Series Summary: Having studied Valyrian history and sorcery, you perform a ritual to save Jace's life after the battle of Gullet, except he's not quite who he used to be after he comes back from death's doorstep. See part 1 here. Part 2 here. Warnings: came back wrong Jace, blood, talks of death, killing.
Jace had been working toward this moment for weeks. Cannibal had started allowing Jace to touch his snout, to run a hand along the rough scales of his neck. But mounting was different. Mounting was the final test, the ultimate proof of trust between dragon and rider. If Cannibal decided he did not wish to be ridden, Jace would be dead before he hit the ground.
The climb was awkward. Cannibal was enormous, his shoulders rising far above Jace's head. Jace had to grip the rough edges of the dragon's scales, hauling himself up. Cannibal shifted beneath him, a low rumble building in his chest, you saw Jace freeze, waiting to see if the dragon would throw him off.
But Cannibal did not throw him off. He settled, his massive body relaxing, and Jace pulled himself up onto the dragon's back.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Jace sat there, his hands gripping the base of one of Cannibal's spines, his chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline. Cannibal remained still, his green eyes half-lidded, his breathing slow and steady. Then Jace spoke the command.
"Sōvegon." Fly.
Cannibal's wings spread. They were vast, black as night. He launched himself from the mountainside with a leap that shook the ground, and then he was airborne, climbing higher and higher until he was just a speck against the clouds. You heard Jace's shout of pure, wild exultation.
They landed an hour later. Jace slid from Cannibal's back with shaking legs and a face that was split by the widest smile you had ever seen. He ran to you, caught you up in his arms, and spun you around until you were both dizzy and laughing and clinging to each other.
Next was the process of familiarization. Cannibal had accepted Jace as his rider, but that did not mean he had accepted the other dragons of Dragonstone. He had spent centuries viewing every other dragon as either a threat or a meal, and centuries of instinct could not be undone in a day.
Greyghost was the easiest. He had been living in proximity to Cannibal for weeks now, and the pale dragon had learned to tolerate the older beast's presence. With you and Jace working together, guiding your dragons through gradual, supervised encounters, Greyghost and Cannibal reached an uneasy truce. You doubted they would become friends but they could share the same sky without attacking each other.
"It's a start," Jace said one evening, as you sat together in the nest he had built on the mountainside, watching the two dragons circle overhead. Cannibal was a massive black shadow against the sunset, his green eyes glowing like embers. Greyghost was a wisp of pale mist, darting and weaving around the larger dragon like a moth around a flame. "Once they're used to each other, we can start introducing them to the other dragons. Syrax. Caraxes. Moondancer."
"That will be harder," you said. "Cannibal has never seen those dragons before. He won't know they're not a threat."
"Then we'll teach him." Jace's arm tightened around your shoulders. "We'll take it slow. One dragon at a time. He's smart. He'll learn."
But the gods had other plans.
The Blood Wyrm appeared on the horizon three days later, his crimson scales catching the morning light like a wound in the sky. You were on the beach with Greyghost, feeding him his morning fish, when you heard the distinctive roar, a high, piercing shriek that was unmistakably Caraxes.
Greyghost's head snapped up, his pale eyes wide with alarm. He had never encountered Caraxes before, but he knew the sound of a dragon's challenge when he heard it. His wings spread, his body tensing for flight, and you had to grab onto him to keep him grounded.
"Lykirī," you commanded, your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart. Calm down. "Lykirī, Greyghost. Umbās." Wait.
On the other side of the beach, Jace was having a similar struggle with Cannibal. The black dragon had emerged from his lair at the sound of Caraxes' roar. He did not know Caraxes. He did not know if this crimson stranger was a threat or prey. And Cannibal's default response to the unknown was violence.
"Daor!" Jace shouted. "Daor, Cannibal! Lykirī!"
Cannibal's growl sounded like grinding boulders, deep and terrible. But he did not attack. He held his position, his massive body coiled with tension, his eyes never leaving the approaching dragon.
Caraxes landed on the beach with a ground-shaking thud, his long, serpentine neck twisting as he surveyed the scene before him. Daemon Targaryen sat astride him, his silver hair windswept, his expression shifting rapidly from surprise to disbelief to fury.
"What," Daemon said, his voice carrying across the sand with the sharpness of a whip crack, "in the name of all the gods, is this?"
Daemon dismounted from Caraxes with the fluid grace of a man who had spent more of his life on dragonback than on foot, but his movements were tight with barely controlled anger. He ordered you and Jace to secure your dragons, an order that was easier given than followed, as neither Greyghost nor Cannibal were pleased to have Caraxes so close, and then he marched the two of you up to the castle, his silence more terrifying than any shouting could have been.
The shouting came later, in the privacy of the great hall, with the doors closed, the servants banished and Daemon pacing back and forth like a caged beast.
"Wild dragons. You decided to claim wild dragons. Without telling anyone. Without asking permission. Without even leaving a note in case you were killed and we spent the rest of our lives wondering what had happened to you."
"I left a note," Jace said.
Daemon stopped pacing. "What?"
"In my chambers. Under the pillow. It said that if we didn't return, we had gone to the Dragonmont and probably been eaten." Jace's expression was perfectly serious. "I thought it was best to be honest."
For a moment, Daemon looked as though he was going to laugh. Then he looked as though he was going to strangle Jace with his bare hands. In the end, he did neither. He just stood there, his hands on his hips, violet eyes blazing.
"A wild dragon is not a plaything," he said tightly. "Cannibal has been killing for centuries. Greyghost has never been ridden in his life. And you two, you two, who were supposed to be resting, who were supposed to be safe, decided to climb the Dragonmont and try to tame them. Alone. With no help. With no one knowing where you were."
"I wasn't alone," Jace said. "I had my wife."
Daemon's gaze swung to you. "And you. My daughter. The one child of mine who has always been sensible. The one who studied and read and approached the world carefully. You went along with this madness?"
You lifted your chin. "I did. And I would do it again."
"You could have been killed."
"But we weren't." You stepped forward, meeting your father's gaze without flinching. "We weren't killed. We succeeded. Jace has claimed Cannibal. I have claimed Greyghost. We have dragons again. We can fight. We can help."
Daemon stared at you for a long moment. Then he turned away and rubbed his temples. "What am I supposed to tell Rhaenyra?" he muttered. "She sent me here to check on you. To make sure you were safe. And instead I find that you've been sneaking off to the Dragonmont for weeks, risking your lives on a mad gamble that somehow paid off." He laughed humorlessly. "She's going to have my head."
"It's not your fault," Jace said. "We didn't tell you what we were planning. You couldn't have stopped us."
"That's not the point." Daemon turned back. "The point is that Rhaenyra is already overwhelmed. King's Landing is a disaster. The Greens stole the treasury before they fled, every last gold dragon, gone. The city is full of refugees and beggars and people who expect their new queen to solve all their problems overnight. Aegon has vanished. Aemond is burning the Riverlands with Vhagar. Ormund Hightower is marching north with an army and a dragon of his own. Rhaena has gone mad, chosen to remain with her wild dragon in exile. And now I have to fly back to the Red Keep and tell my wife that her heir and her stepdaughter have decided to become wild dragon tamers as well."
"Tell her we succeeded," Jace said, his voice firm. "Tell her we have two new dragons. Tell her we're ready to fight."
Daemon looked at him for a long moment. "You really have changed," he said quietly. "The boy I knew would never have done something like this."
"The boy you knew died at the Gullet," Jace's voice was calm, matter-of-fact.
Daemon's eyes flickered to you, and you saw the question in them. You shook your head slightly. Not now. Not here. He seemed to understand, because he did not press further.
"Fine," he said at last. "Fine. I'll tell her. But you..." he pointed at Jace, "are going to write her a letter explaining yourself. In your own words. So that when she starts screaming, she's screaming at a piece of parchment and not at me."
Jace nodded. "I can do that."
"And you..." Daemon turned to you, his expression softened just slightly. "You were supposed to keep an eye on him. Not join him in his madness."
"He needed me," you said simply. "And I needed a dragon. We helped each other."
Daemon sighed, a long, weary exhalation. "I am getting too old for this."
"You're not old," you answered. "You're just realizing what it feels like to have children who are as reckless as you are."
The letter Jace wrote was long and detailed, explaining everything from the initial plan to the final triumph. He wrote about the research, the preparations, the weeks of patient work. He wrote about you, about your courage and your determination and the way Greyghost had trusted you before anyone else. He wrote about Cannibal, about the ancient dragon's terrifying power and the strange, grudging respect that had grown between them.
And he wrote about why he had done it. Why he could not sit idle while his mother fought a war. Why he needed to be in the sky. Why he would rather die trying to claim a wild dragon than live as a dragonless prince, helpless, grounded and useless.
When the letter was finished, Jace sealed it with wax and pressed his signet ring into it. He handed it to Daemon without a word.
Daemon took it. "I'll deliver this to Rhaenyra. But I can't promise how she'll react."
"I know," Jace said. "But whatever she decides, I won't regret what I did. I have a dragon again. I can fight for her. I can fight for the realm. That's all I ever wanted."
Daemon nodded slowly. Then he turned to you. "Take care of him," he said. "And take care of yourself. You're the only daughter I have who hasn't given me grey hairs yet. Don't start now."
"No promises," you smiled. Daemon snorted.
He mounted Caraxes and took off into the sky, the Blood Wyrm's crimson wings carrying him back toward King's Landing and the chaos that awaited him there. You and Jace stood on the beach, watching until he was just a speck on the horizon.
The raven arrived four days later.
You were in the great hall, reviewing maps of the Riverlands with Jace, when a Maester brought the scroll. It was sealed with Rhaenyra's personal sigil. Jace took it with steady hands, but you saw the tension in his jaw.
He read the letter.
"She's not forbidding us from keeping the dragons," he said slowly. "She acknowledges that what we did was reckless and foolish, but she cannot deny the value of two new dragonriders. She says…" He paused, his eyes scanning the parchment again. "She says that I am forbidden from flying away from Dragonstone. I am to remain here, under guard, until she sends for me."
You felt a flicker of indignation on his behalf. "She's grounding you? After everything you've accomplished?"
"There's more." Jace's jaw tightened. "Greyghost has proven to have a gentle temper and a talent for stealth. His coloring makes him nearly invisible against clouds and cliffs. Therefore, she is...commanding you to fly to the Riverlands."
Your heart skipped a beat. "What?"
"You are to scout the region. Check on what remains of Daemon's forces. And locate the whereabouts of Aemond and Vhagar." Jace's voice was flat, controlled, but you could hear the anger simmering beneath it. "You are not to engage with them. You are only to observe and report back. But she is sending you. My wife. Into enemy territory. While I am ordered to sit here and do nothing."
"Jace..."
"It's as though nothing has changed." He crumpled the parchment in his fist, his knuckles white. "Nothing. I nearly died at the Gullet. I came back. I claimed a dragon that no one has ever tamed before. I am ready to fight, ready to fly, ready to do whatever needs to be done. And still she treats me like a child. Still she wraps me in silk and locks me away while she sends you, you, into danger."
He began to pace, agitated. "You are my wife. You might even be carrying my child. We don't know yet. It's too soon to tell. But if my efforts in bedding you have borne fruit, if there is already a life growing inside you..." He stopped, his hands clenching at his sides. "I cannot lose you. I cannot. Not after everything."
You went to him, placing your hands on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palms. "You won't lose me. Greyghost is fast and elusive. I can scout without being seen. I can gather information and come back before anyone even knows I was there."
"That's not the point." Jace's hands came up to grip your shoulders, his eyes blazing with that familiar, fierce fire. "The point is that my mother is content to risk your life while forbidding me from taking any risk at all. The point is that she still sees me as the boy who almost died, not the man who came back. The point is that I am her heir, and I am dragonless no longer, yet she will not let me do anything."
"Jace." You reached up and cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. "Listen to me. I know this is frustrating. I know it feels unfair. But your mother is trying to protect you. She loves you. She nearly lost you once, and she cannot bear the thought of losing you again."
"That doesn't justify sending you into danger."
"No," you agreed. "It doesn't. But I am not going into danger. I am going to fly over the Riverlands, look for signs of Aemond and Vhagar, and come straight back. I will not engage. I will not take unnecessary risks. I will be careful, quick. I will return to you before you have time to miss me."
"I already miss you," his voice cracked. "I miss you every moment you are not in my arms."
You pulled him down into a kiss. When you pulled back, his eyes were still troubled, but some of the tension had eased from his shoulders.
"Promise me," he implored. "Promise me you'll come back."
"I promise," you vowed. "I will come back to you. Always. Nothing in this world or the next could keep me away."
He pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe. "I will hold you to that promise," he murmured against your hair. "If you break it, I will find a way to follow you. Even if I have to walk into the darkness and drag you back myself, the way you dragged me back."
A shiver ran down your spine at his words. There was nothing romantic about them. They were a vow: fierce, terrible and absolute. The fire in his eyes was the same fire that had been there since the night you brought him back. It would never go out. It would never diminish. And if you were taken from him, that fire would consume everything in its path.
"I will come back," you repeated. "I swear it."
The next morning, you prepared for your journey. The flight to the Riverlands would take several hours, and you would need to be alert and focused the entire time. You dressed in warm riding leathers, packed a small bag of provisions, and studied the maps until you had memorized every river, forest and castle.
Jace helped you prepare in silence. He checked your saddle straps, adjusted your harness, pressed a knife into your hand in case you needed to defend yourself on the ground.
At the edge of the beach, Greyghost waited for you. The pale dragon had sensed your mood and was alert and watchful, his eyes scanning the sky. He had never flown so far before, but he trusted you. He would carry you wherever you needed to go.
"Be careful," Jace muttered. "Be quick. Be smart."
"I will." You kissed him. "I love you."
"I love you too." He pressed his forehead against yours. "Come back to me."
"Always."
You mounted Greyghost, settling into the saddle with practiced ease. The pale dragon spread his wings, catching the morning breeze, and launched himself with a single powerful leap. The castle fell away beneath you, growing smaller and smaller.
You looked back once and saw Jace standing on the beach, his hand raised in farewell. Then you turned your face toward the west and flew.
Greyghost moved through the clouds with an ease that still surprised you, his pale scales blending so perfectly with the mist that you sometimes felt less like a dragonrider and more like a ghost drifting through the sky. It had been three days since you left Dragonstone, three days of searching for signs of Aemond and Vhagar. You had found nothing but ash and ruin.
The villages you passed over were hollowed-out shells, their roofs caved in, their fields blackened by dragonfire. The people who remained moved through the wreckage like wraiths, too exhausted even to look up as your shadow passed overhead. This was Aemond's work. This was the price of Vhagar's freedom. He was burning the Riverlands to draw Daemon out, to force a confrontation, and he did not care how many innocents died in the process.
You had known Aemond once. When you were children, before the enmity between your families had hardened into war, you had known him as a solemn, serious boy with a clever mind and a desperate hunger for respect. He had been the only one of Alicent's children who had not looked at you with suspicion or disdain. He had been your friend.
But that was a long time ago. Before Vhagar. Before Driftmark. Before the war that had killed your dragon, Rhaenys and your husband's brother. Before the boy you had known became the monster who burned the Riverlands.
Greyghost turned to the left, his attention caught by something on the ground below. You followed his gaze and saw a column of smoke rising in the distance, thick, black, fresh. Your heart quickened. You had found him.
"Sōvegon," you murmured. Greyghost climbed higher, disappearing into the clouds.
Aemond Targaryen stood on a ridge overlooking the burning village, his silver hair whipping in the wind, his single eye fixed on the flames below. Vhagar was behind him.
The village had been empty, or near enough. A few stubborn farmers had refused to flee, and now they were ash. Aemond felt nothing as he watched the flames consume them. He had stopped feeling anything weeks ago, when Alys had pulled the knife from his side and poured her strange, bitter potions into the wound. The pain had faded. The infection had receded.
Daemon was out there. Daemon, who had haunted Aemond's nightmares since he was a boy. Daemon, who had laughed at the suggestion that Aemond might marry his daughter. Daemon, who had taken everything Aemond had ever wanted and given it to his bastard stepson instead. Aemond would find him. He would burn every village in the Riverlands if he had to. He would burn the whole world, if that was what it took.
"She is not coming," Alys had said last night. "The queen. The pretender. She will not send her husband to face you. She is too afraid of losing him."
"Then I will make her afraid of losing something else," Aemond had replied.
But Alys had only smiled, that strange, knowing smile that made Aemond's skin crawl even as he craved her touch. "There are other players on the board," she had said. "Other pieces moving. Can you not feel them? The fire and the blood and the magic stirring in the east?"
Aemond had not understood her then.
Vhagar stirred behind him, a low rumble building in her chest. Aemond turned, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. Vhagar was looking at the sky, her ancient eyes fixed on something in the clouds. Something pale that moved like mist and shadow.
A dragon.
Aemond's heart lurched. For one wild, irrational moment, he thought it was Daemon. But Caraxes was red, crimson as blood, and this dragon was pale grey-white, almost invisible against the clouds. Moondancer, perhaps. Or...
The dragon descended, and Aemond saw the rider on its back. A woman, her hair whipped by the wind, her face half-hidden by a riding mask.
But he knew her. He would have known her anywhere, in any light, in any world.
You saw him the moment Greyghost broke through the clouds. He was standing on the ridge, a figure in black against the orange glow of the burning village, his silver hair was unmistakable. Vhagar was behind him, her massive head turning toward you.
You had found Aemond.
For a moment, you considered fleeing. You had promised Jace you would not engage. You had promised you would only observe and report back. But Aemond had already seen you. Vhagar was already stirring, her wings spreading, her massive body tensing for flight. There was no running now. Not from Vhagar.
Greyghost landed on the far end of the ridge, his pale scales gleaming against the blackened rock. You slid from the saddle, your hand resting on the knife at your belt, not that a knife would do much good against a man with a sword and the largest dragon in the world.
Aemond walked toward you, his stride unhurried, his single eye fixed on your face. Up close, he looked different than you remembered. Older, harder. His bearing was different too.
"I did not expect to see you here."
"Aemond," your voice was steadier than you felt. "I came to find you."
"Have you?" He stopped a few paces away, his eye roving over you, taking in your riding leathers, the pale dragon behind you. "And what dragon is this? I have never seen it before."
"Greyghost," you said. "He is mine."
"Yours." Aemond's eye narrowed. "Your dragon died at Rook's Rest. I saw her fall. I saw Vhagar tear her from the sky."
"You saw Vhagar try," you corrected coldly. "My dragon carried me to Dragonstone before she died."
"Resourceful. I've always admired that about you."
"You admired a great many things about me, once."
"Once." He took another step closer, and you forced yourself not to retreat. "We were friends once. Do you remember? Before our families tore us apart. Before your father laughed at the very idea of us."
"I remember," you said. "I remember a boy who wanted a dragon more than anything in the world. I told him he would claim one someday, and it would be even better because the dragon would already be grown and trained. I was right, wasn't I? You claimed Vhagar. The largest dragon in the world. And look what you've done with her."
Aemond's jaw tightened. "I did what I had to do."
"You killed Luke." The words came out harder than you intended. "You killed my husband's brother. You killed Rhaenys. You killed my dragon. You have been burning the Riverlands for weeks, slaughtering innocents, all to draw my father into a fight."
"Your husband." Aemond's voice went very quiet. "You speak of him as if he is still alive."
"Because he is alive."
Aemond stared at you. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he laughed, a short, harsh sound with no humor in it. "Alys told me about the Gullet. She told me Jacaerys was shot with three arrows and fell into the sea. She told me his dragon drowned. She told me he was dead."
"Alys was wrong."
"No." Aemond shook his head slowly. "No, I don't think she was. I think she told me exactly what happened. What I want to know is how he survived."
You should not have told him. You knew that, even as the words rose in your throat. But you were angry, angry at him for killing Luke, for killing Rhaenys, for killing your dragon, for mocking Jace's death. Angry at him for the years of bitterness and resentment that had turned a lonely, desperate boy into a monster. Angry at him for still looking at you with that same hungry, wanting gaze, as if you were something he could claim and possess.
"I brought him back," you said. "I used blood magic. The old Valyrian rites. I poured my blood out and I pulled him back from death. He is alive, Aemond. He is alive, he is my husband, and nothing you do will ever change that."
The silence that followed was terrible. Aemond's face went very still, his single eye fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin crawl. Behind him, Vhagar let out a low, rumbling growl, sensing her rider's agitation.
"You married him," his voice was barely above a whisper. "You married a bastard. A Strong boy. A man who should have died at the Gullet and stayed dead. You used magic, dark magic, blood magic, to bring him back. And you married him."
"I love him," you said. "I have always loved him. I was betrothed to him since we were children. You knew that. You knew it the night of that dinner, when you made your little toast about the Strong boys. You knew it, and you still thought what? That I would choose you instead?"
"I would have made you my queen!" Aemond's voice cracked, rising to a shout. "I would have given you everything! I begged my mother to arrange a betrothal. I begged her, and she refused because your father laughed at the suggestion. He laughed at me, as if I was nothing. As if I was beneath his notice. And all the while, he was planning to marry you to Rhaenyra's bastard."
"Don't call him that."
"It's what he is!" Aemond's hand went to his sword, his knuckles white around the hilt. "Jacaerys Strong. The bastard of Harrenhal. The boy who was never worthy of you, never worthy of the throne, never worthy of anything. And you married him. You used blood magic to save him. You..."
He stopped. His eye was wild, his breathing ragged. Behind him, Vhagar shifted, her massive tail lashing against the rocks. You could feel Greyghost's anxiety, his pale body tense and ready to flee.
"I loved you," Aemond said, his voice was quieter now, almost broken. "When we were children, I loved you. You were the only one who never made fun of me for not having a dragon. You told me I would claim one someday. You believed in me when no one else did. I thought…I thought if I claimed Vhagar, if I proved myself, if I became the man your father was…you would see me. You would choose me."
"I was a child," your voice was gentler now, despite everything. "We were both children. And what you did, claiming Vhagar, it wasn't the triumph you thought it was. You stole her from Rhaena. You took her right after Laena's funeral, while my sister was still grieving. You hurt her, Aemond. You hurt my family. You called grieving boys bastards and tried to bash their heads with a rock over a jest. And after that, after my father told me the Greens were our enemies, I couldn't...I couldn't be your friend anymore."
"Your father." Aemond's lip curled. "Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince. He poisoned you against me. He poisoned everyone against me. He made sure I would never have what I wanted, never be what I wanted to be. And now he's hiding behind his wife's skirts while I burn the Riverlands, too afraid to face me himself."
"He's not afraid of you."
"Then where is he?" Aemond spread his arms wide, a gesture that encompassed the burning village, the smoking fields, the desolation that stretched for miles in every direction. "I have been calling him out for weeks. I have been daring him to face me. And he does nothing. He sends you instead. His daughter. The woman he knows I wouldn't kill. The woman I would have made my queen."
"I came to scout," you said. "To find you and report back. I am not here to fight you, Aemond."
"Then why are you here?" He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the fine lines around his eye, the tension in his jaw, the way his hand trembled slightly on his sword. "Why did you come, if not to face me?"
You met his gaze without flinching. "To find you. And someone needed to tell you the truth. Jace is alive. He is my husband. He has claimed Cannibal, the wild dragon of Dragonstone, and when the time comes, he will face you. Not my father. Not Daemon. Jace. The boy you mocked endlessly for years. The man you tried to kill. He will be the one to end you."
Aemond's cold, bitter laughter echoed across the ridge. "You expect me to believe that? That Jacaerys Strong has claimed Cannibal? That he tamed a dragon that has been killing men for centuries? You expect me to believe that he is a threat to me?"
"Believe what you want," you said. "It doesn't change the truth."
"The truth." Aemond's eye glittered. "The truth is that you chose a bastard over me. The truth is that you used dark magic to bring him back from the dead. The truth is that you are his wife now, you spread your legs for a bastard, whore's son, and nothing I do can change that." He paused, his tone turned softer, contemplative. "Unless, of course, I kill him again."
Your blood ran cold. "If you touch him..."
"What? You'll kill me?" Aemond smiled unpleasantly. "You're welcome to try. But I don't think you will. I don't think you can. You've never been a killer. That's what I always liked about you. You were never cruel, never vicious, never like the rest of us. You were kind."
"I'm not kind anymore," you said. "The war has burned that out of me."
"Has it?" Aemond studied you, his eye searching your face. Then he stepped back, his hand falling away from his sword. "Go, then. Fly back to your husband. Tell him I'm coming for him. Tell him that when I'm finished with Daemon, I'll come to Dragonstone and finish what the pirates at the Gullet started. And tell him…" He paused, his expression flickering with what might have been pain. "that he has what I wanted. What I've always wanted. And I will never forgive him for it."
He turned and walked back toward Vhagar, his black cloak billowing in the wind. The great she-dragon lowered her head. Aemond climbed into the saddle.
You mounted Greyghost, your heart pounding. As the pale dragon spread his wings and launched himself into the air, you heard Aemond's voice, carried on the wind.
"I will see you again, my princess. On the battlefield, if nowhere else. And when this war is over, you will be mine. One way or another."
Greyghost climbed into the clouds. You did not look back.
You did not stop flying until Dragonstone came into view. You were exhausted, your body aching from days of riding, your mind reeling from the confrontation with Aemond.
Jace was waiting for you on the beach, just as he had promised. He caught you as you slid from Greyghost's saddle, his arms wrapping around you with a desperation that matched your own.
"Thank the gods," he breathed against your hair. "Thank the gods you're safe. I was going mad waiting for you."
"I found him," your voice was muffled against his chest. "I found Aemond. I spoke to him."
Jace pulled back, his eyes widening. "You spoke to him? You engaged with him? You promised..."
"I know what I promised. But Vhagar saw us. There was no running. I had to face him." You took a shaky breath. "He thought you were dead, Jace. He was told about the Gullet. He thought you drowned."
"And you told him otherwise."
"I told him everything." You met his eyes, guilt and defiance warring in your chest. "I told him about the blood magic. About Cannibal. About our marriage. I shouldn't have. I know I shouldn't have but I was so angry. He killed Luke. He killed Rhaenys. He killed my dragon. He mocked your death. I wanted him to know that he failed. That you're alive. That you're coming for him."
Jace reached up and cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears you hadn't realized you were shedding.
"You did what you had to do," he murmured. "And you came back to me. That's all that matters."
"He said he's going to come for you," you whispered. "After Daemon. He said he's going to finish you off once and for all."
"Let him try." Jace's eyes blazed with that familiar fire, fierce and unyielding. "Let him come. I have Cannibal now. I have you. I am not afraid of Aemond Targaryen."
You leaned into him, letting his warmth his certainty wrap around you like a shield. "He loved me," the words tumbled out before you could stop them. "When we were children. He wanted to marry me. He begged his mother to arrange a betrothal but my father laughed at him. He's never forgiven me for choosing you."
"I know," Jace sighed. "I've always known. It was obvious, the way he looked at you. The way he watched you at that dinner, when we were betrothed. He made his toast about the Strong boys because he couldn't stand seeing us together."
"You never said anything."
"What was there to say?" Jace shrugged, a small, tired gesture. "You chose me. You've always chosen me. Even when we were children, even before we understood what it meant, you were mine and I was yours. Aemond's obsession with you was never a threat to that. It was just...sad. Pathetic, even."
"He's not pathetic now," you said. "He's dangerous. He's been burning the Riverlands for weeks. He's under the influence of a witch called Alys, she healed him, or something like it, and he listens to her. He's different, Jace. Harder, colder. There's something wrong with him."
"There's something wrong with all of us," Jace countered, his voice was dark with a knowledge you shared. "The war has changed everyone. But it hasn't changed this." He pressed his forehead against yours. "You are my wife. My sorceress. My heart. Aemond can burn the whole world to ash, it will change nothing."
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cw:SMUT, morning head(f receiving), horny reader, dom reader, betrayal, drinking, lying, anxiety, breast feeding, improper use of breast milk, reader is a lil mean, conspiracy, TIME TO PLAY THE GAMMMMEEEEEE
You honestly could not remember the squire’s name for the life of you, your father always just calling him ‘boy’. Nonetheless he quickly became attached to you and stayed by your side after you saved him from the hands of Rhaenyra and her advisors. He was like a puppy following your heels with each step you took, becoming your shadow. The roots of his hair were finally starting to grow in making the boy feel safer to walk the halls of the keep even if he was still in constant danger. He had told you some of your father’s plans while in private, as well as telling you about how your father reacted to you being taken by Jacaerys from Honeyholt at the beginning of the war. Apparently he had raged screaming at anyone who got too close, his eldest daughter, his living reminder of his first wife, was taken by the enemy. Prince Daeron was the only reason people in Old Town didn’t die taking the brunt of your father’s rage. The boy told you about how Daemon taunted your father, saying he wouldn't meet his grandchild because of this war. Your father is a proud man and you imagined he raged quite a bit afterwards but in the face of the enemy he kept his cool. The young squire who was now a captive in King’s Landing had brought a pomander with him, apparently when your father had heard Daemon was closing in on his army he had prepared the small metal casing for you, hoping that the stench of King’s Landing hadn’t destroyed you yet. You had laughed when he first gave it to you, but kept it close. It reminded you of your father and his habit you always laughed at him for. The scent inside was one often used in the Great Sept in Old Town, the smell bringing you back to your childhood.
You did your best to keep the pomander hidden from your husband and his family but you got sloppy. It was three months since Rhaenyra took King’s Landing, four months since Aemma’s birth, and a little over a year since you were taken to Dragonstone. You had grown used to the melancholy you felt while surrounded by Targaryens and their strange customs. One night you were drinking heavily with your maids having them brought over from Dragonstone to help support you while Aemma was still young. The wine flowed freely making tongues loosen, Kyra told you of a crush she had on a stable boy which you had encouraged her to pursue. You told them how you hadn’t been with your husband since Aemma’s birth and how most nights you had to find your own pleasure and you were struggling with it. Raina had told you, “you don’t need to make love, you just need to fuck. He is your husband, you can have him warm your bed whenever you want.”
You looked at her with wide eyes before standing on wobbling legs, your dress was partially unlaced as you were relaxing and didn’t want to be in the constraining material. You stumbled your way to the door before making your way out, the three women in the room laughing as you moved, looking similar to a baby deer learning to use its legs. You stumbled your way through the Keep trying to find your husband. You got lost turning in a circle a few times trying to figure out where to go, a man with dark skin and long black braids found you, smiling kindly at you asking how he could help. You squinted at him coming close to his face, you knew of him but could not remember his name either. Names were not your strong suit. He was trying not to laugh looking at you as you took in the man in front of you, you suddenly pointed your finger in his face saying rather loudly, “you are not my husband! I want Jacaerys now!” You sounded like a child demanding a toy. The man began leading you to the council room where your husband was, him sitting with the dragon seeds as they drank and discussed the happenings of the day. The dark haired man, Aadam, leads you through the door which you stomped your way through the door, still moderately drunk. Jace turned to see the new additions to the room, when he saw it was you he quickly moved out of his chair with the goblet of wine still in his hand. You practically fell into his arms when he was close enough, Jace more than happy to hold you up with his free arm being wrapped around your waist. He had never seen you drunk before, you were always so well put together this messy version of you being a nice treat. Jace smiled at you before asking, “my love, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence tonight?” You gripped onto the front of his shirt, pulling him down to your lips, something he was more than happy to do. He hummed into your lips before pulling back. You chased after him but he kept himself far enough away. You pouted looking into his eyes that were lit up with joy, you finally said to him “I wish for you to join me in my bed husband. I have missed you.”
Jace’s eyes widened with a blush starting to cover his face, he could hear the men gaffaw behind him at how bold you were. Jace brought the cup to his lips taking a deep sip before you stole it from him, downing the rest of it, you slammed the cup on the table saying, “now husband.” Jace chuckled but let you pull him out of the room towards your own. Once you were farther down the hall you pushed Jace into the wall, ravaging his mouth. He groaned into you, his hand coming to the back of your head, holding you close to him. You pushed your body into his trying to have you become one entirely, Jace was more than happy to appease you of this as he pulled you as close as he could. You were both grabbing at each other, feeling each other for the first time in a long time. Jace pulled away which made you switch from his lips to his neck, him letting out a low groan. You could feel him harden against your thigh as you continued, your hips pushing up into his. He threw his head back hitting the wall with a deep moan slipping from him. Jace’s hand came around to rest on your lower back.
A laugh sounded from behind the two of you at the end of the hallway. You pulled away from your husband and looked at the noise, your eyes were too bleary to understand what you were seeing. Jace pulled away from you looking at the new person in the interaction, his eyes widening. He swallowed before saying, “Daemon” he gave a slight nod towards the man who began walking down the hall towards you two. You rolled your eyes leaning into your husband, a pout painting your face. The older man smirked at the two of you while you glared back at him. You hated that white haired man and you were currently tipsy enough to do something about it. You whipped around ready to yell at the long haired man but unfortunately for you, your husband knows you too well. He put his hand over your mouth and pulled you back to his chest, you tried to fight him off to be able to yell at Daemon Targaryen. Jace held you tight ensuring you wouldn't start a fight tonight.
Jace began leading you to his chambers, wanting to have you just to himself for the rest of the night. You stumbled over your feet while wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him down to taste him again. The two of you find the wall to continue the lip locking session, your leg coming up to rest your calf on his hip pulling him in closer. Jace fought against himself to pull away from you wanting to get you into the room as fast as possible so that no one else would see you two in this state or for you to try and attack another person. Once he had the door closed behind him you practically climbed your husband who was more than happy to hold you. He led the two of you to the bed where he sat himself on the edge keeping you in his lap. You were rocking your hips into his while sucking on his tongue; Jace was amazed you've never been like this before, never wanted him this bad before. Jace was quick to strip the both of you of your day clothes having you bare as the day you were born. You were taking control, pushing Jace into the bed as you moved his cock between your legs. Jace was laid down only being propped up by his elbows as you rode him, your cunt squeezing the man tightly. He threw his head back in awe, moaning loudly. It's been so long since he felt you, been so long since he got to love you. While Jace loved his daughter and loved being married, a secret part of him knew this was his favorite part of it, his wife’s pretty cunt choking his cock as you took him how you wanted. Jace tried to move you off, wanting to last longer but you stopped him, holding both of his hands over his head while you kept rolling your hips. You were moving only for your pleasure, using your husband as if he was your personal whore, and he loved it. He gasped out making you look at his face but you didn’t slow the rate of your hips movements. He looked up at you saying, “w-wait my love, I’m gon-gonna spend.”
You let go of his hands but kept bent over him, your hands placed beside his head on the bed locking eyes with him you said, “I don’t care.” the tone of your voice awoke something in him, something he's never felt before. He moaned as you sped up, you leaned back so your hips were pressed towards his chest while leaning over his legs, his cock still inside. You moved the hair out of your face looking down at your husband and laughed at him, “maybe I do like dragon riding, my dragon is quite well behaved.” Jace felt his eyes roll back in his head at that, a groan that shook the walls of the room escaping him. His release painted your insides as you slowed yourself down studying your husband’s reactions. He seemed to have fallen asleep right after he came, his chest moving slightly so you knew he wasn't dead. You grabbed a cloth and cleaned yourself before cleaning him and joining him in bed, happy to have gotten rid of the ache between your legs.
—
You felt feather light kisses on your bare back, your face buried into the pillow frowning as you woke up. Jace kissed down your back to your rear, where he stayed for a minute kissing and sucking the fat of your ass. You groaned which made Jace look up at you smirking, “morning my love.”
You flipped over laying your back to the bed, your husband keeping his face below your waist. He planted kisses on your stomach, his eyes tracing your face as his lips went lower and lower. You watched him, your breath coming out in pants as he came closer and closer to your core. He pushed one of your thighs up, having your calf rest on his shoulder. His mouth took in your mound making you throw your head back in ecstasy. You gasped feeling him lick up the slick between your legs, your hand shooting to his hair to try and pull him away and stop this new feeling. Jace seemed to be spurred on by that and forced his face deeper into you groaning at the taste. You then tried to pull your body away but he held you against his mouth, his eyes closed in pleasure. You gasped out to him,
“w-wait Jace! Ah~! Oh-oh Gods! Don’t stop~!” you threw your head back, one hand still knotted in his curls while the other pushed against the headboard of the bed pushing yourself into your husband. Your hips were pushing up from the bed, twitching up into Jace as he sucked on your pearl, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. Your noises got shorter and shorter, Jace studying your face while keeping you as close as possible to him. Your toes curled as your head was thrown back a sound similar to a scream left your lungs as you reached your peak. It felt like the world stopped, every nerve on your body lighting up, body tensing and relaxing at the same time. You were shaking slightly as Jace pulled away, his face soaked. He was panting watching as you came down. He kissed back up your body,
“Avy jorrāelan, Ao nūmāssan iksā." You looked at him confused, you never learned Valyrian, you have no clue what he was saying to you. “What? I-I don’t know what you’re saying.” He chuckled, pulling his body up to be face to face, he pecked your lips before whispering, “I love you, You are mine.” You smiled at him before kissing him again. He rolled over so he wasn’t on top of you anymore, both of you panting while looking at the canopy above the bed.
Jace moved to stand up from the bed when the sight of something on your bedside table caught his attention. He sat with his legs off the bed when he pulled the metal container via its chain, holding it up so the ball was near his face. It stunk of oil and Frankincense, something that made Jace scowl. You propped yourself up, the blanket sitting around your hips as you looked at your husband with wide eyes. He turned back to you confused, “what is this, my wife?” You searched his eyes for a minute before stuttering out, “it-it’s a Pomander. The fake Daeron had it with him, he gave it to me. Wanted to help me remember Old Town.” Jace rubbed the chain in between his fingers, deep in thought about what you told him. He turned to look at you, the marks of the night you spent together covering your skin. He stood from the bed before moving to get dressed, coming to your side of the bed once he was dressed to kiss you, mumbling against your lips “I love you.”
His hand comes up to caress your face, his thumb rubbing your bottom lip. You sat up on your knees grabbing the front of his shirt to pull him down, “Husband, may I ask you for something?” He pushes forward kissing you before responding against your lips, “anything you want, my love.” you bit your bottom lip before asking him, “I would like to send a raven to my father. I want him to know about Aemma, that I am alive, that I am healthy and safe. Only those nothing else I promise.” He studied your face, his eyebrows furrowed before he kissed you again, standing up to his full height. He tilted your head up, having you look at him, “I’ll talk to my mother about it.” You let out a sigh before smiling up at him, smiling before climbing out of the bed to get dressed yourself. His eyes fell to your ass as you walked past him with him walking behind you. You slipped into a shift as Jace stepped out, your maids stepping in after he was gone coming to help dress you and discuss what happened the night before.
—
Rhaenyra had allowed you to send a letter to your father, it would be triple checked by a maester before it was allowed to be sent but you were still allowed to talk to him. It's been a year since you’d seen him, a year since you were the lady of Old Town. Aemma sat in your lap as you wrote, she was old enough to hold her head up now, you felt she was growing up too quickly which made Jace laugh considering the girl couldn’t walk, talk, or even use the bathroom alone. Still you didn’t like the idea of her doing anything without you, she was yours entirely another part of yourself that would soon begin walking away from you. Any chance to hold her you took wanting to make sure she was safe. You wrote to your father of her changes, of how she smiled all the time, how clingy she is, how her cries and laughs reminded you of the bells of Old Town. You told him that the labor went well and that the pregnancy was easy, you didn’t tell him about your encasement in the tower as you knew it would make him even more upset. You read over what you had written making sure none of it was suspicious, what the Targaryens didn’t know was that your father had taught you a way to put hidden messages on parchment. Aemma was nursing on your chest as you had a small dish on the table next to the ink, the dish you had put some of your breast milk in. Using the milk as ink you wrote to your father about how King’s Landing was reacting to the new Queen, how Alicent and her daughter and granddaughter were still in the Keep, how the Keep reacted to the fake Daeron, how a riff had begun to appear between Rhaenyra and Daemon. You watched as the milk dried, having the words disappear. You put down the quill letting out a heavy sigh before switching Aemma from one breast to the other.
You let the scroll dry as you nursed Aemma, you would need to deliver the scroll to the maester who would read it three times, then read it to the queen and king consort who would then decide if it was alright to send it. It was quite a lot to do for a girl sending her father a letter after a year of living with her husband. You had some flowers from the gardens in King’s Landing, one of them being a snapdragon, that you included in the letter as well as a prayer to the mother and the maiden. Just enough to keep it personalized, just enough to throw them off of what was really written. Aemma had finished eating, resting tiredly on your chest for you to burp and rock her. You slipped your breast back into the dress before grabbing a cloth to place over your shoulder in case Aemma spit up, you had it so that she was looking over your shoulder as you patted her back helping her expel any gas she had after eating. You removed the cloth before letting her lay her head down again, quickly falling asleep against your shoulder. Once she was asleep you began making your way down to the maester and the royals to have them read the letter you wrote for your father. A part of you hopes that with Aemma being there Rhaenyra would have a softer heart and allow you to send it.
When you entered the room the royals were deep in discussion about something. The maester turned towards you smiling at the sight of you and your young daughter joining the fray. You cleared your throat before attempting to curtsey while holding your daughter and the note. Rhaenyra smiled at you, welcoming you in and to take a seat at the table, something you were more than happy to do. You handed the letter to the maester before bringing your attention back to Aemma, rocking her slightly so she would stay asleep. You could feel Rhaenyra’s eyes on you, you felt your heart squeeze, she still hadn’t held Aemma as you’d been so worried of someone using your baby against you you forgot that Rhaenyra is her grandmother. You turn your eyes towards her with a smile asking, “would you like to hold her?” She looked at you in surprise before jumping up from her seat and coming beside you, admiring the sweet baby in your arms. You passed her over to Rhaenyra who practically melted looking at the brown haired baby. She whispered something in Valyrian, something you didn’t know, something you were worried would plant in your daughter. As you watched your husband’s mother the maester called attention back to him as he began to read the letter out loud. After he finished he looked up at the two royals to see their reaction, you following suit. Rhaenyra nodded saying the letter was fine to send while Daemon demanded to read it himself. He squinted at your pen strokes seemingly judging each swipe you had made. Rhaenyra sighed at her uncle-husband before saying, “it is fine Daemon, let the girl send the letter.” Daemon sucked his teeth before throwing the paper to the maester who began rolling it with the flowers and prayers all together to be put on a raven.
You officially became a player in this game now, even if the other players didn’t know. You would need to keep it hidden for as long as possible if you wanted to keep your head.
—
You and Jace were sharing a bedchamber again, happy to be close to each other. You had asked for Aemma to be moved into the room with the two of you not liking her being alone. Currently you three were sitting in front of the fireplace with Aemma being laid on her stomach. She was crawling around and was beginning to form words. You couldn’t be happier always whispering “mama, mama” to her so it would be her first word. Jace sat beside you watching as your face was illuminated via the fire, the smile on your face being the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. You were encouraging Aemma to crawl towards you, cooing at your daughter who was laughing back at you. It was a perfect night, until a cracking sound filled the room. You quickly gather Aemma as you look for the source of the sound. It was coming from the fireplace, the dragon egg that your husband had chosen when your daughter was born, the white egg began to move with the thing inside it trying to break free. You stood and took steps back, separating yourself and your daughter from the serpentine creature that would be here soon. Jace was the opposite as he stood to get closer, watching as the cracks got bigger and wider.
You watched as the egg shook violently, cracks forming on the surface. The light from the fire illuminates the swirls of blue on the white shell. You held Aemma close to your chest as the shell began breaking apart, the small creature cooing from the inside of the intact pieces. Jace was smiling at the little thing wanting nothing more than to help the baby out of its shell but knowing that the only way for the babe to survive was for it to free itself. Aemma was giggling in your arms, clapping watching the dragon stumble out of its egg. She truly was her father's daughter. The little dragon shook itself out as it was finally able to free itself of the egg. The dragon that stumbled out was barely larger than a kitten, its wings too big for it with them being dragged behind it. Its head was tiny, small enough to fit on one palm. It was entirely white with flecks of light blue scattered around. It had small horns matching the white of its body and its wing membranes matching the blue that scattered its scales. It was cute, definitely not as dangerous as you feared it would be. The little thing fought to hold itself up before slowly making its way towards you, Aemma reaching her hands out to the little thing. You squatted down keeping her in your arms but letting her get closer, letting the two of them get accustomed to each other for a moment. The dragon let out a purring sound as your daughter patted it, happy for the attention. You look back at Jace, him asking you, “what do we name it?”
You pouted for a second, deep in thought before saying, “we’re supposed to name it? I thought that was the rider's duty.” Jace chuckled saying “well she can’t speak yet so we will have to…it should match with Vermax in a way.”
“Zephyrax?”
He turned towards you confused before smiling, “I like that, where’d it come from?” You shrugged your shoulders before turning back to the hatchling. Jace nodded before kneeling down to be near the little dragon. Jace began training the creature, your daughter celebrating all the while. The horror of the future settling in your daughter had a dragon, she would learn to ride that dragon, she would become a target. Your sweet baby who couldn’t even talk yet would be considered a threat for an egg hatching near her. Your baby was now a target of this war, your baby’s life was in danger and you refused to let anyone hurt her.
—
Aemma had a bad habit of waking you up in the middle of the night, typically just to be held and rocked before falling asleep again. You had gotten so used to this routine that you still woke up at that time, half asleep moving towards the crib to check on her. You yawned as she shuffled over looking down at your sleeping babe. Your eyes widened seeing the reptile wrapped around your baby, a scream tearing through you. You pulled Aemma from the crib and held her against you. Jace quickly jumped from the bed, moving to defend you from whatever made you scream. Two guards rushed into the room as well, a maid holding a candle between them as both men had their swords loose. Aemma began crying from the ruckus making you even more worried as you quickly checked her body for any scratches or bite marks.
Jace walked closer to the crib before looking in, he deflated once he recognized what it was that scared you. Zephyrax. Your daughter’s new born dragon had scared you, he hoped your fear of dragons wasn’t returning with this. He rubbed his face with his hand before turning to the guards and maid telling them, “false alarm. My wife was just surprised by our daughter’s dragon.”
The men nodded before stepping out of the room again, the maid had set the candle down on the table near you as you continued to fret over your child. Jace returned to your side, his hand resting on your thigh as you shushed your baby who had started to calm down. Jace watched your face calling out to you, “my love? What’s wrong?” You bite your bottom lip, chewing on it for a second before looking away from your daughter towards your husband. “I don’t want that thing sleeping with her.” Jace nodded, too tired to want to argue. A knock came on the door, a guard calling out “my prince? The queen is here.” Jace sighed before standing to go speak with his mother, you taking Aemma to the bed with you laying her on a flat pillow so you could watch her all night.
“What happened?! I heard a scream, is everyone ok?”
His mother was pacing slightly as Jace came out, having him grab her by her biceps. He sighed his brain still sleep idled as he explained, “my wife was just surprised by Aemma’s egg hatching, the dragon was in the cradle with our babe making her even more worried.”
Rhaenyra sighed, rubbing her cheek before nodding. She placed her hand on Jace’s cheek and gave him a kiss on the forehead before making her way back towards her quarters. Jace came back into the room finding you asleep with Aemma laid beside you, Zephyrax whined from the cradle causing Jace to walk over to it. The baby dragon looked up at the man begging him for something, Jace reached down rubbing the dragon's head before making his way back to bed, back to you and your daughter.
—
Ormund was stalking the halls, anger radiating off of him. The letter from his daughter had arrived from King’s Landing, a declaration of you being alive. Ormund read the letter multiple times, tracing each pen stroke ensuring it was truly his daughter who wrote it. The letter was so plain after a year of captivity Ormund assumed you would have something more to say than how well you were. That was until one night he was reading it again by candle light, the fire making the hidden text visible to him. Ormund laughed loudly, praising his daughter as he read what she hid for him. His smart girl, always one step ahead. Daeron could hear his uncle’s laughter from across the Keep, filling him with fear for what’s to come. Ormund hurriedly began writing to both Prince Aemond and the Gwayne, telling them of the information you had shared hoping to change this war and the way it was heading.
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Summary: After the Battle of the Gullet, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should be dead, instead, he washes ashore on a mysterious island, where a lonely woman nurses him back to health. As the days pass, Jace finds himself falling in love with his beautiful savior.
CW: The relationship contains themes of coercion, emotional dependency, and captivity. SMUT
Genre: Dark Fantasy
AN: First Jace fic! Different from what i usually write, comments are appreciated!
WC: 26K
He should be dead.
The last thing he remembered with any coherence was the sky, a sky choked with smoke and screaming. Beneath that memory lay only fractured images that swam behind his closed eyelids, fragments of chaos that refused to assemble into anything whole.
Vermax.
The name pierced through the darkness like a blade. His dragon. His beautiful, loyal Vermax, who had hatched from an egg placed in his cradle when he was nothing more than a squalling babe with a tuft of dark hair that already marked him as different from his silver-haired mother. Vermax had shrieked as the grappling hooks tore into his wings, as the Triarchy ships surrounded them, as the sea rose up to swallow them both.
Jace’s chest seized, he remembered the impact. He remembered the bone-shattering crash as Vermax slammed into the churning waters of the Gullet, and he remembered the dragon’s terrified, agonized roar. That sound had carried more than pain. It had carried something that felt like betrayal, as if Vermax could not understand why the sky had abandoned them. The cold of the sea had been absolute, salt water flooding his mouth, his throat, his lungs.
He had surfaced somehow. He had gasped and choked and reached for something, a piece of wreckage or a shattered mast, though the memory refused to sharpen. The waves had tossed him like a child’s toy. Through the spray and the smoke, the first bolt had taken him in the shoulder. The second had buried itself in his side, just beneath the ribs. The third was a blank space in his memory, a sensation his mind had simply refused to record.
What remained was the feeling that followed. A slow, spreading numbness. The way his limbs had stopped obeying him. The way the sky had tilted and spun, grey and gold and red bleeding together like watercolors on parchment. His last conscious thought had not been of his mother, nor of his brothers, nor of duty or the Iron Throne or the war that was tearing the realm apart. It had been of Vermax.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
—
He woke to the glow of candlelight, the light came from dozens of candles, the air smelled of salt and something else, something green and living. Herbs, perhaps, or flowers. It was an earthy smell, a growing smell, utterly unlike the smoke and blood and terror that had filled his nostrils before the darkness took him.
Jace tried to move, and his body screamed in protest. Every muscle, every joint, every inch of skin felt like an open wound packed with burning coals. Pain lanced through his shoulder, his side, his ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, and even that small motion sent fire racing down his spine.
“You shouldn’t move.”
The voice was soft and female, carrying an accent he had never heard before. The vowels were rounder than he was used to, the cadence lilting and unfamiliar, Jace turned his head slowly, every vertebra in his neck protesting, and saw you.
You were kneeling beside the bed, on a cushion of deep blue silk, and you were looking at him with an expression of such open relief that Jace forgot, for a moment, how to breathe.
You were beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the powdered faces and elaborate hairstyles of court ladies. You wore no jewelry, no rings, no gems at your throat. Your dress, if it could even be called that, was unlike anything he had ever seen, layers of fabric in pale ivory and soft gold that had been draped rather than tailored. The cut left your arms bare, and the neckline was wide and flowing. It was clothing from a warmer world entirely, bearing no resemblance to the heavy velvets and structured bodices of Westeros.
“You’re awake,” you said, and your smile was like dawn breaking over still water. “I was beginning to fear you wouldn’t open your eyes again.”
Jace opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was a dry, rasping croak. His throat felt as though it had been scoured raw.
You reached for a clay cup beside you, glazed deep blue, and lifted it to his lips with a careful hand. “Drink. Slowly. You’ve been without water for a long time.”
The water was cool and impossibly clean. It slid down his throat like mercy. He drank until you pulled the cup gently away, your expression soft but firm.
“I said slowly. Your body has been through a great ordeal.” Jace sagged back against the furs, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Even drinking had exhausted him. He could feel the heat radiating from his own skin, a fever burning beneath the surface. “Where…” His voice was barely a whisper, cracked and ruined. “Where am I?”
You set the cup aside. “My home. I found you on the shore.”
He tried to form another question, but his thoughts were slipping away from him like water through fingers. The shore. The battle. The arrows.
“Your body was full of arrows,” you said quietly, as if you had followed the path of his scattered thoughts. “You looked dead. I do not know how you survived.” A pause. “But I am glad you did.”
Jace stared at you, his vision blurring and sharpening in turns. The candles made halos around your silhouette. The cave walls curved around you both like cupped hands. He lay in a bed of soft furs with clean linen bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder. The space around him was strange, a blend of cave stone and polished wood and silk cushions.
He tried to focus on you again, on your strange dress and your unfamiliar accent and the way you looked at him without the calculating gaze of a courtier. Your expression held only simple, unguarded relief.
“You…” he started, but the words crumbled before he could shape them. He was so tired. The heat in his blood was growing worse, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air of the cave.
“Shh.” You leaned closer and pressed a cool cloth to his brow. Your touch was impossibly gentle. “You have a fever. The arrows were laced with something, I think. A poison, or something like it. It will take time to burn it out.”
Jace’s eyes fluttered. The cool cloth was a mercy, and your hand was steady against his skin.
“Where is this island?” he managed, the question barely a whisper. “How far from the battle…”
You shook your head, a small and quiet movement. “This is my island. That is all that matters now. You are here, and you are safe.” Your hand brushed the dark, sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead. “You are my guest. I will take care of you.”
He should have questioned you. He should have demanded to know where he was, who you were, how any of this was possible. He was a prince, raised on suspicion, trained to trust no one. But the fever was burning through him, and you were so calm, so steady, and your hands were so gentle, and he was so gods-damned tired.
“Rest,” you murmured. “You are not strong enough to stay awake. But you will be. In time.”
Jace’s eyes closed against his will. The darkness pulled at him, soft and warm. The last thing he felt was the cool cloth on his forehead and the gentle weight of your hand smoothing his hair back from his face.
“Sleep, Jace,” you whispered.
—
The days blurred together like watercolors left in the rain, Jace measured time by the changing quality of light that filtered through the cave's entrance, a distant glow that brightened and dimmed in a rhythm he slowly came to recognize. Morning, afternoon, evening, night. The cycle repeated itself over and over. He could not see the sky from his bed, only the rough stone ceiling and the flickering candles and, whenever he turned his head, the soft silhouette of you moving through the chamber.
You were always there, that was the first thing he truly understood once the fever broke and his mind began to piece itself back together. You were always there. When he woke gasping from nightmares of Vermax screaming, the arrows striking, the water closing over his head, you were beside him with your cool hand on his forehead and your voice murmuring words he could not quite catch but that soothed him anyway. When the pain in his wounds flared hot and unbearable, you were there with the medicine, spooning bitter liquid past his cracked lips and following it with cool water to wash away the taste. When the fever spiked and he thrashed in the furs, soaked in sweat and half-delirious, you were there with cloths dipped in cold water, pressing them to his chest, his neck, his brow.
He did not know how you slept. He did not know when you ate. He only knew that every time he opened his eyes, you were somewhere nearby, kneeling beside his bed or mixing herbs at the stone table or simply sitting on your silk cushion with your hands folded in your lap, watching the candles burn.
“You don’t have to stay,” he rasped one night, though it might have been day for all he could tell the difference. His voice was still weak and still cracked, but it no longer hurt to speak. “You must have other things to do.”
You looked up from the bowl you were mixing, and your lips curved into that soft, patient smile he was beginning to recognize. “I have nothing more important than keeping you alive, Jace. That is a full-time occupation, it seems.”
He wanted to argue, but exhaustion pulled him back under before he could form the words, the fever broke on what might have been the fifth day, or the sixth, or the seventh. He had lost count.
He woke drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead and the furs kicked to the foot of the bed, but his head was clear. For the first time since he had opened his eyes in this cave, his thoughts were not swimming in a haze of heat and pain. He could feel the wounds in his shoulder and side, still tender and still healing, but they no longer burned with the sharp, insistent fire of infection.
He was alive. He was going to stay alive, and that meant he had to get back.
His mother. His brothers. The war. Every day he spent lying in this bed was another day the Blacks fought without him, another day his family believed him dead, another day the Greens advanced their stolen throne. He had to get stronger. He had to return to Westeros.
“Your thoughts are very loud.” Jace turned his head. You were sitting on your cushion beside the bed, a piece of fabric in your hands and a needle moving in small, precise stitches. He had no idea how long you had been there. He had not even noticed you.
“My thoughts?” he repeated, his voice hoarse but steadier than before.
“You are frowning at the ceiling as though it has offended you.” You did not look up from your sewing, but there was a hint of amusement in your voice. “I assume you are planning your escape.”
Jace blinked. “I was not planning an escape. I was only thinking about how to leave.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It is absolutely not the same thing.” Now you did look up, one eyebrow raised, and Jace felt his face warm. He had walked directly into that.
“You want to go back,” you said, and your voice was quieter now, the teasing edge softened into something more serious. “It is natural. You have people waiting for you. A family. A war, perhaps, judging by the state of you when I found you.” You returned your attention to your stitching. “I understand.”
He was quiet for a moment, watching your hands move. The fabric you were working on was pale blue, the stitches neat and even. You were making him more bandages, he realized.
“Yes,” he admitted finally. “I have to go back. My family needs me. They probably think I am dead.”
“Then we will work to make you strong enough to leave.” You bit off the thread with your teeth, smooth and practiced. “But you cannot rush it. The wounds are healing well, but if you push too hard, too fast, you will undo all my hard work. And I have worked very hard, Jace.”
There was something almost stern in your tone, and despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “I would not dream of undoing your hard work.”
“Good.” You set the sewing aside and rose to your feet, your gossamer skirts rustling softly against the stone floor. “You have been lying in that bed for days. I think it is time you tried to sit up properly. Do you think you can manage it?”
Jace took a breath. His shoulder throbbed. His side ached. But the fever was gone, and his head was clear, and he was so gods-damned tired of lying flat on his back.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I can.” It was harder than he had expected.
His muscles had atrophied during the days of fever and stillness. His arms shook when he pushed himself up, and the wound in his side pulled sharply, and by the time he was sitting upright against the carved headboard, he was breathing hard and sweating again. But he was sitting. He was upright. He was looking at the cave from a new angle, and it was strange and wonderful and disorienting all at once.
“There,” you said, and you were smiling now, truly smiling, something brighter than the gentle curve of lips he had grown used to. “That was not so terrible, was it?”
“Terrible,” Jace managed, still catching his breath. “Absolutely terrible.”
“But you did it.”
He looked at you, at the way the candlelight caught the strange color of your eyes, and he found himself almost smiling back. “I did it.”
—
The days that followed fell into a pattern, you would help him sit up in the mornings, propping him against the headboard with pillows and furs. You would change his bandages, your fingers quick and efficient, your touch never lingering longer than necessary but never cold or impersonal either. You would bring him food, strange fruits he had never tasted before, sweet and tangy, and a porridge made from some grain he did not recognize, and fresh water that tasted cleaner than anything he had ever drunk in his life.
And you would talk about small things, the weather on the island, the herbs you used in your medicines, the fish you caught in the tidal pools below the cliffs. You had a dry, quiet sense of humor that surprised him, and a way of tilting your head when you were thinking that he found himself watching for.
In return, he told you things about himself. He was still a prince, still trained in caution, and so he held back the details that mattered most. But he told you about Dragonstone, about the volcanic rock and the sea winds and the dragons that wheeled in the sky. He told you about his brothers, careful to speak of them in the present tense even though Luke was-even though Luke had become something he could not yet say aloud.
He told you other things instead. That he missed the sea. That he had never been good at dancing. That his mother had taught him to read when he was four years old, and he had been so proud that he had carried the book around for a week straight, showing it to anyone who would look.
You laughed at that, a real laugh, bright and surprised, as if you had not expected him to say something so ordinary. “A week?”
“I was very proud of myself.”
“I can imagine. A little prince with his book, demanding that everyone admire his genius.”
“I did not demand. I simply made strong suggestions.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It is absolutely not the same thing, and I will not have my diplomatic skills insulted.”
You laughed again, and Jace realized with a jolt of surprise that he liked making you laugh. It was a good sound, your laugh, unstudied and unguarded, the sound of someone who spent too much time alone and had forgotten to be self-conscious about joy.
You were his only companion. His caretaker. His only visitor.
He had not seen another person even once in all the days he had been lying in this bed. No one came to the cave. No one called your name from outside. No one brought supplies or messages or news. It was only you, always you, appearing and disappearing through the winding passages of the cave system with the quiet confidence of someone who knew every stone by heart.
He had not asked about other people. It felt rude, somehow, when you were taking care of him and feeding him and changing his bandages and sitting beside him through the long, fevered nights. To ask about the absence of others would have sounded like an accusation, as though your company were insufficient, as though he had grown bored of you.
So he did not ask, but the question sat in the back of his mind, growing heavier with each passing day.
—
The day he walked for the first time was the day everything began to shift.
It was morning, the pale silver light filtering through the distant cave entrance, and you had just finished changing his bandages. The wounds were healing well, the flesh knitting together into angry red scars that would fade to white in time. You told him he would have a collection of them, a constellation across his shoulder and ribs. He said he would wear them with pride. You called him ridiculous.
“Today,” you announced, rising to your feet and brushing off your skirts, “you are going to walk.”
Jace looked up at you. “Walk.”
“Yes. Walk. Put one foot in front of the other. I assume you knew how to do it before you arrived here.”
“I knew how to walk.”
“Then today you will remember.”
It was harder than sitting up. It was harder than anything he had done since waking in this cave. His legs felt as though they belonged to someone else, weak and unsteady, the muscles wasted from days of lying still. You had to help him, your arm around his back and his arm across your shoulders, bearing some of his weight even though he tried very hard not to let you. You were smaller than him and slighter, and he was terrified of crushing you.
“You will not crush me,” you said, as if reading his thoughts. “I am stronger than I look. Stop trying to hold yourself up with pride alone and lean on me.”
He leaned on you, by the time he had taken five steps across the chamber, his legs were shaking and sweat was dripping down his face. But he had walked. Five steps. Then ten. Then, a few days later, he crossed the entire chamber without help, his hand braced against the wall and his breath coming hard and fast.
And the day after that, you smiled at him and said, “I think it is time you saw the sun.”
The cave system was a maze, Jace knew, that your home was larger than the single chamber where he had been lying. He had seen you disappear down passages and emerge from different directions, had caught glimpses of other rooms, a kitchen carved into the rock, a storage chamber lined with jars and barrels, a space where water trickled down the wall into a natural basin. But he had not grasped the full scale of it until you led him through it yourself.
The passages twisted and turned, branching off into side tunnels and dead ends. Some were narrow, barely wide enough for a single person to squeeze through. Others opened into wide chambers with high ceilings, lit by candles placed in alcoves and by thin shafts of daylight that pierced down through cracks in the rock. The walls were rough in some places and smooth in others, worn down by time and water and the patient labor of whoever had carved this place.
“Did you build all this?” Jace asked, his voice echoing strangely in the stone corridors. He was walking slowly, one hand on the wall for balance, but he was walking.
You glanced back at him. “The caves were here long before me. I only furnished them.”
“You furnished them very well,” he muttered, stepping around a carved wooden chest that would not have looked out of place in a merchant’s manse.
“I had time.”
That was all you said, as if it explained everything. As if it explained anything at all.
The light grew brighter as you walked, the grey-silver of filtered daylight giving way to a warm golden glow. Jace could smell the outside now, salt air and flowers and something green and growing. His heart beat faster. He had been underground for so long that he had almost forgotten what the sky looked like.
Then you stepped through the cave entrance, and he followed you, and the world opened up around him.
It was beautiful, there was no other word for it, no word that could possibly capture what Jace saw as he stood at the mouth of the cave, blinking in the sudden brightness, his eyes struggling to adjust after so many days of candlelight and shadow.
The island spread out before him like something from a dream, the cliffs where the cave was carved dropped down to a shoreline of white sand that gleamed in the morning sun. Beyond the beach, the water was the most extraordinary shade of blue he had ever seen, turquoise at the shore, deepening to sapphire further out, clear and calm and glittering with reflected light. The sky was vast and cloudless, a pale, soft blue that seemed to go on forever.
But it was the island itself that stole his breath, flowers grew everywhere, wild, sprawling, abundant blooms that cascaded down the cliffs and carpeted the meadows in explosions of color. He saw flowers in shades he had never encountered before, deep violet, vivid orange, a blue so pale it was almost silver. Trees heavy with fruit he did not recognize bent over natural pathways, their branches laden with something golden and round, something dark and pear-shaped, something that resembled a pomegranate but was the color of honey.
The air was warm and sweet, thick with the scent of blossoms and salt and damp earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance, strange, melodic calls that were not quite like any birdsong he knew. A waterfall tumbled down the cliff face to his left, a thin silver ribbon that caught the light and threw rainbows into the air.
Jace stood there, swaying slightly on his still-weak legs, and he could not speak.
“I know,” you said quietly, standing beside him. “It is a great deal, after so long underground.”
“I have never seen anything like this.”
“It is home.” Your voice was matter of fact, but there was something softer underneath it, something almost sad. “Come. There is a place to sit not far from here. You should not stand for too long yet.”
He let you lead him to a flat outcropping of rock cushioned with moss and ferns, and he sat down heavily, still staring out at the impossible landscape. The flowers swayed in the breeze. The waterfall sang its endless song. The sea glittered and danced.
And there was no one here, the realization crept up on him slowly, settling over his shoulders like a cold cloak. He looked out at the island, the meadows, the fruit trees, the white sand beach, the cliffs, and he saw no houses and no fishing boats pulled up on the shore. He saw no paths worn by the tread of many feet and no smoke rising from chimneys. He heard no voices calling in the distance. He saw no sign of human life at all.
Only the flowers. The birds. The waterfall. The sea.
And you.
—
He did not say anything at first, you helped him walk a little further each day, down to the edge of the meadow where the strange golden fruit grew on low, sprawling trees, up to a ridge that overlooked the eastern shore where the water was even bluer and the sky even wider. You showed him the tidal pools, teeming with tiny creatures he had never seen, brightly colored shells that moved on dozens of legs, star-shaped animals that clung to the rocks, fish that darted and flashed like living jewels.
And everywhere you went, you were the only person, he saw no footprints but yours, he saw no structures but the cave. The only signs of cultivation were a small vegetable garden tucked into a sheltered hollow behind the cliffs, neat rows of plants he recognized, mostly herbs and some kind of root vegetable, and further back, half-hidden by a grove of flowering trees, a low stone wall enclosing a patch of churned earth.
He heard the pigs before he saw them, a grunting, snuffling chorus rose and fell, punctuated by the occasional indignant squeal. Jace followed the sound, moving carefully along a narrow path between two rock formations, and emerged into a clearing where at least two dozen pigs were milling about in a large stone enclosure. They were fat and healthy, their coats glossy, their ears flopping. Piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt while larger sows dozed in the shade of the trees.
And you were in the middle of them, you were scattering something from a woven basket, scraps of fruit rinds and vegetable peels and some kind of grain, and the pigs crowded around you like old friends. You were speaking to them in a low, affectionate murmur, and your hands moved among them with the ease of long familiarity.
You looked up and saw him standing at the edge of the enclosure. Your expression shifted, just slightly. Something guarded, something wary, flickered behind your eyes before you smoothed it away.
“You found my pigs,” you said, Jace leaned against the stone wall, catching his breath. The walk had been longer than he had realized, and his side was aching. “You have a lot of pigs.”
“They keep me company.” You tossed another handful of scraps into the enclosure, and a particularly large sow shouldered her way forward to claim it. “And they are useful. The meat, the fat, the leather. Nothing goes to waste.”
He watched you for a moment. The pigs jostled around your legs, grunting and snuffling, and you moved among them without the slightest hesitation, like a shepherdess, like someone who had been doing this for years.
“Where are the other people?” he asked.
Your hands stilled on the basket. You did not look up.
“What other people?”
“The villagers. The farmers. Whoever else lives here.” Jace gestured vaguely at the enclosure, at the pigs, at the island beyond. “You said this was your island. But someone has to help you with all of this.”
He trailed off. You were looking at him now, and your expression was strange, as though you had been expecting this question and dreading it in equal measure.
“There are no other people, Jace,” you said quietly.
He stared at you. “What do you mean, there are no other people?”
“I mean it is only me.” You set the basket down on the stone wall. Your hands, now empty, folded together in front of you. “There is no village. There are no farmers. There are no fishermen or shepherds or traders. There is only me, and the pigs, and the birds, and the fish in the sea. That is all.”
The words refused to make sense. Jace shook his head, a short, sharp movement. “That cannot be right. You cannot live here alone. How do you survive? How do you get supplies? There has to be someone else, a trader who comes by ship, a neighboring island, something.”
“There is no one else.” Your voice was calm and steady, but there was something raw underneath it now. “No ships come here. No traders. No neighbors. The island is hidden. It does not appear on any map. No one knows it exists.”
“That is impossible.”
“It is simply true.”
Jace pushed himself off the stone wall, ignoring the protest of his healing wounds. His heart was beating too fast. His thoughts were spinning. “How did you get here, then? How do you live? You cannot simply be alone on an island forever.”
“I did not say I chose it.”
The words stopped him cold, you were still standing in the middle of the pig enclosure, surrounded by grunting, oblivious animals. Your strange dress fluttered in the breeze, the pale fabric catching the sunlight. Your face was composed, but your eyes were dark with something old and heavy and carefully buried.
“My brother sent me here,” you said. “As punishment.”
Jace opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Punishment for what?”
“For disobeying him.” Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings. “I did something he could not forgive. And instead of killing me, he sent me here. He had the means to do it, the ships, the men, the knowledge of this place. He left me with supplies and seeds and animals and told me I would never leave.”
“You have been here ever since,” Jace said slowly.
“I have been here ever since.”
“How long?”
You looked away, out over the blue water, and for a moment you were utterly still. “A long time.”
Jace’s mind was racing, scrambling to fit the pieces together. A brother with enough power to exile someone to a hidden island. Ships and men and the means to keep the place secret. A lord powerful enough to make his sister disappear without anyone asking questions.
“Who is your brother?” he asked.
Your jaw tightened. “A lord. That is all you need to know.”
“A lord of what? Where? What house?”
“It does not matter.” Your voice sharpened, just slightly, the first hint of steel he had ever heard from you. “What matters is that he is powerful enough to do this. Powerful enough that if I try to leave, if I find a way off this island and set foot on the mainland, I will be found and I will be brought back, and the consequences will be worse than exile.”
Jace stared at you, you were alone. Completely, utterly alone. You had been alone for what might have been months or years or decades. You had built a life in a cave, furnished it with silk and polished wood, grown a garden and raised pigs and taught yourself to heal. And no one had come for you. No one had visited. No one had even known you were here.
Until a dying dragon prince washed up on your shore.
“I am sorry,” he said, and the words felt pathetically inadequate. “I did not know.”
“How could you have known?” You picked up the basket again, your movements brisk and practical, as if you were eager to change the subject. “You were unconscious when you arrived. It is not as if I introduced myself and gave you a tour. Welcome to my prison, please enjoy the flowers.”
“It is not a prison.” You looked at him, and your smile was tired and sad and strangely kind. “It is a very beautiful prison. But it is a prison nonetheless.” You turned and walked away, the basket tucked under your arm, the pigs trailing after you like a strange, grunting entourage. Jace watched you go, your bare shoulders and your flowing dress and the way you moved through the meadow as if you had memorized every inch of it.
And he understood, suddenly, why you had never hesitated to save him. Why you had sat beside his bed for days on end. Why you had laughed at his stupid jokes and argued with him about the proper way to brew medicinal tea.
You were lonely.
Jace stood at the edge of the pig enclosure, the sun warm on his face and the sea glittering in the distance, and he thought about his mother and his brothers and the war and the throne.
He had to go back. He had to, but as he watched you disappear into the grove of flowering trees, your figure growing smaller and smaller against the impossible beauty of the island, he realized that leaving might be harder than he had thought.
—
In the days following your revelation—it is just me, there is no one else—Jace threw himself into the work of recovery with a ferocity that surprised even him. He woke early, before the light through the cave entrance had shifted from silver to gold, and he pushed his body harder than was probably wise. He walked the island's paths until his legs stopped shaking. He climbed the low cliffs until his arms stopped burning. He ate everything you put in front of him, slept when you told him to sleep, and bit back every complaint when you made him drink your bitter medicines.
"Someone is motivated," you remarked one morning, watching him pace the length of the chamber. He had been doing laps—back and forth, back and forth—testing the strength of his newly healed legs. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to pink, then to white, and the pain was a distant memory now, only flaring when he moved too quickly or twisted the wrong way.
"I have to get home," he said, not breaking stride. "My mother needs me. My brothers need me. Every day I spend here is another day they think I'm dead."
You nodded, your expression unreadable. "Then we had better build you a boat."
The boat took shape slowly, you showed him a grove of trees on the eastern side of the island, tall and straight, their wood pale and close-grained, ideal for shipbuilding. You had an axe, kept sharp and well-oiled in one of the storage chambers, and you handed it to him without ceremony.
"I will help where I can," you said, "but I am not a shipwright. You will have to figure out most of it yourself."
Jace had never built a boat before. He had sailed on dozens of them but knowing how to sail and knowing how to build were two very different things. He felled the first tree through trial and error, the axe handle blistering his palms, the sweat dripping into his eyes. By the time the trunk crashed to the ground, he was exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure.
"Not bad," you said from where you sat on a nearby rock, a pile of mending in your lap. You had been watching him work for the better part of an hour, offering no advice but plenty of company. "For a prince who has never done a day's labor in his life."
"I've done labor."
"Name one example."
He opened his mouth and swung the axe into the fallen trunk with more force than necessary. "I trained with swords. That's labor."
"Swords are not labor. Swords are play for princes."
"Then what do you call this?" He gestured at the tree, the axe, his blistered hands.
You smiled, that slow, warm smile that was becoming as familiar to him as the sunrise. "I call it a good start."
The days passed, Jace shaped the wood as best he could, stripping branches and hewing planks with tools you provided from the depths of the cave. Some of them were strange—shaped for hands slightly different from his own, their handles worn smooth by use that was not his. He didn't ask where they came from. He was learning that there were questions you would answer and questions you would not, and the line between them was invisible until he crossed it.
But you were always there, always nearby.
He had grown accustomed to the rhythm of your presence, the rustle of your strange, flowing dresses, the soft pad of your bare feet on stone, the quiet humming you did when you worked. You brought him water when the sun grew hot. You checked his scars every evening, your fingers against his skin, pronouncing him healed and healing well. You sat with him while he ate, and you talked about nothing and everything, and your laugh was the brightest sound on an island full of bright sounds.
"I should be further along by now," he said one evening, staring at the skeleton of the boat with frustration. The hull was taking shape, but slowly—too slowly. At this rate, it would be months before it was seaworthy.
"You are one person building a boat by hand," you pointed out. You were sitting cross-legged on a flat rock, sorting through a basket of herbs. The setting sun caught the planes of your face, the curve of your bare shoulders, the way your dress draped across your lap in soft folds. "I think you are allowed to take your time."
"I don't have time." He ran a hand through his hair—longer now, curling past his ears, in desperate need of a trim. "My mother—she needs me. The war—"
He stopped.
The war.
What war?
The thought slipped through his mind like water through fingers, there and gone before he could catch it. There was a war. Of course there was a war. He was fighting in it. Or he had been fighting in it. That was why he had been in the Gullet, why Vermax had—
Vermax.
His chest tightened. He remembered the dragon's scream. He remembered the water closing over his head. He remembered the arrows.
But what was the war about?
"The war," he repeated, more quietly now. "I have to get back to the war."
You looked up from your herbs, and your expression was gentle. Unreadable. "You will. When the boat is ready, you will."
"Right." He nodded, the motion jerky. "Right. The boat."
He picked up the axe and got back to work.
—
One afternoon you were down by the shore, sitting in the shade of a flowering tree while Jace worked on the boat's hull. "Brothers," he said, sanding down a rough edge of wood. "Three of them. Well—two full brothers. Two half-brothers. That's four. No, wait." He frowned. "Joffrey and... and the little ones. Aegon and..."
He stopped, the name wouldn't come.
"Viserys," you said quietly.
"Viserys. Right. Viserys." He shook his head, laughing at himself. "I don't know why I couldn't remember that. He's the youngest. Named after my grandfather."
You said nothing. You only watched him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and your fingers were very still on the mending in your lap.
"And Luke," Jace continued, the name coming easier now. "Lucerys. He's the second one. He's..."
Dead.
The word surfaced from somewhere deep, cold and sharp as a blade. But it didn't hurt the way it should have. It was distant. Muffled. Like a scream heard through a closed door.
"He's what?" you asked.
Jace blinked. "He's... he's at Dragonstone. With our mother. Waiting for me to come home."
You nodded slowly. "I am sure he misses you."
"He probably thinks I'm dead." Jace turned back to the boat, running his hand along the smooth wood. "I have to get back soon. Before he does something stupid. He's always doing stupid things, Luke. He's impulsive. Reckless. He doesn't think before he acts."
Luke is dead. Luke was torn apart by Vhagar above Storm's End. You weren't there. You didn't protect him.
But the voice was fading. Growing quieter. Harder to hear over the sound of the waves and the breeze and your soft, steady breathing.
—
The boat took longer than it should have, some days Jace worked on it from sunrise to sunset, his hands raw and calloused, his back aching, his mind fixed on the singular goal of getting home. But other days—more and more days, as the weeks wore on—he found himself... distracted.
The waterfall, for one thing.
It tumbled down the cliff face on the western side of the island, a silver ribbon that caught the sunlight and scattered it into rainbows. The pool at its base was deep and clear and shockingly cold, fed by some underground spring that kept it cool even in the heat of the afternoon. Jace had discovered it on one of his exploratory walks, and he had been drawn back to it again and again.
You came with him sometimes. You would sit on the rocks at the edge of the pool, your feet dangling in the water, your dress hiked up to your knees. You would tilt your face toward the sun and close your eyes, and Jace would find himself watching you instead of the waterfall.
"Are you going to swim or are you going to stare?" you asked one day, not opening your eyes.
"I wasn't staring."
"You were staring."
"I was... appreciating the scenery."
You opened one eye. "The scenery."
"The waterfall," he said, gesturing vaguely. "It's very nice."
You laughed—that bright, unguarded laugh that he had come to love—and he felt something warm bloom in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with the sun.
"Come on, then," you said, and before he could react, you slid off the rock and into the water with a splash that sent droplets arcing through the air like diamonds.
Jace stared at you. You surfaced a moment later, your hair plastered to your head, your dress clinging to your skin, the wet fabric rendered nearly transparent. The water lapped at your collarbones, and you were laughing again, and you looked—
You looked beautiful.
He had known you were beautiful from the moment he opened his eyes in the candlelit cave. But there was something different about you now. Something that had shifted, the curves of your face seemed softer. The color of your eyes seemed deeper. The way you moved—the way you laughed—the way you looked at him—it all seemed more vivid. More precious.
"Are you coming in or not?" you called, treading water in the center of the pool.
Jace pulled his shirt over his head and dove in after you, the water was cold and clean and wonderful. They splashed each other like children, chasing each other around the pool, ducking under the waterfall and emerging gasping and laughing. Jace couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like this—freely, openly, without the weight of duty pressing down on his shoulders.
Your dress clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric outlining every curve of your body. Jace tried very hard not to notice. He failed. "You're staring again," you said, but your voice was different now. Quieter. Almost shy.
"Sorry." He wasn't sorry.
—
"I was betrothed," he said one evening.
You were sitting on the rocks overlooking the western sea, watching the sun sink toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and pink. Jace sat beside you, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your arm near his. The boat sat half-finished on the beach below, forgotten for the day.
"Was?" you asked.
"Am. I am betrothed." He frowned. "I think. We were supposed to marry before... before I left."
"Before the battle."
"Before the battle, yes." He stared out at the sunset, trying to conjure her face. His betrothed. She was a Targaryen, he was sure of that. Silver hair. Purple eyes. A dragon. But her name—her name wouldn't come. "She's my cousin, I think. Or my step-sister. Both, actually. It's complicated."
"What is her name?"
Jace opened his mouth. The name wasn't there.
"I can't remember," he said, and the admission felt strange. Not frightening—it should have been frightening—but strange. Like discovering a pocket in a familiar coat that he had never noticed before. "I know her face. She's... she's fierce. Brave. She has a dragon. A small one, I think. Or maybe it's large. I can't..."
He trailed off.
You were quiet for a moment. Then, very softly: "Do you love her?"
"Love?" He considered the question. "I don't know. She's family. She's duty. She's... she's what I'm supposed to do, but i care for her, a lot."
"That is not the same as love."
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
He didn't say anything else. Neither did you. But your arm was warm against his, and the sunset was beautiful, and when he finally walked you back to the cave, his hand found the small of your back without thinking, and you leaned into the touch instead of pulling away.
—
He forgot about the betrothed entirely by morning.
—
The days grew warmer. Or perhaps they didn't—perhaps it was only that Jace had stopped paying attention to the passage of time. The boat sat on the beach, half-finished, and he told himself he would work on it tomorrow. Tomorrow came and went, and he spent it with you instead—walking the island paths, gathering fruit from the strange golden trees, sitting by the waterfall and talking about nothing.
What are you doing? a voice whispered in the back of his mind. You have to go home. Your mother needs you.
But what did his mother need him for? There was something—something important—something about a throne, a war, a betrayal. But the details were foggy now, blurred like ink left out in the rain.
He remembered her face. Her silver hair. Her voice saying his name, but the rest was slipping away, piece by piece, day by day, and the more he forgot, the more he noticed you.
The way you moved through the meadow, your skirts brushing the wildflowers. The way you hummed when you cooked, some melody he had never heard before but that felt familiar anyway. The way you looked at him sometimes, quick glances from beneath your lashes, as if you were checking to make sure he was still there. Still real. Still alive.
The way your hand felt in his when he helped you over a rocky patch of ground.
The way your laugh echoed off the cliffs and came back to them multiplied, a chorus of joy.
The way your eyes caught the light of the setting sun and held it, like they were made of something more than flesh.
He loved you.
He loved the sound of your voice and the curve of your smile and the gentle patience with which you had nursed him back from the edge of death. He loved your dry humor and your quiet strength and the way you never pressed him for answers he didn't have. He loved the life you had built here, alone on an island that should not exist, and he loved that you had let him into it.
He loved you.
And the more he loved you, the less he remembered.
—
The morning was hot and still, Jace had woken early, as he always did now, but instead of reaching for the axe or walking down to the beach where the half-finished boat sat waiting, he had gone straight to the waterfall.
The pool was cool and clear, fed by the endless rush of water that tumbled down the cliff face in a silver curtain. He shed his clothes on the rocks, just the loose linen breeches you had sewn for him from fabric found somewhere in the depths of the cave, and dove in without hesitation. The cold shock of the water stole his breath and cleared his head, chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep.
He floated on his back, staring up at the pale blue sky, watching the birds wheel overhead. His dark hair fanned out in the water around him. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to thin white lines, barely visible now. He was stronger than he had ever been, his muscles hardened by weeks of manual labor, his skin tanned golden by the sun.
He should have been thinking about the boat, about going home, about his mother and his brothers and the war.
He was thinking about you. Your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes caught the light. The way your hand felt in his. The way you looked at him sometimes, soft and searching, with something unspoken hovering just behind your lips. He had kissed you before, small kisses, brief and chaste, a press of his lips to your forehead when you fell asleep beside him, a brush of his mouth against your knuckles when you handed him a cup of water. But he had not kissed you properly. He had not kissed you the way he wanted to, the way he had been imagining for weeks, the way that left no doubt about what he felt.
He was thinking about that when he heard your footsteps on the rocks above. "You started without me."
Jace turned in the water, treading easily, and looked up at you. You were standing at the edge of the pool, barefoot on the smooth stone, wearing your dress of pale purple gossamer that drifted around your ankles in the faint breeze. The sun caught the planes of your face and the curve of your neck and the dip of your collarbones, and the sight of you struck him silent for a moment.
"Someone has to," he called back, forcing his voice into something approaching normal. "You sleep too late."
"I was gathering herbs. Some of us have work to do."
"Swimming is work. It builds character."
You laughed, that bright, warm sound that he had come to treasure more than anything else on this island. "Is that what you are doing? Building character?"
"Come in and find out."
You hesitated for just a moment. Your eyes met his across the water, and something flickered in your expression, something tentative and questioning, as if you were making a decision and waiting to see if he would notice.
Then you reached up and untied the clasps at your shoulders.
The dress fell and Jace stopped breathing.
You stood above him in nothing but the sunlight, bare to the sky and the water and his gaze. The curves of your body were soft and smooth, your skin glowing in the morning light. Your breasts were full and round and tight in the open air. Your waist dipped inward in a graceful curve before flaring out to the swell of your hips.
You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"Are you coming in or not?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.
You smiled, then you dove into the water in one clean, graceful arc, slicing through the surface with barely a splash.
You surfaced inches from him, the water lapped at your collarbones, but beneath the surface he could see the pale shape of your body, distorted by the ripples, impossibly close. Droplets clung to your lashes. Your hair floated around you like ink spilled in water. Your lips were parted and slightly wet, and you were looking at him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and Jace forgot how to think.
"The water is nice," you said, and your voice was teasing and light, but there was a tremor underneath it.
"Nice," he repeated. He could not stop staring at your mouth.
"Very refreshing."
"I had not noticed."
"No?"
"No."
His hand found your waist beneath the water. Your skin was cool and slick and impossibly soft. You did not pull away. You drifted closer, your bare legs brushing against his, and the contact sent a jolt through him like lightning striking water. He could feel the heat of your core through the cool water, a promise of the warmth waiting for him, and his cock stirred against the confines of his breeches.
"Jace," you whispered.
That was all. Just his name, but the way you said it, breathless and aching and full of want, broke something open inside him.
He kissed you, his mouth strong against yours. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand came up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. You made a small, desperate sound against his lips and kissed him back just as fiercely, your arms winding around his neck, your bare breasts pressing against the hard plane of his chest.
You were bare beneath his hands, there was nothing between his palms and your skin but water. He could feel every curve of you against the hard muscle of his own. His thumbs traced the ridges of your middle, and you shivered, and he swallowed the sound you made. His hands slid lower, cupping the full curve of your arse, kneading the firm flesh, pulling your hips against his so you could feel the rigid length of him pressing against your belly through the wet linen of his breeches.
"Jace," you gasped against his mouth. "Jace, I—"
"Tell me to stop." His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "Tell me to stop and I will stop."
"Do not stop." Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting into his sun-warmed skin. "Please do not stop."
He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened for him with a shuddering breath. The taste of you, sweet and clean and faintly herbal from the medicines you were always brewing, flooded his senses. He explored your mouth thoroughly, learning the texture of your tongue, the ridge of your teeth, the softness of your inner cheeks. You moaned into his mouth and sucked on his tongue, and the sensation went straight to his groin. He could feel your heart pounding against his chest, or perhaps that was his own heart, hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.
Your legs wrapped around his waist beneath the water. The movement was instinctive and natural, and it brought your hips flush against his, the heat of your sex pressing against the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches. He groaned against your mouth, low and rough, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. You were so warm. Even in the cool water, the core of you radiated a heat that he could feel through the fabric separating them.
He walked you backward through the pool, still kissing you, still holding you, until your back met the smooth stone of the cliff wall. The waterfall rushed beside them, a curtain of silver sound. He kissed the hollow of your throat, feeling your pulse flutter against his lips. He traced the delicate line of your collarbone with his tongue, tasting the clean, mineral tang of the spring water on your skin. He let his mouth drift lower, over the swell of your breast, and when his lips closed around one tight, pebbled nipple, you gasped and arched against him, your fingers fisting in his hair.
He lavished attention on your breasts, suckling first one and then the other, his tongue circling the tight buds, his teeth grazing them with just enough pressure to make you moan. Your breasts were perfect in his hands, full and soft, fitting his palms as though they had been made for him. He kneaded them gently, thumbs brushing over the wet peaks, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your head had fallen back against the stone, your lips parted, your eyes squeezed shut. The sight of you like this, bare and wanting and completely surrendered to his mouth, made his cock throb painfully against his breeches.
"I have wanted this," he breathed against your skin, his voice ragged. "Gods, I have wanted this for so long."
"Then do not wait any longer."
He lifted his head and looked at you. Your eyes were dark with want, your lips swollen from his kisses, your chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. The water lapped at your breasts, revealing and hiding, and he could feel every inch of you pressed against him, every curve, every soft place, every point of contact where your body met his.
"Are you sure?" he asked. He needed to hear it. He needed to know.
In answer, you cupped his face in your hands and pulled him down to you. "I have never been more sure of anything in my life."
He kissed you again, soft and sweet this time, a promise and a question all at once. Then his hand slid down your body beneath the water, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your legs tightened around his waist, and he felt you tremble against him. His fingers found the heat of you, warm and slick even in the cool water, and he traced the folds of your sex with a feather-light touch. You gasped and bucked against his hand. He explored you slowly, learning the shape of you, the soft outer lips, the slick inner petals, the hard pearl of your pleasure at the apex. When he circled that sensitive nub with his thumb, you cried out, a sound half-lost in the rush of the waterfall. He swallowed it with his mouth, kissing you through it, his touch gentle and searching and patient. He slid one finger inside you, feeling the tight, wet heat of your body grip him, and you moaned against his lips. He added a second finger, stretching you gently, his thumb still circling your sensitive peak, and you writhed against his hand, your inner walls clenching around his fingers.
"Please," you whispered, the word broken and beautiful. "Please, Jace. I need you inside me."
He withdrew his fingers, and you made a small sound of protest that he silenced with a kiss. He reached down and freed himself from his breeches, his cock springing out, hard and thick and aching. The head was dark with need, a bead of moisture already forming at the tip. You glanced down through the clear water and your eyes widened at the sight of him, long and rigid, curving slightly upward toward his belly.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured, positioning himself at your entrance. He rubbed the head of his cock against your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing you both with the promise of what was to come. "I want to watch your face when I enter you. I want to see what I do to you."
Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back. "Then do it. I want to feel you."
He pushed into you slowly, so slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The water made everything liquid and easy, but he wanted to savor this, the way your eyes fluttered closed, the way your mouth fell open, the way your body welcomed him. You were so tight and so warm and so perfect around him. He could feel every ridge and fold of your inner walls as they gripped him and fluttered and stretched to accommodate his size. Your heat enveloped him, searing even through the cool water, and he had to stop and breathe when he was fully sheathed, his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back.
"Look at me," he murmured. "Please. Look at me."
Your eyes opened. They were dark and shining, full of something that looked very much like love. "You feel incredible," you breathed. "I am so full."
He began to move, he withdrew almost completely, feeling the drag of your body against every inch of his length, and then pushed back in with a slow, deep thrust that made you both gasp. The sensation was overwhelming, the tight clutch of your body, the heat, the way your inner muscles rippled around him. He set a steady rhythm, each stroke deliberate and full, sliding into you to the hilt and then pulling back until only the head remained inside you. The water splashed gently around them, ripples spreading outward in concentric circles with every movement. Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper with every thrust. Your hands slid down his spine, tracing the ridges of muscle that flexed with every movement. You were making soft, breathless sounds, gasps and moans and fragments of his name, and he caught each one with his mouth, kissing you, drinking you down like wine.
"You feel incredible," he groaned against your lips. "So tight. So perfect. I could stay inside you forever."
"So do you," you gasped, your words barely coherent, slurred with pleasure. "Harder, Jace. Please."
He did not need to be asked twice. His pace quickened, his hips slamming against yours with increasing force. The sound of their coupling echoed off the cliff walls, wet and rhythmic, the slap of skin against skin beneath the water. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and he watched them, mesmerized by the way they moved, the way the water lapped at the peaks. He bent his head and captured one nipple in his mouth again, sucking hard, grazing it with his teeth, and you cried out sharply, your inner walls clenching around him.
He shifted his angle slightly, tilting his hips, and on the next thrust you cried out sharply, your head falling back against the stone, your whole body arching against his. He had found the right spot, that sensitive place deep inside you, and he drove into it again and again, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your brow furrowed and your lips parted and your eyes lost focus, and you were babbling now, a stream of broken words, his name and pleas for more and incoherent praise.
"There," you gasped. "Right there. Do not stop. Please do not stop."
He did not stop. He could not have stopped if the world was ending. There was nothing but you, your body, your voice, your hands on his skin. He felt your inner walls begin to flutter around him, the first warning signs of your approaching climax, and he moved his hand between your bodies, finding the slick, sensitive pearl of you beneath the water. He pressed his thumb against it in tight, circling strokes, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
"That is it," he murmured against your ear, his voice low and rough. "Let go. I want to feel you come apart around me."
Your climax took you by surprise. He felt it building, the way your breath quickened, the way your nails bit into his shoulders, the way your body tightened around him until he could barely move. And then you shattered, crying out his name, your head thrown back, your whole body arching and shuddering against his. He felt the rhythmic pulsing of your release gripping his cock, your inner walls milking him in waves, and he watched your face contort with pleasure, your mouth open, your eyes squeezed shut, your cheeks flushed dark. The sight of you, bare and beautiful and completely undone, was enough to push him over the edge. He drove into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and let go. His release surged through him in hot, pulsing waves, spilling deep inside you, and he groaned your name against the curve of your neck, his body shaking with the force of his climax.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breathing slowed, your chest rising and falling against his. Your fingers traced lazy patterns on the back of his neck. He remained inside you, still half-hard, reluctant to separate from the warmth of your body. He could feel his seed and your slickness mingled together, warm and wet around him, and the sensation was so intimate, so perfect, that he never wanted to move again.
"Jace," you whispered, and your voice was hoarse and sweet and utterly content.
He lifted his head and looked at you. Your cheeks were flushed. Your lips were red and swollen. Your hair was a wild tangle around your shoulders. Your eyes were soft and hazy with satisfaction. You had never looked more beautiful.
"I love you," he said.
The words came out before he could stop them, before he even realized he was thinking them. But once they were spoken, he knew they were true. He loved you. He loved you so completely and so absolutely that he could barely remember what his life had been before you. You were everything. You were the sun and the sea and the stars. You were the only thing that mattered.
Your eyes widened. "I love you too," you said. "I have loved you since the moment you opened your eyes."
He kissed you again, softly this time, tenderly, a kiss that tasted of water and salt and promises. And then he held you, your body still wrapped around his, the waterfall cool against his back, the sun warm on his face.
They did not leave the pool for a long time. When they finally climbed out, their skin pruned and their limbs heavy with satisfaction, they did not bother to dress. Jace carried you to a patch of soft grass beneath the flowering trees, and he laid you down among the fallen petals, pink and white and gold. He knelt between your spread thighs and looked down at you, at your bare body glistening with water droplets, at the place where his seed was already beginning to leak from your swollen folds, and he felt himself harden again at the sight.
He made love to you again, slower this time, sweeter. He kissed his way down your body, his mouth tracing the hollow of your throat, the swell of your breasts, the plane of your stomach. He paused to dip his tongue into your navel, making you squirm, and then continued lower, pressing kisses to your hip bones, the sensitive crease where your thighs met your body. When he reached the junction of your thighs, he settled between them and looked up at you. Your scent was intoxicating, musky and sweet and mixed with the salt of his own release. He could see the evidence of their earlier coupling, the glistening slickness that coated your folds, and the sight made him groan with want.
He tasted you properly for the first time. His tongue parted your folds, tracing a slow path from your entrance to the peak of your pleasure. The taste of you combined with the taste of him was earthy and raw and utterly intoxicating. You cried out and fisted your hands in the grass, your hips rising to meet his mouth. He took his time, learning what you liked, alternating between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and focused, circling attention to your sensitive peak. He slid two fingers inside you as he sucked on that tight bundle of nerves, curling them forward to press against that sensitive spot on your inner wall, and you came apart against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head, your voice breaking on his name, your body gushing wetness that he lapped up eagerly.
After that, they walked back to the cave hand in hand, bare and unashamed, their clothes forgotten on the rocks by the waterfall. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, and the island was alive with birdsong and the scent of flowers. Jace kept his hand on the small of your back as you walked, unable to stop touching you, his thumb tracing small circles against your skin.
When you reached the bedchamber, the bed where he had first woken, the furs soft and the candles flickering on the walls, he took you again. This time you pushed him down onto his back and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. You looked down at him and you reached between your bodies to guide him to your entrance. He watched his cock disappear inside you, inch by inch, watched the way your folds stretched to accommodate him, and the sight was almost enough to make him spend right there. You sank down until he was fully seated inside you, and you both moaned at the sensation.
You began to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sinuous rhythm. He watched you move above him, your breasts swaying with each roll of your hips, your stomach flexing, your head thrown back in pleasure. He reached up and cupped your breasts, rolling the tight peaks between his fingers, and you gasped and increased your pace. Your thighs flexed as you rose and fell, taking him deeper with every stroke. He guided you with his hands on your waist, helping you find a rhythm that made you both moan, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your hips.
"Look at you," he breathed, his voice full of wonder. "You are so beautiful riding my cock."
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and the new angle made you gasp. He thrust up into you from below, meeting your movements, and the wet sound of your bodies joining filled the chamber. Your inner walls were fluttering around him again, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He moved one hand to where your bodies were joined and pressed his thumb against your sensitive peak, circling it in time with your movements. You cried out and shattered above him, your body clenching around him, your back arching. The sight of you, lost in pleasure, pushed him over the edge. He thrust up into you one final time and spilled his seed deep inside you, groaning your name, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.
You collapsed against his chest, spent and trembling, and he wrapped his arms around you and held you close, still buried inside you. Your breath was warm against his neck. Your heart hammered against his chest. He could feel the thrum of your pulse where your bodies were still joined, and he never wanted to let you go.
You fell asleep like that, joined together, your body draped over his, and when you woke an hour later, the candles had burned lower and the light through the cave entrance had shifted to the gold of late afternoon. You stirred against him, and he felt himself harden again inside you, still buried in your warmth. You smiled sleepily and began to move your hips in a slow, lazy rhythm, and he rolled you onto your back and made love to you again, gentle and tender, whispering your name like a prayer.
After that day, they could not keep their hands off each other, it was as if a dam had broken. Every moment they were together, they were touching. His hand on the small of your back, your fingers tangled in his hair, his lips on your shoulder, your thigh pressed against his beneath the dinner table. The boat sat forgotten on the beach, the wood beginning to weather and grey in the salt air. The days blurred into a haze of sun and water and skin.
He took you in the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, the grass tickling your bare skin as he moved inside you, your legs wrapped around his waist and your fingers digging into his back. The sun was warm on his shoulders and the scent of blossoms was thick in the air. He rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him without breaking their connection, and you rode him among the flowers, your head thrown back, your breasts bouncing with every movement, the bright petals clinging to your damp skin.
You pulled him into the storage chamber one afternoon and pressed him against the cool stone wall. You sank to your knees before him on the worn stone floor, looking up at him and you freed him from his breeches with practiced hands. He was already hard, his cock springing out, the tip glistening. You wrapped your hand around the base of him, feeling the weight and heat of him in your palm, and then you leaned forward and took him into your mouth.
He groaned and buried his fingers in your hair as your lips closed around him. You took him slowly, deliberately, your tongue tracing the ridge on the underside of his shaft, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked. You worked him with your mouth and your hand in tandem, your head bobbing in a steady rhythm, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head on every upstroke. He watched you move, mesmerized, watching his cock disappear between your lips again and again, feeling the wet heat of your mouth, the gentle scrape of your teeth. When you took him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate his length, he groaned your name and tightened his grip on your hair.
You pulled back, your lips slick and swollen, a strand of saliva connecting you to his tip. You looked up at him and smiled, a slow, wicked smile, and then you took him deep again, hollowing your cheeks, increasing your pace. Your hand cupped him gently, rolling him in your palm, and the dual sensation pushed him closer and closer to the edge. When he could not hold back any longer, he warned you, his voice ragged, but you only took him deeper, and he spilled into your mouth with a ragged cry of your name. You swallowed everything he gave you, your throat working around him, and you did not pull away until he was spent and trembling.
You looked up at him, your lips slick and swollen, a tiny bead of his release at the corner of your mouth that you caught with your tongue. The sight of you, kneeling before him, having taken everything he had to give, made his spent cock twitch with interest. He pulled you to your feet and kissed you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue, and then he spun you around and bent you over the stone table where you mixed your medicines.
He bunched your skirts around your waist, baring you to his gaze. Your folds were already slick and glistening, your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. He ran his hand over the curve of your backside, kneading the firm flesh, and then he positioned himself at your entrance. He entered you from behind in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and you gasped and clutched at the worn stone surface. He set a hard, fast rhythm, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints and the other braced on the table beside yours. The sound of his hips slamming against your backside filled the small chamber, wet and rhythmic, punctuated by your breathless gasps and his low groans.
"Is this what you wanted when you got on your knees for me?" he asked, his voice rough. "Did you want me to bend you over and fuck you until you screamed?"
"Yes," you gasped, pushing back against him. "Yes, I wanted this. I wanted you."
He reached around and found your sensitive peak with his fingers, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The angle was perfect, driving him deep, hitting that spot inside you with every stroke. Your gasps turned to cries, your cries turned to screams, and when you came, your body clenching around him so tightly that he could barely move, he followed a heartbeat later, groaning your name into the curve of your shoulder, spilling himself deep inside you.
He stayed inside you until he softened, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade, both of you breathing hard. Then he pulled out gently and turned you around, and he kissed you softly, tenderly, his hands cupping your face.
Every night, they fell asleep tangled together in his bed, their bed now, and every morning they woke the same way. Sometimes he would wake first and simply watch you sleep, the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips curved into a faint smile as if you were dreaming of him. Sometimes you would wake first and trace the lines of his scars with your fingertips, until he stirred and rolled on top of you and the day began the way all their days began now, with your legs around his waist and your soft cries filling the candlelit chamber.
He could not get enough of you. He could not get enough of your taste or your scent or the sounds you made when you came apart in his arms. He could not get enough of the way your eyes fluttered closed when he kissed your neck, or the way your back arched when he ran his hands down your sides, or the way you whispered his name in the darkness, over and over, like an incantation. He learned every inch of your body, every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and every place that made you moan. He learned the rhythm you liked, slow and deep when you were tender, fast and hard when you were hungry. He learned how to read your body well enough to know which one you needed before you had to ask. He learned that you liked it when he talked to you while he moved inside you, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he loved you, how he wanted to stay buried in your warmth forever.
And every time he was inside you, every time you came apart in his arms, every time he lost himself in the heat and the pleasure and the overwhelming, consuming love he felt for you, something else slipped away.
In many ways, you were. You were his world now. You were everything.
And he was forgetting that there had ever been anything else.
—
The ship appeared on the horizon like a ghost from a life Jace had almost forgotten, he was down by the shore, skipping stones across the glass-flat water while you gathered shells further down the beach.
Then he saw it, a dark shape cut against the glare of the sun. At first he thought it was a cloud, or a trick of the light, or one of the strange birds that sometimes wheeled overhead. But the shape grew larger and sharper and resolved itself into masts and sails and a hull cutting through the water.
Jace's hand froze mid-throw. The stone dropped from his fingers and plunked into the shallows.
"Jace?" Your voice came from further down the beach, laced with concern. "What is it?"
"A ship."
The word felt strange in his mouth, foreign. He had not seen a ship in how long? Months? Years? He could not remember. Time had stopped meaning anything on this island.
He squinted against the sun, his heart beating faster. The ship was large, a warship by the look of it, three masts and a reinforced hull. As it drew closer, he could make out the banner snapping from the mainmast.
A seahorse. Silver on sea-green.
Velaryon.
The name hit him like a wave. His grandfather's house. His mother's allies. His family. The memories surged up from wherever they had been hiding, Dragonstone, Driftmark, the fleet, Lord Corlys, the war.
The war. He was fighting a war. His mother needed him. He had to go home.
"They are here for me," he breathed, and then he was running down the beach, waving his arms over his head, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Here! I am here!"
The soldiers came ashore in a longboat, six of them, their armor gleaming in the sun, the Velaryon seahorse embossed on their breastplates. They were grizzled men, seasoned fighters, and when they saw Jace standing on the beach, their faces broke into expressions of shock and relief and barely contained joy.
"Prince Jacaerys," the lead soldier breathed, dropping to one knee in the sand. "We thought you were dead. The Queen, your mother, she sent ships to every corner of the Narrow Sea. She never gave up hope."
Jace pulled the man to his feet, his hands shaking. "My mother. Is she well? Is the war still—"
"The war continues, my prince. The queen has taken Kings Landing. She will be overjoyed to see you. Everyone believed you had perished at the Gullet."
The Gullet. The arrows. Vermax screaming. The water closing over his head.
Jace shoved the memories aside. "I am alive," he said, and he was laughing now, giddy with relief and adrenaline. "I am alive, and I am coming home."
He turned to find you, you were standing a few paces back, your hands clasped in front of you, watching the soldiers with an expression he could not read. Your strange dress fluttered in the sea breeze, and your eyes were dark and unreadable.
"This is Y/N," Jace said, pulling you forward. You came reluctantly, your bare feet dragging in the sand. "She saved my life. She pulled me from the water and nursed me back to health. I would not be alive without her."
The lead soldier bowed to you, respectful. "The Queen will want to thank you personally, my lady. You have done the realm a great service."
You said nothing. You only nodded, a small, stiff movement.
Jace pulled you aside while the soldiers began unloading supplies from the longboat. His hands were still shaking. His heart was pounding. He felt more alive than he had in weeks, or months, or however long it had been.
"You are coming with me," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I know what you told me about your brother and the exile. But I am a prince, and my mother is the Queen. Whatever power your brother holds, it is nothing compared to the Iron Throne. We can protect you."
Your eyes widened. "Jace..."
"I mean it." He took your hands in his, squeezing tight. "You saved my life. You have been alone here for so long, and I am not going to leave you behind. Come with me to Westeros. I will keep you safe. I swear it."
For a long moment, you only looked at him. Your sea-glass eyes searched his face, looking for something he did not recognize. It might have been doubt or hesitation or some reason to refuse, then you smiled.
"Yes," you said. "I will come with you."
Jace pulled you into his arms and held you tight, his face buried in your hair, breathing in the scent of you, salt and flowers and home. "We leave at dawn," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we leave at dawn."
That night, you cooked a feast, the soldiers were camped on the beach, their tents pitched in a neat row above the tide line. They had offered to share their rations, but you had insisted, telling them in that quiet, gracious way of yours that they were guests on your island and that you would feed them.
Jace helped you carry platters of food down to the beach. There was roasted pork, crackling and golden, seasoned with herbs from your garden. There were strange fruits sliced and arranged in intricate patterns. There was fresh bread baked in the stone oven at the back of the cave, still warm and fragrant. And there was wine, more wine than Jace had ever seen in the cave, deep red wine in clay amphorae, rich and dark and potent.
"Where did you get all this?" he asked, watching you fill cup after cup for the soldiers.
You smiled, your hands steady on the amphora. "I have been saving it. For a special occasion."
The feast was a joyous affair. The soldiers laughed and sang and told Jace stories of the war, battles won and lost, allies gained and betrayed, the endless, grinding struggle for the Iron Throne. He listened with half an ear, nodding in the right places, but his attention kept drifting to you.
You moved among the soldiers like a ghost, refilling cups, offering plates of food, your smile never wavering. The men thanked you with drunken enthusiasm, their faces flushed with wine and gratitude. Jace felt a swell of pride watching you, his savior, his love, soon to be his companion in Westeros, where he would shower you with every luxury you had been denied on this lonely island.
"To the Prince!" one of the soldiers bellowed, raising his cup. "To Prince Jacaerys, returned from the dead!"
"To the Prince!" the others roared.
Jace raised his own cup and drank deep. The wine was stronger than he expected, and it went to his head almost immediately. The stars above seemed to blur and swirl. The fire on the beach danced and flickered. Your hand found his under the table, and he squeezed it tight.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, we go home
—
He woke to sunlight and the sound of birdsong, his head pounded. His mouth was dry and sour with the aftertaste of wine. He groaned and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to drive back the ache that throbbed behind them. How much had he drunk? He remembered the feast. He remembered the soldiers laughing, the wine flowing, your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered the fire on the beach and the stars wheeling overhead and the giddy, overwhelming relief of knowing that he was finally, finally going home.
The soldiers, Jace sat up so fast that the furs tangled around his legs and nearly sent him sprawling. The soldiers. The ship. They were leaving at dawn. He had to get up. He had to get dressed. He had to—
He stumbled out of the bed and through the winding passages of the cave, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone. The light grew brighter as he ran, golden and warm, and then he burst through the cave entrance and stopped dead at the edge of the cliff.
The beach was empty, his eyes swept the shoreline, back and forth, back and forth, searching for the tents and the longboat and the supply crates. He looked for the ship, the great Velaryon warship with its three masts and its silver seahorse banner, riding at anchor in the bay.
There was nothing there, the white sand stretched out below him, pristine and unmarked. The sea glittered in the morning sun, calm and blue and utterly empty all the way to the horizon. No ship. No sails. No sign that anyone had ever been here at all.
"What..." Jace's voice came out hoarse, cracked. He turned and ran down the path to the beach, his legs still unsteady, his heart pounding against his ribs. He reached the sand and walked through the place where the camp had been, his eyes scanning the ground for any trace of the soldiers. A footprint. A scrap of cloth. A ring of stones where the fire had burned. A spilled cup. Anything.
The sand was smooth and unblemished. The tide had come in during the night and erased whatever marks might have been left behind.
"Jace?" Your voice drifted down from the cliff above, calm and curious. "What are you doing?"
He looked up. You were standing at the mouth of the cave, barefoot, wrapped in one of your flowing dresses, your hair loose around your shoulders. The morning light caught the soft curves of your face and made your eyes gleam.
"The soldiers," Jace called up to you. "The ship. Where are they?"
You tilted your head, your brow furrowing slightly. "What soldiers?"
The question hit him like a physical blow. He stood there on the empty beach, staring up at you, waiting for you to laugh or smile or tell him it was a joke. You only looked back at him with mild, patient confusion.
"The soldiers," he repeated, his voice rising. "The Velaryon soldiers. Six of them. They came yesterday in a warship. They landed on the beach. We had a feast. You served them roast pork and wine. They were going to take us home this morning."
Your expression did not change. That small, puzzled frown remained, as though he were speaking a language you did not quite recognize.
"Jace," you said gently, "I think you must have dreamed it."
"I did not dream it." He was breathing hard now, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "They were here. They said my mother sent them. You spoke to them. You—"
He stopped, you were walking down the path to the beach now, your bare feet moving sure and steady over the rocks. When you reached the sand, you came to stand beside him, and your hand rose to rest against his cheek.
"You had a great deal of wine last night," you said, your voice soft and soothing. "More than I have ever seen you drink. Sometimes wine can make dreams feel very real."
Jace shook his head, pulling away from your touch. "It was not a dream. They were here. They were real."
"Then where are they now?" You gestured at the empty beach, the empty sea, the empty horizon. "Where is the ship? Where are the footprints? Where is the fire? If six men camped on this beach last night, where is the evidence of it?"
The sand was smooth. The sea was empty. There was no smoke rising from the ashes of a campfire. There were no tent pegs driven into the earth. There was no ship, no longboat, no sign that anyone but the two of you had ever set foot on this island.
"I do not know," he said, and his voice sounded thin and uncertain even to his own ears. "I do not understand."
You stepped closer, and your hand found his cheek again, and this time he did not pull away. Your palm was cool against his flushed skin.
"You have been through so much," you murmured. "Your body is still healing. Your mind is still healing. Dreams and memories and wishes can all blur together. But you are here with me, and you are safe. That is what matters."
Jace stared down at the sand. His head was pounding. His thoughts were tangled, slipping over each other like stones in a landslide. He remembered the feast so clearly, the taste of the roast pork, the sound of the soldiers' laughter, the weight of your hand in his. He remembered the banner snapping in the wind, silver seahorse on sea-green. He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, the shock and relief on his weathered face.
But the beach was empty.
"Perhaps you are right," he said slowly, and the words felt like surrender. "Perhaps I dreamed it."
You smiled, and your smile was warm and gentle and full of something that might have been relief. "Come back inside. I will make you something to eat. You will feel better once you have eaten."
He let you lead him back up the path and into the cave. He let you sit him down at the stone table. He let you place a plate of fruit and fresh bread in front of him, and he ate without tasting it, his mind still chasing the fragments of the dream that had felt so real.
That was what you had called it. A dream. And perhaps you were right. Perhaps the longing for home had grown so strong that his mind had conjured a rescue where none existed. Perhaps the wine had done the rest, weaving the longing into something that felt like memory.
Perhaps.
He did not think about it for the rest of the day, it was not until late afternoon that he noticed the pigs, he was walking past the enclosure without any particular destination in mind, his feet carrying him along the familiar path, when he stopped and frowned.
The pigs had always been numerous, he had never bothered to count them exactly, but now, looking at the enclosure, he could see that there were more than there had been the day before. Many more.
The sows jostled and grunted. The piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt. They were fat, healthy animals with glossy coats and floppy ears, rooting in the churned earth of the enclosure, there were at least twice as many pigs as there had been the day before.
Jace stood at the stone wall and stared at them. The pigs stared back, their small dark eyes unblinking, he stood there for a long time.
—
Days later, Jace found the hole by accident, though later he would wonder whether anything on this island ever happened by accident at all. He had been exploring, something he did more and more often now, wandering the island's paths and cliffs and hidden coves as if searching for something he could not name. He had walked further than usual that afternoon, following a thin stream that wound through a cleft in the cliffs, its water cold and clear and tasting faintly of minerals when he cupped his hands to drink. The stream led him deeper into the interior than he had ever gone before, past stands of flowering trees whose blossoms released a sweet, drowsy perfume, past moss-covered boulders that loomed overhead like the shoulders of buried giants and that was when he saw it.
A dark opening in the rock face, half-hidden by a curtain of flowering vines that spilled down from the cliff above in cascades of white and purple. The vines were thick and tangled, but they did not quite conceal the gap behind them. An opening wide enough for a man to walk through without ducking his head.
He should not have gone in. He knew that, even as his feet carried him forward, even as his hands reached out to push the vines aside. A voice in the back of his mind, the voice that had once belonged to a prince trained in caution and suspicion, whispered that he should turn around and walk back to the sunlit meadow and forget he had ever seen this place. But that voice had grown very quiet in the months he had spent on this island, and something else had grown louder.
The darkness swallowed him whole. He stood motionless for a long moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust, one hand pressed flat against the cool stone of the wall. The passage sloped downward, the floor worn smooth by the passage of time or water or the tread of feet. He could not see more than a few feet ahead, but he could feel the space around him opening up, widening into something larger than a simple tunnel. The air was dry and still, the silence so complete that he could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.
He walked deeper, the passage twisted once, then twice, then opened abruptly into a chamber so vast that Jace's footsteps echoed back to him from walls he could not see. Thin shafts of daylight pierced down through cracks in the ceiling high above, illuminating the space in pale, dusty columns that fell across the floor like the bars of a cage made of light and in those columns of light, Jace saw them.
Armor.
Dozens of sets, perhaps hundreds, arranged against the walls and stacked in corners and laid out on stone slabs that rose from the floor like altars. Breastplates and greaves and gauntlets and helms, their surfaces catching the thin light and throwing it back in dull gleams. Some were polished and gleaming, as if they had been cleaned and oiled with meticulous care. Others were rusted and crumbling, their edges flaking away into red-brown dust, their shapes barely recognizable beneath the corrosion of years or decades or centuries. Swords and axes and spears and maces, their blades dull with age and disuse, their hilts wrapped in leather that had rotted away to nothing.
And clothes, stacks and stacks of clothes, tunics and breeches and cloaks and boots and belts and gloves. They were piled against the walls in drifts that rose nearly to the ceiling, some of them neatly folded as if awaiting a return that would never come, others tossed carelessly into corners in tangled heaps of faded fabric. Some were new, the dyes still bright, the wool still soft, the linen still crisp and clean. Others were ancient and moth-eaten, their threads crumbling at the slightest touch, their colors bleached to ghostly echoes of what they had once been.
Jace stood in the center of the chamber and turned in a slow circle, his breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a fist beating against a locked door. The scale of it was incomprehensible. There were so many. Too many. More than one person could ever need. More than a dozen people could ever need. More than a hundred people could ever need. This was not a collection. This was a graveyard for the belongings of the dead.
His eyes caught on a breastplate near his feet, and the world tilted sideways, it was newer than the others. Its metal still held a faint gleam beneath a thin layer of dust, and its leather straps were still supple, and on its chest, embossed in silver that caught the light like a blade, was the seahorse of House Velaryon.
He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, his weathered face breaking into shock and relief. He remembered the feast on the beach, the crackling fire, the roast pork and the wine and your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered waking to find the beach empty and the sea bare and you standing at the mouth of the cave with your head tilted and your brow furrowed, asking him what soldiers he meant, telling him it was only a dream, only a dream, nothing more than a dream.
The soldiers who had never been here. The soldiers he had only imagined. Their armor was lying at his feet.
He stumbled backward. His heel caught on a gauntlet and sent it skittering across the stone floor with a sound like a startled crab. The noise echoed through the chamber and died away into silence, and Jace stood there with his hands shaking and his mind blank with a terror so absolute that it felt almost like calm. He could not think. He could not breathe. He could not make sense of what he was seeing, and some part of him understood with terrible clarity that making sense of it would destroy everything he had built on this island. Every moment of peace. Every hour of love. Every whispered word in the darkness. All of it balanced on the edge of this pit, and if he looked down, if he truly looked, he would fall.
"What are you doing here?"
He spun around so fast that his boots skidded on the stone floor, his heart slammed against his ribs, once, twice, a frantic drumbeat of pure animal terror.. "Nothing. I was only looking, I wanted to understand—"
"You were only looking." You stepped out of the shadows and into the thin light that filtered down from the cracks in the ceiling, and the expression on your face made his stomach drop. The gentle warmth he had come to love was gone. The softness was gone. Your jaw was tight, the muscles corded beneath your skin, and your hands were clenched into fists at your sides, and your eyes were fixed on him with a glittering intensity that pinned him in place like a butterfly on a board. "At what, precisely? At the belongings of dead men? At the evidence of my sins? At the proof that I am not the gentle, lonely woman you thought you loved?"
Your hands unclenched and clenched again, the fingers curling and uncurling in a rhythm that seemed almost involuntary, as though you were strangling something invisible.
"I asked you a question, Jace." Your voice dropped, soft and dangerous. "What are you doing here?"
He should have been afraid. He was afraid. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, and his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, and every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to run. But something else rose up inside him too, some scrap of the prince he used to be, some stubborn remnant of the boy who had faced down enemies on the battlefield and never flinched. He straightened his spine and met your eyes and refused to look away.
"Why are they here?" he asked, gesturing at the armor that surrounded them. "All of these. Dozens of sets. Hundreds, maybe. The soldiers who came for me, their armor is here. The same breastplate, the same sigil. It wasn't a dream was it? What happened to them?"
You stared at him. A muscle in your jaw twitched.
"It does not matter."
"It matters to me."
"It does not matter, Jace." Your voice was rising now, cracking at the edges, splintering into something raw and desperate. "It should not matter, Jace. Those men are gone. Let them stay gone. Let the past stay buried. We were happy. We were so happy. Why could you not leave well enough alone?"
"Because I need to know the truth."
"The truth will not make you happy. The truth will not keep you warm at night. The truth will not hold you when you wake from nightmares and tell you that everything is going to be all right."
"The truth is the truth. I deserve to know it."
You laughed, it was sharp and bitter and jagged, the laugh of someone who had been hurt too many times to believe in fairness anymore. "You sound just like them. Every single one of them. They all wanted the truth. They all thought they deserved to know. And do you know what happened when they found it?"
Jace did not answer. He did not need to answer. The armors answered for him.
"What happened to the soldiers?" he asked instead. His voice was very quiet. "The ones who came for me. The ones whose armor is lying at my feet. What did you do to them?"
Your face crumpled, the coldness shattered and the fury crumbled and underneath it was something far older and far more terrifying, a grief so immense it had calcified into rage over centuries of solitude. The tears that spilled down your cheeks were real, hot and sudden and utterly convincing.
"Why do you want to leave me?" you screamed, the sound echoed off the stone walls and came back multiplied, a chorus of accusations that battered him from every direction. Your voice was raw and ragged, shredded at the edges, and the pain in it was so enormous that Jace felt his own heart clench in response. The anger that had been building in him, the righteous fury at being lied to, began to waver. How could he be angry at someone who was in so much pain? How could he accuse someone who was so clearly suffering?
"Why do you want to leave me?" you cried again, and your voice broke on the last word. "Why do they always leave? Every single one of them, they wash up on my shore and I save them and I nurse them back to health and I give them everything I have, everything I am, and they tell me they love me, they look me in the eyes and they swear they love me, and I believe them every time, every single time I believe them because I am so desperate to be loved by someone, anyone, and then they remember. They always remember. And they always leave. They always want to go home. Why am I never enough? Why am I never enough for anyone?"
The question hung in the air, raw and bleeding. Your chest was heaving. Your hands were shaking. You looked at him with those burning eyes, and Jace felt his resolve crumbling, you were not a monster, you were wounded, a woman who had been abandoned and betrayed so many times that she had forgotten how to trust. How could he blame you for what you had done?
"I love you," he said, and his voice was shaking but he meant it with every fiber of his being. "I love you. I do. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone."
"Then why do you want to leave me?" Your voice was small now, wounded, the fury draining away to reveal the vulnerability beneath. "If you love me, why isn't that enough? Why do you need to go back? Why can't you just stay here with me? Why do you need a mother and brothers and a war and a throne? Why can you not just stay here and be mine?"
"Because I have a family." He was pleading now, hating himself for the pain he was causing you. "Because I have a mother who needs me and brothers who are waiting for me. Because there is a war, a war I was fighting, a war I was supposed to win. Because I have a duty."
"A duty." You laughed, but it was a broken sound, a laugh that was really a sob. "Duty. Honor. Family. I have heard all of this before. Every single one of them said the same thing. They had to go back. They had responsibilities. They had people who needed them. And what about me? What about what I need? I needed them. I loved them. And they left me anyway. They all left me. Just like you will leave me."
"I don't want to leave you," Jace said, and the words felt inadequate, pathetic. "I want to go home, yes. I want to see my mother. I want to protect her from the enemies who would see her dead and her throne stolen. But I want to take you with me. I want you to meet her. I want to marry you properly, before the whole court, with a septon and a cloak and vows spoken in the light of the Seven. I want to make you my queen. When I sit the Iron Throne, you will sit beside me."
He reached for you, desperate to comfort you, to wipe the tears from your cheeks. You did not pull away, but you did not lean into his touch either.
"I do not care what you did to these men," he said, his voice low and fierce. "I do not care what you have done. I love you. I love you more than I have ever loved anything in my life. I just want you to come with me. Please. Come with me."
For a long moment, you were silent, then you shook your head. Slowly. Miserably. With the exhausted certainty of someone who had heard these same promises too many times to count.
"It is not true," you whispered. "They always say this. When my brother sends them here, they always tell me they love me. They always promise they will stay. They look at me with those earnest eyes and they swear they are different from the others, and I believe them. I always believe them. Because I want to believe. Because I want so desperately for it to be true. And then they remember who they were before, and everything changes."
You pulled your hands out of his grip and wrapped your arms around yourself, your shoulders hunching inward as though you were trying to make yourself smaller, harder to hurt. Jace felt a surge of protectiveness so strong it almost knocked the breath out of him. He wanted to hold you. He wanted to shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.
"They remember their old lives," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "and they tell me they will save me. They tell me they will break the curse and take me away from here and marry me in a real sept with real vows. They promise me everything I have ever wanted. And for a little while I let myself hope. I let myself believe that this time will be different. This time the love will be real."
Your voice caught on the last word, splintering into something that was almost a sob. Jace felt tears prick at the corners of his own eyes. Gods, how could anyone have done this to you? How could anyone have been so cruel?
"But they never mean it," you said. "They are only saying what they think I want to hear. They are only trying to placate me, to buy themselves time, to find a way to escape. And when they try to break the curse and they fail, when they realize their love is not strong enough, when they understand that they do not really love me at all, they run. They try to leave. And I—"
You stopped. Your hands were trembling violently now, the fingers twisting together in front of you.
"What do you do?" Jace asked, though he already knew the answer. He knew it, and it horrified him, and yet somehow he could not bring himself to judge you for it. You had been hurt. You had been betrayed. You had been left alone for so long that you had forgotten what it felt like to be held. How could anyone expect you to react with grace when another man tried to abandon you?
"I do not let them leave." Your voice was barely a whisper, so quiet he had to lean closer to hear it. "They do not get to leave. They do not get to go back to their families and forget about me while I rot here alone. They stay. They stay here with me. Forever."
"The pigs," Jace said.
"They are happier as pigs," Your voice took on a defensive edge, almost childlike in its insistence. "They do not remember their old lives. They do not feel the disappointment. They do not want to leave. They are content. They have food and shelter and each other. I take care of them. I take better care of them than anyone ever took care of me." Your eyes searched his face, looking for understanding, looking for absolution. "They are better off this way. I gave them peace. I gave them a life without pain. Do you know what my brother gave me? Do you know what it feels like to be left here, alone, for centuries, with nothing but the sound of the waves and the crying of the gulls and the knowledge that no one is ever coming for you?"
Jace's throat was dry. "Why did you not do it to me?"
"Because I thought you were different." Your voice was small now, so small it was almost swallowed by the shadows of the cave. "Because when I looked at you, when I held you through the fevers and listened to you talk about your home and your family, I thought—I hoped—that you might really love me." A tear slid down your cheek, and you did not wipe it away. "I thought you would stay."
The guilt hit Jace like a physical blow. You had hoped. You had let yourself hope, despite everything, despite centuries of betrayal and abandonment, and he was about to become just another name on the long list of people who had disappointed you. He was about to leave you, just like all the others. He was about to prove that your hope had been misplaced, that love was a lie, that no one would ever truly choose you.
"I am sorry," he said, and he meant it with every part of himself. "I am so sorry. I do not want to leave you. I want to stay. I want both things. I want to go home, but I want you to come with me. Can I not have both things?"
"No one ever wants both things." You pulled your hands away, and your expression was hardening again, the vulnerability sealing itself back behind walls of old resentment. "They want to leave. They always want to leave. As soon as they remember their old lives, they want to leave. And when they realize they cannot break the curse, they run. They all run. And I have to stop them because if I do not stop them they will leave me alone again, and I cannot be alone again, Jace, I cannot, I would rather die than be alone again—"
"What curse?" Jace cut through your spiraling words, his voice urgent. "You said they could not break the curse. What curse?"
"It does not matter," you said. Your voice was empty now, drained of all the fury and grief that had filled it moments before. "You are going to leave me too. You are going to try to break the curse, and you are going to fail, because no one has ever succeeded, and then you are going to run. Just like all the others."
"Tell me what the curse is. Please. Let me help you."
You stared at him for a long, long moment. The candles flickered in their alcoves, their flames guttering in a draft he could not feel. The armor gleamed dully in the shadows, the relics of a hundred men who had stood where he was standing now and made the same promises he was making. Somewhere far away, muffled by stone and distance, the pigs grunted in their enclosure. The men who had failed. The men whose love had not been strong enough.
"My brother exiled me here," you said finally. Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings, as though you had told this story so many times that the words had lost all meaning. "Centuries ago. So long ago that the world I came from does not exist anymore, and when I disobeyed him, when I refused to do what he asked of me, he put a curse on this island as punishment. I cannot leave. No ship will carry me. No boat will bear my weight. If I try to swim, the sea itself will rise up and drag me back to shore. I am bound here, bound to this rock, until the curse is broken or the world ends."
"How do I break it?"
You looked at him, and your eyes were ancient and exhausted and utterly without hope. Jace felt his heart twist. You had been disappointed so many times. You did not believe he could do it.
"There is a cave," you said. "Behind the waterfall on the western cliff. There is a statue inside, a statue of me carved from black stone, wrapped in chains. I cannot enter the cave. It is spelled against me." Your hand rose unconsciously to your neck, as if feeling for the links of a collar that was not there. "If the statue is broken, the curse will be lifted. The chains will fall. I will be free."
"Then I will break it."
"It is not that simple." Your voice was quiet now, almost gentle, and there was something in it that felt like a warning, a kindness, an attempt to protect him from the disappointment you were certain was coming. "Only a man who knows my true nature can destroy the statue. Only a man who has seen what I am, what I have done, every monstrous thing I have committed in my long and miserable existence, and still loves me truly. Not charmed. Not tricked. Not fogged by the magic of this island. Real love. Clear-eyed love. Love that looks at the worst of me and does not flinch." You paused. "If his love is false, if it is only gratitude or loneliness or the lingering effects of my enchantments, the statue will not break. It will not even crack. And I will know. I will know that his love was a lie."
"I am not them," he said.
"You are. You are exactly like them."
"No." He stepped forward and took your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks. "I am not them. I am going to break the curse. I am going to set you free. I am going to take you away from this island and give you the life you deserve. I swear it."
"You cannot promise that."
"I can. I am." He pressed his forehead against yours. "I love you. I know what you are. I know what you have done. And I love you anyway. I love you not despite the worst of you but because of it. Because the worst of you was born from pain, and I want to heal that pain. I want to be the one who finally proves to you that love is real. That you are worthy of it. That you have always been worthy of it."
You let out a sound that was half laugh and half sob. "You are a fool, Jacaerys Velaryon."
"Take me to the cave behind the waterfall," he said. "Let me prove it."
"Alright," you whispered, as if you had expected him to ask. "I will take you. But do not say I did not warn you."
You turned and walked out of the cave, and Jace followed you, his heart pounding and his mind clear and his love for you burning in his chest like a flame that no wind could extinguish. He was going to save you. He was going to be the one. He was going to prove that love was stronger than any curse, stronger than any magic, stronger than centuries of solitude and betrayal.
He had to be the one. The alternative was unthinkable.
—
The walk was silent, you led him along the familiar path, the meadow with its strange flowers swaying in the breeze, the grove of fruit trees with their golden bounty hanging heavy from the branches, the rocky outcropping that overlooked the western shore where the sea stretched out blue and endless and utterly indifferent to what was about to happen. The waterfall was roaring louder than usual, or perhaps it only seemed that way. Perhaps it was the blood pounding in his ears. Perhaps it was the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him like a physical thing, a stone laid across his chest that made every breath feel shallow and insufficient.
You stopped at the edge of the pool, where the water churned white with the endless cascade. Your face was pale. Your hands were shaking at your sides, the fingers twisting together in that nervous gesture he had come to recognize, the one that always made him want to pull you into his arms and promise you that everything would be alright.
"There," you said, pointing, Jace squinted through the spray. Behind the curtain of falling water, barely visible through the silver torrent, was a dark opening in the rock face. A cave mouth, smaller than the one you lived in, half-hidden by the cascade. It looked like something that did not want to be found.
"I cannot enter," you said, and your voice was quiet, almost reverent. "The spell prevents me. The moment I step through the water, I am pushed back. It burns." You wrapped your arms around yourself, your fingers digging into the flesh of your upper arms. The gesture was meant to look vulnerable, meant to make him feel protective. It worked. "You have to go alone."
Jace nodded. He had expected this. Of course he had expected this. The hero always had to face the trial alone. That was how these stories went.
"I will come back," he said.
You did not answer. Your eyes were fixed on the waterfall, dark and terrified, and your lower lip trembled just slightly, just enough for him to notice.
"Hey." He touched your chin, turning your face toward him. Your skin was cold beneath his fingers. "I will come back. I promise."
"Everyone promises." Your voice was barely a whisper, and there was something in it that snagged at his heart like a fishhook. "Everyone who has ever stood on this shore has promised to come back."
"I am not everyone."
He kissed your lips and for just a moment he felt something move beneath the surface. A flicker. A pulse. Something that was not quite human. Then the moment passed, and you were just you again, fragile and frightened and looking at him with those sea-glass eyes that held all the sadness in the world.
He turned away before he could lose his nerve. He dove into the pool, and the water closed over his head like a fist.
The cold was shocking. It was more than cold. It was the absence of warmth, the absence of life, a cold that sank into his bones and wrapped around his heart and squeezed. He surfaced gasping, his breath torn from his lungs in a ragged gasp, and swam toward the waterfall with strong, desperate strokes. The roar grew louder as he approached, a wall of sound that pressed against his eardrums until he could hear nothing else. The spray blinded him, stinging his eyes, filling his mouth with the taste of minerals and stone. The current tried to push him back, tried to shove him away from the cave entrance as if the water itself did not want him to pass.
But he kept swimming. He had promised. He had promised he would come back, he reached the rock face and pulled himself up onto a narrow ledge, slick with moss and running water, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wet stone. The cave entrance yawned before him, dark and silent and somehow hungry, as if the darkness itself was waiting for him to step inside. He looked back once. You were still standing at the edge of the pool, a pale figure in a pale dress, your hands pressed to your mouth. You looked like a ghost. You looked like a memory of someone who had died a long time ago.
Then he turned and walked into the darkness.
—
The cave was small, smaller than he had expected. The passage was short, barely twenty paces, the walls rough and wet beneath his trailing fingers, the floor sloping downward into the heart of the rock. The roar of the waterfall faded behind him, muffled by the stone, until the only sound was the drip of water and the soft scuff of his bare feet on the rock and the steady, insistent pounding of his own heart.
The passage opened into a round chamber no larger than your bedchamber back in the main cave. The walls were smooth and wet, glistening with moisture, catching the light and throwing it back in a thousand tiny reflections. The only illumination came from somewhere above, a thin shaft of daylight that pierced through a crack in the rock and fell in a single golden beam onto the center of the chamber. It was like something out of a sept, that beam of light. It was like the light that fell on an altar, or a tomb, or a place where something sacred had been buried and forgotten.
And in the center of the chamber was the statue.
It was you, smooth and luminous, carved with such skill that it seemed almost alive. The surface of the stone had been polished to a soft gleam, catching the golden light and holding it, and the details were so fine that Jace could see the individual strands of hair. The statue knelt on a stone pedestal, its head bowed in an attitude of submission or prayer, its face frozen in an expression of such profound sorrow that Jace felt his chest tighten just looking at it. The eyes were closed. The lips were slightly parted, as if caught in the middle of a sigh. The shoulders were hunched forward, the spine curved, every line of the body speaking of exhaustion and despair and the weight of an eternity spent alone.
And the hands, the statue's hands were raised in front of its chest, palms facing each other, fingers slightly curled as if holding something invisible. And around those marble wrists, coiled so tightly they seemed to be part of the stone itself, were two snakes.
No. Not snakes. Bracelets. Golden bracelets, each one shaped like a serpent eating its own tail. But the serpents were not connected to each other. They were separate, independent, each one locked around a single wrist, each one devouring itself in an endless cycle of consumption and renewal. Their golden eyes gleamed in the shaft of daylight, bright and watchful and aware. Their scales were so finely detailed that Jace could count every one, each scale overlapping the next in perfect, reptilian precision. Their jaws were clamped tight around their own tails, and their bodies were wound around the marble wrists in coils that looked tight enough to bruise.
They were not chains. Not exactly. They were something worse. They were a trap that could not be escaped because there was nothing to break. The snakes held her wrists, and her wrists held the snakes, and neither could let go, and the whole thing was a perfect, closed loop of imprisonment that had no beginning and no end.
Jace stood in the darkness at the edge of the chamber, staring at the statue. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. His hands were slick with water and sweat. The marble figure knelt in its beam of light, motionless and patient, and the golden snakes watched him with their glittering eyes, and the silence was so complete that he could hear the blood rushing through his own veins.
He bent down and picked up a rock from the floor of the cave. It was heavy, sharp-edged, big enough to do damage. He turned it over in his hands, testing its weight, feeling the rough edges bite into his palm. Break the statue. Break the curse. Simple. You had told him what to do. You had told him it was simple.
He took a step toward the pedestal.
"Are you quite certain about this?"
Jace froze, the voice was male. Low and smooth and echoing, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It bounced off the wet stone walls, slid through the darkness, coiled around him like smoke, like water, like something that had been waiting in the shadows for a very long time. It was not a human voice. It was too resonant for that, too layered, as if many voices were speaking at once in perfect, dissonant harmony.
"Who is there?" Jace demanded. His voice sounded too loud in the silence, too harsh, too frightened. He hated how frightened he sounded.
No answer. Just the dripping of water. The distant, muffled roar of the falls.
"You should think very carefully before you do something you will regret for the rest of your life. Which, I should warn you, may not be very long."
Jace spun around, the rock raised like a weapon. The chamber was empty. The passage behind him was empty. The shadows pressed against the walls, still and silent and utterly unoccupied.
"I said who is there?"
"A friend." The voice was almost gentle now, almost kind. It was the voice of a father speaking to a wayward son, a mentor guiding a confused student. "Someone who does not want to see you make a mistake you cannot undo. Someone who has watched this same scene play out more times than I can count, and who is very, very tired of seeing young men throw their lives away."
Jace's grip tightened on the rock. The edges cut into his palm, grounding him. "Show yourself."
"I cannot. I am not really here. I am just a voice in the dark. A warning. A kindness, if you will let me be." The voice paused, and when it spoke again, it was softer. Sadder. "I am the only person on this island who is actually trying to help you, Jacaerys."
"Don't listen to it," Jace muttered to himself. He turned back toward the statue. "It's just another part of the curse. It's trying to stop you. She said there would be things trying to stop you."
"Is that what she told you?" The voice sounded amused now, deeply and darkly amused. "That the curse is the villain? That she is the victim? How very convenient for her. How very convenient that she has a story that makes her the helpless damsel and everyone else the monster. She tells that story very well. She has had centuries of practice."
Jace ignored it. He stepped closer to the pedestal. The marble woman knelt in her beam of light, motionless and sorrowful. The golden snakes glinted.
"She is very beautiful, isn't she?" the voice continued, and now it was almost conversational, almost casual, as if they were two old friends discussing the weather. "Of course she is. She's had centuries to perfect the act. The dresses. The smiles. The way she looks at you like you are the only man in the world, like you are the answer to every prayer she has ever whispered into the darkness. It is all very convincing. It is meant to be. She has been refining it for longer than your entire bloodline has existed."
"You do not know anything about her."
"I know everything about her." The voice was sharper now, the amusement draining away to reveal something harder underneath. "I know what she is. I know what she has done. I know how many men have stood exactly where you are standing now, holding a rock just like that one, thinking they were going to be the one. The special one. The one whose love was strong enough." A pause, heavy with meaning. "Do you know how many of them succeeded?"
Jace did not answer.
"None. Not one. In all the centuries she has been trapped on this island, not a single man has broken that statue. Do you know why? Because it cannot be broken. It is a trap. It is the bait, and you are the fish, and you are swimming toward it with your mouth wide open."
"You are lying." Jace's voice was shaking now. He hated that it was shaking. "You are just another part of the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."
"I am trying to stop you from destroying yourself." The voice was closer now, seeming to come from just behind his left shoulder. He spun around, but there was nothing there. Only shadows. Only the dripping of water. "Let me ask you something, Jacaerys. Can you remember your mother's name?"
He opened his mouth but nothing came out, the name was gone. It had been there a moment ago, he was sure of it. He could see her face, silver hair and sad eyes, could feel the shape of her in his memory. But the name, the name would not come.
"Your brothers," the voice continued, relentless and calm. "How many brothers do you have? What are their names?"
"I have brothers. I know I have brothers." His voice sounded desperate, even to his own ears. "Luke-Lucerys. And the others. The little ones."
"You are reciting words. You are not remembering. She has taken them from you, piece by piece, day by day. She has been stealing your memories since the moment you arrived. The food she feeds you. The wine she pours you. The herbs she puts in your medicine. They do not just heal your wounds. They erase you. They hollow you out. They make room for her."
Jace's mind was blank. Empty. There was nothing there but fog, thick and white and impenetrable, where his memories should have been.
"She has taken them from you," the voice said, and now it was almost gentle again, almost pitying. "Piece by piece. Day by day. Every moment you spend in her presence, she is stealing more of who you are. Your family. Your home. Your past. Your very self. And you call that love? You think that is what love looks like?"
"She saved my life."
"She kept you alive because she needed you. There is a difference. She needs a man to break the curse. She always needs a man to break the curse. That is how it works. That is how it has always worked. She lures them in with her beauty and her vulnerability and her sad, sad story, and she makes them love her, and then she sends them here to die. Because no one can break the curse. No one. The statue does not break. It has never broken. And when the man fails, when he realizes his love is not strong enough, she has her excuse. She was right all along. No one really loves her. So she turns them into pigs and waits for the next shipwreck, the next castaway, the next fool who will believe her lies."
He kept going "You think that is love?" The voice laughed, a soft and pitying laugh. "You think a woman who erases your past and steals your future and traps you on an island where you can never leave loves you? You think any of this is real?"
"I love her." Jace's voice cracked. "I know I love her. That is real. Whatever else she has done, my love for her is real."
"Oh, it feels real. I am sure it does. But do you know why it feels real?" The voice paused, letting the question hang in the darkness. "Because she makes it feel real. That is what she does. That is what the magic does. It wraps around your mind and makes you think you are feeling something true. But it is not true, Jacaerys. It is a trick. A trap. You have been ensnared since the moment you opened your eyes in that candlelit room and saw her kneeling beside your bed like a worried bride."
Jace's arm was lowering. The rock felt heavier now, so heavy he could barely hold it. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.
"She told me you would say things like this," he said, but his voice was weak. Uncertain. "She told me the curse would try to stop me. She warned me there would be voices."
"The curse is not stopping you. I am not the curse. I am the only thing standing between you and an eternity of rooting in the dirt with all the other men who believed her lies." The voice was right next to his ear now, so close he could feel the cold breath of it against his skin. "Do you want to know the real story, Jacaerys? Do you want to know who she really is?"
He did not answer. He did not want to know. He wanted to cover his ears and run back through the waterfall and hold you in his arms and forget this voice had ever spoken to him. But his feet would not move. His body would not obey him.
"She is not a victim," the voice whispered. "She is not a lonely woman trapped by a cruel brother. That is a story she invented centuries ago because it makes men feel protective. It makes them feel noble. It makes them want to save her. The truth is much simpler, and much uglier. She is a goddess, a thing that was worshipped before your ancestors crawled out of the mud. And she was imprisoned here not as punishment, but as containment. Because she is dangerous. Because she feeds on devotion the way a spider feeds on flies."
"You are lying."
"Am I? If you break that statue," the voice said, "she will be free. And the moment she is free, she will have no more use for you. Her love for you, such as it is, will vanish. It is not real love, Jacaerys. It is bait. It is a lure. It is the promise of everything you have ever wanted, dangled in front of you to make you do what she needs. And once you have done it, once you have served your purpose, she will discard you like all the others."
"Stop." Jace's voice cracked on the word.
"That is the part she did not tell you, is it not? She did not tell you that her love is conditional. She did not tell you that it lasts only as long as she is trapped. The moment she is free, the magic breaks both ways. The chains fall from her wrists, and her love for you falls with them."
"You are lying." Jace's voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the distant roar of the waterfall. "You are the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."
"She told every man before you the exact same story. Word for word. The cruel brother. The lonely exile. The curse that can only be broken by true love. She told it to the knight in rusted armor whose bones are rotting in that cave. She told it to the merchant captain whose shield is propped against the wall. And you are just the latest audience."
"Stop."
"She does not love you. She cannot love you. She is not capable of love. She is capable of hunger, and she calls it love because that is what makes men stay. But it is not love. It has never been love. It is just need. Just appetite. Just the endless, grinding loneliness of a creature that consumes everything it touches and is still never full."
Jace opened his eyes. The statue knelt in its beam of light. The golden snakes watched him with their glittering, knowing eyes. The marble face was frozen in its expression of eternal sorrow.
What if the voice was right?
What if none of it was real?
What if he broke the statue, and your love disappeared, and he spent the rest of his life chasing a ghost?
What if he was just the next fool in line?
"Go back," the voice whispered. "Go back to the beach. Build your boat. Leave this place while you still can. While you still remember enough of yourself to want to leave. She will try to stop you. She will cry and plead and tell you she loves you. But it will be a lie. It has always been a lie. Go back, Jacaerys. Go home. Save yourself."
—
You had been waiting for hours. You stood at the edge of the pool, your bare feet sinking into the damp sand, your eyes fixed on the curtain of falling water. The roar of the waterfall filled your ears until you could hear nothing else, but you were listening for something beneath the roar. A shout. A crash. The sound of stone breaking. The sound of a man drowning.
Anything. Please, anything.
Jace surfaced at the edge of the pool, gasping, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his skin slick with water and gleaming in the sunlight. He pulled himself onto the sand, his chest heaving, his arms trembling with exhaustion, and for a moment he just knelt there on his hands and knees, catching his breath, water streaming from his body in rivulets. You just stared at him, searching his face for some sign of what had happened, some clue in the set of his jaw or the light in his eyes. Was the curse broken? Had he succeeded? Had he been the one, the only one, the man whose love was finally strong enough?
"I did it," he said, and his voice was warm and triumphant and full of a joy you had never heard from him before. "I broke the curse."
You stumbled forward, your legs barely supporting you, your hands reaching for him before your mind had fully registered what he had said. "You—you did? It is broken? I am free?"
"You are free." He rose to his feet, still smiling, and opened his arms to you. "You are free, Y/N. We can leave. Together. Just like I promised."
A sob tore from your throat, raw and jagged and utterly involuntary. You threw yourself into his arms, your body shaking, tears streaming down your face in hot, messy rivulets. He caught you and held you tight, his hands warm on your back, his lips pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, your cheek, his voice murmuring reassurances that you could barely hear over the pounding of your own heart.
"I love you," you gasped, the words tumbling out between sobs, unstoppable, irrepressible. "I love you, I love you, I love you—"
"I love you too." His voice was soft. Tender. Everything you had ever wanted to hear. "I told you I would save you. I told you I was different. I told you I was not like the others."
He kissed you, it was a deep kiss, a passionate kiss, the kind of kiss that spoke of relief and joy and a future finally within reach. You melted into him, your body pressing against his, your hands sliding up his chest, his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his wet hair. The waterfall roared behind you, but it sounded different now, less like a threat and more like applause. The sun was warm on your skin, warmer than it had ever been. You were free. You were finally, impossibly free. After centuries of solitude, centuries of hoping and losing and hoping again, someone had finally loved you enough.
You did not notice anything until you felt the cold metal snap shut against your skin, you tore away from him, stumbling backward, your hand flying to your wrist. Something was there. Something heavy and cold and horribly, sickeningly familiar. You looked down, and the world stopped.
A golden snake. Coiled around your forearm, its tail clamped in its own jaws, its scales gleaming in the sunlight with a wet, organic sheen. Its eyes were bright and watchful and alive. It was warm against your skin, warm like something that had a heartbeat, warm like something that was feeding.
Identical to the ones in the cave. Identical to the ones that had bound the statue for centuries, the statue that was supposed to be destroyed, the statue that he had told you he had broken.
But the statue was not destroyed. You knew that now with a cold, creeping certainty. He had not broken it. He had done something else. Something worse.
"What—" Your voice came out strangled, barely a whisper, the words catching in your throat like bones. "What is this?"
Jace was still standing by the water's edge. His smile was gone. His face had changed, shifted into something you did not recognize. The warmth in his eyes had drained away, replaced by something flat and cold and terribly, terribly calm. He looked at you the way a scholar might look at a pinned insect, curious and detached and utterly without feeling.
He raised his own arm.
The matching snake was coiled around his wrist. Twin to yours. Identical in every detail, from the curve of the scales to the glint of the golden eyes. Linked by nothing visible. Linked all the same. You could feel it, the connection between them, an invisible chain that stretched from your wrist to his and bound you together tighter than any iron ever could.
"I could not break the curse," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The voice of a man who had made a decision and was at peace with it. "The statue would not break. I struck it with the rock, and the rock shattered. I struck it with my fists, and my knuckles bled. I threw myself against it, and it did not even crack." He paused, his dark eyes fixed on yours, unblinking. "The voice, your brother, he told me the truth. He told me what you really are. He told me what you have done. He told me what you would do to me the moment you were free."
"No." You shook your head, backing away from him. Your wrist was burning where the snake touched your skin, a cold fire that spread up your arm and into your chest. "No, Jace, whatever he told you, it is a lie. It is always a lie. He is trying to trap you, he is trying to turn you against me—"
"Is it a lie?" He tilted his head, regarding you with that terrible calm. "He told me the curse made me love you. He told me you have been feeding on my devotion since the moment I opened my eyes. He told me you would leave me the instant you were free."
"That is not true!" You were screaming now, your voice raw and cracking. "I love you! I have never loved anyone the way I love you! You have to believe me!"
"Then why can I not remember my mother's name?" His voice cracked on the word mother, just slightly, and beneath the coldness you saw something flicker. Something wounded. Something that still hurt. "Why can I not remember my brothers' faces? Why did I wake up this morning and realize that I could not recall the sound of my father's voice, or the color of my brother's eyes, or the name of the dragon I rode into battle? You took everything from me. Everything I was. Everything I loved. You hollowed me out and filled me with yourself, and you expected me to believe it was love?"
"I did not mean to!" You were sobbing now, the tears hot and bitter on your cheeks. "I did not want to take your memories, i loved you so much i did not want you to leave me."
"You loved being loved." His voice was flat. Final. "There is a difference."
You stared at him. Your chest was heaving. Your wrist was throbbing, the golden snake pulsing against your skin like a second heartbeat. You could feel it now, the thing that bound you together. It was not just a chain. It was a tether. A leash.
"The statue forced you to have a physical body," Jace said, and his voice had shifted again, becoming almost conversational. Almost pleasant. "You are not mortal. You are not human something that was bound to this island and trapped in the stone. The chains kept you here. The statue kept you solid. Touchable. Real." He paused. "Without the statue, you would have no body. You would be nothing but mist and memory. Is that not what your brother wanted? To keep you contained? To keep you in a form that could touch and taste and take?"
You did not answer. You could not answer. Your throat had closed around the words.
"I could not break the curse," Jace said, and he took a step toward you, his bare feet silent on the sand. "I could not destroy the statue. But I could transfer it. I could take the chains off the stone and put them onto something else. Something living. Something that could carry them." He raised his arm again, showing you the snake coiled around his wrist, and his smile returned. It was not a kind smile. "You are not bound to the island anymore. You are bound to me."
The world tilted. The roar of the waterfall seemed to fade, replaced by a high, thin ringing in your ears. The sun was too bright. The sand was too soft. The golden snake was too warm against your skin.
"You—" Your voice would not work. "You did not—"
"I did." He was still calm. Still cold. Still looking at you with those eyes that used to be so full of love. "The voice told me it was the only way. The only way to make sure you could not leave me. The only way to make sure your love was real. The only way to be certain that when I woke up tomorrow, you would still be there, and the day after that, and the day after that."
"You trapped me."
He laughed. It was a soft laugh, a quiet laugh, but there was nothing warm in it. "I freed you. You can leave the island now. The chains that bound you to this rock are gone. You can walk onto a ship and sail away and see the world again. Is that not what you wanted? Is that not what you have been begging me for since the moment we met?"
"You bound me to you!"
"And you bound me to you first." His voice sharpened, the calm cracking for just a moment to reveal the fury underneath. "You made me love you. You made me forget my own mother's name. You drugged my food and whispered in my ear and wrapped yourself around my mind so tightly I could not tell where you ended and I began. You trapped me on this island long before I ever trapped you. The only difference is that my chains were made of kisses and lies, and yours are made of gold."
"I loved you!" The words tore from your throat, raw and ragged. "I loved you! Everything I did, I did because I loved you!"
"You made me forget my mother's name," he said again, and his voice was quieter now, almost sad. "Do you understand what that means? Do you understand what you took from me? She is out there somewhere, fighting a war, grieving a son she believes is dead, and I cannot remember her name. I cannot remember her face. I know I love her. I know I owe her everything. But when I try to picture her, there is nothing there. Just fog. Just you."
You opened your mouth, but no words came. What could you possibly say? What defense could you offer that would not sound hollow and selfish and monstrous?
"You stole my memories and drugged my food and lied to me for months," Jace continued, and now he was walking toward you, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. "You let me believe I was going home. You let me build a boat I was never going to finish. You let me dream of a future that did not exist. And when I found out the truth, when I confronted you in that cave full of dead men's armor, what did you do? Did you apologize? Did you offer to help me leave? No. You cried. You made yourself the victim. You told me how lonely you were, how sad you were, how much you had suffered. You made me comfort you. You made me feel guilty for discovering your lies."
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, close enough that you could see the pulse beating in his throat. "And I did feel guilty," he said. "I felt so guilty that I almost forgot what you had done. I almost let myself believe that you were the victim. That I was the one who had wronged you by wanting to go home. That is how good you are at this. That is how deep your hooks go."
"Please." Your voice was barely a whisper now. "Please, Jace, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I only wanted to be loved. I only wanted—"
"I know what you wanted." He reached up and touched your face, his fingers gentle against your tear-streaked cheek. The gesture was almost tender. Almost loving. It made your skin crawl. "You wanted someone to stay. You wanted someone to choose you. And now someone has. I have chosen you. I have chosen you over my family, over my throne, over my memories, over everything I ever was. I have given up my entire life to be with you. Are you not happy? Is this not what you wanted?"
"You have made me your prisoner."
"I have made you my equal." His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. "We are connected now. Bound together. What happens to one of us happens to the other. If you leave, I will feel it. If you try to run, I will know. And if you try to hurt me—" He shrugged. "The snakes will not let you. They protect what they hold. That is what the voice told me."
"The voice. He told you to do this?"
"He gave me a choice. Break the statue, free you, and watch you leave me the moment we set foot on the mainland. Or bind you to me, keep you close, and never wonder again whether your love was real." His smile returned, and it was the saddest smile you had ever seen. "It was not a difficult choice. I love you. I cannot lose you. So I made sure I would never have to."
You stared at him. The man you loved. The man who had just destroyed you. The man who had looked at your chains and decided to put them on himself rather than break them, because he could not bear the thought of you walking free.
"This is not love," you whispered. "This is possession."
"Is there a difference?" He tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering. "You tell me. You have been doing this for centuries. You tell me where love ends and possession begins. You tell me whether what you felt for me was really love, or just the desperate hunger of a lonely creature who needed someone, anyone, to fill the void. You tell me whether I am any different from you, or whether I am just the first man who was willing to sink to your level."
You opened your mouth. Closed it. The words would not come.
"Exactly," Jace said. "You cannot tell me. Because you do not know either. Because you have been confusing love and hunger for so long that you cannot tell them apart anymore. And now I am the same. You have made me the same." He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. "We are equals now. Partners. Two monsters bound together for eternity. Is that not romantic? Is that not what you always wanted? Someone who would never leave you, never abandon you, never choose anything over you?"
"You are insane," you breathed.
"I am what you made me." He pulled back and looked into your eyes, and his expression was unreadable. "You wanted me to stay. I am staying. You wanted me to love you. I love you. You wanted me to be different from the others. I am different. I am the one who did not run. I am the one who looked at the chains and chose to wear them. I am the one who gave up everything to be with you." He cupped your face in both hands, gentle and terrible and utterly inescapable. "Why are you not happy? If you really loved me, you would be happy. This is what you wanted. This is what you have been asking for since the moment we met. Someone who would stay. Someone who would choose you. Someone who would never leave."
He kissed your forehead, and his lips were warm, and the golden snake pulsed against your wrist like a second heart.
"I am going to build us a boat," he said. "A real one this time. One that can carry us both back to Westeros. And you are going to meet my mother, and I am going to take back my throne, and you are going to be my queen. Just like I promised. Just like we planned. The only difference is that now I know you will not leave me. Now I know your love is real. Because it has to be. Because you have no choice." He pulled back and smiled, and his smile was beautiful and broken and utterly terrifying. "You are free now, Y/N. Free from the island. Free from your brother's curse. Free from the statue and the chains and the centuries of solitude. You can go anywhere you want. You can do anything you want. The whole world is open to you." He took your hand, the one with the golden snake coiled around the wrist, and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. "As long as you never leave my side."
You looked down at the snake. At his hand holding yours. At the invisible chain that stretched between you, unbreakable and eternal.
So this is the Robb story where he rejects Reader because of his connection to Talisa 🥲
I’m not ready to have my heart broken, like can’t the Reader also have someone on the side or??? Because if Robb is out there whoring out so should the Reader. Could you tell us how badly it’s gonna hurt atleast and also how you plan to develop the whole Talisa thing please please please 🙏 or can you tell us what we can look forward to?
Btw you are doing amazing with this story 🤩
HELLOOOO THANK YOUUUU
The angst level is iffy right now and as for Reader having a side piece, I cant say too much 🤫
A major thing Ive been thinking about is how im gonna characterize each person since I dont wanna make them too OC. But you can look forward to a good 2 chapters of straight, concentrated, angst between Robb and Reader.
But for right now I'll be developing Reader and her relationships before diving into the Robb situation.
There will be smut in the future, I'll have the warnings up so it doesnt catch anyone by surprise.
Summary: The plot is starting to roll out, Reader starts to rely on those around her for support.
Pairing: Robb Stark x Frey! Reader
W.C: 2,392
Chapter 2
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The noise of a crowd reached my window, awaking me at the very first light of morning. I quickly went to my window, opening it as much as I could to catch a glimpse of what was going on.
An army of northern men were making their way to the entrance of the passage; father has allowed them through. That meant the Starks accepted the proposals.
All of them.
Meaning a Frey woman would be wed to Robb Stark. Meaning I could be wed to the heir to Winterfell.
The thought was quickly shot down as soon as it appeared.
There was not a chance I would be chosen, yes, Lady Stark had engaged in a polite exchange with me, but that did not mean I was her choice of bride. Roslin had also received the same treatment as I, not to mention that she was beautiful. She would surely make a more traditional wife, she knows when to curtsy graciously and how to respond quickly when spoken to.
I had nothing to worry about. Roslin would be sent off with this bunch of northern men. Sent to the cold, harsh, climate of the north. Likely never to be seen around the twins again. After all, who would relinquish the opportunity to leave a place like this?
Right as I was moving to close the window one of the men below caught my eye, he had stopped moving, standing still with his head tilted up in my direction. I could feel my heartbeat pick up, my cheeks filling with the familiar warmth of embarrassment. I had gotten caught staring.
It certainly did not help that the man was very handsome. Even from the height of my window I could see his eyes, a shade of blue. His auburn hair caught the fresh morning light in a way that made it look like the flames on candle light; it was tousled but brought out his boyish features.
We blinked at each other once, then twice before I forced a small smile on my face and gave him an awkward wave. If these men were joining forces with Lord Frey I would treat them with kindness until they prove themselves unworthy of courtesy.
The boy gave a slight nod of his head in my direction before turning away and marching with the rest of his group. He had a grim look on his face, it brought the realization that these men were marching in rebellion. They were marching away from their homes knowing they may not return, some of them looking no older than 14.
The sinking feeling returned, how could we live in a world where children are being sent to fight battles that should not be their burden to shoulder? What have the Seven Kingdoms become?
I could not shake the boy's face from my mind as I got ready for another morning in the kitchen. The way his skin absorbed the morning light, how could someone so serious look so–so heavenly? Closing the door to my chambers I took a distracted pace along the walls to the kitchen, so much so that I failed to notice a young girl moving to stand in front of me. She must have been calling my name because the moment I looked down, still trying to register her presence, she frowned up at me.
“-my lady.” I hummed in response, blinking slowly at her, still caught in my daze from just moments prior.
“Lord Frey is expecting you in his study my lady” she quickly scurried off before I could respond, what would father want with me? I had reason to believe that he did not even know my name.
I redirected myself to where I believed his study to be, I had never been so this would be a trial of error.
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I spent God’s know how long in search of fathers study, aimlessly wandering the stone halls of the twins before I resorted to pulling the nearest person aside to guide me. After thanking the kind soul that brought me I knocked on the door, the deep mahogany creating a satisfying tapping noise. The moment was interrupted by Walder Frey’s crunchy voice, “Come in.” He seemed content, as I opened the door and entered I found him sitting behind his desk with his fingers laced together above a piece of parchment.
“Sit, sit, little Walda I have news for you” It was so unnerving to hear him this delighted that I nearly let it slip that he had called me by the wrong name. I sat in front of his table and folded my hands on my lap as he began, “You have been given the highest honor a woman could receive. You will wed that Stark boy in due time. I expect you to bear as many of that runt’s heirs as you can.”
I could not stop the wince from taking over my expression. There had to have been a mistake. I could not marry the heir to Winterfell.
I had always known I would be married off to some lord and have his children but this was the future warden of the north. I could not play the perfect wife for such a man. That much I was sure of. He had to have known this, “But Lord father–”
“Yes, you are overjoyed to be serving this house in such a manner. Now run off, you have preparations to start. This is your duty and you will not falter.”
Father has such a way with words that never fails to leave my chest sinking to my belly.
“A daughter of mine will be the future Lady Stark. Hah. And to think I will share grandchildren with those Tully’s in the near future. Bloody fish.” He seemed to be rambling to himself now, and I knew better than to get in the way of his spew of words. So I stood and dismissed myself.
The way to the kitchens was buzzing with energy, the northern army’s presence giving the towers a new sense of life. Inside the doors of the kitchen were no different; people chatting away while completing their tasks. I seemed to have caught Elyse right on time, she brightened when she saw me, her smile lines making themselves more prominent as she called my name, “After yesterday I thought you were never going to show face again!”
That’s wonderful to know.
“Yes, yes, the girl is back, let us all cheer for her return” It had taken all but 30 seconds of me entering the room for the hag to spread her misery. Beric entered the room through one of the adjacent doors carrying two sacks of what seemed to be flour and gave me a welcoming smile.
“Play nice Jocey, for all we know she could be royalty” Hearing him say those words made the pit in my belly stronger, I could feel my face fall with an expression of devastation.
I would be sent far north with a man I did not know as my lord husband, no allies at my side nor the guarantee that he would respect me. Before I could stop myself I spoke, “Are northern men mindless brutes?” The worry in my voice shining through.
The question seemed to have stumped the three of them as they blinked at me.
Elyse responded, “Well I cannot speak for all northern men but, Anna, one of the servants, served in the Last Hearth staff and has shared her stories on how wildlings would come and raid the lands. The Umbers were ruthless when dealing with them, all the conflict caused her to travel to the twins, away from the north”
Wildings? From what I have learned they are savages from beyond the wall, stealing women and some even eat those that they slain. Do they also raid Winterfell? Would wilding raids be another hardship I would face?
“But the men in Winterfell, has anyone here worked there?” I must know what experiences to expect in the north.
“Are you moving up north soon? That is no place for a brat like you, do not think of it further.” Jocey continued, “Wash your hands and come learn to make those honey cakes you blabbered on about during meal time”
I hurried over to the tin of water by a faucet in the corner of the room, I could feel their eyes on my back but I knew that if I focused on that I would bend to the pressure of being sent off with my betrothed to such a harsh environment.
I got to work, following Jocey, lending a hand where I was needed and placing the thoughts of the north to the ends of my mind. All that mattered at this moment was honey cakes and maintaining a clean space.
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I broke away from the rhythm of the kitchens around the time for supper, I had not had the stomach for feasting after the day's events. Family members had surely received the news of my betrothal to the Stark boy and I had no interest in speaking to anyone on this topic. In my quick attempt to reach my chambers with no human interaction I had nearly knocked into a woman. With my head still down I began a quick apology, “My apologies! I–”
I was cut off by a womanly voice calling my name, this made me look up and meet the eyes of my sister, Morya. She looked older than I remembered, the memories of her were hazy as she was wed to Ser Flement Brax when I was around 7 years of age.
“Father tells me that you are to be wed to Ned Stark’s eldest son, would you like me to help prepare you?” Her voice was as though she was testing me, seeking a reaction to gauge an opinion on the situation. Her deep black hair was a reminder of our Blackwood mother.
“If you have the time, I would appreciate it, when did you get here sister?” She had three children the last I checked, her appearance here had to have some motivation other than visiting family.
“I arrived at dawn; you’re good at hiding. I did not see you all day.” Her eyes held a slight squint.
“Well, you know, there is always something occurring somewhere..”
“Yes, of course there is. Now, I have spoken to a seamstress on making your wedding gown. She says she has some gowns already made to try on, she would like your measurements by the morrow.”
The idea of getting my wedding gown so soon made my head feel heavy, the world suddenly felt off balance.
“Getting my gown this early in the engagement? I thought we were to be wed after the war?”
She sighed and began to walk while speaking in a softer tone, “There is much to teach you, circumstances can change very quickly especially when there is conflict. Come sister, we will discuss this in the gardens.” She slid her arm in the crevice of my elbow and began to lead me away.
Following her to the gardens reminded me of the times I would stick to her skirts as a child. I was a curious youngling and found joy in observing others during their day to day routines. My father had remarried by the time I could walk but the new wife was not blood, so I had not felt comfortable following her. Tyta never did anything interesting so I occasionally became Morya’s shadow. She showed me how to make clean, straight, stitches when the septas grew frustrated with me; always patient and caring. She is a perfect lady, when she was wed I cried in my chambers for a fortnight. The thought alone brought back the feelings of despair.
We reached the gardens, practically a courtyard with trees, rose bushes and thin grass. There were few benches scattered around but we made our way toward a stone carved bench under a chestnut tree.
“As a lady we must know how a household works, know how to host all the while directing kitchen staff and servants. When I left this keep I was unprepared for the full responsibilities I would gain and the outcome was not pretty. I do not wish for you to experience this especially when the Starks are paramounts in the north. You will have to remain resilient even in the cold.” Her brows were slightly furrowed, maintaining firm eye contact like she was trying to embed this information in my brain.
“How did you learn? Did Ser Brax help you?”
She left out a delicate huff, “My lord husband’s aid has been limited to the creation of our children. I had to earn the respect of the servants and his men on my own, as you come to do. Northern men are rough and proud; get them to respect you without the title of their lord paramount and you will be set.”
Suddenly I grew fearful of yet another aspect of this union, what if his men do not respect me? I could not imagine that Robb Stark would allow disrespect; from the bits of information I have heard he is just as honorable and courteous as his father.
“The Starks would not allow me to be treated in such a manor I am sure”
“Rumors of honor mean nothing when you meet the man, sister. Stark or not, do not place all your trust in a man. You will be starting fresh and the Frey’s do not hold a good representation to begin with. Secure their respect for you from the start and have that be that.”
“How do I do that?” I croaked in worry.
She put her hand on my cheek, tapping it.
“Let us start with ridding you of this habit”
I had been biting the inside of my cheek along with my lip, I had not noticed until she brought it to my attention.
“You have already been chosen by his Lady mother when compared to a group, she will make a good ally come the time for passing on the title of Lady Stark.”
Her words softened the previous words of warning, if Lady Stark chose me that had to hold some weight right?
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A/N: Sorry guys updates might slow for a bit, i'm on summer break and surprisingly have less time to myself than I did during the semester aint that something.
Also let me know if any of you want to be on an official taglist, I can totally start doing that
Summary: Reader is ready to go into the kitchens after telling Lady Stark she could bake, she meets the staff while Catelyn informs her son of their situation.
Pairing: Robb Stark x Frey! Reader
W.C: 2,756
A/N: Part two people here we go-
Chapter 1
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As soon as Lady Stark left the group of girls began to cluster together, reviewing the answers and reactions they got from one of our potential mother-by-laws.
Merry turned to me and asked, "What do you think? Lady Catelyn seemed to take an interest in you"
Okay. Time to brush this off.
"Oh did she? I did not take notice"
Nicely played.
Before she could reply I turned and practically ran out of the hall, making an imaginary line directly to my chambers. The room was not anything special, it held a decently sized feather bed, a hearth and a small table with a chair that served as a desk. The moment the door shut behind me I opened the curtains beside my bed to look out the window.
So the whispers held truth; just outside the twins there were men with tents scrambling about. Every one of them walked with a purpose as though they had not a second to waste. To which I supposed they did not, they were marching to war after all.
Seeing people so determined to make the most of their time made my chest feel tight. I should be doing the same.
In a moment of determination I turned to my desk and pulled a piece of parchment from a small box. I should make a list of things to do. That would help me rid of this feeling and get things done.
The first thing I would need to do is to check the library for any books on baking to get an idea of what I have gotten myself into. Mayhaps write down some recipes to try. The next order of business would be to go to the kitchens, if I could somehow convince the staff to allow me to use some of their space and resources I could get to work.
That sounded like a good plan.
Now I would need to make my way to the library. I gently opened my door and stuck my head out to check for any others in the hall. Once I deemed the area safe I began the walk.
The double doors to the library came into view giving me a sense of relief. This would all be over soon.
For such a large family one would assume the library would be filled with more people; that some would take pleasure in the bound pages of knowledge. All I could see were two young boys sitting dejected at a table with a septa.
It brought a small smile to my face, they likely wanted to be anywhere but here. I shook my head and went to the aisle where I assumed the recipes would be. The first book that caught my eye was quickly drawn from the shelf along with a few others for extra measure.
I must have gotten lost in the black ink of the worn pages for a longer period than I assumed, looking up from the table I could see the darkness of night settling in on the horizon.
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Catelyn Tully Stark had made her way back to the camp being set right outside the twins, her head raised as she thought of her situation.
Walder Frey had stated that his toll would be one of his daughters marrying her eldest son and his youngest son marrying her youngest daughter.
Surely Arya would disapprove, alas she was not present to protest.
Her eldest on the other hand, was.
She nodded to one of the guards posted outside the meeting tent, he opened a flap to allow her entre. The voices of the bannermen had reached her ears.
Her entrance brought the men to their feet, Robb is the first to speak with a twinge of hope in his voice, “Well, what did he say?”
“Lord Walder has granted your crossing,” Robb and Theon shared a look of victory among themselves as Catelyn continued “his men are yours as well—less the 400 he will keep to hold the crossing.”
“And what does he want in return?” She took in a deep breath before resuming, “You will be taking on his son, Olyvar, as your personal squire, he expects a knighthood in good time.”
Her son could tell there was more to come and was getting a bit restless “Fine, fine. And…?”
“And Arya will marry his son Waldron when they both come of age.”
He huffed, “She won't be happy about that.”
Catelyn looked to the side and let out an unsure hum leading him to continue this back and forth “And..?”
“And… when the fighting is done you will marry one of his daughters,”
Theon’s head snapped to look at Robb as she quickly added “Whichever of them you prefer. He has a number he thinks will be… suitable”
“I see.” His jaw tensed and his eyes drifted to squint at the table in front of them.
“Did you get a look at his daughters?” Theon’s snickering results in Catelyn sending the boy a look of warning that her son mirrors.
“I did,”
“And?”
She hesitates, “…one or two were…” Robb took a deep breath, looking around the room.
“Do you consent?” the woman asks, Robb replies “Can I refuse?”
“Not if you want to cross.” that seemed to spark something in him as he steeled his look, “Then I consent.”
As he pushed past Theon, Catelyn heaved a sigh calling out to him “I take it that I will be choosing your betrothed?” she could hear his grunt of approval as he stepped further into the buzz of the camp.
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I awoke just before day break, the nerves had my stomach turning violently throughout the night.
I dressed myself in a simple gray dress, something light enough to where I would not get overheated in the kitchen.
The walk to the kitchens had been a pleasant one, it seemed the excitement from yesterday had tired most of those present. Not that I would be found complaining. The less I am seen scurrying through the halls the less likely I am to be caught in my lie to Lady Stark.
As I entered the room I spotted a few early risers beginning to make the food for the break-fast. One of which had been a woman, some years older than me, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun and her expression focused on the kneading of the dough she had spread on one of the counter surfaces. I took a second to rethink my decision– these people did not need me here to hinder their day to day activities.
Just as I was going to step back out the door the woman’s eyes snapped up to meet mine, hers narrowing in confusion before she began her questioning, “Who might you be girl. what business could you have being up at this hour?”
Her tone did not leave room for refusal so I spoke up while bowing my head in greeting, “Good morning, my apologies for interrupting but I was wondering if I could use a portion of your space to attempt to bake some cakes.” I do hope my voice did not come off as shaky as it did in my mind.
“Do you have any experience in baking?” her brows raised as if she were challenging me.
The jest is on her for I had no experience to challenge in the first place.
“I am afraid not missus. That is why I came; to learn.”
“And how exactly will you be learning?”
Well, I was not expecting to be questioned this much.
“I brought some recipes that I found in the library—”
“Those damned books are worth a fat rat's ass for a sapling like you” My mouth fell open in shock, as I was blinking she continued to roughly smack the dough onto the surface all the while keeping her gaze on me.
“I..I beg your pardon…”
“You are pardoned. Now make your way over here and watch how I knead the dough, if you want to learn you have to see how to do it first hand.”
Once again left with no other option I scrambled closer with a soft “Ah, okay” leaving my mouth.
With one hand she pointed to a bowl nearby. “There are sliced lemons in there soaking with water and sugar, take the mini cakes tray and lay a slice in each mold.”
I made quick work of the task given, out of the corner of my eyes I could see her add ingredients to a separate bowl after placing the dough in a tin, for rising I assume.
As though she felt my stare she snapped “Come and take note of what I am adding, this will be your cake mixture.”
Once the mixture was made she reluctantly allowed me to use a spoon and transfer it into the molds atop each lemon slice. A silence consumed us, it was not unwelcome. In fact, it felt good to have it. I could focus on spooning the batter without any other worries.
The woman took the tray from my reach as soon as the last drop fell from the spoon, she moved to place it into the nearest stone oven. With her back turned to me, I eyed the batter left on the sides of the wooden bowl. It smelled heavenly, surely she would not mind if I just took a lick would she… just as my finger lifted with some of the batter lifted to my lips she approached and gave it a sharp smack. I let out a yelp as a slight sting went up my arm. Did this woman really hit me?
“You haven't earned the right to eat the batter yet. Go wash your hands. The honey cakes are next.”
My brows furrowed in frustration as I huffed out a rebuttal “How exactly does one earn the right to lick spare batter?”
“By listening to what they are being taught. Did I not say to go wash your hands?” I felt like a child being chastised by their mother. It’s humiliating.
Should I tell her I am one of Lord Walder Frey's many children? Would that even matter? She is clearly crazed.
I suppose it wouldn't hurt to try, I brought forward the sternest voice I could while reaching my hand back into the bowl, "Who even are you! You have no right to-" I let out another gasp; this old bat smacked my hand again. Unbelievable.
“I said no! Now go wash your filthy little mittens!”
I’ll show her filth alright. “They are not filthy you hag!” there was some flour still on the counter so I took some into my palm and tossed it right at her face. That seemed to get her riled up, so much so that she returned the favor. A cloud of flour surrounded our space, obstructing my vision. That did little to stop me from reaching onto the counter, the hag having the same idea. As we both reached for another handful a gasp came from the doors.
An older man, likely in his fifties, had walked in on us covered in flour with more handfuls ready to launch. We froze as his look of disbelief turned into an amused grin. He burst into a loud, warming laugh; as the volume shook his broad shoulders, a small woman came up from behind him curious as to what made him react in such a way. I quickly dropped my hands, the flour pooling onto the floor, doubling when the older woman copied my movements.
The lady began to blink rapidly, making sure that her eyes were not playing tricks on her. She then sighed and moved through one of the rooms nearby only to return with a broom and dustpan in hand.
The man stepped forward wiping tears from his eyes. I don't think we looked that funny. “What are you two doing? Trying to scare poor old Eugene dressed as ghosts?” the lady scoffed lightly at that, “Do not jest with them Beric, come, wipe the counters lest someone see the kitchen in such a state.”
She approached us and started sweeping up the flour from the stone flooring. Standing there left me with the feeling of uselessness yet again, “My apologies for the mess I made, I shall clean it up myself” the woman looked at me with her brow raised as the lady happily handed me the wooden handle of the broom.
All three pairs of eyes were on me as I gently moved the stick back and forth. The man, whose name I assumed was Beric, took several steps in our direction, a mischievous smile on his face. He proceeded to cup his hands around the flour from the counter and push it onto the floor.
The floor I had just cleared.
This kitchen will be the death of me.
The hag snorted, causing even more flour to sprout from her face and onto the floor. I looked up at her in annoyance, for an older woman one would assume she grew out of this childishness.
My glare was wiped by the lady letting out a small laugh, “What is your name darling, we had no idea we were getting new help” I gave her my name with a small smile and she gave me hers, Elyse, a beautiful name.
The other woman got shot a look by Elyse resulting in her mumble an introduction, “Names Jocey, m’ one of the bakers”
Beric clapped his hands together, creating yet another cloud of dust around us, ”Now that we are done with introductions, let us begin preparations for the break-fast”
Oh, I don't think so.
“Actually–” the old bat quickly cut me off, “She would be of little help, a burden in fact. I say we send her to whence she came.”
My face pinched, how would she know? I had done most of what she asked perfectly.
Before I could argue back Elyse stepped in “There is no need for your remarks Jo, the girl will stick with me today.”
I held in a sigh. I am not leaving this kitchen anytime soon am I?
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I ended up staying to help with the morning meals, tidying after and remaining for the mid day meal as well. The more time that passed, the more people showed face, each greeting me with a warmth I rarely got from my own family. The kitchen staff were far more pleasant than I had previously imagined, save for Jocey of course. She had not relented in her glares throughout the day.
The lemon cakes had come out a darker golden than they should have, likely due to our distractions. The caramelized lemons had been a sweet touch that had saved the pastry in all honesty.
I made sure to slip from the room for supper and head back to my chambers for a well deserved bath. I felt a distinct smell cling to my clothing and hair that I was desperate to rid myself of. The familiar sight of my bed had me rushing to clean myself.
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I ended up staying to help with the morning meals, tidying after and remaining for the mid day meal as well. The more time that passed, the more people showed face, each greeting me with a warmth I rarely got from my own family. The kitchen staff were far more pleasant than I had previously imagined, save for Jocey of course. She had not relented in her glares throughout the day.
The lemon cakes had come out a darker golden than they should have, likely due to our distractions. The caramelized lemons had been a sweet touch that had saved the pastry in all honesty.
I made sure to slip from the room for supper and head back to my chambers for a well deserved bath. I felt a distinct smell cling to my clothing and hair that I was desperate to rid myself of. The familiar sight of my bed had me rushing to clean myself.
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Deep into the northerners camp Catelyn wrote the acceptance of the betrothals on a piece of parchment, with a heavy hand she wrote the name of the woman that was to marry her eldest, her first son. The letter would be left with Walder Frey during the march through the Twins. She held onto her maternal intuition that she was doing what was best for her family.
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END OF CHAPTER 2
Chapter 3
A/N: FIRST OFF IM SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG TO POST. TUMBLR WAS BEING WEIRD AND NOT LETTING ME TRANSFER MY FIC FROM MY DOC OVER. Im trying to plan out how i'm gonna include more Robb povs.
Also I used direct quotes from episodes for Robbs part so if it seemed a little off, that's why.
HIII So I wasnt expecting for that fic to actually get likes but I do have chapter two ready, it should be out by friday latest <3 Also I might change the title at some point lol, it was just a spur of the moment decision. Id love any suggestions you may have once there like 5 chapters out.
Summary: Robb Stark is promised to a Frey girl, neither side wished for this outcome but must continue on for the sake of their houses.
Tropes/ Paring: Robb Stark x Frey!Reader
Warnings: None, for now :)
W.C: 1,206
A/N: This is my first fic, I'm not very good at keeping the manner of speaking the same so please feel free to give me some advice or constructive criticism on ANYTHING (in a respectful manor lol)
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My family had never known me for being patient, as a matter of fact, I was not known much if at all. Walder Frey had far too many children for each of them to have their own moments of self discovery in his eyes. Unless they were exceptional and could provide house Frey with some sort of advantage, each child was kept on the back burner for marriage.
At least, that's what I have noted from my years in this keep. I had spent my life studying those around me, always watching from the crowd as father continued his shady business with those who wished to pass through the twins.
I could go on and on about how each family member had their traits and ticks that stuck. For example, my older sister Tyta, had seemingly been glued to the furthest corner of the hall for as long as I can remember; never making moves to socialize with possible suitors. I’ve learnt that she gets fainting spells when talking to men. This has hindered past betrothals thus giving her the name ‘the maid’. She seldom speaks to anyone, so hearing her nervous whispers with one of our half sisters gave the impression that she was specially perturbed.
Our Lord Father had called for his daughters, a common recurrence when a poor soul falls into his greedy grasp.
He calls out for his children and grandchildren to be plucked from our home and placed into those of men who could not find another way to pay the twins toll; one the ‘Late Walder Frey’ never failed to extract.
On the way to the hall I had come across some foot traffic as the cool brick of the twins had felt as though it had shrunk in size, forcing the lot of us closer with anxiety. Each girl fumbling with their skirts or hair to make themselves as presentable as possible in the hopes they would be chosen as the next Frey bride.
There had been whispers of an army settling just outside the crossing, rumors of a gray furred wolf the size of a pony roaming the lands below had spread among the crowd of girls. The news of a rebellion coming from the north scattered across Westeros like wildfire, while the involvement of house Frey would be inevitable, no one had suspected that we would come into play this early on into the fighting.
I overheard one of the younger girls mention Catelyn Tully, while she had become a Stark before I was born, it does little to remove the title of Tully. She was marching south with her son to rescue Eddard Stark and her daughters from the Lannisters, a noble cause, but in order to get south they would need the crossing. And what better way to cement our loyalty than a betrothal? I couldn't help but wonder who she would have betrothed to one of our family. After all, the Tullys had always looked down on the Frey’s or in fathers words, “pissing on us”; they had been rejecting proposals for near decades. If she would allow a marriage to happen now they must be desperate.
The thoughts that consumed me had vanished into the tense air that was in the main hall, the Frey men were already surrounding their father as he barked orders for the woman to line up.
It was humiliating, having to sort ourselves like cattle while gawking at Lady Stark. She was just as beautiful as they say, from her fair skin to her thick hair that seemed to shimmer a deep red in the light. Her deep blue eyes were intimidating, in the way that made you feel like your every move was being judged.
Unease rippled through the group of girls in waves, once we got into positions Lord Walder made the announcement, “Lady Catelyn is here to choose a wife for her son–” he turned to her with a furrowed brow and sleazy smirk “-Ron was it?”
There was the slightest twitch in the corner of Lady Catelyn's tightly pulled lips, “Robb.”
His clouded eyes somehow gained a light of amusement as he replied, “Ah. Right.”
She returned her gaze to the group, a perfectly practiced smile graced upon her face “Please introduce yourselves and state an interest of yours-” “and do keep it short we do not have all day.” Lord Frey had cut the Lady’s statement short, her eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second, it would have slipped from anyone else's watch but I had kept my eyes locked on her.
It's not every day that I get to see a truly poised Lady such as this one, I did not want to let anything escape my sight.
She made her way to the far right of the line, each step holding a level of grace and confidence that was uncommon in this keep. I wonder how it would feel to have such a presence. Maybe I should practice walking like that? Hm. I would likely look similar to a bird puffing its chest waiting for a mate, how utterly ridic–
Oh. She's right behind me isn't she?
I was so entrapped in my thoughts I had yet to notice that Lady Stark had already found her way around most of the girls, she was speaking to the girl next to me.
What was her name again? I averted my gaze to the floor trying to piece together if the girls near me were sisters or nieces, maybe even grandnieces.
The soft skirts of Catelyn entered my line of sight, “Hello dear”
Ah. Was I supposed to curtsy or bow? Too late. I'm trembling now. I clutched at my hands behind my back, gods be good it makes me stand straighter.
Wow. Her eyes really are captivating, it's astonishing really.
I blinked twice trying to etch her eyes into my memory as I scrambled for a response “A pleasure to meet you my lady,” I bowed my head to the floor as I gave her my name, eyes searching the room for an idea of a pass time to give, lets see, a knife– carving? No, that's unladylike. Candles. Candle making? That's a common folks job is it not? Oh! Bread, that’s perfect “I enjoy baking in my spare time, my lady” I tried to give her my best smile.
She raised her brows, gods she even showed surprise gracefully, “Oh! If you do not mind me asking, do you bake any cakes?”
I was not prepared for this, did she speak to the others this much? Perhaps I should have been paying more attention to the conversations.
“Yes, I rather enjoy making lemon and honey cakes”
A lie.
“How wonderful, I would love to try them the next we meet”
Next we meet?
“It would be an honor my lady” I dropped into what I hoped was an elegant curtsy as she nodded and continued to move the rest of the line.
I could feel the stares of the other girls. I would gather that Lady Catelyn had not spoken to them as much as I.
Mayhaps they knew I had yet to make an edible cake in my lifetime.
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END OF CHAPTER 1.
A/N: I had some fun writing this, I hope you enjoy it!
Okay so I'm working on a Robb Stark x Frey Reader with the classic arranged marriage during the war. Its gonna have angst with Robb rejecting reader due to his connection with Talisa, I'll update as I go so after the first two chapters updates are gonna be sporadic
About: The pain one feels through living and losing often shapes them into the person they become. Love does not betray you, no. It's those who strive for more than they deserve that betray you. Your life with Robb, before everything went to shambles, was a beautiful one filled with love and joy. But the world has a funny way of taking everything you've ever known and throwing it away, only to, at some point, give it back.
Pairing: Robb Stark/Baratheon! Reader
Warnings: Explicit content, adult themes, heavy topics, each chapter will have specific tags for anything triggering,
Current Posting Schedule: After writing the first few chapters, I will aim to post each chapter on Saturdays! This is subject to change.
Now out of The Maze, everyone is enjoying their newfound sense of safety. Everyone except for Thomas.
He can’t enjoy the soft beds or the clean clothes or the food, because he’s too worried about you. You’re quarantined off somewhere else (presumably with other girls), and he hasn't seen you in days.
When he finally sees you, he’s too thankful to question why the two of you are put in a room alone together. Too thankful to question the mysterious smoke that’s pumped into the room. Too thankful to question why the door is locked.
Thomas (TMR) x Fem!Reader. Friends to Lovers. Smut/PWP. Sex Pollen. Set during The Scorch Trials.
Word Count: 7,900
The Maze Runner Masterlist | AO3 Link
Full list of warnings and author's notes below the cut.
Warnings: general warning that any and all TMR fics I write will be based on the movies and not the books, so any lore inaccuracies can be blamed on that; also this is a YA series, but DoB was in his 20s when he played Thomas, so for our purpose, these characters are aged up to at least 19 or 20; often sex pollen comes with a dubcon warning, but I’m not sure that applies here - these characters have a great deal of pre-existing affection for each other (I might even go so far as to say that they are in love), and they would have intensely enthusiastic consent, even without chemical enhancement; the reader does have some mental hesitation when she feels the pollen taking effect, but it’s not because she doesn’t want to have sex with Thomas, it’s because of PTSD from WCKD and feeling suspicious towards them (and when Thomas assures her that he will ‘take care of her’, she enthusiastically consents to having sex); warnings for unethical science because our characters do not know that they are part of a science experiment and have not consented to have these chemicals used on them (but that is just the canon of WCKD); the reader character has a vagina and uses she/her pronouns; this fic DOES USE Y/N; this fic uses the beautiful age old trope that the reader character was the only girl in The Maze; mentions of the mental and emotional effects of isolation - the reader has been isolated from everyone else since leaving The Maze and Thomas is the first of her friends that she sees in days; this is mostly just smut with very little plot; because of the canon, both characters have had their memories erased and theoretically might be virgins or might not be virgins (yes, in the book, they were put into the Maze as ‘children’, but as I said, for my purposes, everyone is aged up) - so I am not explicitly stating if this is their first sexual experience or not, but this is their first sexual experience as a couple/first sexual experience with each other; as mentioned before, the main point of this is sex pollen - in the form of a mysterious sci-fi chemical compound that is injected into a locked room by WCKD as a part of a random experiment; scent kink - Thomas loves the way Reader smells (and has since long before being dosed with sex pollen); orgasm from clit stimulation through clothing; oral sex - reader receiving; hair pulling - Thomas receiving; unprotected penis in vagina sex; there is NO breeding kink here (the characters aren’t motivated or turned on by the idea of having a baby); there is creampie kink - Thomas does not pull out, and the characters are turned on by the idea of him cumming inside of her; Thomas is very possessive in this fic (but it’s almost unconscious, as a need to keep the reader safe, not in a jealous or romantic way); cockwarming - they fall sleeping while Thomas’s cock is still inside of the reader; the ending is slightly bittersweet (it’s implied that the reader is kidnapped/hurt by WCKD, but not explicitly stated). I believe that’s all for this short fic.
A/N: I am genuinely surprised that it took me this long to write and post a sex pollen fic, because it's absolutely one of my favourite tropes ever to read. WCKD is such a perfect backdrop for a sex pollen fic - shady unethical company that does weird science experiments - it's just too fitting. I have a few more sex pollen fics in my drafts that are yet to be finished, but I can definitely see myself writing a lot more of this trope because it was so much damn fun lmao. I will squeeze it into any fic universe that I possibly can. I love tropes that make things hornier than they should be - sex pollen, fuck or die, hate sex. All of it. Anyway - I hope you enjoy the fic, especially those of you who have been waiting for this fic in particular!!
...
Thomas was going insane.
At least - that’s what it felt like. Sure, escaping The Maze had been a victory. Being rescued by the military and being taken to a (supposedly) safe place was, for all intents and purposes - a victory.
But there was one detail that Thomas was hung up on that nobody else seemed to care about. While everybody else seemed content to go about their ‘new’ everyday lives - sleeping in the dorms, eating in the cafeteria, going through the barrage of medical tests without question - you were missing. And apparently, Thomas was the only one who seemed to care.
Perhaps that was an exaggeration, seeing as the other boys from the Glade had known you longer, and they were likely worried about you silently because you were a dear friend to them. But it certainly felt like Thomas was the only one who was anxiously awaiting your return.
When Thomas had come out of the Box, terrified, clueless, panicked - you had been the first person to be truly kind to him, rather than laughing at his blundering confusion. Every single time there had been an argument, you had stepped between him and Gally, making yourself known as a calm, motherly force that the other boys listened to - more out of habit than fear.
You were a kind leader in the Glade that everyone respected, because you had earned their respect. Not because you bullied them into following you or even because you wielded some kind of natural seniority over them like Alby had. You were kind and sweet, and all the boys responded to that.
Thomas had been surprised to learn that you had been one of the first people ever to come out of the Box. The second ever, according to Alby. You had such a strong, long-standing friendship with Alby, such a close bond with him. When Thomas saw the tears that streaked your face when you thought that Minho and Alby weren’t going to make it back before the doors closed was likely the number one thing that motivated Thomas to go dashing inside. He had wanted to rescue your closest friend for you. Some signal, some blaring siren inside him that screamed that he would do anything for you, that he needed to protect you.
It was the same thing that caused him to hold you tight when you saw Alby slowly dying from the poison of the Griever’s sting, letting you cry on his shoulder. The same thing that drove him back into The Maze, looking for a way out. A deep longing to escape, to find a better home for you.
And now, he was going more insane with each passing minute that you weren’t in front of his eyes. He was being driven out of his mind with each moment that your hand wasn’t grasped tightly within his own. Each moment that he couldn’t see you, feel you, hear your voice and know for certain that you were okay - it was slowly driving him mad.
When the group had first arrived at this facility, this supposedly safe place - you had been ushered away from the rest of the group, viciously torn out of Thomas’s arms. His grasp on your hand the whole time had been bordering on melting his flesh into your own, and he was surprised when you had been the one to relax your hand out of that grip and give him that same soothing voice you did when he got into fights with Gally - telling him that it would be okay, that you would ‘catch up with them’ later.
Thomas had wanted to kick and scream - he had wanted to yell, complain, protest about you being separated from everyone. He wanted to put up a fight about you being separated from him. But Minho clamped a hand on his shoulder and advised him to ‘shut the hell up’, clearly not wanting to upset the fragile peace they had established. Not wanting to disrupt the safety they had so freshly claimed.
So Thomas kept his mouth shut - for now. It was for the greater good of the group. Everyone was bathed, clothed, fed, sleeping in warm beds. But he couldn’t help but to feel strange that he was the only one worried about you when they hadn’t seen you in days now.
Minho simply assumed that girls weren’t allowed to co-mingle with guys in this new facility - and maybe he was right about that. But something about the whole thing just felt off to Thomas. It kept him on edge and kept him from sleeping more than an hour or so most nights while the other boys slumbered peacefully around him.
On this particular day, Thomas was in the middle of picking at his meal, scoping out the area, theorizing if he could sneak past the guards somehow. If he could get past them, he could venture down any number of the hallways that they hadn’t been to before in order to look for you. He had all this romping through his mind at a break-rate pace when someone came up behind him - tapping on his shoulder and breaking him from these thoughts in a way that utterly startled him.
Thomas whipped his head around to find one of those anonymous masked soldiers standing behind him.
“Thomas?”
He nodded in response.
“Come with me.”
Thomas wanted to question it, and when he looked back across the table, he saw Minho, Newt, and Fry looking at him with concern - but he gave them a gentle nod and rose from his seat to follow the man. Something in his gut told him that this might finally lead him to you - that his patience would finally pay off. And he wouldn’t risk that by throwing an emotional fit now.
He followed the man through a door he had never been allowed to touch before, down a long hallway, through another set of doors, and down several more long hallways - Thomas memorized the twists and turns as he had done with The Maze. First left, then right, then another left. It felt like they had been walking for too long, and Thomas had to wonder just how large this building was.
Just as Thomas was starting to feel truly on edge, the man came to a stop in front of a seemingly random door - one with a number on it. 708. He reached out, turned the handle, and opened the door. Then he nodded toward it.
“In.” He said, giving Thomas a simple, brute instruction to get inside.
Thomas was anxious and hesitant, but he pushed back those feelings - and he ended up being so glad that he did.
When he stepped inside, he was overjoyed to see you.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed (it was a room that, upon closer inspection was more like a one room prison cell - with a single bed, a single a toilet in the corner, and a small metal desk with a chair in the other corner) - you looked up when you saw movement in the doorway, having no clue what was coming next.
Your entire face lit up with intense joy when you saw Thomas.
“Thomas!” You cried out his name with intense relief, emotional tears quickly springing up in the corners of your eyes as you jumped off the bed and rushed to greet him.
“Y/N,” He breathed out your name like a prayer, his arms opening wide for you as they had been many times before.
You were quick to fall into the hug, tightly wrapping your arms around his strong torso, not wanting to let him go anytime soon. You had just been escorted back from your daily shower and your fresh clothes were still clinging to you with wetness, but he definitely didn’t mind the feeling of your damp skin under his hands. He didn’t care if you were getting his clothes wet because it was you.
It only truly hit you now how utterly terrifying the past few days had been. Going from your home in the Glade to such a strange new place, being ripped away from everything you had ever known. Alby’s death, Chuck’s death, Gally’s death - your friends dropping like flies. Being brought here and being ripped away from the safety of your friends, ripped away from the last people you knew and being completely isolated from them, not knowing when you would get to see them again.
Thomas’s tight hold around you - the familiarity of his body surrounding you, making you feel safe, it was something that made you realize how truly alone and scared you had been over the past few days. It made you realize that you had been swallowing down all of your emotions in an effort to protect yourself. It made you realize how much you truly cherished his hugs. How much you truly cherished him.
“I was so worried about you.” Thomas breathed out, clearly making a heaving effort not to cry himself.
You let out a gentle sob into his chest and he rubbed your back, trying his best to comfort you.
“It’s okay.” He assured you. “It’s okay - I’m here now. I’ve got you. I’m not gonna let you go ever again. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, Y/N - I swear.”
Unconsciously, he was promising these things more to himself. He felt like a failure for letting you out of his sight in the first place. He had no clue what they had done to you that had made you so upset, and he cursed himself for not being with you in order to protect you from it. Even though he didn’t know what ‘it’ was, it was stupid for letting anything bad happen to you.
If either of you had been paying more attention, less caught up in the heightened emotions of the reunion, then you would have noticed the door sealing shut behind Thomas. You would have noticed the heavy ‘click’ of the lock as both of you became trapped there. But you had each other back now, and you couldn’t exactly care where you were in those moments - as long as you were in each others’ arms.
“What happened?” Thomas demanded sharply, pulling away from the hug slightly in order to put a hand on your chin, forcing your tear-streaked gaze toward his, hoping to get the truth out of you. “What did they do? What did they do to you?”
His energy increased in franticness the longer he went without an answer, staring at the sadness in your eyes with a knot forming in his stomach.
“Nothing.” You quickly replied, feeling as though this was the truth.
They hadn’t done anything to you. At least not anything that was outwardly malicious.
They had let you shower, given you fresh clothes, fed you three healthy meals a day. And other than the medical appointments that you didn’t fully understand the point of (some of which were slightly more invasive than you would have liked), none of it was dangerous or painful. You had simply been kept in this room the whole time. You had been scared from being under-informed and lonely from not being allowed to see your friends.
But none of that seemed like a crime. Especially compared to the treacherous deadly Grievers in The Maze.
“Please don’t lie to me.” Thomas said quietly, his throat choked off by the intensity of the emotions - the grief he felt for your sadness, the anger he was holding back toward whoever had hurt you. (And towards himself for not better protecting you.)
“Look, it’s nothing.”
You assured him, reaching up and grabbing his hand, soothingly petting your fingers over his knuckles in a gesture almost too affectionate for someone you called ‘friend’.
“Just - I was lonely. And I was scared because they wouldn’t let me see you. I was probably stuck in here, feeling all the same things you felt-”
Thomas cut off your words by pulling you back into another crushing hug, which you eagerly leaned into, cuddling your cheek into his chest, enjoying the warmth and the safety you felt from having his arms around you again.
“Yeah.” He easily agreed to this sentiment. And then he wondered: “Where have you been the whole time?”
“Just here.” You told him honestly.
You didn’t feel the need to tell him about the doctor’s appointments - even the unpleasant ones. Especially because you assumed that he and the other boys had been through the same, likely with a different doctor.
This caused another knot in Thomas’s gut. They had been keeping you in the same tiny room, not letting you see any other people? So - Minho’s theory about you being off in some other dorm making friends with a bunch of girls had been completely wrong.
It wasn’t outright cruel, but it made alarms go off in Thomas’s head. It made his protective instincts toward you act up again.
“I won’t let that happen to you again.” Thomas said firmly, trying his best to be assuring, even though he knew that he had no real authority over the decision.
He cradled your head soothingly, petting a hand over your hair in a sweet, protective way.
“Thomas-”
You were about to remind him of the fact that he held no power over this when a very strange sound caused your voice to shrink back into your throat as you became distracted.
You and Thomas both became drawn to the sound, both of your heads whipping up to look at it. Immediately, you saw that some of the tiles lining the ceiling had shrunk back, making way for small metal tubes that protruded out of the walls all around the room, creating a high-pitched hissing noise as they sprayed some kind of white mist into the air. This went on for about twenty seconds before it stopped, and then the tubes retracted back into the walls and the tiles slid back into their usual place.
…
“Chemical compound LI69 has been distributed.”
“How long until the subjects feel the effects?”
“Effects will be immediate. Symptoms should be noticeable in ten to twenty minutes. Desired outcome will be inevitable within twenty four hours.”
“Good. Keep bi-hourly notes. I want a full report.”
…
“What - what the hell was that?” Thomas wondered aloud, frantically looking around the room where the tubes had disappeared into the walls.
“I don’t know.” You replied honestly. “I mean - that’s never happened before. It - it was probably a disinfectant or something,” You shrugged, trying to rationalize it, trying not to jump to the conclusion that it was something poisonous or harmful.
Thomas let go of you and whipped around to the door - panic flooded him when he turned the handle and found it locked.
“Hello?!” He screamed, banging on the door and fruitlessly jiggling the handle. “Hello?! Assholes! You can let us out now!”
“Thomas,” You scolded him gently - his panic naturally unsettling to you.
You wanted him to calm down - his nervous energy was making you nervous. And you had spent far too much time over the past few days cramped up inside of this room being nervous. You wanted to simply be able to enjoy the pleasant fact of his presence after missing him for what felt like decades of loneliness. But Thomas wasn’t going to lay down and make that easy on you.
He rushed to the other end of the room, stepping up onto the desk chair and then the desk, peering into the vent as though he would be able to find a way out through there.
“Thomas, please - just calm down. I’m sure it was nothing.” You continued, trying to get him to calm down.
“Nothing?” He scoffed. “It’s never just ‘nothing’ with these people.”
This was the last thing he said to you before his mind locked in on the task, and he focused on trying to find a way out of the small room.
He spent a few minutes trying to loosen the bolts on the vent (which wouldn’t have been large enough for either of you to crawl out even if he did get the vent cover off). So all he did was make his fingers sore fighting against the welded metal. And then he moved on to brute force - he picked up the chair and tried to simply beat the doorknob clean off.
But again, it was something that was very well made, seemingly bulletproof. And by the time he had taken a few good swings, he was heaving with sweat, breathless, and he found it to be way too hot in the small space.
Surely his body was boiling over from the efforts of swinging the chair around in such a small, closed space. So he placed it down and moved to take off his shirt, surprised by just how damp the fabric was, seeped with sweat already in such a short time. He balled up the fabric and began patting himself down with it, trying to get some relief on his overly heated skin.
And then, his entire system became utterly distracted by a single, tiny sound.
A whimper.
He whipped his head around at lightning speed, realizing that it had been you who had made that sound - it had been your whimper. And suddenly, everything in Thomas’s body, every single one of his senses became utterly overwhelmed by you.
The sight of you on the bed, sitting patiently, waiting for him to fetter away at whatever plan he came up with next - you looked so stunning, so breath-taking. You were covered in a sheen of sweat, obviously warmer than before - so it wasn’t just Thomas. It wasn’t just because of his exertion in trying to break out of here.
Were they turning up the temperature in the room? Were they planning to cook the two of you as some kind of punishment?
Yet - that thought quickly dissolved off into Thomas’s mind as a distant worry the more he looked at you; the more he drank in your slightly parted, bitten lips - so pretty, so kissable. The more he looked at the way stray hairs stuck to your flushed, sticky skin, wanting to gently wipe them out of the way. The more he admired your breasts gently heaving with each breath, your nipples sticking off through your shirt and thin bra.
He wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed it before, but he could even smell you in the air.
Your natural smell was something so prominent in the air, something so perfect he could suffocate in tight in the small space. Shamefully, that scent was something he knew so damn well, something he had memorized and treasured close when his memories of life had still been so few and his head had still been so empty.
Hugging you those first few times, he had tucked his nose into your hair and greedily whiffed deep breaths of your scent, absolutely loving how you were sweet, soapy. Even if you were slightly sweaty from a long day of work, your natural scent was so damn perfect to him.
It was a smell that he loved so dearly - on top of everything else that he loved about you.
This time that wonderful scent that he knew as yours had something else underlying with it - something needy and pungent that he wouldn’t quite know yet was arousal. Your arousal. But it was bringing back that feeling of anxious insanity that he had been boiling with earlier that day. The feeling that made him practically crawl out of his own skin, feeling like he needed to get to you. Feeling like he needed to save you from some big, unseen danger.
Here, now, being in this room with you - he still didn’t feel close enough. He wasn’t close enough to you. He still didn’t feel as though that anxious thing inside of him, calling out for you had been answered. Not yet.
Thomas had the urge to reach out and pull you close, hold you in his arms again, but he had a feeling that he would squeeze you tight and not want to let go - and then he would lose focus on getting you out of this room and to a safe place. And that just wouldn’t do.
“Thomas - you-your shirt…” You whispered the words on the edge of your breath, as though you were breaking some terrible secret by speaking it aloud.
He had almost forgotten that he had stripped off his shirt in such a haste. The fabric was now clutched tightly in his shaking fist. Unconsciously, he was directing all of his energy to that point, furiously focusing on his grip to help himself resist the urge to reach out and grab you.
He hadn’t yet noticed the way you were looking at him.
Your eyes hungrily raking over his bare torso, scanning over every inch of him. From the muscles that bulged in his biceps while he moved, to the veins protruding in his forearms, to the trail of delicious dark hair down from his belly button that disappeared into his pants. It was a way you had never looked at him before. You had never truly noticed how Thomas - your strong, comforting Thomas - was so utterly, carnally sexy.
He thought nothing of taking off his shirt in front of you, because it was something he had done plenty of times before. He had done it while working in the gardens with you (as a leader in the Glade, you had rotated jobs a lot, going wherever a spare hand was needed). And you certainly hadn’t looked at him with anything resembling hunger in your eyes back then.
At least, he thought you hadn’t.
“Sorry.” He mumbled out, worried that he had made you uncomfortable by stripping so casually in front of you. “I just find it really warm in here, too warm, it’s hot - do you find it hot?”
He had to ask, hating that nagging heat, almost as if it was crawling under his skin - something so much different from the pleasantly warm sun of the Glade. This was a heat bubbling up from his very core, pin-pricking all over his skin from the inside out. He wondered if this was what a fever felt like.
Was he getting sick? Was he going to get you sick?
He felt another thick bead of sweat roll down his face and he used his balled up shirt to wipe it off.
“I guess?” You huffed out, seeming irritated. “Maybe.”
You squirmed on the spot and let out a pained sound, something that had Thomas on high alert once again.
“What’s wrong?” Thomas asked, purposefully locking his knees to keep himself from jumping toward you.
If he was getting sick, then invading your personal space wouldn’t be a good idea. In fact - he made it a point to take a step back, putting distance between himself and you. But he kept his eyes locked on you, keeping a protective watch over you while his back became flush with the metal of the door. It was a pleasantly cooling sensation for a moment before the fever inside of him overpowered it - reminding him just how boiling hot he was.
“It hurts.” You told him, your voice dissolving into a shaky, pained whine.
Shamefully, the sound rocked Thomas, and flooded him with something that could have only been described as arousal.
Fuck.
The way you looked up at him with glassy-eyes, tears barely edging your waterline, clearly hot and overwhelmed yourself, squirming against the bed - trying to get some friction against your… oh. Oh wow. That realization rocked him like a ton of bricks to the head, and even more heat swelled up inside of his gut.
You must have been feeling all the same things that he was.
Dizzy, hot, overwhelmed - having an intense need to hold you and to be held. Brain thumping with nothing but thoughts of you, mind littered with nothing but your smell, nothing but thoughts of your skin. Willing to do anything for you at a moment’s notice.
Thomas finally let himself flex to those needs, and raced across the room toward you - literally falling on his knees in front of you.
If you had pain, he would fix it. He would do anything for you.
“What hurts?” He asked, realizing that the desperation throttling his throat made it sound more like he was begging. But he was too far gone to care. “What hurts? What’s wrong? Come on, tell me. Please.”
You were almost too incoherent to put the feeling into words so quickly, as quickly as he needed you too. You were too distracted by the sight of his big soft brown eyes staring up at you with utter worship in them - along with his pink cheeks and bits of his dark hair stuck to his face with sweat, that softness contrasted by the broad hardness of his shoulders spread across your lap.
“Thomas-” You gasped out, cut off by his next action.
“Y/N, please.”
He grabbed up both of your hands, clutching them tightly in his own - and that, the first skin-to-skin contact you had felt since becoming this overwhelmed with the heat and the need - it set something off inside of you. It sent sharp shocks up your spine and made your pussy clench around nothing, sending a flood of wetness soaking into your underwear. And it made you feel too weak for your own good in that moment.
If you lingered there for too long, you would tumble into the abyss. You would simply give into every instinct screaming inside of your body and beg for him to fuck you until you didn’t know your own name.
And even though that was everything you had ever wanted, all you could remember wanting right then and there, especially from Thomas, the small remaining sense in your brain said that it was a bad idea.
You let out a sharp gasp, and raced to escape the touch - you knocked your hands out of his and squirmed away from him, jumping up off the bed. Thomas let out a whine of disappointment and crumbled tighter onto his knees, wondering what he could have done to disappoint you. Knowing that he needed to do anything he could to make up for disappointing you.
But something inside of his skull was chanting:
She’s in pain. Make it stop. Make her pain go away.
You know the answer.
And while you panicked, hoping to fight against what your body wanted, hoping to delay the inevitable, the thing that Thomas already knew he wanted, Thomas picked himself up off the floor.
All too soon, he crowded into your personal space from behind. You let out another shocked gasp as he pressed his body into yours from behind, the firm, intensely heated muscle like wall of lava engulfing you.
This time, not letting you get away, he secured you there with a hand around your chest that was oddly comforting, making sure to pull you close and keep you close. He forced you to feel every single inch of his boiling hot body pressed right up against yours. Sweat gently sticking against you through your clothes, his hot breath huffing against your neck, and what must have been the hard bulge of his cock pressing against the roundness of your ass.
It was all too perfect. And still, something nagged in the back of your mind that you couldn’t have that perfection all to yourself. Something must have been wrong in order for this to be happening to you.
“Thomas,” You whined out - unsure if you wanted to tell him to get off or wanted to beg him for more.
Instinctively, you reached up and gripped at his forearm, sinking into the security of his touch. It was soothing, in a sense, and at the same time - it drove your body mad and made the pain in your cunt so much worse.
Any mental clarity you previously had was quickly fading.
So much so that neither of you had the mind to piece together that this was happening to you because of the chemicals that had been sprayed into the room earlier. Not that you could do much about it now.
Thomas leaned over your shoulder, stuffing his nose into your neck, taking in a purposeful, thick whiff of your scent. He drank you in so shamelessly now, so happy to have you in his arms, right where he wanted you - right where he needed you. He held your body so tight to his, almost crushing you in his grip in the most perfect way - as if worried you might escape if he let you move even an inch.
Between desperate pants, he laid slick, open-mouthed kisses along your forehead, down the side of your face - lavishing you with affection, grateful and greedy now that he had you in his arms, now that he had caught you. Grateful that he had taken you from those bastards who had stolen you from him. Grateful that he had won.
His actions left you panting wildly into the air as the heat surged within your body - this attention on your skin not being enough, but yet, your mind was too muddled with the overwhelming heat to ask for more.
He continued kissing your skin, even nosing along your cheek before he finally gathered enough of his mind to speak.
“I’ll help. I’ll help you, Y/N.”
He huffed out, heaving more of his dense beautiful breath across your skin, making you whine again in return.
“I’ll fix it. Just tell me. Just tell me what hurts. Please, tell me. I promise I’ll fix it. I can fix it.”
His utter dedication to you was sewn into every word, clutching you tighter across the chest in a way that almost crushed your windpipe - something that made you gasp for air and nearly thank him for it, wanting to dissolve back into his hot muscles and live there, somehow still not close enough.
“I’ll do anything for you, Y/N, I will. I’ll help you. Just tell me, please.”
You found the fire of that dedication more enlightening than the one slowly boiling you to death from inside, and it was that - that sacred promise that had you finally giving in. It was Thomas’s sacred affection for you that finally made you feel safe to give into your body’s needs.
You reached out and grabbed Thomas’s hand - the one hovering by his side that wasn’t keeping you trapped tightly against his chest. His fingers locked tightly in a fist without the fabric of his shirt to keep his knuckles from popping under the fury of his own grip this time. You rubbed soothingly on the back of his palm, loosening the muscles there before you guided that hand between your thighs, guiding him to touch you on your still clothed pussy, through your pants.
“Here, Tommy.” You breathed out, your tongue feeling so fat and useless in your mouth. “It hurts here. Need your help. Need you.”
Without a moment of hesitation, instantly understanding what you needed, sparked with even more desperation by the nickname on your lips, Thomas sprung into action.
He began frantically rubbing your pussy through your pants - inadvertently pushing the zipper at the front of your trousers right up against your clit with the heavy weight of his palm. A sensation that made you keen out and arch back into him as though you had been possessed, harsh, amazing tingles zapping through your body from that tiny point. You threw your head back against his shoulder and relied even more on the strength of his body and the will of his grip across your shoulders not to fall down as ravenous pleasure overtook you.
“I’ll fix it.” He huffed into your ear.
His voice barely registered to you past the shocking beautiful pleasure he was causing between your thighs as he continued to rub your clothed clit.
“I’ll make it better. I’ll make it all better.”
He laid more hot, sloppy kisses against your neck and your cheek, and you could do little more than moan out loudly and squirm against him, becoming utterly lost in the sensations. You accidentally humped your ass against his cock in a way that made him growl and rub your clit even harder, even faster. It made you absolutely alight with pleasure, filling all of your senses with nothing but him. Nothing but the feeling of his strong arm working between your thighs, nothing but the scent of his sweat in the air, nothing but his quiet growls against your ear.
“Oh, Tommy!” You moaned out. “I’m gonna-”
Before you knew it, your body had been overtaken by the intense wave of an orgasm, something that had you crying out loudly and shaking in his arms, your body beautifully dizzy in seconds. You reached out to grip his forearm, leaving claw marks in his skin while you let out a stream of incoherent sounds as the sensations rocked you.
“Hey, shh. I got you. I got you,” He was nothing but a sweet assurance in your ear - his dick still throbbing and utterly needy in his pants, but forgotten in favor of pleasing you. For now.
After a few moments, he lifted his hand from between your thighs, causing a sharp whine of disappointment from you. He used this touch to force your jaw toward him, twisting your neck awkwardly to meet him in a kiss over your shoulder. It caused an ache in your neck, but you delighted in the feeling of his lips desperately clinging to your own, the chance to steal his breath.
You had thought about kissing Thomas many times before - but you had never imagined that it would be like this.
When it was over, there was one thing that both of you knew for certain: you both needed more.
“Please, Tommy.” You breathed against his mouth as you pulled away from the kiss. “I need more. Please.”
Every single instinct inside of him screamed to follow this order - that this was the divine answer to his existence. This was everything his life had been leading up to from the moment he had seen your sweet face after he had been pulled out of that fucking Box.
“I got you.” He assured you.
He then guided you back to the bed and - very hesitantly - separated his grip from you in order to make sure that you could comfortably lay down on your back. Within seconds, he was on you again, absorbing your mouth into a hot, desperate kiss while he laid flush on top of you.
You couldn’t help but to moan into that kiss, fisting your hands into his hair, holding him tightly to you as though he was your only source of oxygen - welcoming it when his tongue forced its way into your mouth. You sucked on it and moaned around him, becoming dizzier with the heat.
When you felt his hard cock against your thigh, feeling him jutting his hips forward to try and find some relief against you - it caused a deeper pain in your pussy, a distinct feeling of emptiness and you knew that you needed more. You knew exactly what you needed - what that ‘more’ was.
You pulled back from the kiss to whimper against his lips.
“More.” You pleaded gently. “Please, Tommy.”
“Yes.” He huffed back in return. “Anything - anything for you.”
Naturally, his hands went back between your legs, and you guided him up to the button of your pants, both of you working frantically in tandem to get your pants off this time. That nagging heat only building inside of you, something telling you that you would go insane if you didn’t get your clothes off soon. While Thomas ripped your pants down over your thighs, pulling your underwear with them, you sat up slightly and ditched your shirt, leaving you wearing only the thin cotton bra that had come with this set of new clothes.
Thomas let out a growl when more of your delicious scent hit him. With your pants around your ankles, it was more pungent now, ripe in the air, smacking him in the face in the most perfect way. And he felt another wave of crippling heat punch him in the gut as it fogged his brain over. It was so pungent that it was ripe on his tongue and he needed more. Something in his brain was chanting at him that he needed to taste it - he needed to devour that delicious scent, the essence of you, right from the fucking source.
With his tongue lapping at the air like a fucking dog, Thomas let out more thick, heavy breaths while he desperately tried to untangle the fabric from your ankles, trying to free you so that he could have better access to you. After a moment too long of struggle for both of your liking, he was finally able to toss it all carelessly behind him, leaving you almost naked beneath him.
But he didn’t have a moment to marvel at the beauty of your bare body. A sight that he had imagined so many times before in his mind’s eye, snuck away into the privacy of the woods with a hand tight around his cock thinking about this exact sight - no, he couldn’t sit back and simply drink it in.
He was a man on a mission - a man living through a years long drought and finally met with the glorious fountain that would eternally quench his thirst.
He didn’t even question the need to put his mouth on your pussy, didn’t wonder why the thought was so prominently at the forefront of his mind. Instead, he simply pinned your legs open against the bed with his palms flat on your inner thighs and did it, chased the urge that rang through his mind so damn clearly.
“Oh, Thomas!”
In seconds, it was the most divine thing he had ever experienced.
With you moaning above his head, gasping out his name, with your taste so pungent on his tongue, with your heat beating under his mouth - it was too fucking perfect to let go of.
Thomas moaned into your pussy, pure fuzzy pleasure melting his brain between his ears, making it impossible for him to think of anything but you. His mind filled with nothing but feed me, feed me, keep me alive, you are my life.
The thick taste of your wetness on his tongue was all he needed, all he needed to live from now on, nothing more. He could feel you squirming and fighting against him; he could feel your thighs jolting and jumping under his hands as your nerves were overstimulated. He could feel your hips bucking up into his face, smearing more of that perfect wetness across his chin and cheeks, smothering him in it - perfect, how perfect.
He could feel the sting of you tugging on his hair but it only added to the perfect sensation of dumb dizziness that pumped through him, that made him so fucking ravenous for you. It only made him moan into your cunt louder and shove his tongue into you deeper, looking for more.
“Oh, ugh! Tommy! Tommy!”
You felt like you were burning alive.
His tongue against you was horrible and perfect - doing nothing to relieve the ache deep inside of you, one that demanded to be filled.
His tongue lapping at you so hungrily only added more terrible, sweltering heat, causing more shocks of pleasure stinging up your body with each deep pass of his tongue that he swept over you, trying to devour you whole.
The more he moaned against you, the more he vibrated your already sore clit, making you cry out, the more he caused your body to be consumed by that deep, uncomfortable he. The more he made it near impossible for you to breathe past the moans fighting out of your lungs.
You desperately tugged on his hair, but only got his attention when you finally fought hard enough to get words out.
“Tommy, please!” You begged, tears spilling out of your eyes now. “Please, stop! It hurts!”
Those words - those painful words shocked Thomas back to reality.
Had he been selfish, drinking from your essence to satisfy his thirst without considering your own?
He pulled back from your pussy with a wet smack that made you whimper, taking his hands off your thighs, finally freeing your legs from the tight, stretched out position. Somehow, he looked even better staring you down with those needy, wide eyes while his face was covered in your juices.
“Sorry, I’m sorry, I-”
“Please, just - I need you.” You choked out in reply, reaching a shaking hand toward his pants. “I need you inside me, Tommy. I need you to fix it.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Thomas replied, chanting to you as though answering a prayer in a place of worship, fully prepared to worship you as the goddess you were to him. “Yes, I’ll fix it.”
He rushed to get his pants and underwear off with just as much frantic struggle, and soon he was naked on top of you. Meanwhile, you ripped off the stupid bra in order to feel the satisfying press of his bare skin on yours, something impossibly boiling hot. A feeling that had you moaning into his shoulder while you hooked your leg around his hip, urgent to get closer to him.
Without a second of hesitation, Thomas sunk his cock inside of you.
His cock was a searing hot rod pressing into your well-slicked entrance, making both of you white-out with the feeling for a few moments while the need and satisfaction rattled through your insides. It was what you had both been waiting for, desperately needing from the moment that mystery chemical had hit your systems. And now that you had it - Thomas’s cock deep inside of you, the perfect satisfaction of being joined, being as close as possible, your body sang with perfect relief.
But there was still that nagging for something more.
Neither of you would be satisfied - it wouldn’t fully be out of your systems until you both came from this.
It was that nagging that had him gripping onto your hips, holding you still so that he could begin hammering into you, desperate to answer that nagging in the back of his skull: fuck her, take her, fill her up - she’s yours. She is yours.
It was a feeling so utterly perfect that you instantly relaxed against him - all of your muscles melting into the feeling of his cock fucking into you so rapidly, filling you up so well. You gripped tightly at his back, determined to hold him close, just as he had done to you before. You needed to keep him absolutely close, so tight to your body while his cock filled you up so perfectly.
“Tommy, please. Oh, oh, Tommy!” You moaned into his neck, your pussy fluttering around him as his hips stuttered.
Overwhelmed and dizzy with the heat, from the tips of his ears to the space where his cock sunk deep into your warm pussy, drowning in wetness, he could only focus on one thing. One single mission rattling between his ears.
Fill her up. Make her yours.
“Gonna fill you up.” He growled back, not even entirely realizing that he was speaking these words aloud - a sacred promise to him now, the only driving force of his entire life, the thing that his entire existence hinged on. “Gonna make you so full of me. So perfect, so full of me.”
Getting lost in your warm pussy, filling you up, making your pain go away, worshiping you. He wasn’t going to lose you again, he was going to keep you safe. He was going to keep you in his arms forever, was going to keep you safe, wrapped around his cock - forever. He fucked his hips forward harder, making a loud, wet smack continually resonate throughout the room as he tried his hardest to deliver on these promises.
“Gonna make you mine,” He growled, his voice reaching a deep tone that you had only ever heard when he had argued with Gally - ticked off, full of rage. “Gonna keep you safe. Forever.”
But somehow - this was different. It was a rage that was twinged with passion.
With love.
It was a sound that made all the hair on your body stand on end, forced a sharp gasp from your lips as it utterly rocked your body.
You dug your nails into his back, possessively gripping the flesh, holding him tightly, trying to keep him close. Forcing him to keep his promises.
“Yours.” You echoed back, your voice half-breath, half pure need.
“You are mine.” He groaned in return. “Mine, mine, mine, mine-”
He chanted this as a mantra, fucking into you harder with each utterance of the sacred word before he cut himself off with a harsh gasp, his hips stilling suddenly.
And then - perfection.
He pressed into you as deeply as possible, filling you up with perfect warmth, delivering on his promise. Your gut curled with a nearly painful orgasm in response, causing you to bite down tightly on the flesh of his shoulder as you moaned wildly against him. Tears leaked from your eyes as you were nearly blinded with euphoria.
“Mine.” Thomas hummed again, almost quietly to himself, leaving a small peak on the side of your neck to compliment his point.
Once again, just as he had done when he first entered the room, he cradled your head so softly, petting your hair soothingly. It was a deep contrast to the near rabid man who had been fucking you only a minute ago. And he gently humped his hips against you, something unconscious telling him to make sure that he fucked his cum deeper into you - nice and deep.
The two of you stayed tangled like this, instinctively not wanting to pull away from each other, an intense need to stay locked so close. Needing to be close to the person you needed most. In an effort not to crush you with his body weight, Thomas rolled onto his side, with you still holding him tightly, with your leg still hooked over his hip, with his softening cock slightly falling out of your now messy cunt - much to the disappointment of both of you.
(Thomas surprised himself when he shoved his hips forward, trying to get closer, trying to get back inside of you.)
But you both felt much more at ease now. And tangled together like that, with your arms wrapped around each other, with Thomas gently kissing over your forehead and your shoulders - you both dozed off into a gentle sleep.
…
Thomas woke up cold and alone.
He dressed frantically, and surprisingly, he found the door unlocked.
He had too many questions, and had one singular mission on his mind:
Find you, and kill anybody who had laid their hands on you without his permission.
...
A/N: Please keep in mind, this is a oneshot, and there will not be a continuation or a 'Part 2'. If you liked this fic, please consider showing me that by reblogging or commenting, but if you are going to comment, please comment about the body of work that has been written instead of asking for more. If you want to see more fics from this fandom, I will be posting more in the future, and if you want to see more things that I have already posted, I have over one million words worth of work between my AO3 (linked in my pinned post) and my Masterlist for you to enjoy. Happy reading, and I hope you have a great day!!
he's behind you, your back arched as he enjoys the view of your ass repeatedly slapping against his thighs. he pounds into you so fucking hard. he needs to be inside you, he craves the feeling of your warm, tight hole around his strained, thick cock.
"fuckkk, you're so fucking tight, baby." he moans as you clench around him. you whimper at his words, feeling yourself getting closer to release.
his face is flushed and his fingers are etched onto your skin as he grips on your hips to keep fucking into you. he's fast. he's relentless.
"l-luke, harder please." he smirks to himself.
"so needy, baby. you want me to fuck you harder, huh? want my cock in you?"
you could only nod, a string of babbles leave your mouth as he kept thrusting. his grip tightens and he angles his thrusts differently, pounding into you in the same fast pace but this time with more intent.
"yes, yes, yes, fuck! luke.. so good." he throws his head back in pleasure. one of his hand leaves your waist, pushing you down onto the bed as his chest pushes on your back. he bites down into your shoulder, leaving a mark on you before whispering to you.
"i'm going to fill this pretty pussy with my cum," luke whispers in your ear. "you're going to fucking take all of it, right?" you nod furiously. "good girl."
his swift thrusts continued, hitting your cervix repeatedly with fervor. your slick coated his cock as it disappeared into your tight heat. his orgasm was fast approaching; he couldn't wait. all day he's been stressed. all he wanted was to fuck all his cum into you and fill you up.
his other hand leaves your waist and pushes down onto your lower tummy. you groan. luke revels at the feeling of his cock just going in and out of you; his big, thick cock was bulging up in your small body.
it turned him on even more. "fuck, baby. taking me so well. best fucking pussy ever." you cry out. you came at his words and his unstopping hard thrusts.
"s-sorry— fuck." you moan. luke holds your chin and forces you to look at him. he presses a deep kiss into your lips, shoving his tongue in your mouth to suck on your own. "don't be sorry, baby. i'll make you cum over and over until you pass out, hm?"
you whimper. his thrusts start to become sloppy as his cock twitches inside your cunt. fuck, he's cumming. "gonna fuck my babies into you, sweet girl... fuck, you're so good to me."
you feel something warm fill you up. your legs spasm as you took in luke's warm, sticky cum. "s-so much... so good to me, lukey..." you say. luke coos and hushes you and his cock continued to twitch inside you, still not done giving you his load.
after a few seconds, luke slaps your ass before he pulled out. your lower body crashes onto the bed. soon, you feel his cum drip down your pussy, slowly sticking to your skin and staining the covers.
it wasn't a while until you felt luke manhandle you, his hands holding your hips to flip you over. your back was now on the mattress as you stared up at luke.
he looked back at you with a hungry, primal look in his eyes. he studied your flushed, fucked out face, enjoying the red tint on your cheeks, your quivering lips that matched your shaking legs, and the way your bare tits heaved up and down.
he wasted no time. he spread your legs open as he position himself in between them, your legs bracketing his torso.
luke began to stroke his still-hard cock, biting his lip as he imagined fucking more of his cum into your soft, tight pussy.
"need to be in you so bad, baby." he leans down to kiss your lips hard before he thrusted back into you, his lips muffling your moans.
he doesn't take his time to let you adjust to his incredibly thick cock again; he just resumed to thrusting in a hard, unforgiving pace.
mind you, he was big. no matter how many times you've taken his cock, you still felt dizzy as his cock split your pussy lips open. he always hits your cervix; he was so long and thick that you felt him in your throat.
luke made you go so stupid on his cock—you were just so cockdrunk! you thrashed and clenched around him before he pulled away from your kiss. his hands found your hips once more, pulling you to meet his thrusts.
"you're always so tight, could never loosen you up, fuck. just how i like it," luke groans. "could never get enough of this fucking pussy. fuck, this pussy's all mine."
he looks down at where you're connected, witnessing all your juices coat his cock while his own cum formed a white ring at the base of his dick. he groaned, the sight pushing him to thrust even faster, treating you like you're his personal fleshlight—a pocket pussy meant to satisfy him. you cry out.
"shh," luke hushes you. "you're doing so well." he notices the bulge appearing in your stomach. his hand presses down on it again just as he did earlier, this time more satisfying as he could actually see you take him. he is so deep in you.
your body convulses at the touch, feeling oh so sensitive. you cum on his cock again, your whole body shaking and almost going limp. luke doesn't stop. his hands make their way to your chest, taking your tits in between them as he squeezed.
"l-luke, s-sensitive..!" he smirks. "i know, baby." he is fucking sadistic. he plays with your nipples for a bit while he continued thrusting. your moans and mewls only served as fuel for him to keep going
"such a pretty slut, taking my cock like this." you moan and close your eyes as you feel your consciousness slipping away. it was too much pleasure.
but luke couldn't have that. how could you tell him he was making you feel so so good if you were asleep? :( how could he fuck his cum into you if you were completely gone?
a sharp sting on your face jolts you awake as luke slapped you. "stay with me, baby." you whine, feeling overstimulated and frustrated.
a few more thrusts and luke is cumming into you again, holding your hips down as he filled you up once again. "take it, just fucking take it." it was so shameless in how he fucked into you, making sure you took all of his cum.
you thought it was over, that sleep was finally in your reach. but you were dead wrong. you feel luke's hands lift you up from the bed, straddling you on his lap, his cock never slipping out of your pussy.
"luke, n-no more..."
"just one more, baby. you can take one more, i know it."
you were so spent, but your pussy just felt so good around him :( you were still clenching his needy cock like you never wanted to let him go. you were so warm and soft and tight.
your head rests on his shoulder while your arms wrap around him. "that's my girl." luke praises before he started thrusting upward into you.
your moans released directly into his ear. he was in heaven. your tight cunt wrapped around his own sensitive cock while your sweet moans blessed his ears. fuck. if he could, he'd have you like this forever.
your fingers claw on his back, sure to leave angry red marks that would serve as evidence of your love making tonight. your legs lock around his hips as his hips never stopped fucking up into you.
"that's it, baby. taking my cock like you're supposed to." he thrusts a bit more, but it wasn't long until he was cumming into your hole again. you cry out so loudly, and luke just basked in it.
"so much cum in me, lukey..." you whine with a pout, nuzzling your face into his neck.
he rubs your hips as a way to calm you down as he shushes you. "you're so so good to me, my sweet girl. do you love feeling my cum in you?" he feels you nod into his neck.
he was just going to let you cockwarm him for the rest of the night. that was his plan because truthfully, he couldn't handle being out of your pretty pussy. but he felt a little playful.
one of his hands sneaks in between your bodies. the tip of his finger touches your clit and you wince, your body jolting at the sudden touch.
"l-luke..!" you were just so so sensitive at this point :(
"shh, baby. let me take care of you." he coos. luke's fingers continue to rub on your clit as you let out sobs. your body was shivering and shaking from so much stimulation. luke just couldn't leave you alone. you bit into his shoulder.
you cum hard on his cock—you still felt that it was hard inside you—your body convulsing on top of his. he rubs circles on your hip with one hand while the other rubs your back.
after you stop shaking, he pulls you away from him so he could look at your face. it was red and tear-stricken, your eyes glassy. drool was on the side of your lips.
you looked so majestic that luke had to physically stop himself from thrusting into you again. fuck, he just wanted to breed you over and over, but he knew you were spent for the night.
he cups your face before he peppered kisses all over it. he paid special attention to your lips, kissing them so passionately. the small, soft moans you let out made his heart flutter. you were so cute.
he presses one last hard kiss on your lips before placing one on your forehead. "my good girl. all for me, hm?" you nod tiredly.
"i'm all yours, lukey."
he smiles before he fixes your position. he lays you down on the bed, super careful as he knows your entire body is tired and sensitive. you shudder as your body touches the cold covers.
luke's cock was still inside you. he still intended to cockwarm with you. he really just couldn't leave your pussy, okay?
you whine as you feel his cock twitch inside. "sorry, baby. you feel too good." you look back at him with a playful scowl that made him laugh.
luke hugs you from behind, nuzzling into your neck as his hand gropes your breast. you hum in satisfaction, allowing the exhaustion wash over you as you and luke cuddle to sleep.
you were going to suck his cock so good tomorrow.
lol can u tell i'm ovulating. ws just supposed to be a short blurb but i got carried away.
Request: ‘ Anonymous asked:Hello! I really love your blog and am excited that you made one dedicated to middle-earth :D I was wondering if I may make a request for Kili x fem!reader during their quest. I’m a sucker for the “accidentally braids their hair without knowing what it means” trope but you can do whatever you’d like :D I hope you have a great day!’
I adored this idea, and it took me so long to right, haha. I am such a fan of this trope, I could not help it. I am obsessed. I need more of this trope so I went on a tangent.
Warnings: Angst, accidental braiding, rejection, and romance. Not in that order, I warn you.
Words: 6.1K (The longest I have written)
Disclaimer: This is a fanfiction, the scenarios, the reader, and the dialogue are all mine. I also made up all this courting stuff and traditions, I researched courting braids as well as I could and I read somewhere the Dwarrow tries to impress the Dam… you will see.
This should only be found on my blog.
Author is always me on this blog @daydreams-magic01-mrsdurin .
A/N: Please do not copy or plagiarise this, or put it in your own book, etc. It should only be found here. Also, please mention if I should make a taglist and if you wanted to be added. I also tried by best at being British.
I tagged ‘Bilbo x reader’ and ‘Bilbo Baggins x reader’ because of their friendship, so if you want platonic friendships with the two ta-da.
Hi! Welcome to the fic that started up my writing again! This is my biggest project, so I hope you love it just as much as I do! It's a bit long winded, so I'll try to make it worth the read! Enjoy!
Summary: Magic was real, but it came at a price. So when two girls from Earth ended up in the one place they never thought they could reach, strange things began to happen. Good or bad? That's up to them to find out.
I saw the reblog of the southern reader x Robb Stark and that got me thinking. May you do a a female reader who's like Clint Eastwoods characters in the Dollars trilogy? She's this vagabond bounty hunter who doesn't ever tell her name, and is only referred to what others call her. She's simply a slinger who isn't a noble, has no husband, and no really a place of origin. She also let's Robb know he shouldn't marry for love, that marrying Talisa will become his fall. Not because reader is jealous, but because she knows that it's a foolish act. Reader does love Robb, she just dosen’t act on it because she cares more about her freedom than than the company of somebody else. Kind of like Snufkin.
parings: robb stark x reader (?)
word count: 3.5k+
a/n: UMMMM lowkey lost the plot half way through so apologies for that 😓😓 anywho i’ll probably make a part too but idk how i want it to end QUITE yet… SEND MORE REQUESTS GUYS PLS!!
If you had told (Y/n) a year ago she’d be helping Robb Stark of all people, she would’ve laughed in your face.
She was a wanderer who stayed alone. She had left her family when she was just a girl, she had adapted well to the world alone. She made her living by killing people for gold in return. She never questioned her clients, but upheld her own moral code. Which had brought her to Robb Stark in the first place. One of the men there was on her list.
Making her way through the forest she had spotted a large number of soldiers, who had seemed to be setting up tents. Peaking around a large tree, she noticed a banner that gave away exactly who they were. It was the direwolf sigil of none other than House Stark. Letting out a sharp breath of air, (Y/n) turned around only to find two soldiers that belonged to the Starks.
“Fuck me,” She mumbled to herself, as the soldiers roughly grabbed her arms and shoulders. Through their loud conversation (Y/n) was aware that she would probably be brought to King Stark. Mentally preparing herself, she knew she’d be asked questions, but she wouldn’t break. Nobody could know who she was.
Making their way through the busy camp, all the soldiers noticed the girl as she was dragged through. She looked like a common girl, but they were all curious as to why she was there. Walking into a tent, they had finally made it to the king. Both of the Northern soldiers lightened their grip on her.
“What is the meaning of this?” Robb asked, his voice rugged with his thick Northern accent.
“We found this girl lurking outside the camp, your grace.” The taller of the two soldiers stated.
“Who are you, and why were you outside the camp?” The Northern King asked.
(Y/n) stared blankly at the man. Not moving a muscle on her face, just completely blank of emotion.
Matching her stare, Robb asked again. “What were you doing here?” His question was again met with silence.
(Y/n) subtly glanced around the tent. Besides the soldiers, herself, and the king there was a man and another woman. (Y.n) assumed the woman was Catelyn Stark, King Stark’s infamous mother.
“Perhaps we should put her with the Lanniester prisoners.” The other soldier who had found (Y/n) chimed in.
Robb was into (Y/n)’s eyes for a minute, as if he was waiting for her to break, to confess to something. All he was met with was with a completely blank face.
Robb nodded before speaking, “Put her with the Kingslayer, perhaps he could get her talking.” Turning around he noticed his Mother looking at him, almost with a look of disapproval on her face. It was a look Robb didn’t get often.
The soldiers nodded before they dragged her over to where they had the one and only Jamie Lannister was chained up. Jamie was trying to talk to the guards, both of them completely ignoring him.
After securing the girl they left, leaving (Y/n) and Jamie alone. (Y/n) looked away from him, trying to not draw attention to herself. She had met Jamie Lanniester twice. Once in passing, and once after completing a request from his father. She doubted the arrogant Kingslayer would remember her, but you could never be too safe.
“Well you’re something nice to look at, especially after being chained up alone all these days.” Jamie said, causing (Y/n) to shoot him a harsh glare, finally breaking her blank facade.
“What? It gets lonely being so isolated up here.” He said, looking around the camp.
(Y/n) stayed silent, ignoring the Kingslayer, and opting to survey the camp instead. If she timed it right she might be able to-
“Aren’t you awfully quiet.” Jamie said with a frown, causing (Y/n) to roll her eyes.
“Who are you, anyway?” Jamie questioned. (Y/n) ignored him, and looked around the camp once more. Trying to conduct an efficient plan would be hard, especially if she was next to this nuisance.
Jamie stared at the girl, awaiting a response. Realizing he would not be getting one, he began talking again. “What did you do to have to be isolated with the King Slayer?” He asked aloud to himself.
(Y/n) stayed silent mentally cursing the gods for putting her in this position. She’d much rather be on her way to a tavern or even a brothel at this point, anywhere away from this obnoxious man. Jamie stared at the girl for a moment, before it finally dawned on him.
“Oh my gods you’re her!” He said laughing. (Y/n) furrowed her eyebrows, trying to keep her composure as the Kingslayer realized her identity.
“You’re that assassin girl! I remember my father hired you to take out that one obnoxious Northern man!" He said, loudly.
“Shut up, do you have to be so loud?” (Y/n) snapped, turning to face the Kingslayer.
Jamie dramatically hit his head against the tree. “You spend all these weeks alone and finally, you get a companion, but she won’t even talk to you!”
For what seemed like hours Jamie talked (Y/n)’s ear off. Night was arriving and she was regretting taking this client. The Northern soldiers were starting to disperse and go into their tents, minus the ones standing guard in front of them both.
Earlier, they had provided food but (Y/n) was far too nauseous to eat, so the Kingslayer gladly took her food. She was starting to worry about how she’d get out. How in the world would she escape King Stark? Jamie had finally begun to quiet down, most likely exhausted and way more full than normal. It was finally peaceful and (Y/n) could think, that was until Robb Stark himself had begun making his way over to them.
“Well well well,” Jamie started. “What did I do to deserve the wonderful presence of King Stark?”
“I’m not here for you, Kingslayer.” Robb said harshly, looking the former knight right in the eye.
(Y/n)’s facial expression had gone back to blank. She needed him to not know who she was, it’d be easier if they thought it was just some peasant girl or thief who escaped.
“Oh I see! Well my companion here doesn’t talk much, but she’s a glorious sight to look at.” Jamie said, obnoxiously. (Y/n) had to force herself not to roll her eyes or glare at the man sitting next to her. Robb Stark was now staring directly at her, and she met his eyes. Neither of them broke eye contact.
“Though you probably wouldn’t want to meet her in a fight.” Jamie said, breaking the silence. “She’s quite the assassin, I hear.”
Robb looked over to Jamie before looking back towards the girl in question. “Is this true?”
(Y/n) looked down, her heart racing. Of course Jamie had to reveal who she was.
Jamie laughed, “You didn’t know? I believe she is known as the Lone Woman, or something to that effect.”
Robb Stark looked at (Y/n) for a moment before he abruptly left, most likely going to tell his mother and his advisor about the new information. (Y/n) scoffed, there goes any chance she had of getting out of here, not that she had much of one in the first place. (Y/n) glared at Jamie
“You’re the worst, Lannister.” She sneered.
Jamie just shrugged, “It’s not my fault you didn’t tell him.”
The sky had finally fallen, but (Y/n) couldn’t fall asleep. She was curious what would happen to say the least. She had definitely killed her fair share of Northern men, but she had equally killed enough Southern ones too. She wondered what the King and his advisors would end up doing. Looking around she noticed another guard was walking up to the two who were posted next to her and Jamie.
Jamie, who was already fast asleep, was snoring. Which considering the fact the guards were having a conversation made it hard for (Y/n) to overhear them. Suddenly the new guard walked over to her and began to unchain her.
Glancing towards the Lannister, who was still snoring away, (Y/n) began to speak. “What’s going on?”
“We’re taking you to the King,” The guard stated before yanking her off the ground. “That’s unless you want to stay here with the Kingslayer.”
“You know I think I’ll take my chances with the Young Wolf.” (Y/n) said, causing the guard to chuckle.
Making her way through the camp again, (Y/n) was deadly afraid. She wouldn’t show it, nor say it, but she knew Robb Stark could either be the best thing that happened to her or the death of her. If there were anything she knew about monarchs, she would’ve bet on the latter.
Entering the battle tent, (Y/n) noticed the only person in the tent was the King himself. Not his mother or his right hand, Roose Bolton. Just her, him and the guard next to her.
“Thank you, Cyrus. You may leave now.” He said, causing the guard to bow slightly before leaving just her and Robb alone in the room.
“It is true, isn’t it? You are who people call the Lone Woman?” Robb asked, leaning on the table littered with little figurines. There were many lions, stags, and of course direwolves on the table.
“So I’ve heard,” (Y/n) murmured, before quickly adding “Your Grace.”
Robb softly grinned at her not so formal nature. “My mother says you could be of great help for us, I’m not sure why she says it.” He stops leaning on the table and stands up straight. He is a tall and obviously strong Northern man. His face turns more serious before speaking again.
“My men think I should kill you, take your head.”
(Y/n) swallows an uncomfortable lump that had formed in her throat. “I do not blame them. I have killed many Northern men.” Robb frowns and furrows his eyebrows at her response.
Hesitantly taking a step forward she continues to talk. “But I have also killed Lannister men, Ironborn men, and a few wildings too. I have no problem with the North, or you King Stark.”
The atmosphere was thick inside the tent. There was a small fire about a foot or two away from (Y/n), a fire she was welcome to stand near. Despite the intimidating nature of this meeting, (Y/n) would much rather be in here. Anything was better than having to sit next to the Kingslayer.
“Why do you do it?” Robb began, walking closer to her. “You’re not an old maiden, you could easily marry a lord and settle down somewhere nice, away from the war and the battlefields, but you don't. Why?”
(Y/n) softly smiled at the question. “There was a time where I was brought up for marriage. I was raised to be a lady, someone's wife.” She broke eye contact for a second, trying to find the right words to say.
“But I had always had a wild streak. My mother hated it, my father found it amusing, but they couldn’t control it. Or me. So after watching my brothers be able to grow off and be able to decide their future and what they wanted to do, I couldn’t take it anymore. I left and I never looked back. You may look down upon me for my work and my reasoning for it, but you cannot begin to understand, Robb Stark.”
Robb and her locked eyes once again, at the mention of his name. “You men get a choice. I never got one. I do what I have to, to keep my independence. To keep the only thing I’ve ever wanted in my life.”
Robb nodded solemnly, “My sister Arya shares the same sentiments. I’m sorry for your hardships.”
“Hardships all women face no doubt, only most come to terms with it.” (Y/n) said smiling weekly.
“I have won every battle, but I fear winning the battles doesn’t mean I’ll win the war. I have heard great tales from my mother of your work, I want to ask you to assist me.”
Looking into the Young Wolf’s eyes, (Y/n) noticed a twinge of worry and desperation. She could tell his intentions were what he had told her.
“I do not help Kings, Stark. I only kill for my clients.” (Y/n) said, despite the subtle pounding of her heart.
Walking once again towards her, Robb and (Y/n) were standing right in front of one another. The room was almost quiet, besides the soft crackle of the
“I beg you, Lone Woman.” Robb started, his voice pleading. “I will promise you shelter, food, and warmth. You can come and go as you please, as long as you assist me.”
(Y/n) knew she shouldn’t. Every bone in her body was telling her don’t. Her mind was telling her go, run. There was nobody around, besides the guard outside, and she could bet she could out run him. But the look on his face, someone as young as herself already leading a war. She couldn’t help herself.
“You have won every battle, but please tell me how you intend to win the war?” Her voice was lighter, more full of amusement. Robb could tell she wasn’t trying to be condescending.
Robb grinned, “I only show my closest advisors and companions my battle plans, my lady.”
“Please show me the way, King Stark.”
It hadn’t been a long time since then, only about a year. However, a lot can happen in a year especially when it comes to war. Shortly after (Y/n) had become a part of Robb Stark’s fighters, his mother had let Jamie go, along with her swordswoman Brienne in search of her daughters. As much as (Y/n) despised the man, she had hoped that this journey would provide Jamie some sort of lesson.
Looking around the camp and seeing all the faces of the people she had grown accustomed to, (Y/n) couldn’t help the soft smile appearing on her face. She was still rugged and had her independence, something Robb had promised her. From time to time she’d leave, collect some gold but she’d always come back when Robb needed her. To say she had liked the Stark would be an understatement, but she’d rather die than admit it. And there was a chance that would do just that.
Across the camp Robb sat with Talsia, the sight causing (Y/n) to scowl. From behind her, (Y/n) heard a chuckle. It was Cryus, the guard who had previously took (Y/n) to Rob for them to meet. The two of them had become fast friends, and even though she had never confided her feelings to the man, he knew.
“If you glare any harder, I think your face will permanently stick like that.” Cryus said, taking a seat next to (Y/n), where she was sharpening her sword.
“He’s being foolish.” (Y/n) said simply, looking at Cyrus for a moment before turning back towards her sword.
“How so?”
“He is promised to the Frey girl, falling for another would do him more harm than good.”
“I’ve heard rumors King Stark is considering ending the agreement with the Freys, intending to take Lady Talsia’s hand instead.”
(Y/n) stopped mid sharpening. “What?”
Cyrus nodded, “Another guardsman told me he overheard Lady Stark and him arguing about it.”
(Y/n) instantly felt nauseous, it was as if she had been told thirty-thousand Lannister soldiers had arrived. She tried to speak but her mouth had gone dry, so instead she turned back to work. Cyrus watched her for a moment, before deciding to leave.
Nightfall had arrived and (Y/n) couldn’t bring herself to eat. Normally she’d eat in a tent with Robb, Catelyn, and a few other guards. Recently Talsia had been added to the mix, which had never bugged her before. She did not envy the other girl, if anything she felt sorry for her. As she knew what it was like to be charmed by Robb Stark, and it is the best and worst thing that can happen to a lady.
She heard his footsteps before he spoke. She had learned the sound of his boots on the soil, it was engraved in her mind like her favorite sonnet.
“Is there a reason you’re sulking around a fire, all alone?” Robb asked, with a smug voice. (Y/n) rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything.
He wasn’t wrong, the moon was almost out and almost all the men had gone to sleep for the night. The fire was warm and comforting, something (Y/n) had grown accustomed too now.
“Can’t a lady sit alone in peace, enjoying the night?”
Robb barked out a laugh, “But you’re no lady.”
(Y/n) furrowed her eyebrows, but once again he wasn’t wrong. She had fought hard to be thought of and known as more than just a lady, and she wasn’t going to go back on her words now.
(Y/n) cleared her throat, before speaking. “We’re approaching the Freys soon, are you nervous?”
Robb sat down beside her and sighed. “No. I don’t really have any reason to be.”
“You’re telling me you’re not one bit nervous about your impending marriage to a Frey girl?” (Y/n) deadpanned, turning to Robb sat next to her.
Looking at the King he remained silent, causing a sense of dread to wash over her again.
“No.” (Y/n) said suddenly.
“What?”
“Don’t tell me you’re seriously considering not marrying her!” She said, becoming increasingly frustrated with him.
Once again Robb didn’t reply. (Y/n) gaped, “Oh my gods, you really are.”
The two sat in silence before Robb finally decided to speak up. “Why must I give up something that only a few could find in a lifetime?”
(Y/n) rolled her eyes at his response. “You met her no more than three weeks ago, and yet you’re willing to throw away everything for her?”
“I know you don’t care for love, but to me this means a lot.” Robb said, his face stone solid and his voice stern.
“Who said I don’t care about love?” (Y/n) said, somewhat offended.
“I don’t know perhaps the fact you have no husband, no lord, not even a man bedding you at night!” Robb said, (Y/n) felt her heart race at his sudden outburst. “You push every man, every person away. You’ve been alone for more than half your life, and you seem to have no interest in anybody at all!”
Both of them stared at each other, (Y/n) shocked but not too surprised at his outburst. She looked away from him, looking into the fire instead. Her heart stung from Robb’s words, but she would never show him how much it hurt her. After all the time they’ve spent together she had learned to master her poker face.
“I.. I didn’t mean it like that.” Robb said softly, bringing his hand out to touch her arm. (Y/n) moved away from his touch.
“No you’re right.” She said, shaking her head. “I don’t know anything about love. However, I know about duty.”
Standing up from the spot she had been sitting in, (Y/n) looked down at Robb. “You made a deal. If you go back upon this deal, you could ruin everything.”
“I know.” He said, now looking at the fire. The fire had begun to dance rapidly as wind around them started to pick up. It was as if the gods were adding to the tension.
“You can do what you want, and I'm sure your men will still follow you.” (Y/n) started, her voice slightly wavering.
“But I will not. I will not follow a king who cannot stick to his word.” She said before finally walking away.
Robb was left outside, alone with the fire. In the exact position he had found her earlier. Wind blowing his auburn locks, he was lost in thought. He knew there’d be consequences of marrying Talsia. His mother would disapprove and there would be many issues with Walter Frey. But never did he think there would be a problem with (Y/n). What would he do?
You sat at the head of the wedding feast in your best gown, expression dull, staring into nothingness. Your father's boisterous laugh blended with the rest of the noise and smoke in the air. The party got louder and merrier by the hour. You tilted the cup of wine in between your fingers, watching the scarlet liquid swirl before downing it all in one large swill.
The bitter tang made your tongue tingle and your head floaty. You thought about staying drunk for the rest of your life. Perhaps it would make it a little more bearable.
Robb's intentions seemed to match yours as he stared into his own cup. He sat in silence, unsteady in his chair, not once looking your way.
You leaned against your hand as you let your glossy eyes trace over his grave expression. The shape of his nose from the side, the curve of his jaw, the way the light seemed to glitter in the dark hairs of his stubble. An unconcious smile crept to your wine-stained lips. He was not so bad to appreciate from afar, although, he never had been.
Suddenly, Robb took notice of your eyes piercing into him. He turned towards you, raising an eyebrow at your warm expression. Candles around your table cast twinkles in your irises and onto your gown, and made your whole body radiate with light.
He turned away, the tips of his ears flushing red under your unwavering stare. You hadn't directed a smile at him since the very first time he'd seen you.
As he turned away, so did you. When you reached for your cup again, it was still empty since the last time you had put it down. After a moment of consideration, you gently pushed your chair out from the table, thanked your mother-in-law for the festivities and excused yourself from the Great Hall.
The early spring evening had a chill in the air. It trickled in through the seams of your dress, running a shiver through you. The frozen ground crunched under your shoes as you staggered over the courtyard.
"Y/N!" someone behind you called out. You slowed to a stop and looked over your shoulder. It was Robb, walking towards you with a dark expression. Once he reached you, he towered over you. Was he angry? You could hardly tell, in your state.
"Where are you going?"
"T’bed." Your words slurred as you put a hand on his chest to keep yourself from swaying.
"But, the celebration—"
"The celebration?" You pursed your lips. There was nothing for you to be celebrating.
"It is our wedding feast.” He frowned.
"Of course!" You laughed, head buzzing with sudden clarity. "End of my life, my freedom, yet ever the triumph of my husband... Bring out the wine and whores! To Robb Stark—conqueror of womankind.”
”I refuse to be blamed for this damned arrangement!” he shouted, and your eyes widened. Robb’s eyes trailed over you before he suddenly grabbed your face with both hands and crashed his lips onto yours. Your knees nearly buckled when he kissed you, body melting into him before coming to your senses.
You reeled backwards, awkwardly regaining your balance.
"Gods,” he mumbled, reaching out to stabilise you. He studied you with cool, blue eyes. "I’m sor— Ho— how much have you had to drink tonight?" You flinched away from his touch with an expression of disgust.
"Not enough."
You turned around and stumbled away towards your bedchambers. Robb bit his tongue and pursued you. Tears of frustration clawed at the corners of your eyes.
"Will you— fuck, Y/N, will you stop!?" he called after you.
You stormed into your shared wedding chamber, previously Robb's own room, and rushed into the little side room, latching the door shut behind you. You heard the sound of his footsteps outside as you threw yourself on the floor and cried.
You must’ve lay there for an eternity before the tears ceased, your body wrecked with exhaustion. It took all your strength to pull yourself up. Was he still outside? You untied your hair and let it fall.
Robb was sitting at the desk in the corner. He flinched when you opened the door, quickly scribbling something down and reaching to put it away in a wooden box with a silver lock. You sat down quietly on the bed with your back towards him.
That night, you didn’t fall sleep. How could you have, watching the way his back rose and fell as lay on his stomach, dreaming. He was so peaceful when he rested, no scowl present to distort his pretty features, his arms tucked under the pillow where his curly head lay. You could have reached out and touched him; he wouldn’t pull away if you did. You didn’t.
When you woke up the next morning, Robb was gone. His side of the bed was cold and tidy. The only trace of you having a husband at all was the indent on his pillow.
You paced around your room like a for a long while, warm floorboards creaking under your bare feet. When you finally entered the Great Hall for breakfast, the sun already stood high in the sky and the tables were empty.
You ate in solitude, head sore from last night’s drinking. You winced at the sound of the door opening, as the ever-radiant Catelyn Stark ambled towards you.
”Y/N.” She stood next to you and cradled your neck gently. ”Will you walk with me for a moment?”
You nodded politely and got up, following her away, up, and out onto the ramparts of Winterfell.
”Did I ever share the story of the first time I met my husband?”
You shook your head, looking over at her with sudden curiosity.
”I traveled to Winterfell with my family when I was rather young. I was supposed to marry Ned’s brother Brandon when we came of age, it was arranged so. Ned wanted so badly to make a good impression that he stumbled over his words and accidentally said something very hurtful.”
This made you laugh, your breath foggy in the crisp air. Catelyn continued.
”I was very upset for a couple of days—and rightfully so—but, after his many clumsy attempts of apology, I forgave him. Truthfully, it was rather charming to see him so fraught to win me over,” She chuckled at the memory, ”and I started to grow fond of him very soon after that. When Brandon died, Ned kept my honour by taking his role as my betrothed, without hesitation.”
”Lady Stark, may I ask where this story is going?”
”I wanted to speak with you about Robb.”
You sighed and turned your head away but Catelyn commanded your attention back the way only a mother can.
”Now, listen to me. Robb is like his father in many ways, and unfortunately, that extends to his way with words. I cannot remember how he insulted you, or when it happened—perhaps I was never told—and my son is not a perfect man, but he is a good one. He will be good to you.”
”Lady Stark…”
Catelyn turned to you and placed her hands on your shoulders. ”Robb will love like his father, if you can forgive, like his mother.” Your eyes welled up as you laughed dejectedly.
”He doesn’t love me,” you whispered.
Her eyes widened, and she squeezed you gently by the shoulders.
”How do you know, dear girl? Have you asked him?”
”Well— well, no. But—”
”Thank you for the company, Y/N.” Catelyn kissed your forehead. She left you speechless on the ramparts. You clutched your skirts in tight-knuckled fists, mind racing. Suddenly, you were overcome with an unyielding urge to find your husband.
You asked Sansa, who pointed you to your chambers. Fighting every urge to run, you walked there with quick, determined footsteps.
Robb was in the middle of dressing when you threw the door open. Your eyes pulled towards his bare chest before flashing back up to his surprised face, lips parted in question.
”Robb.” You bit your tongue.
”Hello?”
”I need you to— are you going somewhere?”
”A hunt.” He shrugged. ”We should return in a couple hours.”
”Oh… alright.” Your sudden rush of resolve was faltering as he observed you.
Robb fastened his belt and walked over to where you stood in the doorway. He looked down at you, your bright eyes swirling with… something.
”You need me to—?”
”Sorry?”
”You said you needed me to do something. Just a second ago. What was it?”
”Eh…” you mumbled, writhing under his eyes. You swallowed hardly. ”Do you love me?”
You had never before seen the expression that painted his features. He was shocked, angry, devastated, amused, seemingly all at once. An uncomfortable amount of time passed.
”Would you believe me, whatever I answered you?”
”I don’t know.”
He furrowed his thick brows.
”Alright.”
Robb spun around and walked over to his side of the bed. From underneath his pillow, he pulled a thin leather strap like a necklace, with something small and silvery hanging from it.
”What is that?” You frowned.
Robb placed the object in your palm and closed your fingers around it. He sighed heavily and left, closing the door behind him. Only then did you open your fist. A little key. Would it open the box on his writing desk, the one with the silver lock?
It did.
The lid opened with a squeak. Immediately, a pile of paper welled out of the wooden container. They seemed to be letters.
You reached for one that had ended up right in front of you.
Sansa recieved another letter from you today. It is getting hard to hide the bitter jealousy I feel when you write to her. I wish I could see you, alone, and explain myself. I don’t even know if it would help, but I would do anything if it did.
Yours faithfully, Robb Stark.
When had he written this? You reached for another letter.
I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry that they are making you become my wife, and yet more sorry still that you do not want to be.
Yours, with love, Robb Stark.
A lump appeared in your throat. There were so many letters here, surely over a hundred. Too many. You picked up the box, digging your hand into it to find the letter at the very bottom.
Your heart clenched when you saw the scratchy handwriting. He could not have been very old when he wrote this.
You’re really angry with me because I was mean. I probably deserve that. I hope you won’t be angry for too long. I feel like I’ll die if you hate me forever. I’m really sorry.
Robb
You hadn’t noticed tears welling up until they fell onto the crumpled letter. This must’ve been written the first time you came to Winterfell. All this time, you had been so angry over a petty insult. All this time, he had—
He had loved you. He loved you.
You let the letter fall from your hand as you ran out of the room as fast as you could manage. You ran faster than your feet should have carried you, sprinting down staircases and evading surprised servants.
”Robb,” you panted as you came out onto the courtyard. Your eyes scanned the area frantically. Then they found him. He was on his horse, riding calmly out through the gates of his home.
”Robb!” Your voice broke as you shouted after him. He halted his horse, face turning back towards you where you stood, weeping. Within a second, he had dismounted, and after another second, he stood in front of you with flushed cheeks and ragged breath.
”Th— the letters,” you sobbed.
”I didn’t know what to say.” He sneaked his arm around your waist and pulled you to his chest, stroking over your hair with his free hand.
”I-I’m so sorry, I have been s-so awful to you! A-and over something so f-fucking stupid!”
”I don’t blame you, Y/N, it’s not your fault, it’s alright. I’m sorry for every cruelty I have even spoken to you… you know what I mean. I am so sorry.” Robb murmured apology and sweet forgiveness into your hair and into your soul. After a moment of silence, you pulled back and stared up at him with red eyes.
”I don’t think I know how to love you,” you whispered earnestly.
”You have the rest of your life to learn, if you’d like.” He smiled bashfully. You knew you were being watched. You curled into his chest again.
”If you manage to die on this hunt, I will kill you.”
”Noted.” He laughed.
”Do you love me?” you repeated the question, voice hushed so only he would hear.
He trailed his blue eyes across your features and mumbled, ”immeasurably.” You felt a finger to curl under you chin as he tenderly connected your lips to his own. As he kissed you, you considered that maybe forgiveness wasn’t impossible after all.
Being the ‘King in the North’ came with its hardships, and war is be considered one of them. His father had been a stern but peaceful man, and imitating his leadership in honor was harder than he initially thought.
Regardless, he’d been doing rather well as a general, though the men on his council were of questionable use. Mostly given the fact they can never stop arguing.
It seems as though they grow more restless and irritable by the day, becoming more volatile when it felt like the desire for a solution had become more of a necessity.
So, each day, he returns to the tent where you stay. Busying yourself with writing or reading or something else to keep yourself from going mad all day.
You were his personal haven. Even though you were typically asleep when he returned—it was long after sundown before he breached the tent, it was a heaven compared to the day’s activities.
On a normal day, he’d quietly slip out of his day clothes into a pair of linen pants and curl in beside you. Lay soft, sleepy kisses to your throat that made your sweet sighs fill the lowly lit tent. You were so beautiful like that, face relaxed, at peace with your lips parted while you dreamt.
But tonight, when he pushed open the tent’s flap, there was a whole different idea that had been running through his mind over and over and over again today.
And you looked so gorgeous tonight. The low candles seemed to illuminate your lashes and make your cheeks glow warmly, thin nightgown caught and framing the valley of your waist, the width of your hips.
A firm hand ran through his hair, stripping off his furs and outer layers. Even the linen seemed too thick, far too tight on his warm skin.
He stepped slowly over to you, shaky thumb coming to trace the soft lines beneath your eye, pressing gently into the hollow of your cheek. It only made you stir, but his cock twitched eagerly.
He was hardening quickly, tip already leaking with precum. His beautiful wife, so at peace, in an entirely different world. It would be easy to wake you, firmly shake your shoulder and whisper a ‘open those eyes, beautiful’, but he didn’t.
One hand drifted low to your hip, pushing you slowly onto your back. Quickly, your neck rolled back against the pillow, groaning softly in that same way that made his cock rise with arousal.
With all the world’s certainty, he climbed atop you. There was a bit of guilt for this, not for what he was about to do, but for waking you. To pull you from whatever slow, calm moment you were having, just to satisfy his urges.
He lifted the loose material of your slip up to your waist, making your whine from the cold air on your bare cunt. ‘How sweet.’
A single finger pressed to your folds, groaning quietly at the mess he found there. You were utterly soaked, own arousal sticking to your thighs and causing you to shiver mindlessly.
Your clit was swollen and puffy, making you jolt lightly when he pressed the rough pad of his thumb to the needy bud.
The hand not teasing you freed his hard cock, tip angry and leaking cloudy beads of precum that allowed him to lubricate his length. His cock throbbed with need, fist working quickly to prepare himself.
You knees bent on either side of his hips, allowing his warmth to rest above you before he pushed in slowly. You squirmed, though still holding firmly onto sleep.
A knit formed between your brows, a small ‘o’ forming on your slightly-chapped lips when your tight hole stretched around him with ease. The fullness seemed to make you more lively, breath hitching when he retracted a couple inches.
“Husband?” You murmured, sweet like honey, still asleep and still so dependent on him. It made him quiver with anticipation.
“Shhh, don’t worry, love.”
He used a thumb to soothe your pinched brows, but the sight of you asleep was making it hard to hold back. His cock ached to be deeper, to fuck you deep and slow like he usually did, but you weren’t in your usual state.
An uncontrolled, sharp thrust made him curse, cock nudging at that gummy, sweet spot deep inside you.
It was then your eyes cracked open. Still not fully there, body almost limp where he’d laid you back. Your hair was slightly mussed, lashes low while exhaustion clung to your vision.
Then you moaned, low and syrupy, raw with tender at his thrusts. “Robb..”
The sounds of his name falling from your mouth like that, tongue vaguely forming each letter perfectly.
“I know, but I needed you. Needed to touch you.” He hadn’t stopped, cock pressing up into you slower, harder.
Your walls tightened around him, and he hissed, burying his face into your neck while your arms still laid limp at your sides. You allowed him to control everything, take the reins entirely, providing him with a sense of trust that made his heart almost burst.
“Mhm..” you whined, lashes batting lazily against your cheeks while the grip on your hips tightened.
“You’re so beautiful, couldn’t resist you.” The words were grumbled quietly against your throat, tone weakening as your cunt clenched tighter, sucking him so deep.
Gently, he lifted your knees to hitch around his hips, allowing him to paw at your thighs while he pounded up into you.
Your mewls and whimpers only fueled him, seeking out not only his pleasure, but to make you finish. The thought of watching your hazy eyes widen and twitch when you came made his abs tighten, fist balling in the sheets beside your head.
Eager to make you cum before him, Robb’s free hand dipped down to where the two of you were connected, quickly finding your needy clit. He rubbed tight circles on the poor nub, listening intently as your sounds became more desperate.
“Shh, easy, girl.” Your hips weakly bucked against his hand, a sign you were close already. It just made him smile, the prospect of being able to build you up so easily making him beam with pride.
“Please..” your voice chipped, splintering beneath his attentive fingers and cock.
“Be patient,” the words were unbearably teasing, though to your groggy mind, you could only nod dumbly.
You climbed that ladder faster than usual, falling apart oh, so sweetly beneath him. Just a tired jolt of your hips and a particularly affectionate purr that made a shiver run up his spine.
“Thank you..” and you thanked him. So quietly, genuinely grateful. Like he’d truly done you a service, and it was so cute. But he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Mhm—you’re welcome!” He huffed, hips stilling for a moment before spilling deep into you.
It took a moment for him to recover, your tight cunt milking him for anything he could give before the two of you shared a sigh.
“Go back to sleep, aye? I’ll take good care o’you.” A tender finger reached out to tuck a sweaty piece of your hair back, your husband looking down at you affectionately.
“Mmh..yeah.” You mumbled, already rubbing your eyes adorably to pass back out on the pillow below,
“So beautiful, ya did so well. Could look at this pretty face forever.” His constant praise allowed you to sleep with ease against his side.
