IT’S JUST A SHAME, THAT’S ALL — THROUGH THE LENS OF CORTIS
➪ pairing : ot5 cortis x 6th member reader
➪ summary : a continuation to part one and part two. cortis tries their best to continue living normal lives without the core part of their group. can they manage without you ?
➪ other notes : my god this part drove me insane. i like it overall and oh my days you guys are so funny in the comments, i love yall. any asks pertaining to part two will be answered later, very sleepy rn, gn everyone, enjoy :))) and creds to @/martiny.e , @/cortis.mp3 , and @/sa7easoee on tiktok for the analog horror imagery.
keonho stares down at his phone, sighing as he sends you another text. it’s been three months since you’ve “disappeared” and you still haven’t answered a single message. this isn’t like you at all, you wouldn’t just up and leave everything and everyone behind. guilt writhes in his stomach every time he thinks of the cctv. if you quit, maybe he could have talked you out of it. and if something else happened ? …he would have stopped it.
james tries to piece everything together but nothing makes sense. you left the group without any reason to, and yet the cctv shows differently. the company said something else. and the more he thinks about it, every conclusion leads to five questions. as the oldest, he tries to shoulder everyone’s emotional burden. but what about him ? how can he rest when questions continuously fill his mind. you would have been there to help him.
juhoon took it the hardest. you were the first person who accepted him into the group without hesitation, and in a blink of an eye, you’re just gone ? even though he has four other people to rely on, he feels so incredibly lonely without you, without his twin flame. there’s many nights where he silently cries himself to sleep. and with every day that passes, the pit in his stomach only gets deeper.
seonghyeon feels like a swan without its cygnet. even though you were older than him, he tried his best to take care of you no matter what. he always wanted a big sister, and at some point you became that. he still buys your favorite snacks from the corner store you always complained smelled like ass. he just can’t figure out if you miss them too. if you do, then why do you never answer the phone ?
about two months ago, staff came in and took all of your things. they ripped your bedsheets off of the company’s bed, something keonho tried his best to fight, which only earned him a harsh scolding. your notebooks that were alphabetically placed in the shelf above your bed were all trashed, your thoughts, ideas, and feelings going with them too. most of your clothes were shoved into storage boxes before staff labeled them as ‘emergency.’
“what the fuck are they doing,” seonghyeon curses outside of the dorm, biting his nails. “they’re taking her stuff…all of it, they’re acting like she never lived here,” keonho frowns. juhoon stays quiet, his fists clenching repeatedly. james tries to reason with the situation, “what if they’re just storing it until y/n comes back for it ?” he winces at his own words, what kind of explanation is that ? “that’s bullshit and you know it,” seonghyeon snaps.
“everything’s in those books,” juhoon finally speaks up. “she wrote songs in those, y/n would want to keep all of them,” he continues, looking away from the open front door of the dorm. “something’s wrong, i-“ “okay that’s enough,” martin claps his hands and interrupts. “guys i know this has all been hard for us but the company already said y/n left and we…have to understand that,” martin becomes the voice of reason.
“y/n never answers my texts, i just want to know if she’s okay,” keonho whispers, voice cracking at the end. “let’s just give her as much space as she needs, i’m sure she’s trying to keep a low profile for a while,” martin reassures him, a wobbly smile forming on his face. “that’s not who y/n is, she would have at least told us.” a scowl forms on seonghyeon’s face.
james sighs, he obviously doesn’t agree with any of this but he’s also unable to do anything. about an hour later, everything that represented you, was now suddenly gone. the empty space only grew. the mug that james uses every morning before practice. the clothes that seonghyeon ‘accidentally’ stole from your side of the closet room. the bed that keonho laid on when he missed you. the presence that juhoon longed for every day.
when james glances over to martin, the taller boy is just staring ahead. a smile is on his face but there’s no real emotion behind it. as much as james hates to admit it, martin’s been weird. not his typical weird, a weird that james has been logging for the past month. his rushed explanation for how he left you alone to go to the bathroom the day everything happened. the way he reacts when someone mentions you.
the way martin has continuously gotten snappier after you disappeared. there’s just something…odd about him. james hates himself for entertaining a darker idea of involvement. because how can he even think of pointing the finger at martin ? martin isn’t like that, if anything, he’d blame himself for going to the bathroom instead of just going with you to the corner store. martin cares about you. he loves you.
present day, the dorm becomes more glum as days pass. the boys are good coworkers, they hype each other up during dance and vocal practice. they put on a happy face for the camera whenever they film vlogs. they continue to work as just five. but as soon as the dorm’s door shuts closed, silence fills the air. martin really tries to get everyone to hang out, maybe watch a movie, play games, do anything. it never works.
between james and juhoon, juhoon tends to take the first shower as james cools down in their room. keonho and seonghyeon play around before they retire for the night. to martin, it feels like everyone has their duo except him. he’s lonely and he hates it. with no one to hang out with, martin starts walking around at night right before midnight. hoodie over his head, a face mask on, gaze tilted to the ground.
every time he goes out, he ends up in the same place. the fence behind that one thai restaurant you used to love. he never goes in, he just leans against the fence and looks up at the moon, wondering if you’re also thinking of him. despite what happened, martin loves you and he likes to think that deep down, you’d still love him too. but that’s just what he believes, it’s the only way he can sleep at night…
one night, juhoon wakes up at around three in the morning. he tosses and turns but nothing works. with a frustrated sigh, he sits up, staring into the darkness. across the room, james is sleeping peacefully, juhoon envies him. with no way to sleep again, juhoon quietly gets up and heads for the living room. since you disappeared off the face of the earth, someone has started leaving the light on, no matter the time.
no one admits to it but juhoon has a sneaking suspicion it’s james. he even heard him say under his breath “just in case y/n comes back.” whatever the reason may be, no one turns it off. juhoon flops on top of the couch, grabbing the remote. he immediately clicks on netflix, grip tightening when he notices your profile isn’t on there anymore. did the company delete it ? isn’t that a little too much ?
he huffs, clicking his own profile. he flips through various movies and shows before stopping at one, when life gives you tangerines. your favorite show, the same one you watched with juhoon when it first came out. he remembers holding back tears whilst you cried like a baby in every episode. juhoon presses on it, leaning back against the couch as the soft melody of the opening theme starts.
but even before it can finish, he closes his eyes. it felt almost like a spell, luring him to sleep. it’s weird, he never felt sleepy when you guys watched it. but his grip on the control loosens before he falls into the arms of slumber. his dream is just a flash of different pastel colors, muffled voices, and some visible faces. he dreams that the six of you go feed ducks but his feet end up turning into duck feet.
everyone fades out except for just you and him. you’re laughing so hard that you pee on yourself. you end up crying and when juhoon goes to comfort you, he tumbles over himself with his new feet. your laugh returns as he falls face first into the ground. he can’t help but laugh too but then, your laughter just stops. he looks up at you from the ground, you’re not there anymore. where’d you go ? in real life, juhoon’s eyelids flutter, catching small glimpses of his blurry surroundings.
he squints at the bright tv screen, blinding colors enough to make him look away. his vision keeps drifting in and out of focus until it lands to something motionless. martin is already standing in the hallway. just watching him. “shit,” juhoon curses, jolting himself completely awake. his eyes go wide, heart immediately accelerating. “oh sorry,” martin apologizes, walking closer. “how long were you standing there ?” juhoon rubs his eyes.
“only like five seconds,” martin answers, a gentle smile forming on his face. “i thought i heard the tv and wondered if someone forgot to turn it off so i just came to check,” he explains himself, pointing at the tv. “oh…okay…” juhoon rubs his eyes, he knows of martin’s nightly walks and sleep problems, it makes sense. “go back to bed, maybe you can sleep again,” martin encourages him. “yeah, i’m going,” juhoon mumbles, grabbing the tv remote.
he pauses when life gives you tangerines, noticing it’s only been 12 minutes since the episode started. juhoon’s barely been on the couch, did martin really just arrive right now ? juhoon shakes off any thoughts, turning off the tv before walking away. martin follows behind him, turning off the living room light. “oh leave it on,” juhoon stops in his tracks, pointing to the light switch. “why ?” martin raises an eyebrow.
“i- i don’t know, just in case, you know, y/n comes at the crack of dawn or something,” juhoon shrugs. martin pauses before sighing “if you say so.” he passes by juhoon, going into the bathroom. juhoon swears he saw martin roll his eyes, it can’t just be his imagination. but with nothing else to do, he returns to his and james’ room. he quietly pushes the door open before shutting it closed.
james stirs, making juhoon wince, he didn’t mean to wake james up. but juhoon takes advantage of this moment, “james ?” he whispers. james hums, turning over to face juhoon. “can i talk to you about something ? hasn’t martin been weird-“ james suddenly pressed a finger to his lips. juhoon albeit confused, stops talking. james lifts his finger and points at the gap underneath the door. juhoon faces towards where his older friend is pointing.
the shadow of a pair of feet. not moving, just standing on the other side of the door. juhoon feels his heart skip a beat, waiting to breathe. eventually, a small shuffle can be heard before the pair of feet are no longer in sight. juhoon exhales, chest hurting. “was that ?” james nods. “he’s been doing that a lot lately, just making rounds around the dorm,” james bites his lip, obviously disturbed. juhoon realizes that maybe an eye roll isn’t must to report on.
a few days later, the five of them are in a practice room. there’s not much going on so seonghyeon decided to mirror his phone the projector screen. “oh my god bro delete that !” james laughs at an embarrassing picture of him sleeping with his eyes open. juhoon chuckles at the selfies he took on seonghyeon’s phone. keonho keeps trying to take seonghyeon’s phone, wanting to scroll through the whole gallery. martin watches his friends, happy that they’re smiling.
eventually seonghyeon clicks on an old dance practice video. you’re falling asleep standing up, only taking one little stumble, keonho’s giggles can be heard in the background. “i remember y/n swore she was just resting her eyes,” james smiles at the video. “she needs a good sleep schedule, all of us do,” juhoon adds. “guys can we stop talking about y/n ?” martin interrupts everyone. seonghyeon turns back to face him, “why ?”
“because it makes me uncomfortable,” martin shakes his head. “but why ?” “because it feels like every conversation we have leads back to y/n, it’s already been three months,” martin lets out a frustrated sigh. “three months is nothing compared to years of friendship, y/n’s our best friend and nothing is going to take that away,” seonghyeon scoffs, disconnecting his phone from the projector.
“y/n was my best friend too, and i loved her a lot, but even i have to admit she wasn’t a saint,” martin twists the subject. “what are you talking about ?” juhoon joins the conversation, now baffled. “it’s like…we talk about something, it leads to y/n, and then we talk about how amazing she was without acknowledging the times she made our lives hard,” martin explains himself. “what times ?” james asks, furrowing his eyebrows.
“she argued with everyone, are you guys forgetting that ?” martin insists, thinking everyone’s had amnesia. “no she didn’t,” keonho defends you. “she literally did, it was always y/n starting arguments with staff,” martin throws his hands into the air. “no she didn’t martin, she never started anything, yes she argued when we were being treated unfairly but y/n wasn’t…aggressive.” james shakes his head, confused by what martin is getting at.
“and what about the time she got into a physical fight with our choreographer ?” martin doubles down. “are you forgetting the times he’s hit her ?” seonghyeon makes a face at martin. “you’re remembering her wrong,” juhoon states but it only makes martin roll his eyes. “am i ?” he sarcastically laughs. “yeah, because none of the things you described represents y/n.” keonho answers without hesitation. “sure, disregard me like you guys always do,” martin ends the conversation, leaving the practice room.
about a week later, keonho groans when he opens the fridge, a whole lotta nothing. “there’s never anything in here !” he slams it closed. “there is, you just don’t want to cook,” juhoon says, mixing in a flavor packet into his buldak noodles. “do you want me to make you something ?” seonghyeon’s standing over the stove, making a few fried eggs. “no, i miss y/n’s cooking, your food tastes like ass,” keonho makes a disgusted face.
“you still eat it though,” seonghyeon gives him a look. keonho pouts, opening the fridge again. “nothing’s going to magically appear keonho,” james shimmies behind him to sit on the counter. “i’m so hungry,” keonho whines, almost ready to throw a tantrum. “well how about we order takeout,” martin enters the kitchen. “first time you have a good idea,” keonho immediately agrees with martin.
“what’s everyone in the mood for ?” james asks the busy kitchen. “well i was the first hungry one, so i say thai food,” keonho nominates. “ugh no i’m tired of thai food,” martin rolls his eyes, earning a side eye from junoon. “we haven’t eaten it in months, i’m down for some thai,” seonghyeon ignores martin’s complaints. “so am i,” juhoon agrees. “anything’s good for me,” james shrugs, leaving martin the odd one out.
“so my opinion is worth nothing ?” martin frowns, crossing his arms. “ummm it’s 4/5, and if y/n was here, it’d be 5/6, democracy wins, sorry mr dictator,” keonho teases him. “this shit is so unfair…” but no matter what their leader says, the boys still order thai food. once it arrives, it smells like heaven on earth. they crack the lids open on every container, some food even spilling out. soon enough, things settle down, food filling their mouths instead of words.
james suddenly snorts, earning weird looks from his friends. “sorry i just remembered the time martin ordered kebab and everyone was ready to jump him but y/n said she’d eat our portions even though she hates it, just to make martin feel better,” he shakes his head as seonghyeon and keonho snicker. juhoon smirks, shoving some food into his mouth.
martin groans, rolling his eyes. “you guys might hate me but y/n was always my right hand, she was funny,” he laughs. “you mean is,” keonho corrects him. martin looks at him, nodding, “yeah, is, that’s what i said.” “no you didn’t,” seonghyeon shakes his head. “okay is this ‘ride martin’s ass as hard you can’ week or what ?” martin drops his chopsticks angrily. “they were just correcting you martin,” james tries to defuse the situation.
“no it’s not correcting me because y/n’s gone, she’s not here and she’s not coming back,” martin angrily states. “how the fuck would you know ?” seonghyeon points his chopsticks at his leader. “because…because, i just know,” martin shrugs, attempting to calm himself down. “what does that mean ?” keonho pries. “it means that she left and that she left us, can we just stop talking about this ?” martin pushes away his bowl.
“martin, i think it’s good that we talk about y/n,” james looks at him. “no hyung, it’s not, it’s so…not good and it’s been three months so can we let the y/n topic go already ?” martin frustratedly runs his hand through his hair. “she’s not a topic, she’s a person who was our best friend since we were both 12 and lived with us,” seonghyeon furrows his eyebrows. “exactly, so why are you acting like talking about her is a crime ?!” keonho supports his maknae duo.
martin scoffs, feeling cornered, “because nothing is going to change regardless and…” he trails off, not finishing his sentence. “says who ?” seonghyeon challenges him. “says me, okay ?” the room becomes quiet, food long forgotten. with a shaky sigh, james speaks up, voice trembling as he does so. “martin, do you know something about y/n that we don’t ?”
the only thing that can be heard for the next few seconds is the whirring of the AC. “do you think i do ?” martin asks james, no malicious tone behind his words. james hesitates, this isn’t something he can turn back on, an accusation so grave. and yet, he admits it. “yeah, i think you do.” juhoon, seonghyeon, and keonho snap their heads to james, confused, shocked, and in disbelief. martin’s gaze turns to his unfinished food, making him nauseous.
martin doesn’t know how to answer. he knows he can lie, he knows that but at this point, would it mean anything ? “martin ?” james asks again. martin keeps staring at his food, unable to face anyone. “bro are you good ?” seonghyeon‘s voice wobbles. “did something happen that night ?” keonho asks and it’s martin’s final straw. his shoulders shake as he starts crying, tears dropping onto the table. “i…” he starts but he’s unable to finish before he hiccups out a sob.
james leans forward in his seat, “martin, i need you to tell us the truth, did something happen to y/n that night ?” martin squeezes his eyes shut, lip quivering. “…yeah.” for a second, nobody reacts, nobody says anything, nobody breathes. “what ?” a lump forms in seonghyeon’s throat. “i…i can’t…i tried…i didn’t,” his hands go up to his hair, tugging at it harshly. “did you do something ?” keonho whispers, martin immediately shakes his head.
“not me…” martin mumbles, starting to sit straight in his seat. “then who ?” james pressures him, making martin cry even harder. “them, the company, everyone knew,” everyone stiffens, martin’s known something for three months, and still said nothing ?! “did you know something was going to happen ?” james continues, attempting his best to remain his cool. martin nods, “but i…i t-tried to warn her b-before the concert.”
“warn her about what ?” seonghyeon slams his fist against the table, making martin flinch. “that they were going to take her away,” martin rushes his explanation. “take her where ?” keonho asks, chair scooting back with a loud scrape. “i don’t know, they didn’t tell me that !” martin sobs, becoming obviously overwhelmed by the swarm of questions. “is she okay ?” james asks, eyes full of worry. a pause comes as martin freezes “i don’t know…”
juhoon, who has been quiet this entire time asks a single question. “is she alive ?” martin finally looks up, meeting eyes with juhoon. “i don’t know…after it happened, they never said anything else,” martin’s eyes are full of remorse as juhoon’s eyes fill with anger. “what happened martin, after you left with her, what happened to her ?” juhoon’s voice rises, clearly tired of martin’s tears.
martin’s breathing becomes uneven, his vision becoming blurry. he can’t hide, he can’t run, he’s ruining everything. he wipes his snotty nose, realizing that the earth can’t just suck him whole into the ground. “i…i led her down to the parking garage…and i wanted her to leave…and i tried, i swear i tried to help her…but they saw us and she tried to run but they caught up to her…and just put her in the back of a van,” martin blurts out, ending his statement with a suffocated gasp.
nobody says anything. james covers his mouth in shock, seonghyeon stares at martin in disbelief, keonho looks down at his trembling hands, and juhoon shakes his head, tears filling his eyes. “so she’s just gone ?” keonho looks up, breaking the silence despite being scared of the answer. “i don’t know,” martin whispers. “stop fucking saying that, you were the last person who saw her !” seonghyeon’s voice breaks.
“i know ! don’t you think i feel guilty that i didn’t help her ?!” martin cries before realizing what he said, his eyes widening. “what do you mean you didn’t help her ? you could have helped her ?” james questions him, “no- i mean like, no i did-“ martin stumbles over his words, attempting to find a quick explanation, a way to defend himself. seonghyeon slams his hands on the table, “don’t you fucking lie to our faces martin, either tell us the truth or i swear to god-“
martin takes a deep breath, looking at his members one by one. an uncomfortable expression forms on his face before he closes his eyes. “none of you get it. i…i wanted to help, i swear i did, but i thought about the five of us, of our effort and hard work. and i realized that if one person could take the fall, we would be okay.” keonho scoffs in his face, “the five of us ? it’s either the six of us or none of us. why do you get to decide whats right for the group ?”
“because it’s my job as the leader to look out for the group keonho. i won’t allow anyone to hurt us,” martin tries to use his authority. “but you won’t protect us as individuals ? just the group’s reputation ?” seonghyeon bitterly laughs. “no, that’s not what i meant, i’m saying that instead of us getting ruined by someone, i chose the route where our hard work wouldn’t be just ripped away from us !”
“y/n is apart of us martin, she trusted you and you still didn’t protect her or even at least tell us,” james scolds him, face contorting into disgust. “what would that have done ? y/n is gone because it was a sacrifice the company and i had to make for the greater good.” martin reasons, now refusing to back down. “say that again,” juhoon stands up, hands clenched into fists. martin grinds his teeth, “it was for the greater good.”
with that, juhoon launches himself across the table, crashing straight into martin. martin falls back on his chair, thudding loudly on the floor. juhoon starts throwing punches into martin’s face. “you lied to us-“ punch “you lied to her mom” punch “you lied to the police” punch. “juhoon stop !” james pleads, attempting to pull him off of martin. seonghyeon and keonho almost immediately backed away from the scene, not knowing what to do.
“he fucking deserves it !” juhoon yells, feeling martin’s nose break under his knuckles. “s-sop phluse,” martin begs, spitting out blood, weakly thrashing from under juhoon. but juhoon only continues, grabbing martin’s collar to smash the back of his head onto the hardwood floor. “you let them do this to her, you fucking asshole !” juhoon screams, struggling against james’ grip. and suddenly- CRACK.
IT’S JUST A SHAME, THAT’S ALL — THROUGH THE LENS OF MARTIN
➪ pairing : ot5 cortis x 6th member reader
➪ summary : the prequel to part one. martin's seen you time and time again get smart with staff, it's no wonder that something was bound to happen, at least in his opinion.
➪ other notes : credits to @/vrtxveil on tiktok for the cortis analog horror imagery. i tried my best to tag everyone, i'm so sorry if i missed your name. there will be at least two more parts, maybe even three if people want me to continue this ! i apologize if this feels rushed, but pay attention :)
“no one can know, do you understand ?” martin looks up at the group’s manager, eyes wide. he nods regardless, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows whatever saliva he has in his throat. martin’s always been an obedient rebel. he’ll express himself in many ways, fighting for what he believes, but he’s a fierce listener, loyal to no end. that was his first mistake.
you’re not like martin. yes you’re passionate about your interests and expressive about your feelings, but you’re hot headed. not perfect by any standards, a little rough around the edges but that’s what makes you, well you. you don’t hesitate to call out anyone who’s disrespectful or shady, confidence booming in your voice. that’s exactly why hybe and bighit liked you. liked.
martin wishes he could be a little like you. aggressive and self assured. he’s almost positive you’d make a great leader if it weren’t for your constant attitude. not to the boys, never to them, but to the company itself. when your makeup artist tells you your complexion looks sickly ? you say it’s the lack of food the staff provides.
when your fashion designer pinches at extra skin, you swat their hand away immediately. martin’s even heard you say “fuck bang pd,” in a fit of rage. i mean how could something so pretty have a mouth like that ? but he still thinks that you would have made a better leader than him. someone who actually stands up for the group rather than just submit to whatever the company says.
he’s never even seen you afraid ! so locked in on your own beliefs that no one will even tilt you another way. there was a particular time where a male staff member tried to put their hands on you, in which you immediately fought back, not caring for any repercussions. it ended in james and your manager pulling you off the man, martin couldn’t move from how caught off guard he was.
despite that, it wasn’t all that surprising coming from you. except for the following set of your words : “if anyone ever tries to hit me again, i’ll tell everyone the lies and shit you’ve covered up.” everyone tensed up immediately, going silent. you weren’t referring to a specific person, you’re saying it in general, knowing there’s cameras in the practice room. what did you know that the other five of them didn’t ?
maybe that’s why this had to happen. if you only kept your mouth shut, this wouldn’t have happened. why’d you go out of your way to ruin something that’s fine ??? are all thoughts martin has of you. but he loves you, even with all of your flaws. platonic or romantic, does it really matter ? so he lets you in on one piece of information, in hopes that you’ll get away fast enough.
it was the day of THE concert. you were in a better mood than usual, excited for the stage outfit your designer picked out for you. hell, even your makeup artist complimented your skin today. it seems like people are finally listening to you ! everything seems fine until you notice martin fidgeting more than usual.
it confuses you, martin’s typically not like this. he’s the one hyping everyone up, and it’s not like this is the group’s first concert, you’ve done this dozens of times before ! so when the time is perfect, you pull him aside, thankfully the hallway is quiet and empty. “are you okay ?” you ask the taller boy, furrowing your eyebrows. “me ? yeah i’m good,” he smiles, a little too wide.
“you said we’d be each other’s person if one of us is upset,” you cross your arms as martin shifts uncomfortably. suddenly, he looks to the right of him, then the left, before pulling you harshly into the women’s bathroom. you automatically fight back, shocked as to what’s happening. “martin what are you-“ he covers his mouth before shushing you, tears in his eyes.
“don’t say a single word, just listen to me,” he whispers, your eyes going wide with anger. “something’s gonna happen after the concert, i can’t say for sure what but i know that it’s tonight, you can’t be alone with anyone,” martin explains in a haste. and for the first time in all of the years he’s known you, fear fills your eyes. he releases his grip on you before stepping back. you’re still frozen in place as worry washes over you.
“why ?” you ask in a small voice. martin scoffs and shakes his head, “why else ? you blow up at everyone, you mouth off staff and even almost beat our senior choreographer up !” you look at him confused, “what are you talking about ? mars this isn’t my fault, you know why i-“ the rest of your words drown out as martin rubs his face.
“it doesn’t matter what you think anymore, it’s about what they think of you y/n,” he groans, obviously agitated by the situation. “then help me,” you step closer to him. he shakes his head, “i can’t, the company, they’ll-“ “mars i’m your best friend, and i have been for years,” you cut him off. martin looks at you, seeing tears starting to form in your eyes. he couldn’t remember the last time you looked this small.
martin thinks before sighing, “okay.” a breath of relief leaves your mouth. “but don’t tell the others, you’ll only worry them,” he clarifies, making you nod. “i know, just please don’t let anything happen to me,” you plead. he looks into your tearful eyes, nodding. there’s only so much he can do without attracting suspicion.
throughout the night, martin’s eyes keep flickering towards you. he doesn’t even care if fans speculate his watchful gaze. you on the other hand try your best to keep your composure during the concert. you’re typically a firecracker on stage, full of emotion and energy. but this time, your performance is lackluster to say the least.
martin wouldn’t even be surprised if netizens got on your ass about it. but even though the same fearful thoughts consume your mind, martin sees you let out a wobbly laugh at james’ silly jokes. he sees you clumsily throw a water bottle to juhoon. he sees you tightly hug seonghyeon, not pulling away first. and he sees you fix keonho’s microphone. even in a crisis like this, you still take care of others.
after the concert, martin’s stuck to your hip, adrenaline still pumping through everyone’s veins. the other four for a different reason than you and martin’s. eventually you’re all led into a different room to rest before you all go back to your hotel. you take your shoes off, feeling your big toe pulse in pain. you look at the inside of the shoe, a size smaller than your regular size.
you hadn’t even noticed before, you just took the pair from your stylist without a second thought. your gaze shifts to your socks, several holes made. did you make those ? you grind your teeth before taking them off, now barefoot. seonghyeon immediately covers his nose, earning a playful slap from you. you can’t help but to think, is everyone in on this ?
“y/n,” you snap your head at the manager, his face cold. “can you come with me for a second ?” you try to hide your expression as best as you can. “for what ?” you ask, slowly standing up. the other five boys stare at the manager, waiting his response. “techs need your in-ears,” he states, how do you even get out of this situation ? “i can take it for her, i need to turn mine in too,” martin interrupts.
“would have been better if she just came but sure,” the manager walks away. you sigh, giving martin a thankful look. “we need to go,” martin whispers, taking your in-ears. you look at your members, “now y/n.” you nod, martin tries to usher you out of the room but is stopped by james. “where are you two going ?” you look at your older friend, making a random excuse.
“just gonna get some stuff from the corner store before we go,” you lie. “i want to go !” keonho excitedly says, getting up. “no stay, it’d be too obvious if you came along,” martin shakes his head, keonho’s signature pout forming. “alright, but can you bring that one brand of chips i like ?” he asks, sitting back down. “yeah of course, we’ll be back, i swear,” you smile before leaving.
almost immediately, martin is dragging you behind him. “wait wait wait !” you trip over your feet in an attempt to slow him down. “what ?! there’s no time to wait !” martin whisper yells. “you need to promise me something,” “huh what ? why ? promise you what ?” he rambles nervously. “if anything…if anything happens to me, promise me that you won’t let them say i was the one who ran away, that i was the one who quit.”
martin looks into your dilated eyes. oh, you’re being serious. “nothing’s going to happen-“ “promise me,” you demand of him. “…okay, i promise that i’ll defend your honor no matter what,” he reassures you. he wraps his arms around you, bringing you for a hug. you shut your eyes, heart beating fast, you can even hear it thump in your ears. it doesn’t help that your hands and feet feel so cold from anxiety.
“i don’t even have my shoes or socks on, how did those dummies believe me ? you mumble, which martin laughs at. “it’s okay, i’ll let you use mine, just tie them extra tight,” martin offers. “but first, we need to get to the parking garage, don’t ask questions, let’s just go before anyone gets suspicious,” he continues, this time you actually listen and start to make your way downstairs.
you basically run down a flight of stairs, in a hurry to wherever martin’s taking you. once you’re halfway in the parking garage, martin stops before gripping your shoulders. “you need to leave this way, security is always here for these types of events, this is the only place i know that doesn’t have anyone.” “where am i supposed to go ?” you lift his hands from your shoulders. “anywhere y/n, it doesn’t matter, just not-“ martin pauses.
“shit !” he pulls you behind a car, crouching cautiously. a door is swung open, bouncing off the wall. you cover your mouth with your own hand, looking at martin with fear. he brings up a finger to his lips, staying completely quiet. a loud sigh can be heard before a familiar voice. “martin, i know you’re here with her, don’t make this difficult, just stop,” the manager states, his shoes can be heard clicking.
“think of the group martin, do what’s right.” martin freezes, fuck they already know. now it’s his turn to think. he needs to protect you, but he’s never disobeyed anyone before. you’re his colleague, but you’ve done wrong. you’re his friend and someone he sees every day. what can he do to help both sides ? what’s the right choice ? what should he do ? martin turns to you, tears are streaming down your face, he’s never seen you like this.
“mars i’m begging you, don’t do this to me, i’m your best friend, please,” you cry, grabbing his hands. a moment of silence goes by before martin squeezes your hands. a single thought of realization shoots through his head. james. juhoon. seonghyeon. keonho. himself. years of training, the five of them…or just you. “yeah…she’s here,” martin abruptly calls out, standing up, pulling you with him.
you shriek a “no,” before using all of the force you can muster to shove him away before standing up and running from behind the car. you sprint down the parking garage, bare feet against the hard concrete. the more you look back, the closer the people chasing you get. you finally arrive to the gate, mashing every button to get it to lift up. you drop to the floor, crawling underneath the gate.
your hopes however are cut almost instantly. someone pulls your ankles back harshly, you cry out, your knees scraping against the ground. “no, please, i haven’t done anything !” you shout as a man lifts you into the air, leaving your blood soaking into the concrete. you screamed for your life, pleading that someone, anyone, would help you. “martin please !” you continue to fight.
martin stays still in his place, paralyzed as he watches you struggle against a man twice your size. eventually, you’re hauled into a van, one you hadn’t even realized was there before, and even then your cries for help continue. martin just stares, hearing the engine start before it pulls off. it’s quiet again, a quiet that lingers in his soul. why did you trust him ? he told you not to trust anyone. he warned you, he tells himself.
he tried to warn you…he tried to tell you to be careful, didn’t he ? martin lets out a shaky sigh as a single tear drops from his face. “you won’t have to worry about her anymore, the problem is gone,” the manager places a hand on martin’s shoulder, causing him to flinch a little. martin stares at his shoes, before the manager says his final set of words for this situation.
➪ summary : you disappear hours after a concert, your family reports you missing but the company states that you left voluntarily. cctv shows differently. nothing makes sense, especially with everyone moving on so fast.
➪ other notes : very heavily based on kpop lost footage and analog horror <3 this is my first time posting something like very horror related so im a little nervous but im actually happy with this. creds to @/norvixa6 and @/rnbrednblue on tiktok for making awesome analog horror.
“breaking news : y/n l/n from hit kpop group cortis has officially been reported missing by her family this morning. authorities have confirmed that the idol was last seen was on CCTV footage at 2 : 39 in the morning, just hours after cortis concluded their concert last night. in the footage, y/n was wearing the same stage outfit she had performed in earlier that evening. the grainy footage shows the teenager sprinting in a parking garage, barefoot and physically agitated.
she looks over her shoulder multiple times, and with this repeating motion, investigators confirmed her identity with facial recognition. the footage contains no audio nor where there any witnesses near by that could have intervened or watched the scene. no search party has been organized and officials have not yet confirmed if a ground search will be conducted, stating that the investigation is still in its early stages.
at this time, hybe and bighit music have not made a statement regarding y/n’s disappearance. if you have any information of y/n’s whereabouts, please reach out to authorities immediately. we hope she returns safely home…and with that, later tonight in the world cup, south korea plays against-“
If i had a nickel for every time a character that i cared so unbelievably deeply for died in the sea to a piercing wound, i would have two nickels. which isnt a lot but its weird that it happened twice right?
cw: hotd season 3 spoilers, fix-it fic!, heavy angst, hurt/BIG comfort, fluff so much fluff, mention of violence, mourning but no death, yearning, kissing, jacaerys loves his wife more than anything, (3.8kw).
synopsis: He promised. To you, to himself, right before giving the order. "I will come back to you," Jacaerys whispered, pressing warm lips to wood, as if sealing his silent vow through the door.
a/n: mama will hold ur hand through this. it'll ALL be okay! bawled my eyes out at this but god i needed it. translations for the high valyrian used at the end!
He had never felt so cold before.
A chill seeping into the marrow of his bones and encrusting muscle and tissue, making it hard to move; to breathe.
His eyes battled the shroud of darkness, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t halt the certainty, which in that instant appeared like his end. Not slumber, not unconsciousness, but his demise’s unyielding grip curled around him like a serpent and squeezed until it wrung every bit of life out of him.
Jacaerys felt the bite of the arrows like a brand, pulsing like another denominator of what was to come, to swallow him whole. One in his neck, one near his heart, and others in places he couldn’t name, but remembered your hands and mouth touching countless times before.
The Gods were cruel to punish him right where your sweetness had been, where your love had touched and imprinted itself onto him, now stained by sharp steel and blood.
He hopes you’ll have it in your heart to forgive him, for he cannot do so for himself. The more the world feels like a distant memory, the more his heart aches, its beating slowing, as if trying to mimic the syllables of your name one last time before it inevitably stops. One last call out to you, willing to see if you would answer, even if he knows that to be impossible.
Would you cry, he wonders, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. Would you curse him? Would you hate him? Would you damn every moment you’ve spent together, turning it into poison and ash?
Jacaerys would not fault you if you did, but his chest feels hollow at the prospect of causing such vile emotions to bloom in your tender heart, most of all towards him.
You are his most precious jewel, and losing his life is one thing, but knowing that means losing you as well? It tears at him more than those arrows have.
He thinks of his mother, who was so delighted knowing he had found someone to love, and someone to be loved by in return, truthfully and wholeheartedly. You two were meant to have a Valyrian wedding in a few moons, as it is custom, and he had been ardently awaiting to see how beautiful you would look in traditional garments. Trying to imagine it now, just as he had many times before, feels like another arrow aimed straight at his heart, plunging deep. Now, he will never get to teach you how to recite the vows in High Valyrian, won’t get to see the sparkle of joy in your eyes when you’re face to face, exchanging them, binding your destinies together for all eternity, even in death.
Death. Jacaerys supposes that if he dies without binding his soul to yours before his ancestors, he won’t have any pieces of himself that he knows will certainly be kept in the sanctity of your heart.
But maybe it is better this way, for you will not have to carry such a heavy burden ensnared in the crevices of your chest, reminding you of all you’ve lost; of all he’s made you lose.
It might seem callous of him to think so, but the thought of you mourning him brings warmth to his veins, even through the chill of the sea. Knowing you have loved him enough to let tears fall from those pretty eyes of yours makes the inevitable hurt a little less.
Someone had cared for him and felt strongly enough to weep at his departure. That, in itself, is a gift. One of the many you had given him. You yourself have been the greatest one, blessing his days and easing his worries with nothing but a look, a word, a kiss. It had come like breathing to you, and he had never felt like he was out of air until now.
The sea is seldom merciful, and no matter how much he tries to beg the Gods to spare him, Jacaerys knows this time it might be in vain.
But how can he not beg? How can he not plead? If not with his voice, then with the remaining beatings of his heart, with the last vestiges of the memories he has of you.
He wishes he would’ve said I love you more often, for it seems like he had been scarce in his vocalization of it. Now, every day doesn’t feel like enough, because no matter how hard he tries, his throat is clogged with water and the words he means to say, if only for the last time. He would’ve hoped it enough to ease the grievances he knows you would feel upon hearing of his demise.
Jacaerys wonders if you would eventually surrender yourself to another. If there would come a day where another man would sweep you off your feet, chipping away at all the parts of Jace burrowed deep in your flesh and blood. The thought makes him want to weep. You forgetting him, replacing the memories you have of him with those of another, as if painting anew on an old canvas one has no use of anymore.
If his promise would’ve rung true, Jace would be by your side now, celebrating the victory at the Gullet, hugging his mother, then you so tight it would’ve knocked the air out of you both. He would’ve twirled you around while laughing, leaning in to press a multitude of kisses onto every patch of skin he could reach, knowing it’ll make you laugh, cheeks flushed, looking at him like he’s your whole world.
May that be the last thing he wishes for before the sea takes him. May your face be the last thing on his mind before there is nothing but darkness, engulfing every bit of light that was you. May he always remember you, even when buried beneath the sea and the sand, wishing for nothing than to hear your voice saying his name one last time, your gaze softening upon looking at him, and maybe, if the Gods allow him one last mercy, the feel of your soft lips upon his own.
He knows he is not worthy, for if he were, Jacaerys would’ve held onto his promise to come back to you, to his mother, to the Realm. But he couldn’t. The Gods were ever cruel and took from him the very essence of his being, cursed to wait for his impending doom.
And wait, he had. Was it another punishment to still feel like he was hanging on but never sinking deep enough? To will him to replay every single memory of you and imagine thousands of others? To feel so close but so far away from the object of all his affections and desires?
Jacaerys would know you anywhere, he thinks. Even blind, hard of hearing, or sinking into nothingness, he would not fail to know you are close.
So why does it feel like you are? Is this another cruel trick before the ancestors welcome him to them? He swears he can feel the soft lilt of your voice somewhere in his vicinity, and it makes him want to move, to lean towards it and taste it. Make sure it’s real.
Please let it be real. To the Old Gods and the New, let it be real. Don’t dangle such hope in front of him only to take it away, for it would feel like getting speared with arrows again and again and—
“I shall watch him,” your voice sounded, just as sweet and lovely as he remembered, but also tired, croaky at the edges. What had happened? Why were you — “You need rest, my queen. Let me, for now.”
My Queen? Mother?
The sounds were a bit muted, but he could hear footsteps, then the creaking hinges of a door, followed by a thud.
A long, hitched sigh followed, the one people do when they try not to let it show they were hurting, right before the tears inevitably fall.
Were you crying? He couldn’t bear when you were. That pretty face he loved so much, marred by tears, undid him every time.
Jacaerys had to see, had to make sure you were okay, that nothing had befallen you too, that the Gods had been merciful to an angel such as you.
He was struggling. His body was not responding the way it should, barely able to feel his hands and feet properly. But that didn’t matter now, for he only needed his eyes to will open so he could glimpse you, even if it was all a cruel fiction of his imagination, probably allowing him one more wish before taking him to the depths forever.
Please.
Please let him see his wife. His lady. His love.
Please.
One last time is all he asks.
If the Gods had ever looked down upon him and smiled, let them look down and smile once more. Grant him this one mercy. Just this once. Only this once.
He knows he’s begging, but what is there to do other than implore with all the strength left in him for one last look at you? In case he is to meet his end soon, let the sight of you be what he goes down feasting upon.
Blessed be The Mother, for I beg for one last mercy, for I shall gaze upon the one I hold most dear before my death and meet my end with a settled heart—
Jacaerys wonders if you are wearing one of your soft gowns, the ones he loves most, for you look like a Fae from the library tomes you so love. Would you still wear the necklace he had given you, or have you thrown it away in a fit of grief and anger because of his recklessness? He wouldn’t fault you for it. Just wished he could give you another to atone for his many sins, for how much sorrow he must’ve brought you.
But he is wrong.
You are wearing the pendant. Your fingers are wrapped around it, settled at the base of your throat, holding so tight your hand shakes, lips pressed to it, murmuring to yourself, eyes closed in prayer.
Are you praying for him to come back to you, just as he was? The thought makes warmth bloom beneath his ribs, licking upwards towards his chest, weaving until it finds his heart, willing it to beat faster. Even so close to dying, he supposes, you still manage to affect him just the same.
If this is but a dream, he hopes he never wakes up. Because standing here, looking at you, just as beautiful as the day he lost you, brings him more peace than any prayer he could’ve uttered. You are so pretty. His pretty girl. Always, always so very pretty. Even now, looking worn out, expression pinched, and hands shaking.
He wants to see your eyes, at least once, before he can't do so again.
"M-may you look at me, my love? For I want to—"
Jacaerys is startled from finishing his sentence by the loud gasp you let out, body jumping beside him, startled and alert, like a doe sensing hunters on its tail. Your eyes are so, so wide with disbelief, watching him with the sort of bewilderment one would when seeing a creature unknown or some oddity come to life. Why were you looking at him like that? If this were but a dream, then why—
"Jace," you whisper, shaky and soft, like a petal swept by the wind, hands trembling so hard the pendant slips through your fingers. "Jace," he hears you repeat, as if the sound of his name in your mouth is something foreign you have to taste again. "Gods, Jace!" Your voice cracks along the syllables of his name, before moving closer, gazing at him with those pretty eyes he near plead to see, now teary and wide, sweeping over him as if checking to see if he's whole. He knows he isn't, for the battle must've left him with more than grievances and a hollowness in his chest that could only be filled if he still had a chance to live.
Your movements are shaky and hesitant, wanting to reach for him but shackled by a fear he does not know yet. Why won't you touch him? He can tell you want nothing more than to feel him beneath your palms, and yet you waver. Why? If this is to be the last mercy before his death, why is he imagining his beloved faltering instead of pressing close, so close and grasping at him like the air one needs to breathe?
Jacaerys tries to lift a hand, grimacing when his body again does not count him as its master, and makes it hard to move properly, feeling a sharp pain lance through his forearm, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. One to which you react instantly, shaking your head as you plead with him not to move, cradling his hand between both of yours, letting Jace feel the softness of your skin again. "No, no, my love, do not move," you sniffle, blinking back those stubborn tears lining your pretty eyelashes. "Please, you must rest. The Maesters said you are not to tire yourself any further."
The Maesters? What ever could you mean?
Blinking his eyes rapidly to dwindle the fog clinging to his vision, Jacaerys's breath catches when your own room comes into view, surrounding both of you. He supposes his imagination could not help but want to remember you in the place where you felt most at ease, the one where you shared your first kiss, first bedding, and many, many other milestones that now feel like a vice around his heart, squeezing tight. Will this be the last time he gets to pine for what once was and for what could never be again?
"H-how do you feel?" Your voice shakes again, snapping him out of his reverie, gaze finding its way back to yours, feeling himself melt just at the sight of you anew. Gods, you couldn't be more gorgeous. "You had been asleep for half of a fortnight. We didn't know if you would ever wake—"
And oh, his heart shatters into pieces when your words trail off into hiccuped sobs, soft chin wobbling, not being able to hold the weight of your grief and sorrow. His sweet wife was crying beside him because of his own foolishness, and there was no punishment severe enough for his transgressions. He could be put to the sword, and it would never erase the guilt in his chest at making you shed even a tear.
It takes him but a few moments to rear his mind from blame to the words you spoke, eyes widening in bewilderment as he registers the information you bestowed upon him. "Asleep?"
His voice is rough and unpolished from disuse, and he's watching you like you brought both salvation and perdition to his door.
But you only nod, squeezing his hand tighter, bringing it up to your mouth to press warm lips upon his skin, feverish and lingering, before cradling the back of his hand against your tear-streaked, warm cheek. "Yes, my love," you confirm, tone lightening with pure relief. "The Gods were watching over you, breathing life into you anew, just like we prayed for."
Breathing life back into you.
Does that mean—
But he cannot hope yet. What if this is nothing but another trickery? The cruelest way to tear his heart asunder by making him believe he escaped from the unforgiving claws of the sea and is now granted another chance at spending a lifetime with you?
Jacaerys can feel a lump form in his throat, near choking him, his lashes dampening rapidly. "Do not forsake me, please," he pleads, willing his hand to clutch at your fingers again, with what little strength he has. "I cannot bear knowing this is but a dream." It is hard to speak as his chest heaves, blubbering like a child as he begs for a miracle from you, who he now hopes is all flesh and bones and not smoke and ash in front of him.
Your expression pinches, studying him carefully, as you so often used to do with your tomes and books in the low candlelight before bed, thumbing each page as you uncovered the secrets written through the dried ink. He feels like one now, as your eyes narrow, before those soft lips part in a round shape, understanding dawning on you.
"Oh, my sweet prince," you whisper, voice damp from your tears, but then the sweetest sound of all accompanies the wetness of your eyes.
A laugh.
Amidst all this confusion, all this befuddling turmoil between dream and reality, you laugh as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, and your mouth dared to form the shape of happiness again.
You turn your head to press a fervent kiss to his hand before moving closer, cradling his face between your palms. Thumbs soften the traces of tears onto his own pale cheeks from being under slumber for so long, willing to see a flush to them soon. "I am flesh and bone, not a mere mirage," you assure, another soft, disbelieving laugh tinkling between you, as if the mere thought of him believing this to be a play of the mind is ridiculous. "The Gods brought you back to me, just as I wished for, my love."
Gods, he thought he'll never get to hear that sound fall from your lips again. It makes his vision blur with tears, lips trembling as he chokes back from babbling again like a babe, but eager to quiet the ghosts of his mind that insist this is a delusion.
"P-prove it to me," he hiccups wetly, no longer preoccupied with how weak he must look, nothing like a prince and all like a man at the end of his hope, begging you to pull him towards salvation. "Please, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," his tongue wraps around the endearment like it never forgot it, full of longing and desperation. "Show me I still have you, for I cannot bear the thought of losing you again—"
He feels his heart breaking and mending itself back together over and over, waiting for you to grant him this one certainty in his hopelessness.
And Gods, you do.
Your lips are on his before he can blubber another supplication, palms tilting him the way you want to as you slot your mouths together so, so tenderly, like two wings of a butterfly touching while they flutter.
He feels it. He tastes it. Your tears, his tears, your promise, his desperation.
Jacaerys wishes he were stronger, for his body is weakened by the tragedy that befell him, not being able to grasp you as fiercely as he would if his limbs had not forsaken him. He can only will his fingers to brush against the folds of your skirts onto the bed, curling into the material until his hand shakes with the ardent want of closeness; of wanting to do more but being cursed into only hoping.
"You have me," you whisper against his mouth, branding the truth on his lips as you continue kissing him. He can feel you smiling into it, and it is unbecoming of him how that only makes him weep harder, his own tears trailing down your cheeks and chin now, too, from how close your faces are pressed together, smushed in your eagerness to prove what he so feared was nothing but a cruel twist of his mind. "And I have you, dārilaros ñuha."
Gods, your tongue tangles around the words so clumsily, no matter how many times he had patiently taught you the right way before, and still, he would never trade it for the world. Jacaerys wants to hear it a thousand times more, and then tenfold that, for the rest of his days.
He's overwhelmed. All the hopelessness he felt before, thinking he would never get to hear the sound of your voice, taste the sweetness of your lips, feel the warmth of your love. And now you are offering him all of those and more, and he feels like he cannot breathe if you dare stop for even a moment.
"Avy jorrāelan, " he sobs, trembling lips barely able to return the soft kisses you so kindly confer to him still. "Avy jorrāelan. Always," the words tumble from his mouth, choked and utterly devout. "Not a moment went by when I did not plead with the Gods to bring me back to you. I curse the sea for trying to wrench me from your side. For its greed and its cruelty, for—"
But you silence him with a firmer press of lips, swallowing the last of his blubbering with the sweetness of your mouth, tasting salt and love and life. You exhale shakily, drawing back so your gazes meet, lips brushing, leaning to nuzzle your noses together as you whisper, voice fervent with conviction. "No more talk of misfortune," you say, nudging his cheek in reprimand with the tip of your nose. "Let me rejoice in having you again."
Jacaerys had always been weak to your whims, never one to deny you anything, least of all when spoken with such longing, such relief, bodies close and shaking with lingering grief and solace alike.
He nods, gathering strength enough to nuzzle you back, eyes fluttering at the feeling, to which you shakily let out another one of those honeyed laughs as you whisper. "But do not think I shall forgive you for trapping me in mine own chambers before rushing to battle with such recklessness."
Oh.
In the midst of all this, he forgot the events that led him to this whole predicament. Closing his mother's door, then yours, vowing to come back in the end, no matter the cost.
"But I have—"
"Coming back in such a state is hardly enough for me to count this as you honoring your vow," you say, eyes narrowing, even teary and full of adoration as they were. And he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything, but the fullness of his chest as it filled with so much love for you, it damn near burst open. "We shall discuss more of this when you've healed properly."
"Yes, my lady," he whispers, having the gall to look a bit sheepish, but alas, a small smile curls at his lips, the normalcy of your reprimand willing his senses into solace.
You harrumph, trying to show displeasure, but he knows there is too much relief blooming between you two now, softening even this attempt at being stern.
He makes an effort to tilt his chin up until his lips brush your tear-streaked, warm cheek, kissing it softly, not moving for a very, very long time.
"I'm sorry," is pressed against the damp skin, and he knows it'll take time and an exuberant amount of grovelling to will you to forgive him, but he wouldn't have it any other way.
Now that he has escaped death's grasp, he has a lifetime ahead of him to try to gain your favour.
And Gods, what a fortunate way to live out the rest of his days.
tag list: @silkaurum @oldtowrs @mademoisellepetite @dreamgirlevill @0nlybitt3r4may @rhaenyras-crown @ghostlybfgf @pinkdoeweirdo
summary — while combing the beach for treasures, you stumble upon the unconscious, grievously injured body of a soldier. you decide to help him, but in doing so find love in a man that may never be able to return it. (11.4k)
featured — jacaerys velaryon / fem!reader
content — spoilers! tread carefully, fluff and ANGST, angst w/ a happy ending, hurt/comfort, canon divergent, jace lives, light medical descriptions, reader cares a lot for jace, dual pov!!!, inexplicit mental health struggles (reader’s deceased father), dead vermax ☹, 18+ MDNI implied sexual content/fade-to-black, tw there is a baby
a/n — am i anywhere near caught up with hotd? no. did i write this in spite of that? yes. i'm sorry if things don't make sense or are not in line with canon. the wiki and i did our best!
(cross-posted on ao3)
The cerulean waves lap at the silver beach, ebbing and flowing with the morrow’s breeze. Quiet has finally settled on the shores after a night of war and destruction. A battle beyond these argent sands occurred out in the gullet. All night, the savagery had kept you awake. This morrow, you collect treasures from your fish nets.
You step carefully across the sands, adjusting your silk scarf tighter around your mouth and nose. You bend the knee at the first net.
You heave it onto the shore. Nothing except too-small pieces of fabric and inedible shelled fish are in this one. You empty it and release the fish back to the embrace of the sea.
You stand again, taking a few more steps down. Your mind drifts as you fall into a rhythm of checking these nets, pocketing pretty shells and scraps of metal. Wonder pricks at the back of your neck as you imagine the war. As the lone tenant of this pier, you had never had to consider the rites of the Targaryen rulers. Most of your neighbors had already chosen their sides, even if it did not really matter in the scheme of things—neither of those fighting for the throne cared for their subjects, especially not those at the bottom, like you.
Rulers like these bled the common man dry while claiming it to be an act of love.
You move a little rougher with the next net. Nothing but rocks and debris in this one. You imagine it will be a while until you find a worthy treat. The Gods are usually not as generous on solemn days like these. War makes monsters out of men, and the Gods scorn those who partake.
When you stand again, your eyes drift a little further down the bank. At the edge of the shore, a clump of trees catch your gaze. The water is darker there, cloaked in shadow. The shrubbery bends so far, it almost touches the water. You draw closer, eyebrows furrowed.
A dark lump sits entangled by brush, barely concealed by the cluster of foliage. You draw closer, hesitantly. As your eyes adjust, you realize it is not a lump of debris, but a body. Your breaths quicken.
If the person is alive, would it hurt you? Never trust a soldier, your father had once told you.
You bend your knee just as if you are checking a fish net. Your hands unfurl from your sides, reaching out hesitantly. You can only see his body. It is clothed in thick leather, a quality of which you’ve never seen before. Several arrows stick out of his torso. A pool of blood stains the sand maroon beneath him.
You pull back the shrubbery to see his face. You startle at the sight, falling back onto your bum.
His eyes—they were open—albeit, he did not seem to see much of anything. His skin was not grey and placid like the bodies that you had seen before. Worse, you’d heard something when you held yourself over him. A breath, shuddering through his parted lips.
“Alive,” you whisper in awe. To survive so many arrows, then the tumultuous sea… it would take more than just courage. It would take something otherworldly. You know then that your decision has been made.
A huge piece of driftwood sits beneath him in the sand. You push it aside to straddle him. Gently, you grab his arm and sling it around your neck.
The rest of your journey back to the cabin passes in a frenzied blur. You move quickly, trying to spend as little time as possible forcing the grievously hurt man onto his feet. He lets out little grumbles as you move, head lolling this way and that like a puppet cut from its strings. You make it inside and push open the door that your father used to live, laying him onto his back on the bed.
Blood immediately infiltrates the off-white of the duvet, crimson floating before your vision. He groans continuously as you break the ends off of the arrows—serving as a reminder to the heart that still valiantly pumped beneath his ribs. Once they are off, you are able to slide the armor off.
The tunic comes easily. It seems to be made of a material that deflects water, so when you drop it onto the floor, a puddle of liquid forms in its spot. You struggle a little with his breeches—though, those too come easily with a little pull.
After he is naked, you stare at his body in silence for a moment. You have helped men with injuries before. Arrow injuries just like these, even. But you’d never helped a man with this many.
You reach out to touch his cold cheek. He is so young—had to be your own age. Too young for the cruel, unflinching hold of war. Gently, you close his eyelids, shutting away the dark brown of his unseeing gaze. He did not need to be witness to this.
You steel your nerves and clench your fists a few times to breathe life back into your numb fingers. Reaching into the bedside table, you grab your supplies—bandages, a bottle of rum, a couple cloths, and several blunt blades.
“I’m sorry, if you are awake,” you tell him, poising the knife along the edge of one of the arrow heads. “This will hurt a lot.”
Hours pass quickly under your blade. Each of the five arrows is cut away, sewn with fishing line, disinfected with rum, and bandaged tightly. Sweat falls into your eyes as you step away triumphantly, and you lift a hand to brush it off. As they are levelled with your eyes, you realize your hands are a bloody mess. Your stomach churns and you force the appendages away.
You hover over him a moment longer. You study the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering of his eyelids. He had a strong nose and jaw, thick dark eyelashes and a head of water-matted brunet hair. By all appearances, he was quite common-looking. He had the complexion and hair of any man you’d pass on the way to town. But something about him—the quality of his armor, the blemishlessness of his skin, it screamed something ethereal.
But even Gods can be killed.
Your mystery man is not out of the woods yet. The chances of any of those arrows not nicking anything inside him is next to none. He’s also lost a lot of blood. The sheets are covered in it, not to mention the amount he was sure to have lost at sea.
You draw the hair sea-slicked to his head away from his forehead. Your hand slides to cup his cheek. He might never wake again. Your kind hand may be the last he knows. You wonder how many people missed him—if they were sitting with baited breaths, waiting for him to write. If only you could ease their worries.
You pull away and leave the room before your eyes can fill with traitorous saltwater tears.
There are few certainties in life. Ever since you were but a child, you had recognized this. Life is tumultuous and unfair. It takes and it takes, until you can give no longer.
The sea is a comfort. She does not take, she gives. Usually, she gives you more valuable things than a body, but you try not to question her motives.
It’s been a day since you patched him and he still has not woken. His chest continues to move despite this disconcerting sign, and that remains your only comfort. You stood near-vigil at his beside for most of the hours following. Anticipatory nerves fill your every waking second, even at night when you lay awake trying to sleep.
You recognize that the danger has not fully passed for him. He had not had water in who knows how long. Eventually, his organs would fail due to dehydration and blood loss. That is, if the internal bleeding didn’t kill him first.
You also cannot help the hope that blooms in your chest as you gaze upon his face. Perhaps it is the fact that his skin seems more alive as of late. The fact that you have seen his eyes move behind his eyelids more and more often. The fact that you were quite insufferably lonely, and therefore latched onto any individual who came your way—alive or barely, as in the case of this man in your cabin.
You want him to survive because you want to know him. It is a thought that scares you as much as it invigorates you.
By his bedside, after a long morrow of scavenging by the tide, you dump your satchel of goodies on the now-clean duvet. (Now that had been annoying to do—having to move his admittedly quite heavy body over to remove the sheets). You begin to sort through them, cataloging them.
The silence is unsettling, so you begin to speak.
“The sea has been kind this morrow,” you say softly. You pick up a smooth rainbow shell, twisting it this way and that in the light. “These will sell for a couple of silvers.”
You put the shell down and then grab your cloth, gently stroking away sand and debris.
“My father taught me to do this,” you tell the man, “he taught me everything I know.”
Satisfied with its shimmer, you trade the shell for a clam. You pop it open forcefully—apologizing profusely to the creature as you did—and stick your fingers into the dark crevice you created.
“No pearl,” you report when your fingers come up empty. You bring the clam up to your eyes, stroking its now-broken shell. “I’m sorry, friend.”
The last piece had been one you were excited for. You grab the shrapnel of metal gently in your palms, categorizing the weight and feel of it with your hands.
“Probably off a shield,” you decide. “I’m sure a blacksmith would like this.”
You put the metal down and let out a heavy sigh. You stare at the man, worrying your lip between your teeth. Perhaps some foolish part of you had hoped he would wake up to the sound of your voice, like the stories you had read as a girl.
But life is no story, as you had to continually remind yourself. Things like that just didn’t happen.
You go through a few other bits and bobs in silence, mood dampened by reality. A couple of small shells, a nail, and a scrap of maroon fabric. You aren’t sure why you grabbed the fabric—perhaps you’d wanted to try and sew something. It is quite pretty, you decide. It had belonged to someone once.
Once you finish polishing the items, you lift your head up to look at the man. Thoughts and images flash through your mind. What was he like? You wonder. He seems strong, based on his broad shoulders and defined stomach. But he also didn’t have the worn skin of a common man. He didn’t have callouses on his hands or fading scars upon his torso. He had to be a prince, you decide. A prince of a faraway land, hoping to bargain peace between the two feuding Targaryen houses.
You nod, satisfied with that recreation of events. Yes, a prince. A just, altruistic one. Perhaps he knew of the war and wished to come and save the small-folk.
You look down at his pale hand resting lifelessly upon the duvet. You swallow thickly.
“You must wake soon,” you whisper, “the kingdom needs you.”
He does not stir. You sigh and gather your things into your satchel. If he is still not awake by the morrow, you decide, you will return his body to the sea.
That evening, you sit at the table with a plate of roasted fish and a glass of water. The fish is one of two meals you eat regularly. The other was for special occasions, depending on if you were able to procure bread and potatoes at the markets.
You always eat the eye of the fish first. You do not like it looking at you as you eat its flesh. It feels wrong. The eye is not very tasty, though. The odd texture always makes you vaguely nauseous–the gooey, chewy ball. Your father had always laughed at you when you ate fish. He was not of an imaginative mind. He did not see the fish as being once alive, like you did. He did not imagine it swimming beneath the tide, with all its other fishy friends–before it was snared by ruthless hands and suffocated by the open air.
You stare at the vacant chair across from you with an empty feeling in your chest. It had been so long since you had a companion at supper time. Your father had not spoken much, but his presence alone was always enough to keep you happy. He is gone now, like with the ebbing of the tide, and all that is left is the shadow of the person he used to be.
His fishing pole, next to the door. His journal, where he kept extensive notes about what he found out on the sea during the day. His bed that now had a new, warm body sleeping in it.
You wonder what your father would have done, had he found the man. You take another bite of the fish, forcing it down with a thick swallow. Would he have left him? You had never thought of him as being cruel, but you also know he loathed unwelcome responsibility. He had enough of an imagination to conjure horrible images of betrayal and hurt, and so you decide he probably wouldn’t have brought him home to you. He had too much to lose to do so. Everyone did.
And so why did you? Perhaps, you think, you have lost everything that matters most to you already.
You stare down at the limp skeleton of the fish on your plate. You had never seen a person die of dehydration. Your father had once told you a story about a man he knew that had, and it sounded awful.
You pick up your dinner knife, a sharp, clean-edged blade, and hold it in the candlelight. The silver edge catches the light, highlighting the sharp point. Your hand trembles as you study it.
Would it be quick, painless—slitting the sleeping prince’s throat? Or would it be messy and painful? Would it draw him out of sleep and would he gaze upon you with hurting eyes as he clutched the gaping hole in his neck?
Regret gnaws at you. As time draws on, you begin to think that the mercy you had granted your prince had been nothing but a farce. That by saving him for one moment had only just prolonged his suffering.
You put the knife in your satchel and stand. It is cruel, keeping a person alive only to die in a violent manner like this–it is inhumane.
You take quick steps to the bedroom.
You have never killed a person before. Your father had plenty. He always said the eyes, you can hear his voice in your mind now, the eyes are always the worst part.
You can’t eat the prince’s eyes like you can the fish’s. No matter what you did, you would have to see those eyes. And with it, the betrayal. You stand over his prone body now.
A sliver of moonlight streams in from the open window behind you, casting cool light across the heaving chest. He remains impassive, completely unaware of what you were about to do. You do not realize you are crying until you bring the knife up to your eyes and catch a glimpse of your face in the silver.
“I…I am sorry, friend,” you repeat the same mantra you had told so many clams before as you pried your fingers in their mouths, looking for a pearl. “But this is a mercy.”
Your hands tremble like windblown seagrass as you lift the knife against his skin. A moment of hesitation prevents you from acting. And it is just enough for a pale hand to wrap around your own and for dark eyes to snap open.
“Waaa-ter.”
You let out a sharp gasp and yank your hand away. The man watches you, his visage crumpled with pain.
He repeats himself, voice quieter than the first time. “Water, please…”
You move into action. You dart out of the room, hands fumbling with the metal bucket by your door. You run across the moonlit shore to the well that sits on the edge of the woods. Quickly, you fill the bucket. You curse yourself all the while–mind racing in what-ifs and guilt-ridden condemnations.
You heave the bucket back into the house and grab the same goblet you had used with your own water. You take a huge scoop and shuffle back into the bedroom like a child caught with their hand on the sweets plate.
The man is still awake when you re-enter, his eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. You drop next to him on the bed and angle his head and neck up onto the pillows behind him. Finally, you fulfill his request. He drinks like a man in Essos who has wandered the Red Waste for weeks; heavy, desperate gulps of the liquid. Some fall and drip down his side, which you dab away with a nearby cloth.
When he finally drinks it all, he pulls back, his breaths labored and eyes half-lidded.
“W…Where am I?” he finally says once he has caught his breath. You notice him scanning the room as if trying to find the answer written in the stone.
You decide not to answer honestly. You fear what his reaction will be if he forces himself to recall the battle. Instead you say, “you are safe.”
He stares at you as if only just noticing you. His dark eyes are swallowed almost completely by night, exhausted and ridden with heavy bags. He lifts a hand, as if to touch you, but it falls short. His eyes flutter, and then shut.
He falls unconscious. You touch two hands to his chest to confirm his heart still beats steadily. You let out a breath you had not realized you captured when you find his pulse.
Shame hits you like a tidal wave. You were going to… you were going to kill him. You are shocked at the tears that swim in your eyes. You stand in a hurry–not without remembering to pull the duvet back up to his chest–and stumble out of the room.
The adrenaline has all but worn away now. Tears clog your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. You allow yourself to feel the emotions–all of them. Relief, shame, exhaustion, and fear overwhelm you completely and you can do nothing but sob. On the table in front of you, the skeleton of the fish and the silver knife mock you without having to say a word.
Waking feels like drowning. Fighting against the wave ahead of you, trying to get your head above water. Then when you finally surface, you fall behind the waves again.
Jacaerys wakes to the sun in his eyes and a warmth around his waist. He thinks for a moment, perhaps, he is in a dream. Another barrier between him and wakefulness. Then, the pain hits him. No, dreams don’t feel like this.
The groan stumbles past his lips before he can stop it and his eyes shoot open. Everything is pain. It surrounds him like dragonfire and steals his breath. He trembles as he uses all his strength to cradle his side.
“Gods,” he murmurs. He feels beneath his fingers the familiar texture of a bandage. Someone helped him.
Helped him. Helped him from what? He gasps as memory rolls over him. Drowning. Arrows piercing through skin and muscle. A dragon’s roar of pain. No, not just any dragon—
“Vermax,” he cries out, tears springing to his eyes. No, no, no…
But it was true. His mind had never failed him before. His dragon. His beautiful dragon. Falling to the bottom of the ocean like a ship’s anchor. He tries to move, to jump to his feet, but he can’t. Pain ricochets up his side, and he can literally feel the side of his chest pulling taut.
He stares at the ceiling above him with tears fogging his eyes and coating his tongue in salt. For one long moment, he despairs. Why? Why would he be punished this way? Forced to live without Vermax? The bond between rider and dragon could not—should not be severed. Not by something as futile as war. He can’t breathe, can’t think. Everything is despair.
He should have died. Living is not a gift in this condition. His knuckles go white against the duvet. Anger sweeps over him—hot, potent fury.
He curses everyone who caused this. Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, even fucking Helaena. He doesn’t care. They’ll all pay.
But not like this. He finally shuffles himself into a seated position, cringing at the pain that shoots from every direction. Every small movement feels like another arrow tearing his skin.
His feet are unsteady as he finds his footing. For a second, he fears he might not be able to even walk. Then, he finds himself. He grabs his breeches off the table and slowly, painfully, shrugs them on. He leaves his chest bare—unable to even think about having to lift his arms over his head. He keeps one hand on the wall and the other around his waist as he stumbles across the room.
The place he is in is frighteningly humble. There’s nothing unnecessary here. Everything has a purpose, a function. No gilded armoires, tall candlesticks, or commissioned portraits. Bare, cobblestone walls, sparse furniture (all glaringly handmade and rustic), and cobwebs hanging in every corner.
Jacaerys moves slowly from the room he started in to the short hallway that opens into a tiny living area. A large fireplace is the only comfort to him. A pot of a molten, unappetizing glob bubbles above the waning fire.
There are very few personal effects here. Nothing to propose any kind of hint or insight. Out the window of the front of the ramshackle building, he sees amber light flickering across a wide sea.
His breath shudders out of his lips. He doesn't recognize this place at all. He’s hurt. He has no dragon. He’s never felt worse in his entire life.
All of what energy he summoned flees him in that moment. He practically collapses into a nearby chair and it creaks pathetically under his weight. He hangs his head and a soft sob escapes his lips.
Tears tremble down his cheeks and onto the wood table beneath his hand. His mind races, memory and pain and fury collide in a war of its very own. Vermax, his mind strays. The perfect dragon. Gone. He digs his nails into the grain of the table beneath his hands, trying to recapture something to ground him. Short, hyperventilating breaths escape his lips—his vision fogs.
Then, everything clears. His hands unclench and he leans back in the chair. He stares at the ceiling, measuring his breaths. You are still alive, he tells himself. Therefore you are still useful.
Because perhaps that was his real fear. That he would no longer be of use—that he would no longer be worth fighting for. He’d always measured his worth in terms of what he could provide to his mother. Perhaps the truth is that his worth stretches beyond that.
He hears the sound of crunching footsteps outside. He sits up in the chair, eyes flickering toward the door. Ahead of him, he notices with a jolt, a knife lay discarded on the table. He grabs it before he can think the better of it, brandishing it like he actually could fight his way out of this mess.
He ignores the pain throbbing in his side and pushes himself to stand again. He won’t die now. He can’t.
The door creaks open slowly, and he angles the knife in front of himself protectively.
But the figure that crosses the threshold isn’t what he’d been expecting. Wide eyes and a mouth fallen open into an oval. Hands clutching a satchel of… is that a seashell?
She drops the satchel with immediacy, hands flying into the air. Jacaerys thinks he hears something break inside.
He keeps the arm holding the knife up despite the involuntary tremble that has begun in his arm. A cool sweat travels down his temple. His vision wanes. Despite her… figure (she hadn’t brandished a weapon a day in her life, he thinks), he knows looks can be deceiving.
“You’re up.” She does not immediately acknowledge the weapon in his hand. She’s either brave or simply ignorant. Jace is not sure what he’s more afraid of.
“Who—“ he starts to speak, but he breaks into a coughing fit. His throat feels like it is on fire. She takes a step forward, as if to help or harm him, but he freezes her in place when he turns his gaze back onto her warningly. “Who are you?”
She tells him her name. Then she quickly adds, “you washed up on the beach in front of my cabin. I found you.”
He bends over to clutch his side. He notices her eyes widen.
“Please, I’m not sure you should be up. You sustained massive injuries,” she tells him. “Your body needs rest.”
“I cannot—“ he scoffs, then coughs again. “I cannot simply rest. I must leave. I must…”
A pang in his side makes him gasp and hunch over. The knife falls with a clatter against the floor but he can’t seem to bring himself to retrieve it. Everything feels like it is in slow motion, out of his reach and control.
She grabs him around the waist before he tips over. He stays conscious long enough for her to lead him back to bed, but he falls within the waves again the second his head hits the pillow.
Consciousness returns to him in fragments. The sound of footsteps by his head. A burning pain spreading up his chest, to which he thinks he shouts, but cannot prevent. The feeling of a wet cloth soaking his tears and sweat.
When his eyes finally flutter open, it is dark in the room. A candle burns to a nub on the nightstand next to him, wax coating the wood. Sorrow fills his chest again so quickly it nearly steals his breath.
He sees her slip into the room like a wraith come to haunt him. It is ridiculous, he thinks, that she should be the one to stand over him. On any other day, in any other circumstance, she would not put up much of a fight. Now, he is at her mercy.
“You tore one of your stitches.” Her voice is soft, but it reverberates in his ear drums and skull like a dragon’s final roar. He clenches his jaw and turns his head toward the moon that hangs like a silver noose in the sky. “I had to sew it back while you were resting.”
Jace doesn’t reply. He isn’t sure he would know what to say. How does he encompass all his feelings—or even one of them, into a coherent thought? It isn’t possible.
She draws closer and he tenses. She notices. “Are you going to try and hurt me again?”
He considers her for a moment, then shakes his head.
She pauses, thinking about something, then she settles upon his side of the bed. Jace notices for the first time since she’s entered the room, that she has a bowl of that wretched-looking soup in her hands.
“Here,” she says, outstretching the bowl. He leans back. She pulls away slightly. “Sorry.” She cringes like even she realizes that the soup is nothing to write home about. “It is all I have.”
Jace swallows thickly. He reaches a trembling hand out. She smiles, relieved.
He goes to take the bowl, but his arm feels weak. He pulls back. “Perhaps…” he pauses, clears his throat. “Perhaps you could…”
Asking for help has never come easy to him. Being weak is not something he is accustomed to. His other hand clenches the sheet in his fist.
She nods. He does not have to be explicit. He untenses his hand as she leans forward, a small bit of soup in the wood spoon.
The first bite makes his face twist. She laughs.
“I truly am sorry,” she says. “I know it is probably not what you are used to.”
It takes every bit of his strength to swallow the offending liquid. It is strangely salty. It tastes like the brine that filled his mouth when he—
He cuts the thought short. No need to ruin his own mood again.
“Something happened to you out there,” she says as if she’d read his mind, and although it should be a question, it is not, “something bad.”
He swallows another gulp of the soup. He does not reply.
She must realize he does not want to speak on that, for she does not press the matter. She lifts the spoon again and he forces down another sip.
“The soup has fish and some potatoes—oh, and they had carrots at the market today, so I put those in too. Perhaps those are the disgusting parts. I won’t purchase them again.”
Jace does not have the energy, or perhaps the heart, to tell her it is certainly not the vegetables that have made the soup taste like what sea captains scrape off the bottom of their ships.
She scoops another bit of soup and he forces it down. His mouth had begun to retain that saltiness even when he no longer had the soup in his mouth, like a stain one can’t wash away with soap and water.
She does not speak for a long pause, but Jace suddenly feels a bit antsy. It feels too intimate an act to not be speaking.
He swallows another mouthful, then clears his throat to speak. “Did you catch the fish?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
“Oh, no, no,” she replies to him like it is a preposterous suggestion. Like killing fish is below her standards. “I just buy them.”
He frowns around the spoon in his mouth and hurriedly swallows the liquid. “Then why were you on the shore when you found me?”
She stirs the foul soup around for a moment, thinking hard about something, then she looks up at him. “I collect things. Shells, scrap metal, and fabrics. You would be surprised what comes with the morning tide, and even more what people would pay for them.”
An odd business, Jace can’t help but think. It seems like a hard thing to have to rely solely on the Narrow Sea for food and shelter. The Narrow Sea, he remembers with a sudden clarity. That is near where they fought.
“Are you going to tell your name?” Her head is tilted as she asks this, the soup bowl now empty and forgotten upon her folded legs.
He ponders the question for a moment. He could tell her his full name, but it might backfire, especially if she harbors a grudge against his family. He doesn’t think she has it in her to cause him harm, but he knows that many do not until they are cornered.
“Jace,” he finally tells her. “Just Jace.”
She smiles and her entire face lights up like nothing he’s ever seen before. Something twists in his stomach. “Nice to meet you, Jace.”
One, two, three, four. You count the shells noiselessly as you thread them onto the fishing line. They clink together softly as you pull the line taut around your wrist, measuring the width mentally. You remove the bracelet and add a few more of your little shells.
A few days had passed without much event. Jace drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day and slept soundlessly through the night. He did not complain, but you had seen his thinly-veiled winces and his shuddering breaths. You know that he is suffering more than he lets on.
It is an odd thing, you think, to be harboring a man in your home that you know next to nothing about, but had inexplicably formed an attachment to. You still know nothing more about Jace than his name and even that had not been an answer easily wrought.
You slide the shells all to one side and swiftly tie a knot at the end of the line, forming a perfect circular bracelet. Putting it to the side, you cut a new piece of fishing line and begin sorting through your shells again.
Just as you go to slide the first shell on, you hear something behind you. The creaking of wood as light footfalls go across.
You turn your head, body tense.
“Jace,” you say, surprised by his appearance. You stand.
He had not been up since he’d ripped that stitch a few days ago, actually heeding your pleas to rest. But a part of you knew even then that the peace would not last long. He is a restless creature, like a bird stuck behind the bars of a cage.
“Do you need something?” You clutch your fingers together across your front, as if doing so could somehow steel your nerves.
He takes a step into the room. You notice his gait seems more steady today. He looks around every bit of the room, his eyes taking in all the pieces that make up your home. You gnaw your lip between your teeth. Did he approve of what he saw?
His voice comes suddenly, a blade cutting through the silence. “What are you doing?”
It is not accusatory nor standoffish, instead it seems almost curious. You grab the bracelet you just finished and hold it out to him.
“A bracelet.”
Jace steps closer, tilting his head. “For what purpose?”
You let out a short laugh. “It has no purpose. It is just pretty.”
“Hm.” He stares at the offending object like he’s never thought about making something just for the sake of making something before. You smile. He averts his eyes to the other side of the room.
“You said you do not fish,” he says, “and yet you have a fishing rod.”
You follow his eyes to where the thing sits near the door. It sits, forgotten, in the corner of the room—there to haunt you and the person you’d never become, you’re sure.
“My father…” you start to say, but something gets caught in your throat. You forcefully swallow past the blockage. “My father used to fish.”
Jace’s accusatory eyes soften around the edges. He hobbles closer and takes the seat across from you at the table. Your father’s seat.
“And your father—“
“He is dead,” you answer curtly, “he has been for two summers now.”
You pick up the bracelet you had only just starteda nd slide a seashell onto the line. Hurt does not fill your chest like a cavity anymore—now all you feel is numbness as it spreads from your lungs to your heart.
Jace turns his head to look out the window at the night sky. “My father is gone too.”
Your eyes leap toward his in a flash. He does not look at you, his hand tracing repetitive shapes on the table. The deep circles beneath his eyes have all but faded now, but the weariness to his expression remains. He possesses the gaze of someone who holds more than they can carry–a gaze your father shared.
Your throat bobs as you force yourself to swallow. You feel hollow, but a bit of warmth has reentered your chest. Two children, you think, without a parent—an awful thing, certainly, but not especially rare in Westeros.
You slide another shell onto the bracelet, fingers trembling. “He went mad.” Telling the truth, those three words, stings like betrayal. “He was a knight before I was born. He never… he never forgot what he had to do. The faces of the men he killed… they haunted him.”
Jace goes pale. His dark eyebrows furrow, the line of his mouth pulling down. “I-I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”
You nod. Put another two shells on the line. Desperately, you search for a way to change the subject. “He always wanted to teach me,” you say, gesturing to the rod, “but he never did.”
He drags a quick hand through his curly brown hair, then pauses as he gets caught in a tangle. He huffs irritably.
“Perhaps,” he says, onyx eyes catching the amber light of the candle flickering on the table, “if I could summon the strength to get dressed and brush my hair, then I could show you how.”
You swallow thickly. “You do not have to—“
“It is the least I can do,” he murmurs. “You saved my life.”
To smile feels inappropriate, so you avert your eyes and begin to tie a knot in another bracelet.
Jace stares at himself in the mirror that stands in the corner of the bedroom with solemn eyes. His eyes glaze over the bandages that wrap around his chest and lower torso, then the unfamiliar slightness to his shoulders and waist. He feels as though he looks at a person he no longer recognizes, like his mind has been transported into the body of someone much weaker than he used to be.
The old house is quiet in the morrow. Every once in a while, a soft breeze will make the house creak. One may occasionally hear a sea bird calling in the distance. Other than that, everything exists as if completely removed from reality; untouched by the war that rages just beyond the sea’s reaches.
His eyes flick back to the mirror and he sees her standing behind him with a deep green doublet wrapped in her arms.
“It was my father’s,” she says, drawing closer. “It might be a little large on you.”
Jace nods. She hands him the doublet. The material feels like cheap linen, nothing to the quality he had worn before. He does not mind. It would be odd, he thinks, for him to expect anything better.
He lifts the top over his head and she helps guide it over. She seems to be trying not to touch his skin, like she thought he might be made of glass. He clenches his jaw when he feels the familiar tightness in one of his wounds as his arms stretch over his head.
The doublet falls over his body easily, but it does hang on him a bit like the robes a septa might wear.
He hears the sound of muffled laughter from behind him and he turns his head.
“My apologies.” She can barely get it out through her thinly-suppressed amusement. “You do look a bit funny, though.”
Jace feels his lips tug upwards in the first semblance of happiness he’d felt in days. It feels odd and out of place, and so it disappears with his next blink.
“Shall we go?”
Jace nods. He follows her out of the bedroom and into the living area, watching as she bends to grab the fishing pole. He walks behind her as she leads the way outside, too slow to match her pace.
The brush of a briney mist against his skin feels like flying across the humid air on top of Vermax. His chest pangs and he forces the thought away. His eyes brush the swaying grasses that stand cloistered around the sea’s edge, each one caught up in a current of air drifting by. He watches the woman as she strides ahead of him.
She is quite plain. She does not have the dresses of the courts he is used to, nor the manners of a highborn lady. She moves unhindered by corsets and the plumes of expensive dresses. Her soft legs pump quickly across the sands, barefoot, like she has mapped every inch of the shore to near-perfection and knows without looking where she must go.
Seeing her slip ahead, her hair tangled in the sea’s mist, then as she turns over her shoulder with a jovial grin, it feels so different than anything he’s ever known before.
Baela is beautiful. She is poised, and gentle, but with a rough edge that assures him she could—and would—easily hurt him if pushed to it. But his stomach never flipped when she spoke. He never searched for her eyes from across the room. He never grasped her hand and wished he never had to let it go. He had known her for so long, he assumed she was all he’d ever need, that the feeling of content he felt in her presence was love. Now he isn’t so sure.
She reaches the shore and stops when her feet hit the tide.
He meets her gaze as she turns to him. His heart pounds in his ears.
“Is it not wonderful?” She sweeps her arm in a half-arc as she speaks, eyes glimmering beneath the high morrow’s sun.
Jace draws his eyes away from her figure to the open waters. It is wonderful, he thinks. If not wrought with pain and regret.
He forces his gaze away. “Yes.”
“So,” she says, shifting on her heels, “how do we begin?”
Jace steps forward and picks up the rod. He retrieves the little scrap of maroon fabric that she had found a few days back and attaches it to the end of the hook.
“It is always a good idea to have some kind of bait,” he explains, “fish are attracted to movement. If you can find insects or worms, those work even better. But this fabric may do. We will have to see.”
He moves close to the edge of the water and lets the rod scrape the top of the ocean. “Most fish do not swim right by the shore, so you will need to throw the line out a little ways. Make sure that you do not catch your skin with the hook.”
She nods, eyebrows drawn together in deep contemplation. Jace nearly smiles at the way she’s taking this all so seriously, before he catches himself and schools his expression.
Jace steadies his hand and propels the line out into the ocean. One of the wounds on his side complains at the movement, but he ignores it. He watches the line bob in the water with a softened expression. His memory flits between days spent under the sun at Driftmark and Dragonstone, laughing while he chases Lucerys with a wood sword; Laenor showing him how to fish among the tidepools; a fierce burn from the sun that is soothed by his mother’s affectionate hand.
“Who taught you this?” Her voice breaks through the silence that had settled between them. Her eyes keep steady on the line, lashes squinting against the harsh light.
“My father,” he replies after a moment’s hesitation.
Another pause.
He feels her shift to look over at the side of his face. “I’m sure he would be quite proud of the man you have become.”
Jace’s breath halts in his throat. Hands suddenly feel clammy. His heart hiccups and thuds against his skin. He had not thought of Laenor in a long time, Harwin even longer. It feels like decades had passed since he had seen either of them, a forgotten moment in his life overshadowed by tragedy after tragedy.
“Oh, look,” she says suddenly from beside him. “A conch shell.”
She wields the massive thing toward him. Her entire face is bright with delight as she shows him the object that any normal person would completely disregard. She is anything but normal, though.
“These always sell for a few silvers at the markets,” she informs him, “the rich folk think they are good luck.”
He is not able to reply before his arm suddenly jolts and he is pulled a few inches forward. On the end of the line, something stirs in the water.
“Come,” he orders her urgently. “Something is biting.”
She draws close, her eyes wide. The conch shell drops to the sand. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he says, “here, you hold the rod.”
“What? I don’t know how to catch a fish!”
He thrusts the rod into her hands. “I am too weak to reel it in. You have to.” It is a lie, but she does not seem to recognize it.
Her hands slip all over the rod as she tries to fight the beast at the end of the line. Jace, pitying her struggle, slides behind her and steadies her hands by placing his on top of hers. She freezes for a moment, then begins to pull. Jace clutches her hands gently within his own and he notices that they tremble like seagrass beneath his own.
“Hold it steady,” he says against the shell of her ear, “pull only when you feel it stop fighting. You do not want–”
Suddenly, the pressure is removed from the end of the line and they are both sent stumbling backwards onto the sand. Jace lands on his bum, but she is able to catch herself as she tumbles beside him. The line must have broken. The fish is long gone now.
“Oh Jace, are you okay?” He looks over at her as she crouches beside him. “You did not reopen your wounds, did you?”
The laugh that tumbles out of his lips makes her jolt back. Distantly, he is not sure why he is laughing. The fish got away, he landed on back on the sand, and now one of his cuts hurts. But he had just felt so alive. So unburdened by responsibility, like any man of ten and eight without the entirety of their mother’s empire resting upon their shoulders ought to feel.
The laughter eventually abates, and all that is left is the open sky atop him and the sun beating down on his skin.
“Do you think that the fish I cooked last night was spoiled?” she asks in response to his exuberant mood. “Once, my father caught ill from bad potatoes…”
Jace feels another chuckle escape his lips. “Sorry,” he tells her. “I have… not felt that free in a long time.”
She lets out a soft ‘oh’ and moves to lay next to him in the sand. Far enough away that there is no chance that they will touch, but close enough that Jace can smell the lavender on her skin.
Jace stares at the clear sky ahead of him until he begins to feel his body ache with exhaustion. He pulls himself into a seated position, but she does not move immediately. She looks at him with soft eyes from where she lays against the sand, a small, affectionate smile upon her lips. Her chest rises and falls slowly, hand absentmindedly drawing pictures in the sand.
His stomach churns as he turns away. He stares out at the rippling current with half-lidded eyes.
“How far is the nearest town?” His words are nearly carried away with the next tide that pulls up the shore. She hears him all the same, sliding to sit up next to him.
“Not far,” she replies, a toothy grin on her breath, “would you like to come and help me pick out a fish for dinner tomorrow?”
Jace does not reply. The hope tinged in her words makes something inside him feel rotten. Like he is corrupting the world wherein she lives. As he takes longer and longer to reply, he notices something settle upon her face. A realization that fades into melancholy.
“Oh.” She looks to the sea in an attempt to hide the dewiness in her eyes, but Jace notices all the same. “You wish to leave.”
“My mother,” he says, “she will be looking for me. She will not stop until she finds me.”
She nods.
Something compels him to continue. “I would stay. I would, truly,” he says, “but this is bigger than me. Bigger than this–”
“I understand, Jace.” But Jace is not sure she does. Her lips purse, her eyebrows drawn to form a small wrinkle between them.
“I would at least stay a couple more days,” he tells her, “I need to make sure I do not simply hurt myself again by leaving too soon.”
She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her head upon them. “It sounds like a good plan,” she agrees quietly. “Perhaps… Perhaps I could pack you some food as well.”
“Yes,” he says this far too enthusiastically, but he notices her brighten at the joy in his voice and so he continues to smile. “That would be wonderful.”
She nods, pulling at a frayed edge of her dress. “Then it will be done.”
The two of them watch for a few more moments as the red sun burns a hole against the sky and as the water ripples with wrath.
“I will leave on the morrow”--That is what he had told you over dinner the previous evening.
In the morrow, the sky opens and floods them with her tears.
You stand by the window of the cabin looking out at the frightful weather. Rain falls like daggers against the darkened, tumultuous sea. Waves crash against the shore. A crack of lightning makes you flinch.
“The Gods are angry,” you say to the still air of the cabin.
Jace sits halfway over his plate of roasted fish as you say this. Then he straightens, his eyes flickering briefly outside. The dark brown of his irises reflect the grey of the clouds swirling above. “Or they do not grant me leave.”
You force yourself to pull away from the window. Turning your head, another flash of brilliant light comes across the floor, painting everything white. You fall into a silence as you step carefully across the cabin.
You knew that from the moment you found him, that it would not be permanent. Just like the rains that fall from above now, this momentary storm in your life will too pass. You had not even wished for him to stay, initially. You recall that first night, sewing his wounds with fishing line, as your eyes stretched across his alien visage. You had told yourself that his presence would be temporary as a comfort then, now you tell it to ground yourself in reality.
Jace had become more friendly in the past few days. Conversation came easily to him and made the thought of him leaving that much harder. Now you were the one that deflated at the sound of his voice across the hall, the one that shrunk from revealing the parts of yourself that had not seen the light in years.
You are selfish. It is a quality that had always lurked behind your eyes, but had sharpened since your father’s death. It is a survival tactic. Every animal, even humans, wish to hold onto the things they hold dear. It does not matter if it is not much. Everything you have is in some way worth keeping–including Jace.
But you could not fight logic. His mother, his family–they had a higher claim to him than you did. You could not keep him like a bird with clipped wings. It is cruel to even think it.
You scrub the dish in your hands until your hands feel raw and achy. The only light comes from behind you in the smoldering fireplace and the flash of light that illuminates the sky. You hear the clatter of the bowl from behind you as Jace finds his footing–the screech of the chair as it rubs harshly against the floor.
You feel his warmth as he comes to stand beside you. He reaches a hand into the soapy mess over the wood bucket and fetches your hand from the fray.
“You have made yourself bleed,” he observes quietly, a finger stroking over the cuts.
You feel your throat bob under the weight of his probing stare. You slip your hand away from his and turn your back to dip the bowl in the bucket of soapless water.
“Have I done something to upset you?” he murmurs. His words are echoed by a rumble of thunder in the distance.
You still your movements for just a second before continuing. Your cuts throb at the feeling of the cool water cleansing the blood from your hands. “No,” you reply simply.
“Then why have you been so quiet as of late?”
You drop the bowl onto the wood surface in front of you and turn, drying your hands with a near cloth. “I just haven’t had much to say, I suppose.”
Another flash of light. Rain as it beats ceaselessly against the metal roof. You face him, clenching the towel in your fist.
“Shall we remove your stitches?” It had been suggested a few days ago as the first thing he would do before departing, so he would not have to bother with finding someone to do it for him on the road.
Jace looks like he might say something. Then he shakes his head. “On the bed?”
You nod. “That would be easiest.”
You slip behind him as he moves toward the bedroom. On your way, you light the spill near the fireplace and bring it with you. Your eyes find his figure as it slinks through the darkness. He’s healed so much better than you had ever expected he might. He should not have survived his injuries—should not have been able to heal so quickly. You think the Gods must favor his survival much more than they favored the own laws they stipulated.
He slides off his doublet and lounges back into the bed. You let the flame on the end of the spill touch the end of the wick of the candlestick and the room is bathed in a soft glow. You suffocate the flame and put the spill onto the table next to the bed.
Jace watches you as you do this quietly. When your eyes move up to his face, you notice his eyes are lidded, the tips of his ears red. You feel a warmth catch hold of your skin at his gaze and you avert your eyes to his chest.
You begin your work in silence. You lift the knot of each stitch and easily slice through it with the sharp edge of your knife. At the end of your first removal, you are happy to see that the wound has faded to a pinkish stripe.
“Who taught you this?”
You startle at the sound of his voice after several long minutes of silence. It is a deep baritone, rough around the edges. Its unexpected richness has you shifting in your place on the edge of the bed. A flash of white light from out the window bathes his face in color.
“My father.” You do not elaborate further. You think it self explanatory. Your father taught you everything.
“Was he hurt often?”
You cut another knot. “There are no maesters in the far reaches,” you tell him. A hint of bitter frustration lines your words. “I have assisted several people who have needed help in the village.”
“I did not know,” he replies softly, “that is quite kind of you.”
“We all share responsibility here, no one is without duty.” You put another piece of the fishing line to the side. “It is how things function when you do not have the entire Seven Kingdoms at your disposal.”
You notice Jace’s eyebrows furrow. His stomach tenses beneath your hand. “How did you…”
“It is obvious,” you say, “your voice, your cadence, the way you were dressed when I found you… you have no scars, no callouses. You did not offer your house’s name, so I can only assume—“
“Jacaerys Velaryon,” he says, “that is my name.”
You still. Your eyes dart to his, alarm filling your chest and stealing your breath. “Velaryon,” you echo, heart racing. “That is the name of…”
“Perhaps you know of Corlys Velaryon,” he offers, “the Sea Snake. He is my grandfather. Or Rhaenyra Targaryen, my mother—“
You stand, breathing panicked. “You must leave,” you say, “why did you stay so long? The realm… your mother… the Seven Kingdoms need you.”
Jace leans forward to grasp your arm. You allow him only because you fear you may topple over without the stability.
“I am of no use to them in this condition,” he scoffs. You notice a faraway look in his eyes. The same look he sometimes got when he stared upon the ocean or recalled stories of his father to you. “My dragon is dead, my body a wreck. There is nothing left of me for them to scavenge.”
“T-That is not true,” you stutter. “You must at least find out if they are safe. You have been healed for days… you could have left—“
“I stayed for you.” You fall silent at the sincerity in his voice. His hand drifts down the bare skin of your wrist to thread between your fingers. He cups your hand between his own.
“You cannot stay,” you tell him.
“It does not matter if I stay one more day. The realm will not fall today,” he replies, “we cannot travel in this ruinous weather, anyway.”
Your eyes drift to the window, where the wind throws its tears against the pane. You nod slowly and find your seat again.
You grasp the knife from where you sat it on the duvet. You slide the other to rest upon his warm stomach. His breaths quicken beneath your hand as you drag it up to the next wound.
“I almost killed you the day after I found you,” you whisper, “I thought it would be a mercy. The fact that you are here at all… alive, breathing. It is a gift from the Gods.”
He leans forward. “What stopped you?”
Your movements pause from where you had started to cut away another knot. “You did.”
His throat bobs. His hand moves from where it clutches the sheets to where your hand rests upon his sternum. He strokes the skin of your hand gently.
You lean forward without realizing what you are doing. He does not allow you to back away. He brings his other hand to the nape of your neck and leans forward to seal your lips with his.
The kiss is languid. His tongue probes the seal of your lips and you allow it to slip inside. You bring your hand up to cup his jaw and he drags the hand cupping your neck to your hair. You let out a soft moan against his lips and he responds to the noise by pulling you forward onto his chest.
You do not lean your weight onto him in fear of hurting him, but you feel his hands crawl to settle upon your heaving ribs. You gently settle your lower half onto his hips, settling your hand down on a part of his chest that had no injuries.
You and Jace continue to kiss for what feels like hours. It is exhilarating. It feels like flying. Your stomach feels warm and fluttery, and your lips are throbbing.
You shift your hips and Jace lets out a groan. You pull away from the kiss, concerned. His hand moves to grab the flesh of your hip, sliding you back some. There is a hardness beneath you that makes a pleasant chill slide down your spine.
“Are you alright, Jace?”
“Unless you wish for us to have sex,” he grumbles, “you should move off my hips.”
You swallow thickly at the insinuation. Sex. A novel thing. A thing that should be saved for marriage. But marriage seems so far from your mind now, drifting away like a current.
“And what do you wish for us to do?” you murmur. You slide forward an inch and he throws his head back onto the pillows. His chest heaves.
“You know what I wish,” he groans. “Is it not obvious?”
You lean forward so that your lips barely brush his own. “Then take it.”
Sunlight streams through the window ahead of you, branding the side of your face with heat, and your eyelids flutter against the intrusion. You fist your fingers in the sheets and twist your legs close to your body. As you shift, you feel an arm pulling you backwards.
You grasp the hand splayed across your stomach between your trembling fingers.
“Stay,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. Tears bead in your eyes, but you keep them at bay.
Your thumb finds the pulse that thrums beneath his skin and you count his heart beats. The Gods are cruel, you think. They had kept Jace here long enough for you to miss him when he leaves.
You turn your body over to face him. You are not surprised to see him already staring back at you. His dark curls are a mess on the pillow beneath him. His lips pull upwards at the corners, but do not reach his eyes. He brings his hand up to stroke your cheek.
Your chin wobbles and he blinks away a frown.
“It will not be forever,” he tells you softly, reverently,
“I will return to you one day.”
You bring a hand up to wipe away the stubborn tears. “I suppose you do not know when that will be.”
He leans forward to give you a kiss and you know that is the only way he can possibly tell you no.
Pulling away from the kiss feels like saying good-bye.
You stay in bed as he stands, sluggishly dressing himself as if he was still looking for reasons not to leave. You do not think he finds one. He turns his head to look back at you and his expression falters.
A small smile curls at your lips as you mouth the word—go.
He heeds your instruction and leaves your cabin with a satchel of roasted fish, a map to the nearest town, and a bracelet strung with seashells.
ONE YEAR LATER…
The nets are full this morrow. The tide ebbs and flows, slinking across the silver sands. Birds let out cries of rejoice overhead for the plentiful bounty gifted by the sea.
You bend the knee to heave the first net out of the water. You clutch your chest protectively as you search through the things with the other hand.
“Hm,” you murmur, “a rainbow shell.”
You bring the shell up to the light and small reflections bounce across your vision. Tucking it into your satchel, you search some more. A piece of metal, two scraps of fabric, and a clam.
You pocket the metal and one of the ratty pieces of fabric, but allow the clam to slide back under the tide. You bring your dry hand to rest upon the head of the babe swaddled against your breast.
“Shh,” you whisper to him as he begins to stir. “It is alright, my prince.”
He brings his head up slowly to peer at you. A splatter of sea foam settles on the side of his face, but he does not seem to mind. He gives you a gummy smile and you return it lovingly.
He watches with bleary eyes as you sort through the next net of things. You show him each individual item as you retrieve it. Your heart skips when you feel a familiar shape and weight in the palm of your hand.
“A conch shell,” you inform him with a giddy grin, “these sell for several silvers at the market.”
He stares at the shell with wide eyes. The pattern, a dark brown and white mottling, you think, must confuse or enrapture him by the way he looks at it.
The small of your back has begun to hurt. You straighten up and lift a supportive hand to rest underneath the baby’s bum.
“This will be enough for today,” you decide. “The sea has gifted us more than we need.”
The little boy smacks his lips as if agreeing with the statement. You nod and carry your satchel and the boy up the familiar path to the cabin.
However, your footsteps slow as you grow closer until you stop right before the door. Something is not right. You protectively cradle the back of your son’s head as you touch a hand to the door.
It pushes open with little resistance. You slide the knife you kept on you at all times to your hand in one swift movement as you step inside.
You take not but two steps beyond the threshold before you freeze. The knife clatters to the ground and a gasp shudders from your lips at the sight in front of you.
He stands across from you like he never left. He’s dressed in black gilded leathers, his body a tad leaner and steadier. His face looks older, more mature and shaped by circumstance, just as you imagine yours must too. His mop of dark hair curls around his ears, longer than when you saw him last.
His lips with awe. He stares at you and your face as if trying to map something with his mind.
“Jace,” you say breathlessly. “How…”
“I saw you by the shore as I rode in from town,” he murmurs, taking a hesitant step forward. He lets out a soft laugh that sends your stomach aflutter. “I thought I might surprise you. I guess I am lucky to not have received a knife in my throat.”
Your throat bobs. Mistiness clouds your vision. “You came back for us.”
“For us?” Jace echoes, eyebrows furrowed. He comes so close he can reach out to you with his arm and you know that he has seen him then, by the shock that melts his features.
The boy turns his head to the best of his ability in your swaddle, his eyes searching for the unfamiliar voice. Jace’s mouth comes nearly unhinged, a trembling hand lifting as if to stroke his head, but it falls short.
He forces his eyes to look at you. “He… he’s mine?”
You bite your lip to suppress your smile as you nod. You reach around your neck with one arm while the other supports the baby’s bum. You unravel the swaddle easily, and the chubby baby flails his arms with relief. Never one to like a cage.
You outstretch him toward Jace and he takes him eagerly. He holds him with practiced ease. He supports the baby’s head and bum as he gazes down at him, tracing his forehead to the slope of his nose to the flutter of his lashes with only his eyes.
Jace finally breaks away from the baby long enough to look up at you. “And I just… I just left you. You and my son.”
Your heart skips a beat at the name. Son. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning like a fool.
“You had to,” you say, stepping forward to lay a gentle hand upon his upper arm. “Your family needed you.”
He clenches his jaw. “Nothing we did… nothing we accomplished… equals this.”
He strokes a featherlight touch against the boy’s cheek and he wrinkles his nose.
“Will you…” you pause. You try to steel yourself for the rejection that may very well follow, hands clammy by your sides. “Will you be staying long?”
Jace’s eyes rush to meet yours. He steps forward. The baby whimpers in his arms at the movement.
“I would stay forever if you would have me.”
You feel your heart skip a beat. “What? What of the throne? Of your family?”
He shakes his head. Your stomach drops.
“My brother Aegon will be the next ruler. Wed to his cousin.”
“And you?”
His dark eyes soften as they consider this question carefully. He clutches the lost prince to his chest protectively.
summary: Lord Jason Lannister and Lady Johanna Westerling’s union proved fruitful, as they had three daughters and a son, even if it is reported that theirs was no marriage made out of love. The most remarkable out of their children was, obviously, the third borne daughter, who was known amongst the smallfolk as the Golden Princess and later on would have been remembered as the Lion Queen.
pairing: jacaerys velaryon x lannister!reader
word count: 6.4k
warnings: childhood friends to lovers trope, mention of slavery, common asoiaf violence (broken arm), swearing probably, just very sweet, reader is a crybaby (it's okay, so am i) but she'll get better, tyland and jason are kinda assholes, that's it!!
author's note: there better be at least five minutes of screentime for cregan this season or else i WILL crash out. rip jace my glorious curly haired king 👑 might come back to proof read this again later but that's a problem for future me... dividers from @uzmacchiato!
the ballad of the lion and the dragon
the lion | the dragon | the ballad
You’re six when you visit Tyrosh for the first time.
Your father, Lord Jason Lannister, is invited to the Archon of Tyrosh’s residence; it is not uncommon for your family to receive invites from all around the Known World, but it is rare for your father to accept them. Most of the time he either goes by himself or sends someone in his stead, but for some reason he has decided to bring you all this time. You all meaning you, your mother and your sisters, Cerelle and Tyshara.
“I heard your father is searching for a good knight who is willing to watch over you,” your septa tells you, merely days before your departure. “That’s why the arrangements for the voyage are taking so long.”
You are not a difficult child by any means. You behave, listen to what your nurses and septa tell you, and you do everything that they ask of you. It’s just that you have… a tendency.
Adults can be boring sometimes, and you’re always quiet, rarely interrupting their conversations. Oftentimes you find yourself involved with them simply because your father wants to show off his youngest daughter, the child who’s the perfect picture of how a Lannister should be. And oftentimes, if not always, you simply find yourself… just wandering off, once the attention isn't on you anymore.
You’re so quiet hardly anyone notices your disappearances, usually, but when someone does, it’s chaos. Your parents have a talent for always thinking about the worst scenarios possible, so, if you’re missing from a feast, then surely someone must have kidnapped you. Only for you to be found napping in the garden, curled on a bench like a cat not even ten minutes later.
You have yet to receive any harm from this tendency of yours, and when it’s between Casterly Rock’s walls, there’s hardly any risk of harm, since it’s well guarded and there’s hardly anything dangerous in there. Tyrosh, however…
“How many times does she have to sneak off before something bad happens?” Johanna always complains to her husband. “Yes, we are guarded, but who knows who could be hiding within these walls — there's men out there that would do anything for a single golden coin, and we surely don’t lack in that regard. When she sneaks off, nobody notices– and that’s because she’s quiet, and small, and easy to bore. But she is your daughter, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one day we couldn’t find her after a feast and a request for ransom is found in her stead.”
So the search for a sworn shield began. Jason is mostly looking for already experienced knights; it probably won’t be a hard job, they’ll just have to follow you around — plus, he pays good coin. If the knight really wants it, then he can surely act like a nursemaid for you.
After good research, Ser Morren Westerling is chosen. He’s one of your mother’s distant relatives, an old man in possession of just a title, who fought in the Stepstones and has won a good amount of turneys and melees since then for your father to repute him a good enough candidate.
Ser Morren is introduced to you the same day you're supposed to leave for Tyrosh. He's a man well in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and beard, tanned skin and an ugly scar on his chin. He wears the newly made armour your father had commissioned for him and a red coat with silver linings, also a gift from your father. Clearly, he wants him to be recognisable.
He looks you up and down, then looks to your father. “I assume I’ll escort your three daughters?”
Your father shakes his head and gently pushes you in front of him. “No, just her. She's my youngest and tends to wander off. Be careful to follow her and make sure she doesn't get hurt or taken.”
The knight blinks. “Ah.”
Your father raises an eyebrow, amused. “‘Tis not what you were expecting?”
He shakes his head. “No, no, it is just… I think this is the most peaceful job I have ever taken.”
The Lord shrugs his shoulders, moving a hand up to smooth his cape. “Be good at it and you'll be allowed to stay in my castle as a guard for as long as you'll like. Or, depends, for as long as my daughter likes.” he turns his attention to you, kneeling down to your level. “This is Ser Westerling. He'll accompany you during our time in Tyrosh. Be good for him.”
He leaves you with a pinch on the nose and a kiss on the forehead, and you're now in the care of the nursemaid, Ser Westerling and under the watch of your sisters, who are more than happy to coo and play with you. They're way older than you, now almost two-and-ten each, but always ready to dress you up and make up stories for you to play with your dolls.
The carriage ride to Lannisport is quick compared to the weeks of traveling by sea that take to get to Tyrosh; you discover that you get terribly seasick, so most of your time on the boat consists in puking in a bucket and crying while being comforted by your parents, your sisters or the nursemaid. Your mother sings to you, even if seasick herself, while your father tries to console you by telling you all the gifts he'll buy you once you reach the Free Cities, which by now to you look like a mirage. But they aren't.
You arrive at Tyrosh at night, when you're already passed out from the nausea that's been plaguing you since the voyage started, and get welcomed by the Archon’s advisor, who shows you your chambers for your stay.
Tyrosh is as your father promised: shiny, full of merchants with marvelous products and crystalline sea waters. By day you explore the city with the Archon as chaperone, and your father makes sure to make up for the voyage by buying you double the things he had promised to get you. But Tyrosh has a big problem.
There are people in cages.
You don't understand why they would be there, but when your mother sees them, she makes sure to make you look the other way. That is, until you look the other way and you see something that catches your eye.
There are two little lion cubs. They're dirty, thin and a bit mangy, surrounded by mosquitos and other bugs, sleeping but looking dead. One cry from you is all your father needs to be on high alert, immediately turning around. “What is it, love?”
You just whine, finger moving to point at the little cubs. “Daddy, I want them.”
Your father raises an eyebrow, the Archon joining you all. “What might the matter be?”
“She wants those… kittens over there,” Jason replies, wincing, clearly not too fond of flea-infested lion cubs. “I'll buy you bigger and better kept lions back at Westeros if you want them, love. Those are dirty, malnourished and probably ill.”
The Archon nods. “Those are kept for arenas. Usually they're bought with the intention of mostly starving them for games with gladiators.”
You sob. Your mother glares at your father, who raises his hands in defeat. “Fine, fine, we'll take them.”
The cubs are a girl and a boy, so it is only fair you name them Jonquil and Florian, after the mythical lovers that Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys were once compared to. They're dirty and full of fleas, but your father has them cleaned by the staff of the palace so that their fur — the parts of it that isn't ruined, burned or fallen off — almost shines gold.
You try to play with them in the evenings, under the watchful gaze of Ser Warren, but they don't seem to trust you. They flinch back every time you approach and barely even accept the food the servants leave for them. They wince every time a loud noise is heard and hiss when anyone tries to pick them up, baring their teeth like wild animals — which, you guess, they are.
You start taking your meals in your chambers, only to take the beef out of your plate and bring it to the little cubs. Slowly, they start eating from the plate, soon enough from your hands — and before you even know it, they let you pet them. The boy purrs when you scratch his belly, while the girl meows happily when you caress her head and have her try on your sisters’ necklaces, which are small enough to fit on her neck.
As they get plumper and healthier, they start following you around, hiding under your skirts and rubbing against your legs, looking for scratches and treats, climbing your gown with their little nails and meowing loudly when you don't give them what they want. Your sisters make sure to keep away from them, as they are pretty skittish and the kittens are still pretty uneasy around people other than you, and the same thing goes for your mother. The only one who actually has the courage to speak up against the cubs is your father, who gently approaches you one day about leaving them behind — either reselling them or leaving them for the Archon to deal with.
The start of your crying is all it takes to make him relent. So, Florian and Jonquil go back to Westeros with all of you, with brand-new shiny golden collars around their necks, depicting the Lannister emblem on the medallion.
Not even two moons later, a feast in honor of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon’s seventh nameday is held.
You’ve never been to King’s Landing before — you’ve never really traveled that much since before this summer, actually. It’s just that you’re finally old enough for your parents to bring you along wherever they go. And, of course, wherever you go, Florian and Jonquil follow.
They’re now four moons old — at least you think, by what the vendor had told your father — and they are growing quickly. They both still have some belly fat and are always looking for cuddles, and mainly for that, they are your best companions during the day and night.
They sneak under the covers of your bed at night and follow you during the day; they play with you, attend lessons with you — usually sleeping or tearing down the drapes — and they even sit by your feet at the table during breakfast, lunch and supper. They have now become your favorite and most loyal companions, and the same thing can be said for Ser Warren, who never lets out so much as a cough as he silently follows you throughout the day, never complaining nor saying anything against you. So it is only fair they all follow you on the journey to the Crownlands.
The voyage is less burdening than the one to the Free Cities, as it is completely done by carriage, and you are happy to babble all you know about the Capital to Ser Warren, who only pretends to be annoyed by it, you're sure. You repute yourself pretty good at reading people, and you just know he’s actually interested in all the facts you know.
You are welcomed by your uncle Tyland, who’s Master of Coin in King Viserys’ Small Council. You jump into his arms before your parents can stop you, and he gleefully catches you, holding you tight. “Ooh, look at you! How you have grown, my girl!”
You giggle, hiding your face in his shoulder. “Hi, uncle Ty,”
Tywin is your father’s brother and your favorite uncle — not that you have any other than him. All their brothers died before you were born, so even if they often have some discrepancies, they hold each other deeply close to the heart. Your uncle always showers you and your sisters with gifts, cherishing the little time you spend together, as he has no kids of his own and probably never will. That being said, every occasion is the right one to dote on you three.
The days at the Red Keep are mostly spent in the gardens with Florian and Jonquil, under the watchful eyes of your mother and the other ladies of the court, occupied in gossiping and drinking tea as their husbands go on hunts and talk about politics and discuss business. Most of the ladies are with their children too, some younger, some older, all playing together — princes included. As the Queen has made it clear to your father that she doesn’t want your cubs anywhere near her, her family or her entourage, Jonquil and Florian are let out of the room specifically organised for them only for walks in the hill behind the Castle.
Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra are never at the small parties on the same days — usually when one is present the other is absent, a thing the ladies have noticed with particular amusement, speculating about the hate going on between the two.
You mostly keep to yourself, too shy to approach the other kids, and often tend to the flowers in the gardens, teaching Ser Westerling the meaning and provenience of each one like he’s a particularly interested botanist and not a guard tied to your side by a contract. That is, until one day you are brutally and unmannerly interrupted by the Prince himself.
Prince Jacaerys is the main reason your family is in King’s Landing, and also in line to the Iron Throne as his mother’s heir. He is rowdy and loud, like children his age tend to be, so it’s not a new thing to see him covered in mud from head to toe. He has his hands behind his back, blushing furiously under your confused gaze, as Ser Warren raises an eyebrow, glaring in an unamused way at him. The children snickering and whispering behind the Prince, combined with how red he is and the flowers the knight can see he holds behind his back, give away his intentions immediately.
“I– I…” the Prince stumbles upon his words, “W– would you like to be my princess in the game?” At this, he holds out the flowers he has clearly just ripped from the garden, some still with dirt and roots attached. You gasp, and being the lover of knight tales as you are, of course you accept, cheeks rosy. You take his flowers and let him drag you to the ‘fortress’ you’ll be held prisoner at — a big bench at the center of the garden — where the ‘dragons’ — meaning two boys you don’t even know the names of — try to fight off the ‘knights’ — also known as princes Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon. Three girls sit far across from you, huffing and puffing, probably angry that they weren’t asked to be the princess.
You sit in your fortress-bench, counting your flowers’ petals and humming songs as the boys fight in the mud with wood swords, screaming and insulting each other. Your mother, Princess Rhaenyra and the other ladies watch from their table, chuckling between themselves — especially when it’s Lucerys who manages to get out of the scuffle first, condemning his brother to fight the other two boys alone, taking your hand in his and declaring eternal love and protection for you.
Rhaenyra starts laughing uncontrollably, looking at your amused mother. “Looks like the children get along!” she muses. That is until Jacaerys manages to free himself from the hold of the other two kids and smacks his brother as hard as he can in the head.
“I was supposed to save her!” he screams, glaring at his brother, who smacks back. “Well, then you should have fought harder!”
You dramatically gasp, sensitive and easy to scare, and all it takes is a whimper from your mouth for Ser Warren to come to the rescue, taking you by the armpits and bringing you to your mother as you start crying while the boys continue fighting. Johanna coos and wipes your tears, chuckling a bit to herself. “My girl, there’s nothing to cry for.”
Princess Rhaenyra has gone to scold her boys, demanding an apology on your behalf; Lucerys sheepishly asks sorry, while his brother — cheeks all red — gets on his tippy toes and leaves a wet, awkward kiss on your cheek. His mother gasps. “Jacaerys!” she hisses. “That is no proper way to behave! Aren’t you ashamed?”
Your mother laughs it off, as you’re as red as a tomato, giggling to yourself and fiddling with the velvet of your gown, staring at the kid — completely enamored . “That is no problem, my Princess; she doesn't seem to be bothered by any means.”
A kiss on the cheek is all it takes for you to glue yourself to Jacaerys’ side for the days that come, clammy hands usually tied together, a smile on your face and a pout on his. The Prince is quite spoiled and grumpy, you’ve discovered in the time you spend together, but he is also pretty funny — especially when he plays pretend as King Jaehaerys and insists on you being Queen Alysanne.
So, when one day he invites you to the training yard to see his sword skills, you can’t find it in yourself to say no — because, as your mother says, you may have a tiny, itsy bitsy crush on him. It’s probably the whole knight thing that has swooned you, because you love knights and the stories told about them.
Ser Warren grumpily agrees to accompany you, not before openly stating his dislike for him. “I just wouldn’t want you to get your hopes up, my Lady,” he says, a bit gruff. “Boys at this age tend to be a little… inconsiderate of a lady’s feelings.”
You don’t even seem to hear him, little feet scrambling to get a good look at the knights down in the training yard, looking for Jacaerys. There are a few other ladies on the balcony, swooning over the actual knights, giggling and blushing while whispering to each other. You take a good look at Ser Harwin, the captain of the City Watch, and even if you’re barely six summers old and definitely too young for him, you get them. Absent-mindedly, you hope that Jacaerys will look like him when he grows up.
“So, it is true,” Ser Morren murmurs, leaning over the railing to get a better look, talking to himself — clearly not thinking you can hear him. “Good ol’ Breakbones does look like the brat. Seven Hells,”
“Ser Morren,” you tug at his cloak, “could you pick me up? I can’t see really well from here.”
He complies, holding you steady against him but making sure you can see the training yard properly. You can see Jacaerys and Lucerys holding up wood swords against two other boys with platinum hair — the other princes, you guess — as they spar, mud coating their boots while the Lord Commander yells corrections and tips on how to perfect their stance and combat skills.
And while Lucerys exits his battle in triumph, holding the edge of his sword to Prince Aegon’s neck while unashamedly turning to look at the ladies — his brother is not so lucky.
Jacaerys lands in the mud on his side as his arm makes a loud crack, screaming out while Prince Aemond’s grin quickly twists into something more grim. You gasp, Ser Morren immediately ripping you away from the sight as the knights go and hover around the Prince, who’s whimpering, to examine the arm resting in an unnatural position. In the distance, as your guard drags you away, you hear someone call for a maester.
While this situation doesn’t present any actual real danger for you, Ser Morren knows you well enough by now. You’re a sensitive girl — you once cried because you accidentally stepped on a bug — and if his instinct is right, what he fears most might come any time now–
You burst out crying. Ah, there it is. At least you’re out of earshot from the princes — he wouldn’t want them to start picking on you and calling you a crybaby. He tries to ignore your gut wrenching sobs as he focuses on just finding your mother.
Once Lady Lannister is found — surrounded by the other ladies of the court, of course, who coo sadly at you and glare at your protector like he’s the reason you’re bawling your eyes out — she shushes you pretty easily, holding you close to her breast and patting your back soothingly. “Oh, my sweet, sweet girl, whatever has happened to make you so sad?”
Not even a moment passes from when Ser Morren finishes telling her what happened to when the ladies start to gossip. “Oh, have you heard of what happened just yesterday in the Dragonpit? Prince Aemond must still hold a grudge against the princes.”
What happened, you guess, must be one of their famous squabbles. They’re pretty common between Queen Alycent and Princess Rhaenyra’s children, you’ve found out. “That is in no way a sufficient reason to do such a thing– while Prince Aemond is one-and-ten, Prince Jacaerys is yet to turn seven summers old! It seems clear to me who’s in the wrong, don’t you think so, ladies?”
The back and forth between the gossiping courtiers goes on until your mother spots Princess Rhaenyra behind the colonnade that heads into the garden and quickly shuts her company up with a single, terrifying glare, petting your hair as you let out soft whimpers, still a bit shook from the earlier experience.
Princess Rhaenyra approaches the group and waves a hand in the air when some of the ladies are about to get up and bow, smiling sweetly at your mother– actually, smiling sweetly at you. “Hello,” she hums softly, trying not to scare you. “My son Jacaerys is asking about you. Would you like to come with me? He’s fine now.” she holds out a hand, offering it to you.
You look hesitantly at your mother, who nods, then hesitantly hop off her lap and take the Princess’ hand, brushing sheepishly at your dress with your other hand as she guides you into the castle, Ser Morren dutifully right behind you until Rhaenyra’s personal guard takes over.
Princess Rhaenyra’s hand is warm but firm and she looks a little disheveled — and you wonder if she spent the last thirty minutes yelling at the servants and knights like your father does when you or your sisters get hurt. “He broke his arm,” she tells you quietly, like she’s talking to a babe, “but the maester has already fixed him up. He seemed more worried about the fact that you saw him defeated than about the fracture.”
Your lips tremble, and you look at her with your big, sad eyes. “I don’t care that he didn’t win,” you whine, “I’m sad because he got hurt, and I don’t want him to hurt.”
She looks endeared. “Well, then, you tell him that.”
Jacaerys is laying on his bed when his mother opens the door to his room, Lucerys’ sitting by his bedside, moping, as the maester scolds him half-heartedly about the dangers of sparring in the mud-covered surface of the training yard. “I’ll make sure to have a word with Ser Harwin,” he seethes, “oh, yes, he’ll have to hear me because there’s no–”
“Maester Gylde,” Rhaenyra interrupts, spooking him out of his mind and bringing Jacaerys out of his stupor; he grins embarrassedly when he notices you. “Please, let the boy off his shackles. Having to sleep with that thing on his arm for the next three weeks is going to be enough.”
With that thing, she’s referencing the tight bandage wrapping around Jacaerys’ arm, bulging with a wooden log to keep the bone from fixing crooked. All it takes you is one look at it and bam– you’re ugly crying again.
It surprises both Rhaenyra and the princes, who all startle when you start sobbing. Panicked, Rhaenyra tries to shush you by taking you in her arms and cooing softly, but it is all for naught as every time she manages to wipe away your tears, more come out as a replacement — and suddenly she understands why your personal guard always takes you to your mother as soon as you start to tear up, instead of trying to console you himself.
“‘Tis nothing!” Jace raises his arm, hiding a wince of pain, “Look! I am perfectly fine!”
His mother gently sits you on the bed covers, heart swelling at the thoughtfulness of her son, who still puts your well-being first despite his own injury. With his good arm, Jacaerys drags you in his arms by your sleeve, cheeks red but not nearly as puffy as yours. “Why do you always have to cry about everything?” He grumbles as you smear tears and snot over his doublet. “‘Twas nothing serious! I’d never let Aemond seriously hurt me, and you should know that a true knight never whines about pain and whatnot."
Actually he just let his uncle hurt him, and he’s still very far from being a true knight, but that's not his concern right now. His concern is making you stop crying as soon as possible — before you drown in your own tears, at least. “But your arm’s broken!” You whine, hands gripping the front of his doublet as you pull him to and away from you like you’re trying to knock some sense into him.
“It will heal,” he puffs his chest, feigning offense, “are you trying to tell me that I am not a true knight — and that my injury might last forever?”
For a moment, you stop crying — just to look him in the eye. Then, you pull at his hair swiftly, and get off the bed with an incredulous huff. “A true knight never thinks of a lady’s tears as a selfish whim!” You stutter, lips still trembling — he has no idea where you’ve read that, nor where you got the idea that he was trying to do that, but he’s too stunned by the way you pulled on his strands to say anything. “I’ll find somewhere else to dump my tears! Bye!”
Before leaving, you furiously bow to the Princess, then let the door slam closed behind you — at least, as slammed as it can be by the force of a six-year-old. Rhaenyra blinks. “…Did she really do that?”
Lucerys, pleased, nods happily. “She did.”
Worried, Jace frowns. “Does she even know her way back to the gardens?”
You don’t. He finds you two hours later, crouched in a fetal position in one of the corners of the castle, crying and talking to a little flower that sprouted between the cracks of the rocky pavement. You’re babbling to the plant like it owes you a reply, lower lip sucked in your mouth when you muffle a sob, and Jace doesn’t even know if you’re still crying because of him or because you can’t find your way back to your mother.
Without saying anything, he pokes you over your shoulder, smiling when you turn to glance at him, and takes your hand in his without too many questions. You’re back in the gardens in less than five minutes, and you throw yourself at your mother’s gowns, breath uneven. Ser Westerling looks at the Prince like he wants to skin him alive, but other than that, no harm is done.
Later on, the seamstress has to make certain alterations to his nameday chemise and doublet to make sure that the whole bandage, wooden log included, properly fits so that at least it’s not completely clear to anyone who spares a look at him that his arm is broken. The day of the feast is close, and his parents are all but happy with the fact that he’ll spend it with one of his limbs basically useless, but it is what it is.
When his nameday finally rolls around, you’ve already forgotten all about your little spat, and spend all morning in your mother’s chambers with the latter and your sisters, who coo and swoon at the copious amount of jewels that Johanna has brought here from Casterly Rock for the occasion. Florian and Jonquil purr at your feet as your mother continuously swaps jewels and makes you try on new necklaces, rings and earrings, finally settling on golden ornaments decorated with rubies, so shiny that they make you giggle once you finally see yourself in the mirror.
You twirl in your pink dress, happy as ever, as your sisters still stress about their clothes in the background. While this may be just a feast to you, for them it’s the possibility to scour the various lords and their sons, as in a few years they’ll be reaching the age where the women of your family begin to look for a husband.
You play with Florian and Jonquil until the time for the feast to start comes, and throttle your way to the gardens right in front of your mother, Cerelle and Tyshara — your uncle is already there, discussing hushedly with your father, who lights up when he sees you. As you always do, you throw yourself in his arms, and he catches you without a hitch, settling you over his hip. “You’re getting too old for this,” he teases, poking your stomach as you squeal. “Just another nameday, and you’ll have to start acting like a proper lady.”
”I am a proper lady!” You insist, nudging him with the back of your hand, “Look! Mommy gave me one of her kissy rings and let me wear her sparkly things!”
He guesses that the kissy rings are the ones people are supposed to kiss over her hand in greeting, and just to play along he kisses the back of your hand. “A proper lady calls her parents father and mother, doesn’t jump to be picked up, doesn’t have two lion cubs as pets…”
But you’re already not listening anymore, playing with his hair to make a braid as you babble about your sisters fighting for a collier earlier, then nudging at his earring and asking why it is devious of any sparkling qualities. Your uncle laughs, but he does not look as amused as he usually is. “You’ve made acquaintances with the Prince, niece, have you not?”
You frown, then look at your father. “Daddy, what does ack-uain-tans mean?”
”Acquaintance, darling,” he corrects you, scowling at his brother. “Uncle Ty’s asking if you’ve become friends with Prince Jacaerys.”
Your eyes light up, and you clap your hands excitedly. “Yes! He crowned me Queen of Love and Beauty at the tourney, and he said that we’re going to get married one day.” The tourney where he forced his younger brother to be the horse, by the way. A very attendable tourney, if you were to ask him.
Your father pales a bit, but not as much as your uncle, who has to hide a nervous chuckle in his fist — something that could easily be passed off as children playing dress up as adults seems to trouble him deeply. “Pardon– married? Aren’t you too young for that?”
”I am now,” you say sagely, “but I won’t be soon enough, and then we’ll get married, and we’ll live in a big castle, even bigger than Cas-ter-ly Rock, and we’ll have lots of babies-“
”Yes, yes, that’s enough for today, have a little pity on your father’s poor heart,” Jason interrupts, coughing like just the thought is enough for him to feel ill. You coo and press a wet, soundly kiss to his cheek, “Noo, daddy, don’t feel bad, I’ll still love you!”
Some of the courtiers are staring by now, chuckling with no real malice as Lord Jason Lannister gets consoled by his own brat of a daughter, and he pats your back, trying to loosen your hold on his neck. “Yes, yes, I know, honey– listen, Uncle Ty wanted to ask you something.” He then sends a pointed look to his brother, almost glaring at him.
Tyland coughs again. “Prince Jacaerys, in retrospect, is not the most ideal friend you could make in this court,” he nudges toward the other end of the gardens, where Jace’s uncles — Aegon and Aemond — stand, seemingly having a conversation with other boys their age. The oldest has a wine goblet in his hand, and from the redness of his cheeks, it doesn’t take a fortune teller to confidently say that he’s probably already drunk. “Queen Alicent’s kids, however, will surely pay off one day.”
You frown at way-too-old Aegon and cruel, mean Aemond, and you can’t help but think that while it was the latter who broke Jace’s arm, the oldest didn’t do anything to stop him. Besides, in your eyes, he’s far too scary to even approach, as he’s way much taller than you and has a constant snarl on his face. “They’re old, uncle,” you say in the end — because that's what an eleven and thirteen year old look to you — tightening your hold on your father for support. “And mean. They pick on Jacaerys and Lucerys, and even their little brother Joffrey. And he’s a babe.” you add that with a little indignant huff, like you can’t even imagine how someone could bully babes.
And it is true — whenever they are around, it’s unbearable. You wish you could just play with little Joff in peace while also hoping to give a break to the Princess and various nursemaids, but no. They always have to be around, tormenting his older brothers, and once they even tried to snatch the babe from your arms before your cries alerted Ser Warren — who promptly dragged the boys by their cuffs to meet their sister Rhaenyra, who scolded them for half an hour about their unrighteous treatment of their baby nephew and how such behaviour would not be tolerated, lest they wished to follow their younger brother Daeron to Oldtown.
(Of course, their behaviour never really stopped, because as soon as Queen Alicent was made aware of the situation, she made sure to always be overlooking when her sons pestered their nephews so that nobody would dare utter a word. At least they mostly left you and Joffrey alone for now, and you were free to continue playing house with him under the careful watch of Ser Westerling.)
Tyland huffs. “Well, you see– not everything revolves around what you’d like to do and people you actually enjoy, and maybe it would be best if you found out sooner rather than later.”
“Tyland,” Jason warns, “now you’re going too far. She’ll deal with that when she’s older.”
His twin clicks his jaw, bowing his head slightly. “However you wish, brother.” He disappears in the crowd soon after without saying goodbye, and your mother and your sisters join you as soon as you lose sight of him. “Husband,” Johanna greets, tense, “what was that about?”
Your father pats your back reassuringly as you rest your cheek on his shoulder, “Nothing,” he assures her, even if his irritation is clear as day to someone who’s been married to him for a decade and a half, “it’s just… you know how Tyland is. It seems the Royal Court has just worsened his constant concerns and scheming.”
A lot of whispering later, your mother winces the slightest bit. “We’ll continue this conversation later,” she hisses to her husband as you play with the golden accents of his tunic, “however, you cannot avoid admitting that it is, let’s say… peculiar for Targaryens to have dark hair.”
“‘Tis not the place nor the time to speak about that,” your father hisses in response as your sisters feign particular interest towards the flower beds, “I don’t want to hear another word about any of this — understood?”
It’s not a secret that your parents’ union was not one born from love, and even if in the years they have built a good relationship based on mutual respect and trust, your father never refrains from reminding her to stay in her place — that is, being his wife. You look at your mother, at the hidden resentment in her eyes that she always holds for your father, and can’t help but think that you never want to end up with a man like your father — one who even after three children still hasn’t properly warmed up to his wife.
Jason Lannister is a good father, when he wants to be — which, fortunately, is often. Unfortunately, he rarely tries to be a good husband.
Jacaerys is welcomed warmly by the guests of the feast — and most importantly, he’s accompanied by his grandsire. You curtsy like your septa and sisters taught you to, even if your balance is still not the best, and soon enough the gathering continues without a hitch — just with King Viserys I strolling around like this isn’t just a child’s nameday celebration, but a full-on political event. You guess that after all, it is one of his heirs that just turned eight.
Even so, for children like you, pretenses are easy to forget: soon enough, Jace is poking your shoulder and pointing to the far end of the courtyard, where other children are already playing, and takes your hand to drag you with him.
As they watch you go play with the Prince, Tyland whispers to your father, “You must understand, this is not the best friendship she could form.”
Jason laughs. “One with a prince? Tyland, she’s the same child who befriended wild lions.”
His twin’s voice is low, so that Jason might be the only one who hears, when he says, “Lions and royal bastards are two very different things.”
Your father’s spine straightens. “No more of this, Tyland, you hear me?” he hisses. “Royal blood is royal blood. And we’re not going to get our tongues cut just because you can’t bear to see children play.”
Tyland shakes his head, “Children,” he spits, “when are princelings and young ladies ever considered to be just that?”
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