Li•brary -noun Definition: a place in which literary, musical, artistic, or reference materials (such as books, manuscripts, recordings, or films) are kept for use but not for sale ~Welcome to my personal library of chaos~ Multifandom blog:BTS-Star Wars-Marvel and more I share my favorite fic recommendations with notes in tags - search #ficrec 18+ MDNI
Definition: the inherent unpredictability in the behavior of a complex natural system (such as the atmosphere, boiling water, or the beating heart)
First off welcome to my blog I have had this literally for years (since I was like 10 so well over a decade 🥲)
I figured it would be nice to give a little introduction to me and what my page is!
My life is utter chaos and my blog reflects that so you can call me Chaos but I also go by Mari. I am 24 years old, (mixed) Latina, neurodivergent, and lgbt+, and this tumblr is where I come to escape from the world for a while.
Every now and then you will a see a post from me with a tag that says #screams into the void and that is usually me expressing myself when I can’t in real life.
Most of what I do is reblog things I enjoy or find funny or just straight up tumblr hell site shit posts 😈
This is also a fan fiction recommendation blog! I enjoy many MANY fandoms (it’s not a problem I swear I’m sane) so if you would like to read some recommendations just search in my blog the tags #ficrec or #fic rec + a specific fandom/character
Also because I am an adult and some of my recommendations are 18+ MINORS ARE NOT WELCOME ON MY BLOG I’m sorry I just don’t feel comfortable with that kind of interaction otherwise this is a safe space for all
If you like my page let’s be moots, give a follow, or just hang out thanks for reading this far and feel free to interact in my ask box 🤗
I love the moves BTS makes because this shows that they truly understand that music is not just words and vibes music can transcend language and made up boundaries music is about meaning and feelings and purpose
These companies and organizations don’t get that because all they see is dollar signs and status quo
disabled ppl we need to start lying to nosy people okay? you tell me i'm too young to need a cane and i will tell you point blank that maybe you should tell that to the guy who ran me over. you don't get an explanation of my health issues you get lies and depending on how much of an asshole i want to be that lie will be anything from a humble car crash to a 1 billion lions attack. mind yr business.
pairing - velaryon!jeongguk x targaryen!reader
contents - you are a targaryen royal with a dragon made of sunlight and fury, and jeongguk is a velaryon dragonrider who was never supposed to matter this much. childhood almost-friends become wartime almost-lovers as the dance of the dragons begins to swallow the realm whole.
word count- 8.5k+
warnings - slowburn, jeongguk ruins me, man (guys this fic is going to be actually super sad in the future this is just a warning) vaelora is possessive, morraen is dramatic, you are emotionally armored, jungkook is devastatingly loyal, and everyone should be very, very worried
ch 1
ask or comment to be tagged <3
Mist clung to Dragonstone like a cloak. It wasn’t the pretty kind singers gave islands in their songs, or silver like your hair, nor was it soft or romantic. The mist crawled low over the yard and beaded along the banners, dampened the torch brackets and blurred the line between castle and sky until the two were completely indistinguishable.
You slept poorly, which was entirely Jeongguk Velaryon’s fault. You told yourself this with enough irritation that it became nearly useful.
You had returned to your chambers after leaving him in the dragonpit, after calling his name like a fool and telling him Vaelora liked him because the real apology had been too painful to speak. He had looked back at you in the torchlight with his dark eyes, hair loose around his face, too observant, and his mouth had tilted with that small, sad understanding you didn’t want or ask for from him.
You look sadder.
The words still hadn’t left you. They had followed you up the tunnels, into your chambers, beneath the blankets, and into the dark behind your eyes when you tried to sleep. Sadder, as if he had looked through the armor and seen not steel, but the wounds lying beneath. You hated him for it, because hatred was softer than the alternative.
Your dragon remained restless as ever through the night, her mind flickering alongside yours in hot, gold flashes. The view of Morraen on the eastern ridge after landing, of Jeongguk standing at the cavern mouth and looking back at you with his voice low and careful, his hands lifted slowly to offer no threat… Vaelora remembered it all in vivid detail.
She hadn’t forgotten, and neither had you.
By the time a maid came to dress you, you were still awake.
“There will be a morning meal in the great hall,” she said, eyes lowered as she fastened the back of your gown. “Princess Rhaenyra has asked that the Velaryon household attend as well.”
You looked at her reflection in the bronze mirror. “All of them?”
“Yes, My Lady. There are whispers that she means to discuss the plans of her rule.”
You wore a basic gown of black with red embroidery, small dragons littered across your waist and chased the fabric up your chest. The great hall was already awake when you entered. Fire burned in the long hearths and servants moved between tables with fresh bread, stewed fruits, smoked fish and cups of hot spiced wine no one would admit to needing at daybreak. The high windows stood half tall, mist curling against the glass and littered against the glass. The sea moved gray and restless beyond them, throwing itself again and again against the island as if it would crack it open and swallow the lot of you whole.
Rhaenyra sat near the head of the hall, enthroned in posture even when not sat atop a throne. Her hair was in a simple braid, drawn away from her face. She wore deep red beneath black, one hand resting near her cup, the other near the swell of her belly. Daemon stood behind her chair rather than sitting, which made him seem less like a husband and more like a sword she had forgotten to sheathe.
Your father stood by the hearth, speaking quietly with Lord Velaryon. Corlys Velaryon had not yet arrived, still recovering from his wound, but several more of his kin had whilst the castle slept. Sea green and silver moved amongst the black and red of your own blood. It made the hall look like a bruised wound that had been doused with salt.
Jeongguk sat near the lower table, as he had the night before. He was amongst the Velaryons, not quite apart but also not absorbed. His hair was tied back, though a few dark strands had escaped near his temples. He wore blue so deep it nearly looked black, and the silver clasp had returned to his throat. The scar through his brow caught the torchlight when he turned. He was listening to something one of his cousins had said, but then he looked up and spotted you.
You remembered him again at the dragonpit entrance, saying you looked gone somewhere. You remembered Vaelora’s low growl at your back and his raised brow when he called you “My Lady” like a door closing.
His eyes moved over your face with quiet care. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, but long enough for you to feel almost indecent. You looked away first.
Coward, an ugly part of you whispered. Royalty, the rest of you hissed back.
You crossed to Rhaenyra and bent your head. “My Princess.”
She looked at you with tired warmth. “Lady YN,” she said. “Did Vaelora settle last night?”
“Eventually.”
Daemon made a faint sound. “Meaning she terrorized the pit and the dragonkeepers until sunrise.”
“She was selective about it.”
“That poor lute player still asks if his hand will grow back.”
“I assure you he had both hands when he fled, My Prince.”
“One never knows with Vaelora.”
You allowed yourself the smallest smile. Rhaenyra’s mouth curved too, though briefly. The moment was nearly gentle. Lucerys and Jacaerys watched the exchange with wary eyes, Baela and Rhaena next to them.
“I suppose that is to be expected,” Rhaenyra said. “We do have visitors. The last time Vaelora or even Syrax met a new dragon must have been… I can’t even remember now. Seasmoke, mayhaps.”
You were about to respond when the hall doors flung open, and Princess Rhaenys entered, soaked through, Ser Lorent at her side. No herald announced her, no servant stepped forward with practiced calm to assist her down the stairs as she strode through them. Her shoulders were stiff, and her boots left dark prints across the stone. Her armor dripped as she crossed the large room, eyes searching frantically until they at last landed on Rhaenyra.
Every conversation stopped. The hall went completely silent. Daemon moved first, only one step.
“The Princess Rhaenys Targaryen,” Ser Lorent announced finally.
“Thank you, Ser Lorent.” Rhaenyra answered. “Princess Rhaenys, might we hope for news of Lord Corlys’s recovery?”
“Viserys is dead.” Rhaenys replied.
No one breathed. King’s Landing had become less a city than a mouth full of lies. King Viserys had been kept alive by milk of the poppy and duty’s cruelty, shown only when useful and hidden when inconvenient. Viserys Targaryen had been dying for years. That was what everyone said. Dying, not dead. Being used, perhaps. Spoken through and draped in gold when court required legitimacy. Held upright by maesters and his wife Alicent, and the stubborn old machinery of monarchy. A corpse with breath enough to sign where someone placed his hand.
Something so large being revealed in such a vast room should have shaken the walls. The fires should have guttered and the sea should have stopped beating against the cliffs. Dragons should have screamed from every pit and ridge because the last thread holding the realm together had finally snapped. Instead, the words fell into the hall and remained there.
Rhaenyra did not move, not at first. Her face went wholly still. Every part of her seemed to stop so that nothing might escape before she understood what had just been spoken. Daemon’s hand closed around the back of her chair. Your father lowered his eyes and Lord Velaryon went rigid beside him. Jeongguk looked at you.
“I grieve this loss with you, Rhaenyra,” Princess Rhaenys continued. “My cousin, your father… possessed a kind heart.”
You watched, stepping to the side of the table with practiced care, as Rhaenys continued to approach the now-queen. “There is more,” she added. “Aegon has been crowned as his successor.”
Rhaenyra looked around the room helplessly, hand tightening on her belly as a whimper escaped her mouth.
“Lords and dragonriders may remain, everyone else is to leave.” Daemon ordered.
The hall emptied quickly. You remained with your father, Jeongguk, Lord Velaryon, and the rest of the royals.
“They crowned him…?” Rhaenyra whispered.
“How did he die?” Daemon asked.
“I could not say.” Rhaenys answered.
“How long ago?” Rhaenyra asked, standing up slowly.
“A day past, perhaps two. I was made a prisoner in my quarters while the Queen made her preparations.”
“Viserys has been slain,” Daemon told his wife, shaking his head to himself.
Rhaenyra remained focused on Rhaenys, eyes filling with tears. “Alicent demanded you declare for Aegon.”
“She did. I refused her.”
“And yet you are alive.” Daemon spat.
“The high septon crowned Aegon in the Dragonpit, I witnessed it myself just before I fled on Meleys.”
“They crowned him before the masses.”
“So that the masses would see him as their rightful king.” Rhaenys nodded.
“That whore of a Queen murdered my brother and stole his throne and you could have burned them all for it.” Daemon hissed.
“A war is like to be fought over this treachery, to be sure,” Rhaenys said, stepping forward once more. “But that war is not mine to begin. I’ve only rushed this warning to you out of loyalty to my husband and to my house. The Greens are coming for you, Rhaenyra. And for your children. You should leave Dragonstone at once.”
Rhaenyra remained standing at the head of the hall, one hand still against her belly as her eyes remained fixed on nothing. Then her knees buckled and Daemon caught her. Your father helped, reaching out from the other side with a speed that startled you. The Queen gasped once, harsh and low. Not a sob, but pain. Her hand clutched at her stomach and Daemon’s face changed completely.
Lord Velaryon sprinted for the large doors, “I’ll grab a maester!”
Rhaenyra gripped Daemon’s arm hard enough that her knuckles whitened.
“No…” She whispered.
You moved quickly, kneeling in front of her as Daemon and your father kept her partially upright. Rhaenyra looked at you, and for one second there was no queen, no princess, no impending war. Only terror. You took her free hand, wincing as her fingers crushed yours. “It is too soon,” she cried.
You knew, everyone knew. The maester reached her, face pale. “Your Grace, we must take you to your chambers.”
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she looked at you. “They waited. They waited until after we left days ago and he had died to do what they’d been scheming all of these years. All this time, I thought she was using him and hiding him from me, speaking through him for the sake of other men… I thought– I thought there might still be time to reach her despite it all. To fix it all.” Her grip tightened until your bones ached. “This was their plan all along.”
There was nothing to say in response, no comfort or promise you could offer her. So you held her hand and let her hurt you.
Daemon lifted her carefully, and she didn’t argue. Those who remained in the hall parted for them. Your father led them, shouting for space and boiling water, for the maester to move faster. Rhaenyra did not release your hand until the angle made it impossible. You stood in the hall after they left, your hand pulsing and your palm marked by the crescent bite of her nails. The hall remained silent. Lord Velaryon bowed his head, and one by one, the room followed. Jeongguk came to stand beside you, not touching.
“I understand now,” you said gently.
His voice was gentle. “What?”
“What you meant last night.”
He said nothing. If he had apologized again, you might have shattered. If he had explained himself, you might have hated him for being right about you. Instead, he stood with you in the wreckage of a morning meal that had become history. Below the castle, Vaelora roared. The sound rolled through the floor, up through your feet, and into your bones. It was not rage, or challenge. A dragon’s answer to the grief her rider was feeling.
Jeongguk’s eyes shifted toward the floor. “Morraen will answer.”
As if summoned by certainty, a deeper roar rose from the eastern ridge. Vaelora called again, and Morraen answered, and more joined. The sounds of Syrax, Vaelora, Morraen, Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke, Caraxes, Vermax, Moondancer, and even little Arrax filled the mist veiled island. The hall remained bowed under the sound.
You looked at Jeongguk. His face was solemn, shadowed in the light, that old impossible gentleness rested around his mouth. He looked less like the boy from the tide pool and more like a man standing at the edge of something that would change him forever.
“He is truly dead,” you whispered. Jeongguk looked at you, and you swallowed. “I knew he had been dying for years. Everyone knew that. Everyone whispered about Alicent and the maesters and Otto. They whispered about curtains and milk of the poppy and petitions answered by whichever Hightower attended the courts that day… but this–”
You closed your eyes. When you opened them, Jeongguk was looking at you the same way he had in the caverns. “My father is impossible.” You said.
Jeongguk’s face turned toward the door your father had gone through. “Most fathers are.”
“He only remembers my name when he wants obedience or silence.”
“That is not true.”
The quickness of his reply startled you. You looked at him sharply, and Jeongguk seemed surprised too, but he did not take it back. “You do not know him,” you said.
“No,” he agreed. “But I saw his face in this room.”
“When she fell?”
“When you moved toward her.”
You went still. Jeongguk’s voice lowered. “He looked terrified.”
Your mouth opened. You wanted to dismiss it, to laugh and slice the observation into something harmless. Your father, terrified because you crossed a room, absurd and sentimental. But you remembered him catching Rhaenyra, and his voice shouting for the maester to hurry. You remembered, barely and unwillingly, the way his eyes had found you when Rhaenyra’s grip crushed your hand… as if the sight of a daughter in pain, any daughter, had shocked him into remembering his own.
“I do not wish to speak of him any longer,” you said.
Jeongguk nodded. No argument or push. He was learning too quickly where your locked doors were. The hall slowly began to empty, not because anyone wished to leave, but because no one knew what staying was doing. Servants cleared the untouched and now cold food, and you remained until the table was bare. Jeongguk remained beside you. Eventually, Daemon returned. Alone.
The room stilled again, only the two of you, Lord Velaryon, and a random servant were around to witness it. His hair was disordered, one sleeve dark where Rhaenyra had gripped it with a damp hand. There was blood on his cuff.
“How is she?” you asked.
Daemon looked your way, and for once, his face gave nothing away. “The maesters are with her.”
“And the babe?” Lord Velaryon asked.
Daemon’s eyes went dead, and no one asked again. He looked your way then, and you did not know why. Maybe it was because you had taken Rhaenyra’s hand, or because Vaelora had called from beneath the castle and the rest of the dragons had answered, or maybe because you were useful and Daemon never stopped noticing what could be used even when blood was still fresh.
“The queen will need her people.” He said flatly.
Your spine straightened. “She has them.”
Daemon’s mouth moved faintly. Not a smile, but something sharper. “Does she?”
“Yes.”
Jeongguk moved beside you, and Daemon’s eyes flicked between the two of you with a spark of interest and calculation. Before he could speak, a scream tore through the castle. Not dragon, human. The sound stopped every living thing in the hall. It came again, muffled by stone and distance, raw enough that your own body flinched. Not queenly or controlled, but the sound of a mother with a body at war with itself.
Jeongguk’s hand moved, and you felt the near touch like heat. You stood beside Jeongguk Velaryon as the dragons cried around you again, while Rhaenyra Targaryen screamed in another room, begging for the husband who now exited the hall and called for a meeting with the Lords in the painted table room.
Jeongguk’s fingers brushed against yours. Not in a grasp or comfort that anyone else could see, just the backs of his fingers against the backs of yours for the length of one breath. You didn’t pull away.
The funeral took place beneath the cloudy sky. The sea did enough speaking for all of you, throwing itself against the rocks below, because it did not know that a king was dead, and that a crown had been stolen, and that Rhaenyra Targaryen had lost a father and a child in the same terrible turning of the world. It simply kept crashing.
You stood behind her with the others, bearing witness. That was what was demanded of everyone. Not comfort, just to be a witness. Rhaenyra stood before the small funeral pyre in black. The color made her hair look almost white. She looked like a woman who had discovered her body could stay standing long after her soul had been shoved to its knees. Daemon stood a little behind her, not touching her. You noticed that. He had not left her since the birth, or the loss, or whatever name anyone dared give it when they spoke quietly in corridors and stopped speaking altogether when Rhaenyra passed. He stood close enough now that if she swayed, he could catch her, but far enough that she would not feel his presence unless she chose to. It was a rare mercy from him.
Your father stood near you, face set in hard lines. Lord Velaryon and his kin stood to your left. Jeongguk was among them, still and solemn, sea dark cloak shifting in the wind. He didn’t look at you when you arrived. You had tried not to look at him either, but you had failed. Vaelora watched from the ridge above, no chain nor dragonkeeper nor whispered command had convinced her to remain below the mountain. She stood high against the morning, milky scales dulled by mist. Her wings were tucked tight and her head lowered toward the gathering, present and watching.
Syrax stood nearer to Rhaenyra with a grief that was not human and not less for it. Her yellow body shifted against stone, low sounds vibrating from her throat as if she wished to challenge death itself and could not find where he had gone.
The ceremony was brief, no singer and no flourish accompanied the sound of the wrapped body being placed on the pyre. No speech was made because none was heavy enough for the emotions that stood on the cliff face that morning. The maester murmured few words, and the wind stole half of them. Rhaenyra did not seem to hear them.
You kept your eyes on her empty hands.
The realm had filled them with so much. A father’s promise, a throne, a title, a claim, a war waiting… and this morning, her hands held nothing. Syrax lowered her head, and Rhaenyra’s voice, when it came, was quiet enough that most of the gathered lords likely did not hear it. “Dracarys,” she spoke. Fire answered.
The pyre went bright. The heat reached you even from where you stood. It pushed against your face, tugged tears from your eyes before the ground or your dress could claim them. Smoke lifted toward the flat morning sky. Syrax screamed once, a sound so raw that several men flinched outright. Vaelora answered from above with a low mourning call that rolled down the ridge.
Morraen answered from somewhere beyond the western rise. Jeongguk’s head turned slightly towards it. The sound of the dragons moved through the mourners like a second funeral rite, older than the maester’s words, older than crowns, and older than painted tables and every war named around them. Rhaenyra didn’t turn towards the noise as you and Jeongguk had, but her shoulders trembled once.
Footsteps sounded on the stone behind you all, and each guard present turned. Two of them drew their swords, standing between the lot of you and Rhaenyra and Daemon.
“I mean no harm, brothers,” the new white cloak said gently, removing his helm. The knights before you sheathed their swords as he stepped forward again and went to one knee. You watched as he reached into the bag around his waist and pulled out a golden crown. Your father stiffened beside you as the crown of King Viserys Targaryen caught the gray morning light.
“I swear to ward the Queen,” Ser Erryk Cargyll announced, “with all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children,” he continued as Daemon took the crown gently from his grip. “I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”
Daemon turned towards Rhaenyra then, crown in hand, and waited. It looked wrong in his hands, not because he coveted it, though maybe some part of him always had, but because Daemon’s hands were made for swords and reins and violence, not crowns and compassion. Rhaenyra stepped up slowly, and you watched as your father’s last remaining brother placed the crown on the head of the rightful heir to the iron throne.
Rhaenyra Targaryen stood on the black shore of Dragonstone in smoke and mourning, crowned with her father’s crown while the remains of one child burned behind her and the betrayal of another child, Aegon, waited across the water in stolen splendor.
And then Daemon Targaryen kneeled. “My Queen.”
One knee to stone, head bowed, dark cloak shifting around him. The rogue prince kneeling to his queen in front of every eye that mattered. The rest of you followed, rocks biting into knees at jagged angles.
“My Queen,” voices murmured around you.
Jeongguk knelt several paces to your left. You saw him from the corner of your eye, head bowed, one hand braced against his thigh. His face was dark, turned partly away. You wondered if he was thinking of kings, or of boys dying.
Rhaenyra looked over all of you. Her people, her witnesses. Her first casualties, though no one knew yet which names the gods had already laid claim to.
“I will have my throne.”
No one cheered, it would have been obscene. Instead, every bowed head remained lowered, and the vow moved through the gathered bodies like a current through water. The war had begun before that morning, of course.
It began in whispers and ravens and closed rooms. In the moment Alicent and Otto decided a dying king’s body could be turned into a wall between Rhaenyra and the crown promised to her.
You lifted your eyes only when Rhaenyra turned away.
Her face was wet and she did not move to wipe it dry. That was the part you remembered later. The queen letting tears remain visible because she had already been robbed of too much to give the world the satisfaction of hiding those too.
Two days passed
Time behaved strangely after coronations and funerals. It folded in on itself. Morning councils stretched into night. Ravens came and went until the rookery smelled of feathers, ink, and panic. Men who had knelt beautifully spoke less beautifully when asked for ships and swords. Every hallway held a whisper. Every meal tasted of ash even when the food was fresh.
You did not see much of Jeongguk. He was everywhere and nowhere, which made him impossible to avoid properly. Sometimes you caught sight of him in the yard with Lord Velaryon, going over ship routes with a captain. Sometimes he stood near Morraen while dragonkeepers examined him. Sometimes you saw him at council, silent and listening, his gaze dropping whenever yours threatened to meet it too publicly. Once, late at night, you had gone to Vaelora and found Morraen sleeping in the adjoining cavern and had expected Jeongguk to be nearby… he was not.
On the second morning after Rhaenyra’s crowning, a servant found you before breakfast and told you your father wished to see you. You considered pretending you had not heard. Unfortunately, your father had raised you too well in the worst ways. You knew a summons from him was not optional unless you were prepared to make it a war of its own. You were tired, not too tired for any war, but too tired for his.
He received you in a small chamber overlooking the eastern yard. The windows were narrow, letting in strips of hard morning light. The small hearth burned through the room even though the room was not cold enough for it. Your father stood near the table with a sealed letter in one hand and a cup of wine untouched near his other.
You closed the door behind you. “You sent for me.”
He looked up, and did not immediately answer. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you. “You were expected at the early strategy council,” he said.
“I was checking on Vaelora.”
“You were expected at council.”
“They survived without me, I’m sure.”
“That is not the point,” he snapped.
“Then what is?”
His mouth tightened. The familiar rhythm reared its head, almost comforting in its ugliness. The two of you knew these steps so well you could have danced them blindfolded.
He set the letter down. “The Queen is gathering strength. Daemon presses for Harrenhal soon, Corlys has awoken and shall be pressing for the Gullet. Ravens return with half promises and veiled insults. Every person in this castle is about to be measured by their usefulness.”
“I am aware.” You snapped.
“Are you?” Your eyes narrowed as he moved around the table slowly. “You have been absent minded.”
You laughed once. “Is that what we are now calling grief and fear?”
“We are not speaking of grief!” Your father stepped in front of you, eyes venomous. “We are speaking of Jeongguk Velaryon.”
Your face warmed, and your father’s expression hardened. “There.”
“There what?” you asked.
“That. You.”
You folded your arms. “You will need to become more specific if you intend to accuse me before I have had my breakfast.”
“This is not amusing, YN.”
“No. But you become very dull when you’re afraid of addressing something and someone should improve the conversation.”
“YN.” You hated when he said your name like that. So final. “You will attend council,” he continued. “You will listen. You will speak when wisdom demands it, not pride. You will learn which lords are frightened and which are greedy. You will learn which are waiting to be courted by the first side foolish enough to overpay them. You will understand the war you are standing inside before it puts a blade in your hand or at your throat.”
“I understand war.”
“You understand your dragon.” His voice lowered. “They are not the same thing. Do not mistake them as such.”
Vaelora stirred under the castle. Your father saw something shift in your face.
“You think because Vaelora answers you, men will,” he said. “They will not. Men are worse than dragons. Dragons are honest about their hunger.”
“That may be the first sensible thing you have said to me.”
His eyes flashed. “And you will not let a Velaryon boy with pretty eyes and a dragon become the soft place where this war finds you first.”
Your voice came out dangerously calm. “Careful.”
“No.” He snapped, shaking his head. “No, you will hear this. You think I do not see it? You think everyone in that hall does not see it when you move toward him before you move toward your proper table? You think Daemon does not see it? Rhaenys? Rhaenyra herself?”
Your throat constricted, and he continued. “This court was built from observation. Every glance is counted. Every silence is weighed. Every softness is named by someone who might want to use it.”
“You know a great deal about usage.”
“Yes,” he yelled. “I do.”
It scared you, not because he stepped closer or raised his voice. It scared you because he sounded, for half a breath, ashamed. Then it was gone.
“You are my daughter,” he said. “You are a Targaryen dragonrider. You carry blood that men will try to buy, bind, bed, threaten, praise, and destroy depending on which profits them first. If you think infatuation is harmless because it is hidden behind a thin shroud of privacy, then you are more foolish than I thought.”
“Do not call it that,” you said.
“You do not deny it.”
You laughed softly, and it sounded fiendish. “Would it matter if I did?”
“YN.”
“You have decided what you saw. What everyone has seen—”
“I know what I saw.”
“No,” you said. “You only know what you fear.” He stared at you. “You fear many things,” you continued. “You fear the Greens, and Daemon’s impatience, you fear Rhaenyra’s grief, and you fear Vhagar. You fear Vaelora when she is not pointed where you want her. And now you fear Jeongguk because he looks at me and does not first ask what use I serve. What I cost. Do not presume to know anything beyond your fears as I’ve listed them, father.”
“It is not love,” he continued.
You flinched. “I did not say it was.”
“No, you are too clever for that.”
“And you are too merciless for this. You speak of softness like it is a wound, and perhaps that is because every soft thing you ever held died or left you or became something you did not know how to handle. But I am not my mother, I am not Rhaenyra, and I am not some dead girl in a song who could have been saved if her father locked her away sooner or married her to a man from Dorne or Winterfell or Casterly Rock. I will attend council when I choose,” you said. “I will speak when I choose and ride when I choose. And if Jeongguk Velaryon is beside me when I do, perhaps that is because he understands better than any man in this castle or outside of it.”
Your father struck the table with his palm, and the sound cracked through the room. You turned toward the door.
“YN.”
You did not stop.
“YN!”
When you looked back, your father was standing in the hard line of morning light, one hand still braced on the table. He looked older than he had ever looked, tired in a way you never got to see.
“I am trying to keep you alive,” he said.
“Stop making it feel like obedience and perhaps then, dear father, I will listen.”
You left before he could answer. The halls of Dragonstone blurred around you. Servants flattened themselves against walls as you passed. A guard opened a door before you reached it, avoiding the delay of you having to ask. By the time you reached the lower yard, the wind had torn half your braid loose and your hands were shaking inside your sleeves.
Vaelora was awake. You felt her in your ribs, a bright and savage attention turning toward you from the pits. She had bullied the keepers into opening the lower gates again. The old dragonkeeper nearest to her looked exhausted and resigned. “Lady YN,” he said as you entered the yard. “She would not settle.”
“I know.”
Vaelora crouched low on the black stone, tail lashing dangerously close to a rack of spears. Her amber eyes fixed on you the moment you appeared. She knew, not the words but the wound. You crossed the yard and pressed both hands to her snout. “He is impossible,” you muttered. She huffed smoke into your hair. “Yes, my father. No, you may not bite him.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not even a little, Vaelora.”
A sound came from the far gate. Morraen. The dark dragon moved through the mist with quiet grace, his blue-gray scales almost black. Jeongguk walked beside him with one hand resting against his dragon’s neck. He saw you and stopped. Vaelora growled and Morraen answered with a chirp. Jeongguk approached slowly. “Lady YN,” he said.
There was formality in it, too much of it. Your father’s voice still burned in your ear.
Infatuation.
You lifted your chin. “Velaryon.”
“You are angry.”
“Brilliantly observed.”
“At me?”
“No.”
“...Should I be relieved?”
“You should be quiet.”
His mouth nearly curved, but he seemed to think better of it. Vaelora snapped her teeth in Morraen’s direction and Morraen lowered his head in greeting. She ignored him with violent precision. Jeongguk watched the dragons, then you.
“Were you going to fly?”
“I was considering burning down part of the castle first.”
“That route seems insufficient.”
“It would make me feel better.”
“Briefly.”
You glared at him and he accepted it with calm composure. You gathered the edge of Vaelora’s saddle strap and tugged it into place with more force than necessary as Jeongguk watched.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
You did not answer. The strap tightened beneath your hand.
“YN.”
Your name in his mouth nearly undid you. You looked at him sharply. “Do not.” He stilled and the hurt that passed across his face was brief and controlled. “I am sorry,” you said. He hadn’t been the one to hurt you, so you would not be wicked in return. “My father,” you said, looking away.
Understanding moved through him when you looked back. If it had been pity, you might have climbed onto Vaelora and flown straight into the sea.
“He spoke of me,” Jeongguk said.
“He spoke around you in that lordly way he often enjoys.”
“That sounds a great deal worse,” Jeongguk sighed, leaning against Morraen’s wing.
“I can assure you, it was.”
“What did he say?”
You tightened another strap, ignoring the question completely.
“YN…”
You turned on him. “He said I am infatuated.”
The yard suddenly felt too open for the words you’d just released. Too full of ears, despite how hard the guards and servants appeared to try not to listen. Jeongguk’s face had gone very still, and you wished you hadn’t said it. Or that you’d said it better.
“He said every softness is named by someone who wants to use it,” you added bitterly. “It was humiliating, and yet it was true. War is… it is unkind and I am young. You are young.”
Jeongguk looked down, not in shame, but in thought. “He sounds afraid, My Lady.”
You laughed. “His fear does not absolve him, Jeongguk.”
“It does not. But it explains his usage of the cruelest word he could use without facing the cruelty.”
“He does not know you,” you whispered. “He hardly knows me.”
“It would seem many do not,” Jeongguk replied just as quietly.
You turned to face him directly, Vaelora huffing behind you. The corner of his mouth lifted just barely, and for once, yours nearly followed. The anger simmering under your flesh like fire did not fully extinguish itself, but it shifted into a thing you could breathe around. Vaelora lowered herself impatiently, reminding you that human conversation was just a distraction for you and entirely below her, and flight was the only suitable cure for whatever idiocy had infected the morning. Jeongguk looked toward Morraen. The dark dragon stretched his wings in response, chortling at his rider.
“He wants to fly,” Jeongguk said.
“So does she.”
“So do you,” he smiled. You met it and he did not look away.
There was no flirtation in it, no teasing. Only the same cursed seeing, the thing that had started the entire mess in the caverns when he spoke to you so freely about sadness and forced a truth into the light before you had given permission.
“Yes,” you said. An honest word that felt like stepping from a ledge.
Jeongguk nodded toward the open gates of the yard. “Then fly.”
“You are not invited,” you told him, brow raised.
“I assumed, yet Morraen still aches for the open sky and I would never deny him,” he replied, and there was a little of the tide pool boy in him then, the one who had called you slow and laughed while bleeding.
Your eyes narrowed and Vaelora made a pleased rumble. You shot her a look that was not met at all by her large eyes. Jeongguk mounted Morraen with care, settling into the silver saddle and testing the straps. He spoke low to his dragon, pressing a gloved hand to Morraen’s neck in a touch so private you felt wrong for having seen it. Then you mounted Vaelora.
The world always made more sense from her back. Even before she left the ground, something in you settled back into place. Your boots found the grips of your ebony saddle, your hands closed around the saddle handles. Vaelora’s heat rose through the leather and fabric, through skin and every angry human thing in you until the noise of your father’s chamber began to burn away entirely.
The sea wind rushed in through the open gates, and Vaelora leapt first. The yard vanished below you. For a heartbeat, there was only the drop from the cliff edge, stone falling away and air slamming into your lungs like you were thirteen all over again. The saddle pulled at your legs as Vaelora’s wings spread wide and caught the morning air. Then the sky claimed you and your thoughts scattered into the wind.
Dragonstone shrank into near nothingness underneath you, black and miniscule through lifting mist. The crowned queen’s castle, the mourning island, the place where daughters learned that fathers could die before they were dead, and fathers learned too late that daughters would not be safer by being solitary creatures.
Vaelora climbed hard, because she always wanted height. So did you. Morraen rose behind, slower at first, then steadier as his wings caught the full wind current. Jeongguk did not push him, he kept the dark dragon in a smooth, controlled ascent. Vaelora noticed him gaining, and her offense was immediate.
“No,” you warned, smiling. She beat her wings harder. “Vaelora.”
Morraen drew level at a careful distance, and Jeongguk looked over. The wind pulled strands of hair around his face rapidly. He looked alive in the sky in a way men rarely looked alive on land. Less contained and less careful. Still controlled, but by different laws.
“Still angry?” he called, just barely discernable over the wind.
“Yes!”
“At me?”
“I’m deciding!”
His laugh broke across the sky, and Vaelora surged ahead. Morraen followed, not racing, not truly. Vaelora was a force and had the bigger size of the two of them, wingspan included. Morraen was still fast, cutting through the air with lean precision, but Vaelora always flew like a bright beam hurled at the clouds. They moved along Dragonstone’s eastern cliffs, then out over the water, skimming above waves that flashed silver under the sun.
Vaelora wanted to dive, you could feel it from the way she continued to gaze at the water. You let her take one, only one. She folded her wings and dropped, and the sea rushed upward to meet you. Wind screamed past your ears and for some glorious seconds, there was no crown, no father, no council, and no word sitting like a stain on your skin spoken from the lips of your father.
There was only speed, only trust, and only Vaelora’s fierce joy burning through you. She pulled up close enough to the water that spray burst cold across your face. You laughed before you could help yourself, breathless and wild. Morraen banked above, refusing the dive because Jeongguk had sense.
When Vaelora climbed again, Jeongguk was watching you. You felt the look this time and refused to flinch from it.
“What?” you shouted.
He shook his head.
“What?” you demanded again.
“You look less sad,” he called back, and you finally pulled your eyes from his.
Vaelora steadied her gate, sensing the shift. Morraen drew a little closer, close enough that the space between the dragons narrowed to something familiar.
“You should stop telling me how I look,” you called.
“I have tried.”
“If that is your display of trying, Jeongguk Velaryon, then you should try harder.”
“I am not very good at it.”
“You are good at many things. Pick this one.”
Jeongguk’s smile came slow and small. A private thing between you in the open air. “That sounds an awful deal close to faith, My Lady.”
“It is criticism.”
“From you, surely the two are as close to the same thing as they possibly could be.”
You laughed and Vaelora’s joy flared through the bond between you, bright and possessive, pleased by your laughter and perhaps by Morraen’s nearness too, though she would rather have eaten a saddle than admit to that. She was much like you that way.
You flew for an hour, maybe more, time always thinned in the sky. The island curved beneath you, the sea turning into a mirror. Fishing boats scattered at the sight of dragons overhead, though one brave fool waved a cap until Vaelora snapped her teeth in his direction and sent him falling into a coil of rope on his deck. Jeongguk laughed hard at the sight, and you carried the sound with you. It was dangerous, you knew it even then. Small happinesses were so easy to steal, to lose.
Eventually, you guided Vaelora toward a high shelf of black rock above the western water, far from the yard and every pair of eyes waiting to make a meal of whatever was passing between the two dragons in the sky and between you and Jeongguk Velaryon.
Morraen landed after Vaelora with care, rumbling once, low and amused. Vaelora turned immediately toward the sound, and you expected her to snap. Instead, she lowered her head and nosed his wing with a soft huff. Morraen tolerated her prodding for all of three seconds before growling. Vaelora growled louder. The growling stopped after that.
You dismounted, legs aching pleasantly from the ride. Wind had completely dismantled your braid. Your cheeks were frozen, your gloves damp from seaspray, and for the first time in days, your body felt like something that belonged to you instead of your banner. Jeongguk went to stand beside you. The dragons settled near the cliff edge, and you both watched them for a while. The silence was not easy, it was better than that.
“Your father is not entirely wrong, you know.”
You closed your eyes. “You are choosing a bold path at the present.”
“He is right that court will notice things.”
You opened your eyes and looked at him, and he kept his own on the sea. “He is right that softness is dangerous where people trade in weakness,” he said. “He is right that my name near yours gives men something to whisper about.”
“And?”
“And he is wrong if he thinks that naming it something so cheap makes it cheap.” Your throat tightened and he looked at you then. The wind moved between you, cold and salt sharpened. “I am not infatuated with you,” he said. The words opened under you, and where you should feel something soothing, you did not. “Infatuation is too careless a word for something I spent time trying not to remember.”
You stopped breathing, and Jeongguk looked almost angry with himself for saying it. Yet he didn’t take it back. He never took back anything that mattered. You turned toward the sea because looking at him directly would have been too much. The water below struck black stone violently.
“We were children,” you said.
“Yes.”
“I nearly drowned you in a tide pool.”
“You shoved me,” he corrected with a smile.
“I made you bleed,” you reminded him.
“You did.”
“And then you insulted me and called me slow.”
“You were slow.”
You looked at him sharply, seeing it again. The boy, the sheer audacity, and the terrible timing. A laugh worked its way out of your mouth before you could stifle it, and Jeongguk’s expression softened so quickly it hurt you. Then his softness did what it always did and made room for your fear. You looked away again.
“My father thinks everything can be prevented if one sees it early enough,” you told him.
Jeongguk was quiet for a moment. “Can it…?”
“No,” you whispered. Too quickly. You swallowed. “No. Some things are seen early and still happen. Some things are seen early because they’re already happening.”
He understood, and you hated it. Loved it, too, though not in any way you were willing to name on a cliff with your dragons listening. Jeongguk stepped closer, just a single and small movement. Your eyes closed. “I do not wish to be a weakness or a wound for you, Lady YN.”
Too late, you thought. But that was cruel and even crueler still was the truth. “You may not get to choose,” you told him gently.
“I know.”
There was no self pity in his voice. You opened your eyes and found him watching you. Not with the look from the caverns, though it was close, not like you were sadder now. He just watched you like you had not disappeared behind silk and title and temper. Watched you like if the whole realm became smoke, he would still find the silhouette of you inside of it. Your hand moved, the tiniest of inching. A mistake of muscle, some could say. Jeongguk saw, and he did not take it. He waited. Always that, the choice placed back in your hands like something fragile and dangerous.
Your fingers curled into your palm. Not yet. You didn’t have to speak the words for him to hear them. Behind you, Vaelora let out a soft, irritated huff. You let out a breath that might have been a laugh, “She judges me.”
“That sounds like a dangerous honor.”
“It is.”
Morraen lowered his head near Vaelora’s shoulder, and she snapped once near his jaw. He did not shrink away from it. Jeongguk watched them, then said quietly, “They make it look so simple.”
“They are dragons. Their simplicity is as instinctual as their fire breathing.”
“Still.”
“Yes,” you admitted. “Still.”
The wind shifted, and Dragonstone waited below. Councils waited. Your father waited, likely already regretting his ‘tenderness’ badly disguised as command. Rhaenyra waited under a crown she had received by a funeral pyre. The war waited most of all, patient and greedy and already counting the places it would cut.
You looked at Jeongguk. “We should return.”
“Yes.”
Neither of you moved, and for one more moment, you let the cliff hold you outside of everything. Vaelora beside Morraen, Jeongguk beside you, and the sea below with all of the secrets it had ever swallowed.
You walked back to Vaelora slowly. She lowered herself for you, rumbling as you climbed into the saddle once more. Morraen rose, stretching before he allowed Jeongguk to mount. Before you launched, Jeongguk looked across the space between the two dragons.
“YN.” You turned, taking him in… his face was serious now, wind touched and not young. “Come to council.”
You stared at him, of all of the things you had expected, that was not one of them. Your mouth twisted, “You sound like my father.”
“No,” he said. “I sound like someone who wants you in the rooms where men are deciding what dangers to put in your sky, especially when your dragon is one of them.”
That silenced you. Vaelora shifted beneath you.
Jeongguk continued, “Do not let your anger keep you from hearing the war before it reaches your shores.”
You hated good advice, always had. Especially from beautiful men on dragons. “I will consider it,” you said.
“You will ignore that I said it, then decide for yourself later.”
“You are learning.”
His smile came, and you tucked it somewhere unsafe inside you. Vaelora launched before he could say anything else damning atop the cliff’s edge. The flight back was slower, not because Vaelora longed for it, but because you did. Morraen kept pace, dark wings steady against the brightening afternoon sky. When the castle rose before you, black and severe under the uncovered sun, you felt the shape of the choice waiting inside it.
Council, war, your father, and Rhaenyra. Rooms full of men who would count your dragon before they counted you unless you made them do otherwise. You thought of Jeongguk’s words on the cliff. His annoying, correct, and devastating words. Vaelora felt the reluctant turn in you and rumbled with amusement.
The yard came up fast below you. Men looked skyward as Vaelora and Morraen descended together, pale gold and storm dark, sunlight and sea shadow. You saw your father at the edge of the steps, still as stone. He watched you land, then looked at Jeongguk, then back at you. You could not read his face from the distance. Vaelora touched down hard enough to crack a thin like through the stone under her claws. Morraen landed beside her, smoother. You dismounted before any of the knights could approach. Your father started toward you, and you lifted a hand. It wasn’t done rudely or gently, just enough to stop him. To your surprise, he did. You removed your gloves slowly, tucking them beneath one arm. The old leather was warm from your grip on the handles. Jeongguk dismounted nearby but did not walk up to you, again letting you choose.
You looked toward the castle, then to your father. “I will attend the council,” you told him. His expression shifted, relief dancing across his face, followed by slight suspicion. He was still your father.
“Good,” he replied.
You held his gaze. “I will also speak.”
A muscle moved in his jaw. Then, after a very long moment, he nodded once. “As wisdom demands.”
“As I demand,” you corrected.
His mouth tightened again, but he did not argue. You walked past him toward the castle. Behind you, Vaelora and Morraen rumbled low to one another, shadows overlapping across the cracked black stone. Jeongguk’s footsteps did not follow immediately, but when you reached the doorway and glanced back, he was watching you. He looked proud.
You turned away before he could see what that did to you. Inside, the halls of Dragonstone waited with all their smoke and whispers and grief. You did not storm through them, you walked. Not obediently, and not calmly. But toward the room where your future was being measured. If men meant to place dangers in your sky and truly considered your dragon one of them, then they would have to do it whilst they looked you in the eyes.
pairing - jjk x reader
contents - you met jeon jungkook eight months ago during rehearsals for an upcoming performance with your group, Bloom, and though you feel a tug coming from his direction, your management forbids anything from developing, so what, then, will happen when your groups are set to perform together at the upcoming MAMAs?
word count- 4.6k+ words
warnings - nothing tbh aside from eye fucking and cussing
The first direct rule given to you was simple. Do not be alone with him. Not because he was dangerous, because he wasn’t, not because you were dangerous, because you weren’t, but because the room changed when Jeon Jungkook walked in and apparently everyone with a paycheck from your company had noticed.
The second rule came after the first, hidden in prettier language, softened with phrases such as professional boundaries and brand alignment and fan perception risk. Your manager said it while scrolling through her tablet, her voice careful, diplomatic, almost bored.
No unnecessary physical contact, no off-camera closeness, no personal conversations where staff could not be present, no giving fans something they could possibly misunderstand. The last one made you laugh, which was a mistake as your manager immediately looked up at you. You stopped laughing then.
Because fans did not misunderstand, not really. They noticed, compiled, slowed footage down to half speed and circled hand placements in red. They made timelines out of blinks. They caught glances even when you swore you hadn’t given any.
And Jungkook? God. Jungkook looked at you like he had never learned how not to.
You had met him eight months prior in Los Angeles, in a rehearsal room that smelled like floor polish, iced coffee, and expensive perfumes. BTS had been there for a private industry showcase. Bloom had been flown in too, still riding the strange, dizzying momentum of being called ‘global’ by every magazine that wanted to make your existence cleaner than it was.
Global was polished and strategic, good for the numbers and the wallet.
It did not sound like five girls from five different countries crying in airport bathrooms, memorizing choreography until five am and waking up three hours later, arguing over who had stolen whose setting powder, and smiling through interviews where people asked you to represent entire continents before you had even eaten breakfast.
You were Bloom’s leader, which meant you were the one who answered when no one else knew what to say.
You were the one who corrected pronunciation, soothed nerves, translated when needed, lied when necessary.
It meant that when your youngest member missed her mother so badly she couldn’t sing, you sat on the bathroom floor with her until her mascara dried. It meant that when your oldest member got called intimidating by a producer who was too scared to call her talented, you smiled with teeth and asked him to repeat himself.
It meant you always entered rooms first. Always.
That day in L.A, you entered the rehearsal room first, too.
And Jungkook had been sitting on the floor with one knee bent, hair damp from practice, oversized black t-shirt clinging slightly at his collar. He had looked up when you walked in.
Not at Bloom, or the stylists trialing you, or the staff holding different clipboards and tablets like holy documents.
He looked at you. For one unbearable second, his expression went still, and then his mouth curved. Small and private and almost rude with how quiet it was. You stared back because you were taught that leaders didn’t flinch.
He had said, in English, “you’re the leader?”
“You sound surprised,” you replied with a lifted brow.
His smile widened. “No, it just makes sense.”
It shouldn’t have been anything but a polite comment, a passing exchange between two people who understood exactly how many cameras existed in the room and in the world. But something about the way he said it rooted under your skin.
So you tilted your head. “And you’re Jungkook.”
He pressed a hand to his chest, exaggeratedly wounded. “Only Jungkook?”
You looked over him once, slow enough to be a problem but quick enough to deny it if asked. “Should I add something?”
His tongue poked the inside of his cheek. One of your members made a strangled noise behind you, and behind him, Jimin started laughing. That was the beginning. Not of anything real, or anything that was important.
There was no beginning of anything real between idols like you and Jungkook. There were no movie montages, no midnight walks, no holding hands across tables in restaurants. There were no soft-launch Instagram posts, no casual mentions in interviews, no “we met naturally and fell in love” explanations that would not detonate both of your careers on impact.
There was only accidental eye contact across rehearsal rooms, messages left unread for hours because responding too fast felt dangerous, inside jokes spoken through microphones while managers stood ten feet away… A friendship everyone pretended was normal because pretending was easier than admitting. Besides, you were good at pretending, you’d built an entire career out of it.
Tonight, though, pretending felt harder.
Because MAMA rehearsals were running late, your feet ached, your hair was coming loose from its painfully perfect ponytail, and Jungkook was standing across the studio in a black beanie, watching you lead Bloom through the transition into BTS’s formation.
Maybe watching was too gentle of a word. He was studying you. Your reflection caught his in the mirror, and you looked away first like a coward.
“Again from the top,” you called, clapping twice.
A chorus of groans came from your members.
“No complaining,” you said automatically.
Mina, who’d been born and raised in Korea and had, for some reason, never feared consequences in her life, threw her head back. “Our beloved leader’s trying to kill us.”
“I’m trying to make our work cohesive,” you argued.
“We already look cohesive.”
“You look sweaty,” You smirked.
“I look hot sweaty, try again.” She said with a kiss blown your way. You caught it, crushed it in your fist, and flipped her off through the mirror.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Jungkook laugh.
Your stomach did something humiliating as the track restarted.
The choreography for the collaboration stage was ambitious in the way entertainment companies loved: dramatic, slightly impractical, clearly designed to become viral within twenty minutes of airing. Bloom opened the performance with sharp and clean formation work influenced by each of your backgrounds– hip hop, contemporary, dancehall, even flashes of traditional movement your choreographer had carefully woven in after weeks of conversations with all of you.
BTS would enter halfway through.
Jungkook’s part crossed directly behind yours, and that was a problem.
You had known it when they first showed you the blocking. Your manager had known it too, because her face had done that awful neutral thing people did when they were screaming internally.
Jungkook passed behind you on the count of six.
Your shoulder dipped, his hand never touched your waist, it only hovered near it. That was the choreography, that was the excuse, that was the actual nightmare.
Because every time he moved behind you, your body knew he was there before your mind could catch up. Heat at your back, the shift of air, the faint scent of detergent and skin and whatever fucking cologne he was wearing that made you want to commit several stupid, career-ending decisions.
You hit the next move too hard.
“Careful,” Jungkook murmured behind you.
You did not turn around. “I’m careful.”
“No,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear over the music. “You’re frustrated.”
Your jaw tightened as his laugh brushed against the back of your neck. You missed half a count just barely, almost no one noticed.
When the music finally cut, the choreographer called for a water break. Your members scattered immediately, some collapsing against the wall, some checking their phones, one filming a dramatic fake death on the floor for behind-the-scenes content that would absolutely never be approved.
You went for your water bottle near the speakers, grateful for something to do with your hands.
Jungkook got there first. He picked it up and held it out for you. A simple enough gesture. Still, your manager’s head followed the movement from across the room.
You saw it, and Jungkook saw you see it. His smile faded slightly.
You took the water bottle without letting your fingers brush his. “Thanks.”
“Wow,” he said softly. “So formal.”
You unscrewed the cap, shaking your head at him. “Would you prefer I bow?”
“Maybe.”
You gave him a look and his eyes brightened.
“A little one,” he added.
“You’re annoying.”
“You once told me I was charming.”
“I’ve matured.”
“In eight months?” He laughed.
You shrugged at him, taking a deep swig of water.
He leaned one shoulder against the mirrored wall, still breathing hard from practice. Sweat darkened the hair near his temple. His cheeks were flushed, and it made him look younger and more dangerous at the same time. Like he could just grin his way through a locked door or a heart.
“You disappeared after the Grammy rehearsals.”
You continued to drink your water, which was a terrible choice because it gave you too much time to think and not enough to breathe. “I’ve been working,” you tell him finally.
He nods, unconvinced. “So, if you’re working, you’re never anywhere else? Ever?”
“Typically when I’m working, I’m working. So, yes.”
His smile twitched, and then faded as he watched you. Flirty Jungkook was easy. Teasing Jungkook was manageable. You could parry him, roll your eyes and simply walk away and pretend like your pulse was normal. Quiet Jungkook made everything more complicated.
He looked down at the floor between you, then back up. “Did I do something wrong? During those rehearsals, I mean. I thought we were getting along.”
The thing you hated most about him settled heavy between the two of you. His sincerity. You wished he had more ego, it would have been so much easier if he were arrogant in the way people expected him to be. If he acted like his attention was a gift, or if he flirted because he knew you would blush and not because something in him actually softened when you walked into a room.
You looked towards your members.
Mina was laughing with Taehyung over something on her phone. Your youngest, Hana, was speaking shy Korean with Namjoon, who listened with his whole body like he had nowhere else in the world to be. Lila, the middle child, bickered with Jimin over contemporary dance. Staff lingered nearby, watching all of you.
Always watching.
You lowered your voice, “No.”
Jungkook’s brows drew in, “That’s hardly an answer.”
“It is an answer, though.”
“A bad one.”
You laughed once, but it came out brittle. “You’re such a brat.”
“You don’t like that?”
Your eyes cut to his, and there it was again. A little spark. A terrible little thread between you that neither company had managed to cut, no matter how many rules they printed or whispered in hushed tones.
For a second, you let yourself look at him. Really look. You looked at the tiny scar on his cheek, the silver hoops in his ears, the way his gaze flicked down to your mouth and back up so quickly that anyone else might have missed it even if you did not.
You didn’t miss it at all, which was the whole problem. “You can’t say things like that,” you said.
His face changed, not dramatically, Jungkook was far too trained for that. You both were. But his expression lost some of its warmth, like someone had dimmed a light behind his eyes.
“Right. Okay.”
Your throat tightened at the clipped words. You hated them, hated how small they sounded. Hated that you put them there.
“Jungkook–”
“No, I know.” He nodded once, glancing towards the staff. “Rules.”
You should have let his words sit there. You should have accepted a clean exit. Instead, because apparently you hated yourself, you said, “it’s not just rules.”
His attention returned to you so fast it was painful. “No?”
“No.”
The studio felt louder suddenly, even though no music was playing. Sneakers squeaked, someone laughed, a manager coughed. The hallway outside of the room leaked in other noises, too, other rehearsals, other idols, other perfectly controlled disasters.
You gripped your water bottle. “You know what happens,” you said. “If people think there’s something.”
He looked at you for a long moment before asking quietly, “is there?”
The answer had been there for months, sitting between your ribs like a bruise you kept prodding just to see if it still hurt, yet your heart dropped anyway. You looked away, and Jungkook laughed under his breath, but there was no humor in it.
“Okay.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he shook his head, smiling even though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You said ‘okay’ like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I just hurt your feelings.”
His eyes sharpened slightly. “Didn’t you?”
The room tilted and you wanted to snap back. You wanted to tell him he did not get to put that on you, not when both of you had signed contracts longer than some marriages, not when Bloom was still fighting to be taken seriously, not when one wrong rumor could turn your leadership into selfishness and your ambition into betrayal. You also wanted to tell him you were tired.
Tired of filtering yourself, tired of smiling when interviewers asked whether Bloom’s “diverse concept” made it harder for you to be a unit, as if friendship was only believable when everyone came from the same place. Tired of being responsible, tired of wanting one thing that belonged only to you.
But Jungkook was looking at you like he would listen to all of it, and that was dangerous too, so you swallowed it all down. “I’m trying not to.”
His face softened, a little devastation still present, before he nodded. “Yeah, me too.”
The choreographer clapped from across the room. “Five minutes! Back to positions!”
The spell broke. You turned away first because that was what leaders did, they moved forward and set the tone. They did not fall apart beside barres and walls while one of the most beloved idols in the world looked at them like there was an inkling of possibility lying between them.
You took your place at the center, and Bloom formed behind you. BTS moved into position around you. Jungkook came to stand at your back again, close enough for choreo, far enough for rules. In the mirror, your eyes met his that were now cloaked in professionalism, calm and unreachable. It should have been a relief, it should have helped you, but it didn’t.
The music started and you hit the first count perfectly. So did he.
That was the cruelest part of it all, and the most beautiful. You were always best when you were pretending nothing was hurting.
By the third run-thorugh, your body has stopped feeling like yours. It belonged to the counts, the holds, the drops, the turns, the looks.
You made an effort not to look at Jungkook again. It wasn’t written in the choreography, obviously. No choreographer in their right mind would write do not look directly at Jeon Jungkook unless you are prepared to ruin your own life beside the formations.
But it might as well have been there, honestly.
Because every camera in the practice room seemed to find the two of you. Every staff member seemed vaguely aware of the invisible string between the two of you. Every reflective surface was another traitor waiting to catch your eyes drifting where they really shouldn’t. And Jungkook was being good now. He did not tease, did not murmur anything under his breath when he passed behind you, did not hover by your water bottle, did not throw secret smiles your way in the mirror, did not make some quiet, stupid joke just to see if he could crack a smile on your face.
He did everything right and was professional and distant. And you hated him for it, almost as much as you hated yourself for wanting him to stop.
“Again,” the choreographer called. “Bloom, sharper on the second transition. BTS, give them more space on the cross. Jungkook, watch the distance behind YN.”
Your spine went tight as Jungkook nodded. “Yes.”
Your mouth pressed into a tight little line, and Mina, stationed just behind your right shoulder, leaned in close enough that her ponytail brushed your arm.
“You’re doing that thing,” she whispered.
You didn’t move your eyes from the mirror. “What thing?”
“The murder face thing.”
“I’m focused.”
“Totally. Super focused and not at all planning an assassination.”
“I’m the leader. That’s part of my charisma.”
“More like emotional constipation.”
You almost laughed, but Jungkook shifted behind you, stepping into position, and whatever humor had tried to climb its way up your throat died a pathetic little death.
Mina followed your gaze in the mirror, and her expression softened in that annoying way friends had when they knew too much and could do nothing about it. “Ah,” she mumbled, “So it’s that thing.”
“There’s no thing,” you hissed through the side of your mouth.
“Girl–”
“Mina.”
“Respectfully, you and that man have been eye-fucking in 4k since Los Angeles.”
You whipped your head toward her. “Mina.”
She smiled brightly, all innocence, then snapped back into position as the music started up once again. You missed your entrance by half a breath. It wasn’t visible or badly, but you felt it and Jungkook did too. His eyes flicked to yours in the mirror, and that was all it took to tap a little crack in the carefully built wall.
His gaze dropped away again, and the absence of it sat against your chest like a dumbbell. You danced harder, possibly too hard.
There was a vicious satisfaction in pushing your body past the point of elegance. In letting the ache behind your ribs sharpen the feeling into movement. You hit the floorwork like it owed you money. Snapped your head so cleanly on the turn that one of the assistant choreographers actually muttered, “Oh, wow.”
Good. Fine. Let them see leader YN.
Let them see Bloom’s anchor. The girl who could switch from English to Korean mid-sentence without blinking. The girl who could carry questions for five people in interviews and still smile when they asked something insulting. The girl who knew how to bow, how to laugh, how to soften her accent when needed, how to straighten her shoulders when some executive talked too much about marketability. Let them see everything except the one thing you were failing to kill.
The music cut on the final pose. Silence slammed down afterwards as applause filtered in from separate corners of the room.
“Better,” the choreographer said, nodding. “Much better. Take ten. Then we’ll run it with the cameras for the behind-the-scenes content.”
Your members collapsed immediately while you stayed standing. Your lungs burned, your knees trembled faintly. Sweat had slipped down the side of your neck and beneath the collar of your cropped rehearsal top. You lifted a hand to wipe it away, but before you could, a towel appeared in front of you.
Black, folded once, held by a tattooed hand. You stared at it.
Do not be alone with him. No unnecessary physical contact. No personal conversations where staff could not be present. No giving fans something to misunderstand.
A towel, arguably, was not personal, or a confession. A towel was fabric.
Your life had become so absurd you could laugh. You took the towel, and this time your fingers touched, just barely. A brush, a spark, a crime scene. Jungkook stared at your hand like he felt it too.
“You’re pushing too hard,” he said quietly as he let go of the towel.
You dabbed the towel against your neck and gave him your prettiest, coldest smile. “Thanks, coach.”
His jaw flexed. Mina, from the floor, suddenly became very interested in stretching. Across the room, Namjoon looked over with a cautious expression.
Jungkook stepped closer by half an inch. It was still technically appropriate, still public, and still enough to make your entire body pay attention.
“You have got to stop doing that.”
Your smile stayed in place. “Doing what?”
“Turning everything into a joke when you’re upset.”
“Better than wallowing in misery.”
His eyes held yours and his voice dropped. “Are you sure?”
Your stomach twisted and you looked away, first again. You hated that pattern. Hated that he asked questions like both of you weren’t surrounded by people whose job it was to make sure your lives remained profitable and uncomplicated.
“You don’t get to do that.” You said.
“What?”
“Act like I’m the only one choosing this.”
His expression shifted, a flash of hurt, there and gone. “I’m not.”
“You are,” you laughed.
“I’m standing right here.”
“That’s not the same thing. You know it’s not.” The words slipped from your lips softer than you’d meant for them to.
Jungkook glanced past you, toward the line of managers pretending not to monitor every breath, then he looked back. “No,” he said. “It is not.”
For a second, neither of you said anything else. The practice room continued moving around you. Staff adjusted the cameras and someone laughed near the speakers. One of the BTS members, probably Hoseok, said something that made Jimin nearly choke on his water. Hana layed flat on her back timed her own death.
Normal and easy things. Things that, realistically, should have pulled you back into yourself. They didn’t, though.
Because Jungkook was still watching you with that unfair, unbearable softness. Like he understood that you were not angry because you didn’t want him, but that you were angry because you did. Too much. At the wrong time, in the wrong industry, under the wrong lights.
He took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral. “Do you want me to stop?”
Your fingers tightened around the towel. You knew exactly what he meant. Not the choreography, or the teasing, or the almosts. All of it.
The looking and waiting and finding you in every room. The way his smile changed when aimed your direction. The messages that never said enough to be dangerous but said too much to be considered harmless.
You could say yes. You could absolutely say yes. It would be kind, probably. Clean and mature. The responsible and leader thing. Yet your throat closed heavily around the word. Jungkook watched your silence register. He nodded once, slow and wounded in a way that made your chest ache.
“Okay.”
“You keep saying that,” you whispered.
“Well, you keep not answering.”
Your eyes burned, which only made you more furious.
“You want an answer?” you asked, still quiet.
“Yes.” He replied with a sharp gaze.
“No.”
Jungkook went still the same second you did.
The room didn’t stop, but it felt like it should have. Something catastrophic had happened. You had said one small world in a rehearsal room full of people, and somehow it felt like glass cracking underfoot.
His lips parted slightly. You looked down, panic blooming hot in your chest.
“I mean–”
“No,” he repeated softly.
Your cheeks burned. “Don’t.”
His voice was almost nothing. “You don’t want me to stop?”
You closed your eyes for a second. Coward, coward, coward. When you opened them, he was closer than before, but still not close enough for anyone to scold. Close enough, though, that you could see the sweat caught along his collarbone. The chain around his neck. The way his breathing had changed.
“I don’t know what I want,” you lied.
Jungkook’s face softened and it offered you a tiny mercy. He knew you were lying, but he let it rest between you all the same.
“Okay,” he said again, but it sounded different.
Your manager called your name, too sharp and timed. You stepped back immediately, and Jungkook did too. The towel remained in your hands as your manager approached with a smile that did not touch her eyes.
“YN,” she said in English because it made reprimands sound less public in this room. “Camera blocking is next. We need to discuss your center mark for the bridge.”
You nodded. “Sure.”
Her gaze flicked to the towel, then to Jungkook, and then back to you. “I’ll take that.”
For one wild, childish second, you wanted to outright refuse. It was a towel. A towel. But it had touched his hand before yours, and apparently that was enough to make you pathetic or sullied.
You handed it over, watched as your manager folded it once, then tucked it under her arm like evidence. “Come,” she said.
You followed, because that is what you did. You followed rules even when you hated them. You protected the group even when it meant cutting pieces out of yourself. You put Bloom first, always, because the girls trusted you. Because the company trusted you. Because every interview called you a leader like it was an honor instead of a beautifully constructed cage.
At the monitor, the assistant director replayed the last run-through.
You watched yourself on screen and smiled at how untouchable you looked. Jungkook moved behind you like a shadow with restraint. His hand hovered near your waist, never landing. On camera, it looked intimate anyway. That was the trouble with almost-touching, sometimes it looked worse. The assistant director paused the frame and your manager sighed through her nose.
“Here,” she said carefully. “This is too close.”
The choreographer leaned in. “It’s the formation.”
“We need to adjust it.”
“It will affect the transition.”
“Then affect it.”
Your stomach sank, from the other side of the monitor, BTS’s staff had gone quiet too. Jungkook stood several feet away, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable.
The choreographer pulled back the footage and paused again. There you were, frozen on screen, your back arched into the move. Jungkook behind you, eyes angled down, hand suspended near your hip like he was holding himself back from touching something holy or forbidden or both.
Someone cleared their throat.
Your manager said “fans will slow this down.”
No one argued because everyone knew she was right. The room seemed to shrink around you. A strange humiliation crawled up your neck, not because you or Jungkook had done anything wrong, but because desire, even buried beneath clean choreography and professional distance, had apparently found a way to show its face.
You looked at Jungkook and found him already looking at you.
Not flirty now, or playful. This was something else. Something unnervingly close to being sorry.
The choreographer sighed. “We can move Jungkook two counts later. Have him cross behind Taehyung instead.”
Your manager nodded immediately. “Better.”
Something inside you dropped and you felt ridiculous for it. It was choreography, it should have been a relief to not have his hand hovering near your waist. Instead, it felt like being erased from the only place where you were allowed to almost have him.
Jungkook’s face did not change. “Fine,” he said.
You wanted to scream as the choreographer clapped. “Okay, reset positions. We’ll try the new blocking.”
Everyone moved and you moved with them. The shape of the entirety of the room changed around you. Jungkook no longer stood behind you. Taehyung did instead, kind and easy and so unaware of the way your throat tightened when the music started again. Jungkook crossed behind him, not you. The choreography worked, but it looked cleaner, less dangerous.
Your manager watched the monitor with visible relief. And you, Bloom’s leader, America’s polished export, the girl trained to carry herself like no one could touch her, danced like nothing had been taken from you. In the mirror, for just one second, Jungkook’s eyes met yours from the wrong side of the formation. Too far away and somehow too close.
You didn’t miss his hand near your waist, necessarily, but you missed the restraint. You missed knowing he was close enough to want you and disciplined enough not to ruin you, which was, undoubtedly, the saddest thing you had ever wanted from anyone.
Summary: every night, Prince Jeon Jungkook finds himself swept up in a village girl's bakery where they share sugar and laughter, but one day, he stumbles across her injuries taken from defending helpless children and he spends the day tending to her, before unleashing his rage on the aggressors.
Genre/Tags: royalty au, romance, fluff, angst, comfort, feral Jungkook, down bad Jungkook
Word Count: 11.7k (I got carried away)
Warnings: blood, injury, lashings, violence, physical fight, (lmk if i missed anything)
Notes: I've had this in my head since we saw Jungkook in Mexico and I finally wrote smth with it. Genuinely had me kicking my feet, giggling when I wrote this btw. I was kind of between keeping this and making it a series but rn I have no idea what else to write with this so I thought screw it and just post this. Who knows... I might post more in this kind of setting but for now it's just this... hope you like it!
The scent of yeast, burnt sugar, and baked flour always hangs heavy in the midnight air of the kitchen. It's comforting, warm, familiar, and completely separate from the cold, stoned streets of the village beyond these walls, which encompass your life. You wipe a stray smudge of flour from your forehead with the back of your hand, leaning over the heavy wooden workstation to knead the first batch of dough for tomorrow's, well, today's morning rush.
Deep in concentration, you almost don't hear the bell above the back door, which lets out a tiny, muffled chime. But you don't even have to look up to know who it is.
"You're late," you say, keeping your voice flat, still pounding the dough, though a familiar beat of warmth thumps against your ribs. "Shouldn't you be tucked into your silk sheets at the palace by now, Your Royal Highness?"
"A gentleman is never late, sweetheart. He arrives precisely when he means to," Jungkook says, his voice a smooth, playful purr as he slips into the kitchen nestled behind the main bakery area. "And I told you to stop calling me that." He is dressed in his usual disguise, a faded, oversized linen tunic and dark trousers. The entire kingdom knows the face of Prince Jungkook, though few would expect him to be sneaking out of the citadel walls just to loiter in a dusty village bakery. He pushes his hood back, revealing strands of unruly dark hair and those ridiculously large, glittering doe eyes which you can't stare into for too long without feeling heat crawl up your neck.
You sigh, ignoring him as you turn around to face the pantry. You reach for a jar of imported cinnamon, but, of course, it is sitting on the absolute highest shelf, tucked away near the ceiling. You huff, stepping up onto your tiptoes, stretching your arms as high as they can go. Your fingers brush the base of the jar, but you cannot for the life of you get a proper grip. Suddenly, a broad, solid chest flushes directly against your back. All you feel is lean muscle as the heat of him radiates through your apron. Then an arm clad in faded linen reaches up over your head, his large hand wrapping around the jar. You will yourself not to let your eyes linger too long on the prominent veins running across his forearms to his hands.
"Need a hand, love?" Jungkook murmurs right beside your ear, his raspy late-night voice sending a shiver straight down your spine.
You drop back onto your heels, turning around within the small space he has trapped you in. His free hand comes down to rest casually on the edge of the shelf beside your head, effectively boxing you in. He looks down at you, a smug, devastating smirk playing on his lips as he hands you the cinnamon. Your fingers lightly twitch as they brush his.
"I had it under control, Crown Prince," you shoot back, tapping the jar against his chest to force him to take a step back.
"Right, maybe from over there you did, but from here, all I saw was you hopping up and down like a grasshopper," he teases before turning back.
And before you can swat at him, his hand shoots out toward the cooling racks. You attempt to block him with an elbow, but he uses his height advantage, leaning over to snatch a freshly dusted, warm beignet from the tray. Ones you had just made as a test batch, so the recipe was perfect for the morning rush. He pops the entire thing into his mouth in one go.
"Hey!" You glare, swatting at his arm with your flour-covered hand, leaving a stark white handprint on his dark sleeve. "Do you have any idea how early I had to wake up to prep those? The yeast has to rise for hours, Jungkook! Hours!"
Jungkook chews happily, closing his eyes in mock ecstasy. "Mmm. So worth it. You outdid yourself, truly." He leans his hip against your table, entirely too close, invading your space with the scent of the crisp night air and something rich, clean, and faintly expensive. He points a finger at a bowl of glossy chocolate batter. "What do we have here?" His eyes are lit with nothing short of mischief.
"Don't you dare-"
Too late.
He dips his index finger straight into the bowl, swirling it around before sucking the batter off with shameless, slow deliberateness. He locks eyes with you, a wicked, teasing tilt to his lips. "Sweet. " He pauses. "Just like the baker."
You feel the heat rush straight to your cheeks. "You are an absolute menace. I don't know why I keep letting you break into my shop. I really need to invest in a heavier deadbolt. Or tell the royal guards that their beloved prince is a little sugar thief."
"Because you love me," he says instantly, shifting his weight around the table to follow your movements like a shadow, or more like a separation-anxiety ridden puppy. "And because I am excellent company. Who else is going to help you with labour at one in the morning for the low price of sugar? Besides, the guards would never believe you."
"A public nuisance is what you are," you correct, though your lips twitch. You turn to a tray of unadorned cupcakes and sigh, handing him a backup piping bag filled with sweet vanilla buttercream. "If you're going to loiter, at least make yourself useful. Pipe the tops of those. Like this." You demonstrate a perfect, elegant swirl on one, pulling the tip up to create a flawless peak.
Jungkook takes the bag, his chest puffing out with entirely unwarranted confidence. "Easy. Watch a master at work. I've got great hand-eye coordination."
He grips the bag with way too much force, causing an explosion of frosting that lands on the cupcake, tilting precariously to one side like a melting snowman before sliding off the edge completely.
You burst out laughing, a bright, clear sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. "A master? Jungkook, it looks like a squashed toad!"
"It's abstract! It has personality!" he protests, bumping his shoulder heavily against yours to disrupt your balance. He looks down at your laughing face, his own expression softening into something incredibly tender. His eyes track the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, capturing the exact shade of warmth in your smile. "See? I made you laugh. That’s worth at least three more free pastries tonight."
"In your dreams, thief," you scoff.
After a few minutes and many fails later, he gets the hang of it, leaving you to grab a heavy wooden spoon and begin vigorously beating a massive bowl of thick, stubborn cookie dough. You hate this part the most. After a long day, hours of selling and continuously running through the main shop and the kitchen, creating new batches and noting down special orders, the physical effort of the mixture, especially after the non-stop whipping of the meringues and the kneading of the dough, makes your wrists ache. Your movements slow slightly as you wipe a bead of sweat from your brow.
As Jungkook continues piping, he glances at your figure a few times, as if it's second nature, and tracks the sudden lag in your rhythm. His eyes soften, the playful posture shifting into something much more attentive, which goes unnoticed by you. He steps up right beside you, his hand sliding over yours on the handle of the wooden spoon. His palm is warm, broad, and calloused from sword training.
"Hey," he says softly, his shoulder bumping into yours. "Go check on the hearth. I think I smell burning."
"What? No, it's not, I just put it-"
"Just go check, stubborn," he cuts you off, smoothly applying just enough pressure to slide the bowl away from you.
Before you can protest further, he completely takes over, his muscular forearm flexing beneath his rolled-up sleeves as he beats the heavy dough with absolute, effortless ease. It's only when you reach the hearth, and you find your cake, in fact, not burning, that you realise he invented such a thing so you could rest your tired wrist.
You cross your arms with a small smile, and you lean against the counter, watching him work. "Look at you. Future monarch doing manual labour in a village kitchen. Oh, if the King could see you now, he'd strip you of your title."
"Let him," Jungkook grunts with a grin, not missing a beat as he whips the dough into a perfect, uniform consistency. "I'd make a fantastic baker's assistant. I'm strong, I learn fast, and I look great in an apron."
"You don't even have an apron on," you point out, laughing.
"An oversight you can easily fix," he shoots back, flashing a brilliant bunny-toothed smile that makes your heart do a ridiculous little flip. He stops mixing, sliding the perfect dough toward you. "There. Perfect. What's next, pretty lady?"
You roll your eyes at the name. "We need to pour this batter into the tins," you say, dragging a heavy ceramic bowl of vanilla batter and two circular metal tins toward the centre of the table.
"I've got it," Jungkook volunteers eagerly. He lifts the heavy ceramic bowl, and you try not to pay attention to the way his biceps strain slightly against the linen shirt. He tips it over the first tin, carefully pouring the thick, pale-yellow ribbon of batter into the centre until it fills it perfectly. He moves to the second tin, pouring the remainder.
Once the bowl is mostly empty, he sets it down and picks up a long spatula. He meticulously scrapes the remaining thick batter from the inside walls of the bowl, gathering a massive, delicious glob of it onto the edge of the spatula. He brings it up toward his face, his eyes lighting up as he prepares to lick it clean.
"Ah-ah-ah," you say quickly, swatting his wrist away. "No way. I did all the measuring for that batter. That's mine."
You grab the end of the spatula handle. Jungkook blinks, then a surprised, but competitive spark instantly ignites his doe eyes. He tightens his grip, tugging it back towards himself. "I did the pouring! And the scraping! Royal decree dictates that the scraper gets the reward."
"There is no such royal decree," you laugh, pulling the spatula towards your side. "You're abusing your power, Your Highness!"
"I am a prince, I can make up whatever laws I want to," he gasps dramatically, pulling back.
You step closer, using your leverage to yank on the handle. For a second, you are pulled completely into his space, your hands tangled together on the thin piece of wood, faces inches apart. You can see the faint amber flecks in his eyes and the absolute amusement radiating from him.
Jungkook looks down at your determined face, his gaze dropping to your lips before a wicked, triumphant grin splits across his face.
Suddenly, he completely lets go of the spatula.
Because you were pulling so hard, you stumbled backwards a step, clutching the spatula victoriously to your chest. "Ha! I win!"
"Do you?" Jungkook asks, his voice dripping with amusement.
Before you can answer, he reaches down and grabs the massive, heavy ceramic mixing bowl that still has a generous coating of thick batter stuck to the bottom and sides. He lifts it, completely sticking his face inside the wide rim, using his finger to swipe a massive glob of batter and popping it into his mouth.
"Fine, keep the tiny spatula," he mutters happily from inside the bowl, his voice echoing. "I have the motherlode."
"Jungkook!" You burst out laughing, completely scandalised. "You are a literal child! Get your face out of my bowl!"
He pulls his head out, a tiny dollop of yellow batter sitting right on the tip of his nose. He looks incredibly ridiculous and remarkably cute all at once. He steps closer to you, his eyes locking onto yours with an unbearable amount of playful intensity.
"You have something right..." you start, pointing at your own nose.
"Where? Here?" he asks, deliberately wiping his cheek instead, smearing it further.
"No, you idiot, let me-"
You step in, reaching up with your thumb to gently wipe the batter off the tip of his nose. The moment your skin touches his, Jungkook freezes. The childish playfulness drops away in an instant, replaced by a sudden, heavy stillness. His gaze drops, heavy and unblinking, tracking the movement of your fingers, then the curve of your jaw, and finally resting on your eyes.
The kitchen goes entirely silent. The only sound is the low, rhythmic crackle of the hearth fire. His breath is warm against your skin. You feel your own breath hitch, your thumb lingering against his nose for a second too long.
A slow, devastatingly tender smile stretches across his lips. He reaches up, his large hand gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle into your pulse point.
"You know, you're very bossy for a regular citizen," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a raspy, late-night register that makes your heart beat erratically against your ribs.
"And you're very compliant for a future king," you whisper back, trying to maintain your defences, though the proximity is making it impossible to think straight.
"Only for you," he says softly, his thumb continuing to trace your wrist. "I don't let anyone else order me around like this. I think I like it."
You clear your throat, gently pulling your wrist from his grip to hide the bright blush creeping up your neck. You turn away to hide your burning cheeks, reaching for a small plate hidden under a glass dome on the back shelf. "Shut up and try this. I've been working on it all afternoon. Consider it payment for your... impeccable assistant work."
On the plate sits a pastry you’ve been experimenting with: dozens of microscopically thin, crispy layers of golden dough, stacked high with rich, velvety custard and fresh cream sandwiched between them, dusted lightly with powdered sugar.
"What is it?" he asks, leaning over your shoulder, his chest practically pressed against your back again, completely erasing the distance you just tried to create.
"Just shut up and try it," you say, handing him a small fork.
He takes a bite. The audible, delicate crunch of the layers echoes in the quiet room, followed by the smoothness of the cream. Jungkook freezes completely. His eyes widen to twice their size. Without saying a word, he devours the rest of the pastry in two massive bites, nearly groaning out loud.
"Marry me," he says flatly. "I'm serious. Name the day. We can live right here in this kitchen. I will waive the royal dowry, I will fight the council, I don't care. I will do nothing but eat this and look at you for the rest of my days."
You laugh loudly, shoving his shoulder hard to create some space. "So dramatic." You reply back.
"So in love."
"So in need of therapy." You mutter back, turning to grab a handful of loose flour to dust the wooden surface, the fine white powder settling like mist.
The frantic energy of the kitchen slows down, settling into a comfortable, quiet rhythm that has secretly become your favourite part of the day. Jungkook works right beside you, his initial royal clumsiness giving way to a quiet focus as he tries to correct his piping technique, finishing the cupcakes, his tongue poking out slightly between his teeth in pure concentration.
Then, the kitchen goes entirely silent. The only sound left is the low, rhythmic crackle of the hearth fire and the heavy, rhythmic thud of your palms against the dough.
You feel a sudden weight on you, a gaze so intense it feels tangible against your skin. You glance up, a stray lock of hair falling into your eyes, and catch him.
Jungkook isn't looking at the cupcakes anymore. He is leaning his chin in his hand, his elbow propped on the wooden counter, his eyes fixed entirely on you. His gaze is heavy, unblinking, tracking the curve of your jaw, the sweat dampening the nape of your neck, the fierce determination on your brow. There is no trace of the boyish prankster in his expression right now; his eyes are dark, deep, and filled with an intense, quiet gravity that makes your breath hitch completely.
"What?" you ask, your voice dropping to a breathless whisper. You try to sound annoyed, but the slight tremor in your voice betrays you. "Is there flour on my face again?"
Jungkook doesn't blink. A smile stretches across his lips, his voice drops again, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "Nope. Just looking at something beautiful."
You feel the heat rush from your chest all the way to your hairline. You look down at your rough, flour-dusted hands, and a sudden, heavy wave of insecurity twists in your stomach. It’s a reminder that always haunts the back of your mind. He is the Crown Prince. You know his face, you know his title, and you know the vast, impossible chasm that lies between your worlds.
"You are a terrifyingly smooth talker, Your Highness," you say, your voice turning a little hollow as you force yourself to look back up at him. "I suppose this is the exact same poetry you feed to the high-born noble ladies at the palace court."
Jungkook’s smile falters slightly, his doe eyes tracking the subtle drop in your shoulders, his sharp instincts picking up on the sudden shift in your mood. "Noble ladies? Trust me, they don't care about poetry. Just titles and crown jewels."
"I'm serious, Jungkook," you say, huffing a breath but still kneading the dough on the counter. "Why do you even come here? You have an entire court of perfect, beautiful women at your feet. You should be spending your time there with them, not in a drab bakery."
You pause. The next words come out in a whisper you hope he doesn't hear. "You could be with women who actually know how to dance, with titles, who wear silk and velvet instead of aprons caked in dried dough. They don't smell like yeast and sweat."
But he does, and the playful demeanour completely evaporates from Jungkook's face. The silence returns, heavier this time, but thick with an undeniable warmth.
He stands up straight, stepping around the workstation table to face you. He moves with a quiet, deliberate grace. You keep your eyes down, focusing on the dough. Press. Then push. Then fold. Then turn. And repeat. Don't look up.
But he doesn't let you hide. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently taking your wrists, halting your movements. His palms are warm and incredibly grounding.
"Look at me," he commands softly. You don't.
"Hey…" He trails off, voice unbelievably gentle, "Please?"
How can you say no to him?
When you finally look up into his eyes, you find them swimming with a fierce, profound sincerity.
"None of them." He pauses, "Are you." His voice is a low, intense whisper that rings clearly in the quiet kitchen. He squeezes your hands, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over your knuckles. "The court ladies are hollow, Y/N. They smile because they were trained to; they speak from rehearsed scripts; and they look at me like I'm a crown to be won, a stepping stone for their families. But you? This?"
He leans closer, head tilting down so your eyes are entirely locked. He wants you to feel how much he means every word.
"I'd rather be no place else. You're real. You're fierce, you're brilliant, and you look at me like I'm just a man. I don't want silk, and I don't care about their perfect poise. I want this. I want the smell of yeast and sugar, and I want to spend my evenings with the pretty little baker who threatens to throw rolling pins at my royal head."
Your heart hammers violently against your ribs, your lungs locking up under the sheer weight of his words. His eyes drop to your lips for a long, agonising second, and you think you might actually combust from the heat spreading through your veins.
Sensing the overwhelming tension and desperate to save your blushing face from melting, a familiar, wicked spark suddenly reignites in Jungkook’s eyes. He lets go of one of your hands and steps to the side.
Before you can even process the emotional whiplash, he blows a sharp puff of air across the workstation. A massive cloud of white flour erupts directly onto your face. You gasp, coughing, your eyelashes completely coated in white powder. Through the white haze, you see him throwing his head back, laughing loudly, looking immensely proud of his childish distraction.
"Oh, it is so on," you hiss.
You scoop up a massive, double handful of flour and throw it straight at his chest. It hits him with a satisfying, heavy thwack, turning his dark tunic completely white from collar to waist. Jungkook’s jaw drops in utter shock, his laughter cutting off. He retaliates by pinching more flour before sprinkling it over your head, coating your hair in white. You squirm, laughing as you grab another handful and go to move around the bench, but your shoes slip on the pile of flour that has accumulated on the floor, and you are sent plummeting to the ground. Jungkook is faster, though, of course, and he manages to hold onto you, one hand on your arm and the other firm against your waist as he manages to pull you back up.
"Falling for me already?" His lips upturn in a playful smirk.
You scoff, already pushing away from him, "You wish, rich boy."
You both laugh. And the next few hours continue like that. You love the back-and-forth; it calms you after a long day and prepares you for the next. You truly relish these moments, that is, until you gaze up and notice the sky outside, the dark midnight lighting slightly.
"You should get going, Jungkook, dawn's coming, and I should rest before prepping for the morning." You explain.
He whines, pouting his bottom lip in a way that makes him look like an oversized puppy, but he relents. He walks to the back door, pausing to look back at you, the playful smirk returning to his face as he pulls his hood back up over his dark hair. "See you tomorrow, my beautiful baker. Try not to miss your prince too much."
"Oh, that won't be difficult at all, Jungkook," you say, and he holds his chest, mocking a dagger struck through his heart, but you’re smiling wide as the door clicks shut, the quiet warmth of his presence lingering long after he’s gone.
The next morning brings a particularly bitter cold. The sun has barely crested the horizon when you set up the outdoor display rack, lining it with fresh, golden loaves of bread and warm rolls.
You return inside to tend to the ovens, glancing out the large front glass window. The village market is starting to wake up. The other store owners are sweeping outside their doors and beating the rugs. The stall owners are setting up their carts with small chatter amongst them, no doubt some high-class gossip they read in the papers this morning.
Through the glass, you also notice three small, shivering figures creeping toward your outdoor display. It’s the children who sleep under the alleyway awnings near the secondary square. They look emaciated, their ribs practically visible through their tattered rags, and your heart cracks slightly at the sight.
One of them, a little boy no older than six, reaches up and snatches a small loaf of bread. But before you can even open the door to tell them they can have it, even come inside for more, a harsh, booming voice echoes through the square.
"Thieves! Drop it!"
Two royal guards, clad in gleaming, heavy iron armour, march out from the shadows. They look bored, angry, and eager for a distraction. The children shriek, dropping the bread into the dirt as they try to scatter, but one guard lunges, grabbing the little boy by his scruff, lifting him completely off the ground. The child wails in terror.
The second guard unclips a heavy, thick leather lash from his belt, a sadistic grin spreading across his face. "A lesson needs to be taught. Stealing from the village market carries a heavy price, brat."
Your blood runs cold. You don't think. You throw the bakery door open, sprinting out into the freezing air.
"Stop! Stop, please!" you shout, throwing yourself into the scene.
The guard with the whip pauses, lowering his weapon slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Move aside, girl. These street rats are breaking the law. They require consequence."
"It's my bread!" you say breathlessly, your heart hammering against your ribs. "It’s my shop! I don't mind. I was giving it to them. They didn't steal anything, I swear."
The guard holding the boy sneers, dropping the child to the dirt, where he scurries behind your skirts, clinging on to them for dear life. "Do not lie to the Crown's authority, baker. We saw them take it. If you harbour thieves, you share their guilt. Now step away before we make an example out of you, too."
These guards are notorious. They are brutes, drunk on the microscopic amount of power the crown grants them over the poor villagers. You look down at the crying child holding onto you, burying his face in your skirts, and a stubborn wave of protectiveness washes over you.
"They are starving children," you say, your voice trembling but resolute. "If you must strike someone to satisfy your pathetic need for power... strike me. Leave them alone."
The guard with the whip cuts a dark, ugly glare toward you. "You want to take the punishment for a bunch of gutter rats? Fine by me. The law demands blood for theft. Now kneel."
You look around the square. A few villagers have stopped to watch, but they immediately look away, hurrying along, terrified of getting involved.
No one is going to help you. You don't expect them to.
You swallow hard, your knees hitting the cold, unforgiving cobblestones. You pull your hair to the side, exposing the back of your thin cotton chemise. You brace yourself, gripping your knees tightly.
Crack.
The first strike tears through the air and slices directly across your upper back.
A choked, agonising shriek tears from your throat. It feels like a line of liquid fire has been seared into your flesh. The sheer force of the blow knocks you forward, your palms slamming into the dirt. Tears sting your eyes instantly, blurring your vision.
"That's for the first brat," the guard grunts.
Crack.
The second strike hits, the leather biting into the exact same raw skin. You gasp, your lungs seizing.
"That's for the second."
Crack.
The third blow tears your chemise open at the side, the fabric ripping away as the leather draws blood. You press your forehead against the freezing ground, sobbing silently as you pray for it to end.
"And that's for the third," the guard sneers. He pauses, looking down at your trembling, broken form, but his eyes only gleam with a deeper cruelty. "But you opened your mouth to the Crown's authority, didn't you, girl? You think you can talk back to us?"
Crack.
The fourth strike is harder, delivered with the full weight of his arm. A ragged scream escapes your lips, your vision flashing white. The pain is blinding, radiating across your entire torso.
"And this one..." The guard chuckles, raising the whip one last time just to satisfy his own twisted amusement. "...just because I feel like it." He says low, only for your ears to hear.
Crack.
The fifth strike shatters whatever strength you have left. You collapse entirely onto the cold cobblestones, your chest heaving as deep, agonising tremors wrack your body.
They leave you there, laughing as they walk away. Slowly, agonisingly, you push yourself up. Your vision swims. You stagger back into the bakery, your hands shaking so violently you can barely turn the lock. You flip the sign on the door to CLOSED, then wince as you draw the thick curtains shut.
You stumble up the narrow wooden stairs to your small apartment on the second floor. In the tiny bathroom, you try to peer into the cracked mirror, but you can’t see the damage properly. Reaching behind yourself with a wet cloth, you touch the wounds, and a fresh wave of sobbing breaks out. It hurts too much. You can't reach it properly to clean it. Blindly, you wrap a clean strip of linen around your torso, pinning it clumsily, though you know it's too loose.
Exhausted, broken, and throbbing with a relentless, burning agony, you crawl onto your bed, burying your face in the pillow, letting the tears ruin the sheets.
Hours pass. Eventually, the sheer restlessness of the pain forces you out of bed. You can’t lie down comfortably, and you can’t sit up straight. You're exhausted. But you drag yourself back downstairs into the darkened kitchen. You decide not to open the shop today, you can't bear the thought of standing at the counter, but you need a distraction. You begin mindlessly wiping down the clean surfaces, moving like a ghost in your own home.
Jungkook is practically skipping through the crowded, muddy alleyways of the lower village, keeping the heavy fabric of his dark wool cloak pulled tightly around his face. Thankfully, his royal duties ended earlier today, allowing him more time with you. He did have to dodge three separate royal attendants, lie straight to his personal guard, and scale a crumbling section of the northern citadel wall just to sneak out today, but he didn't care. He would gladly scale the highest mountain in the land if it meant reaching your doorstep a second earlier than usual.
The only thing occupying his mind for the last twelve long, agonising hours has been you.
He is down bad. Mortifyingly, hopelessly, helplessly down bad.
Every time he closes his eyes during council meetings or listens to his father drone on about trade routes, he doesn't see crowns or maps. He sees the way your eyes crinkle into perfect, breathtaking crescents when you laugh at his ridiculous antics. He sees the faint, light dust of white flour that always seems to settle on the bridge of your nose. He wants to taste that layered cream pastry again, sure, but more than that, he just wants to hear the melodic cadence of your voice.
He wants to tease you until your stubborn pride flares up, just so he can witness that fierce, fiery spark in your eyes that makes him feel more alive than any royal decree ever could. He is a prince of the realm, surrounded by high-born court ladies who fawn over his status and offer plastic, practised smiles, but none of them holds a candle to the sharp-tongued, beautiful baker who looks right past his title and treats him like a normal man.
As he navigates the bustling market crowds, his inner monologue takes a heavier, more ache-filled turn. He is growing so tired of the midnight boundaries. He is tired of being the mysterious visitor who has to vanish before the sun crests the horizon. He wants more. He wants to be the one who wakes up next to you, watching the morning light catch your face. He wants to hold your hand in broad daylight, right in the middle of the crowded square, and dare anyone to say a word about it. He wants you to be his, entirely and completely, but he knows how fiercely independent you are, how hard you work for your little shop, and how you probably don't feel the same. So for now, he hoards these secret hours like a dragon guarding gold. And even if he has to keep this boundary with you for the rest of his life, be nothing more, he'll take that sacrifice if it means he gets to be in your presence, in your life, in whatever way you'll have him.
He turns the final corner into the main square, a boyish grin already splitting across his face, his heart does an eager little flip against his ribs. But the moment his eyes land on the bakery, his steps instantly slow to a halt.
The outdoor display racks are completely empty. The heavy linen curtains are drawn tightly across the front windows, blocking out the daylight. The wooden sign dangling from the brass chain reads CLOSED.
Jungkook frowns, a sharp, cold knot of unease tightening in the pit of his stomach. It’s mid-afternoon. The sun is at its peak. You never close the shop at this hour. Even when you were burning up with a fever last winter, you stubbornly dragged yourself down to the counter to sell bread, refusing to lose a single coin.
He hurries up to the heavy front door, his hand trembling slightly as he knocks loudly against the wood. "Y/N? Love? Are you in there? It's me."
Silence. The square carries on around him, completely indifferent to the sudden spike of adrenaline flooding his veins.
Panicking now, his breath catching in his throat, he rushes down the narrow, shadowed side alley toward the back entrance. He grabs the brass handle and turns it, fully expecting it to be locked, but to his surprise, it clicks open. He's going to have a few words with you about that. He slips inside instantly, shutting the heavy door quietly behind him to keep his presence hidden.
The kitchen is cast in deep shadows, completely devoid of the usual roaring hearth fire and bustling energy. The only light comes from a single, lonely candle burning on the centre island.
Then, he spots you.
You are standing by the deep stone sink, your back completely turned to him. Your shoulders are hunched forward, your movements incredibly slow as you mindlessly wipe a copper pot with a rag.
"Hey," he says softly, exhaling a long, ragged breath of relief as he drops his hood. "You scared the absolute hell out of me. Why are the front doors locked? Did you actually sleep in for once?"
You flinch violently at the sound of his voice, your entire body spasming as you drop the rag into the water with a dull splash. You don't turn around to face him. You remain entirely still, staring down into the basin. "Jungkook. What are you doing here? You shouldn't have come. The shop is closed today."
Your voice sounds completely wrong. It is hollow, strained, and entirely stripped of the vibrant, feisty warmth that usually greets him.
Jungkook's playful smile vanishes in an instant, his large doe eyes narrowing with deep, immediate concern. He takes a slow step closer, his boots clicking quietly against the floorboards. "Yeah, I noticed. Are you okay? You sound tired." He tries to inject a tiny bit of his usual playfulness into his tone, trying to coax a smile out of you as he steps up directly behind your frame. "Did you miss me so much this morning that you couldn't even focus on baking today?"
"Not now, Jungkook," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. Your shoulders hunch even further forward, your head bowing.
You slowly reach up with both hands, attempting to place a copper pot on the drying shelf slightly above your head. The exact moment your arms extend upward, your breath catches violently in your throat. A sharp, ragged, agonising wince escapes your lips, and your entire body shudders as you quickly drop your arms back down, your hands flying to clutch tightly at your own side to brace yourself.
Jungkook's protective instincts flare to a blinding degree. The sight of you in discomfort hits him like a physical blow to the chest. He reaches his hand out, his palm hovering just a millimetre above your trembling shoulder, desperate to touch you but terrified of hurting you. "What's wrong? Y/N, what happened?"
"Nothing," you say quickly, your tone sharp, laced with a desperate, stubborn defensiveness.
You finally force yourself to turn around and face him, but you immediately take two deliberate steps backwards, keeping a wide distance between your bodies. You force a terrible, completely strained smile onto your pale lips, though your lower lip is trembling. "I just... I was moving the heavy wooden grain table earlier, and I bumped into the corner. Hit my side pretty hard. It's just a nasty bruise, Jungkook. I'm fine. Really."
Jungkook doesn't buy it for a single second.
He steps right back into your space, his gaze sweeping over you like a hawk, analysing every single detail of your appearance. His heart aches at the sight of you. You look terribly pale, the healthy flush entirely gone from your skin. Your eyes are heavily red-rimmed and puffy, surrounded by dark circles, making it glaringly obvious that you’ve been crying for hours. And your posture is completely wrong: you are leaning slightly forward, your spine stiff as a board, breathing in tiny, shallow, calculated gasps as if expanding your lungs fully is a luxury you can't afford right now.
Seeing you in this state genuinely, physically hurts him. It feels like a cold blade is turning in his own chest; his stomach drops, and a suffocating wave of anxiety threatens to choke him. He hates seeing you vulnerable, hates the fact that something has stolen your bright energy.
He tries to keep his composure, forcing his voice to remain calm so he doesn't spook you, until you turn slightly to the side, attempting to step away from his intense scrutiny to grab a towel.
That's when he sees it.
Through the torn fabric of your shirt, along the side of your figure, he sees the clumsy linen bandage you had tried to wrap around your own torso, which has slipped completely out of place. A small, dark red stain of fresh, wet blood is seeping heavily through the white cloth, stark and horrifying against your skin.
Jungkook’s breath hitches violently in his throat. His blood runs cold.
"Y/N," he says, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, gravelly register, entirely stripped of all playfulness. "Why is there blood on your back?"
You freeze in your tracks, your hands tightening against the fabric of your apron until your knuckles turn white. You try to let out a casual laugh, but it comes out as a pathetic, broken sob that tears right through his chest. "Blood? Oh, don't be ridiculous. It's probably just cherry jam from the tarts. I am a baker, after all, I'm always covered in-"
"Don't lie to me," he commands. The tone is quiet, but it carries the heavy, unyielding authority of a prince who will not be denied.
Before you can utter another word of deflection, he steps directly into your personal space, erasing the distance between you. His large, warm hand moves around to your back, his fingers hovering just a fraction of a millimetre above the blood-soaked bandage. He barely, infinitesimally brushes the very edge of the cloth to see what lies beneath.
The slight, feather-light pressure is a catalyst for pure agony.
A choked, absolutely agonising groan tears from your throat. Your eyes roll back for a fraction of a second as a white-hot wave of pain flares anew across your nerve endings. Your knees completely buckle beneath you, your strength vanishing instantly as your legs give out entirely.
"Whoa- hey, look at me, I've got you, I've got you!" Jungkook panics, his heart leaping straight into his throat.
His arms shoot out in a blind reflex, catching you securely before your body can slam into the hard floorboards. He pulls you tightly against his chest, cradling you against his solid frame, his large doe eyes widening to twice their size with pure, unadulterated terror. He is hyper-aware of how fragile, how small you feel in his arms right now, your entire body trembling violently against him.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I've got you," he frantically whispers, his voice shaking as he holds you up. "Talk to me, please. You have to tell me what happened. You're bleeding."
You clutch desperately at the fabric of his faded tunic, your fingernails burying into the cloth as if it's the only anchor keeping you tethered to reality. The blinding pain, the hours of lonely exhaustion, and the sudden, overwhelming comfort of his warm, safe presence break the stubborn dam holding your emotions back.
You snap completely. You bury your face into the solid crook of his neck and break down, sobbing hysterically. Deep, painful, racking wails tear from your chest, echoing loudly in the empty kitchen.
"It hurts," you cry out, your voice breaking entirely into a raw shriek. "Kook, it hurts so bad, please... I can't bear it..."
Hearing you cry like this, hearing the absolute agony in your voice, completely breaks something fundamental inside Jungkook. A wave of sheer fury crashes over his soul. He sees bright, blinding red. He is the Prince of this kingdom, and someone in his village, under his family's rule, had dared to lay their hands on you. Someone had inflicted this kind of barbaric, sickening pain on the sweetest, most selfless person he knew.
He locks that rage away into a dark corner of his mind, storing it for later, because right now, your tears are the only thing that matters.
"Let me see it," he murmurs, his voice shifting into a soothing, incredibly soft contrast to the storm raging in his chest. "Let me help you, sweetheart."
"No, it's fine, just leave it, please go away," you sob, your stubbornness flaring up one last time through the tears. You weakly try to push his chest away, hiding your face from him. "You shouldn't be here. You're a prince, Jungkook. You shouldn't be seeing me like this... it's messy, it's fine..."
"Y/N," he says, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument, though it is dripping with an unbearable amount of love and panic. He gently but firmly cups your face with both hands, forcing you to look up at him. His own eyes are shiny with unshed tears, wide and desperate as he uses his thumb to wipe a stray tear from your wet cheek. "Look at me. Look into my eyes. I am not going to hurt you. I don't care about being a prince right now. I care about you. Let me see it. Please, don't do this to me. Don't push me away when I know you're hurt."
You look into his frantic, pleading eyes, seeing the genuine agony in his own expression caused purely by your pain, and your stubborn defences finally melt away. You nod weakly, letting your head fall against his chest.
"Let's go upstairs," he whispers against your hair.
He slides one arm securely under your knees and the other firmly behind your shoulders, lifting your body effortlessly into his arms. He carries you up the narrow, creaking wooden stairs as if you weigh absolutely nothing, his movements smooth and careful, ensuring your back never brushes against a single wall or doorframe.
He carries you into your small bedroom, gently setting you down on the very edge of your bed.
The bedroom upstairs is quiet, shadowed by the late afternoon light filtering through the linen curtains. You sit on the very edge of the mattress, your knees pulled slightly toward your chest, your fingers twisting and burying into the worn bedsheets. Every shallow breath you take feels like glass slicing through your skin. Behind you, the quiet rustle of fabric and the soft clink of a ceramic basin tell you that Jungkook is preparing to face whatever horror is hidden beneath your clothes.
"I'm going to pull the fabric down. Is that okay?" Jungkook’s voice is a low, trembling whisper. The playful, cocky boy from last night is completely gone, replaced by a man carrying a heavy gravity.
You nod miserably, dropping your head down.
You feel his large hands settle on the collar of your dress. His touch is so light it’s almost non-existent, his fingers shake slightly as he carefully guides the torn, ruined cotton down your arms. He doesn't pull; he coaxes the fabric away, millimetre by millimetre, ensuring the rough material doesn't catch on the open wounds. As the cloth falls away, exposing your bare back to the cool air of the room, you hear him let out a sharp, ragged intake of breath.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Five jagged, angry lines of destroyed flesh cross your skin. They are swollen, with a deep, bruising purple at the edges, and fresh blood has oozed out where your movement has reopened them. The clumsy linen wrap you had tried to apply is tangled and soaked through with red.
"Who did this to you?" he asks.
The question is delivered in a voice so quiet, so entirely devoid of warmth, that it makes you freeze. If you were to turn around, you would see the menacing glare of a monarch in his eyes. His jaw is clenched so hard the muscles flare against his skin, his knuckles white as he grips a clean cloth.
"The patrol guards," you whisper into the empty room, a fresh tear tracking through the flour dust on your cheek. "In the square this morning. Some of the alley kids... they took a loaf of bread from the display. The guards… they caught them. They pulled out the lash for them. They're just babies, Jungkook. They were hungry. They wouldn't have survived it. I couldn't just watch."
You take a trembling breath, crying out slightly as the movement pulls at your skin. "I told the guards I'd take it instead. Three for each child... one for talking back... and a fifth... because he felt like it."
A suffocating silence fills the room. For a long, agonising moment, he doesn't say a single word. You brace yourself, expecting him to call you foolish, to tell you that a simple villager should never interfere with the Crown's enforcers. Instead, you feel the soft, slow dip of the mattress as he sits down directly behind you, closing the distance between your bodies.
"You are far too good for this world," he murmurs, his voice thick and strained with an emotion so intense it sounds like it’s tearing his throat apart.
Then, you feel the cool, wet cloth touch the very edge of the highest welt.
You flinch violently, a sharp, broken gasp escaping your lips as your hands lock onto the bedsheets. But before you can pull away, Jungkook’s free hand comes around to rest gently on your uninjured hip, holding you steady with an iron-firm but incredibly soft pressure. He rubs gently at the bare skin on your hip.
"Shh, I know, love, I'm sorry. I've got you. I'm being as gentle as I can. Just breathe through it. Focus on my hand," he murmurs, his lips so close to your bare shoulder that his warm breath fans across your skin, offering a fleeting contrast to the stinging cold of the water.
His movements are agonisingly slow but deliberate, focused. He cleans away the dried blood, his fingertips occasionally brushing against your uninjured skin. The sheer intimacy of the act makes your heart hammer in a completely different way. He treats your body like it is made of the rarest, most fragile porcelain, his touch lingering over the curves of your shoulders as if he wishes he could absorb the pain into his own skin.
He reaches into the wooden cabinet on your wall and pulls out a jar of thick, green herbal salve. He rubs a generous amount between his palms, warming it up before he speaks. "This is going to sting at first, Y/N. But it will help the fire go out. Let me know if it's too much."
When his fingers make contact with the raw wounds, a whimper tears from your throat, and without thinking, you lean to the side, your head resting against his solid shoulder. Jungkook doesn't move. He accepts your weight fully, his chest pressing lightly against your side as he leans to the side to get a better angle. His fingertips are unbelievably soft as they smooth the thick ointment over the angry welts, working with a reverent, quiet rhythm.
Every time your body shudders with a sob, he pauses completely. He leans forward, pressing his lips in a soft, comforting breath against the uninjured skin of your neck, whispering broken apologies into your skin until the tremors slow down. It feels intensely, overwhelmingly private, a sanctuary built out of raw pain and an undercurrent of heavy, undeniable devotion.
Finally, he takes a fresh roll of clean white linen bandage. To wrap it around your torso, he has to slide both of his arms completely around your waist. He leans in close, his chest flushing against your uninjured skin, effectively enveloping you in a tight embrace. You can feel the heavy beat of his heart against your shoulder blade as he pulls the cloth snug, securing it with small pins.
"There," he whispers against your ear, his hands lingering on your waist, his thumbs rubbing small circles into your sides before he reluctantly pulls away. "All clean. The fire should start to fade now."
You slowly turn your head, looking at him over your shoulder. His doe eyes are dark, swimming with a profound, aching yearning that terrifies you in their intensity. He looks at you not like a friend, and not like a vagabond, but like a man who has just watched his entire world bleed.
"Lie down," he commands softly, his voice thick, pulling the heavy wool blankets back. "Don't sleep on your back, lie on your stomach. I'm going to go brew some tea for you, okay? Don't move an inch."
You are too exhausted, too thoroughly drained of strength to argue. You crawl into the centre of the bed, resting your cheek against the pillow, and he pulls the blanket over you before leaving.
Within minutes, Jungkook returns, holding a steaming ceramic mug. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his large hand gently lifting your chin to help you take a few sips of the warm, sweet liquid.
The warmth of the tea and the cooling effect of the salve make your eyelids incredibly heavy. Jungkook sets the mug on the nightstand and reaches out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, his touch agonisingly tender.
"Thank you, Jungkook," you slurry, your eyes fluttering shut as darkness tugs at the edges of your mind. "For staying."
He leans down, his lips pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. He lingers there before pulling away and resting a hand over yours on the pillow beside you. "I will always stay," he whispers against your skin, his voice sounding far away. "Sleep now, my beautiful baker."
He stays with you, one hand stroking the back of your head, fingers toying with the strands of your hair, and occasionally massaging your scalp, his other hand firm on top of your own until you drift off. The moment your breathing evens out into a deep, heavy slumber, the lingering softness completely evaporates from Jungkook’s face.
He stands up from the edge of the mattress, his frame expanding to its full, imposing height as his expression hardens into pure, unadulterated ice. The boyish warmth that usually fills his dark eyes is gone, replaced by a vacant stillness. He looks down at you one last time, your pale face resting against the pillow, and leans over to press another gentle, feather-light kiss to your temple.
He quietly moves around the room, his boots making absolutely no sound against the wooden floorboards. He sets a fresh glass of water on your nightstand, along with a small plate of dried fruits and crackers he salvaged from your pantry. Beside it, he leaves a small piece of parchment, scrawling a quick note in his elegant, fluent script.
He writes in his usual playful tone, desperate to lighten your mood when you wake up, even if his own chest feels like it is caving in from pure malice:
Eat all of this. If I come back tonight and find out you haven't eaten, I'm going to steal every single pastry in the kitchen as punishment. Rest up, my pretty girl. I'll be back to cause more trouble soon~
He slips out of the bedroom, guides himself down the narrow stairs, and exits the bakery, locking the back door securely behind him.
The walk back to the palace is a blur of blinding, volcanic rage. He doesn't care about staying hidden anymore; he doesn't slip through the shadows or wait for patrols to pass. He cuts through the upper village like a wraith, his eyes fixed on the towering stone citadel ahead. People stare as he passes them, a path being made before him as people flock to the side, no doubt whispering about the stern look on his face.
He storms through the heavy iron servant entrances, slamming doors on their hinges, tearing off the faded linen tunic and throwing it to the stone floor like trash. Attendants and low-ranking guards rush to him, bowing in absolute terror at the sheer aura of lethal fury radiating from the young prince. They have never seen him like this.
"Get me my royal uniform," Jungkook barks, his voice ringing through the high stone corridors like a crack of thunder. "Now."
Minutes later, he is clad in the official armour of the high crest: a dark, structured jacket lined with heavy gold trim, epaulettes resting on his broad shoulders, heavy leather combat boots, and the royal insignia pinned sharply over his chest. He looks every bit the future ruler he was born to be.
He strides down the western corridor toward the main guard barracks. The heavy oak doors, reinforced with iron bands, don't just open; they slam against the stone walls with a violent, echoing crash as he kicks them through.
Dozens of off-duty guards and captains instantly freeze, dropping their dice and flagons of ale, snapping to absolute attention. The room goes dead silent.
"Who patrolled the main market square in the lower village this morning?" Jungkook demands. His voice isn't loud, but it is dangerously low, vibrating with a lethal, quiet edge that makes the hair on the back of everyone's necks stand up.
Near the back of the room, two guards exchange a nervous, sweating glance. Slowly, their armour clanking in the heavy silence, they step forward and bow deeply.
So these are the brutes who had stood over you on the cobblestones.
"We did, Your Highness," the lead guard stammers, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. "Is there an issue with the sector?"
Jungkook doesn't answer immediately. He walks up to them with a slow, agonisingly measured pace. The air in the barracks becomes completely suffocating, the temperature practically dropping as the prince circles them. He stops directly in front of the guard, who has a heavy leather whip strapped to his belt.
"An issue?" Jungkook echoes, a terrifying, dark smile tilting the left corner of his lips, though his eyes remain dead and vacant. He peers down at the guard, who is half a head shorter than him. He folds his hands behind his back, leaning in slightly. "Tell me about your morning patrol. I want to hear about how efficiently you enforce the King's law."
The lead guard swallows hard, his throat bobbing nervously. "It was... a routine patrol, sir. We apprehended a group of street rats attempting to steal from the market stalls. We administered the standard physical deterrent to ensure compliance with crown regulations."
"A physical deterrent," Jungkook repeats, his tone almost conversational, entirely too calm. "And tell me... did these so-called street rats take the lashes?"
The guard shifts his weight, his iron greaves clanking with the movement. "No, Your Highness. A local villager stepped in. A peasant girl from the bakery. She obstructed our duty and offered to take the penalty in their stead. We accommodated her request to maintain the crown's authority in the square."
"You accommodated her," Jungkook whispers. His jaw clenches so hard the muscles flare violently against his skin. His fingers curl into tight, white-knuckled fists behind his back. "Five lashes. Is that correct?"
The second guard, thinking the prince is merely verifying protocol, chimes in, "Yes, sir. Three for the stolen goods, one for her insolence and talking back to the guard, and... one extra, just to ensure she remembers her place beneath the law."
The mention of the fifth lash, the one delivered purely out of sadistic amusement, shatters the final thread of Jungkook's restraint, leaving behind a monster driven by pure, protective devastation.
Without a single syllable of warning, Jungkook’s right fist shoots forward.
Crack.
His knuckles connect squarely with the lead guard's jaw with an inhuman amount of force. The sheer momentum of the blow rips the heavily armoured man off his feet, sending him flying backwards. His body crashes into a heavy oak table, splintering the thick wood into raw kindling before his armour skids across the stone floor, a spray of dark blood erupting from his shattered mouth.
The second guard gasps in pure shock, his eyes widening in horror as his hand flies to the hilt of his sword in a blind, conditioned reflex.
"Touch that steel," Jungkook roars, stepping into his space instantly, "and I will take your hand off your wrist."
Before the guard can even process the threat, Jungkook's royal combat training takes over. He intercepts the man's arm, his grip clamping down on the wrist like an iron vice. With a brutal, fluid twist of his upper body, he snaps the guard's wrist backwards. The bone pops with a sickening, wet crunch, forcing a loud, piercing shriek of agony from the man's throat.
Jungkook doesn't stop. He drives his knee directly into the guard's stomach, crushing the wind out of his lungs, followed by a heavy kick straight to his chest plate. The metal dents inward with a loud clang, and the guard goes sailing through the air, crashing hard onto the stone floor, coughing up strings of bright blood as he rolls onto his side, clutching his broken arm.
The rest of the barracks stands paralysed. No one moves. No one breathes. To strike a royal guard is treason, but when the attacker is the future King, and a man who can kill with his bare hands, the law belongs entirely to him.
Jungkook turns his gaze back to the first guard, who is desperately scrambling backwards on his hands and knees like a terrified, wounded animal, leaving a trail of blood on the floor.
Jungkook walks over to him, his heavy leather boots thudding rhythmically. He stands over the grovelling man, then reaches down, grabbing the guard by the throat and the collar of his iron breastplate. With a guttural growl of pure, unadulterated rage, Jungkook rips the man completely off the ground, slamming his back against a massive stone pillar.
"Who do you think you are?" Jungkook hoarsely whispers, his face inches from the guard's bleeding, trembling features. He tightens his grip on the man's throat, cutting off his air until the guard's face begins to turn purple. "You wear my family's crest. You carry weapons funded by my treasury. You eat food provided by my citizens. And you use that power to strike an innocent, defenceless woman in the streets?"
"Your Highness- p-please-mercy…" the guard chokes out, tears of genuine, paralysing fright mixing with the dark blood pouring down his chin. "We didn't... we didn't know she was... we didn't know..."
"You didn't know what?" Jungkook roars, slamming him against the stone pillar a second time, cracking the mortar behind his head. "That she has a name? That she feels pain? That her life is worth infinitely more than your pathetic, miserable existences?"
He weakens his grip just enough to let the man gasp for air, only to drive a brutal left hook directly into the guard's ribs. The sound of fracturing bone echoes clearly in the silent room. The guard lets out a strangled sob, his head slumping forward.
Jungkook grabs him by his hair, forcing his head back up so he has to look into his eyes, eyes that are currently completely devoid of mercy, cold and dark as a winter grave.
"Listen to me very carefully," Jungkook whispers, his voice dropping into that lethal, quiet promise that chills everyone in the room to the bone. "If I ever see either of you set foot in the lower village market again... if I ever hear that you so much as look in the direction of that bakery... I will ensure you are stripped of your titles, thrown into the deepest dungeon beneath this palace, and I will personally pick up the leather lash and show you what five strikes feel like when delivered by someone who actually knows how to use it. Do you understand me?"
"Yes... Yes, Your Highness... Forgive us... Forgive us..." the guard weeps, his spirit completely broken, pressed flat against the cold stone.
Jungkook shoves the guard away in utter disgust, letting his limp, groaning body slide down the base of the pillar into a pathetic heap.
The prince stands up straight, slowly adjusting the cuffs of his dark royal jacket, his chest heaving with heavy, deliberate breaths as he reins in his wild adrenaline. The fury still burns hot in his veins, but his composure returns like a heavy curtain falling over a stage. He looks around the barracks at the rest of the silent soldiers who are still locked at attention, none of them daring to even blink.
"Clean this pathetic mess up," Jungkook barks coldly, casting one final, disgusted look at the two broken men on the floor. "And remember exactly whose crest you wear. If any of you forget your duty to protect our people, I will personally remind you."
He turns on his polished leather heel, his golden cape snapping behind him, and storms out of the barracks, his mind already racing out of the palace gates and straight back to your quiet, shadowed bedroom.
The bright, warm rays of the morning sun pierce through your thin linen curtains, casting long, golden bars across your bedroom.
You slowly blink your eyes open, your body instantly tensing as you brace yourself for the white-hot, agonising fire that had consumed your back yesterday. You hold your breath, carefully shifting your weight to test the movement, but to your absolute surprise, the blinding agony has receded into a dull, thoroughly manageable ache. The throbbing is heavy, a reminder of the guards' cruelty, but it no longer cuts your breath short. The cooling herbal salve Jungkook applied worked absolute wonders overnight.
You slowly press your palms into the mattress, pushing yourself up into a sitting position, your eyes immediately darting around the quiet room.
Jungkook.
He is gone. The space beside your bed feels entirely empty, the cool morning air still carrying the faintest, lingering hint of his crisp, rich scent.
A heavy wave of emotion hits you as you sit there in the morning silence, the blankets pooled around your waist. Your mind drifts back to the blurry memories of yesterday. You remember the sheer terror in Jungkook's eyes when your knees had buckled in the kitchen, the way his strong arms had snapped around you before you could even hit the floor. He had held you so tightly against his chest, as if you were something incredibly precious he couldn't bear to see broken.
The memory of his touch makes your skin tingle beneath your bandages. He is the Crown Prince of the realm, a man born to be served, and yet he spent his hours kneeling on your floor, on your bed, cleaning your wounds with trembling hands, and whispering soft, broken apologies against your skin every time you whimpered in pain. The sheer, intoxicating intimacy of him wrapping the linen around your waist, pulling you flush against his solid chest, plays on a loop in your head. It sends a strange, dizzying heat curling deep into your stomach, a mixture of profound gratitude and a budding, terrifyingly deep affection.
You turn your head towards the nightstand. There sits a fresh glass of clear water, a small plate neatly stacked with dried fruits and crackers, and a folded piece of parchment. You reach out, your fingers tracing the crisp edges of the paper before unfolding it. Reading his messy, hurried handwriting, a genuine, breathless laugh bubbles up in your chest.
The ridiculous boyishness of his threat instantly cuts through the lingering shadows of yesterday's trauma. Even when he is trying to be authoritative, he can’t help but be the same teasing menace who steals your cake batter. You smile, dutifully eating every single cracker and dried fruit on the plate, feeling the energy slowly returning to your limbs, before drinking the water down to the very last drop.
Exhaling a long, steady breath, you carefully slide off the bed. You find a loose, lightweight, clean dress in your wardrobe and slip it over your head with meticulous care so the fabric doesn't rub harshly against the fresh dressings. You feel remarkably better; the deep, uninterrupted rest has done wonders for your body and mind.
Marching down the staircase, you are determined to open the bakery today. You refuse to let those guards steal your livelihood or intimidate you out of your own shop, and you certainly can't let your regular village customers down two days in a row.
The kitchen downstairs is dead quiet, smelling faintly of the chamomile tea Jungkook had brewed for you. You walk straight to the front door, unlocking the heavy brass deadbolt, and pull the thick curtains back to let the brilliant morning light flood the room. Bracing yourself, you push the front door open and step onto the threshold to set up the outdoor display.
The moment your boots clear the frame, you freeze completely in your tracks.
Sitting proudly on the wooden bench right beside your shop entrance is an overflowing bouquet. It is massive, easily the size of your entire torso, completely taking over the small wooden bench. But as you take a slow, hesitant step closer, your brow furrows in sheer confusion.
The flowers aren't real.
You lean down, your breath catching completely in your throat as your eyes scan the arrangement. They are meticulously, beautifully handcrafted entirely out of soft, colourful yarn. Dozens upon dozens of intricately crocheted roses, delicate lilies, and bright daisies, amongst others, which are woven together with an unbelievable amount of patience, care, and precision. The bouquet bursts with vibrant, warm shades of pastel pink, sunny yellow, and rich cream, completely immune to the biting morning frost.
Tears instantly spring to your eyes, a sudden, heavy wave of emotion tightening in your chest until it's actually hard to breathe.
You are, unfortunately, severely allergic to real flowers; the pollen makes your eyes swell shut, and your lungs feel heavier within minutes. It is a small, trivial detail you had mentioned to Jungkook months ago, a passing, light-hearted remark made at two in the morning while you both sat on the kitchen floor giggling over a tray of accidentally burnt sugar cookies. You hadn't thought twice about it. You had assumed he forgot it the second the words left your mouth.
Yet here they are. Flowers that will never wither, flowers that can never trigger your allergies, flowers made with a level of dedication that a person can only give when they are entirely, irrevocably devoted to someone. Only a handful of people in the world know that secret about you, and your royal visitor remembered every single syllable.
Tucked precisely into the centre of the soft yarn roses is a small, heavy piece of parchment. You reach out, your fingers trembling violently as you pull the note free from the stitches and unfold it.
I heard real flowers make you sneeze.
These will never wither, and they will never hurt you.
I'll be there tonight. Don't lock the back door.
- J.
p.s. leave out some extra cookies, please <3
You press the heavy paper firmly against your chest, right over your thundering heart, staring out into the bustling village square. A silent tear slips down your cheek, cutting through the light dust of flour on your skin, but a bright, genuine smile graces your lips.
Yesterday, you felt completely alone, broken and humiliated on the cold cobblestones while the world looked away in fear. But today, clutching this note, you feel safer, more cherished, and more protected than you have ever felt in your entire life.
You find yourself glancing up at the morning sun, already tracking its slow path across the sky, a deep, restless yearning settling into your very bones. For the first time in your life, you find yourself utterly despising the daylight, wishing the hours would fly by in a breathless blur. You can't bring yourself to care about the flour, the dough, or the baking today. All your heart can focus on is the ticking of the clock, desperately waiting for midnight to fall so you can hear that muffled chime, the click of the door, and fall back into the familiar step with your prince.
SUMMARY; requested: Childhood friends and partners in mischief, you and Daemon Targaryen were inseparable—until you left for the sea two years ago. Now you’ve returned, salt-kissed and changed, to find him sharper, darker, and just as dangerous… yet his storm still bends toward you.
WARNINGS: Explicit Content Warning- PinV, Fingering (not that descriptive), death, wounds, it’s extra long for no reason. Time skips because I didn’t feel like writing some scenes.
AN: I have more HoTD and GoT request, also some TLOU request, it’s my first one so I’m excited.
𓆞⎯⎯⋆𓇼⋆⎯⎯𓆞
It began so faintly that at first, no one quite knew what they were hearing.
A low whistle, the sort sailors used to keep time during long, lonely watches, wound through the air like a thread of smoke. It wasn’t tuneful in the way court musicians played — no lilting melody or flourish — just a steady, unhurried rise and fall. It wasn’t meant for dancing, nor for drawing attention. It was the sort of sound that carried on open water when you didn’t want to shout, when the night was long and the stars kept their own counsel.
The sound did not belong in the Red Keep’s council chamber.
The voices around the long table faltered first, one after another. The Kingsguard posted at the doors exchanged the barest of glances, shoulders squaring in the way men do when they aren’t sure if trouble is coming but mean to be ready for it. Otto Hightower’s quill, which had been scratching away with practiced irritation, paused mid-stroke. Even Viserys — hunched slightly in his seat, crown a fraction off-center — turned toward the source of the sound, his clouded eyes narrowing, his head tilting like a man listening for a ghost.
The whistle drew closer. Louder. Its rhythm unchanging.
Then, the first door pushed open. Not all the way — just enough to let in a breath of salt air and the soft echo of bootsteps on the stone. The whistle slipped in with them, curling into the vaulted chamber like a piece of flotsam borne in on the tide. The second door swung wide, and you stepped inside.
The light from the hallway caught you in silhouette first: the sway of your skirt, split high for ease of movement; the darkened Velaryon blues and silvers of your corset and sash, frayed slightly from hard travel but still unmistakably of the sea; the glint of a dagger strapped to your hip; and the faint clink of the charms braided into the long, wavy fall of your white hair. A coin purse rested against your thigh, its jingle barely audible beneath the sharper music of the charms, and through it all, the whistle never broke its rhythm.
Two years.
Two years since any of them had seen you in the flesh. In that time, you had not set foot in Driftmark or King’s Landing for longer than a passing hour. Before, you’d always stopped in — a week here, a few days there — but since your last letter, you had been gone without warning. No farewell. No explanation. You had vanished as if the tide itself had stolen you away.
“Daughter,” Lord Corlys said, his voice carrying across the chamber like the crack of a sail in a sudden wind. He was already rising, the warmth breaking over his face as steady and certain as sunlight after a storm.
Beside him, Rhaenys straightened, her regal stillness shifting just slightly. The steel in her bearing softened, though her eyes shone with something sharp — relief wrapped in the habit of restraint. “By the gods,” she murmured under her breath, the corner of her mouth tipping upward. “You look just like your father did when he first came to court.”
Daemon Targaryen had been lounging in his chair, one arm stretched along the rest, a faintly smug curl to his mouth as he readied himself to interrupt whatever priggish point Otto was winding toward. He hadn’t looked up at the commotion — not until the click of your charms reached his ear and your shadow stretched across the table.
When he did, the smirk was gone, replaced by something quieter.
“Perla hen ñuha prūmia,” he said in High Valyrian, the words low and molten, drawn from somewhere deep in his chest. Pearl of my heart.
A slow grin pulled at your lips as you answered in kind, your own Valyrian thick with the cadence of shipmen and dockside traders your father trusted above all others. “Ñuha qēlos vōlke!” you called back, fondness threading through every syllable. My rogue dragon.
Daemon rose, not with haste but with a deliberate ease, as if savoring each step toward you. When he reached you, you tilted your head, your gaze catching on the fall of his dark hair. “You’ve grown it out,” you murmured, letting your fingers slip through the strands as though testing the texture against your memory.
His eyes closed briefly at the touch, his breathing slowing as if the room had narrowed to just the space between you.
“I can make a sailor of you yet,” you went on, your smile curling sly. “Ditch Wyrm and come ride with me.”
That drew laughter from both Rhaenys and Corlys — not the polite chuckles courtly manners demanded, but genuine, unguarded mirth. Rhaenys shook her head, warmth lingering in her eyes. “Seven save me, you are your father’s daughter.”
From across the table, Vaemond Velaryon’s gaze remained fixed on you, his expression still as deep water. He did not smile. “Your return is… unexpected,” he said at last, his voice smooth but edged like a polished blade. “One wonders if the crown will finally hold you here, niece, rather than let you drift.”
“I drift where I please, uncle,” you replied, easy as the tide, meeting his stare without flinch. “And I have a good compass.”
Before Vaemond could sharpen the point, Laenor shoved his chair back with the familiar scrape of wood on stone and strode toward you, his grin wide and unrestrained. “Couldn’t send word first?” he teased. “Just appear out of the mist like some shipwreck spirit?”
“And give you the satisfaction of counting the days?” you shot back, stepping into his arms. The embrace was fierce — the kind meant for those who’ve survived storms apart and mean not to be lost to them again.
“Ah!” Rhaenys’ voice carried over the table, her hand beckoning to two boys lingering at her side. “You’ve not been properly introduced to your nephews.”
The younger one, Luke, moved first, his bow quick and precise. “Yes, my lady.”
That startled a hearty laugh out of you — rich and unrestrained, echoing off the chamber’s stone until both boys blinked in surprise. “Oi! Proper manners on these two, aye?” you grinned. “No need for all that. I’m your aunt. Laenor’s older sister.”
Jace’s eyes went wide. “Truly?”
“Truly,” you confirmed, reaching out to ruffle his hair without hesitation.
Laenor glanced at them with a smug little tilt of his brow, a silent I told you so, before stepping back. When you turned toward the table again, Daemon was still there beside you, his arm settling with deceptive casualness along the back of your shoulders. His thumb traced slow, idle circles against the fabric at your arm — small enough for most to miss, but not for Vaemond.
“Where have you been, my wayward girl?” Rhaenys asked, her tone half-motherly, half-accusation, though her eyes softened as you slid into the empty seat beside Daemon.
You leaned back, one arm draped over the chair, casual as the tide. “Braavos,” you began, ticking the places off on your fingers. “Some other Free Cities. The Iron Islands for a bit.” A sly grin touched your lips. “I heard that my lovely Princess and dragon-bound brother were married, and — being very late to the news — I had to come and inspect the truth for myself.”
You passed a deliberate wink to Rhaenyra. She returned it with a bright smile, one touched with genuine warmth. There had been letters, but no one could put your laugh on paper, no matter how hard they tried. She had missed it. Missed you.
“Well, your return is more than welcome,” Vaemond hummed, the words shaped like honey, but the tone just a shade too measured.
“Will you be staying?” Laenor cut in, almost boyish in the way his shoulders leaned forward, his grin just shy of eager. “For good?”
You turned your head toward him, the heavy fall of your white hair sliding over your shoulder. “Of course,” you said, smile blooming wider. “I missed Old Salt…” your gaze shifted to your father, locking with his for a moment that held more than the words could carry, “…and Mother dearly.”
Corlys’ jaw worked, not with restraint but with the effort of keeping the pride in his face from showing too openly. Rhaenys, too, gave a rare, unabashed smile.
Daemon, lounging at your side, made no comment — but his fingers drummed lightly against the table near your elbow, as if the news of you staying pleased him more than he’d care to admit in front of the others.
Across the table, Vaemond’s expression didn’t waver, but there was a flicker in his eyes, the kind of calculation that never truly stopped turning in his mind.
And for the first time in years, the chamber felt less like a council room and more like the heart of a home — a family gathered after far too long apart. But the air still held an undercurrent, the faint, restless hum of unspoken rivalries and half-buried claims, waiting for the right wind to stir them to the surface.
The council had dissolved into the usual shuffling of chairs and low conversations, scrolls rolled tight and inkpots capped. Lords and ladies drifted toward the doors in twos and threes, their talk soft enough to pretend disinterest in you but loud enough for you to hear your name whispered more than once.
You lingered, speaking with Laenor and Rhaenyra while the boys stood close by. Jace was trying to feign disinterest while sneaking looks at the dagger at your hip; Luke had no such subtlety, openly staring until Laenor nudged him. The warmth of their smiles — and Rhaenyra’s too — had your chest feeling lighter than it had in months.
It was then that Vaemond approached.
“My niece,” he greeted, voice silked but measured, his hands clasped behind his back as he stepped into your space. “Might I… have a word? Privately.”
You excused yourself from Laenor with a small squeeze of his shoulder and followed Vaemond a few paces to the edge of the hall, the marble underfoot cold even through your boots.
His tone dropped lower once you were out of earshot. “It has been far too long since Driftmark could claim the honor of your company. I confess, I had begun to think the sea had swallowed you for good.”
You smiled faintly, tilting your head. “The sea spits me back when she’s done with me.”
Vaemond’s lips curved, but his eyes flickered — not to you, but briefly toward the center of the room where Jace and Luke now stood beside their mother. “Driftmark… is in need of strong hands, loyal ones. And your return, well—” his gaze settled on you again, intent and assessing. “It opens certain… possibilities.”
“Possibilities?” you echoed, folding your arms lightly.
“Marriage,” he said simply, though the word was dressed in courtly restraint. “A union that would keep the bloodline true. Keep our house secure.” His tone shifted, the edge barely audible. “Ensure that no question of… heritage… could unsettle Driftmark’s claim.”
Your eyes followed his glance toward the boys — laughing now with Laenor, Rhaenyra leaning in to murmur something that made them both grin. You felt your own lips curve.
“They are my nephews,” you said plainly. “That is all that matters to me.”
Vaemond’s jaw twitched. “You are a gem, niece. A gem beyond means. I… I would never intrude upon your wishes…” His voice softened further as he reached, fingers brushing your hand before curling around it.
You let him. For the moment.
“Then don’t,” came a low, sharp hiss from just behind you.
Before you could turn fully, Daemon’s hand closed around your arm — not harsh, but enough to pull you back a half-step, out of Vaemond’s hold.
“Prince Daemon,” Vaemond greeted coolly, though his gaze was edged. “We were merely discussing—”
“I heard,” Daemon cut him off, the words flat and final. “And I decided the discussion was over.”
Vaemond’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but his smile returned — thin, unbothered on the surface. “Of course. My niece knows where to find me… should she wish to speak further.” He inclined his head to you, lingering a beat longer than to Daemon, before turning away.
The silence between you and Daemon stretched for a breath.
“What was that about?” you asked finally, your words heavier for the accent you carried — the syllables drawn slower, like the sea dragging over stone.
“Nothing to concern you, prūmia,” he murmured, eyes steady on yours.
You hummed low in your throat, a sound that was neither agreement nor refusal, but a note of warning that you’d let this pass — for now. Daemon’s grip loosened, though he didn’t step back.
The hall was almost empty now, save for your family gathered by the doors. Still, the air between the two men seemed to linger in the space you’d just vacated, like the ghost of a wave that hadn’t yet decided whether it would break or pull back.
𓆞⎯⎯⋆𓇼⋆⎯⎯𓆞
The high table had been set for a proper welcome — candles in silver holders, plates of roasted fish and honeyed root vegetables, flagons of wine and mead. The air carried the rich scent of garlic and lemon, and beneath it, the faint tang of salt from the open sea-facing windows.
You had barely touched your food. Not for lack of appetite, but because every time you opened your mouth, someone asked you for another story.
Daemon sat at your right — of course he did — leaning back in his chair as though disinterested, yet his eyes rarely left you. You could feel them, following the movement of your hands when you gestured, watching the shape of your mouth as you spoke. His boot pressed against your calf beneath the table, a quiet, testing contact. Years ago, you’d have pulled back with a flustered laugh. Now, you didn’t move an inch. If anything, you leaned in a fraction, the weight of your thigh settling against his.
He wondered — with a curl at the corner of his mouth — if you knew that in childhood, it had been you with the crush. And now, gods help him, he was certain it was him.
“…and then,” you were saying, “the fool tripped over the mooring rope and went clean into the harbor, pockets full of coin. Nearly drowned himself buying ale for the crew.”
Laughter rippled along the table — Laenor grinning like a boy again, Corlys’ laugh loud and genuine, Rhaenys shaking her head in amusement.
“Seven hells, you’ve gone and acquired a dockside accent,” Laenor teased.
“Aye, and proud of it,” you shot back with a wink, your voice rolling with that unmistakable, heavy-lilted edge.
From further down the table, Lucerys had been sitting up straighter, glancing at you between bites as though gathering courage. Finally, he blurted, “Can you, uhm… take me out sailing? Sometime?”
The table went quiet — the kind of quiet that follows a surprise no one saw coming.
You turned toward him, warmth in your expression. “I would be delighted to take you, Lucerys Velaryon, sailing. It is only right, being you are to be heir of Driftmark.”
Luke’s face lit up, the smile blooming wide.
“We need more sailors,” you added, glancing around the table. “I’m outnumbered here!”
Your laugh broke the tension for most, but not all.
“Such inheritance should be discussed in council, not over stories,” Vaemond murmured from the far side, his voice carrying just enough to reach your ears.
You sipped your wine before answering. “My father wrote to me plenty — whenever I stayed in one place long enough. He is to be named heir. My brother’s son.”
The room shifted, eyes flicking between you and Vaemond.
“My dark-haired Velaryon belongs in Driftmark,” you said plainly, the words as firm as a knot pulled tight.
Vaemond’s gaze narrowed. “Mm. Dark hair,” he murmured.
Rhaenyra’s posture tightened, but before the air could sour further, you smiled suddenly at Luke. “Speaking of — I have something for you.”
“Me?” he asked, startled.
You reached into the small pouch at your belt and drew out a silver pin — a dragon coiled protectively around a seahorse. Untarnished, gleaming as if it had just been pulled from the jeweler’s hands.
You rose from your seat. Luke, unsure, rose too.
You reached up, cupping his face in both hands before lowering yourself to one knee so you had to look up at him. The hall fell silent.
“I know I haven’t been around a lot,” you began, voice soft but steady. “And I know what it feels like to be… different.” You glanced down briefly, then back into his eyes. “My brother, my mother, hells — everyone but my father rides a dragon. The one time I was face to face with one, he nearly burned me alive. Safe to say, I will not be riding on a dragon anytime soon.”
You tipped your head, your thumbs brushing his cheeks. “But you’re my blood.”
You leaned in, your next words meant for him — and for those close enough to hear. Rhaenyra heard. Jace heard. And they knew exactly who else would hear them.
“No matter what anyone says. No man, no crown, no tide will ever change what you are. That is Lucerys Velaryon. My nephew.” You smiled faintly. “My dark-haired dragon. I don’t care what he says.” Your chin jerked subtly toward Vaemond.
“You don’t care?” Luke whispered.
“Gods, no.”
“You swear?” His voice was small, as if the answer mattered more than anything he had ever asked. “You don’t look at me… differently?”
Laenor stiffened beside Rhaenyra. The princess kept her gaze locked on you, waiting.
“Never, my dark-haired dragon,” you said, your voice sure and unshaken. “You are now mine to protect. No man will ever speak ill against you as long as I am here.”
Luke’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. You fixed the pin to his collar yourself, the silver catching the candlelight, a promise made tangible.
Daemon’s boot pressed a little firmer against your leg under the table when you sat again — not in possession, but in quiet solidarity.
And Vaemond… Vaemond said nothing, though his eyes lingered on you far longer than on his plate.
𓆞⎯⎯⋆𓇼⋆⎯⎯𓆞
The corridors of the Keep were quieter after dinner, the torches along the walls casting warm pools of gold on the stone. The sound of the feast — clatter of dishes, hum of conversation — faded with each step you and Daemon took, your pace unhurried.
“You’ve gone and let him steal you,” Daemon said at last, the words carrying that familiar curl of amusement, though his tone was softer than the smirk suggested.
You glanced up at him, brow arched. “Luke?”
He gave a small shrug, hands clasped loosely behind his back. “Pinned you with that big-eyed look, and now you’re his. He’ll have you teaching him knots and sea songs before the week’s end.”
Your laugh was low and warm, spilling into the dim hallway. “You said the same thing when Viserys asked me to walk with him at supper. We were children, Daemon. You were always selfish.”
His mouth twitched, but there was no denying in his voice when he said, “Only for you. Always.”
The words hung there between you, heavier than either of you wanted to admit.
You’d reached your chambers without realizing, and when you turned, Daemon was already leaning one hand against the doorframe, his body angled toward yours. He looked down at you — not with the teasing grin he’d worn all evening, but with something quieter, more searching.
Your breath caught, just a little.
You reached up and cupped his cheek, the pads of your fingers brushing the rough shadow of stubble along his jaw. His skin was warm under your palm. You let your thumb trace along his cheekbone before pressing a kiss there — soft, deliberate.
“Good night, my dragon,” you murmured.
His gaze didn’t leave yours. “You’ll still be here when I wake?”
You blinked. The question was simple, but the note beneath it was not. He knew your habit too well — slipping away in the dead of night, sparing yourself goodbyes by avoiding them entirely.
“I promise,” you said, and you meant it.
You reached for his hand then, turning it palm-up before placing something in it — a ring. His ring. The same one he’d given you years ago, the day you’d sworn some foolish pact between friends that neither of you had ever quite broken. The metal was cool from your fingers, familiar.
“Give this back to me in the morning,” you said with a small smile
Daemon’s eyes softened. He closed his fingers around it, his grip deliberate. “I will.”
He leaned down, and instead of a quick brush, he pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering there. You could feel his breath warm against your skin, the quiet weight of him unwilling to move just yet.
When he finally drew back, the ghost of his touch still hummed there, and you knew sleep would be slow to find you.
And from the way his fingers closed protectively around that ring, you suspected it might be the same for him.
𓆞⎯⎯⋆𓇼⋆⎯⎯𓆞
Daemon had been waiting far longer than he cared to admit.
The feast was well underway, the King’s Landing lords and ladies filtering in with their measured bows and clipped pleasantries. They were all here for the same reason — to glimpse the Velaryon daughter returned at last. And yet, you were nowhere to be seen.
He’d saved you a seat beside him, his arm draped along the back as though keeping it from anyone else. Each time someone approached to claim it, his gaze was enough to send them searching for another chair. But as the minutes stretched into hours, an old, familiar unease began to curl low in his chest.
You’d promised him.
He turned the ring in his palm — the one you’d pressed into his hand outside your chamber. His fingers closed around it, then slowly, he slid it onto his smallest finger. It barely fit, a reminder of how small your hands had been when he’d first given it to you. He flexed his hand once, then tugged it free, slipping it back into his grasp. He’d return it to you in the morning, if you kept your word. If you were still here.
You weren’t good at goodbyes. Never had been. And every time you lied about it, it was always to spare his feelings.
He hated that you thought he needed sparing.
A movement by the doors drew his attention. The music faltered, the strings slowing, the laughter dimming. Then came a sound — low, persistent. A hum. Then another, off-tune but steady, threading through the room like a small, stubborn wave working its way to shore
He knew that sound.
The great doors opened, and heads turned — your father, Lord Corlys, straightening immediately. Rhaenys’ eyes brightened, Vaemond’s narrowed. Even Viserys and Alicent turned toward the entrance, their gazes caught,
Daemon’s fingers clenched the ring tighter.
Then you stepped inside. Not alone — but with Lucerys Velaryon at your side, dressed not in court silks, but in the colors and cut of a Driftmark sailor. The sight stole the breath from the room.
Your smile was bright enough to burn through the hush. “Now presenting, future heir of House Driftmark — Lucerys Velaryon!”
Luke smiled sheepishly under the weight of so many eyes. Rhaenyra’s expression softened into something half-pride, half-surprise. The murmurs rippled through the gathered lords and ladies — some admiring, some calculating.
“Well stand and show respect!” you called, the command snapping like a sail in a sudden wind. There was no hesitation — chairs scraped back, silks swished, and the hall rose as one.
You giggled, the sound warm and unbothered. “Come on, my little dark-haired dragon!” you urged, holding a hand toward Luke.
Daemon let go of a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
You were here.
You hadn’t left.
The relief sank deep, though he masked it with a casual sip from his cup. Still, his eyes didn’t leave you as you led Luke forward, the boy standing taller under your gaze than he ever had under the eyes of the court.
Around you, shock and speculation passed from face to face. None more sour than Vaemond’s, his jaw tight as his gaze flicked toward Otto Hightower. Daemon saw it, the silent agreement in that glance — a scheme in need of hasty mending. They’d not expected you to tether yourself so publicly to the boy.
And Daemon, watching you from across the room, knew they’d be fools to try to cut that rope now.
The applause faded into the low murmur of conversation as the crowd began to move again, though more than a few heads stayed turned toward you and Luke. The boy stood a little taller with each step you took toward the high table, his new pin catching the candlelight.
Daemon was already moving to meet you, the ease of his stride deliberate. He cut through the cluster of gawkers with the kind of presence that made people step aside without thinking. When he reached you, there was a smirk on his lips — the one that looked like it might tip into mischief, though you’d known him long enough to see the claim behind it.
You stopped before him, eyes warm. Your free hand came up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the sharp angle of his cheekbone. “I told you I would be here,” you said, smiling softly.
His gaze flicked briefly to the ring he still held hidden in his palm, then back to you. “I’d break your legs before you even got to the boat,” he teased, voice pitched just low enough to make it sound like a joke, but his hand had already settled on your waist, fingers curving possessively.
You laughed, the sound bright and untroubled — though your hand stayed against his cheek a beat longer than necessary. All around you, lords and ladies took in the picture you made together: your hair threaded with charms, Luke’s hand still in yours, and Daemon’s hold at your waist as if to say, this one’s mine.
You glanced down at Luke, who was watching the exchange with a mix of curiosity and pride. “Go on, little prince,” you said gently, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Go show your mother.”
Luke’s small hand slipped from yours, his eager steps carrying him to Rhaenyra. You watched him go, a faint warmth still tugging at your lips.
Daemon’s hand lingered at your waist a moment longer, his gaze fixed on you as though the rest of the hall had faded to a blur. Then, without a word, he caught your right hand in his.
The cool press of metal slid over your knuckle — slow, deliberate — until the ring he’d kept all night was back where it belonged. His fingers closed briefly over yours, sealing it there.
No smile. No comment. Just the weight of his eyes and the unspoken I kept it safe.
You didn’t say anything either. You simply looked at him for a heartbeat, the noise of the court swelling faintly around you, before you stepped past him.
He followed, his presence a constant shadow at your back, close enough that you could hear the low rhythm of his boots on the stone keeping time with yours.
It was an old habit — his stride falling in with yours without thought — but today, it felt different. The claim was silent, yet absolute.
𓆞⎯⎯⋆𓇼⋆⎯⎯𓆞
The garden was quiet save for the soft rustle of leaves and the distant chatter from the hall, the moonlight spilling silver across the stone paths. You had slipped out for air, the press of the feast too thick after so many months at sea. The night smelled faintly of roses and salt from the harbor. You weren’t alone for long.
Vaemond’s voice carried before you saw him, low at first, then closer. “Niece.”
You turned, posture straightening as he stepped into the lantern light. His expression was controlled, but there was something heated in his eyes — not the warmth of kin, but the sharp gleam of a man set on his own course.
“I’m going to the King,” he said, cutting to the point. “I do not appreciate this… public farce of Luke’s claim to Driftmark.”
“He’s Laenor’s son—” you began, your voice clipped.
“Stop!” His bark cracked through the garden air, loud enough to turn heads from the nearby cloisters. Servants paused mid-step, a few courtiers lingering outside the feast froze where they stood. “He’s a bastard.”
Your voice lashed back before you could temper it. “Watch your mouth, Uncle!”
His jaw tightened, but he stepped closer, dropping his voice just enough to make you lean in to catch it. “Marry me.”
You blinked, the words sinking in a beat late.
“Marry me,” he repeated, tone quickening. “I will let you name the boy heir. You marry me, allow me to give you my seed, and I will let him have Driftmark when I’m gone. If not—” his gaze hardened, “I will rally loyalists to my claim. I will take what is rightfully mine.”
The garden seemed to narrow around you, every shadow sharpening. Your fingers curled into a fist at your side, nails biting into your palm. Your other hand twitched toward the dagger at your hip, the weight of it a familiar promise. You didn’t draw it — not yet — but the air between you was already taut as a drawn bowstring. And from the far side of the garden, you could feel eyes on you, watching.
𓆞⎯⎯⋆𓇼⋆⎯⎯𓆞
You were late to council at high noon — not by much, but enough that the scrape of your boots on stone and the click of the charms in your braids made every head turn when you entered.
The table was already littered with unfurled maps and the scent of ink. Otto Hightower’s fingers rested on one of the charts, his expression sharpened into that clipped patience he used when he’d been waiting to spring something.
“Lady Velaryon,” he began almost before you’d taken your seat. “We have an opportunity to test a passage you recently traversed before your arrival. If it proves viable, it may open a direct trade route. It would require a voyage of three days.”
Before you could reply, Daemon leaned forward, his voice cutting across Otto’s in a hiss that carried. “No. She’s not going. She just returned, and you want to send her back out? Get one of your men to go.” The last word was spit out like an insult.
Your mother and father said nothing — and their silence spoke volumes.
Otto’s eyes narrowed. “It is not your choice, Prince Daemon,” he said, his tone dipping colder. “Nor is it hers. She will go.” The clipped finality in his voice signaled he meant to end the matter there.
Your hand shot out, fingers curling around Daemon’s forearm. The contact made him turn to look at you, the taut anger in his eyes easing — not gone, but softened enough that he stopped mid-retort.
You turned your gaze toward Vaemond.
The room shifted with you — the weight of your attention making others follow. Your stare was unblinking, cold, and his answering smirk was meant to goad. He leaned back in his chair, as though this were all playing out exactly as he’d hoped.
Your chest rose and fell, measured but tight. You flicked your eyes briefly toward Rhaenyra — a silent exchange that Daemon caught but couldn’t read.
From the other end of the table, your father’s voice came low. “Daughter.”
You didn’t look at him. Your fingers tightened around Daemon’s arm until the knuckles whitened.
Then, still holding Vaemond’s gaze, you rose from your seat. “I’ll do it,” you said quietly, the words thick enough that only the silence in the room made them carry.
Without waiting for dismissal, you turned and walked out, the echo of your boots loud in the stillness.
Daemon pushed back his chair and followed, ignoring the way every eye in the room tracked his movement. By the time the door swung shut behind him, you were already halfway down the corridor.
“I’ll figure it out,” you heard him mutter under his breath as he caught up — a promise, a plan, and a warning all in one.
𓆞⎯⎯⋆𓇼⋆⎯⎯𓆞
“Don’t fucking walk away from Prūmia!” He snapped.
The torches burned low along the corridor, each flame throwing uneven light across the stone. The Keep had that familiar scent again — melted tallow, cool stone, faint mildew from the sea air that crept in through the higher windows — but after two years away, it all felt strange. You moved quickly, boots whispering over the flagstones, wanting to be in the courtyard before Otto Hightower could decide you needed an escort to the docks. Three days’ sail, he’d said. Just a small matter. You’d smiled, knowing it was no request at all.
You heard him that measured tread, heavier than a courtier’s glide, lighter than a guard’s march, carrying a confidence that made people turn to look before he even spoke. “You’re leaving,” Daemon’s voice came from behind you, the low rasp of it skimming along your spine.
You didn’t slow. “Three days.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to hear, broken only by the sharp echo of his boots as he closed the space between you. “Two years gone,” he said finally, “and you tell me, you’re leaving again?” His voice had dropped lower, tight in a way that made your pulse kick up.
“I don’t answer to you,” you said, though your fingers curled briefly in your skirts to keep your stride even.
“No,” he agreed, his pace matching yours. “But you’ve always come back to me.”
Your breath caught, but before you could reply, his hand curled around your wrist — warm, steady, and so familiar your knees went loose for a heartbeat. He guided you sideways into one of the alcoves tucked between the larger columns, a space you’d hidden in together when you were children, back when your only secrets were stolen apples and snatched minutes away from lessons. It had felt big then. Now, with him standing close enough to block most of the light from the hall, it felt like the walls were pressing in.
He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you, taking in the changes — the wind-burnt cheeks, the darker skin from years under the sun, the faint salt still clinging to your hair. His gaze lingered on your mouth long enough to make your stomach twist. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, but there was no softness in it. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you,” you said, and you meant it. His hair was longer, his jaw sharper, his eyes narrower, his mouth thinner — and right now, that mouth was all you could think about.
The air between you hummed with something you hadn’t felt before. He stepped in, and your back met the wall. You could feel the heat rolling off him, smell the leather of his jerkin, the faint bite of smoke in his hair. Your hands stayed at your sides, but your pulse was thudding in your throat.
When he kissed you, it was slow — not hesitant, but deliberate, like he was giving you a chance to shove him away. You didn’t. The first slide of his mouth over yours was warm, tasting faintly of spiced wine, and when his tongue touched yours, something in you stuttered, your breath hitching. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone. The other slid to your waist, fingers flexing until you felt the drag of fabric gathering under his palm.
It should have been chaste. It wasn’t. The longer his mouth stayed on yours, the more it shifted — heat building until your lips were wet, until you were pressing up into him, until the faint sound of your breathing mixed with his in the close space. When his hips pressed forward, you felt him through his trousers, hard and unyielding, and your stomach flipped hot and low.
You broke for air, your lips tingling, your skin prickling under the weight of his stare. “Daemon—”
“Don’t tell me to stop,” he murmured, and before you could answer, his mouth was back on yours, hungrier this time. The hand at your waist bunched your skirts higher, wool rasping over your thighs as he drew the fabric up. The cold air hit bare skin, then his fingers did — warm, rough from years of weapons and reins. He cupped you over the thin shift beneath, thumb pressing lightly over your clit in a way that made your hips twitch.
When his fingers slid beneath the last layer, the first bare touch made your breath catch hard. He found you slick, the pads of his fingers gliding easily through the heat of you before settling at your entrance. “Gods,” he whispered, his lips brushing your cheek as he spoke, “you’re already dripping.” He slid one finger inside, slow enough to make you clench around him, then a second, the stretch pushing a soft sound from your throat you didn’t have time to smother. His palm pressed against your clit, grinding lightly as his fingers curled deep, finding a spot that made your knees shake.
You could hear it — the wet sound of him working you open, the faint catch of his breathing against your ear, the almost possessive noise he made when your hips rolled into his hand. His mouth found your throat, teeth scraping once, then catching harder just enough to sting, marking you in a place you wouldn’t be able to hide.
By the time he pulled his hand away, your legs felt unsteady, your pulse a hammer in your ears. You made a soft sound at the loss, but then he was turning you, guiding you until your palms met the cold wall. Your skirts stayed bunched high around your hips, the fabric wrinkled and warm where his grip had been. His chest came to your back, solid and hot, the leather of his jerkin rough against your shoulder blades.
You heard the quiet scrape of his belt and the softer slide of cloth, then the blunt, heated press of him at your entrance. He stayed there for a moment, one hand tight on your hip, the other sliding up your side to splay just beneath your breast. His breath was hot at your ear when he spoke. “Tell me to stop.”
You didn’t.
The first push stole the air from your lungs. The stretch was deep, filling, almost overwhelming, and you felt him groan against the back of your neck as he sank all the way in. He stayed there, pressed flush to you, his hand gripping your hip so hard you’d feel the print later. “Fuck,” he muttered, low and rough, “I’m inside you. After all these years.”
When he started to move, it was slow, deliberate — each thrust dragging along every inch inside you, the wet sound between you loud in the small space. His grip on your hip tightened, pulling you back to meet each push, the slap of skin sharp against the hush of the alcove. He bent just enough to mouth at your neck again, his teeth catching your earlobe, his tongue flicking over the sting.
His free hand slid down between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and circling fast enough to make your knees buckle. You felt the slick slide of him in and out of you in time with the steady, grinding pressure at the front, heat pooling low until it snapped. Your climax hit with a jolt that had your nails scraping over the stone, your breath breaking in a moan you couldn’t swallow down.
That sound seemed to undo him — his pace quickened, hips driving hard and fast until he groaned into your shoulder, spilling hot inside you. He stayed pressed to you through the aftershocks, his breath ragged, the scent of sweat and sex thick between you.
When he finally pulled back, he smoothed your skirts down slowly, his hands lingering at your hips like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. “You leave again,” he murmured near your ear, voice still rough, “and I’ll come for you. Even if I have to drag you back by your pretty hair.”
𓆞⎯⎯⋆𓇼⋆⎯⎯𓆞
The sea hadn’t been this cruel in years.
It foamed and heaved around them, black-green swells tossing up splinters of the wreck like bones spat from a whale’s jaw. Rope snaked in the water, broken spars bobbed like pale driftwood, and somewhere out there the last of their cargo was sinking into the deep.
But none of that mattered.
What mattered was the body slumped in your co-captain,Eerik’s arms, her head lolling against his shoulder, hair plastered wet and dark across her battered face. Saltwater dripped from her lashes, one eye swollen shut, the other barely open, glazed and unfocused. A thin cut traced down her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth, already turning the water around it faintly red.
He’d wrapped his arm tight under her shoulders, his own ribs screaming every time the waves slammed them into the jagged rocks. The sharp bite in his side told him one had opened him up, but he didn’t dare check. He could feel her blood too — hot where it leaked from a deep gash along her leg, the wound pulsing with each sluggish heartbeat.
Her breathing was shallow, a wet rasp he could feel more than hear, and when her lips finally moved, he bent close to catch it. “Sing to me… I’ll come back, just sing to me.”
It nearly undid him. His throat closed, but he obeyed, voice cracking into an old shanty they’d sung on long, empty nights between ports. The melody carried over the wind in ragged bursts, broken each time the swell sucked them under and spat them up again. He kept one hand cupping her face, brushing back wet strands of hair, trying to keep her head above water.
Six of their crew ringed them, shoulders locked in a rough circle, each man taking a turn holding her weight when Eerik’s strength flagged. The Dorne lad, youngest of the lot, had one fist clutching her shoulder, the other arm working to keep himself afloat, his lips blue, teeth clenched against the cold.
The current clawed at them from all sides, sucking at their legs, threatening to drag them back toward the shattered hull. Bits of sailcloth slapped against their backs, and once, the broken end of an oar nearly knocked the breath from Eerik’s lungs. He tightened his grip on her, even when it meant his own head went under for a heartbeat longer than was safe.
Then came the sound.
At first he thought it was the wind — a low, rhythmic beat rolling through the air. But it grew heavier, sharper, until it thudded in his chest as much as in his ears. The crew turned as one, squinting against the spray.
Wings.
Black against the heavy clouds, wide enough to blot out the light in great sweeping arcs. The dragon’s cry rolled over the sea, cutting through the howl of the wind, and Eerik felt the men around him stiffen with something between awe and terror.
A dark shape hurtled from the sky, hitting the water with a clean, brutal dive. For a moment there was nothing — just the froth and the crash — and then Eerik saw him cutting through the swell, head down, arms pulling with a force that made the sea itself look slow. The waves fought him, but he was faster, stronger, tearing toward them with strokes that churned up foam in his wake.
Eerik’s arms burned. His side throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Her head tipped against him again, her lips cold and slack, but he held her higher, willing her to see, to understand that help was coming — that he’d keep her afloat until it reached them. He didn’t know who the rider was yet. But the look in his eyes when he broke the surface told Eerik one thing. This man had come for her. And he’d kill the sea itself to take her back.
𓆞⎯⎯⋆𓇼⋆⎯⎯𓆞
The sky over King’s Landing was grey with the last thin shreds of storm when Caraxes dropped from the clouds, wings beating hard enough to rattle the banners on the walls. The courtyard was already crowded — word of your rescue had flown ahead of the dragon, pulling half the court to the gates.
Daemon’s boots hit the ground with a wet, heavy thud, the force of the landing reverberating through his legs. You were still in his arms, limp against him, your head lolling against the blood-streaked leather at his chest. His own shirt was stiff with drying salt and blood, his hair plastered to his temples, his jaw set so tightly it looked as if it might crack.
The first scream came before the crowd even parted.
Your mother stumbled forward, skirts tangling around her legs. The sound that tore from her was high and unearthly, sharp enough to still the murmurs in the crowd. She didn’t walk so much as collapse forward, knees hitting the wet stone, hands clawing at the ground as she dragged herself toward you. Her cries grew louder, breaking and reforming in a pitch that made people turn away.
Rhaenyra was suddenly there, catching your mother under the arms before she could reach the worst of the mud, pulling her close and murmuring something low. But the older woman strained in her grip, hands outstretched toward you. “My baby,” she sobbed, voice cracking, “my baby, no—”
Lord Corlys had gone pale, his eyes locked on you as if refusing to blink might keep you here. He stumbled back a step, his hand pressing hard to his chest as though he could hold the pain in place. “No…” The word was hoarse, broken. His shoulders shook once, twice, and then the control shattered. “No… my daughter… no!” The last word came out as a roar, echoing against the walls, raw and guttural enough to silence even the youngest in the crowd.
Laenor broke next. He all but tumbled across the courtyard, skidding to a stop beside Daemon. His hands grabbed at Daemon’s arm, shaking it hard enough to jostle you. His eyes were wild, glassy, flicking between your pale face and Daemon’s grim expression. “Do something! Do something!” His voice cracked on the second plea, desperation making his grip unsteady.
Daemon’s own panic surfaced then, his voice ringing sharp and commanding. “Get the Maester!” The order cut through the courtyard like a whipcrack. He shifted you in his arms, lowering his face close to yours as if willing you to hear him over the rush of boots and shouted calls.
Caraxes remained just behind, wings half-furled, his head low and turned to keep you in his line of sight, the tip of his tail twitching in agitation. Every muscle in Daemon’s body was tense, coiled, ready to tear down anyone who got in the way as the space between him and the Keep’s doors cleared under the weight of his command.
The room was stifling despite the high fire, the heat unable to chase the salt-heavy damp that clung to every surface. The Maester’s muttered curses mixed with the crackle of the hearth, the wet rip of your clothes filling the air like tearing sails.
Laenor’s knuckles were white around your right arm, his grip steady but trembling, as if holding you down meant holding back the tide. Every time you jerked under the Maester’s hands, he flinched, his head ducking like he could take some of the pain for you. He kept glancing at Daemon — not for guidance, but for confirmation — like he needed to see in someone else’s eyes that you were still here, that this wasn’t the end.
On your left, Lord Corlys’s hands looked impossibly large against your arm. He was still soaked to the skin from the shore, the front of his doublet dark with your blood where he’d helped carry you in. His jaw was locked tight, but his eyes… his eyes kept darting to your face, like he was bracing for it to change in some irreversible way. Every ragged cry you gave made his hold shift fractionally tighter, his breath catching like a man trying to keep his footing on a heaving deck.
At the foot of the bed, your mother was beyond composure. Rhaenyra held her back with both arms, murmuring something low and steady in her ear, but it was like holding back a wave with a handful of rope. Your mother’s face was blotched with tears, her hair half fallen from its pins, her hands reaching over Rhaenyra’s shoulder toward you. “Let me—please, let me—” she kept saying, her voice frayed into something unrecognizable, each plea ending in a hitch that broke into another sob.
Rhaenyra’s face was pale, her jaw set hard against the storm she was holding in her arms. Her eyes flicked from your mother to the bed, watching the Maester’s work with a queen’s focus, but the faint pinch between her brows betrayed her fear. She held your mother tighter every time you screamed, her own shoulders flinching as if your pain echoed in her bones.
The Maester barked the order — “Hold her down! She’s going to move, you can not let her!” — and the whole room seemed to tense as one. Laenor and Lord Corlys leaned into their grips, Daemon braced at your shoulders, his knees pinning the bedframe, while Rhaenyra whispered harder to your mother to keep her from breaking free.
The first press of the heated wine drenched cloth to your hip tore a scream from your throat that was hoarse and raw, the sound ripping through the room like canvas in a gale. Laenor’s head snapped toward you, his mouth parting like he might tell the Maester to stop, but his grip didn’t loosen. Lord Corlys’s teeth bared for a second, a sound caught low in his chest.
When the Maester pressed harder, you lurched forward, nearly colliding with Daemon. Your eyes flew open, one clouded red with blood from the cut above. For a breathless moment, your gaze darted wildly — past Laenor’s stricken face, past Lord Corlys’s grim hold, past the blurred shape of your mother’s outstretched hands — until Daemon’s hand was there, cupping your face and forcing your focus back to him.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice cutting clean through the panic, steady and low. “I’m right here. You understand? I’m right here.”
Your eyes locked on his, your ragged breaths shuddering in and out, and the rest of the room held still — Laenor’s grip tightening like a lifeline, Lord Corlys’s chest heaving once before steadying, your mother’s sobs muffled against Rhaenyra’s shoulder. And then the Maester pressed the cloth again, and you screamed into the unyielding anchor of Daemon’s gaze.
The Maester’s hands were slick to the wrists, the smell of boiled wine and blood filling the chamber so thickly it was hard to breathe. His voice was tight, urgent, but not loud. “One more,” he muttered to himself, adjusting the cloth against your hip. “One more.”
Lord Corlys leaned close to your ear, his breath trembling. “One more, girl,” he whispered. “One more, sweet girl.” His voice dropped into the low hum he’d used when you were a child, when storms rattled the hull and you couldn’t sleep.
The Maester pressed the cloth down hard, heat and sting biting into torn flesh — your body arched once against the hands pinning you, a hoarse scream ripping from your throat. And then… nothing.
It wasn’t gradual. One moment your chest was heaving, breath ragged and wet. The next, it simply stopped.
The room went still.
Lord Corlys staggered back from the bed as if struck. His hand pressed hard against his chest, his face a mask of disbelief that cracked into grief so suddenly it almost doubled him over. His voice came hoarse, shaking. “Son…” he said, not looking at anyone but you. “…she’s gone.”
Daemon’s head snapped up, eyes blazing through the wetness. “No! Fuck you! She’s not!” His voice was ragged, almost breaking. When Lord Corlys moved as if to take him back, Daemon tore forward instead, catching your face in his hands. “Let me go! She’s not gone!” His voice dropped to a raw whisper, forehead pressing to yours. “Please…”
One minute.
He rocked you gently in his arms, his thumb brushing over your temple, careful to avoid the cut at your eye. “Come back to me,” he murmured, the words shaky but steady enough to push through the noise of your mother’s sobs and Laenor’s broken curses. “You don’t get to leave me. Not now.”
Two minutes.
Your skin was cold under his hands. He leaned down, his mouth at your ear. “I’ll die without you,” he whispered, the truth in it hollowing the words. “You wake up, or I follow you. You hear me?” His voice cracked hard on the last, his arms tightening around you like he could anchor you back to him through sheer force.
Three minutes.
His lips brushed yours — not a kiss, but a desperate press, a sharing of breath, his voice breaking between them. “Please. Please. Please.”
“Come on son” Lord Corlys whispered, this throat tight and full of emotion.
“No get off of me!” Daemon cried, as he locked around you tighter.
And then —A violent jerk, your body seizing in his arms. Your chest rose sharply, water and blood spilling from your mouth in a wet cough that bent you forward. The sound was harsh, messy, but alive.
The Maester rushed in, rolling you to your side as more water gurgled up, your throat straining with the force of it. Daemon’s arms didn’t leave you — his chest stayed to your back, his hand braced against your sternum, holding you through every convulsion.
Daemon’s hands locked under you, shifting your limp body with care that bordered on frantic. The Maester rolled you, bracing your shoulder while Daemon cradled your head against his chest. Then — a jolt. Your body seized, a violent gasp breaking free, water and blood spilling from your mouth in a choking rush.
“There you are…” Daemon’s voice came out in a hoarse rush, almost breaking into a sob. His arm locked around you, keeping you upright as the Maester worked, your shuddering coughs shaking against him. “There you are… you stay with me, you hear me?” His mouth was at your temple, the words pressed into your damp hair like a vow.
You hadn’t woken, not fully — your lashes still lay heavy against your cheeks — but each ragged breath fanned warm against his neck, smelling of salt and iron. It was enough. His eyes closed for the first time since the shore, his head dipping until his forehead rested on your crown. That breath was all he needed.
𓆞⎯⎯⋆𓇼⋆⎯⎯𓆞
Lord Corlys had been standing near the foot of the bed, his hand still pressed to his chest as if steadying his own heart. His eyes lingered on you for a long moment before he finally spoke, voice low and rough, but steady enough to cut through the small sounds of the Maester working.
“They found your crew,” he said, each word deliberate, as if he didn’t want to rush them. “All of them. They’re alive. They’re on their way here now.”
The words settled in the air like the first break in a storm.
Daemon’s head lifted just enough to look at him, his red-rimmed eyes narrowing as if to make sure he’d heard right. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and after a pause, he gave a single nod. But his hand never left you — one arm still cradled around your back, the other steady on the curve of your jaw.
He bent again, bringing his face close to yours until his nose brushed the edge of your damp hair. “Did you hear that?” he murmured, his voice quieter than Corlys’s had been, like the words weren’t meant for anyone else. “They’re alive. They’ll be here soon. Your crew’s coming home.”
You didn’t stir, your lashes still heavy against your cheeks, your breathing shallow but steady. Daemon’s grip shifted slightly, pulling you a fraction closer, his thumb smoothing over the line of your temple as if the motion alone might coax you to answer.
“Say something to me,” he whispered, the plea threaded through with a desperation he could no longer hide. His forehead hovered just above yours, his breath warm against your lips. “Say something to me, please.”
When nothing came, he closed his eyes briefly, jaw flexing before the next words slipped out, quieter still, as if they’d been pulled from somewhere deep. “I’m listening, Prūmia… my heart.”
The silence stretched for a moment more, the only sound the soft rasp of your breath and the muted clink of the Maester’s tools in the background. Then your lips parted, slow and shaky.
“I… love…” Your brow furrowed faintly with the effort, your voice hoarse from seawater and screaming. “…you.”
For a heartbeat, Daemon didn’t move. His eyes searched your face as though afraid he’d imagined it. Then his expression cracked — a soft, shuddering exhale leaving him as he pressed his forehead to yours.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, his voice thick and breaking in places. “You have no idea how much.” His hand spread wide against your back, holding you with a careful, almost reverent pressure, like he was afraid of hurting you but more afraid of letting go.
He stayed there, eyes shut, breathing you in — the faint tang of salt still in your hair, the copper of blood on your skin — and for the first time since the shore, his shoulders eased, just barely, as if those three words had pulled him back from the edge.
