattered to you. He had kept every one of them, read them until he knew whole passages by heart—surely you could not have written to him so often, given him so much of yourself and taken so much of him in kind, only to forget him now.
You could not have forgotten him, you are just—late. You are just late.
It does not quell the all-consuming disappointment. He has imagined his reunion with you so many times that he could recite what he wanted to say to you in his sleep. He had a whole plan that he envisioned, and it fell apart the moment he stepped off the ship and realized you were not there on the dock.
He imagined you would be waiting for him, smiling the moment you caught sight of him. He would cross the docks to you slowly, resisting every instinct that urged him to throw himself into your arms as he once had. Instead, he would take your hand in his and bow his head to press a kiss to your knuckles, watching for the moment you realized that the little boy you remembered had grown into a man in your absence.
He imagined that he would steal you away from everyone else after the feast celebrating their return to King's Landing, pressing his lips to your knuckles as his gaze spitefully met Aegon's. He would let you hold his arm, and he would guide you to the godswood, sitting with you as the sun set as you have countless times before, listening as you tell him about the twins and life over the past eight years. It would be different hearing it from your lips, in your voice, than it is reading it on parchment. He would let you rest your head in his lap, and he would absentmindedly comb his fingers through your hair the way you always had to him.
He imagined that he would stay there with you as the moon rose overhead, until the conversation dwindled into a comfortable silence. Then he would turn his head just enough to look at you, really look at you, and he would wonder if maybe you would look at him for him. Not as the little prince forever following at your heels, or the boy who climbed into your bed after every nightmare—but as a man.
One whose shoulder you could rest against without fear of being disappointed, one capable of taking care of you, one who could take your hand before the gods—one worthy of sharing your heart and your bed.
It is shameful, perhaps, to imagine such things with you, but he cannot help himself.
He imagined that he would be nervous as he reached up for your face the first time, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering against your cheek longer than it ought to, and then he imagined closing the distance between you, slowly enough that you could stop him if you wished. He never imagined you would.
He fights a heavy exhale through his nose as he shakes his head, eyes sliding shut. He would tell you that he has become a prince worthy of standing beside you. That he's no longer the frightened little boy who cried himself to sleep because you weren't near. That if you let him, he could finally be the husband he had promised you he could be.
The doors to the throne room reopen, and Jace has to force himself to be present. He can think of you later. He can wonder why you never came to the docks later. He can mourn the reunion that never was later. He can try to figure out a new plan later. He can tell you everything he has carried in his heart for the better part of a decade later.
If there is a later. Because Vaemond's words are not aimed at Luke alone, he reminds himself. They are aimed at his mother—at him. If Vaemond succeeds today and Luke loses Driftmark—if the court accepts the implication buried within his petition—then Jace's own birthright will be at risk. They will come for the Iron Throne, for him, next.
You had told him once that you would see anyone who sought to raise hand or blade to him pay for it with their lives—do you still mean it? Or have eight years of separation pushed you into the arms of Alicent Hightower and your half-siblings?
He cannot think of this now, skin crawling as soon as the question crosses his mind. He forces his mind away and lifts his gaze to see who had arrived. He expects another courtier draped in green, another enemy who will revel in his family's fall, but instead—
—instead it is you.
The throne room, the nobles, the whole petition—everything falls away. Jace forgets how to breathe momentarily as his gaze sweeps over you.
He remembers his mother weeping a few nights after Lady Laena's funeral, clinging to Laenor as she whispered that your hips had been too narrow, too slight, that you had still looked more child than woman when they forced you into a marriage bed to bear twins. But looking at you now, it is almost impossible to reconcile the woman before him with the frail girl who was leaning upon Aemond's arm eight years ago. Your figure has filled out where it once seemed painfully thin, your face has regained its color, and though there remains a weariness about your eyes, you no longer look so dull.
Somehow, impossibly, you are even more beautiful than he remembered. He has spent years trying to preserve your face in his mind, sketching you absently in his free time, terrified that time would blur it beyond recognition.
It had not done you justice.
Eight years have changed you. You are older now, certainly—the softness of girlhood has long surrendered to womanhood, just as the boyhood has left him. You are taller than he remembers, or perhaps he is simply no longer looking up at you from the height of a child. The gauntness left by illness has filled out with time, gown clinging to your body in all the right places as you sweep forward through the throne room, confident even as all eyes in the room turn to you.
You look… like a woman. Like the wife of another man.
Jace hates the thought viciously as soon as it crosses his mind.
You do not look his way, much as he tries to compel you to look at him without calling for you like a fool before the entire court. Your attention is fixed upon the throne—upon Otto Hightower seated where your father ought be and Vaemond Velaryon standing so boldly before the court as though the matter had already been decided—but Jace cannot drag his eyes from you. He watches as you make your way toward the front of the throne room at an even pace, the sea of green parting instinctively before black and red.
He does not remember deciding to move. One moment, he is standing among the gathered lords, hidden in the shadow of a marble pillar, content to remain unnoticed, and the next, he is following in your wake, eyes pinned on the back of your head.
He weaves through the crowd of gathered lords and ladies as you make your way down the center of the throne room, a few paces behind, never losing sight of you. He slips between Lord Caswell and Lady Fell, circles around a knot of Hightower retainers without so much as glancing at him. His feet seem to know where to go before his mind does.
He has spent half his life following you—through the winding halls of the Red Keep, trying to keep pace with your longer stride as you laughed over your shoulder, through the gardens, to the dragonpit, to the training yard, wherever your restless feet happened to lead, Jace was always a few steps behind. Eight years may have passed, but his body remembers the path before his mind even has a chance to question it.
For one horrifying second, it looks as though you're going to bear left—in the direction of Queen Alicent, your half-siblings, your husband—but then you lean in close enough to Vaemond that your lips must brush his ear, mouth tilted up in a lazy smile.
Jace cannot hear what you say to him, heart pounding at the idea of you standing amidst the sea of green instead of alongside black and red where you belong, but Vaemond Velaryon stiffens so suddenly that Jace knows he must have disliked whatever it was. You seem to let out a soft laugh, head hanging forward slightly, before you cross in front of Vaemond to stand next to Rhaenyra, on the opposite side Daemon already stands.
Jace does not think he's seen his mother so relieved in ages, and he can't even blame her because he's just as relieved to see you stand at her side instead of amidst green. For the first time in weeks, it seems, the tension that has been endlessly weighing on her disappears the moment you stand at her side again.
Jace watches you take her hand into yours before lifting it to your lips. You bow your head slightly as you ghost your mouth against his mother's knuckles, and his mother gives you a soft, fond smile—one usually reserved for Jace himself—as she turns her hand to cradle the side of your face briefly.
You tilt your face into her touch momentarily before you stand straight again, casting a look over your shoulder to where Alicent Hightower and your half-siblings are standing before you nod your head once, beckoning.
Jace's brows furrow slightly in confusion as he moves to stand beside Luke, two paces behind you, his mother, and Daemon, until he sees two children instantly dart across the throne room—Maegor and Maegelle, Jace realizes instantly. Maegor busies himself at your side, tucked beneath your arm, while Maegelle positions herself behind you, both of them clutching you as Otto Hightower commences the petition by addressing Vaemond again.
Jace should be paying attention now, but his gaze remains fixed on your children. The last time he'd seen them, they'd hardly been a year old. You have described them in your letters countless times over, but it is different seeing them in person again. Maegor is tall for his age, nearly ten years old and already reaching your shoulder, while Maegelle hardly reaches your chest, nose tucked beneath your arm.
They cannot be more than nine or ten now, all silver hair and violet eyes to Jace's brown on brown—every inch a Targaryen prince, no question about it. Maegor's hand is wrapped around yours, the other fisted tightly in the folds of your skirt as though it belongs there. The sight of it stirs an ugly feeling in his chest, one so irrational and shameful that it embarrasses him, because once, without thinking, he had reached for you the same way.
His jaw tightens before he can stop it. The feeling is petty, even for him. He is a grown man, his mother's heir, standing in the throne room as the fate of his family hangs in the balance, and the boy is your son. Yet all he can do is think the place at your side had once been his, and wonder when he had ceased belonging there.
A sharp elbow catches his side. Jace startles, finally tearing his eyes away to find Luke staring up at him with a look caught somewhere between confusion and outright disbelief, following his brother's line of sight before slowly turning back to him as if silently asking whether he has forgotten where they are and what is happening.
Jace flushes and looks away.
The rest of the petition is a blur. Vaguely, he remembers his grandsire entering the throne room, the argument escalating, the rage and dread he felt as bastard and whore rang through the hall, Daemon spilling blood before the whole court as soon as the words are spoken. He hears the collective gasp of the nobility and the sickening thud of Vaemond's body and severed head striking the floor, but his gaze finds you again and again, as though the rest of the room has dissolved into little more than noise around your silhouette, gaze incessantly dropping to where your hands rest on your children.
Protective. Shielding them. It is the same hand that once rested on the back of his neck whenever he was frightened, that pulled him behind you when Alicent drew steel on he and his family. The same absent touch that soothed nightmares and bruises before he had ever needed to learn how to hide them.
It belongs to someone else now, he thinks bitterly, and then feels ashamed for even letting such a thought cross his mind when it is your children on the receiving end of it.
Aegon's children, his mind traitorously reminds him—his eyes, his hair, his blood. Jace wonders, before he can stop himself, what they might have looked like had fate been kinder. Would a son of yours and his have inherited your hair or his dark curls? Would—
Luke elbows him again hard, and this time, Jace shoots him an irritated look, but Luke doesn't even acknowledge it, raising his eyebrows pointedly before flicking his eyes ahead. Jace follows his gaze, attention dragging ahead to where his grandsire descends from the Iron Throne, his mother and Daemon standing close beside him, speaking in hushed voices that Jace cannot make out over the murmurs still sweeping through the hall. And you—
You are looking at him, finally.
Jace's eyes meet yours, and for one long moment, he is eighteen and ten all at once—a prince standing in his grandsire's throne room and the little boy who used to search every corridor of the Red Keep until he found you.
He is not breathing, he realizes as he stares at you. His lungs are burning as he waits for you to say something—anything. He has imagined this moment a hundred, a thousand, a million times before. He has scripted what he would say to you—practiced it in his room as soon as his mother told him they would be returning to King's Landing at last—but now that he is finally in front of you again, his throat is dry and his heart is beating so loudly that he is certain you must hear it.
Then, you smile, and Jace can suddenly breathe again.
"Jurnegon rȳ ao, mandianna," you breathe out softly, taking two steps in his direction, hands lifting to cradle his face between your palms, "emā mazverdagon sīr olvie."
Look at you, nephew, you have grown so much.
Jace's breath leaves him, lashes fluttering shut. The warmth of your hands against his cheeks is achingly familiar, so familiar that his body responds before his mind has the chance to. He sinks into your touch, turning his face into your palm as though he had been starved for your touch. Your thumbs sweep slowly along his cheekbones, catching the dampness he hadn't realized was gathering on his lower lashes.
Then, you frown and say, "I hate it."
Jace stared at you for a moment, heart pounding, freezing between your hands—you hate it?
Luke snorts loudly somewhere behind Jace, and you tilt your head and give his brother an easy smile as you say, "Do not laugh, you know what I mean, Lucerys."
Jace does not know, but you pull him closer, hands sliding from his cheeks to the back of his head so that you can tuck his face into the crook of your neck, and all offense disappears in an instant.
He melts into you with the same ease he did ten years ago—as though no time has passed at all—and a ragged breath escapes him. His forehead presses against the warm skin of your neck, hiding his face there the same way he always had whenever he was frightened or overwhelmed as a little boy.
He inhales greedily, familiar lavender filling his lungs for the first time since you parted all those years ago—he had tried buying similar perfumes at the harbor market on Dragonstone, lingering over every vial the merchants swore carried notes of lavender, but none of them had ever healed the ache in his chest the way a single breath against your neck does now.
His arms find your waist, drawing you against him until there is scarcely any space between your bodies, and you thread your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck and press your lips to his temple.
He should be embarrassed, he thinks. He spent the entire voyage convincing himself that he would return to King's Landing as a man for you. He imagined standing proudly before you, kissing your hand, speaking with the confidence expected of the heir to Dragonstone. He would show you that he was no longer the frightened little prince forever trailing at your heels.
Instead, the first thing he has done is hide his face in your neck. He ought to pull away—loosen his grip on your waist, straighten his shoulders, meet your eyes and greet you with whatever slivers of dignity remained, but he cannot bring himself to when your fingers are carding so gently through his hair, lips lingering at his temple.
He wonders if you can feel the frantic beating of his heart through the layers of his tunic and your gown—if you notice how tightly he is holding you, how shamelessly he has folded himself into your embrace. But if you do and think less of him for it, you give no sign.
"You look well, niece," Daemon says as he approaches you, and irritation flares hot through Jace's chest at the interruption, jaw tightening when you pull away to look at Daemon. Your hand slides from the back of his head to his upper arm, and Jace feels electric beneath your touch, even as you turn to face your uncle. "Much better than you looked back on Driftmark, certainly."
Daemon takes your free hand to ghost a chaste kiss against your knuckles, gaze briefly landing on Jace. A curious expression crosses his face before he huffs out a laugh and takes a step back—Jace frowns at him, but Daemon's lips curve up into a knowing smile before he looks back at you again.
"I have you to thank for that, I suppose, kepa," you say with a ease smile. Jace cannot smother the sheer giddiness he feels when he realizes you have no intention of dropping your hand from his arm. You have missed him, he realizes, throat bobbing, you have missed him perhaps as much as he has missed you. "It was proper motivation, I'd say, threatening to send assassins after me to ensure I… ah, how did you phrase it? That I stopped feeling sorry for myself and climbed out of bed?"
Jace is immediately torn from his lingering thoughts, blinking once, unsure he heard you properly. He gives Daemon a furious look, but Daemon only laughs, tilting his head back. "Did it work?"
"Wonderfully," you say dryly. "I found the prospect of being assassinated while abed was an excellent cure for lingering weakness."
"Then all is well," Daemon says dismissively. "No need to stare at me so murderously, Jacaerys."
Jace flushes immediately when you glance up at him, embarrassed that Daemon called him out so plainly, but you only give him a fond smile, and Jace's heart flutters dangerously in his chest.
You have missed him, he thinks again, more desperately this time, because all of the time he has spent away from you, he had half convinced himself that you'd simply learned to live without him—out of sight, out of mind.
Have you ached for him the same way he has for you these last eight years? Have you thought about him? When you sat in the godswood to read, would you find yourself waiting for him? When you dined amidst the sea of green during feasts, did your gaze wander the crowd in search of him? When you lay abed with your husband, did you ever close your eyes and imagine it was him instead? He needs to know.
Before the thoughts can consume him entirely, your hand drops from his bicep, and Jace feels terribly cold again.
You reach your hands out to Maegor and Maegelle, and Jace realizes that they've been standing next to Baela and Rhaena, big violet eyes flicking between you and Jace curiously. They immediately rush over to you, each diving into your side.
Maegor looks up at Jace with a sharp, accusing look that he takes immediate offense to. Why is he staring at Jace as though he is the one who has wandered uninvited into someone else's home? Jace was here first. Long before anyone else had called you mother or wife, he had called you muña—he had known you first, he had loved you first, he had been the little prince forever tucked at your side. It was widely known throughout the keep that if someone sought him, they only needed to find you.
Jace is not the interloper here, because you were his first.
The childish part of him is bristling furiously, and shame follows it almost immediately. The boy is not even ten, and he has done nothing besides love his mother, and Jace is angry about it. He should be glad that someone in this keep cares about you enough to be wary of the strangers surrounding you.
Maegor's hand tightens around yours all the same, chin lifting ever so slightly, as though he's challenging Jace to say something, violet eyes fixed upon Jace with open suspicion. The prince edges a step closer, his shoulder pressing into you with unmistakable intent: it is territorial.
Jace almost scoffs. The little wretch is trying to stake a claim on you. Stake a claim from him. You finally notice it too, lips twitching up into a smile.
"Maegor," you say gently, resting a hand atop his silver hair, fingers threading through the silky locks absently. "There is no need to glare."
"I wasn't glaring," the young prince mutters, glaring.
"You were."
"I was looking."
"You were looking rather fiercely."
"I was making sure he wasn't upsetting you."
Jace blinks, but before he has the chance to become even more offended by the presumption that his presence might upset you, you laugh, and Jace is breathless. His lips part as his gaze fixes on your bright smile, the way your hair falls slightly in your face as you lean down to press a brief kiss to the top of Maegor's head.
You are beautiful, he thinks for the millionth time in his life—seeing your smile, hearing your laugh, it has always made the difference between a ruined day and a perfect one. Jace has always thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world—even when you were both children, he had thought no lady at court could ever compare to you, forever offended whenever singers insisted another lady was the fairest woman in the realm. They simply have never seen you laugh, he would tell them, full of righteous anger.
His gaze lingers on your smile too long—you look happy, he realizes, and it settles strangely in his chest.
For years, he had imagined your life here in King's Landing as… dark. Miserable. Lonely suppers eaten in silence, wandering the halls with no one to keep you company—a marriage endured rather than cherished. He was plagued by thoughts of you in Dragonstone, and they had always been riddled with guilt, because he had left you here alone, surrounded by enemies and—
—and it had comforted him, in some shameful way.
If you were unhappy, then perhaps you missed him as fiercely as he had missed you, perhaps you were waiting for him the same way he waited endlessly to return to you.
He had not imagined this. A daughter tucked beneath one arm and a son standing guard at your side as though protecting you were the most natural thing in the world. You love them, it is clear, and they love you the same.
Have you grown to love Aegon, too? Jace suddenly feels dizzy.
"Raqiarzy," you say fondly, smoothing an errant strand of silver hair away from Maegor's face before looking back up at Jace again. "This is Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. He is my nephew—your cousin. He will be our king one day after his mother."
Your words settle restlessly inside him. He will be our king one day after his mother. He has heard those words his entire life—from maesters, and lords, and his mother, and you. But it feels—it feels different now. He has fantasized standing beside you as your husband more times than he dares to admit, but—but as your king?
His throat bobs, breath catching, heart racing, mind shifting as his gaze slides up to the throne not a dozen feet away, then drifting to you, thoughts spinning and spiraling, enough to make him dizzy.
"Do you remember the plushes you two were gifted for your fourth nameday?" you ask the twins suddenly, drawing Jace from his mind, pulse hammering in his ears, shame crashing over him in devastating force.
—and what in the Seven Hells is he thinking?
He can see Luke giving him an odd look from the corner of his eye, and Jace desperately tries to compose himself, dragging in one slow breath through his nose as though it might somehow banish the treacherous images from his mind. His face feels unbearably hot.
Maegelle lights up beside Maegor. "Stuffed Hūraxes and stuffed Vēzarrion?" she asks, leaning into your arm and looking up at you with adoring eyes.
"Mhm," you confirm, running your fingers absently through her hair. "Do you remember who sent them?"
The twins exchange a thoughtful look, and then Maegor's eyes grow round as he looks at Jace, no longer accusing. "It was you!"
Jace clears his throat, grateful for something else to occupy his thoughts. He says faintly, "I hope they survived. I wish I could have been there for the celebrations."
"How did you know what they look like?" Maegor demands, leaning forward now. "You even knew about the little white patch on Vēzarrion's wing!"
"I keep stuffed Hūraxes in my room every day." Maegelle nods, excited. "He protects it!"
"We wanted to keep real Vēzarrion and real Hūraxes in our rooms, but mother wouldn't allow us," Maegor frowns. Then he asks again, "How did you know what they looked like? You've never seen them before."
Jace's eyes instinctively drift to you, but you only smile.
"Your mother writes to me often," he admits. "She is very thorough, as I'm sure you know."
You squint at him. "What does that mean?" you ask, but Jace only grins and holds his hands up in faux-surrender. You tilt your head and say, "Jacaerys."
Maegelle giggles, and Maegor immediately nods, brows knit together as he frowns, nodding in agreement.
"She knows everything," he complains. "I can never get away with anything. I try to skip lessons, and she knows. I try to sneak snacks, and she knows. I hid a frog in Maester Orwyle's desk, and somehow she knew that too."
Jace's smile widens a bit as he huffs out a laugh. He says, "Once I tried to hide beneath your mother's bed so I wouldn't have to attend sword training. I thought I was clever because certainly the last place she would look was right beneath her nose. She found me within ten minutes."
You laugh at the memory, and Jace's heart skips a beat when you lean slightly into him, head resting on his shoulder as you look down at Maegor and Maegelle, both of whom suddenly seem thoroughly delighted.
"You skipped lessons too?" Maegor asks excited.
"Frequently," you answer before Jace can.
Jace's lips part in mock offense. "I hardly think frequently is fair."
"Jacaerys," you say dryly, head tilted to the side as you give him a lazy smile. "You once convinced Luke that you had been kidnapped by pirates because you wished to avoid histories. He had the entire keep in a frenzy."
Luke snorts loudly behind him, finally taking a step forward to greet you. He leans in to ghost his lips against your cheek before he says, "I forgot about that."
"I was seven," Jace mutters, ears burning.
"You were a little menace," you correct.
Maegelle hides her face in your gown as she laughs, and Maegor stares at Jace with newfound admiration.
"Mother always said you were clever," he says, scrutinizing Jace carefully. Jace flushes slightly at the idea of you telling your children about him. "She did not mention you were also troublesome. You will have to share some of your tricks with me."
"He was dreadful," you confirm, "and if he knows what's good for him, he will share nothing."
"I protest," Jace says immediately, looking down at you. "You, too, were troublesome, muña. Do not cast the blame all on me."
Maegor and Maegelle gasp as though they were just handed gold.
"You used to adore me when you were little," you sigh wistfully. "You never used to talk back like this."
"I still adore you," he murmurs quietly, far more sincere than the teasing he aimed for.
You tilt your head up to look at him, and Jace cannot breathe again, because you are so close, so close that if he only leaned in a smidge then—Luke pinches his side hard, and Jace grimaces, shooting him an irritated look. Luke's expression is one of naked disbelief: what are you doing? it seems to say without a single word being spoken.
Heat crawls up Jace's neck, and he follows Luke's pointed glance across the Great Hall.
Aegon is watching him. Aemond, too.
The elder prince lounges against a pillar, but the amusement on his face is far too sharp to be entirely genuine. Beside him, Aemond stands with his hands behind his back, one violet eye fixed upon Jace with a type of scrutiny that makes him feel he's been caught doing something he ought not.
Jace's stomach drops, suddenly very aware that he is standing before half of the court and you, whether he likes it or not, are someone else's wife. It is one thing wanting you so desperately that it makes his heart ache—it is another entirely to put you in a position where your honor could be questioned.
He straightens immediately, subtly putting a bit of distance between the two of you. Your brows scrunch slightly, giving him a confused look, but luckily, Baela and Rhaena beckon you for a conversation, and you busy yourself with doting over them, pressing your lips to their hair as you fawn over how beautiful they've become.
He exhales, ears still burning as he chances another glance toward Aegon. The older prince tilts his head, the corner of his mouth curling upward ever so slightly. Jace's eye twitches in irritation. Then he looks down at Maegor as the boy grabs his hand, tugging insistently until Jace gives him his full attention.
"Will you tell us stories?" the boy asks hopefully. "About mother?"
Jace blinks, and his gaze flicks across the hall once more. Aegon is still watching. A curious, vindictive thought slips into Jace's mind, and a slow smile curls at the corners of his mouth. He intends to marry you one day—the thought comes as naturally as breathing, he has never doubted it once. One day, you will be his wife and his queen, and when that day comes—well, that would make your children his too, wouldn't it?
He kneels before Maegor and smiles as he agrees, "As many as you want."
Aegon can keep his goblet and his smug little smile. Jace will take everything else.
————————————
"What in the Seven Hells was that, Jace?"
Jace blinks as he looks at his brother, making his way across the outer edges of the training yard a few hours after the petition.
Soon, they will have to return to their mother's apartments to prepare for the supper the king wishes to host for his mother's family and Alicent's. Luke wanted to go down to the dragonpit and stay there until it was time, because he loathed to be around the vicious nobles of the court longer than he had to, but Jace thought it best that they show themselves a little longer. Prove to the court they are not afraid, that they are the rightful heirs—that they are Rhaenyra's sons and they will cower in the face of green schemes.
"What was what?" Jace asks, tilting his head to the side to look at Luke over his shoulder.
Luke stops walking altogether, and Jace stops with him. Luke says dryly, "You cannot be serious."
Jace squints at him questioningly.
"What?" he asks again, gaze flitting across the training yard. He sees Cole in the distance, and he frowns, trying to look over the crowd to see who else might be there—if you might be there—but he can't see over all of the heads. When Luke doesn't immediately reply, Jace glances at him again, raising his eyebrows, beckoning. "What was what?"
"Seriously,?" Luke hisses, grabbing his arm and forcing Jace to look at him. Jace frowns when he feels his brother's fingers digging into his upper arm, a pinched expression on his face. "You were practically climbing into her lap in front of the entire court."
Jace's face flushes, attention snapping fully to Luke once the mortifying accusation registers. "I was not."
"Yes, you were," Luke accuses. "In front of everyone."
"I was embracing my aunt," Jace denies, voice hushed as he pulls Luke to the side. "What are you talking about?"
"You were embracing her for an awfully long time," Luke whispers back, giving him an incredulous look. "What were you thinking? She's married, Jace. You do remember that, right?"
"Of course, I do," Jace snaps, bitter over the fact that his own brother is throwing it in his face. He does not need to be reminded that you are married. It has haunted him every day for the last eight years. "I was only acting as I always have. We have always been close. You know this."
Luke does not believe him. Jace can tell as much from the sidelong glance his younger brother gives him, but he does not care. He was acting as he always has—it is the truth. You have always welcomed him into your arms, and he has always gone willingly. He has always buried his face in your shoulder when he needed comfort, touch lingering a little longer than propriety perhaps allowed. He has always called you muña, has always reached for your hand without thinking, has always smiled whenever you smiled.
None of that has changed, only his intentions. That, Jace decides stubbornly, is not something anyone could have possibly seen.
"You're lucky Aegon found the whole thing amusing instead of making a fuss over it," Luke finally says, and Jace's expression hardens, jaw tightening as he inhales and stares ahead, fighting a shake of his head. "He won't be laughing forever."
"Perhaps she won't be his forever," Jace snips before he can stop himself, raising his chin and looking away. Luke's eyes bulge as he casts a disbelieving look toward him. Jace raises his hands in faux surrender. "I'm only saying."
"Jace," Luke hisses, "have you lost all sense?"
Jace shakes his head, staring ahead as he says simply, "No."
"I'm going to tell mother," Luke threatens.
Jace gives him a sharp, irritated look.
"What is there to tell?" he scoffs. Then, more aggravated, "Why must you tattle like a child? You are ten and seven now, act like it."
He does not need his mother knowing that he's infatuated with you—not that she would have much room to speak, all things considered.
"Bold coming from someone on the verge of throwing a fit for not getting his way."
"You—" Luke barely dodges as Jace tries to shove him hard, and Jace inhales sharply to calm himself down, shaking his head as he grabs Luke's bicep to pull him close. He says quietly, "I have loved her for as long as I can remember. I simply grew old enough to understand what that means. How do you propose I sit back and watch her be mistreated by Alicent's pig sons? What would you have me do, Luke?"
Luke sighs and looks away, chweing the inside of his cheek. "We are already under scrutiny, Jace. Look at what just happened—if grandsire hadn't shown, we would have been–" Luke cuts himself off, looking away. He does not need to finish the sentence for Jace to know what he was going to say: they would have been declared bastards before the whole court. "We need to tread carefully."
Jace knows this. He does. He knows he will be playing a dangerous game if he moves forward as he wishes—knows that it could backfire profusely, not just on him, but on you. But—but how is he not supposed to try?
"What do you even plan to do?" Luke continues, forcing Jace to look at him again. Jace rolls his eyes and turns away, but Luke steps in front of him again. "I'm serious. Do you plan to ask the High Septon to annul her marriage to Aegon? Approve of a divorce? They have two kids, Jace—it will not be so easy. And do you even know if she feels the same? Or does she still see you as the little boy who followed her everywhere?"
"I am a man grown," Jace scoffs. "I am not a little boy anymore."
"The last she saw of you, you were."
Jace rolls his eyes again, jaw tightening as he shakes his head. His chest aches as Luke's words settle over him—do you feel the same? Did you miss him? Ache for him how he ached for you? Or have you made a life for yourself that you are content with? His throat spasms as he swallows, uncertainty clawing at his chest.
"I liked you better when you couldn't speak," Jace snaps because he has nothing else to say. After a few moments pass, he says quietly, "I have to try. If she tells me that she—" He can hardly bring himself to push the words out. "—that she loves Aegon, if she tells me that she is happy and wants nothing more than the life she has, then I will leave it alone."
Luke squints as he searches his brother's face, as though he does not believe him. Jace presses his lips together, throat bobbing as he swallows.
Jace has wanted you for so long that he scarcely remembers what life felt like before the wanting began. It has become instinctive as breathing, woven so tightly into the foundations of who he is that he cannot imagine untangling himself from it. He has imagined futures with at his side, as his wife, his queen; he has imagined children, and children of children, and a long reign in his name and yours.
But he wants your happiness more. Preferably with him, of course. He wants to be the one who makes you laugh until tears sting your eyes. He wants to be the man whose children cling to your skirts, whose bed you crawl into after long days, whose name you breathe in throes of pleasure. He wants to grow old at your side and spend the rest of his life thanking the gods that they had finally been merciful.
But if that happiness belongs elsewhere—if, somehow, you have found it with Aegon… Then what right does he have to tear it away?
"I would never ask her to give up a happy life for me," he says quietly, gaze shifting to the ground, "but I need to hear it from her."
"Get him Maegelle! Hah!"
Your daughter? What is your daughter doing in the training yard?
Jace's gaze cuts to the side when he hears Aegon's obnoxious voice coming from the crowd on the opposite side of the training yard. He tilts his head to the side, sharing a look with Luke before he makes his way over. He grabs Luke's arm to keep him close as he pushes closer to the front of the people gathered, curious to see what has drawn so many knights and squires away from their drills.
Then he sees you.
You stand at the edge of the sparring ring, arms crossed over your chest, lips curved down as you watch the twins spar in the center with wooden practice swords and surprising enthusiasm. Your brows are knit together with the same concentration you always had whenever you were watching him and Luke train years ago.
Jace almost finds himself smiling, until he realizes Aegon is standing behind you, one arm slung comfortably around your shoulders, letting you rest your weight on him, a fresh goblet of wine dangling from his hand. The gesture is so effortless that it makes Jace's stomach turn, as though he's stood with you there a thousand times before.
Worse, you do not pull away.
Jace's jaw tightens. He can feel Luke looking at him to his side, and it's a distinct effort not to let the discomfort—the pain and uncertainty—show on his face. Could you be happy here? Without his mother? Without him? It has been eight years, he reminds himself. Eight years is a long time—long enough to build a life one can be content with, even when dealt a poor hand. Aemond, too, is on your opposite side, he realizes dully. He is leaning back against the wall, head tilted as he watches the twins spar with one another.
He says something to you that Jace cannot hear, and you snort and reply, giving Aemond an easy smile. He has to stop himself from physically shrinking from the sight of it.
He wonders, have you found in your half-siblings the home you once had in him, his mother, and Luke? When did Aegon's arm start resting there so casually? Do you seek him out at feasts the same way you once sought him? Do you instinctively drift toward his side after long days? Has that same hand, so casually resting upon your shoulder, held you through sleepless nights? Wiped away tears? Tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear? Every answer he imagines hurts.
He has always imagined Aegon to be a worthless cur undeserving of your hand, an absent husband who drowned himself in wine and whores while you tried to keep your family afloat—but he is here, a random evening watching as the twins spar with one another, one arm around your shoulders as though it belongs there. Like a husband. Like a father.
He had been pained for years at the thought of you being neglected, but—but it also brought him a semblance of comfort, because he would be able to swoop in and rescue you. He would show you love, he would take care of you, hold you, be with you.
Somehow, the idea of Aegon treating you properly feels infinitely worse, and he feels ashamed for it.
He watches a delighted expression cross your face at something Aegon says, and then you toss your head back and laugh. For the briefest instant, the prince grins—not the careless smirk he wears before the court, but something softer, almost boyish, that makes Jace nauseous.
"Jace," Luke says quietly.
Jace only shakes his head slightly, forcing a smile on his face as he glances over at his younger brother. His lips part to speak, but the smile freezes on his face when someone speaks somewhere to his left.
"I hear she entertains both of the brothers," an unfamiliar voice murmurs. "The princess."
Jace stares ahead blankly, the words taking a heartbeat too long to register. The blood beneath his skin simmers faintly. What did he just say? Is he talking about you?
"Aye," another answers with a snort. Jace tilts his head to the side, gaze focusing on the red-haired squire standing in the small crowd of onlookers—not much older than Jace himself. "The elder first. The younger whenever her husband is too deep in his cups. Makes you wonder whether those twins favor their father after all. Runs in the family, I'd say."
How dare they?
"What did you just say?" Jace asks coldly, turning to face the small group of men.
The red-haired one has the audacity to look annoyed at the interruption, gaze flicking up to meet Jace, and for a moment, his vision tints red—they wouldn't look at him like that if he looked like Aegon or Aemond. They would see his hair and eyes, and they would know who they were speaking to—instead, they look at him and see him as an equal.
"I asked you a question, you mongrel. What did you just say?" Jace repeats, taking a step forward, head tilting slightly. He can hardly think straight—he can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, drowning out everything else around him. "I dare you to repeat it."
For a second, it seems as though the squire is going to step forward, an indignant expression on his face, but before he could make a treacherous mistake, one of his thick-headed friends grabs his arm and bows deeply.
"My prince," he says quickly, stumbling over his words. The red-haired squire's face whitens, and the two behind him immediately follow suit, heads bowed so quickly they nearly collide with one another. "Forgive us. We meant no offense. We—we did not realize, truly—"
"I did not ask what you meant. I asked you what you said."
There's a long moment where all four of the squires remain silent, heads bowed—Jace can see that their hands are shaking, and his lip curls up in disgust.
"We said nothing, my prince."
Jace exhales through his nose—a laugh or a scoff, he's not sure. How dare they? He is furious in a way he has not been in a long, long time, nails digging so deep into his palms that he might draw blood.
"You had no difficulty finding your tongue when you believed no prince was listening," Jace says coolly. "Find it again."
They stand trembling now, heads bowed, hoping that if they pretend the words had never left their mouths, they might escape the consequences of speaking them. His fists curl tight at his sides—they do not know you. They have no right to speak your name or stain it with their filth.
He takes another step forward when they do not speak. "No?" he questions, and then huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "Then count yourselves fortunate that I do not take your heads for the insult. Get out of my sight."
Jace exhales shakily as the four squires stumble to their feet and rush away. His eyes slide shut as he wills himself to calm down, and just as he's about to turn to Luke, he feels a familiar hand brush against his lower back. He knows you are standing there before he even turns and opens his eyes.
"Is everything okay?" you ask quietly, and Jace lets out a wavering puff of air as he turns to look at you. Your brows are furrowed slightly in concern, eyes roving over him carefully as you try to figure out what's wrong. "Mandianna?"
Do you know what they say about you? Are these common whispers, the same as the topic of his birth had once been? Did they turn on you again once Jace and his brothers left? Is there any truth to them?
The more treacherous question makes his stomach turn. He does not want to know the answer to that. He has imagined you abed with Aegon too many times to count over the past few years, each time agonizing in a way he could never quite explain, a private form of torture he inflicted upon himself whenever his thoughts grew particularly cruel. He would picture Aegon's hands where he wanted his own to be, mouth wandering your skin, arms wrapped around you beneath the sheets, body pressed into you in way Jace has only ever been able to dream about. Your face buried into his neck, breath pitching every time his body moved against yours, fingers tangled in silver hair instead of dark curls.
Each imagination had been enough to leave him sick with jealousy. He does not need another uncle added to them.
"Everything is fine," he lies.
You know instantly he is not telling the truth—you have always been able to catch him in a lie before he's even spoken a word—but he presses on anyway. His hand drops to yours, fingers tingling as he lifts it enough so that he can bend his head down and ghost his lips against your knuckles. He wonders if he imagines the way your breath hitches.
"Luke and I should go," he tells you. "We need to prepare for supper."
Your lips part slightly, and Jace thinks you are going to press him—to give him that look you always did when he was a boy, the one that pulled every secret from him without you having to ask twice. Instead, your gaze drops to where his fingers remain curled around yours.
"Of course," you say softly.
Jace realizes he is still holding your hand. He should let go, he thinks distantly, but instead, his thumb glides along your knuckles once, lingering, before he finally forces his fingers to loosen. The loss of your warmth leaves his palm strangely cold.
"We'll see you there?" Luke asks from beside him.
You wink at him. "Of course."
You glance at Jace again, an unreadable expression on your face, Jace's lips part to question you, but then your hand comes up, fingers briefly smoothing one of his dark curls away from his forehead. Jace's breath hitches, smile freezing.
"Go," you tell him fondly. "Before your mother sends someone looking for you and blames me for your absence.
He swallows thickly and then inclines his head obediently, "Yes, muña."
Jace turns away before he can do something foolish. Luke has the decency to wait until they have crossed half the yard before speaking.
"You are hopeless."
"Shut up."
————————————
Jace has spent the better part of the last fifteen minutes pretending not to watch the doors, nodding along absently to whatever Baela is saying beside him while his attention strays toward the entrance every few breaths.
You are late.
Not late enough to warrant the growing impatience twisting inside his chest, but late nonetheless, and every moment that passes where you remain out of reach only serves to further agitate the restlessness that has plagued him since the moment he saw you again.
"Can you please stop tapping your foot?" Baela finally asks, letting out an exasperated puff of air as she glances at Jace.
He immediately gives frowns at her, confused, and then she looks down pointedly at Jace's left leg, rapidly bouncing against the floor. He stills it immediately, face flushing slightly.
"I have yet to eat today," Jace lies, because he does not want to admit that he's antsy waiting for your arrival. "I'm merely hungry."
Baela rolls her eyes as she takes a sip from her goblet, and Jace gives her an indignant look, because what is what supposed to mean?
"I'm sure," she agrees dryly, "because it is food you are waiting for to come through that door."
Jace blinks once, lips parting in offense, but he does not get the chance to question her before Luke snorts and agrees, "It is not food he is hungry for."
Jace gapes, face hot as he stares at Luke in sheer disbelief, but Baela and Rhaena burst into laughter as though they know exactly what Luke is talking about, and Jace feels the distinct urge to sink into his seat. Did he tell them? Did they already know? How obvious was he being about it?
He spares a glance over to the opposite side of the table where the Queen and the Hand sit with Aemond and Helaena. Alicent is looking directly at them—so is Otto—and neither appears particularly amused.
Jace's stomach drops. The Queen's brows are drawn together in suspicion, gaze moving slowly between Jace and the rest as though attempting to decipher what could possibly have been said that inspired such an outburst. Beside her, Otto raises his chin slightly, eyes narrowed in that calculating way Jace remembers all too well from Driftmark as he watched the accusations of Jace, Luke, and Joffrey's legitimacy finally be given life.
They could not have heard, surely. Luke had spoken quietly, and the distance between them was too great for his voice to carry over the conversation filling the room.
Still, Jace sits up straighter. "Stop laughing," he hisses through clenched teeth, but it only serves to make the three of them laugh harder. Jace exhales hard, shaking his head before he straightens in his seat and looks away, doing his best to ignore them.
He's about to drive his foot into Luke's shin when the doors finally open again, and Jace's heart thuds painfully in his chest as his gaze cuts toward them just as you enter the room. There is an unsettlingly dull expression on your face when you walk in, and Jace's brows furrow slightly in confusion until you seem to shake your head and the expression off of your face right with it.
Your lips curl up into a smile that is distinctly bland compared to the ones he's used to as his mother and Daemon rise to their feet to greet you.
Aegon is with you, Jace realizes bitterly—it does not hurt as much as it did to see you in the training yard with him. He expected him to walk in with you when he saw that Helaena and Aemond had already arrived with their mother and grandfather, but he still does not like it. Maegor and Maegelle trail closely behind the two of you, dressed in fine reds for supper, and the sight of them manages to soften some of the irritation tightening Jace's jaw, because Maegor immediately brightens at the sight of him, waving his hand in a quick greeting.
You exchange a few quiet words with his mother before ghosting your lips to her cheeks, and Jace finds himself watching your face closely, trying to catch another glimpse of that strange expression you had worn upon entering the room. What was that? Are you unhappy? Are you only pretending to be content? Jace cannot tell, and it is gone now, carefully tucked away beneath smiles and pleasantries.
Then your eyes find his, and the smile changes, warming and softening in that familiar way that makes his heart flutter. Jace is on his feet before he realizes that he has moved, taking one of your hands in his.
"Muña," he greets softly, pressing a kiss against your cheek, lingering perhaps a heartbeat longer than necessary before forcing himself to straighten. "Ao jurnegon gevie."
You look beautiful.
He is wistful as he looks over you, a tight feeling in his chest as he looks over the deep red gown you wear. The velvet fabric hugs your figure, spilling elegantly against the floor, and Jace cannot decide whether it is the gown that makes you radiant, or you simply are yourself—for he is fairly certain he would have found you the most beautiful woman in the room even had you arrived dressed in plain linen instead.
You smile at him lightly, a pleased expression on your face as your gaze roves over him once. Jace is giddy from it—he has always preened beneath your praise, seeking out that particular look of pride in your eyes. Even now, perhaps especially now, some part of him still desperately wants to impress you, to do something—anything—that might make you look at him as though he is everything you hoped he would become.
"Emā issare gūrēñare aōha Valyrio," you murmur. Jace loves the way High Valyrian sounds rolling off your tongue—it is musical and natural in a way he has never been able to make it sound on his, much as he tried. "Iksan biare."
You have been practicing your High Valyrian. I am glad.
"Hen rhinka," he replies easily. Of course.
He is still holding your hand, he realizes, pressing his luck and letting his fingers ghost up along the inside of your wrist just to feel the way your pulse flutters beneath his touch. Do you want him the way he wants you? Jace cannot tell, but the slight quickening beneath his fingertips sends a dangerous flicker of hope through him nonetheless.
"Mother!"
You both startle. Jace's hand falls away from yours as Maegor suddenly appears at your side, entirely oblivious to the moment he has interrupted. He does not have to look at Luke to see the disbelief plain on his face, and he does not dare glance over at Aegon or Aemond—or worse, the Queen or the Hand—to see their reactions to what just transpired.
It is fine, he tells himself. He was only greeting you.
The boy reaches for the back of your chair with both hands and pulls it out with such enthusiasm that the wooden legs scrape loudly against the stone floor. Once he's pulled out the chair, he stands beside it tall, gesturing proudly toward the seat.
"For you, mother."
Your lips curve up into fond smile. "How gallant of you, byka dārilaros. You are such a gentleman—your father could learn from your lead."
Maegor positively beams, and you reach down to smooth a hand over his silver hair before leaning forward to press a kiss to the crown of his head. The boy bounces on the balls of his feet beneath your affection, eyes wide and adoring as he looks up at you, and your lips curve up as you stroke his hair gently before nodding in the direction of the two empty chairs near Luke.
"Go on. You and your sister are sitting beside your cousin tonight. Be sure to torment him properly."
Luke gives you an alarmed look, but you only wink at him in response. Maegor grabs Maegelle's hand and drags her over to the empty seats, already reaching for Luke's arm and babbling about a story you read him last night. Jace snorts and looks over at you, breath catching slightly at the soft expression on your face as your gaze lingers on the two of them for a moment longer.
You finally begin to sit, and Jace moves without thinking, giving the servant waiting to push your chair in a sharp look to back off. His hand catches the back of your chair, gently pushing it forward beneath you so that you can sit properly at the table.
You turn your head to the side to look up at him, smiling lightly. "Thank you, mandianna."
"Of course," he murmurs, pleased with himself—until he feels someone staring at him, that is.
His gaze lifts to your opposite side, where Aegon has taken his seat. He is watching Jace with narrowed eyes—the amusement from earlier in the day long gone. For a long moment, neither prince looks away. Jace's hand remains on the back of your chair, and Aegon's gaze drops pointedly toward it, then back up at Jace.
Jace understands the message perfectly, but he tightens his fingers around the carved wood instead, stubborn, until Aegon tilts his head and straightens in his chair, irritated. Then Jace gives him a pleasant smile and releases your chair, moving to take his own seat beside you.
Maybe Luke was right—this is a dangerous game. But as he settles into the chair at your side, close enough that the sleeve of his tunic brushes lightly against your gown, he finds that he cannot bring himself to regret it in the slightest.
"I am a gentleman," Aegon finally complains, leaning his elbow on the table, head resting in his hand as he gives you a lazy smile.
"You are neither gentle nor man, valonqar," you drawl, leaning back in your seat to look at him. "I could not think of a word less fitting if I tried, and my vocabulary is vast."
Jace cannot even bring himself to feel pleased by your insult, because there is a casualness in the way you tease him that tells him this is familiar. The type of insult born from years in one another's company, where neither party has to wonder whether the other will take offense.
Aegon only grins. "How cruelly my own wife wounds me," he sighs. Then his smile sharpens, eyes meeting Jace's instead of yours—Jace is so focused on whatever Aegon is about to say that he almost forgets to stand as the kingsguard carries his grandsire through the door to sit at the center of the table. Aegon continues quietly, "Though you know better than most that I am very much a man, and as I recall, you rather prefer me when I am anything but gentle."
"Aegon the Crude," you roll your eyes and mutter.
Aegon winks at you and says in response, "Aegon the Generous. At least, that is what I have been told."
Jace flushes immediately, gaze averting to the side, trying to focus as Alicent leads a prayer and his grandsire begins a toasts to his brother and Rhaena's betrothal and failing miserably.
He hates the image that Aegon's words conjure almost as much as he hates the man for deliberately putting it there. You beneath him, back arched as Aegon's hands roam where Jace aches to place his own, his mouth tracing the bare skin of your throat while his body presses yours into the mattress, you panting his name as he stretches you open, silver instead of brown, pale, unblemished skin instead of sun-kissed freckled.
His stomach twists. The jealousy is vicious, burning through his veins with enough force to make him want to reach across the table and wipe that smug expression from Aegon's face. Under the jealousy is something far worse—hotter, more shameful, awakened by the very image he wants desperately to banish from mind. Because the thought of Aegon with you is unbearable, but the thought of you—
That is the problem. He cannot picture you in such a state without imagining himself taking Aegon's place. His hands, his mouth, his body, his name, his hair. Is that how you like it? he cannot help but wonder, tongue darting out to wet his lips.
Whenever Jace has imagined being with you—far more often than he would ever confess, one hand wrapped around his cock, head tilted back against his bed frame—it had always been different. Slow and tender, he would take his time with you, kissing you as though he has eight lost years to make up for, touching you with a reverence bordering on worship. He has imagined your arms wrapped around him and your forehead pressed to his, breathy words exchanged in the darkness as the two of you lost yourselves in one another.
But maybe that is not what you want. Maybe you prefer something less tender.
He swallows thickly, warmth creeping higher beneath his collar as the question takes root. What would you want from him, then, if tenderness alone would not satisfy you? His imagination betrays him at once: his chest pressed firmly against your back, his mouth at your ear, one hand sliding up to curl around your throat as he holds you close to him. He imagines turning your face toward his, mouth finding yours messily, panting, gasping, soft moans and ragged cries of his name.
Would you like him that way? Is that what you would want from him? He has never pictured it happening like that, but he could do it, he thinks—he could do anything you want, be anything you want.
Jace shifts in his seat, exhaling hard through his nose as he tries to focus on what his grandsire is saying—he should be ashamed, having thoughts like this at supper while you are sat at his side, oblivious. What is wrong with him?
Once he is certain that his mind is clear of the disgraceful images circulating through his head, he dares to spare a glance back at you. You are leaning back in your seat, head tilted back slightly so you can look up at the ceiling, looking as though you would rather be anywhere else.
It is horribly rude, he thinks, fighting a smile, considering your father, the king, is across from you, attempting to address the entire table, and you have apparently decided that whatever intricacies decorate the ceiling are infinitely more deserving of your attention.
Then, his gaze traitorously slips down the slope of your neck. He catches himself before it can wander any farther, eyes snapping dutifully back to your face, but the damage is already done. His mind drifts back to where he had only just freed it from—to the weight of his hand there, palm curved against your throat, thumb resting beneath your jaw.
Jace swallows thickly, suddenly wondering whether you would still look so carelessly bored then. Whether that distant expression would finally disappear as he leaned close behind you, breath warm against your ear, and demanded your attention in full for himself. He catches himself before his mind can go down another spiral.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Then, your eyes slide sideways and meet his. Jace immediately realizes he has been caught staring and flushes. One of your brows arches. You ask silently, what?
Jace shakes his head quickly, jaw tightening. Your eyes narrow, and he looks away. He sees you tilt your head curiously from the corner of his eye, and then, he feels your foot brush against his ankle beneath the table.
His entire body goes rigid, gaze snapping toward you. You are still watching him, curiosity flickering in your eyes, and Jace knows that this was an innocent touch. You were only trying to get his attention after he so pointedly looked away from you—he should move his leg away and that should be the end of it, but… but instead, something reckless takes hold of him.
He inhales deeply before he shifts his leg beneath the table until his knee presses against yours. Your brows lifts, and his heart pounds as he waits for you to pull away. You do not.
Emboldened, Jace lets the contact remain, the length of his leg resting deliberately against yours beneath the cover of the tablecloth. It is such a small thing—hardly anything at all, really—but with the thoughts that had been consuming him only moments before, the warmth of you against him feels unbearably intimate.
He wonders, do you think anything of it? Is the reason you do not pull away because this is no different from the countless casual touches you shared when the two of you were young? Or is there some small part of you that is as aware of the contact as he is? That feels the warmth of his leg pressed against yours, that knows there is a distinct lack of innocence behind the touch, but you do not move away because, perhaps, you want him close too?
Jace turns his attention forward as though nothing has happened, and from the corner of his eye, he sees you glance down toward the tablecloth and then back at him.
"You know," Aegon suddenly murmurs, leaning over you to address Jace. Jace's heart skips a beat, wondering if he noticed the contact hidden beneath the table, but Aegon's gaze betrays nothing. "It's a shame your younger brother was betrothed before you. I'd rather hoped that marriage might finally afford you the opportunity to discover what it is like to share a woman's bed."
Jace scoffs under his breath, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. He glances at Aegon, and then his gaze drifts toward you—you are staring forward, face refusing to betray whatever thoughts are running through your mind with his leg pressed to yours the way it is.
Jace finally looks up at his uncle with a faint curve of his lips and asks easily, "What makes you think I haven't discovered it already?"
Your attention immediately snaps toward him, brows furrowed and gaze sharp, and Jace is thrown off momentarily by the intensity in it. There is something there, he realizes—surprise, certainly, but something that looks suspiciously like displeasure flickers across your face before you manage to smooth it away.
His pulse quickens. Are you jealous?
The thought is so hopeful and self-serving that he immediately tells himself he has imagined it. Why should you care whether he has shared another woman's bed? You are married—you have been married for eight years. Surely, you cannot expect him to have spent all that time—
Well, he has, but you do not know that.
Aegon catches a laugh before he can make a scene while the king is still speaking, grin sharpening as he looks at you pointedly and then tilts his head to the side to look at Jace more head on. "Oh? Have you now? Has our lovely little nephew wet his cock at last?"
Jace drags his attention from you with considerable effort and says, "I don't recall my private affairs being any concern of yours."
"They aren't," Aegon says easily, leaning back in his chair with a grin. "I am merely curious."
"Then remain curious, uncle."
"And let us toast to Prince Lucerys as well," his grandsire says, a tired smile on his face as he lifts his goblet to Jace's younger brother. Your gaze drifts over to Luke briefly, and he forces himself to follow, giving his brother a small smile when he sees how he stiffens beneath the attention of the full room. "The future Lord of the Tides."
Jace races his cup to his brother, ignoring as Aegon's grin widens when he leans in again. He can feel your gaze still fixed upon the side of his face, far more distracting than anything your husband could possibly say.
Then Aegon murmurs to you, "See, wife. It seems your perfect little prince may not be so perfect after all."
Aegon sounds openly bitter, and you make a noise in the back of your throat—a scoff or a laugh. Jace pauses. Your perfect little prince. The words warm some silly, childish part of his chest. Do you really talk about him, praise him, so much around Aegon that your husband is resentful over it?
Then he hesitates. Does the thought of him seeking pleasure in another woman's bed sit uneasy with you because, somewhere in your mind, Jace is still the sweet little boy you raised years ago? Or does it disturb you because you do not want him in another woman's bed at all? He finds himself deflating slightly, because one option is far more likely than the other. He needs to know.
Your eyes flick toward him, and he holds your gaze this time. There is an expression on your face that he cannot decipher. Something about it makes him feel strangely guilty, any delight he might have felt over the prospect of you being jealous trickling away.
It is absurd. He has done nothing. The entire insinuation is a lie of his own making, a careless remark offered only because he refused to let Aegon embarrass him. Yet suddenly, Jace feels as though he has disappointed you somehow—as though the perfect little boy you have apparently preserved in your memory all these years has returned to you a man, and, within the span of a single evening, revealed himself to be just as capable of vice as the brother you married.
Except he is not, he wants to tell you desperately. There have been no women. There has only ever been you.
His attention drifts to the side when the low murmur of conversation around the table begins to fade, the scrape of silverware against plates quieting as his grandsire struggles to his feet to speak. Jace reluctantly tears his gaze from you.
"It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table," Viserys begins, voice strained with exertion, breath shuddered. "The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other in the years past."
He hears you make a noise in the back of your throat, leaning back in your chair again as you share an unreadable look with Aegon. Jace hates it, fingers tightening in his lap as he wonders what passed between you in that single glance—what understanding eight years together has afforded the two of you that he cannot hope to decipher.
Then, your leg shifts against his. He thinks you might be pulling away, but you only press the side of your leg harder against his. Jace's breath catches, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales, gaze cutting to the side, but you are still looking at Aegon, talking to one another without speaking.
Was that an accident or intentional?
"My own face… is no longer a handsome one, if indeed it ever was," he distantly hears his grandsire continue, but his pulse is roaring in his ears again, throat bobbing as he tries to figure out if he should press his luck. Would it be too much to shift his leg beneath yours, to nudge your feet apart, spread your legs a little just to see how you react? The thought alone sends a wildly inappropriate rush of heat through him. "But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king… but your father, your brother, your husband… and your grandsire. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer among you."
Would you startle and pull away, finally realizing there is nothing innocent about the game he is playing beneath the table? Or would you let him? Would you glance at him with that same unreadable expression and leave your legs parted at his behest? How far will you let him go before you stop pretending not to understand what he's doing? Or have you already?
Gods, has he lost all sense? His grandsire is speaking of his death, of a house broken nearly beyond repair, and Jace is sitting at his table contemplating how far he might push the boundaries of your affection before you finally push back. Shame burns hot across his face, and he forces himself to remain perfectly still, ridding himself of all thoughts to slide his foot between your legs to nudge your knees apart.
"Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts," Viserys continues, his labored voice drawing Jace's attention forward again. "The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly."
Jace hears you inhale, looking away from Aegon at last, and his gaze drifts back to you. The boredom gone, along with whatever had passed between you and your husband, and you stare at your father with something far more complicated written across your face. Jace watches as your jaw tightens and brows furrow as you look down at the empty plate in front of you.
In Jace's defense, when his hand settles on your thigh beneath the tablecloth, he really, really does mean it only as comfort.
But your entire body stills and everything between the two of you changes. Jace feels it happen in the span of a single hitched breath—the moment the touch ceases to be innocent, when the warmth of his palm against your leg, fingertips pressing into the plush skin of your thigh, becomes something neither of you can reasonably mistake for the affection of a nephew comforting his aunt. His fingers remain perfectly still, but every nerve in his body is suddenly alive and tingling.
He does not dare to look at you now, attention pinned ahead as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, heart pounding in his chest, pulse roaring in his ears.
Somewhere beyond you, his mother rises to her feet. He distantly hears her speak of Queen Alicent, hears the scrape of a goblet being lifted, and the answering murmur as Alicent stands in return. The entire table seems to be listening as the two women raise their cups to one another after years of tension and resentment. Jace hears almost none of it.
His fingers tighten around your thigh slightly, accidentally, really, but when you still do not bat his touch away, his hand slides up slightly, thumb stroking over the fabric of your gown. Your breath catches again as you stare ahead, lashes fluttering slightly, and Jace's stomach clenches, heat rushing downward so quickly that he has to stop himself from shifting in his seat.
Then, Aegon rises. Jace watches warily as the prince steps out from his chair, subtly drawing his hand back into his lap. Aegon makes his way around you in Jace's direction, moving with the lazy confidence of someone already well into his cups. He stops behind Jace's chair and bends slightly, obnoxiously reaching across the table for the wine.
"I see it, you know," Aegon murmurs beneath the swell of conversation. Jace goes rigid. "The way you look at my wife."
Jace's jaw flexes as he forces himself not to react to Aegon's words. He stares ahead blankly. He cannot afford to lose grip of his temper—not here, not ever, but especially not here with the Queen and the Hand and both of his uncles watching him keenly for any and every mistake.
"Like a loyal hound, aren't you? Ten years is rather impressive," Aegon says quietly with a widening smile. "If you're so desperate to know what she's like, I'd be willing to give you a demonstration sometime. Save you all the trouble of wondering what pleases her."
Jace is on his feet in an instant, fist slamming so hard against the table that conversation silences and all eyes swivel to him.
"Jace," Baela hisses quietly, eyes wide.
"Don't," you say under your breath, quiet enough that only he can overhear.
On the far end of the table, Aemond rises to his feet slowly, head tilted to the side as though daring Jace to raise a hand to Aegon. For one terrible moment, Jace wants to. Damn the consequences—he'll put his fist into Aegon's jaw and knock the smug smirk right off of his face. He does not care that he'll walk right into the trap—angry and reckless, humiliated before the entire family—not if it means getting to watch him stumble back, bruised and bloodied.
Then, his gaze drops down to you, and he sees the severe expression on your face, expression hard and gaze sharp with warning. Jace exhales hard through his nose, glancing back slowly at Aegon.
The older prince grins shamelessly, leaning back again—the audacity to look amused as though he had not just spoken of you like some common whore whose intimacy could be displayed for another man's entertainment. He has never deserved you, Jace thinks furiously. Jace would never talk about you like this to another man, would never treat you with anything less than the devotion you deserve. It is infuriating that Aegon gets everything Jace has ever wanted and does not even have the decency to be appreciative of it.
Jace presses his tongue to the inside of his teeth, forcing the white-hot fury at bay as he smiles, strained. He says at last, "You should mind your cups, uncle. It is only the beginning of the evening, and you are already speaking in twisted tongues."
Irritation flashes across Aegon's face; he barely withholds a roll of his eyes, realizing that not only is he not going to get the reaction he wants, but Jace was able to get in a public dig at his drinking habits. Jace's smile is a little less forced and a little more mocking as Aegon makes his way back to his seat.
Then, his gaze shifts down to you. Your eyes meet his, and you tilt your head to the questioningly, wondering why he's still standing. He holds his hand out to you and murmurs, "Would you do me the honor of a dance, muña?"
"Yes, yes," his grandsire suddenly says, leaning forward and waving his hand. "The music."
You give him a small, indulgent smile before placing your hand in his and allowing him to help you to your feet. Your husband has settled back into his chair, sipping at his refilled goblet, but the careless amusement from moments before has vanished. His eyes follow Jace as he steps closer to you, releasing your hand only to settle his palm against the small of your back.
Jace hold's Aegon's gaze momentarily as he guides you away from the table, and he cannot help the faint satisfaction that curls in his chest—childish and vindictive and spiteful, but he does not care.
Behind him, another chair scrapes against the floor. Baela calls brightly, "Helaena—cousin. Dance with me?"
Jace glances back in time to see Helaena blink in surprise before a hesitant smile spreads across her face as she rises to her feet, lifting her skirts slightly as she shuffles over to Baela.
Maegor and Maegelle are quick to steal Rhaena, working in union to each grab a hand to drag her out of her seat, despite her vocal protests and pleas for her father and Rhaenyra and you to get them to release her. For the first time that evening, laughter begins to spread naturally around the table, and Jace turns his attention back on you, lips curled up into a small smile.
Your smile matches his as you say with a short laugh, "The last time we danced, you were half the height and I led."
"Well," Jace says, voice lower than he intends. "I am a man grown now. Perhaps it is time you let me take the lead."
Your brows lift, and Jace realizes what the words sound like only after they have already left his mouth. Heat creeps up the back of his neck—perhaps it is time you let me take the lead. After his lingering touch at your thigh and the thoughts that had plagued him at the table—wondering how you like to be touched, what you might want from him, what it would be like to take you in full—the words suddenly sound far less innocent than he intends for them to be.
Did you hear it too?
He cannot tell. The corners of your mouth curl upward, and Jace swears he sees something knowing flicker in your eyes before you question, "And what makes you so certain I would enjoy letting you do that?"
His pulse jumps. Surely that was intentional, wasn't it? You could have phrased that a hundred different ways that did not sound so—
Is he just reading too much into it? Jace cannot tell and it's driving him crazy. He swallows thickly. There is still time to retreat—to laugh it off and make some jest about how much his dancing has improved since he was a boy—but instead, he lifts his chin slightly.
He leans his head in slightly. "You should give me the opportunity to prove myself," he replies, finding himself growing bolder. "You might find I have learned a great deal since you last had me in your hands.
Your gaze searches his face for a moment before you tilt your head in acquiescence and step closer, allowing him to guide you into position.
"Very well, mandianna," you murmur at last. "Show me what you have learned."
Jace's heart pounds. He cannot tell whether the conversation is still about dancing.
The musicians start the opening of the song, and Jace takes your hand properly in his, his other settling at your waist as he leads you into the first steps. He remembers enough not to embarrass himself, thankfully, despite the fact that he has hardly danced at all over the last few years, but he is far too conscious of you to focus fully on the rhythm—your palm is warm against his, and you let him guide your body as he pleases.
"There," he says when you follow him through a turn without resistance. "This is not so difficult, is it?"
Your eyes narrow playfully. "Do not become arrogant, Jacaerys. You have only just begun. I'm hardly impressed yet."
Jace's mouth curves upward. Bolder, he says, "Then I suppose I shall have to pace myself, so that I may keep going until you're satisfied."
You inhale sharply through your nose, gaze more calculating now as you stare at him. His heart pounds as he waits for you to reply, because there is no ignorance to the twofold meaning to his words this time.
"Careful, mandianna," you murmur. "Someone might misunderstand you."
Jace's hands tightens at your waist as he pulls you closer for the next step of the dance. He lowers his voice as he says, "That depends entirely upon what you believe I meant."
You squint at him, and Jace slows with the music as the kingsguard prepares to return his grandsire to his chambers. He stands at your side, one hand still resting lightly on your mid back, as they gather around the king's chair and carefully lift it from the floor.
You both incline your heads dutifully as they carry him past, remaining silent until the guards disappear beyond the doors. Jace feels you draw a slow breath beside him, the playful tension between you momentarily forgotten as you stare to where your father had left.
You tell him quietly, "You are testing your luck, Jacaerys."
"Am I?" he questions, searching your face. Is this your way of warning him that his attention is unwanted, an attempt to draw a boundary he has been too blinded by hope to see? Or is it the opposite? The not knowing is enough to drive him mad. "Then let me know where my luck ends, muña. Speak with me tonight."
He hates that it comes out pleading when he was going for confidence.
You let out a soft puff of air, but before you get the chance to give him an answer, Aemond slams his fist against the dinner table and rises to his feet, cup in hand. Jace startles at the noise, glancing at Luke, who is still sitting at the table and looks closer to frightened fawn than man, and realizes he must have done something to set off Aemond. Jace stiffens, hand dropping from your back as he braces himself for whatever is about to be said.
"Final tribute," Aemond drawls,raising his cup to Luke and then to Jace. Baela and Helaena pause from where they were dancing around each other, laughter fading. Even the twins share a look with one another, slowing in their chaotic dance with Rhaena. "To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… Strong."
"Aemond," Alicent says carefully.
Jace exhales hard through his nose, fists tightening at his side as he tilts his head. He knows what Aemond wants—the knowledge should make it easier to ignore him, but somehow, it only makes the anger worse. Only hours ago, Vaemond had stood before the entire court and called his mother a whore, naming Jace and his brother bastards. His body has scarcely grown cold, and now Aemond stands beneath the same roof, moments after his dying father pleaded for unity, as he renews life to the accusation.
Aemond's lips curl up into a smug smile as he continues louder.
"Come," he announces, louder this time, ensuring that every person in the room hears him clearly, "let us drain our cups to these three Strong boys."
He should let it go. He should not give Aemond the reaction he wants.
"I dare you to say that again," Jace says before he can stop himself, raising his chin as he stares at Aemond.
Aemond raises his eyebrows with faux innocence.
"Why? It was only a compliment." Jace feels your fingers close around his wrist the moment he starts to move forward, and for a fleeting second, the touch stops him from doing something he cannot take back. Then Aemond meets his eyes directly and asks, "Do you not think yourself Strong?"
Jace tears his wrist from your grasp and drives his fist into Aemond's face before he can think better of it. Pain bursts across his knuckles, but the satisfaction Jace expects never comes. The moment his fist connects, the room erupts around him. Chairs scrape hard against stone as Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Alicent rise to their feet. Aegon slams Luke's face hard into the table when he rises to help Jace. Someone shouts Jace's name, telling him to stop. The twins scream in surprise. Jace hardly hears any of it, lunging forward again, only to be yanked backward.
"Enough, Jacaerys," you hiss, fingers digging hard into his bicep as you pull him back, shoving him hard when his gaze flits above your shoulder back to Aemond.
He turns toward you, chest heaving, because why is it he that you are telling enough? It is Aemond who started this, Aemond who all but called him and his brothers bastards for all to hear, Aemond who stands there smugly. Betrayed, he wonders, how could you take his side? Was he misreading everything after all? The shared look with Aegon, his arm around you in the training yard, entertains both brothers—
"Take Maegor and Maegelle back to their chambers," you say coolly, "before you make this worse than it already is."
For a moment, he can only stare at you in disbelief. He knows you are right to an extent—he is making a scene, and the last thing his family needs right now are more whispers circulating about them. Somewhere beneath the fury and betrayal, he knows it perfectly well, but the dismissal still burns with Aemond standing there watching, bloodied mouth curling into the start of another insufferable smile.
Then Daemon steps forward, gaze meeting his momentarily, as though daring him to defy you, before he steps between him and Aemond, his attention turning to the older prince instead.
Jace scoffs, looking away, and just as he is about to turn on his heel to leave, you reach out again, thumb pressing briefly against his pulse. You lean in this time as you speak, voice low enough that only he can overhear what you say: "You and I will talk later."
His anger falters, gaze searching yours before he finally nods, swallowing his pride and whatever protest is left lingering on his tongue as he obeys without argument.
————————————
Jace stands outside your door for nigh an hour trying to work up the courage to knock.
Ser Steffon Darklyn watches him with open curiosity from where he stands vigilant at your door. Every time Jace throws a vicious glare in his direction, the man averts his gaze back to the sprawling corridor leading to your chambers, and then he returns to observing Jace, not moments later, the next time he lifts his hand to knock and drops it back at his side.
Is it true? Do you favor Aegon and Aemond now? Have years away—
"My prince," Ser Steffon finally says, clearing his throat, and Jace's gaze lifts to the older man, cold. "Would you like me to announce your arrival to the princess?"
A sharp no is about to fly off his tongue when he hesitates, glancing at the door to your apartments one last time before he nods once, raising his chin and looking away.
He ignores the amused expression on Ser Steffon's face out of courtesy for you, because he knows that you have long favored the man for being the first to indulge your requests to learn the sword.
Ser Steffon knocks politely twice before he pushes the heavy door open and says, "Princess, the prince Jacaerys has been waiting outside your chambers for some time now. Would you see him?"
Jace flushes hot and fast, all courtesy for you disappearing as he glares wildly at the knight's back, because there was no reason for him to say he's been waiting for some time.
"Oh," he hears you say. The anger drains into nerves instantly as he raises his chin and stiffens slightly. "Let him in."
Jace exhales hard through his nose, gaze flicking up as Ser Steffon inclines his head before stepping to the side to allow Jace past. He gives the older man a serious side eye as he steps forward, but Ser Steffon ignores it, letting Jace into the room before shutting the door behind him.
Jace knows exactly what he's going to say: he's going to demand to know why it was him and not Aemond you told to back down earlier, he's going to ask if you are happy, he's going to tell you to let him know where his luck ends as you promised at supper.
Then, his gaze meets yours and you are wearing thin, silk night slip at your vanity, a platter of fruits before you, and every thought drifts away like dust in the wind. His lips part as he stares at you—the soft black fabric inching up your thigh, the strap threatening to slide down your shoulder, the way you tilt your head to the side curiously when you see how his pupils are suddenly blown wide as he stares at you.
Aggravation hits him just as swiftly as desire, because were you really dressed like this for that kingsguard of yours to see? Jace flushes hot as he looks around wildly before his gaze falls upon a robe draped over your dresser, he grabs it furiously and then tosses it at you.
"Put it on," he hisses. He hates the amused look you give him as you rise to your feet and slide the robe of your shoulders. It is hardly better, but Jace can actually bring himself to meet your eyes now. He demands, "You let your sworn shield see you dressed like that?"
You tilt your head. "It is not my fault you came to me when I was getting ready to sleep. I waited for you for three hours, mandianna—I resigned to bed because I figured you were upset and would not come."
Petulantly, Jace crosses his arms and raises his chin as he asks, "And why would I be so upset that I would not come?" simply because he wants to hear you say the answer.
You tilt your head with an amused smile. You say easily, "Because I sent you to your chambers after Aemond antagonized you."
Jace instantly points at you, vindicated. "And tell me, why should I be the one chastised when it was your half-brother who purposely reignited the rumors that were just put to question not hours before?"
"Because the realm expects more of you, Jacaerys," you say dryly without hesitation, taking a seat on the edge of your bed and motioning for him to join you. Jace falters at your words, shoulders slumping slightly, feet shuffling against the burgundy carpets as he makes his way over to you. "These rumors will be ignited and snuffed continuously throughout your life and reign. Do you plan to strike every courtier who dares reference your strength?"
Jace's eye twitches. "If they mean it as a slight concerning my—" His jaw tightens over the word parentage, unable to force it out. He finished simply, "Perhaps."
When you immediately give him a sidelong glance, he bristles in defense. He demands, "Do you think I forgot that you, yourself, said that we would meet such accusations with dragonfire, and you chastise me for striking?"
You raise your eyebrows, hand lifting to grab his chin firmly. Jace silences beneath your touch, breath catching when he feels how the blunt tips of your nail dig into his cheeks.
"No, you stupid boy," you say sharply. Jace thinks he should be offended by the insult, but he can hardly focus on anything besides the feeling your fingers hot against his skin and the fact that beneath the robe he handed you, you only wear a thin night slip. "I said that I would meet such accusations with dragonfire. You cannot afford such—”
You do not finish whatever you're about to say, hand dropping back to your side with an exhale, but Jace can imagine, swallowing thickly as he remembers your fury following the prank he, Aegon, and Luke played on Aemond. Shame coils low in his gut as he looks away.
"I should not have struck him," he finally says quietly, "but he deserved it."
You huff out a laugh through your nose. "He deserved far more than a strike," you say at last. "He is insolent. Alicent coddled him after what happened in Driftmark. He has become insufferable."
Jace hates the familiarity with which you speak of him. It makes his stomach turn, sourness building in the back of his throat. It is he and Luke and Joffrey you should be speaking of with such familiarity—not your half-brothers.
You do not even know Joffrey, Jace realizes, a lump in his throat. You do not know his favorite color or his favorite story, that he dislikes sweets and has taken to High Valyrian better than Jace ever did. You do not know Joffrey, or Aegon, or Viserys. It is not fair—none of this is fair.
"He is a prick," Jace mutters.
"That too," you agree, and Jace cannot help the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips as he looks down.
You rise to your feet. Jace's gaze shifts up questioningly, but you're making your way across the room to a table, you lift a flagon of wine and then look over your shoulder at him, lifting it and motioning toward him. Jace hesitates before he nods—you have never offered him wine before. The last time he remembers, Aegon had tried to slip him some as a joke at Lucerys's eighth nameday celebration, and you had slapped the back of his head so hard that his uncle had nearly cried.
"I have grown fond of it over the past few years," you say absently as you turn two goblets right side up and fill up both generously. "Wine, I mean. The gods know the twins drive me to it."
Jace is grateful for something to begin with, because he had struggling with how to approach the conversation he wants to have. He fixes his posture as you finish pouring the glasses and make your way back over to him.
He says, "They have grown." He winced at the observation—it has been eight years, obviously, they have grown. "You—" He cuts himself off abruptly, unsure how to phrase what he realizes he's about to say. Finally, he finishes, "You appear to have a good relationship with them."
I hate them sometimes, he remembers you crying to his mother nearly a decade before when Jace was not supposed to be listening. I wanted to love them the same way you loved Jacaerys—
You hum lightly as you pass him his goblet, and he fights a shiver when your fingers brush his. You do not respond right away, sitting back down carelessly at the top of the bed, relaxing back against the pillows.
Jace's throat spasms as he swallows a large gulp of the sweet Arbor Red. He has sat in bed with you hundreds of times before, but never with this type of intimacy—always two children curled up with one another, now you are both adults, sipping on wine, close enough to feel the heat on one another's skin. His chest is tight with nerves.
He could imagine this—life with you, life like this. Returning to his chambers after long days at court to you lounging in your robe against the pillows, smiling when you see him, a glass of wine in hand and another poured for him. He wants it desperately—more than he has ever wanted anything in his entire life.
"Children do tend to grow in eight years," you reply dryly as you take a long sip of your wine, not acknowledging the second half of his statement for a long moment. After what feels like an eternity, you finally smile wryly and tell him, "I struggled the first few years—to be a mother for them, that is."
"You were only a child yourself," Jace notes quietly. "You cannot be blamed."
Something softens in your face at his words—he wonders if anyone has ever acknowledged that beside his mother, or if they had simply placed two infants in your arms and expected you to be a mother for them, as though bringing two children into the world had somehow made you cease to be one yourself. Jace hates it—the idea of you being alone, struggling, drowning beneath expectations and exhaustion and no one around you willing to do everything Jace would have done without hesitation had he been allowed to be there.
"I was angry at them for a time," you admit after a long silence, staring into your wine. "I knew it wasn't their fault deep down, but I was—I was so weak after they were born, Jacaerys. I could barely walk without someone helping me. I could not climb stairs without feeling as though I might collapse. I could not ride. I could not fly. Zūgaxes would call for me, and I could not even get to him."
Jace knows this, but he doesn't dare interrupt you, gaze focused on the pinched corners of your mouth and the way your gaze lowers to your dark sheets.
He remembers seeing you at Driftmark during Lady Laena's funeral, remembers the way you could barely hold yourself up, the way your dresses were hanging from your shoulders, what you said to his mother when you thought the two of you were alone. He remembers the weariness in your eyes and the exhaustion plain on your face when you thought no one was looking, but he was always looking at you.
"Everyone kept telling me how fortunate I was," you continue, exhaling through your nose as you look away. "Two healthy babes. A son and daughter. They would place them in my arms and tell me how much I must love them, how happy I must be, and all I could think about was everything I could no longer do."
He wants to reach out for you. His fingers twitch in his lap as he holds his goblet carefully. Your free hand is not too far away—he could take it in his, entwine your fingers, squeeze it lightly.
I'm here, he wants to tell you, and if you want me to stay, I won't leave again.
"I tried to leave them behind and fly to Dragonstone once—after the birth," you tell him, drawing him from his thoughts. His hand settles back in his lap as his gaze lifts to the heavy expression on your face. "I did not even make it to the Blackwater before I fell unconscious upon Zuzu. I hadn't even been strapped in properly, because my fingers weren't strong enough to clip myself in. I would have fallen to my death had he not sensed when I lost conscious and turned around. I think I knew it was a risk when I was climbing atop him. I think a part of me would have preferred it."
He does not think you mean to say that last part aloud, because your expression immediately twists, and Jace feels sick. The wine he just sipped threatens to come up as he imagines you alone in the sky, barely conscious and too weak to properly secure yourself. What would have happened if Zūgaxes had not been able to get you back safely? Before he can stop himself, he imagines your hands slipping from his saddle, your body falling through open air. He imagines his mother receiving word on Dragonstone, and him—
"Do not say that," he whispers, jaw so tight that it is almost painful. "Do not say you would have preferred to die. I—I cannot—I do not want–"
Jace does not know a life without you. His first memories are of Vermax's green scales and the warmth of your arms around him. You have been the center of his life for as long as he can remember, and he has loved you just as long. You are as essential to him as air, water, food—there has never been a version of his world in which you did not exist somewhere within it, even during the two years of silence before Driftmark.
He would think of you every day, crying incessantly into his mother's skirts, demanding to know why you would not answer his ravens, what he had done to make you stop loving him. Rhaenyra would hold him while he sobbed himself sick, rubbing his back as he clung to her and begged her to bring you back. It had hurt, and not in the vague, aching way that people often spoke of missing someone, but in a way that manifested physically. His chest ached until it became difficult to breathe, and his stomach turned whenever he thought too long about the possibility that you had forgotten him. More than once, his mother had summoned Maester Geradys because she had been convinced Jace was falling ill. Those two years had nearly ruined him; he cannot imagine an eternity without you.
"Please," he finally says quietly, unable to even bring himself to meet your gaze. "Just—"
"Come here, mandianna," you murmur.
Jace comes without need for any more prompting, eyes sliding shut as you take the goblet from him and place it on your bedside table. Then your arms are around him, and Jace folds into you with a quickness that is more instinctual than anything else. For a fleeting second, he is ten years old again, small enough to bury himself against you and believe nothing terrible could happen as long as you held him tightly enough. His arms wind tightly around your waist, face pressing into the crook of your neck as you draw him closer, one hand settling against the back of his head.
He breathes you in—the familiar lavender and the faint trace of wine—his throat is painfully tight as he sinks into you.
"You have always been so sweet," you sigh into his hair, gently combing through the dark curls at the back of his neck, nails scratching his scalp lightly. Jace can hardly keep his eyes open as he presses his forehead to your warm skin. "So terribly sensitive."
Jace's eyes snap open as he pulls back just enough to frown at you, indignant. "You just spoke of—" He cannot finish the sentence, shaking his head as he protests, "I am not sensitive."
"Mm," you say, and you clearly do not believe him from the amused smile on your lips. "Of course not."
The amusement in your eyes is mortifying, suddenly painfully aware that he is still clinging to you with his face tucked to your neck. He releases you reluctantly, clearing his throat as he sits upright.
"You do not sound as though you believe me," Jace scowls, looking away.
This is not how this was supposed to go. He had come here determined to make you see him differently. He had spent the entire evening testing the boundaries between you, trying to prove that he was no longer the little boy who followed you everywhere and pretended to be asleep so you would carry him around. He wanted you to look at him and see a man—a man capable of protecting you, loving you, satisfying you, a man worthy of being called your husband.
Instead, within half an hour of entering your chambers, he has nearly cried in your arms. Wonderful.
"Pouting does not befit you, mandianna," you tease, leaning in to press your lips to his temple briefly before you reach for the goblet of wine you put to the side so that you could comfort him. He reaches for his own too, desperately in need of something to numb the embarrassment he feels. "Anyway, it has been a long time since then, Jacaerys. You do not need to worry; I do not feel that way anymore."
"What changed?" he asks you quietly, not daring to ask the question he really wants to know: are you happy now?
You stare at him inexplicably for a moment, as though you do not know how to answer, and then you smile lightly and turn your back to him, shuffling through the drawer near your bed to pull out two pieces of parchment.
The one you first show him is familiar—his cheeks heat up when he recognizes the drawing you set before him. He had forgotten it, or, rather, he had simply assumed it had been discarded years ago. The parchment is faded now, worn and yellowed with time, but the childish figures drawn across it remain unmistakable.
You stand at the center, a mess of scribbles and a big smile. Luke stands on one side of you and Jace stands at the other, both of them holding your hands with arms so long that it would be unsettling in reality. Rhaenyra and Laenor are squeezed into the remaining space, Rhaenyra little more than a head with an enormous crown and legs beneath her, and Laenor drawn absurdly tall, his smile taking up nearly half of his face. Above the five of you, several messily drawn dragons circle beneath a violently yellow sun.
Jace vaguely remembers making it. He and Luke had found you crying in one of the gardens after you thought everyone had gone to dinner. Neither of them had understood why, and you had wiped your face the moment you saw them, insisting nothing was wrong, but Jace had known better, so he and Luke had disappeared into his chambers armed with parchment and charcoal to make a gift for you.
Luke had drawn himself and Laenor, and Jace had drawn himself and Rhaenyra. They had argued terribly over who would draw you until Luke accidentally snapped his charcoal in half and solved the matter entirely. He remembers presenting it to you with Luke and telling you the same thing you had told them both dozens of times before: it is okay to be sad, so long as you are never sad alone.
"You kept this?" he asks with what he intends to be a laugh, but comes out too weak. "After all this time?"
"Of course," you say quietly, an unreadable expression on your face as you stare down at it. "Whenever I felt alone, I would take it out and remind myself that somewhere, there were people who loved me enough to draw me wildly disproportionate." Jace laughs, swallowing thickly as he looks up at you, heart fluttering at the soft expression on your face as you stare down at the picture. "It made me smile, even when I was sad."
He wants to reach out for you again, fingers twitching at his side. After a moment's hesitation, he does, slipping his hand into yours and entwining your fingers. His pulse pounds, half expecting you to pull away, but you do not, squeezing lightly as you finally show him the other piece of parchment.
"That's—" he begins, surprised, cutting himself off.
It's a replica of his and Luke's drawing, except a bit more sloppily drawn with two more tiny figures wedged on either side of you, each with a wild scribble of silver hair and big smiles.
"Maegelle said that I only smiled when I was looking at your drawing," you say quietly. "She and Maegor did not even know who any of you were then—I… I rarely spoke to them outside of when it was absolutely necessary. They only knew that these people made their mother happy, and they decided if they added themselves to the picture, perhaps they could make me happy too."
Jace does not know how to reply to that, staring down at the two little figures crudely squeezed into the new version of the drawing. He imagines the two children studying the first drawing, trying to understand why a bunch of scribbled strangers they had never met could make their mother smile when they could not, and rather than resent those strangers for possessing some piece of you that remained beyond their reach, they had simply decided to join them.
"I was awful to them, Jacaerys," you admit, voice breaking, and Jace hates seeing you like this. Hates seeing you sad. Hates the reminder that you have spent ten years alone, suffering, and he was stuck across the Blackwater, unable to do anything about it. He wants to wipe away your tears and hold you close the same way you did for him for years, but he doesn't know if you would let him. "When Maegelle cried, I would hand her off to Melynda and tell her to leave the room until she stopped crying. When Maegor reached for me, I would walk away. They didn't understand why I kept pushing them away, no matter how hard they tried to be near me, and they still only ever wanted me to be happy."
"Are you?" he finally dares to ask, voice little more than a breath. "Are you happy?"
You stare at him for a long moment, lips parting as though to answer, but no words leave them. Jace's heart is pounding again. What answer does he want to hear? Selfishly, he thought he wanted you to say no, so that he could be your knight in shining armor, your prince from a fairytale who would swoop you off your feet and carry you off to a brighter future.
Now, he isn't so sure, because the idea of you being unhappy for a decade, forced to content yourself with life so that you do not climb back onto Zūgaxes's back, knowing you might fall, makes him terribly sick.
"I love the twins," you finally say, thumb pressing over the little silver-haired figure that Jace assumes is Maegelle, if only because the hair is slightly longer than the other. "Even when they drive me mad. I have Zūgaxes. I can fly again. I can walk without someone hovering behind me—most days at least. Some days are still… difficult."
But are you happy? Jace wonders, a treacherous flicker of hope stirring inside him when he realizes you didn't mention Aegon.
"And Aegon?" he finally asks. His uncle's name tastes bitter in his mouth, and Jace feels your fingers tense between his. He watches you carefully, thumb stilling against your hand. He forces himself to press, "What of him? Does he make you happy?"
There it is again—that calculating expression you had worn earlier when his double-meaning words edged on too plainly spoken. Jace feels as though he has stepped onto dangerously thin ice, but instead of retreating, he finds himself leaning closer.
"Does he treat you right? Does he love you?" he murmurs, watching your face carefully. "Does he make you feel wanted?"
"Jacaerys," you start to say, voice low with warning.
Jace is undeterred. Perhaps it is the wine you gave him, the light buzz finally reaching his head, giving him all the confidence he needs to press the subject, or perhaps he is just desperate after having been plagued with uncertainty all day and all evening, but he cannot bring himself to back down.
"It is a simple question," he tells you quickly.
"No," you say quietly. "It is not."
His heart begins to pound. "Tell me," he insists. "Tell me that he loves you as he should. Tell me that he makes you happy. Tell me that you have never wanted for anything from him."
"This is none of your business," you tell him firmly, slipping your hand from his instead of answering. His skin tingles where yours had once been flush against his, and Jace's throat bobs as he tries to figure out what to do—should he press? Should he drop it? "You have no right to question me about my marriage."
"Why not?" he asks boldly, making his decision the moment he sees that dull expression from earlier in the night briefly cross your face again as your gaze flicks away.
"Why not?" you echo, giving him a disbelieving look.
"Yes," he says, agitated and unrepentant. "Why shouldn't I care whether or not you are happy?"
"That is not what I said," you sigh, shaking your head. "You are being deliberately obtuse."
"Then why don't you answer my question?"
"Because I do not owe you the details of my marriage, Jacaerys."
"I'm not asking for the details."
"Then what are you asking for?"
"I am asking for a simple answer," he tells you, reaching for your hands again, taking them both in his. He shifts onto his knees and leans in slightly, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Tell me. If he loves you, if he makes you happy, if he gives you everything you want, then it is an easy answer. I will never ask again."
It is a lie—he knows it the moment the words leave his mouth. He would ask himself every day for the rest of his life. He would lie awake wondering whether Aegon had touched you gently that evening, whether he had made you laugh, whether Jace might have had he been in his position instead. He would torture himself with knowledge that another man possessed everything Jace has wanted since he was old enough to understand wanting at all.
But he would leave you alone. If you told him that Aegon made you happy, Jace would bury whatever foolish hope had begun to take root inside of him today. He would accept that whatever he wanted from you could never be his and content himself with whatever place in your life you were willing to give him.
"What does it matter?" you finally ask him, shaking your head. He can see your defenses dropping in real time as you consider his question, a hopeless expression settling over your face as you look away from him again, but you do not pull your hands back. "What would it change, Jacaerys? If I told you that this marriage isn't what I'd wished, what would you do with that answer?"
Jace stares at you, and for one terrible moment, his mind goes completely blank of all of things he would do, everything that would change if you would just tell him what he needs to hear.
"Everything," he finally breathes out, pulse pounding, breath unsteady as his fingers tighten around yours. "I would do everything. Anything. I would—I could make you happy, muña."
"Jacaerys—" you start to say.
"I could," he insists. The words come louder this time, almost frantic, as though if he can only make you understand, everything will suddenly become simple. "I know I could. I know a part of you still looks at me and sees the boy I was when you left, but I'm not. I know I could be what you need."
"You do not know what you're saying," you say, shaking your head, but Jace's grip on your hands tightens. He shifts closer, desperate, knees pressing against yours as he tries to force you to hear him. "Jacaerys—"
"I do," he insists. His chest rising and falling too quickly, every shred of caution he possessed earlier in the evening abandoning him now. He has spent hours wondering how far you would let him go, months preparing for this moment, years fantasizing it. He cannot hide it anymore. He breathes, "I would be good to you. I would make you feel wanted. I would make certain you never have to wonder whether you are loved. I would never speak of you the way he did tonight. I would never treat loving you as though it were some burden I had been forced to carry."
Your lips part as you stare at him. He is so close to you that he can almost feel your breath on his lips, can see the way your pupils widen ever so slightly as you stare at him.
"I would choose you. Every day, I would choose you," he tells you softly, hands tightening around yours. "So tell me, what I am supposed to do, how I am meant to sit beside you and watch you be unhappy when I know—when I know that if you would only just let me—" He stops, swallowing hard. "I could make you happy."
You pull your hands away from his, and Jace feels cold, rejection spreading like ice through his veins as you shake your head and rise from the bed, stepping away from him.
"You do not know what you're saying," you say again, quieter.
Distantly, he recognizes that there is a distinct lack of conviction in your voice, that it seems more like you are trying to convince yourself than him, but it does not quell the rage that suddenly rises in his chest.
You still see him as a child.
"I am not a child anymore," he hisses, frustrated, rising to his feet, quick and angry.
"I did not say you were."
"You do not have to," he snaps, following you when you turn away from him. He grabs your wrist and forces you to face him again. He can feel your pulse hammering beneath his fingers when they circle your wrist. "You still look at me and see the boy who I was. I want you to look at me and see me."
"Jacaerys," you say, pleading for him to listen. "It would not change that I am married. It would not change that Aegon is my husband. What is it you want from me?"
"You," he answers before he can stop to think if maybe there is a better way of phrasing this. You stare at him, expression unsettlingly blank. "I want you. Gods, what do you think I have been trying to tell you?"
You swallow thickly, lips parting, but Jace barrels on before you can shut him down.
"I know that you are married." His voice rises with his frustration. "I know he is your husband. I know all of it, and I have spent years knowing it, and it has not made me want you any less."
"I do not know what you expect me to do."
"I don't know either!" The admission bursts from him, raw and almost angry. Jace drags a hand through his hair as he turns away for half a heartbeat to take in a shuddered breath before facing you again. A part of him had thought that once he confessed what he felt for you, everything would fall into place—that you would know what to do, as you always have."I don't know. I thought—I don't know." He laughs once, shaking his head, breathless and bitter. "I thought if I told you, perhaps I would know what came next. Or you would. Gods, I don’t know. But I cannot keep pretending that it does not ruin me to see you with someone who does not deserve you. To stand there and watch him take for granted what I have wanted for as long as I can remember and act as though it does not tear me apart. And then tonight—everything I felt before it was worse—stronger—because he was insufferable, and you kept looking at me like—" He stops himself, shaking his head. "You let me touch you. You knew what I meant when we danced. You knew what I was doing."
"I should have stopped you," you rasp, voice weak, catching over the words. "I—"
"But you didn't," Jace interrupts, taking a step closer, taking your hands in his again, "why didn't you?"
You stare at him so helplessly that Jace knows your answer without you even having to say anything.
"Muña," he breathes , trying to get you to listen to him. "Let me make you happy. Please. Kostilus."
Your eyes are wide, lips parted around a breath that never seems to come, and Jace waits, heart beating rapidly in his chest. He waits for you to tell him no, waits for you to order him from your chambers and finally draw the boundary he has spent the entire evening recklessly searching for.
You do none of those things. Instead, his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your gaze drops to his mouth. It is only for a heartbeat, perhaps less, but Jace sees it nonetheless, and whatever remains of his good sense abandons him entirely.
It all happens too quickly, all that desperate courage he has gathered over the course of the evening propels him forward before he has the slightest idea what he is doing. His nose bumps awkwardly against yours, and his mouth catches the corner of your lips instead of landing properly upon them.
Jace freezes, mortification washing over him. Neither of you moves for a horrible second, and he thinks, humiliated, that of all the ways he imagined this moment over the years, never once had he considered the possibility that he might fuck it up.
Then, you inhale sharply, turning your face toward his just enough that your lips brush his, and Jace stops breathing. His world narrows to that single point of contact between the two of you.
His hand rises to your cheek, trembling as his palm settles against your warm skin. This time, when he closes the distance, he does it slowly, eyes remaining fixed upon yours until his mouth presses to yours, your lips soft and sweet against his own. He braces himself for you to pull away, for you to tilt the lower half of your face out of reach. You do not.
Jace kisses you properly now. It is still too clumsy for his liking. He cannot figure out how to pace himself for the life of him. Too hesitant at first, then too eager when the realization finally crashes over him that this is you beneath his hands, your lips against his. He can taste the wine on your tongue, and the fruit from the platter you were picking at before he arrived.
Years of longing and an entire day of restraint unravel in the space of a heartbeat as he tilts your head back to kiss you deeper. His other hand finds your hip by instinct, drawing your body closer to his, and your breath hitches against his mouth. Jace kisses you until his lungs burn and his head feels light, and even then, he kisses you still, terrified that the moment he stops, you will send him away.
"I am sorry," he breathes when he is finally forced to part his lips from your, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged as he tries to catch it. He does not know what he's apologizing for. Kissing you? He is not sorry for that, and you certainly know it from the way he's holding you. His eyes are wide and searching as he tries to figure out where your mind is at. His thumb strokes helplessly along your cheek, gaze dropping back to your lips. "I should not have—I only thought you—"
His words dissolve into a low moan in the back of his throat when you press your lips against his this time. Jace's whole body feels hot and shaky. Your hands find his waist, and his lashes flutter when your lips move slowly against his, easing them open so that you might trace your tongue along the inside of his mouth.
Jace wonders if he is dreaming—a pleasant, wine-induced dream, and he would wake up in the morning hot and aching desperately for you, cursing himself for allowing his imagination to conjure something so terribly convincing.
But then your fingers tighten on his waist, and you pull him closer until his slim body is flush to yours, and Jace knows that it is real because no dream has ever felt like this before.
A shuddered breath escapes him against your lips, something between disbelief and relief, and whatever hesitation had seized him moments before disappears. You are kissing him. You are kissing him. He had stopped, apologized, given you every opportunity to push him away, and instead you closed the distance yourself.
He has imagined this dozens, hundreds of times before, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of having you like this, of having your lips on his, feeling your chest heaving and pulse pounding. Jace is dizzy with need—it is not enough, he has to have you in full.
His hands lift to your face, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head back as he kisses you again. A second time. A third. Needy and eager, you can hardly keep up with him, hands curled around his tunic, holding him close as he presses his mouth to yours like he wants to devour you. It is not enough.
"Muña," he breathes into your mouth, pulling your body closer so that he can feel you flush to him. He walks you backward until your back hits the cool stone wall of your chambers, and his lips slide messily from yours to your cheek, along the line of your jaw until he can kiss down your throat. "I just want you to be happy. I want to make you feel good."
The words aren't meant to come out as desperate as they do, pleading, begging you to just let him help you be happy, but you shiver against him all the same.
"Jacaerys," you gasp, breath hitching as he slides your robe off your shoulders, letting it drop to the ground at your feet. He lets out a low moan into the skin of your neck, fingers toying with the thin strap of your night slip. "I—"
"I will stay, if you'd let me," he continues, lashes fluttering as his teeth graze your collarbone. One hand lifts to entwine with your hair so he can tilt your head back gently, kissing back up the line of your throat until his lips hover above yours, eyes searching as he continues, "My mother plans to return to Dragonstone with the rest in the morning, but I will stay. With you. As I promised all those years ago. You only need say the word."
He does not know what the look in your eyes means as you stare at him. He hates that—hates there was once a time where he could look at you and know what you exactly what you were thinking, and hates that the privilege now seems to belong to Aegon.
He kisses you again, harder this time, deeper—if he cannot convey himself in words, he will do it through actions. He will kiss you hard enough that anytime you kiss another, you will only think of how perfectly his lips slotted against yours, deep enough so that you will taste him on your tongue when your husband tries to take your bed.
He lets out a low moan into your mouth as he drags his tongue along the roof of your mouth, the inside of your lips, gliding along your tongue. It is messier than he has imagined it in times past—when he would fist his cock pretending your lips were on his, he was kissing you slow and careful. Now, spit slicks around his lips and yours, and each breath of his is wet and ragged. He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth and rolls it between his teeth.
It is not enough, he thinks, kissing sloppily down your neck again, arms winding around your waist. He needs more.
"Jacaerys," you breathe his name again, and his gaze lifts to your face.
There is a haziness to your eyes that drives him crazy, a need that is only reflected in his own.
You want him, he thinks, inhaling shakily as his fingers bite into the skin at your waist. You want him as desperately as he wants you.
Before he can lose his courage, his hands slide up the curves of your body to shift the thin straps of your nightslip over your shoulders. His throat bobs, breath not reaching his lungs as he leans back just enough to watch as he lowers the slip from your body. The fabric catches briefly on your arms before sliding lower, and Jace's hands still, eyes sliding shut.
For all the times he has imagined this, he suddenly finds himself terrified to look.
It is ridiculous. He has conjured half a hundred different versions of you in the privacy of his chambers, pieced together by his traitorous imagination, but none of those fantasies had ever accounted for the sheer enormity of actually standing before you now. Of being allowed to see you. Of knowing that when he finally lowers his gaze, it will no longer be something imagined.
"Mandianna?"
His eyes reopen at last, and all the breath leaves his lungs in one fell swoop.
You are beautiful. The thought is almost painfully inadequate. He steps forward just enough to reach out for you again, fingers skimming along the bare skin of your waist, the curve of your hip. He has always known you were beautiful. He knew it when he was young and possessed no understanding of why he couldn't stop himself from giggling and hiding his face whenever you smiled at him. He knew it when he would have fits of irritation whenever a bard implied any noble lady other than you was the most beautiful woman in the room. He knew it in Driftmark, even when your eyes were tired and your body was weak and everyone around him said you looked closer to corpse than woman. He knew it when he saw you in the throne room earlier today, and for one humiliating moment, he had forgotten how to breathe. This is different.
"Gods," he whispers.
You tilt your head. "Is something wrong?"
"No." The answer comes so quickly that you laugh, and Jace flushes. "No, I—"
He fumbles for words. His hands continue their absent exploration, tracing the lines of your body with reverence. His gaze flicks up to your face, searching for the slightest sign you want him to stop, but you remain where you are.
"Iksā gevie," he breathes at last, and your expression softens.
You are beautiful.
Jace leans forward and kisses you again, gentler now. There is none of the frantic desperation from moments before, only the lingering wonder that you are really here, really allowing him to do this.
Then, the moment is ruined.
Aegon has seen you like this. The thought strikes him with enough force that his stomach twists, and he has to tilt the lower half of his face away from yours, parting from you as his jaw tightens. He cannot even relish in the fact that you find yourself chasing after his lips before he catches himself grimacing.
But now that the thought has crossed his mind, he cannot push it away. It sours inside him, curdling the sanctity of this moment.
Aegon has stood where he stands now. Aegon has known every part of you that Jace is only now discovering. Aegon's hands have been dozens, hundreds of times, where his only just touched for the first time. Eight years of marriage in which his uncle has been permitted an intimacy with you that Jace had only allowed himself to dream of.
"What is it?" you ask him, one hand coming up to his chin, tilting his face up so that he is looking at you.
"Nothing."
You tilt your head with an indulgent smile. "Jacaerys."
He exhales sharply through his nose, scowling as he looks away. It is foolish. He has you in front of him, bare and wanting, as he has dreamed, and instead of savoring in the moment, he is allowing your wretched husband to invade it.
"Does he tell you?" he asks you quietly. "That you're beautiful? Does he even know how fortunate he is to call you his wife?"
He would, Jace thinks darkly, if he knew the lengths Jace is willing to go to call you his.
Your lips part as you stare at him. Before you can dismiss the question with another shake of your head, he leans to ghost his lips against yours, relishing in the way you falter.
"Tell me," he murmurs against your lips. "Please, muña. I need to know."
"Enough of this, Jacaerys," you finally say roughly, turning your face away from his. Jace does not mind. He kisses you still, trailing his lips gently along your cheek, to your ear, down the length of your neck, easing the words from you. "He prefers whores. He only comes to me when he has indulged in a cup of wine."
Jace's mouth stills against your skin. He does not know why the words both anger and please him. He is glad that you do not lie with one another as frequently as he feared, you do not seek each other for pleasure as you do in his nightmares, but—but how dare he prefer whores to you? How dare he have the right to call you his wife, the right to your bed, arms, and cunt, and he still seeks out other women? If it were Jace—
If it were Jace, if it were Jace, if it were Jace.
"How often?"
"Jacaerys," you warn, voice low.
"Please, muña," he says again, glancing up at you. "I just want to know."
You relent when he looks up at you with beckoning eyes. You have always been weak for him when he looks at you like that, always struggled to deny him anything when he turns his eyes up to you, wide and pleading—he has taken advantage of it for as long as he could remember, and he takes advantage of it now.
You press your lips together and say, "Often enough."
Jace's blood runs hot. "And when he does?"
You sigh, tilting your head back against the stone, patience waning, and Jace quits while he's already behind, not wanting to risk an argument while you're bare and wanting in his arms for the first time. He busies himself at your neck again, kissing down the length of your throat slowly, fingers stroking the skin at your hip.
"It makes me angry," he admits, voice muffled slightly against your skin as he nips and licks at your neck. He continues lower, lashes fluttering as he trails open-mouthed kisses between the valley of your breasts. "Worse, really. There is no word that can articulate how it feels knowing that mongrel has everything I have ever wanted and treats you with such—" He cuts himself off abruptly, resting his forehead against your collarbone. "I only wish to see you treated as you deserve. I—"
I wish to be the one to treat you that way.
He does not give you the opportunity to respond again, lips finding your skin, mouth wandering lower. He presses lingering kisses along your skin—an apology for every careless touch you have endured because he was too young to do anything when your father handed you off to Aegon. He wants you to understand the difference without having to put it into words—that there is nowhere he would rather be, there is no woman in the world he would prefer to be abed with than you.
Your fingers slip uncertainly into his dark curls when he lowers himself to his knees before you.
"Jacaerys," you say hesitantly, and Jace glances up. The sight of you looking down at him with furrowed brows nearly steals what little courage he has managed to build up. "What are you doing?"
Jace does not fully know himself. The only experience he has comes from the poorly written romances he'd managed to sneak from Rhaena when she wasn't paying attention and the increasingly indecent conversations he had overheard from the men around him as he grew older, boasting crudely over cups of lovers beneath them, thighs closed tight around their ears—the pleasure a man can give with naught but his mouth—but he had always flushed and looked away, feigning disinterest. He wishes now that he had listened more.
Once or twice, he had considered visiting a pleasure house. He had even convinced himself it would be sensible—to learn what he was doing before he ever found himself in the position he is now. But every time he seriously entertained the idea, his stomach turned. The idea of touching another woman, of kissing her, of sinking inside her and pretending it was you beneath his hands, made his skin crawl.
So he has remained hopelessly inexperienced, despite what he might have implied at supper earlier.
"Trust me," is all he says, hoping you cannot hear the uncertainty behind the words. He press another soft kiss against your skin, a second to your inner thigh as he eases your legs apart. He cannot breathe at the sight of your cunt so close to his face, half-convinced this might be a dream. "I just want to make you feel good. Let me try, muña."
He does not wait for you to second guess him, dragging his lips from your skin to the apex of your thighs, warmth breath ghosting over you. Your breath hitches, entire body tensing, and before he can lose his nerves, Jace buries his face between your thighs. His breath hitches the moment his mouth is on you, savoring in the taste of you, the scent of you, the warmth of you. His fingers bite deep into the plush skin of your thighs to hold you still, and Jace's lashes flutter as he drags his tongue between your folds, lapping at you desperately before he presses the tip of his tongue to your hole.
"Oh," he hears you breathe, thighs tensing beneath his touch, hips jerking against his face. His eyes slide shut momentarily as he relishes in the sound of the soft noises spilling from your lips above him—gasps and moans and whines caught in the back of your throat. "I—What—what are you—"
Instead of answering, he shifts one of your thighs so that it rests on his shoulder so that he might bury his tongue deeper inside of you, and you choke on your words. His eyes flick upward, wide and searching, to watch the way your chest heaves, head tilted back against the stone, lips swollen and slick from Jace's own mouth, trying to figure out what you like.
Jace has spent years dreaming of this, he thinks for the dozenth that night. Years imagining the moment he could touch you, hold you, kiss you, lay with you; none compares to having you writhing against his mouth, cunt grinding on his tongue.
How could Aegon ever be with another after seeing you in the throes of pleasure like this? Jace would suffocate between your thighs if it meant he would die with the sound of your pretty moans in his ears.
Unless—unless Aegon has never seen you like this?
Heat rushes low—his trousers have been painfully tight from the moment his lips first touched yours, but he aches now, lungs burning as his hips jerk slightly, rutting against air as he seeks out friction. He parts his lips from your cunt just long enough to suck in a gulp of air to his lungs before latching back onto you, tongue sweeping between your soaked folds, lapping at your slick before he sucks the small little bud at the front of your cunt into his mouth.
The cry that spills from your lips is music to his ears, gaze flying up as your back arches against the wall, hips rocking against his face, your heel digging into his mid-back. The hand you buried in his hair twists at the dark locks painfully, your other scratching at the stone behind you, and his eyes half-roll back at the stinging to his scalp.
There is no way, he realizes, the image of you writhing on his tongue seared behind his eyelids as his eyes slide shut so that he can focus on eating you in earnest. He groans into you, one hand tight around your thigh, the other fisting your ass to pull you impossibly closer. There is no way Aegon has ever seen you like this, had you like this, because if he had, he would never go to another.
Jace is the only one who gets to see you like this.
Jace is the only one who gets to have you like this.
"Jacaerys," you gasp, voice breathy, hitching over his name, thighs trembling around his head. "Please."
Jace's gaze snaps back up toward you. He's panting as he pulls his mouth from your cunt, savoring the keening noise that spills from your lips.
Distantly, he knows that this is reckless. He knows that Ser Steffon is right outside your door, and he can likely hear everything happening behind your doors. He knows that you are married, and he knows the consequences for both of you would be dire if someone walked in while his face is buried in your cunt.
Still, he says hoarsely what you have told him dozens of times before, "Ivestragon ziry drējī."
Say it correctly.
You stare at him, eyes wide and lips parted in disbelief, and a thrill runs through him, grip tightening on your thighs, breath ghosting hot over your cunt. He wants so badly to drown himself in the taste of you again, tongue darting out to lap at the slickness on his lips and chin, but he refrains, waiting.
"Kostilus," you finally breathe out, voice shaky, fingers trembling in his hair. They slip down the slope of his nose, resting on his lips, and Jace's lips part instinctively, lashes fluttering as he takes your two fingers into his mouth. "Kostilus, Jacaerys."
Jace's vision flashes white as he moans around your fingers, hips rutting forward against air again. Your fingers slip from his mouth so he can dive forward again, sloppily dragging his tongue between your folds, fucking it deep into your hole before he kisses messily up your cunt to the sensitive bud that makes you writhe.
He's mortified when his abdomen tightens and his hips jerk one final time, and he recognizes the familiar, sticky warmth suddenly seeping through his trousers, but he's so lost in the taste and feel of you that all he can do is hold you tighter, panting as you grind your hips against his face and he desperately tries to kee up.
You're keening above him, pretty, pitched moans that make him dizzy—because he's making you feel like this. He is. Not your husband, not Aemond, not anyone—only him.
He wants to feel you fall apart on his tongue, wants you to grab his hair and rock your hips against his face, use him—he wants you to use him however you see fit. Take him for everything he has and more.
Jace knows that you are married. He knows he cannot ask you for what he wants yet because he does not know how to achieve it, cannot yet find the courage to tell you how desperately he needs to be the man you choose before all others. He wants to be your husband—he wants to be your husband so bad that it kills him sometimes to know that the path getting there will be a long, difficult one.
But Jace is patient. He has waited a decade to be reunited with you, he will wait a decade more to wed you, if need be.
If this is all you can give him for now, he will take it. He will accept being something can only exist in stolen moments behind closed doors, beneath sheets in the dead of night, in sweat slicked skin and breathy moans, if it means that one day he might have the right to love you openly and call you his wife.
"Hah—" you gasp, thighs trembling on either side of his head. Jace suddenly understands why men always sounded so proud of themselves when they spoke of having their women wanton and writhing on their tongue. He is so drunk off the taste of you, the sound of your pleasure, that he hardly cares that his lungs burn. "I'm—I think—I'm going—"
Jace's gaze cuts upward, jaw falling half slack as he watches you come undone above him. You cry his name, fisting his hair and grinding your cunt against his mouth, and Jace thinks he finishes a second time untouched, cock twitching in his trousers, seed dripping down his thighs.
His fingers loosen on your thighs, thumbs easing circles into your skin as he returns to lapping at your cunt, careful not to let a single drop of you go to waste. His lashes flutter as he dares to suck your bud into his mouth again, only for you to start squirming and tugging at his hair.
"Jacaerys," you gasp, trying to pull your hips away, but Jace follows, tongue swirling circles, dragging between your folds. He dips it back into your hole to feel the way it tightens around him, and his mind goes blank as he imagines his cock in its place. "J—mandianna, stop—hold on, it's too sensitive. Jacaerys!"
Jace only pulls back when your voice sharpens and your heel kicking hard into his back twice, eyes a bit hazy as he looks up at you. Your expression softens at the sight of him. He wonders how much of a mess he must look right now—on his knees before you, chest heaving with every breath, face flushed, lips swollen and chin slick, hair a tangled mess from where your fingers had been tugging it.
One of your hands, still trembling, drops to his face, cradling his cheek gently. You tilt his face up, and Jace leans helplessly into your palm, turning his face just enough to press a kiss to the center of it.
"I meant what I said," he tells you, voice hoarse, eyes searching your face. "I'll stay. You need only say the word, muña. You do not have to be alone anymore."
It would be a dangerous game, he realizes. One day with you—in the throne room, at the training yard, during supper—had been enough for him to nearly expose the two of you before there was even anything to expose.
What would become of the two of you after days of stolen glances and nights spent slipping unnoticed into one another's chambers? How long before his hand lingered where it should not, before someone noticed the way his eyes followed you through every room, before the whispers that already plagued the family found fresh fodder?
Jace watches the same realization cross your face and his heart sinks. Your expression turns distant and calculating as you consider every risk he has been too desperate to care about.
"Say something," he murmurs.
Your eyes meet his again at last. "We will talk in the morning."
His heart sinks. "Muña—"
"In the morning, Jacaerys," you repeat, softer this time, thumb brushing once across his cheek. "When neither of us has wine in our blood, and you have had time to consider what you are asking of me."
Jace wants to protest that he has had eight years to consider it. Instead, he presses his lips to your palm again and nods, rising to his feet so that he might guide you to the bed.
Perhaps it is for the best, he thinks, that despite everything that has transpired tonight, the two of you have not gone any further. His gaze drops briefly before returning to yours.
"We should be careful," he murmurs. "If this is to continue."
Your brows lift slightly. "You have only just discovered caution?"
Jace almost smiles. "I mean it. I will not make the same mistake my mother did." His expression sobers. "I will not put a child in you who bears my face and leave you to answer for it."
Your entire expression changes. "Jacaerys."
He mistakes the sharpness in your voice for offense—perhaps he was being too presumptuous, you could very well tell him this will never happen again come morning. The thought makes his stomach turn violently.
"I only meant—"
"You were not a mistake." Jace goes still, throat bobbing as he stares down at you. "Do not speak of yourself that way—or your mother, for that matter."
Jace makes a bitter noise in the back of his throat—a scoff, maybe a laugh, and then he speaks out loud the words that have haunted him for as long as he's known he does not look like his father. "You cannot tell me that no one thought it. That there was not some immediate disappointment—regret—when I came into the world with brown hair and brown eyes instead of silver and violet."
You have the nerve to laugh at him, and when he shoots you an accusing look, you only grab his hand so that you can ghost your lips to his knuckles.
"Mandianna," you say fondly. "Tomorrow morning, I want you to ask your mother what my reaction was when I saw you for the first time. She will tell you."
Jace falters, fingers tensing against yours as he gives you a questioning look, but you only raise your eyebrows, signaling you will say no more.
He sighs and looks away, "I only mean to say that I do not want my son to go through what I have. Nor do I want you to go through what my mother has."
"I know," you soothe, running your thumb over his knuckles before releasing his hand. "We will talk in the morning. I would ask you to stay, but the twins rise with the sun and enjoy waking their disgruntled father with them, so Aegon tends to appear at my door shortly after sunrise to deposit them here so that he might return to his own bed. I would rather not risk him finding you in mine."
Jace's jaw tightens at the reminder of your husband, hating the domestic image that comes to mind—Aegon with sleep trussed hair and tired eyes, two children at his heel, showing up to your door with a yawn so he might return to sleep.
It should be him, he thinks despondently. It should be him with your children, him who can be with you when the sun is high, him as your husband. Not Aegon.
"Of course," he finally says, voice strained. Then he swallows as his gaze lifts to yours, tone softening as he tells you, "I missed you a lot, muña."
"I missed you too, mandianna," you say quietly. "Go rest. We will figure everything out."
Jace does not think he's going to get a wink of sleep, but he nods anyway, inclining his head slightly before he makes his way to your door.
He takes one last lingering look at you, hesitating when he sees the distant expression on your face as soon as you think his back is turned, and then he inhales deeply before lowering his gaze and leaving your chambers, an ache in his chest that already feels unbearable.
If Ser Steffon heard anything from the other side of the door, he gives no indication of it beyond the faintly awkward look that crosses his face when Jace steps into the corridor, wiping at the lower half of his face.
Jace answers it with a vicious glare before hurrying away.
————————————
"Jacaerys," his mother demands when he finally makes his way to the courtyard, where she, Daemon, his brothers and cousins are all waiting. It is hours past dawn—they were supposed to leave for Dragonstone as soon as the sun breached the horizon. "Where have you been? We've been waiting for you."
Jace's jaw tightens as he walks past his mother without a word to the horse the stable boys readied for him. He has been trying to rationalize your absence for hours. He had waited in the godswood and the gardens, lingered near the training yard and the library; he was desperate to catch so much as a glimpse of your familiar smile. He did not dare go to your chambers.
You had promised. You had sworn to him that you would speak in the morning, and Jace had hardly slept because of it. He alternated between wild hope and sickening dread as he imagined every possible outcome of the conversation awaiting him. He paced the corridors of the keep and stared up at the moon above until his eyes were heavy and circled, but he could not bring himself to return to his chambers.
Finally, morning had come, but you were nowhere to be found. You are avoiding him.
The thought has been festering inside him for hours, growing uglier each time he searches another part of the keep for you. Perhaps sobreity had brought regret with it, he thinks with a lump in his throat. Perhaps you had wakened this morning and remembered his mouth upon yours, his hands against your skin, and realized with horror what you had allowed to happen.
What has he done? He had pushed all evening, testing every boundary you placed before him until eventually there had been none left to cross. He had kissed you. He had put his hands on you. He had—
His stomach twists so violently that he almost retches. What if he had mistakken hesitation for invitation simply because he had wanted you so desperately? What if you only kissed him because you have never been able to say no to him? What if—
"Jacaerys," his mother snaps, grabbing his wrist before he can sit astride his horse. Jace inhales sharply, raising his chin and straightening his shoulders, refusing to turn around until she forces him to. When she sees the expression on his face—the tears wetting his eyes, and the way his lips tremble faintly—fury drains into concern. Her voice softens immediately, hand rising to cradle his face as she asks quietly, "Jacaerys, what's wrong, sweet boy? What has happened?"
Jace swallows thickly, gaze averting up to the sky as he desperately tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He shakes his head once, but his mother is persistent, tilting her head, lips pursed as she waits for an answer.
"I cannot find her," he finally admits, and he hates how small his voice sounds. Rhaenyra's brows draw together, confused.
"Who?" she asks, and Jace gives her a look that makes the question unnecessary. Understanding flickers across her face. "I am sure she is just busy with the twins, Jacaerys. I—"
"She said she would speak with me in the morning," he continues, words coming faster. "She promised me, and I have looked everywhere, and she is nowhere, and I think–" His voice cracks. His lashes flutter as he forces himself to stop and swallow, clearing his throat. "I think I have done something terrible."
"Jace—"
"I should not have pushed her." His eyes squeeze shut. "I should have left things as they were. Everything was finally right between us again, and I ruined it."
His mother stares at him, concern deepening into confusion. "Jacaerys, what exactly did you do?"
Jace stares at his mother helplessly. He cannot very well stand in the middle of the courtyard and confess that he spent half the night with his mouth pressed to his married aunt's cunt while Daemon, his brothers, cousins, and half a dozen stable boys stand within earshot. Rhaenyra's brows furrow slowly, glancing at him once before her gaze draws back to the direction of the keep, a calculating expression on her face.
"It does not matter," he rushes out before she can put two and two together. "It does not matter. I just—I need to speak with her."
Rhaenyra studies him for another long moment, and Jace struggles not to squirm beneath her scrutiny, afraid she can see everything that he had done with you the night before. At last, she finally says, "Then come back with me."
Jace blinks. "What?"
"We will see the others safely to Dragonstone, and then you and I can return on dragonback. If you are so desperate to speak with her, I see no reason you cannot."
Relief loosens the tension in his shoulders. It is not ideal—he had wanted to speak with you this morning, had spent hours imagining exactly what he might say, loathes the idea of not knowing what terms the two of you are on for days on end—but at least he does not have to return to Dragonstone wondering when he might see you again.
"Yes, that—" he starts to say, voice catching. "I would like that."
Rhaenyra gives his cheek an affectionate pat before releasing him, turning to make her way toward the carriage.
"Mother," he calls after a moment, and she pauses. Jace hesitates, remembering what you had told him to ask in passing the night before. Jace shifts awkwardly on his feet, feeling strangely foolish now that he has to ask. "What did muña do when she first saw me?" His mother's eyes narrow, and Jace is flustered, feeling as though he needs to explain the sudden question. He defends, "She told me to ask."
Understanding dawns across Rhaenyra's face, and then she immediately starts to laugh, hand lifting to her mouth to stifle her giggles. Jace flushes the longer she laughs and does not answer, fighting a scowl.
"She wailed," his mother finally says through her a sigh as she calms her laughter. "Quite inconsolably, actually."
Jace stares at her, unsure how this was supposed to make him feel better. "She cried?"
Rhaenyra hums in agreement, and Jace's face falls. She notices immediately and gives him a small, fond smile, tucking a dark curl behind his ear.
"Sweet boy, not because she was disappointed. When I put you in her arms the first time, she refused to let you go. I, too, thought something was wrong at first, because she wept so hard that I could hardly get her to answer me when I asked her why she was crying. Finally, she told me that you were perfect—" Jace's throat bobs terribly, and Rhaenyra tilts her head slightly as she cradles his face again "—her exact words, mind you. Then she asked quite sweetly if she might keep you."
"Keep me?" Jace echoes.
"You must understand, she was very young." Rhaenyra laughs again, hand dropping from his face to adjust Viserys against her shoulder. "She seemed to believe that because I had made you, I could simply make another if I wished. I spent the better part of an afternoon explaining that you were my firstborn son and heir, and no, she could not keep you merely because she asked so sweetly."
Jace cannot help the smile slowly spreading across his face.
"That did not discourage her, of course, spoiled little thing. She does hate being told no. She asked for you again on her next nameday, and the one after that, if memory serves. Every year for quite some time." Jace's ears burn as he flushes and looks away. His mother reaches out to hold his hand gently. He wonders if she understands what prompted you to tell him to ask this, because she gives him a soft smile and says, "She loved everything about you, but your eyes were always her favorite. She used to hold you in the sunlight because she swore they looked like pools of honey when the sun caught them right. I had to tell her to stop more than once. She would have kept you there all afternoon if I let her, and I was afraid the sun would burn you if you were kept out there too long."
"Oh," Jace says quietly, swallowing thickly as he stares down at the ground.
Her expression softens, more serious now as she tells him, "You know, she was lonely before you were born, Jacaerys."
His smile fades slightly, gaze lifting to meet hers. His mother has mentioned this before in passing when he was younger, but never elaborated on it, simply sent him off to go spend time with you.
"I tried to be there for her. I loved her dearly, but I was fourteen years her elder. By the time she was old enough to want someone to play with, I had already grown beyond such things and had courtly duties to attend to." Rhaenyra looks toward the keep, something wistful passing over her face. "She tried to befriend Aegon when she was young—" Jace's expression twists at the mention of your husband. "—but Alicent—the Queen—kept her children away from me and mine, and your muña was always lumped in with us. Sometimes I would find her watching the other noble children in the garden and training yard. They would be running about together, playing their games, and she would simply stand at the edge and watch them."
Jace swallows thickly, voice hoarser than he intends as he asks quietly, "Why didn't she join them?"
"I do not know," Rhaenyra admits. "Perhaps she did not know how. Perhaps she was scared. She was always a little apart from everyone else. You know well that she had her own whispers following her. Many thought she was—" A bitter expression crosses his mother's face. "—thought she was cursed because of the manner she came into this world. The manner in which she claimed her dragon only made people believe it more."
Jace chews the inside of his cheek, chest aching at the thought of you younger, smaller, standing alone as you watched other children laugh together. He cannot imagine it.
For as long as he could remember, you have always been bright smiles and pretty laughter, the difference between a perfect day and a ruined one. He cannot stand the idea of you small and alone, desperate for friends but unable to make any. He thinks of the dulled look on your face as you entered the throne room, the emptiness in your eyes when you first arrived to supper—worst of all, the distant one you wore last night before he left.
He has ruined everything.
"So when you were born," Rhaenyra continues, looking back at him with a small smile. "I was happy for more reasons than one. I had my sweet son, and she finally had someone who belonged to her as much as she belonged to him. I knew that once you were old enough to toddle about after her, neither of you would ever truly be alone."
Jace swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat, head hanging forward slightly. Tears sting at the corner of his eyes again, and he blinks them away before his mother can notice.
"Jacaerys," his mother says quietly, beckoning him to look at her. He lifts his head reluctantly, eyes heavy. "Whatever happened between the two of you, she has loved you from the moment she first laid eyes upon you. There is nothing in this world that will change that."
Except she does not know that, Jace wants to say, fists curling at his side. What if last night had cost him the one thing he had spent eight years desperate to have back? What if, in his selfish desire to have more of you, he had destroyed the chance to simply have you at all? What if—
"She really asked you to give me to her?" he asks instead, voice rough as he tries to joke to change the subject, hoping that his mother does not see the doubt swirling in his eyes.
He thinks she does, because her smile is a bit sadder as she says, "Repeatedly."
"What did you tell her?"
"That she could borrow you." Rhaenyra laughs softly, reaching up to brush an errant curl from his forehead. "I'm afraid she never did learn to give you back. Come, sweet boy, it is time for us to bring your brothers and cousins home. We will return on dragonback soon after."
————————————
"What is the meaning of this?" you demand, slamming your fists against the doors to your chambers. "Ser Steffon—who is out there? Let me out this instant, you mongrels, I will feed you to my dragon if you do not unbar my chambers immediately."
You had woken late to find your doors barred from the outside and Ser Steffon conspicuously absent from his post. At first, you had assumed some drunken foolishness on Aegon's part—a poorly conceived jest that you would make your half-brother regret the moment you were free—but nearly an hour has passed, and no one will answer you.
You pace the length of your room, agitated, furious, terrified. Something is terribly wrong.
Had they figured out what you had done with Jacaerys? Were they locking you in your chambers so you might not flee before they bring you before the High Septon to humiliate you? You would not put it past them—Alicent has always held a particular disdain toward you, and you have been at odds with the Faith ever since the septons tried to convince thirteen-year-old Aegon to let the maesters cut you open to save the twins.
No, if they knew what happened, there would be much more noise. It is the silence that is unsettling. The Red Keep is never silent in the afternoon. You should hear servants rushing through the corridors, bringing meals to the lords who do not wish to leave their chambers, guards changing their watch, absent chatter and laughter. But there is nothing.
"Aegon," you call loudly, slamming your fist against the door, because he had not come by with the twins this morning either. He always comes by with the twins. "Who is out there? Answer me now!"
You press your ear to the door. For several heartbeats, you hear nothing. Then, there is the faint scrape of armor shifting beyond the door, and you tilt your head to the side, stilling as your focus narrows in on the sound.
"I can hear you," you say, voice dropping dangerously low. "Open the door immediately, and I might grant you the privilege of choosing how you are going to die."
"Forgive me, princess. I cannot open the door."
The voice is unfamiliar. Your stomach drops. What is happening? Fear curdles low in your stomach, skin itchy with anxiety. Your gaze flicks from the heavy door to the bars on your window—your apartments are too high to climb from, and there is no way for Zūgaxes to free you lest risking bringing the entire tower down with you in it.
"Where is Ser Steffon?" you demand. "Who are you? Where are my sister and my nephews? Where are my children?"
Where are Maegor and Maegelle? Where are Jacaerys and Lucerys? Rhaenyra, Daemon, everyone else? What is happening? Why are you locked in?
"Your children are safe, princess," the guard says simply.
"Where are they?"
"I have been instructed only to assure you that Prince Maegor and Princess Maegelle are unharmed."
What? Unharmed? Why would they be harmed?
"Instructed by whom?" you hiss, only to be met with more silence. You strike the door again, fury beginning to overwhelm your fear. "Where is my husband? Answer me, you worthless dog!"
"I cannot say."
"My sister?"
Your heart begins to hammer when the guard does not respond. Rhaenyra and the boys were supposed to leave for Dragonstone at dawn—Jacaerys was supposed to leave with her.
Jacaerys, who would be waiting for you. Jacaerys, who you had watched leave your chambers only with the assurance that when the sun rose, the two of you would speak about what had transpired between you and what in the Seven Hells you intended to do next. Jacaerys, who would undoubtedly assume the worst when you did not show.
Your stomach twists as you imagine him waiting somewhere for you, watching the hours pass with no sign of your arrival. You know exactly where his mind will go. He will convince himself that you regret everything that happened between you, that you had woken sober and ashamed and had broken your promise because you could not bear to face him after what you had allowed him to do.
He will think he had done something wrong. The thought makes panic claw at your throat. You slam your fist against the door again, and again, and again, tears of frustration pricking at your eyes.
He had been so uncertain when he left you. He had searched your face for reassurance, and his confidence crumbled the moment you told him the two of you must wait until morning to speak. You should not have sent him away. You do not even know why you sent him away. You had just been—you had been scared.
You had been scared for what you'd done, of what you'd allowed him to do, of how easily you'd forgotten everything else as soon as his mouth was on yours—your husband, children, his mother, the realm. Every consequence that should have been enough to make you push him away had disappeared the moment he touched you, and you'd been terrified of how desperately some part of you had wanted him to stay.
When he offered to remain in King's Landing with you, some reckless part of you had wanted to say yes before he even finished speaking. You'd wanted to pull him into your bed and keep him there until morning, consequences be damned. For one night, you had wanted to forget that you were Aegon's wife, that you have been alone, desperately trying not to drown for a decade, that war was most likely on the horizon and your children would be at the center of it.
So, you had sent him away and told yourself that morning would make everything clearer. Instead, morning has come and gone, and Jacaerys is somewhere far beyond these walls believing you had abandoned him again.
What is happening? Why are you locked in your rooms?
"Let me out," you demand, voice rising, furious, slamming your fists against your door again and again and again. "Let me out! Let me out, let me out, let me out!"
Halfway across the Blackwater, Jace startles from the deck of the ship, head lifting and turning back in the direction of King's Landing as Zūgaxes's distant roar carries over the water. He stares at the distant silhouette of the city, unease prickling along the back of his neck and cannot help but feel as though he has made a terrible mistake by getting on this ship.
FEATURING: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader, minor Aegon II Targaryen x fem!reader
SUMMARY: From the moment you were born, you were faced with the scrutiny of the court—the twin who lived while brother and mother died in a bed of blood. Rhaenyra had always done her best to shield you from its cruelty, so when her son is born with dark hair and dark eyes and that cruelty is turned on him, you vow to shield him the same. It is a promise that would come to shape both of your lives far more than either of you could have imagined.
WARNINGS: fem!reader. TARGCEST (aunt-nephew, half-sibling). reader is a Targaryen (daughter of Viserys & Aemma)—no physical features are explicitly described (silver hair, purple eyes, etc) BUT it is implied through Jace's insecurity that he does not look like her because he references not looking like "everyone else". forced marriage (reader & Aegon). Reader & Aegon are VERY young when they have their kids (14 & 13 respectively), and reader has some complications/health issues following the birth because she was so young/her body wasn't ready for it. Eventual smut. Infidelity (technically—Aegon and reader are both cheating on each other LOL but neither gaf). Jace is wildly unhinged about reader and everybody but reader knows. Codependent relationship. Slight age gap (5 years between reader & Jace)
NOTES: WOWWWW my great step into targcest. This will be 3 parts—this first part is their childhood, the second part is driftmark & the inheritance dispute, the third part is the dance. Lowkey I can't believe it took me so long to write targcest LOLLLL, but it is fitting it is for our prettiest prince, Jacaerys Velaryon, prince of Dragonstone, heir to the iron throne <333 There are some things to note so please read: I adjusted the ages for this fic for convenience purposes, but the general timeline will remain the same. Reader is born in 105, Aegon 106, Helaena 108, Aemond 109, Jace & Daeron & Baela/Rhaena 110, Luke 111, Joffrey 118. Laena's funeral takes place in 120, the inheritance dispute & the Dance begins in 128. When it comes time for the Dance, ages are as follows: Reader is 23, Aegon is 22, and Jace is 18. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! Love you all!
You were not supposed to be the twin who lived.
Nobody tells you that in so many words, but it is the first thing you learn all the same.
You catch your father staring at you sometimes with an empty look in his eyes, and you know he is seeing the ghost of your mother, thinking that if Baelon had been the one to survive instead of you, he might have been able to justify her death. The lords and ladies of the Red Keep constantly look upon you with polite smiles and carefully chosen words, lowering their voices whenever the topic of your birth is raised, as if you are too young to understand them, even though it was the first thing you ever understood at all.
Such a tragedy.
The queen gave everything.
The prince…
The prince, the prince, the prince—it is always the prince.
A son who never lived is afforded every virtue. He would have been strong. He would have been the perfect heir and the perfect king. He would have united the realm, and he would have spared your father his grief. He is remembered with all the generosity reserved for the dead, and none of the criticism reserved for the living.
You grow accustomed to measuring yourself against a brother you never knew. Every accomplishment is met with the unspoken question of whether Baelon might have done it quicker or better, and every celebration carries a shadow of mourning that you will never escape.
It is only Rhaenyra who has ever looked at you and seen nothing to mourn.
She has never spoken of Baelon as though he ought to have taken your place. She sneaks you your favorite desserts when you are sad, and she wipes your tears before anyone else can see them. When you are too scared to be alone at night, she slips into your chambers with stories of dragons raining fire from the sky and queens who crossed seas.
Your father has always been distant, but you have never minded because Rhaenyra is enough warmth for two parents, and when the whispers of the court become loud enough to reach you, she rolls her eyes and steals you away to the dragonpit or cuts the gossipers down with words sharp enough to leave them speechless.
She is your shield whenever the court would have you bleed, and your sword when distraction alone is not enough. For a little while, that is enough.
Then Jacaerys is born.
You are still young enough to be bundled off to lessons with Septa Elaine, feet dangling from chairs too tall for you, when Rhaenyra places him in your arms for the first time.
You think he is beautiful.
He has a mop of dark curls and bright brown eyes that seek you out in every room. He laughs more readily than he cries, and he reaches for your finger whenever you are near, curling his tiny fist around it as though he has claimed you for himself.
He is perfect—you know it the moment he giggles up at you the first time, but the whispers begin before the bloodied sheets are removed from your sister's bed.
Strong. Bastard. Plain.
The words are spoken with feigned innocence, as though they are not daggers pressed to both his back and your sister’s. For the first time since you were born, the court’s attention shifts to another, and you desperately wish that it hadn't.
You know what it is to have your life measured against someone who is not there, but Jacaerys is measured against people who are.
Your half-brother, Aegon, with silver-gold hair that gleams in the sun and eyes the color of amethysts, every inch the image of Old Valyria from the moment he was pulled from your stepmother's womb. Beside him stand Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron, no less unmistakably Targaryen. Silver hair and purple eyes; four children who look exactly as the world insists dragonlords should.
By the time Jacaerys is born, the image of a Targaryen prince has already been firmly etched into the court's mind, and it is not a little boy with brown curls and warm eyes who resembles neither the princess who bore him nor the husband sworn to be his father.
You recognize the look in their eyes intimately when they turn their gazes on him. It is the same one they once turned on you—a child who has already failed to become what the realm expected of them before they have spoken their first words. You had been the daughter who survived instead of the son who should have. Jacaerys is the son who does not look as though he should have.
Rhaenyra never allows you to bear your burden alone. Before the whispers find you, they find her first. Whenever cruel words are spoken, hers are always sharper. She stands between you and the court so often that most days you hardly realize she’s shielding you at all.
So when the whispers begin to follow Jacaerys instead, you do the only thing you have ever been taught—sharpening words and standing between him and the world whenever you can.
If your sister has always been your sword and your shield, then you will be her son’s.
——————————
JACAERYS, 2; READER, 7; 112 AC
“He really does adore you, doesn’t he, princess?” one of your ladies in waiting, Melynda Darklyn, says with a soft laugh after Jacaerys climbs into your lap at Lucerys’s first nameday celebration. You wind your arms around the boy, relishing in the delighted noise he makes once he’s wrapped in your arms.
Your sister and her husband are sitting at the center of the table, chatting with your father and entertaining the assembled lords while musicians fill the hall with cheerful melodies and servants weave between tables bearing silver platters piled high with roasted meats and sugared fruits. Rhaenyra occasionally looks in your direction, casting a small smile your way when she sees how Jacaerys is tucked against you, fisting the embroidery of your gown tight enough that you fear he might rip some of the tiny pearls from the fabric.
“He has excellent taste,” you answer primly, with all of the seriousness a girl of seven can muster, earning a ripple of laughter from your end of the table. “It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that I let him have his sweets before supper.”
Jacaerys blinks, head lolling against your shoulder, unconcerned with being the subject of conversation. You can feel his small fingers picking at the ribbon tied around your wrist, freezing comically every time you look down at him. Each time you return your attention to the feast, his fingers creep back toward the knot with painstaking care, his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth in concentration. He glances up at you every few moments to make certain you are not watching before tugging experimentally at the ribbon once more.
You pretend not to notice, smiling lightly to yourself when you hear the triumphant little hum that escapes him as the knot finally begins to loosen.
“His hair really is so dark,” Aegon suddenly says on your left, voice idle as he yawns.
The conversation immediately halts.
You wonder if Aegon knows the gravity of the words he spoke, stiffening slightly from where you’re sitting, enough that Jacaerys seems to sense the shift in your demeanor, lifting tiny hands to your face to squish your cheeks. It’s only when you smile at him that he finally lets go, and he returns to toying with your ribbon.
You look at your younger half-brother from the corner of your eye carefully, catching the bored expression on his face as he absently pokes at his peas, still looking at Jacaerys. You do not know why your father insists on seating him near you during feasts—you desperately wish he would sit with his mother and your other half-siblings. He has spent half the evening kicking the legs of his chair and playing with his food, bothering you with inane questions about whether there is an end to the Sunset Sea and if you think there is such a thing as water dragons or ice dragons.
You see three of your ladies-in-waiting exchange glances, Melynda stiffens slightly as she glances between the princes before her gaze meets yours, riddled with concern, and two lords further down the table quiet down immediately to listen in on whatever Aegon might say next. No one speaks openly of Jacaerys’s… coloring. Not yet, at least. The whispers have remained whispers, traded behind fans and cups of wine, because everyone is unwilling to be the first to give them voice.
So the court waits, each lord and lady wondering who will finally speak the unspeakable.
For one fleeting moment, you can’t help but wonder if the Queen has whispered something into Aegon's ear before the feast, if she has sent him here to say what no grown lord dares so that life might be breathed into the whispers haunting Jacaerys. You would not put it past her—she has always had a certain disdain for you and your sister—but you do not think that is the case this time. Aegon is six, and he hardly has the patience for lessons in High Valyrian, much less the conspiracies of court. Every thought that enters his head escapes his mouth within moments, innocent of the havoc it might wreak.
He is simply a little boy who has noticed that his nephew's curls are brown where everyone else's are silver. The court, however, has spent so long waiting for someone to say too much that even a child's idle observation is enough to make half the hall hold its breath.
Aegon notices the silence at last, mid-motion to tug Jacaerys’s hair. You slap his hand away before he can. His brow furrows, and he glances around the table. He looks from one lady to the next as though expecting someone to satisfy his curiosity. Instead, they busy themselves with their cups of wine and suddenly find the roasted lamb before them intensely interesting.
He frowns. “What?”
“I suppose everyone else is too kind to say it,” you say dramatically, giving Aegon a bright smile as he tilts his head questioningly. “You should not speak on someone else’s hair when yours is so greasy, valonqar.” You reach forward to tug a long lock of silver hard, and Aegon yelps, squirming away. “It only draws more attention to it. Did you not bathe before the feast?”
Little brother.
“I did bathe! It’s not greasy!” he disagrees loudly, lifting his hands to cover his hair. “You’re a liar!”
“Of course it is,” you insist. “Why else do you think no one dares look you in the eye? You should be grateful that you have me to tell you the truth when others would avert their gaze and pretend they do not notice. Say, thank you, mandia.”
Older sister.
“No!”
“Do it, or I’ll pull your hair again, you little wretch.”
Aegon gapes at you and looks around the table for help—unfortunately for him, the only one who might have taken his side, scandalized by your behavior, is sitting on your father’s opposite side, watching the two of you from afar, unable to do anything about it. You give the Queen a faux-sweet smile before raising your eyebrows at Aegon and lifting your hand threateningly.
He shrinks back. “Thank you, mandia.”
You raise your chin proudly, and the tension slips away. The tension eases from your shoulders when you realize you’ve successfully averted the crisis, but the dread you feel remains even as goblets are lifted once more, and conversations that had died on waiting breaths begin again. One lord clears his throat loudly and returns to discussing the harvest with his neighbor, and another asks after plans for hawking.
Around the table, everyone is suddenly very eager to prove they had not been listening at all; as though moments before, they hadn’t been on the edge of their seats waiting for someone to give them a chance to speak what they’ve all been thinking.
Jacaerys gives one final victorious tug, and the ribbon slips free into his hands. He squeals with delight, waving it triumphantly in the air, utterly oblivious to what just took place.
You pluck it gently from his fingers before he can stuff it into his mouth, and he immediately looks up at you, big brown eyes watering, lower lip quivering. He pleads in a tiny, wobbly voice, “Please.”
You raise your eyebrows at him pointedly. You say firmly, “Ivestragon ziry drējī.”
Say it correctly.
He stares up at you, brow furrowing in fierce concentration. His lips part once, then close again. He glances toward his mother for help, but she is much too far to be of any assistance, so his little nose wrinkles as he thinks harder.
“K-k…” he begins uncertainly, fingers curling tight around the sleeve of your gown. You wait patiently, toying with the ribbon. At last, he says proudly, “Kolilus!”
“Close,” you say, tapping his nose, smiling softly when he immediately scrunches it again with a giggle. “Kostilus.”
Please.
“Kostilus!” he repeats, beaming. “Kostilus! Kostilus!”
“Sīr albie,” you praise as you tie the ribbon around his small wrist, watching as he waves his hand in the air trying to show Rhaenyra across the room. “Olvie tolī albie pār aōha qȳbor.”
So smart. Much smarter than your uncle.
Jacaerys spends the rest of the feast showing anyone who will look the ribbon tied around his wrist, never noticing the glances that follow him, and you are filled with a dread that will haunt you for years to come, because one day, someone will find the courage to finish Aegon's thought, and when that day comes, no amount of distraction or childish innocence will be enough to swallow the words back down.
——————————
JACAERYS, 3; READER, 8; 113 AC
“Sleepover!”
You wake blearily from where you’re dozing off on your couch as the door to your chambers swings open, exhausted after a day of flying. Rhaenyra finally gave you leave a few months ago to take flight with Zūgaxes, once she was certain you would not go flying off the large dragon's back the moment he took to the air, and you have spent almost every waking moment with him above King's Landing and the Blackwater. Your thighs are sore, and you barely fight a wince when you push yourself into a sitting position just as a small ball of energy slams into your abdomen, pushing you back down against the couch.
You blink once, a smile instinctively curving your lips when Jacaerys’s face pops above yours, a wide, toothy one spread across his lips as he looks down at you, excited, dressed in his nightclothes and holding his favorite blanket.
“Mandianna,” you say fondly, lifting your shoulders enough to press your lips against his cheeks, biting down lightly to make him squeal happily. “What are you doing here?”
Nephew.
“I hope I didn’t wake you, sweet sister,” Rhaenyra murmurs as she makes her way into your room. She holds Lucerys carefully on her hip—the boy is half asleep, blinking sleepily in your direction before giving you a small smile. She nods in the direction of the couch you’re lying on and asks, “May I?”
You tilt your head curiously and nod, shifting to sit up properly. Jacaerys clambers off your lap to go play with the toys he left in your room the other day, and Rhaenyra sits next to you, smiling at you softly as she lifts a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. Your eyes are wide and adoring as you look up at her, leaning into the familiar warmth of her hand—you have been so busy flying that you've hardly seen her as of late.
"Look at you, growing up so lovely," Rhaenyra sighs lightly, running her thumb along your cheekbone as Lucerys nuzzles into the crook of her neck. "I heard father was upset with you this morning. What happened?"
You scowl immediately, crossing your arms and looking away. The reminder of the argument sets your mood afoul, throat already tightening with a something caught between irritation and hurt.
"He is always upset with me," you mutter. Rhaenyra raises her eyebrows at you, waiting for you to explain, and you push your bottom lip out into a pout. "I only mentioned that I wanted to fly to Highgarden. Ser Lowen says the flowers will be at peak bloom soon. I should like to see them."
Rhaenyra laughs lightly, and your cheeks feel hot as you keep your gaze averted even as she tilts your face toward her. She strokes your hair lightly and says, "You have only just turned eight, hāedar. You cannot expect him to allow you to fly off on your own across the kingdom."
Little sister.
Your eyes well with tears immediately, and Rhaenyra's expression shifts into one of alarm, shifting Lucerys on her lap so that she might face you fully.
"He can hardly even stand the sight of me, mandia. He could at least let me travel. I do not just want to see Highgarden—I want to see the Wall and Casterly Rock. I want to cross the Narrow Sea and travel the Free Cities, see the ruins of Old Valyria, walk the House of the Undying in Qarth. It is not fair. He cannot keep me trapped here forever when nobody even likes me."
Rhaenyra's expression softens; she tilts her head slightly to the side as she holds your face between her palms, stroking your cheeks steadily with her thumbs. You grit your teeth hard to try to stop the tears from spilling over, but you fail miserably, breath shuddering as you sniffle and choke back sobs.
"Did someone say something to you?" she asks you, lips pressed together and eyes a bit cooler. "Ali—the Queen? One of her sons?"
You shake your head, trying to pull your face away, but she does not let you. "I just—"
You just what? You're lonely? You're tired of the way everyone looks at you? It feels unfair to say that to Rhaenyra, who has always done her best to shield you from it all. It feels unfair to say it when Jacaerys and Lucerys have faced worse from the court these past three years.
It is all unfair, you think miserably. All you want to do is lounge in gardens and snack on oranges with your sister and your nephews. You want to watch as Jacaerys plays with his wooden dragons and finds pretty flowers to put in your hair, as Lucerys naps in his mother's arms, oblivious to the world around him. You want to do it all without the eyes of judgment constantly pinned on the back of your head; you want to do it without the fear that someone, one day, will speak the words that will condemn them all.
"Well, then, perhaps it is a good thing that Jacaerys asked for you, hāedar," Rhaenyra says softly. "I did not realize you were so upset. Were you really planning to spend the night alone?"
"I did not want to bother you," you reply glumly, glancing away to where Jacaerys is trying and failing to gather all of his toys up in his arms, pouting each time he drops one back to the floor.
"You are never a bother, sweet sister. You must come to me whenever you feel like this. I loathe the idea of you being alone," Rhaenyra tells you softly as she leans in to brush her lips against your forehead. "Jacaerys, come here."
The boy immediately pokes his head up from the other side of the room, putting down all of his toys except for the wooden dragon you gifted him for his first nameday. He bolts across the room, tossing himself on Rhaenyra's lap and jostling Lucerys, who immediately starts sniffling. Rhaenyra raises her eyebrows at Jacaerys, who gives her a sheepish smile before he gives Lucerys a hug.
"Sorry, Luke," he says dutifully before shifting to sit between the two of you, holding his wooden dragon in his lap. He gives his mother an expectant look.
"Didn't you want to ask your muña something?" Rhaenyra prods, raising her eyebrows. "Instead of coming in here and demanding?"
Aunt (mother's sister)
Jacaerys's face lights up as he swivels his body toward you, brown eyes bright with delight. "Can we have a sleepover, muña?"
You say, "Ivestragon ziry drējī.”
Say it correctly.
Jacaerys immediately wrinkles his nose and gives Rhaenyra a pleading look, but your sister only gives him a small smile, beckoning him to do as you asked.
"You're so mean, muña," Jacaerys whines, giving you a pitiful look, wide eyes and a pushed-out lip that he certainly learned from you whenever you're trying to convince Rhaenyra to get you extra snacks from the kitchens. Unfortunately for you, it is infinitely more effective coming from baby Jacaerys with big brown eyes and chubby cheeks. He wrinkles his nose as he thinks, a few long moments passing before he tries, "Kostan ēdrugon toliot?"
I can stay over?
You correct, "Kostagon nyke ēdrugon toliot?"
Can I stay over?
"Kostagon nyke ēdrugon toliot?" he repeats instantly, leaning forward, tiny fingers wrapping around your hand. "Kostilus, kostilus, kostilus."
Can I stay over? Please, please, please.
You lean in with a small smile and tell him softly, "Hen rhinka, kostā."
Of course, you can.
Jacaerys lets out a squeal of glee and immediately leaps off the couch to run over to your bed, climbing on top and bouncing happily three times before flopping down and rolling around. Your lips curl up into a smile as your sister leans in to nudge her shoulder against yours.
"Are you truly going to look me in the eye and say nobody likes you when mine own son adores you so deeply?" she asks you quietly. "When I do?"
Your shoulders slump slightly, unable to meet her gaze.
"Jace would be distraught if you left," Rhaenyra continues, undeterred. "He has… been having night terrors. He struggles to sleep through the night. He has tried sleeping in bed with Laenor and I, but nothing seems to be enough to rid him of them. At first, I thought he simply preferred being fussed over, but the servants have made me aware that he does not cry out once during his naps in your chambers. When he wakes beside you, he is… lighter."
You turn to look at Jacaerys. He has managed to wrap himself in your blankets like a cocoon, your favorite stuffed dragon tucked to his chest. Every few moments, he glances over his shoulder to make certain you're still watching him before burying himself deeper beneath the covers.
You hear your sister let out a soft huff of laughter at your side at the sight of him, brushing a sleeping Lucerys's curls away from his forehead.
"I did not know," you whisper, guilty now—not just for wanting to leave and travel, but also for the number of days you've landed in the dragonpit with Zūgaxes to find Jacaerys sitting there waiting for you. For hours, Ser Steffon told you once when you'd asked how long he'd been there. "I…"
"I do not think he does either," Rhaenyra admits, smiling sadly. "Children simply know where they feel safe, and he feels safe with you."
Rhaenyra watches Jacaerys for a long moment as he buries himself beneath your blankets, only the top of his dark curls visible.
She says after a moment, "I should like it if you spent more time with him." You blink and give her a questioning look. She amends immediately, "I know you already do, but… he adores you. There is no one in the Seven Kingdoms whose presence delights him half so much as yours. Every morning, he asks whether you will break fast with us. Every afternoon, he asks whether you are flying. Every evening, he asks whether you have already gone to sleep. Laenor has begun telling him that dragons require princesses to nap as often as hatchlings simply to stop the questions."
You giggle, hand flying to your mouth as you imagine an exhausted Laenor forced to answer question after question—Jacaerys is insatiable when it comes to needing things answered. You once spent two hours trying to answer incessant whys when you told him that dragons could not fly forever without taking breaks, and you know Laenor well enough to know his patience is not endless.
"He is noticing things," Rhaenyra tells you after a moment, voice breaking. "He does not understand why some lords smile at him only when I am looking. He asked me last week why everyone stares at him, if he had done something wrong—I had to tell him that people only stare because he is a prince. That they admire him. I lied to him."
You stare at your folded hands, unable to think of anything to say that would make her feel better. You know she lied because there had been no other choice. What else could she have told a three-year-old boy? That grown men whisper about him behind closed doors? That ladies who smile at him in passing spend their evening wondering aloud whether he has any right to the Velaryon name?
Children should not know such things.
You should not have known that the court would have preferred you dead to your brother.
"He believed me," Rhaenyra says quietly, "but he will not forever, and I dread when that day comes. And it will come. One day he will hear every cruel thing that we have kept beyond his reach, but—"
"I will make them stop," you say immediately, leaning forward and grabbing her hands. Rhaenyra gives you a small, sad smile, but you insist with a nod. "I will, mandia. I will cut them down. Ser Steffon is teaching me the sword, I—"
Rhaenyra blinks. "Does father know that?"
"—I will take the head of anyone who says such things about him. I will feed them to Zuzu, and I'll burn their keeps," you declare, ignoring her question, because no, your father does not know, and you have no intention of telling him. "You do not have to worry, mandia. I will protect Jacaerys and Lucerys forever. And you."
Then, she laughs. It is quiet and watery, born through tears rather than amusement, but it is a laugh nonetheless. A success, you think.
"Oh, sweet girl."
You frown. She says it the way she always does when she does not believe you.
"I am serious," you insist.
"I know you are," she sighs, reaching up to cup your face with both hands, smiling softly. "You are a child. You should not be talking about taking heads and feeding people to dragons."
You frown again, deeper this time. "But I mean it," you tell her again. "I will take their heads, and I will feed them to Zuzu. I will burn their keeps, should I please."
"You are eight, hāedar."
"Then, I will wait until I am nine," you say firmly. "I will grow very tall. Taller than Ser Steffon. Even Ser Harrold."
"I think that unlikely."
"I shall," you say fiercely. "And I shall be stronger than Ser Erryck, and wiser than every maester."
You do not know why Rhaenyra looks as though she's going to cry again as she looks down at you, stroking your hair gently. "So, when you are the tallest, strongest, and wisest princess in the Seven Kingdoms…"
"I will protect all of you," you finish. "Anyone who is cruel to Jacaerys will regret it. And Lucerys. And you."
Rhaenyra's smile softens, and your lashes flutter as she leans in to brush her lips against your forehead.
"Well, if you are so adamant, then I suppose I must believe you." You nod at her words, pleased. "Will you promise me one more thing?" You look up expectantly. "If one day, the court makes him feel alone… find him, please."
You nod immediately. "I promise."
"And if one day the court makes you feel alone…"
You hesitate. "… He is only little."
"He will not always be," she tells you with a faint smile, and your nose wrinkles at the idea of Jacaerys growing older. You like him the way he is now—tiny and cuddly. "Promise me you will let him find you, too."
You glance over to where he's curled up in your bed, fast asleep now, ignorant of the conversation taking place between you and his mother. He is so small, you think doubtfully—you cannot imagine a day will ever come when he will be the one to seek you out.
Still, Rhaenyra has that expectant expression on her face, so you find yourself nodding.
"I promise."
—————————
JACAERYS, 4; READER, 9; 114 AC
"Jacaerys?"
You rise to your feet from where you were sitting with your half-sister, Helaena, on the edge of the gardens in Maegor's Holdfast as a small figure rushes past the two of you. Helaena blinks once, tilting her head to the side as she cradles her beetles between her palms.
"He looked sad," she says quietly. "Do you think he's okay?"
You don't respond, rushing after Jacaerys as soon as he turns the corner, ignoring the eyes of the knights and servants lingering as you push past them. You thought he was supposed to be in the training yard with Laenor today? He was excited about it last night—so excited that he kept you up for hours, asking for tips to impress his father and Ser Criston. So why—
"Jacaerys!" you call again as he turns down the hall, taking a familiar path through the holdfast. Where is he going? To his mother's chambers? To yours? "Jacaerys!"
Jacaerys skids to a stop halfway down the next hall, and you glare at a passing knight whose gaze lingers a moment too long on the sniffling boy. He hurries away, leaving you alone with Jacaerys in the long hall. He lifts his face to look at you, and alarm shoots through you when you see the dark bruise on his jaw.
"Jacaerys, what happened?" you demand, making your way over to him. He rushes toward you, throwing his arms around your waist and burying his face in your stomach. You wrap your arms around him, fingers threading through his thick hair as you hold the back of his head to your body, lowering yourself to your knees in front of him. "Jacaerys."
You pull his face back gently. His fingers clutch desperately at the back of your gown, bunching the fabric in both fists as though he fears you'll disappear if he loosens his grip. He is trembling. He is shaking so badly that he can hardly hold himself upright. Your fingers bite a bit too hard into his shoulders as your hands slide from his face down to his upper arms, forcing him to look you in the eye.
"Tell me what happened," you say furiously, rage already bubbling in your chest, vision tinted red as you squeeze his tiny biceps. "Who hurt you? Jacaerys, answer me!"
Jacaerys lifts a hand to wipe at his eyes, tears stubbornly clinging to his long lashes. The bruise on his jaw makes your stomach lurch. You force your grip to ease as you lift a hand to his cheek, cradling it gently as you brush your thumb over the mark.
His lower lip trembles violently before he whispers, "… I fell."
You stare at him blankly. "Did you?"
He gives you a tiny nod, refusing to meet your gaze. He is a terrible liar.
"I see," you say slowly, eyes narrowing slightly, "and the floor struck only your jaw?"
He sniffles and nods again.
"How curious," you say flatly.
You wonder if it was Aegon or Aemond. You thought Aegon was getting along with the boys, for the most part, but your half-brother has always been fickle and capricious, prone to changing his mind on a whim; and Aemond has taken to the sword, but he has always been careful enough with smaller children, more interested in proving himself than hurting anyone else. You struggle to picture him throwing a careless blow at a four-year-old.
"It must have been a very malicious floor," you say at last, the anger ebbing away at the sight of his mouth twitching up into a small, wobbly smile. "I shall have the castle steward informed. Dangerous stones cannot be allowed to wander the halls attacking little princes."
Jacaerys giggles, lifting his fists to wipe clumsily at his eyes.
"It wasn't the floor," he admits in a tiny voice. "I lied."
You sigh lightly as you brush the last lingering tear from beneath his lashes, leaning in to press your lips against his forehead. You say, "I suspected as much. What really happened, mandianna?"
His gaze immediately drops to the floor. "Ser Criston was teaching me how to wield a sword."
You stare at him for a moment and then ask slowly, "Ser Criston gave you this?"
"He didn't mean—" Jacaerys begins quickly, fumbling for words. "He was showing me, that's all."
"Showing you what, exactly?" you question, voice strained.
Jacaerys withdraws, shrinking a little. He says quietly, "I do not want to get in trouble."
"Iksā dōrī isse qopsa lēda nyke, mandianna," you say, softening your tone, sighing lightly as you brush your lips atop the welt forming on his jaw. Jacaerys clutches at your arms, trying to keep you close."Nyke mērī jaelagon ao naejot ivestragon nyke se drēje."
You are never in trouble with me, nephew. I only want you to tell me the truth.
"He was showing me how to block," he finally says, sniffling again as he presses his face into the crook of your neck. "I was supposed to stop it, but I didn't. He said I should have blocked it, and then went back over to Aegon and Aemond."
You do not reply immediately, rubbing between his shoulders to soothe him, one hand sliding down to his tiny wrist and tinier hands, small and uncalloused, barely able to wrap around the hilt of a sword. Ser Criston is a grown man, you think, outraged. He is years older than Rhaenyra, and he struck Jacaerys.
"How hard did he strike you?" you ask him softly.
"It hurt," Jacaerys says, voice small and muffled. Your eye twitches—a kingsguard striking a prince, Criston Cole gets away with far too much because of the Queen's favor. "He said if I cannot stop a practice sword, I will never stop a real one. I couldn't find father—he was supposed to be there—and mother has been busy all day in court, and I—I wanted you, muña. I always want you when…" His face twists as he searches for the right words. "… when things hurt."
Your expression softens into a smile as you sit back on your heels to look him in the eye. Jacaerys looks at you through wet lashes, bottom lip still wobbling, and you hold his face between your hands, squeezing his cheeks gently until he giggles and turns his face into your palm.
"Well," you say lightly after a moment, "your muña is here. How about we go down to the dragonpit and check on Vermax?"
His face lights up instantly. "Yes! Maybe they'll let me feed him. Do you think they'll let me?" he asks, excited, grabbing your hands and squeezing. Before you can respond, he presses, "Will Zuzu be there? Can we go flying?"
You lean in and lower your voice conspiratorially as you whisper, "Only if you promise not to tell your mother."
"I promise! I promise, I promise, I promise!" he cheers.
You give him a small smile, running your thumb one last time over the welt on his cheek before you rise to your feet and hold out your hand to him. He takes it quickly, entwining his fingers with yours as he takes off in the direction of the dragonpit, and you laugh as he drags you along with him.
Jacaerys forgets all about the bruise and Ser Criston Cole by the time the two of you reached the dragonpit, but you do not.
—————————
JACAERYS, 6; READER, 11; 116 AC
Jacaerys becomes your shadow over the next two years.
He rushes to your chambers before you've even woken, and will linger there long into the evening until his mother finally forces him to return to his own. Some nights, he sneaks back well after midnight because he insists that your room is safer than his, though you suspect he simply sleeps better with your dragon stuffed beneath one arm and your hand draped over his back.
He follows you everywhere.
When Ser Steffon trains you in the yard—now with your father's permission, though you had to put up quite the fight because your father was unconvinced that there was any need for a princess to learn the sword—Jacaerys perches himself on the balcony, his chin resting in both palms as he announces every successful strike as though you had just won a tourney.
"You got him!"
"It is a wooden dummy, Jacaerys."
"But he was losing!"
"The dummy?"
"Yes! He looked frightened!"
When you fly Zūgaxes, Jacaerys waits patiently in the Dragonpit with a book in his lap that never seems to advance beyond the same page. The moment your dragon's shadow crosses the courtyard, he leaps to his feet, waving both arms high above his head before racing to meet you
"How high did you go?"
"Very high."
"Higher than the towers?"
"Certainly."
"Higher than the clouds?"
"Not quite."
"Tomorrow?"
"Perhaps."
When you retreat to the gardens with a book, he appears scarcely minutes later, carrying one of his own. He cannot yet sit long enough to read more than a page or two before asking questions, but he tries valiantly, resting his head against your shoulder as he sounds out unfamiliar words. When he inevitably grows frustrated, you take the book from his hand and read aloud instead—by the third chapter, he is almost always asleep against you.
The servants quickly learn that if the young prince cannot be found, they only need ask where the princess has gone, and he is always there.
Which is why you feel so terrible about what you have to do today.
"Tell me it's not true," a shrill voice accuses from the door of your chambers as you finish packing the last of your bag. Ser Steffon gives you an apologetic look as he holds the door open for the little prince, and you grimace but signal for him to close it and step outside so that you can talk to Jacaerys. "You can't be leaving. Say that you're not leaving!"
"Mandianna," you start to sigh, turning to face him. His eyes are already welling with tears, face red and fists clenched at his sides. "I—"
"No!" he screeches. "You're a liar. You're a liar. You promised you wouldn't leave me. You promised I wouldn't be alone. You're a liar, and I hate you."
"Jacaerys," you say quietly, kneeling in front of him. He has grown over the past year, but so have you—and unfortunately for him, you have been growing faster. Where he once nearly reached your shoulder, the top of his curls now barely reaches your chest. He'll be even taller when you return, you think mournfully—how much will you miss? "Come here."
"No."
"Please."
"No!"
"I only want to talk, mandianna."
"I hate talking to you. I don't want to talk to you."
"Jacaerys…" you sigh again, a helpless feeling tugging at you because you do not want to leave while he's angry at you. You knew this would be a difficult conversation, but you'd hoped to at least leave with one last hug. "I know you are angry, but—"
"You don't!" he cries, stamping his foot so hard the floorboards rattle beneath him. "You don't know anything! Everybody hates me here. They all stare at me and think I don't notice, but I do! You promised you would stay, that I would always have you. You're a liar!"
Your breath hitches as you stare down at the tears tracking down his cheek. For a moment, you are no longer looking at Jacaerys. You are six years old again, yourself, standing in the halls of the Red Keep, wondering why everyone always stares at you, convinced that if you disappear, no one but Rhaenyra would notice.
You had spent years hoping he would never know the feeling.
"I know that they do," he insists before you can speak, as though he already knows you will try to deny it to preserve his innocence, as Rhaenyra has been doing for years. "They look at me all the time. They whisper, and then they stop when you or mother comes. They think I don't notice, but I do." He wipes furiously at his face with the heel of his sleeve. "They don't like me because—because I'm not pretty like everyone else, because I don't look like mother or father or grandsire or Aegon. But you always liked me—you said I was clever, and brave, and you said that I always would have you."
"You do, Jacaerys," you start to say. "I meant it."
"Liar!" he shouts again. "You wouldn't leave me if you meant it!"
You do not have a choice, you want to tell him.
Your father has asked you to go to Pentos to convince Daemon to return. You are not sure the Small Council knows of his request, because he has specifically asked you not to breathe a word of it to anyone, knowing too well how fiercely they opposed Daemon and how quickly they might act to convince him otherwise it if they learned where you were bound.
He thought he was doing you a favor—he remembers how badly you wanted to leave two years ago, and is giving you the opportunity now under the guise of a request from him. You did not know how to tell him that the last thing you wanted to do now was leave when Jacaerys hardly goes an hour without you.
You rise slowly from where you are kneeling, crossing the small distance between you. The moment you lift your hand toward him, he recoils.
"Don't touch me! I don't want you to touch me!"
Your fingers freeze in the air before falling back to your side. Your heart feels as though it is stuck in your throat as you stare at him, watching as he wipes hard at his face again, gnawing at his bottom lip as he fights a sob.
"Okay," you finally say, hand dropping back to your side.
"I don't want you to come back," he tells you, sniffling loudly, refusing to look at you. "I hate you."
You know he does not mean it. You do. Children have so few weapons when they are hurting, and cruel words are among the first they learn to wield. You know this better than most, and yet, somehow, his words still manage to find every wound you've ever been dealt in this keep, salt on open wounds because they are being spoken by the one voice whose opinion matters more than any vicious noble ever could.
Your throat feels swollen, and your chest aches so painfully that you fear you might die. You had imagined this moment so differently. You had imagined Jacaerys helping you fasten your cloak, asking you to bring him back gits and insisting you write him every day, faster even than the ravens can deliver. Instead, there is only a frightened little boy glaring at you through tears, insisting that he hates you and never wants to see you again.
"I'll see you soon, mandianna," you say quietly. "Avy jorrāelan. Kesan sagon arlī gō ao gīmigon ziry."
I love you. I will be back before you know it.
You wait just in case he changes his mind, but he does not answer, turning his back on you as your hand closes around the handle of the door.
It is the first time the two of you have to bid goodbye to one another.
It will not be the last.
—————————
JACAERYS, 7; READER, 12; 117 AC
It has been a year since you departed King's Landing.
Pentos had become a fortnight, then a moon, then half a year, and before anyone quite realized what had happened, an entire year had passed. Your father had sent you to talk to his brother, hoping that you might be able to convince your uncle and his wife to return home. Instead, Daemon had laughed in your face and said you were too small to be so bold, and refused every plea you had bade.
You had failed. The only consolation was that Daemon had immediately not sent you away. He had taken one look at your pinched expression and fisted hands, and he took you flying over the bay and the Velvet Hills. He taught you more about your history than any maester in King's Landing ever had, and filled your head with so many stories of Old Valyria that it had you dizzy with homesickness for a place you've never known, longing for a future you would never know.
Every morning, you would challenge him for Dark Sister, and he would pummel you into the tiled floors of the Prince of Pentos's palace, and every evening, he would make you do it again until he properly beat out the "poor teachings of Ser Steffon"—his words, not yours.
You met your cousins for the first time, too.
For years, you only ever had Rhaenyra, Laenor, Jacaerys, and Lucerys, but Baela and Rhaena quickly latched themselves to each of your arms, showing you all around Pentos, desperately trying to keep you in the Free City with them longer.
Baela had insisted on racing dragons before she'd properly introduced herself, offended when Zūgaxes won by what she declared was an unfair margin. She reminded you so much of Jace, forever at your heels, rarely letting you out of her sight for long. Rhaena spent long afternoons wandering Pentoshi markets with you and her mother, pointing out fabrics she thought would look pretty on you and teasing you relentlessly whenever Daemon tripped you and claimed he was only trying to hone your reaction time as you fell flat on your face.
For the first time in years, your world stretches beyond the walls of the Red Keep and lingering gazes, and yet not a single day has passed without you wondering whether Jacaerys still sits in the godswood, waiting for someone who is no longer there.
When your father finally sends a letter recalling you to King's Landing, tiring of your frolic with Daemon and not wanting to deal with another member of his family joining self-imposed exile, you spend the entire flight back thinking about what you would say to him, wondering what he might do when he finally sees you.
You have imagined him running at you and throwing himself into your arms, and you have imagined him turning his back to you once more. You do not know what to expect from him, so your heart is in your throat when you see him standing with the dragonkeepers as they bring out a sheep for Vermax, dark hair flopping around his face, a bright smile on his face.
In your worst fears, the smile drops when he realizes that you have returned.
You clear your throat and force a light expression on your face as you say, “He is almost big enough for you to ride now, isn’t he, mandianna?”
Jacaerys startles, smile dropping just as you feared, eyes widening as he whips around to face you. He stares at you, blinking once, head cocking to the side—for a terrible second, you wonder if he even recognizes you. It has been a year apart, you try to rationalize to mitigate the hurt. You have grown a lot; your hair is styled in the typical Pentoshi way, and you have spent the majority of the past year basking in the sun. It would not be so far-fetched if he did not recognize you right away, in fact—
"Muña?"
"Jacaerys," you greet quietly, hands behind your back to hide the way they're trembling uncertainly. Is he still angry at you? What if he doesn't— "I—"
Jacaerys is across the vast pit in an instant, a blur of black and red as he charges in your direction. The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh of relief as you dip down to catch him in your arms, lifting him off the dirt floor and swinging him through the air. A noise caught between a gasp and a broken sob escapes his lips as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapping so tight around your neck that he momentarily chokes you.
For a long while, neither of you speaks. His fingers clutch desperately at the back of your riding leathers, bunching the fabric beneath his fists, and you hold him just as tight, arms wrapped around his waist and face buried in his fluffy hair.
You have spent an entire year imagining this moment, worrying he might shrink away or turn his back on you, fearing that he might remember only your departure and not the years that had come before it. But he clings to you so tightly that your arm and neck begin to ache, and you have never been happier for the pain.
"I'm sorry," he blurts into your shoulder, words muffled against your neck. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"Mandianna, you have nothing to apologize for," you murmur, pressing your lips to his temple, and letting out a wavering sigh. "I—"
"I said I hated you," he cries, voice catching over the words. "I didn't mean it. I promise."
"I know, Jacaerys," you murmur. "It's okay."
"I wanted to hug you," he sniffles, words tumbling out, desperate to be heard before the courage abandons him. "I was going to, I really was, but then you started leaving, and I got scared, and I thought maybe if I didn't hug you goodbye, you wouldn't leave, but you did leave. I wished I'd hugged you every day."
You let out a huff, unsure if it's a laugh or a sob of your own. "I'm here now, mandianna. You do not need to cry."
"I thought maybe you weren't coming back," he admits, pulling back just enough to look at you, cheeks damp and his eyes red-rimmed. You brush his unruly curls back from his forehead. He hiccups as he presses his nose into your hand. "I thought I made you mad, and you were going to stay away forever. I wanted to send a raven, but I was scared I would only make it worse."
"I could never be mad at you, silly boy," you murmur, carding your fingers through his hair absently. You give him a small smile, and he gives you a wavering one back—he's missing his front tooth. "I missed you."
"I missed you, muña," Jacaerys sniffles, pulling one hand from where he's clutching the back of your tunic to rub his face. You hum lightly, putting him back on the ground and kneeling in front of him, lifting your own hands to cradle his cheeks between them, thumbs wiping away his tears. He returns to clutching your arms, nails digging into your bicep. "I hated going to lessons with Maester Gerardys, and I hated going to feasts, and I hated training, and I hated everything. I just wanted to sit in the garden with you all day, but you weren't here."
You exhale through your nose as you hold his face gently, watching as he tries to hide it in your palm.
"I tried reading by myself," he continues in a rush, "but it wasn't the same because you weren't there to do all the voices. Mother tried, but she doesn't make the dragon sounds the way you do. It made me mad."
"I brought some books back from Pentos," you tell him with a small smile, hoping to calm him down and dry his tears. You pull him closer so that you can ghost your lips to his temple again. He immediately latches back onto you, arms wrapped tight around you. "I think you'll like them."
"What are they about?" he asks, eyes finally shining with excitement instead of sadness as he pulls back to look at you.
"Dragons, of course," you say with a mysterious smile, and Jacaerys gasps in delight. "How about tonight you help me unpack, and afterward I'll read you the first chapter?"
"With the voices?" he presses.
"Would I ever read a dragon story without the voices?" you ask, mock offended.
He smiles immediately, bright enough to chase away every trace of the tears that had been welling in his eyes. For a moment, he looks exactly as he did before you left—missing tooth, unruly curls, and eyes sparkling with excitement at the prospect of a story.
Then, the smile falters. He says quietly, "I missed you."
Your expression softens as you brush his hair back gently. "I missed you too, mandianna."
His gaze drops to the ground
"Sometimes…" he hesitates, chewing nervously on the inside of his cheek, like he isn't sure if he should tell you this next part. "Sometimes I still went to your room. I knew you weren't there! I knew that, but… it still smelled like you. I slept with stuffed Zuzu instead."
You tilt your head with an amused smile. "Surely it did not smell like me for the whole year, mandianna."
"I asked the servants not to wash your blankets," he blurts out before you can finish your sentence. You blink, brows furrowing slightly. "I thought—I didn't want them to smell different. I missed you. When they smelled like you, I could pretend you were still here."
You tilt your head slightly, letting out a puff of air as you give him a small smile. "Oh, Jacaerys."
He shrinks beneath the tenderness in your voice, cheeks red, suddenly looking embarrassed. "I know it's silly."
"It's not silly."
"I just missed you," he says again quietly, bottom lip trembling again. You reach up and cup his cheek again, your thumb brushing beneath his eye. "I missed you a lot, muña."
"You should have written to me," you tell him softly.
His eyes widen. "I wanted to," he insists again. "I really did."
"What stopped you?" you press, raising your eyebrows.
"I told you," he says with a pout, gaze averting to the side. "I didn't know what to say."
"You could have said anything, mandianna," you answer, pinching his cheek enough to watch it redden, laughing when he squeals. "I would have been happy to hear from you even if you were just complaining about Lucerys stealing your honeycakes."
"He stole them all the time!" Jacaerys says furiously. "And mother didn't do anything about it!"
"How dare she?" you gasp with mock offense.
"I was so angry!" he scowls, puffing out his little cheeks. Then he deflates and looks away. "I thought if I wrote the wrong thing, maybe you would stay away longer, so I just… I talked to your room instead."
You give him a bemused smile. "You spoke to my room?"
He nods once. "I told stuffed Zuzu what happened every day the same way I would tell you, but it wasn't the same," he says quietly. He lifts his gaze to yours, and his eyes are shiny again, but you can tell that he is trying his best not to cry from the way his throat bobs, and he chews at the inside of his cheek. His voice breaks in a way that makes you sick as he holds your hands tightly and whispers, "Please don't leave again. Please, muña."
"I won't," you promise, squeezing his hands gently. "Never again."
"You promise?" he asks skeptically, nails digging deep into your skin.
"I promise."
—————————
JACAERYS, 8; READER, 13; 118 AC
"He's so tiny," you say softly as you lounge with Rhaenyra in her chambers. Jacaerys and Lucerys are in the training yard—you were supposed to go with them, because Jacaerys never likes training with Ser Criston without you there to watch, but the birth was harder on your sister than she is willing to admit, and someone needs to look over her. "Tinier than Jacaerys and Lucerys were."
You poke at Joffrey's forehead, delighted when the boy gurgles and reaches for your finger, and Rhaenyra lets out a soft laugh, a fond expression on her face as she looks at the two of you lying in bed, resting back on the settee a few feet away. You had tried to insist that she should lie down, but she was quite adamant against it, and you are not fond of fighting with her when she struggles to keep herself upright.
"As much as I do adore the way you look after me, sweet sister, I am sure you have more important things to be doing. Were you not meant to sit with our father in the small council today?" Rhaenyra asks with a tired smile, pretending she is not in pain as she adjusts her legs.
You hate the way she winces every time she shifts.
You are certain this is Queen Alicent's fault—you had been furious when you passed Laenor and the boys on the way to her apartments, and he told you that the queen had called Rhaenyra to her chambers immediately after the birth, insisting upon seeing the babe before your sister had even been given the chance to rest. She had walked, bleeding and trembling, barely able to stand after the labor but forced to climb the winding stairs from her own apartments with a newborn in her arms, crossing the holdfast while every servant and noble stopped to stare at the blood trailing after her.
You had not been there—you had been in the sky for hours with Zūgaxes, oblivious even to the fact that Rhaenyra had entered her labors—but you found her immediately afterward. Still, she had smiled at you, even as her face had gone pale with exhaustion, and she leaned too heavily against Laenor when she thought no one was looking.
Maester Gerardys had ordered her to remain in bed for several days, but everyone was more concerned with tiny Joffrey, who was born too small for their liking, so no one noticed that your sister was already wandering around after an hour.
Except you, of course.
"All of your attendants and the maestars are focused on Joffrey," you say simply, sniffing as you raise your chin. "Somebody has to attend to you."
You do not notice the way Rhaenyra's expression changes at your words, snatching away the fluff he tries to stuff in his mouth. You stare down at the boy, a conflicted feeling tugging at your chest. You love Rhaenyra's boys—you do, but…
"Mandia," you say quietly after a moment, shoulders a bit hunched as you glance over at Rhaenyra, who tilts her head to the side curiously. You know that all women are meant to bear their husbands sons—you perhaps, more than anyone, so that the blood of Old Valyria might be passed on—but… "I do not think I should like to have children of my own."
Rhaenyra hums. "I used to think so too, did you know?" she tells you, and you look up, blinking at her in surprise. She nods with a small smile when she sees your surprise. "I was terrified when I found out I was with child the first time. I never pictured myself as a mother."
"Really?"
"Really."
You frown. "But you're…" You glance down at the little bundle wriggling happily in the bed next to you. "… You're perfect at it."
Rhaenyra laughs. "I assure you, I am not," she says with a smile. "I have made more mistakes than I can count."
You sniff. "I have never seen one."
"You had never seen a pufferfish until two weeks ago—does that mean they do not exist?" she teases, reminding you of the argument you got into with Laenor a few weeks ago because he insisted there was a type of fish covered in spikes and you refused to believe him until he dragged you out to sea to show you. Your face feels hot as you look away. "As I thought."
"Still," you say primly, crossing your arms and looking away.
"What made you think of this, sweet girl?" Rhaenyra asks, and you know she wishes to cross the room to brush your hair out of your face, but you scowl at her the moment she starts to move, and she sighs, holding her hands up in defeat as she lies back against the settee. "Did my boys horrify you so much they scared you off children altogether?"
She is teasing, but you frown anyway.
You say firmly, "No. I love your boys. In fact, I do not think I need children of my own when I already have two—three, now—little boys who insist on occupying all my time."
Rhaenyra laughs, tilting her head back. For the first time since you arrived in her chambers, she looks genuinely happy. She says, "Jacaerys would be terribly offended to hear himself counted alongside his brothers."
You scoff. "He ought not be. He is the worst offender," you tell her fiercely, smiling. "He sneaks into my apartments almost every night, steals the snacks I go through the effort of stealing from the kitchen, and has somehow convinced himself that half of my wardrobe belongs to him. I found my favorite cloak in his chambers the other day—I had been looking for it for weeks, mandia."
Rhaenyra's shoulders are shaking, though you think they ought not be because it is not funny in the slightest.
"Oh, hāedar, you misunderstand," she manages between laughs, wiping at the corner of her eye. "He would be offended because you called them your little boys as well. He gets rather cross whenever he's reminded that he must share you with his brothers."
You squint. Last week, Lucerys had fallen asleep against your shoulder while you read aloud in the gardens, and Jacaerys had spent the better part of an hour attempting to wedge himself between the two of you under increasingly flimsy pretenses until you had finally sighed and let him climb into your lap as well.
"You may be right," you concede at last, "but I digress."
"What made you think of this then, if not for my boys?" Rhaenyra asks again, determined to get to the bottom of the issue.
Your shoulders hunch slightly. You busy yourself with fixing the blanket wrapped around Joffrey as you try to figure out how to phrase what you want to say.
"The Queen said something to me this morning," you finally admit. "It is why I've spent the whole day flying."
Rhaenyra's expression shifts instantly, fondness hardening and lips pressed together. "What did she say to you?"
"She said she was glad to hear that I've flowered… I did not tell her, I assume one of the servants must have," you say quietly, playing with your own fingers, unable to lift your gaze to meet hers. "She said that she would speak to the king about—matches."
Flowering means womanhood, and womanhood means marriage, and marriage means children.
Rhaenyra exhales hard through her nose, jaw tightening, and you feel guilty instantly. Your sister has just given birth. She has just given birth and was forced to cross the Keep because Queen Alicent demanded to see the babe, and now you are throwing more issues at her as if she isn't already faced with enough.
"Mandia, I—"
"I will speak to our father, hāedar," Rhaenyra says before you can say anything else, gaze lifting to meet yours. She gives you that familiar, reassuring smile that always puts your nerves at ease. "Do not fret. Your elder sister will handle everything. I will not see you forced to do anything you displease."
You know that she means it. If Rhaenyra said she would move the heavens for you, she would spend every waking second ensuring that it happens. Even so…
"I do not wish to be a burden. I—I know it is a woman's duty to wed and bear children, but I—"
"You are not a burden, hāedar. How many times must I remind you?" Rhaenyra tells you with a soft smile. "Be at ease. I shall speak to father. I—"
The door to Rhaenyra's chambers opens with a loud bang, and both of you startle, gaze lifting just as Ser Harwin enters the room. Rhaenyra blinks once and gives the man a questioning look, and you tilt your head to the side.
"Forgive me, princesses," the man says, dark curls framing his face as he looks between the two of you. His gaze settles on you. "The dragonkeepers sent for you, princess. Zūgaxes is—agitated."
—————————
"Are you upset with me?"
You exhale as Jacaerys barges into your chambers later that night, brows furrowed indignantly, as though to mask the anxiety plain in the way he otherwise holds himself. Your gaze slips down to the way his fingers tremble at his sides and his shoulders are too stiff, and Jacaerys instantly shrinks, hiding his hands and standing straighter.
You glance away, lips pressed together, fingers thrumming against your desk.
"'I waited for you in the garden, but you didn't come," Jacaerys continues, voice pitching in accusation as he comes closer to you. "I waited in the library, but you didn't come. And then I thought you'd definitely come for supper, but you didn't. Where were you?"
"I was busy, Jacaerys," you say, clipped, and Jacaerys freezes a few feet away. You stop yourself from glancing at him over your shoulder because you know the moment you see his bottom lip wobbling, your anger will start draining away. "Perhaps you would be better suited attending etiquette lessons with Septa Elaine. You have clearly missed far too many."
Jacaerys does not answer for a long moment. He asks hesitantly, "What does that mean?"
"What that means, Jacaerys," you hiss, whipping around to look at him. He flinches backward, but you barrel on anyway. "is that I found my half-brother crying in the dragonpit after nearly being burnt alive by my dragon because you thought it would be a good idea to taunt him with a pig."
Jacaerys stares at you for a moment uncertainly, shoulders hunching inward as though to make himself small. He has been mad at you countless times before. If he feels as though you're paying more attention to Lucerys, he will give you the cold shoulder all evening, and if you dare to even hint at missing story time, he'll insist he never wants to speak to you again, then will appear in your chambers after supper, asking you to read to him with the sweetest smile.
You have never been angry at him before.
"It was just a joke," he whispers, voice small. "I didn't—"
"You didn't what?" you interrupt. "You didn't mean it? Is that it?"
Distantly, you know you should not yell at him like this.
He is only a boy—you're almost tall enough to reach your sister's shoulders now and still growing at that, but Jacaerys hardly reaches your chest, cheeks still chubby with fat, giggling at every unfunny joke that Laenor makes. Aegon is likely the one at fault for the prank, miserable wretch, but Jacaerys—
Jacaerys should know better.
Jacaerys knows, as you do, what it's like to be ostracized by the court for something out of his control. Aemond is not your favorite sibling—he is too uptight, clings to his mother so much that it makes you roll your eyes—but to mock him for not having a dragon?
You yourself did not have Zūgaxes until your fifth nameday. Your cradle egg did not hatch, and Dreamfyre, Vermithor, and Silverwing had all rejected you. Zūgaxes had been nigh wild after the years he spent terrorizing the Riverlands following Princess Daenerys's death to the Shivers in 60 AC, having hatched moments before the princess took her last breath. The newborn dragon fled in the chaos after losing the bond as soon as it had formed, and if he had not come to you by chance while you were flying with Rhaenyra, you might be in the same position as Aemond is now.
"Aegon said it would be funny," Jacaerys whispers, bottom lip wobbling. "It was a joke."
"Aegon says a lot of things," you hiss. "He is a fool. If he told you to jump from Maegor's Holdfast, would you do it?"
Jacaerys's eyes drop to the floor. He says quietly, "No."
"You know what it is like to have people laugh and whisper," you continue furiously. "You know it feels like to have people smile to your face and question whether you belong the moment you leave the room. You cry to me because they stare at your hair and your eyes, and you cry to me when people mention that you do not look like Ser Laenor. You know those are not jokes."
Jacaerys flinches. "Muña—"
"No," you snap. "Do you think your uncle feels any different when the whole keep laughs at him for not having a dragon?"
"I'm sorry—"
"Your mother will be queen one day, Jacaerys, and you will be king after her," you interrupt. "Everything you do matters. Every laugh and every foolish prank—every time someone sees you, they are deciding what sort of man you might become."
"I didn't mean it—"
"The lords do not whisper about Aegon the same way they whisper at you," you continue harshly, kneeling in front of him and grabbing his shoulders. He is crying now, fat tears rolling over his chubby cheeks, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries not to sob. "They already question you, Jacaerys, and it will not stop. Every action you take makes them wonder whether or not you deserve the throne your mother will leave you. They are waiting for you to fail, Jacaerys, they—"
You cut yourself off when Jacaerys chokes on a sob, the sound rips through your anger as though someone had plunged a knife straight into it. His little shoulders shake beneath your hands. He is trying so desperately not to cry that it hurts to watch, biting down on his lip so hard you worry he might draw blood.
What are you doing?
"I'm sorry," he whispers again, tears falling freely now. "I'm trying to be good. I am. I didn't think."
Good will not be enough, you think, but do not say, fighting a sob of your own as you pull Jacaerys forward into your arms, sitting back on the floor and letting him clamber into your lap. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, muffling his cries into your skin.
Good will never be enough. You have watched the court use every careless word he has ever spoken as proof that he is unworthy. You have watched them turn his hair, eyes, and face into evidence against him. They will not stop because he grows older—if anything, they will only become crueler and louder.
And you fear one day that words will turn to swords.
You see the glances exchanged between the Queen and her allies, how every feast ends with another whispered slight and word disguised as courtesy. One day, your father will die, and everything held together by his presence will begin to crack.
Your sister will be queen, Jacaerys will be heir, and there are already too many people who have decided they will never accept either of them.
You are scared.
Perhaps you are imagining monsters where none exist—you have spent years watching nobles smile with their mouths and sneer with their haves, and it has made you cynical. You hope one day the two of you will laugh about how frightened you had been over nothing, but until that day comes, the fear remains.
You tighten your arms around Jacaerys until he lets out a tiny squeak of protest. Then he melts into you, arms looped around your shoulders, sniffling into the wet spot at your neck.
"I do not want you to grow up," you whisper before you can stop yourself.
"Why?" Jacaerys murmurs.
Your eyes slide shut. Because the older he gets, the fewer days remain where the greatest thing you have to worry about is a prank gone too far. You smooth a hand through his curls and press another kiss against his temple.
Instead, you say, "Because I like you just as you are."
He giggles. "I still want to grow up."
"Traitor," you tease, brushing your fingers through his hair as he snuggles into you.
"I want to be brave, and I want to ride Vermax all by myself, and I want to protect mother, and Luke, and Joffrey, and—" He pulls back to look at you, big brown eyes still watery. "—and you, muña."
You smile at him, your own eyes stinging with tears. "I'm the one who protects you, silly boy."
Jacaerys shakes his head so vigorously that his curls bounce. "Not forever," he claims. "One day I'll be big and grown, and I'll have a sword, and Vermax will be bigger than Zuzu, and I'll be the one to protect you."
You exhale softly through your nose, swallowing the lump that forms in your throat. He lifts his tiny hands to your cheeks, squeezing hard the way you always do to him when he is sad, then he leans forward until your foreheads touch.
"Don't be scared, muña. I'll be a good king," he tells you simply. "I'll be kind. I won't do things anymore just because Aegon tells me to."
"I know you will, mandianna," you murmur. "I know."
He bites his lip, twisting nervously in your lap. "Are you still mad at me?" You pull back just enough to look at him properly. His eyes are swollen from crying, cheeks blotchy and damp, fingers clinging to you. He whispers, "I want you to be proud of me."
You lift your hands to cradle his cheeks and say firmly, "I'm always proud of you, Jacaerys. Always. I'm sorry if I was cruel—I was only scared."
Jacaerys wrinkles his nose.
"Then don't be scared, muña," he says firmly. "I'll make sure you never have to be."
—————————
You should have known things would never be so easy.
"Where are my trunks?" you ask as you make your way to where Rhaenyra and the boys are getting ready to leave for Dragonstone. Jacaerys's face lights up from a glum frown when he sees you, and you toss him a wink that he giggles at. You look back up at your sister and say, "I told my handmaidens to make sure they were brought down."
Rhaenyra's brows furrow. "They are coming, perhaps?" she offers, making her way toward you to ghost her lips against your cheeks in greeting. "We are not in a rush, hāedar, do not fret."
But there is a tightness in your chest that unsettles you. Something has been off the past few days—you know it. The Queen always has that small, knowing smile on her face, and your father seemed inordinately pleased with himself. You had thought, maybe, the Queen was just pettily satisfied that Ser Harwin was being sent away and your father was just happy having his third grandson, but there was something—something off-putting that could not let you rest.
"Mandia," you whisper, clutching the sleeve of her gown. Your fingers are shaking. Rhaenyra looks down at your hands, alarmed. "I don't…"
"There you are! To think it would be so difficult to find my own daughter for a conversation," you hear your father say from the top of the steps leading into Maegor's Holdfast.
King Viserys leans on his cane as he makes his way down the steps toward you—Rhaenyra blinks in confusion, lips parting but words escaping them as she moves forward to greet him.
He looks worse, you think absently. Even just walking down the stairs is an effort, his face pale with exertion, sweat beading at his temples. Heaviness weighs on your chest—grief, maybe, but what is there to grieve about a man who has spent most of your life incapable of looking you in the eye?
"Father," Rhaenyra greets with a sad smile. "You did not have to come down to bid us goodbye. You should be resting."
"Nonsense," your father dismisses, squeezing her hand. The Queen Alicent and your half-brother, Aegon, follow behind your father. She looks too pleased with herself still—your heart drops to your stomach. "But it is not the only reason I have come. My dear—" King Viserys turns to look at you, eyes upturned. You think it is the first time he has ever looked you in the eye. "—I would like for you to stay behind."
He reaches out to take your hands in his, passing his cane to a nearby attendant. They are clammy and unfamiliar; you are not sure if you are breathing.
Somewhere behind you, you hear Jacaerys inhale sharply, and to your side, Rhaenyra makes an audible noise, confused.
"Father," she starts, a bemused smile on her face, "I—"
"Alicent—she had the most wonderful idea to unite both sides of the family," King Viserys continues with a breathless smile, squeezing your hands. Behind him, Aegon, who had been bored and looked as though he wished to be anywhere else, starts to squint, realizing something might be wrong. Alarm hits him slower than it has hit you. He looks at you questioningly, but you cannot even bring yourself to meet his gaze. "It is high time we put these petty squabbles behind us, don't you think?"
You cannot feel your fingers.
Your pulse pounds so violently in your ears that you can almost not even hear your father over it. Across the city, you hear Zūgaxes let out a screech, feeling your fear as his own.
"Father," Rhaenyra starts to say, voice riddled with disbelief. "You cannot mean—"
"You and Aegon shall wed, my dear," King Viserys says, squeezing your hands as though this is news that shall delight you. "You are both of age. A marriage between the two of you shall bind the family once and for all. Alicent proposed it only a few days ago—I confess, I do not know why I had not thought of it sooner."
"What?" Aegon blurts out, eyes wide. "Me?"
"Quiet, Aegon," Queen Alicent says sharply, and Aegon silences immediately, gaze darting over to you as though you have any means of fixing this. "It is a fine match."
"A fine match?" Rhaenyra demands, arm extending outward to push you behind her, stepping between you and your father. "They are children. You cannot be serious, father."
Aegon stares at you, and you stare at him.
He is only twelve; you are only thirteen.
You can see the fear you feel reflected in his eyes.
"Alicent tells me that she has bled," Viserys dismisses. You knew it—you knew something was wrong, you knew to be scared. "She is a woman grown, Rhaenyra."
"She is thirteen," Rhaenyra hisses. "Aegon is twelve."
"The King has already made his decision, Rhaenyra," Queen Alicent says coolly. "Would you question it?"
Rhaenyra stares at her in disbelief, a scoff slipping from her lips. She asks quietly, "How could you do this?"
For a moment, something flickers across the Queen's face—her lips become pinched, her gaze flits to the side—guilt? It couldn't be—Alicent is cold and cruel, stone made flesh, she has always hated you and your sister. You must be mistaken.
"Was it not you who offered marriage between your son, Jacaerys, and my daughter, Helaena?" the Queen asks. You blink, unsure if you heard her properly. "Let us bind our families through marriage, as you once proposed yourself."
Your head snaps toward Rhaenyra, appalled. She was trying to marry Jacaerys off? Rhaenyra does not meet your gaze, so you know it is true.
"It is not the same," Rhaenyra says, shaking her head, stepping forward again. She turns to your father, expression clearing of anger and disdain as she gives him a more pleading look. "Father, please. She has only just flowered—she has hardly had a chance to understand what that means. You cannot mean to—"
"Enough, Rhaenyra," King Viserys interrupts, exhausted. He looks as though he's aged decades in a matter of minutes. Did he really expect everyone to be made happy by this news? "I have made my decision."
The pavilion goes quiet, and you cannot breathe. This cannot be happening. It is—it is not possible. You are not meant to marry Aegon, of all people. You would rather anyone else. You would rather take the vows and become a septa. Your gaze lifts to meet Rhaenyra's, but there is a terribly defeated expression on her face—one that you have never seen before. You feel nauseous, bile rising in your throat, lightness in your head.
"What does that mean?" Jacaerys finally asks, breaking the silence somewhere behind you. "What does that mean? Muña is still coming with us, isn't she?"
"Jacaerys," Rhaenyra begins quietly, voice low and unsteady, because if the king puts his foot down, there is nothing she can do. She looks at both of you desperately, because for the first time in her life, your sister does not know what to say. "I—"
"She promised," Jacaerys interrupts, voice becoming a bit shrill—understanding enough from Rhaenyra's tone to know that you will not be coming with him. That you will be breaking the promise you made to him not two years ago. He turns his gaze onto you, eyes blown wide with anxiety. "You promised, you—"
"Jacaerys," you say, barely able to keep your voice steady as you make your way over to him and kneel in front of him. His eyes well with unshed tears, and you lift one hand to his face, brushing your thumb beneath his eye to catch the tears before they fall. You lower your voice, speaking just to him as you say quietly, "Do not let them see you cry. You are a prince of the realm, your mother's heir. You must be brave, remember?"
Jacaerys's bottom lip wobbles as he nods.
"I will not be across the sea this time, mandianna—only the bay. Vermax is growing quickly. You will be able to visit as frequently as you please," you soothe, brushing his curls from his forehead, "and I will be able to come to you."
"But—"
"There are no buts, mandianna," you say softly, and Jacaerys inhales sharply, fighting a sob. "We all have our roles to play. You will be king one day, your duty is to the realm, and mine—" Your voice threatens to crack, before it can, you clear your throat and force a small smile. If you start crying, so will Jacaerys, and he needs to be strong now more than ever. "—and mine is to a husband. I must stay at his side."
"Then I will be your husband, muña," Jacaerys says desperately, fingers clinging to your sleeve. "You can come with us then. You won't have to stay here."
You exhale through your nose, pulling Jacaerys closer so that you can press your lips to his temple, rubbing easy circles against his upper back. He flings his arms around your shoulders and buries his face into your hair to hide his sniffles.
"That is not how it works, Jacaerys," you tell him quietly. His shoulders are trembling, small whimpers in the back of his throat as he tries not to cry. You hold him a bit tighter. "The king has made his decision."
"It's not fair," he sniffles. "You're my muña. Why does Aegon get to have you? He doesn't even want to marry you. I want to marry you."
You laugh despite yourself, because Jacaerys is too young to know what marriage entails, but he says it with the conviction of someone who has never been more certain of anything in his life. You press your lips to his hair before you pull back just enough to look at him. You find him glaring over your shoulder at Aegon with all the ferocity he can muster with shiny eyes and wobbly lips.
Aegon has gone pale, but you do not think it's because of Jacaerys's righteous fury.
"I don't think…" Aegon begins awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. "I mean, I never—"
"Quiet, Aegon," Alicent says again sharply, and he falls silently immediately, shoulders slumping. She lifts her gaze to Rhaenyra, giving her a curve of the lips that doesn't reach her eyes. "Well, you and yours had best get going. Safe travels, Rhaenyra."
Rhaenyra scoffs and turns on her heel, but Jacaerys's grip on you tightens at the prospect of leaving.
"He doesn't even know your favorite story," he says desperately, as though it might change something, "or that you don't like onions, or that you can only eat two honey cakes before you start feeling sick, or that you can only sleep if there's a candle going. It's not fair. He doesn't know anything. He'll never take care of you."
"Jacaerys—"
"But I can!" he insists, wiping angrily at his cheeks. "I already do. I make sure you eat when you forget, and I bring your favorite cloak when you're cold, and I tell the servants not to wake you if you've fallen asleep reading. I know how."
"Jacaerys, come here," Rhaenyra says quietly, but Jacaerys only clings more desperately, nails digging into your skin. "Jace—"
You look up at your sister. There are tears in her eyes now too, though she does not let them fall. She gives you the smallest nod, an apology, a goodbye, and a promise wrapped into one gesture. This would not be the end of this—she will get the boys settled at Dragonstone, and she will return for you.
"Mandianna," you murmur, cupping Jacaerys's damp face between your hands. "You must go with your mother." You press a kiss to his forehead, then another to each cheek. "Look after Luke and Joffrey, and mind your mother—she is terribly stubborn and will forget to rest if no one reminds her."
Jacaerys fights another sob and nods, but Rhaenyra successfully pulls him away this time. She gathers him into her arms, and he clutches at her desperately, still looking at you over her shoulder.
"I'll come back for you," he promises. "I promise, muña! I do!"
You smile because he needs you to, even as your vision blurs—luckily, he is too far to see the unshed tears.
"I know you will, Jacaerys," you tell him. "I'll be waiting."
firelord zuko and his royal advisor 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
༄ 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 coworkers(?) to lovers, he fell first AND harder, first kisses, too many marriage proposals for the fire lord, happy ending, lowkey power imbalance cause he’s technically her boss, sever angst in ch.3, fluff in all other chs, political concerns, unc iroh is alive idc, more to be added as i write!
༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟏
when avatar aang’s letter accidentally outs firelord zuko’s feelings for his royal advisor.
༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟐
under the moonlight, feelings become more apparent but uncle iroh interrupts an intimate moment between you and the Fire Lord.
༄ starr's p.s. hi! i was not planning on this and i highkey suck at consistently posting series’ [ahem regency jason ahem] but by popular demand of 30 ish people in comments, i will be doing this!!! the number of chapters might change a little but this is what ive outlined for now!! stay tuned!!! i’ll probably post properly starting 29th-30th after my exams!!
This masterlist contains works exclusive to Valarr Targaryen. For other ASOIAF characters, refer to my HotD General Masterlist.
The Dragon's Legacy
Prince Valarr x Baelor's widow reader ✦ 3,355 words ✦ angst, hopeful ending
Shortly after the death of Prince Baelor, it is revealed that you, his widow, are with child. Valarr cannot bear the idea of his sibling being raised away from him, and decides to marry you, knowing you can never be truly his.
Forgive Us Our Sins
Prince Valarr x Aerion's wife reader ✦ 4,815 words ✦ forbidden relationship, smut
Unhappily married to Prince Aerion, you are relieved when he is sent away to Lys following the Ashford tourney. In his absence, you and Prince Valarr finally act on your mutual feelings.
A Man of Honor
Prince Valarr x female reader ✦ 3,700 words ✦ angst, sex before marriage
Unable to bear being betrothed to Aerion, you seek to end your life only to be rescued by Prince Valarr, who secretly longs for you. He offers to take your maidenhead, hoping that in order to restore honor, the king will give you to him.
Fruit of the Poisonous Tree
Prince Valarr x wife!reader ✦ 3,835 words ✦ loss of pregnancy, angst & comfort
Despite your harmonious marriage, Valarr and you seem to be cursed with the repeated losses of your pregnancies. Until one day, the most heinous betrayal is discovered.
A Prince Among Men
Prince Valarr x wife!reader ✦ 2,835 words ✦ wedding night, smut
Having heard the terrible rumors surrounding Prince Aerion, you are frightened that his cousin, your intended Prince Valarr, will be much the same. However, your wedding night proves you wrong.
Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Requests for this character are currently open.
Flowers: In a world where the dragons do not dance it's time for Jacaerys Velaryon to choose a wife as the heir to the iron throne. When House Targaryen invites all the eligible ladies in the seven kingdoms to meet the prince, chaos follows. In comes you, a lady from a minor house who makes an impression on a certain prince. ♛❀
━ MINI-SERIES
Plagued by you: Otto doesn't go to Dragonstone you do. And you are faced with a past you never thought you would see again right before the war. Part one Part two Part three ❀✮♡
Sneaking Around: jace and his twin sister have been betrothed since they were young, and as the grow up they start slightly falling for each other. And one night she sneaks into his room and they explore themselves. one two ✮❀
━ ONE SHOTS
internal changes: your long time betrothed jacaerys heads to winterfell to make good relations with the north, your relationship has always been one of love and happiness until you show up a month into his trip to winterfell where everything seems to have changed between the two of you. your relationship may never be the same and it has everything to do with a particular stark.
bubbling thoughts: after your husband goes off without a word you are left to ponder your relationship with him and does he truly love for you when theres another he clearly cares for?
Cage: you think its easy enough to hid a secret this big from your mother until you can figure out a plan but one day when theres no blood on your sheets shes able to put atleast some of the pieces together. you had sex. she just has no clue you slept with and married the enemy.
lurking: your life is completely shit. but one day you decide to do a good deed and clean a gravestone. and the ghost is very thankful towards you. maybe a little too thankful
soaked!: you’ve fallen in love with your local merman but he hasn’t come to visit you in a few days. You think maybe he’s grown tired of you but it seems to be quite the opposite. and who knew mermen have mating seasons?
Distain: Jacaerys' disdain for you and your dragonseed friends is no secret but he seems to hold a particularly hatred for you. you have no reason why until he shows his true colors after a near death incident.
Your Reflection: when the thoughts jacaerys has had his whole life finally can no longer be pushed down he seeks comfort in you. ✮
The She-Bear: during his time in winterfell the lady of house mormont arrives to pledge her loyalty to queen rhaenyra and jacaerys grows a little too close to the so called she-bear ✮
First Everything: in desperate need to pass your upcoming math test you go to your best friend for help, your best friend who you just so happen to be in love with. Sometimes feelings just spill out and theres nothing you can do but embrace it and try to navigate through it. ✮
The Rockstar and Me: jace is a really popular upcoming rockstar and is super busy. he dosnt see reader the same way (just as there bestfriend) and kind neglects the reader bc he's really busy. so one night the reader has enough and they decide they need to take a break from there friendship, so they don't talk for a while. ✮
Like a virgin!: youre so sick of being a virgin. So now you’re set on losing your virginity but you’re very nervous, don’t worry your roommate is here to help you and give you some tips. as a “friend”. and maybe just one tip. ✮♡
Unsatisfied?: You had thought your bedroom life with Jacaerys was great. But you overhear a conversation that makes you feel differently. With some help you decide you can make his wildest dreams come true. ✮
ignored: You had been best friends with Jacaerys since you were kids. But when he gets a girlfriend and joins the football team in college your whole life gets turned upside down and he's suddenly ditched you. A year after you are confronted by him and emotions spill to the surface. ✮
Not a one time thing: Friends with benefits with jace turns into more. ✮
Unexpected Surprise: While attempting to gain the support of the vale, jeyne arryn has plans of her own for the prince. ✮
The lady of Volantis: You have been betrothed to Jacaerys for years now and you two have never exactly been close. He does not expect to see you anytime soon after your first couple meetings, but when Lucerys trial is happening you are suddenly in the keep. What are you doing there? Are you to be trusted? ✮♡❀
IJFOMBAW: You overhear a super strange conversation between your long term boyfriend and brother. ✮
Undeniable Desire: You are dragonseed and have become good friends with the prince. You think nothing of it and not expecting your desires to lead to anything but when you speak of what you think of your future his truer colors show.
Distractions: Despite how close the two of you are you're sick of waiting around for Jace no matter how much you like him, so you decide you’re going out on a date! but he doesn't like that. ✮♡
Shots: you’ve been best friends with jacaerys since you were children but due to his recent girlfriend you two have barely spent anytime together. You two are forced back into the same space when you attend cregan starks party and tensions rise. ✮
Through it all, Its still you: it's during the war between blacks and greens and your his betrothed. He goes north and you stay in dragonstone, but then you get taken by the greens. ✮♡
Always Together: Old friends reunite in winterfell due to the upcoming war. ✮
maid: you have been working for them for a long while and jace has had a little crush on her since then ✮
modern toxic (deadbeat?) babydaddy!aerion thoughts.. (x)
scenepack from tellerscps on insta!
maekar finally cut him off after one too many fuck ups and he’s living with gf!reader who he also has a complicated relationship with. they're always breaking up and getting back together but aerion has such a hold on her she can’t seem to cut him off for good, and he knows this, which is why he’s always doing some fucked up shit because he knows she won’t really leave him. and as if things couldn’t get any worse, you end up pregnant.. </3
when you tell him he freaks the fuck out and accuses you of doing this on purpose and trying to baby trap him, which then escalates into an even bigger argument that ends with you in tears and him leaving the house. eventually he comes around.. but everything feels so tense, more than usual anyway. even before finding out the gender of the baby he’s one hundred percent sure it’s a boy. and quite honestly? the thought of a son, a mini aerion running around, gives you goosebumps. so when you find out that you are in fact having a boy you’re genuinely terrified. if he notices, he doesn’t say anything, but you also think he doesn’t care much how you feel about all this.
he will not!! get up at three am for your pregnancy cravings. that’s your problem. same goes for morning sickness and everything else. if you snap at him when you’re in one of your moods, he’ll snap back and make you cry. when the kid is born he’s the one who names him. you don’t even have time to speak up before he’s telling the nurse the name when she asks. you’re too exhausted to fight him about it. maegor, really?
aerion doesn’t really help much when it comes to actually taking care of the baby.. so unfortunately that’s all on you. maekar's head almost exploded back when he found out you were pregnant. he initially refused to let aerion have access to the family funds again because he thought it’d force him to straighten up, but when the baby is born and he sees that’s obviously not happening anytime soon—he caves for the baby.
aerion's way of showing he cares for his kid is by spoiling him with whatever toys he wants, but he rarely spends time with him. he's the type of dad who doesn’t know his child’s birthday, his doctor's name, the name of his teacher, or his favorite color or animal. "he likes ponies, aerion," you had once told him when you noticed the annoyance in his face when the little boy showed no interest in the countless dragon toys his father bought him. he merely scoffed, irritated.
he’s definitely the type to threaten you with taking your son away from you if you try to leave him. he'll scream and get in your face, uncaring of how scared it’s making you or your son. and what are you meant to do? you can’t financially support your child alone—he knows this. you’re stuck with him. there’s no escaping aerion.
summary: you run from the weight of society and take to the road in order to escape. along the way, you are protected by a hedge knight who never asks who you truly are, only who you choose to be beside him. when at the tourney at ashford, what grows between you two is quiet and fleeting. something born of trust, and the understanding that some things are meant to be felt, not claimed.
authors note: you can look anyway in this story I’ve only determined hair color. get ready for yearning.
Just Us Two: Damian loves intruding on your and Jason's alone time.
Third time's The Charm: The two times Jason almost told you he liked you, and the one time he finally did.
Baby Came Home: After you lose your powers while trying to take down a partnership between Lex Luthor and Penguin, Jason and you confront your deepest fear — being each other's second choice. When the rest of the batboys lock you in the Batcave, though, the confession becomes inevitable.
How Can We Go Back to Being Friends: You hook up with your best friend, and now you don’t know how to act around each other.
Damian, You Are So Psyched: Damian came home from school yesterday acting off, so now it's your goal to cheer up the distant little boy.
Don’t Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket: Jason has been telling himself he's visiting the little coffee shop at the end of the block for its cheap coffee, but it's his only way to see the cute barista every day and quote "Pride and Prejudice" at her until she falls for him.
Don't Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket (sequel)
Not what you think: Jason went snooping and thinks you're cheating on him. Good luck explaining yourself!
A shear disaster: Your boyfriend is acting suspicious and won't take off his helmet.
Guilty pleasures: You cheat on your boyfriend, Jason, with the Red Hood.
Unexpected Guests: Damian finds out you're dating Jason.
Rough Night: Your secret relationship with Jason is accidentally revealed the morning after a rough night.
The Babysitter: After being hired to babysit Damian Wayne, you end up putting a masked intruder in a chokehold, only to realize you’ve just tackled his older brother, Jason Todd.
Making an Ass of U & Me: Jason didn’t mean to keep your existence secret from his family. At first, it was for his and your own protection more than anything; his double life wasn’t just for any average person after all. But, even after the whole marriage and settling down thing, he may have just forgotten to mention it.
Careless Accidents: You get hurt, and Jason’s pissed.
So This is Love: You show each other what love is supposed to be like (4 in 1)
The Gift of Truth: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his “nightly activities.” When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him
Pride & Prejudice: When you first meet Jason Todd, he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him.
Good With Kids: You never really had an opinion on your colleague Red Hood, that is until you walk into him interacting with some kids.
The Investigator: The Batfamily discovers Jason's been hiding a long-distance relationship with someone who might be even more terrifying than Batman himself.
Are You Dating My Teacher: Bruce decides to cash in a favor that Jason owed him, and now the Red Hood- the most ruthless vigilante of Gotham- is chaperoning his youngest brother’s field trip to the zoo.
Who Do You Love: You're hopelessly in love with your classmate, Jason Todd. And you just so happen to be quite good friends with Red Hood. drunk one night, you admit you have feelings for Jason to your vigilante friend, not knowing the man behind the mask is the man you're in love with.
When She Sees Me: Your best friend Dick Grayson took you to one of Bruce's galas a while ago. When Dick finds out his brother has a crush on you, he decides to play Cupid.
Blah Blah Blah: Jason is angry after watching Wuthering Heights. You are horny watching him get angry.
Cover Blown: You and Jason cannot stand one another. Unfortunately. you both go undercover as a married couple, and that should'nt change things between you two... right?
La Vie en Rose: The four times Jason wildly preferred you over everyone else.
Random blurbs
Old habits
Revealing Secrets
I'm still right though
Jason accidentally reveals he has a soon-to-be fiancée
Interrupted Dates
First Time
Dick Grayson
Sweater Weather: Dick just wanted to have lunch with his best friend, but he didn't expect you to show up in some other guy's sweatshirt.
The Light Behind Your Eyes: A week spent at Dick’s apartment leads Damian to discover what unconditional love looks like.
Hard to Impress: Dick Grayson can't seem to make you swoon, no matter how hard he tries, until he finally does
The "She's With Me" Is The New Gaelic Shrug (sequel)
Easy lovers: After a series of dates, dick finds himself desperate and decides that tonight will not end until he gets to walk home with a kiss from you.
Miraculous partners: Basically, a "Miraculous Ladybug" plot between you and Dick.
Territory, Marked: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park, and when his older brother tags along one day, he takes a little too much interest.
Dinner Was Not Served: Dick had one goal: to seduce his girlfriend. He forgot the part where he should check for unwanted guests first and narrates his plans in very, vivid detail.
Stakeout at Table Nine: Dick Grayson just wanted a normal date. No suits. No masks. Definitely no Batkid stakeout at a fancy restaurant. Too bad his siblings brought disguises, drama, and a front-row seat to his love life.
Lightning Strikes Twice: Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
Whatever You Say Teach: Damian gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isn’t picking up the phone, so Damian’s eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brother’s English Lit teacher.
Random blurbs
Take him back, please!
Revealing Secrets
Interrupted Dates
Damian Wayne
Near: He hates contact, except apparently when it’s you he’s inching toward.
Nepo Vigilante: After your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. Bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with Damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with Tim instead, sparking Damian’s outrage.
When The Spite Dies: You were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite, you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man and vice versa.
When The Spite is Desire (sequel)
The Heart Remembers: Damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happened—and his missing memories dissolves all defenses and unravels the true depths of his undying devotion for you.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Damian Wayne and Reader Get Domestic
Tim Drake
If I Was Your Boyfriend: Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.
Dairy Queen Closes in 10 Minutes: You broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Bruce Wayne
The Wrong Man’s Wife: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.
Like Real People Do: Bruce's wife goes missing, and the media and family are both in shambles. Bruce grows colder as the family tries their best to find her. To try and cheer him up, they find old video diaries from the couple’s early dating lives and witness a new side of Bruce.
The Watchtower's Worst Kept Secret: The Justice League suspects something is happening between Batman and Bruce Wayne's wife.
Seven Smacks: Bruce Wayne was a stubborn and fiercely independent man, which meant that his children were too. Unfortunately for you, that meant that scolding one of them was practically a moment to scold both.
after finding yourself in an unfortunate situation, you room with your co-workers best friend eren for the time being
content: roommates au, miscommunication trope, mutual pining, teeny tiny bit of angst, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, a bit of suggestive content, taylor alison swift, the most corny little eren that ever eren-ed
read on ao3
first meeting
tending to injuries
flu season
bad day
3:45 am
the morning after!
meet the parents
fall concert
miscommunication
how to fight
three days
befriend your landlord
the party scene
the scouts
your fiercest protectors
fall banquet
engaged and in love
important questions
you’re always welcome to send a lil question + request for lil bonuses abt this story and this man if you so desire (roommate eren nation rise, he will NEVER DIE)
