thinking about jace and a love-hate relationship with a dragonseed that rhaenyra picked out for extra riders (like hugh and ulf) .. thinking about the tension and the bickering and eventual understanding? give me your thoughts 🧠
kindly, wishing you well, morsel anon
i feel like this concept is so compelling bc in so many ways they’d be mirrors of each other in some ways !
immediately both thinking the other’s attractive but maybe one small miscommunication or moment where dragonseed!r does something improper bc she doesn’t know court processes or manners. & after that they just sort of don’t get off on the right foot even though they have to admit each others intelligence and bravery etc.
& forced courtesy is actually soooo yummy in this scenario like their eyes saying all the things their lips can’t!!
& also not to mention the throughline of tension of jace’s insecurities over birthright, rumors of his bastardy, his desire to prove his worthiness to the throne & his mothers claim BUT how the dragonseed doesn’t fully understand the scope of this angst in him
& dragonseed reader noticing how he is as kind and patient as the songs and tales say with other folk, that even the servants and household like him - but he’s not particularly warm w her. in fact he sometimes seems bothered by her presence etc. when they butt heads even if it’s subtle
& dragonseed r naturally internalizing it and thinking that he’s just prejudiced against the dragonseeds BECAUSE they’re lowborn and thinking they don’t belong near him.
& her just barely missing the jealousy aspect of his aloofness around her. idk maybe i just love misunderstanding tropes and feel like it’s the most realistic way jace would have these kinds of love/hate dynamics
& the bickering would be snide comments and even one-upping each other subtly maybe during war endeavors or just general competition. r would think jace couldn’t understand where they’re coming from even though he is probably the best person that could understand besides other seeds yk
& once they eventually get along it’s mostly bc the bickering turns into good hearted needling that they both act awkward about but def think about constantly. i feel like due to his tragic nature (™️) people often forget jace likes to tease & joke & have a good time lmao.
& i feel like once his princely demeanor is gone a bit, in private the reader would feel much more comfortable around him & theyd even start unintentionally flirting or being very familiar. idk what im saying i don’t know anything
& once that initial discomfort & disdain fades they’d become close quick. & feelings would be there from the start, so wrapped in a kind of guilt or that ‘this is wrong’/‘duty & honor’/intense desire is a great point of tension too. i think once they get close i think they’d fall v quick for each other idk
this also made me start thinking abt jace & a dragonseed being sent together to harrenhal (an au i suppose in which they’re there post-KL to watch it over while the new lordship remains undecided/there’s unrest in riverlands and rhaenyra wants dragons close for suppression purposes)… they don’t rly get along, but it’s not vicious. some quips here & there but never enough to point fingers, just enough to agitate the other. things are awkward & not to mention the odd dreams they’ve both been having of each other…
& then them essentially being forced to spend time together & their preconceived notions of each other wear down until they realize it’s sort of a mirror. & then their romance is v inevitable :)
sorry if this was confusing i have a splitting headache !! <3 hope you’re well morsel
This isn’t really a ask !! but I wanna tell you how much I appreciate your writing like holy. I’ve never read such a good fanfiction until I stumbled upon your blog. Genuinely you’re writing is heaven.

heyyyy thank you so much ! this is incredibly kind & im v v happy you've enjoyed my works <3 ill have more for u soon !!
Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!mermaid!reader [no use of y/n]
Word count: 9k
Summary: Fix-it fic in the aftermath of 03x01.
You do not know what’s bringing you so far from your home, across the Narrow Sea, but you stumble upon a beautiful, injured young man and decide to save him.
Warnings: description of violence against women (mermaids), physical and emotional hurt/comfort, reader is insecure about her appearance as a mermaid.
a/n: How are we coping guys? I’m in such deep denial I decided Jace doesn’t die :) I really hope you’re going to enjoy this story, I hadn’t been so productive writing non-fiction since I started my master’s dissertation.
feedback is welcome and appreciated <3
(images are taken from pinterest)
You could not tell how long it had been since you had last ventured so far from your cave.
You had not needed to, after all. Why would you leave the warm shore and its idyllic light blue hues to face the dark, deep waters of the Narrow Sea and its violent tides? There was nothing of value there; the fish were too bitter, the currents too strong – you were built for shallow waters, carved to enjoy the softness of the laced patterns made by the sun rays on the clear sand, to feast on urchins and relish in the colours of corals. To live far from mariners and their boats, near the surface without reaching it, if not for the thrill of slithering your upper body out of the water to feel the hot air against your skin before plunging back into your realm.
And yet, something – someone – had called you on the other side of the Narrow Sea. A shiver that had run through your entire body from your hair to your tail fin. The feeling was not painful per se, at most uncomfortable: the urge that had taken over you made you believe you were going to die if you did not go, like you were a bubble about to burst. There was no sensible explanation for this overtaking compulsion, no legend mentioned foreseer merfolk, but you did not care for rationality. You cared for action.
In a heartbeat, you were gone from your cave with nothing but your talisman necklace, an opalescent seashell, the last connection to your people after you elected a life of loneliness – of tranquillity, you argued. As soon as you had crossed the border of your lagoon, you had been reminded of your nature as a shallow-water mermaid. You were maladapted for the cold and abyssal sea: your thin tail lacked power, and the current made every push a fight; your fins were too long and made you an easy prey to catch for the predators of the place; your pupils weren’t adjusted for such darkness and turned your travel into a haphazard route.
You were careful not to go too deep, afraid of what you might encounter there, but you could not rejoin the surface, where navigating would be easier because of the boats. You had not seen them, couldn’t identify how many there were, but they stirred the water from miles away. That was the one rule you had been taught from your birth – stay away from men and their rumble. As a child, you used to run back to your sisters the moment you sensed the smallest ripple above your head.
Men were trouble.
You had heard many tales growing up, and they had gotten more graphic as you had gotten older. Stories of mermaids hunted, harpooned and captured outside of the water. Sailors laughing at their helplessness and degrading them in every possible way. Laughing at their “fishy smell” while they reeked of alcohol. They found the girls horrible. Repulsive. Abominations that should have been exterminated long ago. That did not stop them from grabbing them by the hair and-
Apparently, mermaid fins were worth enough to turn the poorest man into a king.
You shuddered, and you could not tell if it was from the coldness of the sea or the images your mind had conjured. The roar of the boats was endless, stretching on for miles as you kept on fighting your nature. You had closed your eyes to save energy, not that they were very useful at such a depth. You did not need to see anyway. Something greater was guiding you – instinct, premonition; you were not sure of its nature. All you knew was that the fire in your stomach was growing stronger with each wag of your tail. And, as your brain was telling you to turn away and regain the safety of your cave on the spot, you kept going towards the havoc.
As you struggled towards your destination, something strange happened – the sea calmed down. The overwhelming yet regular rhythm of the oars decreased before completely stopping as you reached shallower water, relief flooding your system.
You remained careful. An absence of boats did not equate to an absence of men. They could be malicious and cowardly, creating a trap and waiting for you to rush into your demise. You skidded between the misshapen rocks as low as you could, your tail caressing the sand, your hair gently haloing around your head. Something was off with the water, and not in the same way as the sea. The sea was scary; it was unfamiliar and destructive. But this? This should have felt good, the same clear water you were used to, if not for a little colder.
It was not clear enough, though. Some sort of haze was forbidding you from seeing as acutely as you should have, and when you opened your mouth and let it flood down your throat, its taste was bitter and metallic. Without dropping your guard, you hurried up. The faster you would find whoever called you, the faster you could leave this mess.
You kept weaving along the sandbank, exiting the thin passage you had entered to reach a wider space. There was no trap awaiting you at the end of the narrow crossing, but what you faced was not any better. In front of you was laying the grimmest, most desolate landscape you had ever laid eyes upon. A morbid, macabre, distinctly man-made spectacle.
Ships were broken down into pieces, sinking under the weight of the wet wood, torn flags sadly waving with the current, bitter symbols of the failure of their houses. Engraved swords, decorated armours, every statement of wealth now revealed its true nature as tokens of hubris, that of the men now floating. Mouth agape, eyes widened with terror, their skin had turned into a gradient of grey and blue, if not for the red holes and scratches that scattered their bodies. From those injuries emerged dark clouds of blood that tainted the water around them and blurred your sight, already affected by the dust and embers floating across the sea.
Overwhelmed by your surroundings, you stayed still. You felt dirty, like the muddy water was sticking to your skin and tainting you with the horrors it carried. There was nothing to salvage in this desolate landscape, yet your guts were telling you to keep looking for something, anything. Perhaps one of the wrecks contained a rare treasure, a beautiful pearl, a sacred companion. Beauty in the midst of disaster.
You dove a little deeper, where the sand was still whisked into pale curls. There was a shiny shape a little further which you couldn’t quite make out even as you squinted your eyes. It was partially hidden by the sand and wooden planks, but you were sure it was organic. The way it reflected the light reminded you of your own tail and its thin scales, which seemed to almost change colours as you glided underwater.
Carefully, you made your way towards the mass that grew bigger with each wag of your tail. The creature was still, though you did not want to assume its death and be surprised by an attack – these foreign waters might be home to some strange scavengers that would mistake you for a part of the carrion left by the disaster that had occurred. And, based on its size, it could kill you in one powerful bite.
The creature never moved. As you got a better look at it, an insidious doubt crept along your spine. The scales had led you to assume it was a marine creature, but as you saw its tail, you couldn’t help but notice the lack of fins. There was something distinctly terrestrial about it.
That was when you saw them.
The wings.
You had never seen a dragon before, but the elders had recounted tales of those giant apex predators terrorising the land, catching cattle with their claws before charring it by spouting fire. Formidable hunters and mounts, masters of the air and of the land, even the sea could not protect you from them – the heat of their flames could burn you as you lay under the surface. That was the second rule that you had kept from your people: when those titans would come again to scorch the earth, dive as deep as you can.
That dragon, however, did not look ferocious. It looked weak, powerless, dead. What a strange sight that was, to see a terrifying creature lie helpless on the sand with glassy eyes. Even in this state, there was a certain wild majesty to it. Whichever god had created them had done it with great care, shaping them to be as ferocious and yet as elegant as possible, all soft edges and sharp lines. Its stillness was uncomfortable; such a powerful brute was fashioned for movement.
There was something uncanny about its lifeless gaze and shocked expression. You had never assumed dragons could show emotions, but you would be blind if you missed the suffering and fear in this creature’s eyes. You repressed a shudder. What could have possibly scared the one beast at the top of the food chain? Clenching your jaw, you followed its gaze, unsure of what to expect. A giant, bloodthirsty monster? A legendary being that spawned from the gods? Something that had to be bigger, eerier, something that would perhaps be the last vision before you met your inevitable end.
Definitely not a man afloat.
You knew it when you saw him. That calling that had brought you here had materialised into this frail frame drifting in the soiled water, leaving wreaths of blood in its wake. Time slowed around you as you observed the gentle motion of his hair, the spasm of his fingers, the bubbles that escaped his mouth…
Wait.
You rushed towards the man, throwing away all of your doubts and anxieties. If a miracle had protected him so far, every second counted towards his survival. You weren’t even sure why you were so eager to save him in the first place – he was a man, like all others, feasting on blood and dominance. But he looked so fragile at this moment, so… human, in all of their weaknesses. The awkwardness of their legs, the limits of their lungs. You pressed two fingers against his wrist; his skin was cold and wrinkled by the water, but you could feel it, a faint, almost nonexistent pulse. You rushed him out of the water.
The fresh air smelled like smoke, and you choked on the thick, grey mist left by the battle that had taken place. You furrowed your brows, shrugging away your own unease as you watched the man expectantly. His mouth opened on its own, his face still unconscious, and you stared at the shape of his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. A glimmer of hope shone in your eyes, but it disappeared as fast as it came. The man was not breathing, at least not breathing clearly. Instead, he let out a gargling sound as blood spewed out of the side of his neck, where an arrow was stuck.
The head of the arrow was not lodged too deep, but it was in a compromising spot. Near the jugular, without piercing it totally – otherwise he’d already be dead. The pressure from the water had slowed the bleeding down, but now that he was out in the open, you had to think fast and act even faster.
Your options were limited: you needed to properly bandage his neck, which wouldn’t be too hard if you were back home, where you knew every medicinal plant and alga like the back of your hand. Here, it would be more uncertain. However, you doubted you could reach your cave in time to save him. The current should push you in the right direction, but the additional weight of the man and his thick and soaked clothes would slow you down.
You settled on a compromise, patching him up well enough for him to survive the journey to your cave and properly tending to his injuries there. Yeah. That sounded perfect, that was going to work.
Gathering your strength, you hauled him up on a rock, careful not to push any of the arrows deeper. He had been lucky; two of the arrows had been stopped by his elegant leather clothing, and you could dislodge them with little difficulty. They left behind holes in the luxurious fabric – such a shame when they had been sewn with visible care – but had not reached the skin beneath. The third arrow, the one that had pierced the skin of his throat, represented a bigger threat. You could not remove it yet; that would be a death sentence: he would bleed out in a matter of minutes. Your best shot was at shortening its shaft to ease travelling and sealing the wound as tight as you could.
You plunged, trying not to let panic get the best of you. You took deep breaths to slow your frantic heartbeat, which had the opposite effect as you gagged on the bloody water. Tears prickled your eyes and you ignored them, reaching the soft sand and searching for seaweeds long enough to bandage the man. You had to be quick; you did not enjoy leaving him on his own, exposed and vulnerable. The leaves in the area were annoyingly short – sea life here was nowhere near as lush as it was back home, and you were quick to blame humans for this – but you managed to gather a small harvest. You also grabbed a sharp stone to cut the shaft of the arrow.
Praying you had not taken too long, you rushed back to the surface. You could see that the man’s chest was barely rising and falling, but the wheezing sound he made meant he was still breathing. With steady hands, you got to work. This was not your first time tending wounds – you had had to assist some of your people after they escaped fishermen. You had seen ugly injuries, broken bones, punctured tails; you had seen despair and pain in the eyes of your peers; yet you had never felt so helpless. You had never been on your own to carry the responsibility of saving someone, especially a human. Humans were so fragile, an intricate assembly of bones so small you did not understand how they could stand and walk without breaking into two.
The man did not fight back against your foreign touch. You saw the muscles of his face twitching as you cleaned and swathed his skin, but it was not enough to stir him into consciousness. Back when you were stitching up merfolk, you remembered wishing for them to stop fighting back and hissing at you, but you found yourself wishing the man was more expressive. You could not tell whether you were hurting him or not, whether you were aggravating his state or helping. He was still breathing. You took it as a good sign.
The world around you had gone still. The sun was setting towards the horizon, piercing through the light grey clouds that formed a lid above your head, adding to the oppressive feeling that reached you whenever your bust left the water. Seagulls were hovering, their screeches piercing the silence and raising goosebumps along your skin. You wanted to reach your cave before nighttime.
Next to you, the man groaned. A muttered “sorry” escaped your lips before you could repress it, but you received no answer. You sighed as you closed your arms around the man; his weight less bothersome once you immersed his body, trying to find a position that allowed you to keep his head out of the water while swimming comfortably.
The current was going in the right direction. That was the only positive element you could find in the journey back home. Carrying a human while speeding through the waves was tedious and exhausting; it forced you to dance with the surface of the sea, an awkward rhythm you failed to find. As the sky turned to liquid lava with beautiful and vivid shades of red and orange, the tide grew stronger. Your arms and your tail were sore, begging for a break you could not afford to take, not when you could see your bandage peeling off, not when the water was getting colder and the man’s lips bluer. If you did not hurry up, all of your effort would be reduced to nothing.
You kept pushing.
Relief flooded over you when the waters turned calm at once. Softer. Warmer. You were back in your lagoon and its shallowness had never felt more comforting. Gathering the last bits of energy in your body, you rushed and laid the man on the white stony islet that stood in the middle of your cave before plunging into the water and shaking the atrophy of your muscles away. Today had been surreal, and you needed this moment of immersion to ground yourself. You could have slept for a full day, perhaps two, but you had to tend to your unconscious patient first.
It was much easier here. You could have found everything you needed with your eyes closed – medicinal plants, spots of clean water, oysters and urchins for the moment the man would wake up and need to regain his strength; you even took the time to collect large seashells and fill them with clear water. You felt serene, acting almost instinctively. You did not need to overthink; you just let your meticulous hands cut, cleanse, bandage, and skim. His skin was cold and smooth, ashen if not for the dark, deep red of the wound.
It was not a pretty injury, but it seemed clean. There were no signs of infection, and you hoped it would mean a quick recovery. You had not really considered the after; you assumed the man would stay here until he would feel ready to go his own way, find a connection to civilisation, a hamlet he would call home. For now, he was still asleep, breathing more easily now that you had removed the arrow from his neck and some layers of heavy, soaked fabric. His hair was drying, small curls falling on his forehead.
Without noticing it, you gently pushed his hair behind his ear. The man shuddered and you plunged back into the water, observing him through the ripples, but he did not wake up. You lifted your head up in the air again, keeping your distance. Bathed in the cold, soft light of the moon, you realised that he was pretty. Very pretty. Actually, you did not know men could be pretty.
Fair to say, you had not seen many of them, but all of the ones that had crossed your path had been carved by the salt of the sea with hollowed cheeks, raw skin and scruffy beards. They reeked of sweat and alcohol for miles. This man was the opposite. Everything in his appearance felt neat, from the opulence of his clothes to his shaven jaw. His features looked like carved marble with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw. There was something regal, almost holy about him. Was this why you had felt drawn towards him in the first place, to save an emissary from the heavens?
He slept during the entire following day, undisturbed by the warmth of the sun that infiltrated the cave from the small gaps between the rocks. You checked on him from time to time, making sure his neck was healing nicely – and sighing with relief when you saw that the wound was looking better – and leaving him some fresh food and water in case he woke up while you were away. He was a beautiful sight, surrounded by coral formations and reeds, seashells and moss. You took pride in how you had turned your cave into a peaceful haven, and for the first time, you considered the fact that your hard work could be appreciated by someone else.
Other than your regular visits, you tried to go through your day as usual. You removed undesirable seaweeds from your underwater garden and collected seashells to make jewellery. You were remarkably inefficient. No matter how you tried to keep your hands busy, your mind wandered back to the man in your cave, your beautiful stranger, your mysterious envoy. Blush crept up your neck; never had you been in such a state of frenzy, and for what, a human? Those who forced you to hide in caves, who treated you as exotic goods, those you had sworn never to approach.
This one was not a huge threat, though.
You were standing at the entrance of the cave when the sun set. It had always been your favourite moment of the day, the moment the sky and the sea merged into honey, golden and shiny. You wished you could freeze time and leave the world bathed in this warm light ad vitam aeternam, when everything was softer. Lying lazily against a tall rock, you did not realise you had started singing.
Singing was part of your nature. How could it not be, when you were surrounded by the slow murmur of the waves, the high shriek of the birds, the foreign tune of the whales? The universe was an orchestra and you were one of its most willing instruments, harmonising seamlessly with the wilderness, reaching highs and lows effortlessly. Your voice was not a danger, at least not in the way it was presented in myths. It was tantalising, perhaps, but it did not drive men insane – they did that part on their own. They could enjoy your art if only they set aside their lust for flesh and for glory.
Singing meant harmony. It meant grounding, painting the big picture, being aware of the world around you. You forgot yourself a little in those moments; you were one with the rock you rested your elbows against, with the gentle rhythm of the waves against your tail, with the softness of the sand under your fins.
A disturbance broke the moment. It was faint, you probably would not have heard it if you had not been so keenly attentive to your surroundings, but it was here; the rolling of gravel beneath feet at an unsteady rhythm. You plunged. He was awake.
“Hello?” His voice was hoarse, and you heard him clear his throat with a painful, high-pitched inspiration. “I- I heard you.”
You stayed hidden, in apnoea. The footsteps became louder, and you could visualise the man reaching the edge of the ground, contemplating the endless stretch of water in front of his eyes and the rocks that emerged from it to form abstract statues. And you, pressed against one of them, just out of his sight. He muttered some unintelligible words.
“Thank you for the bandage and for the food. I’d just like to know where I am. Guess that’s all I wanted to say.”
And with this, he walked back into the depths of the cave.
You breathed out with relief. Relief that he was alive, of course, but also relief that he had not spotted you. That was silly; you had never thought you’d care about a human’s opinion of you. But everything about him was so perfect, it made you painfully aware of all of your differences, everything about your appearance which you had considered normal, until you had not. The words your people had reported back to you after their escape.
How your tail was grotesque. Your scales, sticky. Your fins, monstrous. You were a rotten fish, a terrifying creature. A freak.
You did not want to see the weight of disappointment in the man’s eyes when he would lay eyes on his saviour.
You started acting differently. You stayed underwater, paying close attention to the sounds coming from the cave – the echo in the place had never proven more useful. You waited for silence to fill the space to check on his injury and bring him food and water, careful not to linger for too long. You took care of your lagoon. You settled back into a routine, a strange routine, granted, one that gave you the feeling you were tiptoeing in your own territory, but a routine nonetheless.
You kept on singing every evening. That was one concession you could not make, giving up on this moment for the sake of being discreet. You stayed hidden behind your rock, but your voice did not falter once. You knew he was listening; you could hear the crush of pebbles under his footsteps, which were getting firmer and more self-assured every day. You did not mind his presence; you were not trying to make him believe he was alone; you were just avoiding his gaze.
He’d thank you for the food after your song. That was the only form of communication you shared. A melody and an acknowledgement. You did not ask for more.
Your cat and mouse dance went on for about a week. Then, on one of those nights when the heat seemed thick and sticky as treacle, your little bubble of comfort burst.
Everything had started the same as usual: you had waited for the moon to rise to tend to your guest. It was remarkably dark, the orb of night forming but a thin crescent, like a slit of light in the navy blue sky. Had you not known your cave by heart, you would probably have stumbled upon one of the irregularities of the sandbank. You placed oysters with delicacy alongside something new, a couple of fruits you had found a little further along the coastline. It had not been easy harvesting them, but you hoped it would prove a welcome change of diet for the man.
You looked away for a second. Just a glance outside the cave, alerted by an unexpected noise. When you turned back to the man, his eyes were on you.
“I finally got you,” he whispered, barely audible above the sound of your heartbeat pulsing.
You tried to rationalise your racing thoughts. You back against the little light that had penetrated the obscure cave, he could not see you. At best, he could perhaps make out your frame, but nothing else. Hell, you could barely see the glint of his eyes, and you had heard many times that humans had particularly weak night vision.
“I was beginning to think I had made you up,” he added. His voice was soft, confessional. “My mysterious saviour.”
“You don’t want to see me,” you murmured back in a voice you did not recognise. “I’m glad to see you’re healing nicely.”
“The more you hide, the more curious I get.” A thin smile brightened his features. “Where am I?”
“A cave, somewhere in the Narrow Sea. I’m not exactly familiar with human geography.”
“So that’s true?” His voice got a little louder. “Mermaids really do exist? And here I thought it was all a myth created by sailors going crazy.”
You scoffed. “Well, unless you’re going insane, I’m very much real.”
“Who knows. Maybe I’m dead, and I’m hallucinating you.” There was an edge to his voice, a tint of bitterness. “I really thought my time had come.”
You kept quiet. What were you supposed to answer to this? “Oh, actually, you survived because I felt drawn towards you with no explanation and I decided to save you”? He’d think you were a madwoman. Plus, you weren’t exactly comfortable chit-chatting with your guest. You were desperate for some privacy and some sleep.
“I guess it was not”, you finally said under your breath. “I should go.”
You started swimming towards the entrance of the cave in a hurry, spraying foam around you, when you heard the man again.
“Wait.” He had not been loud or demanding, yet you felt compelled to stop and look at him over your shoulder. It was fascinating to see how he could speak with both authority and gentleness. “I don’t even know who you are. My name is Jacearys.”
You nodded and told him your name. It would have been silly not to, at this point. It was just a name; it did not mean anything.
He repeated your name softly, and you could not help but shiver as you heard it roll off his tongue so easily. It had been so long since anyone had called you by your name that you had thought it would feel strange, alien. It did not. In fact, it felt like he was meant to say it.
“Thank you,” he repeated your name and waved. “For everything.”
You waved back and plunged into the water.
You were ready to rule this off as a one-time incident, a night of insomnia on his part, a lack of care on yours. Instead, it became a ritual. Almost every night, you would find him awake, his gaze lingering to decipher your shape as you carefully insisted on turning your back to the moon. He kept on making small talk, trying to understand how he had ended up here and, more importantly, who you were. Your short, enigmatic answers did not discourage him. If anything, he seemed to relish this little game. He was growing more curious with every shrug and monosyllabic sentence.
He started to grow on you, and you hated that. Hated that you began looking forward to nighttime, to the intimate moment you’d share in the dark. Hated that you were charmed not just by his regal appearance, but also by his bright personality. Hated that you actually wanted to learn more about him and began shooting back questions. And as he wore you down, you opened up like a pearl oyster. And so did he.
Jace – he had told you to call him like this – was a prince. An actual, real-life prince. Well, it was a little more complicated. He told you about the ongoing war, the usurper, and how he had been fighting for his mother on this dreadful day. In exchange, you told him about the seaweeds that you had used to bandage him, and all of the medicinal plants that grew underwater. He listened to you with attention, picking up on your explanations to learn more. It was strange, to be heard in such an intense manner, to feel like what you said mattered to someone.
“Could you show me your garden one day?” He asked
You froze. You wanted to say yes, you dreamed of it, of entangling your hands and guiding him through the clear water of the lagoon and teaching him everything you knew. You almost said yes, but the words died in your throat. “I don’t know if this would be safe for humans,” you answered instead, the words leaving a sour aftertaste in your mouth.
That was a lie. Most of your crops required a lot of light and were buried in remarkably shallow spots where Jace could probably walk. You had spoken with enough conviction, however, for him not to notice your dishonesty, and he accepted your answer without insisting. He was sitting at the edge of the islet, mindlessly dipping his fingers in the water, drawing abstract shapes, unaware of the way he was hypnotising you.
Days went by. You talked about your respective families, surprised to see that Jace could one-up your large, bizarre family lore. He told you about Aegon’s conquest of Westeros and his heirs, about his mother and how much he admired her and wanted to keep her safe, about his brothers. His gaze saddened when he mentioned Luce, and you took his hand without even realising it. It was warm under yours, slightly calloused but soft where it mattered. He did not rebuff you.
In exchange, you told him about your folk, how family meant more than bloodline. Babies were carried from arm to arm, every member of the clan acting as a sort of aunt or uncle. Days were joyous, filled with games and songs. It was a peaceful way of growing up, so different from Jace’s grim, dark castles.
“So why did you leave?” He asked after a moment of silence.
“When I grew up, I started to feel… I don’t know.” You sighed. “Maladjusted? I wanted calm and silence, and to do things at my own pace. They did not like my tendency to solitude, and I did not like how dependent they all were. Having to rely on others made me feel weak.”
“You’re never going to go back?”
You shrugged. “I’m not sure. I would probably be welcomed if I did – maybe not at first, but merfolks are not resentful. Perhaps one day I’ll miss their antics. For now I enjoy my tranquillity.”
“Not too bothered that I came along to disturb it?”
“No,” you answered a little too quickly to your own liking. You had grown accustomed to Jace so easily it had altered your view on your life on a fundamental level. You used to think of yourself as a lone wolf, but a feeling of dread would creep up your spine when you considered the possibility of Jace leaving. The loneliness you had cherished for years now had an acidic aftertaste, and you weren’t certain you could go back to your routine without the sound of his feet against the gravel and your late-night conversations. You knew he would leave one day; he wasn’t your captive. You just tried not to think about it too much.
Maybe he understood the trouble that weighed your silence, because he came a little closer – though not close enough for you to flinch and retreat further in the darkness – and whispered, “good, then. I’d feel bad if I was overstaying my welcome.”
One night, you finally gathered the strength to ask him the burning question which had been quietly on your lips for the whole time since you had seen him in the water, above the gigantic, scaly creature.
“Did you have a dragon?”
You already suspected the answer, and the sadness that struck his features made you regret you had not bitten your words.
“Yes,” he eventually whispered, falling promptly into silence.
You were about to apologise for your prying when he opened his mouth again. “His name was Vermax. I’ve known him since I was a child; it’s like he’s always been part of my life. He was incredibly beautiful and so smart as well. You should have seen him gliding in the air and searing the sky.”
He kept on talking, and you did not interrupt him. He told you about the adrenaline rush he’d feel when he went for a stroll with his dragon. How he had taught him to obey his very order. Describing in great detail the intricate lacing of his scales, the fire in his eyes. Admiration showed through his voice, but the trembling notes at the end of his words revealed something deeper.
“Maybe… I can’t help thinking that maybe if Vermax had not listened to me so well during the battle, if he hadn’t changed course the moment I told him not to attack the other dragon, he’d still be alive.” He explained how Vermax had been trapped underwater, leaving no choice but to abandon him to the depths of the Gullet. You did not comment on the tears that prickled his eyes, but your hand found his.
That was the only form of physical contact between the two of you. Your hand dampening his, your coldness calming down his heat, fire and water finding a middle ground instead of destroying each other.
“Those few seconds between the moment I let go of Vermax and the moment I got shot were the most horrible of my life,” he confessed. “A Targaryen is nothing without a dragon. People love saying we are closer to gods than to men, but that’s because we have them. Without dragons, we are just power-hungry maniacs.” He let out a humourless laugh. “At that moment, I thought I was a disgrace, that maybe death was my best shot. That if I made it out alive, my mother would kill me upon my return.”
“That’s not true,” you said under your breath.
“I know. I knew when I felt that arrow piercing my skin. She would be angry at me, of course, but I realised how ludicrous I had been thinking death would be some kind of deliverance. She would have to mourn yet another son, and it was all my fault. Fate works in a funny way, don’t you think? I spent what felt like an eternity waiting for death to hit me, and it’s only when it did that I realised how much I wanted to live.”
“And you did.”
Jace nodded and lightly pressed your hand. “And I did. Thanks to you.”
Silence settled between you two. It seemed that it always found its way to slither inside the cave. It did not feel awkward, though. Silence was a blanket wrapping around you, comfortable and familiar. In these moments, you just took in Jace’s presence – the speed at which his chest went up and down, much faster than yours; the warmth that emanated from his skin. You could feel his gaze on your shadowy frame, trying to make sense out of your features without ever deciphering them.
“Why do you always come by night?” He finally broke the stillness in the cave.
Your stomach dropped, and you removed your hand instantly, like the contact had started burning you. Turned out, your desire to know the other better could lead you both to make a faux pas.
You considered lying. It was easy, tempting, a low-hanging fruit. Only, you could not think of a single excuse that he would not see right through. It had been easier to lie by omission when you were two strangers, but now that you had grown accustomed to one another, you were convinced he could read your voice like an open book. It felt wrong, too, lying to him after he had shown so much vulnerability and talked to you about the deepest, darkest feelings that had haunted his heart. He deserved to know.
“I don’t want you to see me.”
He arched his brows, a thin wrinkle appearing on his forehead. A chuckle escaped his lips. “And why is that?”
“I don’t want you to think I’m a monster,” you answered after a pause.
“What?”
You weren’t sure if his question came from disbelief or from the fact that you had slurred those words at a remarkably low tone. You cleared your throat and repeated your answer so that he could hear it. His frown deepened.
“You’re a mermaid, aren’t you? I was always told mermaids were beautiful.”
You sighed, trying to keep your composure. “Men love saying this until they see one and decide she’s so ugly they should kill her.” The more you spoke, the less control you had over your voice, which trembled with anger. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, they find us attractive enough to violate us, but that doesn’t stop them from degrading everything about our appearance. We’re nothing but goods to men, goods to use and to sell for glory. A good mermaid is a dead mermaid.”
Jace kept quiet as you continued your rant. “I’d rather keep you from the horrible vision I would offer, so you can keep on picturing me however you want. Make me perfect, make me your fantasy, ignore the disappointing truth. I think it’s better for both of us.”
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he took in your words. The cave was colder now; the light of the moon that used to embrace you with tenderness had turned unforgiving, too harsh, too white, too impersonal. You wanted to leave and hide underwater until your skin had forgotten the caress of its rays.
“I had no idea you were treated like this.”
You huffed, arms crossed over your chest. “Jace,” you sounded more cutting than you wanted to, but his question had opened the valves to the rage that had built up within you since you had first heard of one of your sisters’ fates. “Really? Aren’t you a Velaryon?”
If you hurt Jace on this evening, he did not hold it against you. You did not hold his words against him either. You stood a little further from the ground, he sat a little further from the water. There was no contact, no hand-holding, but no thick, palpable awkwardness either. You both knew which subjects to keep off the table.
Part of you wished you’d stayed angry at the man. It would have been easier to deal with him if the blood pumping in your veins whenever you saw him came from resentment rather than infatuation. Because, yes, that was what it was. Infatuation, a stupid, almost teenage crush which you could not get rid of.
You wondered if he had noticed your feelings – if he did, he did not let it slip. He was effortlessly charming, listening to your stories with interest and blowing you away with his tales. And he made you laugh – though you did not know if he was really funny or if you were desperately head over heels, pathetically giggling at his words.
He was doing better every day. His wounds were turning into thin, red scars that shone under the moonlight but did not threaten to bleed or reopen, and he was recovering his strength. You could sense he was craving more movement, limited by the little islet of the cave. He was pacing back and forth for hours, sometimes risking an arm into the water, but he never plunged into the lagoon.
Until he did.
It happened on a drizzling afternoon. The clouds were hanging low and heavy, painting your entire world with shades of grey. You loved the rain. You loved floating right under the surface of the lagoon and watching the droplets of water fall into small, harmonious ripples and soft music. But, on this day, you could not afford the leisure. Invasive seaweeds were threatening your garden, and you could lose years of hard work if you did not intervene on the spot.
You heard him before you saw him. Your hands were buried in the dampened sand, brows furrowed with focus, when the distinctive sounds of a body splitting through the water got your attention. You did a full body turn, apprehension taking over you, when you ended up face to face with Jace. He had left his armour in the cave and was standing there, waist deep in the lagoon and messy, soaked hair trickling down his toned, bare chest.
He opened his mouth and then closed it, like a fish out of the water. Your first instinct was to hide, but the water was too shallow, too clear, too revealing. It was too late.
“I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Jace’s words hung in the air. He kept looking at you, taking in every little detail – the way your scales changed colours with each gentle wag of your tail, the see-through lacing of your fins and the way they emerged from your body like mountain ranges. The way your skin merged in chaotic patterns with your animal features, like the two parts were fighting a chaotic battle for dominance. You crossed your arms over your chest as if they would protect you, hide any part of you to the man. You had never felt more naked or vulnerable than at this moment.
This simple movement brought his eyes up to your torso, and he stopped there for a second before reprising his ascension, cheeks reddening. When his eyes reached your face, the expression he read there made him wince, and you gritted your teeth.
“I asked you for one thing, Jace, one thing,” your voice was sharp, unforgiving.
“I did not know you were there,” he protested, his gaze still fixated on your face, unreadable.
You scoffed. “You could have closed your eyes. Looked away. Swam in another direction.”
Guilt softened his features, and he let go of the view you offered to stare at the water around his waist, the little ripples he made with each movement, the blur of his legs underneath the surface. This should have been simple, yet it seemed like tearing his eyes away from you was the most taxing action he’d ever performed. He did not move further, and neither did you. Gently, the rain stopped, as if the clouds did not want to stand witness to the scene.
“You’re nothing like a monster,” he finally said, his words starting a fire across your body. You did not answer – you did not know what to say. His eyes still on the water, he kept going. “I think sailors are scared, but not because you are ugly. You are too majestic.”
“So…” You spoke carefully, making sure you heard him right, “are you scared of me?”
He did not move his face, but his eyes flickered back to you, brightened by a glint which took your breath away. A smug smile stretched his lips when he answered.
“I’m a prince, not a sailor.”
You swam towards him without even realising it, until he was within reach. He raised a hand near a patch of scales on your arm, silently asking you for permission. You gave a quick nod, and his fingers brushed the zone. His hands were warm, softened by the sea, but they raised goosebumps along the rest of your skin.
“Do you know what you remind me of?” He whispered, his eyes studying your arm. He took your silence as an answer. “Of a dragon. The way your scales reflect sunlight is identical to theirs. The colour is impossible to pin down.”
“Maybe I’m the closest thing the lagoon has come to a dragon. I’m prey in the deep ocean, but I’m the apex predator here.”
Jace’s smile grew and he met your eyes. “Should I fear for my life, then?”
You marked a teasing pause. All of your anger had receded under the ardour of his gentle scrutiny, leaving only a lingering warmth in your stomach. His fingers were gentle on your arm, applying barely any pressure, and you whined when he let you go.
“Don’t,” you said, both as an answer to his question and an order to his hand, which found yours instead, his eyes darker than you had ever seen them, pupils so dilated they almost entirely masked the rest of his irises.
That’s when the realisation washed over you like a cold shower, which put out the fire under your skin.
The adoration you could see in his eyes was perhaps even worse than if you had scared him off. Because now, you had to come to terms with the fact that the man who got your heart racing, who could reduce you to a babbling mess in one look, felt the same.
He was a man. A prince. An heir to the Iron Throne, even. He should be leading armies and political councils, instead of playing in the water with you. He was destined for greatness; you were yearning for anonymity.
You could not keep him here. It was egoistical. Your folks had always reproached you for it, your tendency to do things on your own, to follow only your own flow when everyone was always acting as a shoal. That was why you had left, at the end of the day. Your desire for calm was only the consequence of your own selfishness, in their eyes.
That was your one opportunity to prove them wrong and make things right.
“You can swim,” you stated, words heavy on your tongue. He chuckled, surprised.
“Nice observation.”
You shook your head, panic gnawing at your insides. “No, I mean. You can swim, you can reach the coast, you can find a boat to Westeros.”
Jace frowned, eyes travelling over your face to read your expression. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No!” You answered just a second too fast. “I mean… I’m not saying I want you to, but you have a war to win, duties, your mother, a betrothed…”
The confusion and hurt on his face shut you up.
“They all think I’m dead.” He said. “They’re grieving me, I don’t know if I can just… come back like this.” He snapped his fingers. “It’s so much more complicated than that. Plus, I need to be careful, supporters of the usurper are everywhere and would be more than pleased to bring him my severed head.”
“Oh…”
He let his arm go limp by his side, apprehensive. “Are you sure you are alright? Have I done something wrong? I’m really sorry, like I said, I did not mean to-”
“Jace,” you stopped him. “You did not do anything. I mean, you did, but obviously my fears were not founded.” You let out a shy chuckle.
“What is it then?” He inquired.
You blinked slowly, as if in a dazed state. As the evening settled, the world slowly turned golden around you, the lagoon shimmering around your bodies. You fiddled with your hair, trying to put some order in your thoughts to no avail. Jace was still waiting patiently, eyes inquiring but not prying.
“I…” The last dam in your mind broke down, and words started flowing out of your control. “I didn’t stumble upon you like I said I had. I can’t explain why, but I swam all the way to the Gullet not knowing what for until I saw you. There’s… There’s a connection, like a thread that was linking me to you. And I like you, Jace. I know it’s wrong because you’re a human, and you’re a Prince, and you deserve better than what I can offer, but I still like you. I should have told you earlier; you deserved to know, but I was so scared of ruining everything.”
Your voice died in your throat. For a moment, you could not bring yourself to look at him, but when you did, you did not see the disappointment or the disgust you expected to find. Instead, Jace seemed to be in awe, mouth agape, eyes just a little too wide open, like a form of mania had taken over him.
“I called for you.” He said. “When the arrow struck, when I realised I didn’t want to die, I called on the Gods, all of them, any of them, begging to be saved. And you came. I… I don’t know which of the Seven decided to access my request, but I know they sent you; I knew it from the first time I heard you sing. It was written by the Gods.”
You looked up at him and softened at the glint of mischief in his eyes. He pushed back a strand of hair that was falling in front of your eyes, and you melted in his gentle touch.
“All this time,” he kept going, his voice barely over a whisper, “I was hoping that you were feeling this link.”
A giggle escaped your lips, drawing Jace’s eyes towards them. “So you had not noticed I was blushing like an idiot all the time,” you answered.
“To be fair, you made it really hard for me to see your face.”
You bit your lip. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult, but I was so scared from the moment I caught feelings towards you. I couldn’t undo all this stuff I had learned as a kid…”
“Shh,” Jace interrupted you. “It’s okay. I get it.”
Silence settled between you, familiar and serene. You were mere inches away from each other, not touching, tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.
“Maybe one day, when the war is over,” he whispered, face serious, voice barely audible above the sounds of the sea, “if you feel like going on an adventure, I could show you where I’m from.”
“I’ve travelled far from my lagoon to reach you; I could do it again.” He crossed the invisible border that stretched between you two as his hand cupped your cheek, and you covered it with your own to keep it there. The ghost of a smile lingered on his lips before he answered.
“But, in the meantime, I could stay here for a while. If you don’t mind.” His thumb stroked your skin. You tried to ignore the intense sound of your heartbeat, so loud it seemed determined to burst out of your chest.
“I think I don’t mind. I think I don’t mind at all,” you smiled back, reaching a little closer, until your noses almost touched. You looked at him through your half-lidded eyes, shivering under the intensity of his brown gaze that set your blood on fire. “In fact,” you whispered against his lips, “I think I’d like you to stay.”
He kissed you as an answer. His lips were salty and soft, pressing gently against yours. You closed your eyes, wrapping your arms around his neck to deepen the kiss, only letting go when you both needed to take a breath.
You looked at each other, cheeks flushed and stupid grins splattered on your faces. He kissed you again with more urgency this time, like he was trying to learn every curve of your lips and of your body.
“Are you sure you don’t mind staying here?” You murmured as he let go of your lips to assail your jaw with kisses. You took him in, the last rays of sunshine painted his face with pure gold, and gathered the last bits of self-control in your body to say, “You’re a Targaryen, Jace. You are made out of fire and blood.”
He stopped his manoeuvre to look at you with intense, hungry eyes. “I’m a Velaryon first. I was shaped by salt and sea.”
Tags ✢ post-Dance, grief/mourning, arranged marriage/political marriage, enemies to lovers, falling in love, eventual romance, eventual smut, angst with a happy ending
Wordcount ✢ 3,745
Summary ✢ Jacaerys is crowned king as his mother perishes from her wounds shortly after retaking the Iron Throne. He makes a match with you, the last daughter of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower, to secure peace and rebuild the Targaryen dynasty.
Series Masterlist
Chapter Two ✢ Sealed in Blood
The valley of the Kingswoods was plunged into near darkness even though it was the mid-morrow, the sky low and heavy, thick clouds coming in from the Narrow Sea, brought by the sharp winds that danced with the tide.
Near the edge of the cliff, where Jacaerys had learned Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon had been put to rest as well, two pyres were waiting, side by side like allies, when in truth they had been foes. Under the blanket of this dark sky, Aegon and Rhaenyra would bid farewell one last time and returned to ashes, to be buried together. While the gesture weighed heavily on Jace’s mind, he knew it was the right one if he wished to be known as a merciful, peaceful ruler.
This time there would be no dragon upon the hill to cast its fire—Rhaena’s Morning was still too small, and the only grown dragon that remained, Silverwing, was riderless once more. The Council had made a suggestion, that perhaps Jace could travel to Dragonstone and attempt to claim her, to add a strong symbol of legitimacy to the start of his reign, but the prospect of riding another than Vermax made him nauseous.
At his side where Lucerys and Joffrey ought to have been, Jacaerys was instead escorted by Cregan Stark and Baela, who had made the journey from Driftmark, taking the risk to leave her grandsire so close to the Stranger’s door. While those were the two people he trusted more than anyone in this world, the absence of his brothers ached fiercely, as much as the loss of his mother.
Torch in hand, he could hardly raise his arm to light the pyres, and where a word from him would have been expected, he could not summon his words. Instead the Maester recited a prayer in High Valyrian that he did not hear over the rush of his own blood in his ears.
“All eyes are on you, my king,” Cregan murmured once silence had returned to the assembly, not as a stern reminder, but as encouragement.
With a reassuring glance over his shoulder, to the nobles that had gathered, along with the Rivermen and the Northerners, as well as the Dragonkeepers, Jacaerys finally took the step forward. As he lit the pyres one by one, he prayed that wherever she was, his mother forgave him for his perceived sins.
Despite his reason knowing it was the order of things, there was no escaping the feeling that he had stolen the crown from her. It was unfair, against the very laws of nature, he would argue, that he would be king when she never had the chance to reign.
The assembly watched the pyres go up in flame, the smoke adding to the heavy sky above their heads.
“She would be proud of you,” Baela said in a whisper, meant only for him and Cregan to hear, but he could not accept the praise.
Instead he walked away without a word, dismissing the Kingsguard that offered to open the door to the litter for him. He mounted his horse, choosing the path that would lead him through the city unguarded, but he refused to be scared of his own people. Cregan and Baela followed on their own horses, flanking him as they had done all day, two pillars holding him up.
Once he would have crossed the gates of the Red Keep, he would have to disappear once more, instead replaced by the crown, the monarch, and there would be no time to mourn.
“All day long I am plagued by demands and advice that often contradict one another, how am I to know which decision is right?” he lamented as the party made their way back to the city's gate. “They all expect me to guide them, but how might I know that I am not leading this realm into war, once again?”
“Surround yourself with counselors you trust, who look out for the interests of this realm and not their own,” Baela advised, and he regretted that she could not stay, but he understood her reasons for returning to Driftmark. He knew that before long, the matter of the succession to the Driftwood throne would arise.
“I should dismiss Unwin Peake, then,” he spat, then once the vitriol had been spoken, came to a wiser, more useful conclusion. “I shall write to my mother's cousin, Jeyne Arryn. I will need a trusted Hand once you have gone back to the North,” he said, glancing at Cregan.
The young man frowned, but gave a nod of agreement. “I hope you do not see this as disloyalty,” he said.
Jacaerys almost laughed, a mirthless exhale pushing past his lips again. “There hasn’t lived a man as loyal as you, Cregan.”
“I shall stay and serve as your justice until it is done,” his friend promised, and he was grateful for such a strong presence at his side—it also comforted him in his decision that Jeyne would be an apt replacement. She was kind to her kin, in her own way, but stern and unyielding towards other matters, and that was what he needed.
“And I shall answer any call,” Baela reminded him firmly. “I am only across the Bay.”
Jacaerys looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, taking in her kind smile and earnest eyes, the strength he knew she carried in her body and spirit. In another life, perhaps, she would have made a good queen.
For a fortnight you remained a distant spectator to the start of Jacaerys’ reign, and as he had promised, no harm came to you while you waited to know whether your blood would come, or you would be burdened with Aegon’s child. The prospect of carrying a contender for the throne was one you feared, and even though you knew many were still loyal to your bloodline, the truth of the matter was that you remained a woman, and would only gather support in a son’s name.
Were you to bear Aegon’s son, you would be raising him to be at war with his own family, while Jacaerys had offered you a crown and a promise of peace.
The trials saw many men executed or sentenced to the Wall, when Cregan Stark seemingly judged there still remained enough strength and honor in them. In some ways you wondered whether the Northerner was ruling as he pleased, instead of acting on the orders of his king.
In a gesture of good will and mercy, Jacaerys had allowed you to visit your mother for a half hour, and while you were escorted to a small chamber deep inside Maegor’s Holdfast, you felt as though you were being led to the jails. The chamber was plunged into darkness even though it was afternoon, heavy curtains drawn against the sun, and the whole room smelled of prayer incense. The stones were cold under your feet, even through your slippers and the carpet.
When you had first crossed the threshold, Alicent had held you long and tight. She was dressed almost as a Septa, in black clothes that made her look thinner and more frail than she was. Gone was the woman who had welcomed you to the capital nearly three months prior, dressed as was proper for the Queen Dowager, and confident the war was being won.
Since then Aegon had died, poisoned by those he kept close, and so had Rhaenyra, her wounds festering until a fever took her, and a boy now sat the throne. “What is happening out there?” she asked, leading you further into her room. “I am not allowed to know any of it. Are we to stand trial as well?”
“I do not know, mother,” you said. “Many men have been put to the sword, or sent North, but it seems even Jacaerys isn’t certain of our fate.”
Something dark crossed your mother’s face then. “My son should be sitting the throne, not this—” Alicent nearly whimpered, clutching the rosary she carried everywhere these days, the points of the star digging into her palm.
She cut herself off, but you knew what words lurked beneath the surface. “All things considered, he has been merciful, mother,” you protested weakly, knowing full well you could have suffered terrible consequences for your confession.
“He might be merciful, but that doesn’t make him true. If there is a rightful king it should be Daemon’s son, the little Aegon,” she accused, the name sounding awful in her mouth.
You said nothing for a while as Alicent sat in an armchair, the weight of their downfall visible on her shoulders and in the lines of her face. You poured the bitter tea your mother preferred into two cups, watching the fragrant steam rise. “On advice of his council, he has offered me his hand in marriage,” you finally said, setting the strainer aside and putting the lid back on the pot.
“Oh, my daughter, you would be queen?” Alicent asked, rising once more and rushing to you. “In those circumstances, it would be well to use this to your advantage. Men are easily swayed by beauty, if you know how to work your charms,” she explained in a hushed tone, taking your hands into hers.
“Do you mean for me to seduce him?” you asked.
Alicent shook her head. “He is young and still malleable. He has just acceded to the throne, and his council and courtiers hold the power now, but you may influence him as well. Be agreeable to him and he will come to trust you, and listen to you, eventually.”
“I understand,” you nodded—it all seemed logical to you, in a sense.
Alicent looked nearly mad in the low light of the candles, her eyes blown wide and her hands trembling where she was clutching you. “And when the time comes, he will bare his back, and we will have our revenge,” she whispered. “You may still light the way for us.”
Alicent’s words ringing in your head, you made your way back to your chambers once the half hour had come to an end, wondering what path would be yours to take, muttering prayers as you climbed the stairs, pleading for a sign of what was right.
The Gods seemed to hear your desperate pleas, and as you reached the top of the staircase, a sudden ache in your core speared you into place. Gasping, you rushed to your chambers, heart in your throat, and slamming the door behind you, took a handkerchief that you wiped between your thighs.
The white linen came wet with a bright red smear.
You did not know whether to be relieved or devastated—one way or another,your fate was nearly sealed.
Late at night was the only moment in the day Jace was able to have some solace—or perhaps in the early seconds of the morning before he fully woke, still on the edge of slumber, when the whole world was at peace and he was not king yet, just a young man clinging to his dreams.
He spent most of his evenings at his desk, answering his private correspondence or writing in his journals, reading the diaries of former Maesters and lords, educating himself on the preceding reigns. He had taken to learn everything he could about his great-grandsire, Jaehaerys—the way he had built a strong, powerful reign, and the way his legacy had collapsed within the next three decades following his passing.
Jace was eager to learn from the past, and not repeat its mistakes.
To his relief, his mother’s cousin Jeyne Arryn had acceded to his request, and was now on her way to the capital, leaving her young nephew behind to regent the Vale. She had already proven herself, ruling the Vale for the last decade and a half while bearing the burden of being a woman, and such was the sort of advice he needed.
A sharp knock at the door came to interrupt him—he pressed the seal into the freshly poured wax, waiting until it hardened before peeling it back, and then called the visitor in. Ser Adrian Redfort, a white cloak personally chosen by the Lord Commander to protect Rhaenyra, stepped into the room.
“My king,” the man greeted. “The princess is requesting an audience.”
Jacaerys discarded his letter and waved for him to let you in, suddenly wary that an unfortunate news was to come. He remained seated as you entered, crossing his trembling hands at his lap, partially hidden by the tabletop. The look on your face was grave, but you did not waste any time before you spoke, putting an end to his torment.
“My blood has come,” you said, almost too quiet to hear, and he had never been so relieved to hear of blood. “I am not with child.”
Seated behind his desk, the young king seemed relieved, though he attempted to hide it, but you could see the way his frown smoothed over, and the corners of his mouth eased slightly. “Very well,” he replied.
“I have thought of your proposal,” you said. “I will marry you for the sake of the realm.”
“Before you agree, there are terms you should be aware of,” Jacaerys immediately answered, his gaze lowering to the desk in front of him where various letters were scattered over a map of the Reach.
“I am listening,” you said, your own eyes lingering to the coast where Oldtown sat, heart aching at the memory of your youth in the sun, far from the schemings of the capital.
“Lord Lyonel, your cousin’s son and heir, now rules House Hightower,” Jacaerys said, allowing you time to respond.
“I know him well, we were children together,” you replied, crossing your wrists at your belly, trying to gather some composure at the terms you would next be offered—all the while knowing you had no choice in the matter, and those would be orders instead of proposals.
“He is on his way to King’s Landing to treat with me,” Jacaerys explained, rising slowly until you were face to face, the large mahogany tabletop standing between the two of you . “He could treat with us together instead, if you could guarantee to think of the good of the realm instead of pride.”
Closing your eyes for a moment, you dropped your chin to your chest, reminding yourself of your mother’s words. “The realm has too long been at war,” you murmured.
“Neither of us will ever convince the other of their good right, but together we have a chance to put an end to this,” he said, so earnestly you raised your gaze to him again. You understood then that he truly believed it, and you wanted to laugh in the face of such blatant optimism.
“While the overwhelming advice is that I wed you for the common good, I would not bring an enemy into my bed,” he continued, and the menacing glint in his eyes made you shiver.
“No matter my thoughts on your legitimacy, you now hold the power,” you admitted bitterly.
“As queen, you would have power as well,” Jacaerys assured you, slowly walking the desk until he was standing so close you could see the flickering candles reflecting in his dark eyes. “Convince Lyonel to stand down and bend the knee, and I will grant you my trust. I don’t intend to keep my queen in chains.”
While you had never been an outward romantic, and you had always known you would marry for political gain or alliance, you had never thought you would one day be a pawn to bridge the chasm left by war. It was unfair, in many ways, on both you and Jacaerys, to be sacrificing yourselves for the good of the realm, but you supposed it was the role of both king and queen.
It did not feel right to be called queen when that title belonged to your mother and your departed sister, but Alicent had been right. This was the only way you could take back some authority, yield some political influence and perhaps, restore what had been stolen. You were the way to put Hightower blood back on the throne—Gods willing you would have a son, and then perhaps honor would be restored.
A royal wedding should have been a cause for celebration and rejoicing, instead it was a solemn ceremony held under the eyes of all in the city, nobles and commoners alike, a show of unity and reconciliation. Soon word would spread in the realm and all would know that the two lineages born of Viserys were one, and the conflict was well and truly over, or so Jacaerys seemed to hope.
Tradition was to be upheld, insisted both the Council and the Faith, but Jacaerys asserted that there would be no bedding ceremony of any kind. “I will not have anyone in this room. The Maester may come in once it is done,” he admonished, closing the doors to the king’s quarters in the court’s face once you had been escorted to his chambers.
“Thank you for that,” you whispered once the two of you were alone.
“I did it for my sake as well,” he confessed, looking nervous.
You did not answer and instead walked to the bed, ready to once again lay on your back and allow your husband to claim you as was his right. It would be the second time you would look at the moldings on the ceiling and forget about your own body until a man was done with it.
However, Jacaerys stopped your endeavor. “No,” he called, and you tilted your head in a silent question, confused as to what he expected from you. “I would not share your bed by force. I would not touch you until you wanted me to.”
“It is your right as husband and king,” you reminded him, a mirthless laugh on your lips.
Jacaerys went to his desk where a pitcher and cups sat, and swallowed a mouthful of wine, desperate for composure, loath to be in such a vulnerable position. “I have never been with a woman, and I would not have the first night I am to be a forceful occasion,” he confessed, and you could hardly understand how it was relevant.
“I am your wife, to do with as you see fit, you cannot force yourself upon me,” you replied, and it made him nauseous.
“We shall disagree on this, then,” he said, setting the wine aside, the sweet taste of grape turning sour in his mouth. “It will not be our last disagreement.”
Fear struck you then, as you remembered your mother’s words vividly. Your position would not be safe until you truly were the wife to the king, the rightful queen. The future of your blood rested in your hands, and no matter how honorable he was, you could not allow him to compromise your position.
Without a word you came to him and reached for the clasps of his doublet, undoing them swiftly, but he stopped you once more, grabbing both your wrists gently. “Please, your hands are shaking,” he said gently. “Is this what you truly want?”
You hated to admit it, but he had been honest towards you since the beginning, and thus you could not find it in yourself to lie. “No,” you said quietly, your eyes still fixed on the dragon brooch at his shoulder.
“Then you shall not lay a hand on me nor I on you,” he said firmly, letting go of you.
Your arms fell to your sides, defeated. “The Maester will know and our marriage will be invalid,” you protested.
“Leave that with me,” he said, gesturing to the armchairs in front of the fire. Uneasy, you still complied and sat where he wished, staring at the flames and wondering what other foolish ideas he had, if you had put yourself in danger by complying, if instead you should be the one to force his hand—he seemed unsure of himself at times, perhaps you could convince him.
You heard the sounds of a belt coming undone, then the ruffle of fabric and a sharp intake of breath. For a moment too long you sat there, listening to the rhythmic ruffles and short breaths, and it took you a minute to realize what was occurring, and when you did, you felt yourself flush in embarrassment.
Time stretched and his panting grew more frantic, until Jacaerys cursed under his breath. “Should I help?” you asked, biting your lip.
“No,” came the sharp answer. Finally, after a minute more, another sharp intake of breath pierced the air, a bitten groan that reminded you too well of your first wedding night.
You heard him undress, then wash his hands in the basin. “It is done,” he said. When you rose again, his doublet was discarded and his shirt as well. He had put on a robe over his bare chest—he looked flushed, his high cheekbones tainted with red. His hair looked as though he had raked his fingers through his curls, giving them an unruly look.
Jacaerys felt your eyes on him as he picked up a small knife from his desk, a seal opener, and cut the inside of his arm near the crease of his elbow. It would be easily hidden by a sleeve, and none would be the wiser. He smeared some of the blood on his palm, then wiped it on the mattress where the evidence of his solitary act laid.
“What is it?” you asked when he went back to staring at you.
“Your hair,” he answered, almost embarrassed. “It is too… tidy.”
“Oh,” you breathed, then reached for the braid and undid it, raking a hand through your mane. You were obviously embarrassed as well, and he thought it served him well.
As Jacaerys opened the doors to his chambers once more, and both the Septon and the Maester came into the room, you were reminded of the night of your first marriage. For the second time your humiliation was to be witnessed, your virtue publicly claimed by a man you did not love ; tears came to your eyes and you wished that Jacaerys would send you away soon, to pray for guidance and plan your revenge.
Now you had been queen twice, and yet you felt as powerless as you ever had without the crown.
Author's Note ✢ Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Thank you so much for the amazing feedback on the first chapter, it went straight to my heart. Chapter three will be posted next Saturday, July 18th.
Series taglist ✢ @chaotichereticcavern @galactict3a @qtmoonies @multyfangirl @obsidian-gold1239
i don’t feel like i should ever have to say this but NEVER use my work in any way to assist or create with AI. i’ll address this fully at a later time but unless someone has explicitly stated they’re okay with you using it for AI — the common assumption is NOT to do it.
it’s theft, it’s assisting in every negative decline in society, it’s deeply personal, it’s deeply offensive, and i’m rightfully angry that my work was used to create a character ai bot that has over seven hundred THOUSAND interactions — with absolutely NO credit given to me. it wouldn’t have excused it whatsoever, but it’s genuinely just salt in the wound.
this is discouraging, upsetting, maddening, and it truly makes someone feel all kinds of disgusted.
i know im very friendly and personal on here, because thats just who i am, but please take me seriously when i say i’m truly and genuinely disgusted by this behavior.
“commit it to ink tomorrow,” you whisper, leaning closer to your husband's awaiting lips, “and commit yourself to me tonight instead.”
jacaerys velaryon x wife!reader
words: 4.7k
notes: jacaerys & reader are aged up to 23. i cut a scene from one of my ongoing fics today & decided to rewrite it for a standalone instead ! hope u enjoy this is severely unedited
warnings: afab reader, married bickering, alcohol consumption, tbh porn with no plot but a lot of dialogue, vague timeline, fluff & romance. ONE gentle & good-natured smack to jace’s head. smut - oral (fem receiving), teasing, hair pulling, sliiiight sub!jace if you squint, he's really teasing, sort of spoiled reader but its bc hes is so in love. be warned this is mostly foreplay.
masterlist
“THEY ARE FOOLS.”
The sound of your husband’s voice comes breathed over a wide-spread map, sent by raven from the Sea Snake and then poached in haste from the hands of a squire as you’d both left the council chambers. Now the parchment sits, spread over the large oak of your shared solar, pinned at one corner with a tallow candle and another with a bowl bearing the remnants of cherries. The hour of Eels approaches upon the high moon out your casements, though inside you are well-lit in torch and company alike.
He has not yet troubled himself to remove his doublet, though he’s shed the heavier dressings of office in the spaces between your shared solar and bedchambers, left discarded across the back of a chair with a sigh. His hair, so often kept neat, has suffered the abuse of his own hands at least twice since since leaving the council chamber; you can see the furrows of it, dark and disordered, and there too lies ink, faint along the side of his palm where he’s already begun marking the map before you’ve even properly closed the door behind you. He does not look at you yet - no, he looks only down at King’s Landing, at the coastline along Massey’s Hook, at all the small failures of an evening he has clearly not finished refighting in his own head. Recalling the incessant irritations of the council, you endure the harrowing thought that his pricked stipulations from this evening might yet haunt you both for some hours to come.
Though, in the spoken words of your husband lives less a true anger and more some worn frustration after such a laborious handful of hours cooped within the war council chambers. “The lot of them.”
You unclasp your own cloak, soothing your skirts as you cross towards your husband. In attempt at jest, you let your lip lift faintly. “You name your Queen a fool?”
A glance over his shoulder coaxes you to relent the daring accusation, sighing as you lift your hands in placation.
“Never,” he still responds in kind to your needling, shaking his head faintly. “Only–”
Though his frustration breaks in his words, and he only sighs. You only watch as he reaches for the cup at his elbow, finds it empty, and reaches instead for the flagon, pouring himself with rather more generosity than the hour calls for. Once near the brim, he pushes it toward you and, in your mild amusement, you smile into the lip of his cup.
He watches you drink, and shakes his head faintly. “Lord Celtigar thought it madness, my mother thought it madness–” he huffs, turning to you sidelong, visage shrouded in golden candlelight. A gesture toward you, as he undoes the buckles of his sword belt and drops it upon the long table beside the map. “Did you note, too, how Lord Bar Emmon thought my proposition madness at such volume he nearly cracked his own voice?”
You laugh before you mean to, wine halfway from your lips. It is a small relief, for you both - so scrupulously dutiful in matters of council and of war - to find some private wickedness reserved only for each other, behind doors no lords nor councilmen may follow you through. And, dramatic as he is prone to be when alone with you, your husband is not wrong to have taken his irritation from an evening so agonizingly wasted.
“He does have a gift for it,” you concede, passing the cup to Jacaerys’ hand. You watch, in turn, as he drinks, and continue: “I counted three occasions upon which he mentioned the same counter.” A gesture of half-exasperated, half-helpless amusement from you, you lean your hip closer to the table to face your husband. “And each time it felt as though it were newly occurring to him. It truly astounds me, in a way.”
Jace conjures the princely decency to appear mournful even as he smirks at your words. “Always about the tides, that one. He is very fond of the tides, have you noticed?” Your husband lifts the half-drunk cup of wine to glare at Lord Corlys’s map over its rim, and you must bite back a fond grin.
“I’m nearly forced to suspect he has no other thoughts at all,” Jace huffs into the cup, “that his mind simply produces ‘the tides, my prince’ whenever pressed on any matter. It pertains to no matters, as it stands, though he proceeds as though only the waters along Massey’s Hook exist for consideration at all.”
Your lips purse in amusement, biting along your grin only for a moment.
“The tides, my prince,” you presently intone, pitching your voice low and pompous in rather unfair imitation.
Jacaerys nearly laughs outright, though it is smothered in some attempt to remain in his ire from council past. Your husband does not deceive you; his lips still waver faintly, his eyes still gleam and dance in the torchlight as they regard your imitation.
It is this which spurs you to press on, “I only consider, my prince, that Vhagar might not read the Maester’s almanacs–”
“Don’t,” your husband interjects in amusement, grinning helplessly as he swallows his sip of wine, “don’t, or I’ll spit this across Corlys’s map.”
“–and so cannot be expected to observe the tides in her own campaigns of war–”
Jace laughs outright now. “Stop,” he insists, coughing faintly from his swallow of wine; and, delighted, he reaches across the edge of the table to cover your mouth with two ink-stained fingers. You promptly bite lightly in retaliation, though this only makes his smile widen.
The Lord Celtigar fares little better a moment later, invoked and verbally torn between the two of you in the same breath; a provocation born of an endless habit of throat-clearing before every single sentence, you exchange poor imitations of the innocent man until the two of you are leaning towards each other across the table, half-drunk on wine and flushed with relief of duty. It is a rare thing, to be nowhere near a council chamber, with no one in the room requiring anything of either of you at all tonight.
“Gods,” Jace murmurs at last, dragging a hand down his face, “You’re quite lucky I haven’t choked.”
You soothe your dress, crossing to perch instead beside him rather than corner; And, the very moment you open your mouth to return the sentiment of relief, he speaks once more.
“The tides, my prince,” he says again.
It absurdly brings you both into laughter once more, wine-loosened and gilded in warm light, muffled by palms and chastened lips as though you both know it is foolish and hardly as amusing as it feels. Though it proves no matter besides, for you and your husband finish your cup of wine and fill it once more before the laughter fully ebbs.
It is once the last sigh has bubbled past your lips that he reaches for you properly, cupping your jaw in his whole palm to kiss you. Your lips find his slow, warm; wine and spice upon the tongue, you lean further into his taste eagerly. A palm skates up your side, sliding back to gather you by waist against him.
“Far better company than the council,” you murmur against his mouth, not quite breaking the kiss to say it. A low hum rolls through his throat, echoing faintly between your mouths.
“Immeasurably,” he agrees, the word half-lost between your lips. Faithfully Jacaerys kisses you, leaning wholly into your space as he keeps himself propped with a palm on the map below. He leans back only a breath then, lips pressed and parting. “Bar Emmon,” he says absurdly, still smiling into the kiss, “does not kiss half as well, I’d wager.”
A sound of displeasure from you as you lean back; disturbed, faintly, at his eagerness to bring back up the man who pestered him so much all evening. “I should hope you’ll never discover for yourself,” you manage, laughing faintly even as his mouth finds yours again, swallowing any such attempts to speak further.
A huff of laughter escapes him despite his mouth upon yours, and it’s in such a sound that chases off whatever glum irritation cast the council had left behind. And so you merely let him laugh, one hand fisting in the front of his doublet to keep him close, solid, yours in a way the council chamber rarely lets him be these days.
After a moment, he pulls away once more. “We should be studying the map,” Jace decides only a few moments later, an observation which causes a roll of your eyes. “The Lord Hand lent it to me with intention of regaining it soon.”
Lips part, only the glossy string of your shared affection connecting you for a moment in the candlelight as you lean faintly against the table, sighing. “Might it wait just for a moment, my Prince?” you suggest.
“It cannot wait,” Jace says, though he certainly makes no move at all to leave you, forehead dropping to your skin instead. His lips brush along your neck as he continues, “the ink is barely dry, wife, and half of it is guesswork besides. Corlys marked the shoals from memory, he said in his raven, and memory seventy years old at that. If I do not commit it to my own hand soon–”
Perhaps it is impatience, or simply confusion as to why your husband has taken up cartographic studies with his grandfather in the midst of war; whatever it is, you only sigh, pressing yourself more firmly to the line of his own warm body, feeling his breath hitch faintly against your throat.
“Commit it to ink tomorrow,” you whisper, leaning closer to his awaiting lips, “and commit yourself to me tonight instead.”
And indeed, whatever protest he means to make next is lost entirely as you kiss him again; he, in what might be a surge of either affection or mild frustration, only pushes further into your warmth.
Though his enthusiasm proves too eager, for between the two of you and the oaken table and considerably more enthusiasm than sense, you overbalance together: his knee catches the chair, yours tangle ungracefully in your own skirts, and you tumble in a sudden sprawl backwards across the map itself, parchment crackling and ripping faintly beneath you. It is a faint clatter you hear before you smell the wine spilt over the edge of the table, though neither of you seem particularly rushed to right the fallen cup.
He catches himself above you on one forearm, laughing outright once again, the sound of it rich, startled through your chamber. Your heart still – after all the moons wed to him – flips at the sound.
“Oh,” you tut, shaking your head in faint tease, “And now you’ve just certainly ruined Corlys’ map,” you inform him gravely, one hand still fisted in his doublet, refusing to let him retreat even the small distance his laughter has suddenly put between your mouths. He hums in agreement, though seemingly entirely unrepentant as he glances down to where your shoulder has scuffed clean through some careful notation of the Gullet’s currents. He purses his lips. “I suppose the council will have my head.”
A huff from your lips, tipping your head. “Well, after Aegon and Aemond’s, I imagine there will be little room left on the pike for a head like yours.”
Laugh spills regretfully from full-kissed lips above you. He is wholly pressed against you now, slotted rather wonderfully between your thighs as you lay upon the table, caged by arm and breath. You lips your chin only faintly, just to bump your nose against his own.
“A comforting thought,” his nose brushes yours, dimple deep now, all the solemnity of an hour ago nowhere to be found in him.
You, fought and lost against your own battle of grin, only shake your head. “I suppose you may keep your own in the meantime, then.”
A palm snakes beneath your tresses to cup your head, turning you in kind until he has clear access to the junction of your throat and clavicle. “Generous of you,” he muses dryly, a dimpled grin flashing as leans, shifting closer into you to stir a hitch of excitement through your breast. “And here I thought you were planning to sow my name in disgrace for my impropriety laying you upon this map.”
“Your impropriety,” you scoff in echo, though the word catches somewhere breathless in your throat as his mouth finds the soft skin below your ear. “That itself is rather the whole trouble tonight, seeing as it was you who kissed me first, you who could not be persuaded to leave off Corlys’s precious shoals for even a moment, you who cannot forgive Lord Bar Emmon for his blunder, and you who has now ruined the very map you are so determined to defend–”
Your words, though breathed out quickly, are lost scarce to a shiver of pleasure; for Jace has latched himself upon the tender sensitivity of your throat, and only smiles against the goosepimples rising beneath his tongue. Still, you do not give up, even as teeth scrape along your pulse gently. “So I suppose you’ll–” a breathy sigh, “have to forgive me if I find it difficult to accept the blame for your own temper. It was merely distracting.”
A hum presses along your chest, dragging a fiercely hungry heat through your very core. His lips brush over the neckline of your dress before lifting his chin.
“Was it?” He does not sound remotely remorseful, and indeed his amber eyes melt into the candlelight with mirth. “I shall have to remember that, then, for the next council you find too tedious to bear–”
You lean back, exasperated by half in his mention of council once more.
“Jace.”
He beams; a beautiful man, your husband, and you cannot curb the smile you helplessly give in return. His lips part in echoed tease of your impatience.
“Wife.”
You shove at his shoulder, only half in earnest, and he lets himself be shoved, rolling half onto his elbow beside you amidst the ruin of parchment and spilled wine, both of you grinning now. It is when his mouth finds the junction of your throat once more that the hunger comes back thrice as strong, and you pull him right above you once more even as you glance at the ruined map beneath your sprawled figure, the creeping stains of spilt wine.
“We ought to resolve this mess, I suppose,” you sigh, hoping he will indeed ignore your words and continue the path he makes with his lips now across your chest.
And, it seems, your Prince has a mind to ignore your orders this eve - for he merely continues his own line of thought as though you'd been discussing it all along. “I’m only saying,” he begins, apropos of certainly nothing as he lifts his head enough to look faintly wounded – unconvincing as it is, given the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth – “A word from you, and he might have folded twice as fast.”
Your head falls back in exasperation, even as his teeth nip at the soft skin of your neck. Back again he’s circled, to the man in the council – as though there lies no other pressing matters he might attend to at present.
“You are meant to be resolving the mess,” you remind him, gesturing at the ruined parchment beneath you both, though your hand finds its way to the back of his neck regardless, pressing him instead closer to where your breasts rise and fall through your dress. His mouth follows willingly, nosing along the neckline to press his lips against your beating skin.
“I am resolving many things at once,” he murmurs, entirely too pleased with himself, and returns his attention to your body once more as though the council chamber has not just risen between you a third time this hour. He huffs only faintly, the breath of which sends a shiver across the valley of your breasts. He begins to speak again: “You might resolve my grievance while you’re at it–”
Your groan of impatience and disbelief ricochets through the solar, though it is drowned by your husband’s incessant prattling even as his tongue dips across the flush of your breasts, pulling at the hem of your dress to reveal more sweet skin to his blabbering lips, “–It would only take a word: ‘Jace was right, and Lord Bar Emmon a tedious old fool, and I shall say so plainly next time for all to hear.’”
With fingers threading through thickened dark curls, you let out a flighty laugh, the desire molten through you despite the unfavorable topic he cannot seem to let go. “You want me to rehearse a speech whilst you ravish me?” You murmur.
That cursed mouth curves against your skin. “I want my wife’s loyalty declared before the whole council,” he leans back only a breath, enough to slip the shoulder from your gown, sliding it gently over your skin to reveal your breasts. Though you nearly gasp at the chill of air, any such discomforts are remedied as his breath fans across such tender skin, lips trailing as he pleases. You sigh softly, fingers tightening within his hair.
Helpless to his charming idiocy, you laugh, tugging gently upon his hair until he lifts his head to look at you properly, mock-solemn amber eyes meeting yours in the candlelight.
“You are dreadfully greedy tonight, husband,” you receive his eager kiss between your words, well aware of how his eyes hook and remain only on the sweet form of your lips as you speak, “for a man who won an argument twice in council over without any help from me at all. You’ve been brooding as though you lost it wholly.”
A pout, one which you can only help to lean forward and kiss; you catch his lower lip between your teeth and drag back, unhurried, until whatever else he meant to say dissolves into a rough, startled groan. He grins around his words, dipping his head once more to nip along the soft of your flesh.
“Well, please forgive me for preferring when you fight at my side. It is far preferable to being left on my own.”
He does not witness the roll of your eyes; though, all the same, for he has endeavored to slowly drag your skirts in a bunch upon your thigh with his palm, slow enough to drive you mad but pressing enough for you to understand his intentions. A tantalizing thing, even as you scoff.
“I was at your side,” you insist, and a soft gasp escapes you as one palm rises from your neck to instead palm along the curve of your breast, a soft thing despite how his teeth catch at your skin. “Though it seems I’ve wounded your pride, seeing as you’ve returned from council only to complain further, even with your wife so willingly beneath you.”
He hums something rather insolent and you only smile, far too indulgent as your hand slides to grip his shoulder and hold on to the warmth there. A sigh leaves your lungs as you purse your lips, “So I suppose I must make it up to you in some way or another.”
A slow grown grin, then, pressed into soft skin beneath your ear; and whatever further words you intend to further dole him scatter from your tongue as he hums low.
“Attend your husband, then,” he whispers, his palm coursing finally from your lifted skirts to the warm flesh of your upper thigh, coaxing your knee to hitch along his hips, “He has endured a rather trying council, and a map now ruined besides, and he would have–”
“He would have,” you cut in, hand sliding from the breadth of his shoulder to fist gently in his hair once more, drawing his face back to yours before he can talk himself further into mischief, “rather less of his own voice, and rather more attention paid to his wife. Yes?”
A hum so near to a moan comes from kiss-bitten lips, warm against your mouth. He nods faintly in some eagerness, biting his lip only faintly as his eyes dance between your own. “As my lady wife commands,” he absconces.
And at last, he holds his tongue of words and endeavors instead – as all good husbands must learn to do – to use it in far more pleasurable ways.
It is mere moments in which his palms grasp at your hips; with a gentle enough tug, he brings you nearest the edge of your table, bare from his hitching of your skirts and dragging of your neckline. A gasp from you, not scandalized as much as jesting at his sudden eagerness, coaxes a small glint of amusement in your husband’s amber gaze. It remains there, flickering in his love and hunger alike for you, as he sinks to his knees right there upon the stone floor.
And, though you’d prefer not to allow such weaknesses, still you let yourself sigh a shaky, flighty thing as the sensation of his lips drag teasing, horribly slow kisses along the inner plush of your thighs.
“Jace,” you sigh, a half-plead half-scold as his eyes glint up at you, the flash of a dark-dragoned signet ring upon his finger disappearing as he bunches your skirts further above your hips. And then he has the gall, it appears, to shush you; a placating thing, a rush of air upon shivered skin. “Shh,” he murmurs into the sweetness of your thigh, and you cannot attempt to feign resentment for the action as it conjures a rush of arousal further through you.
Gathered upon your elbows, you’re helpless to watch as those dark curls glisten in candlelight, wax weeping round your stuttering breaths, the scent of wine heady in the evening air and humming with a terrible anticipation. Cruel, your husband can be, in his teasing. So very cruel indeed.
It is through the anticipation and silence in which you crack.
“Jacaerys–”
You let out a sharp moan instead at the taper of his name, whatever command you had dying on your tongue; for his lips have pressed soundly upon your womanhood, roving a shiver of pleasure through your very core. A canting tilt of your hips arches your spine in surprise, a warm rush of pleasure flooding your whole being.
And he, the horrible man, dares smile against you.
It is with little remaining control that your hand rises to grip through his curled tresses; a trembling thing as his own large palms move to lift your thighs until he is settled firmly between them, humming to himself as your heels come to rest over broadened shoulders. Brushing away strayed curls, you gaze upon your love with some mix of awe and worship as he laves against you, tongue gathering your desire and letting out a low moan of his own at your taste.
Your own breath leaves your lips in gasps; sharp at first, though his ministrations cease suddenly as your husband lifts his chin slightly. A loss of pleasure shutters through your chest and you loosen your grip upon his hair, glancing down at him in half-lidded confusion.
“You've a beauty mark just here,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, tracing it slow with his mouth. “I don't believe I've properly admired before.”
You love him, with your whole soul and being; and yet you might scream; A horrible tease he is, indeed speaking far too much for the promises he’d made to you not moments ago. “You’ve admired it a hundred times,” you get out impatiently, breathless as you are – for he has begun to trail his path of kisses directly to your core once more. A hum from him, as one palm grasps wholly round your thigh to spread you further for him to admire. A shameless thing, perhaps, though the heat of it spreads pleasure along your chest just as warmth kisses your cheeks in droves.
“And I intend to admire it a hundred more, my love,” he murmurs into you at length, rendering you straddled upon that terrible line between pleasure and tease. “Some things bear repeating,” he then decides. And it is as though you see the thought cross his mind through his eyes; though before you can tell him to cease it before it comes past his lips, a soft laugh, half-muffled against your heat, startles you.
“Unlike Lord Bar Emmon’s arguments,” he mutters then, the irritation of which boils suddenly beneath your skin, coaxing your eyes wide with disbelief as he dares continue. “–Which improve with exactly no amount of repetition–”
Your palm smacks lightly across the back of his head, disturbing the gloss of curls at rest between your thighs.
"Jace." You catch a fistful of his hair this time, not ungently, tipping his face properly up to yours. "Cease speaking, entirely, I–I mean it.”
And perhaps it would have come strong from your lips, if not for the shakiness, that trembling desire he’s seemed to coax within you despite his teasing. “Entirely,” he repeats, testing the word as though it truly offends him. You huff out an impatient sigh, well aware of both your impatience and your insatiable desire for your husband at present; though too, you are well aware of your Jacaerys’ predisposition to spoiling you in all aspects of your marriage – and he, quite often, finds it a true struggle to say no to you. He goads you, you know this. WIthin such a handsome visage lies a glint of amusement he gains at your slow torture. “That seems a rather severe–”
“Jacaerys,” you all but whimper, and that does it; something in the word dissolves whatever torturous, inopportune argument he’d been building, and the grin that spreads over his face is helpless now, boyish, all pretense of debate abandoned.
“Alright, yes, mercy. I’ll yield to my pretty wife.” His lips brush against your aching desire, shoulders shaking with amusement. “How horrible,” he then dares utter, as though speaking to himself. “The Prince of Dragonstone, brought low by his own wife, in his own solar, over a map–”
You make to sit up, cheeks hot with the hazy mixture of desire, pleasure, and sheer irritation. “Speak once more about that map, and I swear to you I will leave this chamber.”
At this, he goes rather properly still between your thighs, the teasing drained out of him all at once; and for a few breaths, neither of you moves at all. Candlelight licks along the ruined parchment beneath you both, and the scent of wine is strong enough within the chamber that you imagine it’s breached the edges of the map, too – blooming ruby along the rivers and coasts etched with ink, spreading its tendrils closer as though it, too, wishes to touch the man between your thighs. The torchlight catches its own gold warmth along the line of his jaw, and his eyes are amber gone dark and steady; they flick, searching your face as though to be certain the threat is only half meant. It is, of course.
Still, in the heavy breaths between you, neither you nor Jace look away; a shared thing so deep there are no words, an understanding perhaps only known between two people who have shared a bed and a war and worlds worth of trust between them and know each other too well now to need explaining.
A smile blooms, first across full lips, glistening with desire; then along carved cheekbone, spreading to warm his eyes until the whole chamber feels, for a moment, infinitely warm and gentle. Your own smile creeps along your visage, just as easy as dusk chases sun.
You could not love him more, you think.
“Not another word,” he swears to you then, earnest enough as he is cheeky; he's already smiling against your skin, mouth finding the soft of your thigh in silent apology, one hand splaying warm along your stomach to ease you down again, unhurried and certain as only he could ever be with your body. A warmth spreads through you, that familiar affection that pricks along your cheeks and flutters your heart.
And then, after far too much anticipation, a slow press of his lips; your sigh soothes along the breath of the torches as his fingers gently press into the thick of your thighs, soothing the tense of your muscles. Eyelashes flutter as his tongue laves slowly upon your heat, nudging your bundle of nerves enough to have you keening, whispering his name into the quiet of the chamber. Indeed, you begin quite immediately to quiver at the sensation; A shuttering breath of pleasure exhales from your lips, brows stitching together with a thread of sweet ecstasy. Though after only a few more moments, his lips whisper once more against you. “I’ll be the very picture of silence, I swear it, my love.”
And he is not, quite, what he promises to be; a murmur here, a low hum of arousal there, some fresh and foolish endearment breathed against your skin every time he thinks you've forgotten to scold him for it – but he is close enough, with his mouth upon you and his hands finding each breath of your body they’ve long since memorized, that you let it go entirely.
