mariposium

ε ї з | mari ♡ 21 ♡ she/her | ε ї з

[mariposium]

༉‧₊˚✧ › 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝙸 ─ 21, she/her, writer, 18+ mdni

requests are open ─ check out my guidelines

links: (ao3) + (mastertag)

(akotsk masterlist) + (the pitt masterlist)

© mariposium ; do not copy, feed into ai, redistribute, reupload, edit, translate, or otherwise steal my works, thanks!

[mariposium]

hi darling! first of all i just love your blog and i'm mesmerized with the abbot effect and elevator confessional. you're a very talented writer, and it shines through in your stories how much you care about detail and cohesion. congratulations on your work!! i've seen your requests are open and i have this idea i'm sure you'll be the ideal person to write (if you want to of course!!!). SO jack is married and a stepdad for almost all his stepdaughter life. he's very present, does everything for her, a true father. everybody in the pitt know his 8 year old, as the wife is also a doctor. on her day off, she takes their daughter to take a vaccine or do blood exams, something to do with needles. although shes 8, she still don't afraid of it and get super anxious, so abbot steps in to make she feels comfortable. before leaving, she says "bye dad" for the first time, very unpredictable, very sweet, which makes abbot feel so soft, seem and loved. i've watched so many tiktoks of stepfathers being called "dad" or seeing their stepchildren using their last names, and i immediately thought abbot would be that kind of beloved stepfather 😭😭 you can change whatever you think is necessary; i believe you'll do an excellent story either way. thank you for reading this suggestion!!!

took me forever to get to this one, but thank you so much for the lovely and detailed request, anon! <3 hope you enjoy! you can find your completed request here.

[mariposium]

❀ : FATHER FIGURE — jack abbot

summary — your daughter is scared of needles, but needs a routine vaccination. jack, your husband and the stepfather of your daughter, steps in to comfort her through the process. (based on this request) (3k)

featured — dr. jack abbot / fem!pediatrician!reader

content — no spoilers for s1 or 2, straight fluff, medical descriptions of vaccines and immunity, my little pony references (because i don't know what kids watch these days), jack being a good step father, tw. needles/shots

(cross-posted on ao3) (the pitt masterlist)

It feels a tad strange coming into work on a day off, but when one works at a hospital, work life can sometimes become melded with personal.

You know that better than anyone. You had, for a moment, become a running joke for how many times you arrived back at work after scheduled leave. It’s a bit like a toxic relationship at this point. You hate being at work, but you also can’t fully remove yourself from the environment that keeps you coming back time and time again.

The joke also caught its biggest flame when you started dating—and even more so when you married—emergency medicine doctor Jack Abbot. Then, you had even more reasons to stop by on your days off. Unexpected dropped off lunches and appearances to pick him up for dates at the end of his shifts garnered lots of laughter from your other pediatric doctors, and some of the emergency floor. (Dr. Shen and Dr. Ellis started their own betting pool, for a minute, based on when you would show up throughout the week).

For once, though, the reason you’re coming into the hospital isn’t about you, and it isn’t even about Jack. It’s about your daughter.

At eight years old, she has lots of opinions. It had started that morning when she woke up and decided she did not want to brush her teeth (which you of course had to convince her to do), she’d been upset to find that Jack was working and could not ride bikes with her (as they liked to do on Saturday mornings he had off work), and then suddenly decided that she absolutely would not be getting her Flu vaccine you had already scheduled her for at your local pharmacy today.

It isn’t often you give in to your daughter's outlandish whims, but you also know that aversions to needles is something that can become worse the older a person gets. You dealt with parents fainting over their child getting a small shot in the arm enough to know that you did not want your daughter to one day fear needles that much. So that’s why you made her a deal.

Get your vaccine from mom at work and maybe you can see Jack.

She’d been all for it, of course. From the day you’d introduced her and Jack seven years ago, she and him had been attached at the hip. It’s why you know that bribing her with the thought of his attention is a sure fire way to get her on board. 

“Can we go see Jack now?” she asks the minute you step on the chaotic emergency floor. Even though she didn’t see her biological father often, and had known Jack since she was a baby, she still liked calling him Jack. You and Jack never correct her because you know that kids can have a hard time relinquishing titles like that.

“Have to get your shot first,” you tell her, weaving through doctors and nurses striding by in a frenzied hurry. You’re mostly trying to get off this floor before she sees something traumatizing.

You pass a young woman screaming at the top of her lungs in the psych hold area and you cringe, angling your daughter’s curious gaze away.

Entering through this floor had not been your first idea. Pedes was a few floors up, and not nearly as chaotic as the emergency floor. It also tended to not have nearly as much blood or gore. It had just about the same level of loudness, though—especially when babies are concerned.

“Is that my favorite pedes doctor coming in on her day off again?” 

You flinch and turn your head just as you and your daughter have just about made it to the elevators. Since Jack’s been working more day shifts recently (to get better aligned with you and your daughter’s schedules, bless him), a whole new cast of characters has been taking up residence in his stories.

This one you recognize immediately, though. 

“Dana,” you say with a short laugh, reaching out to give her a quick sidearm hug, the other still holding your daughter’s hand captive in your own.

She returns it softly, grinning at you with that warm, toothy smile.

“Hey hon.” She releases you after a quick pat on the back, eyes glittering. She looks down at your daughter and bends on her knees. “And here’s the one we’ve all heard so much about from Jack.”

You adjust your hand to rest between your daughter’s shoulder blades, gently nudging her forward. She’s dressed in a bedazzled rainbow dash t-shirt (the best My Little Pony, in her opinion) and a tulle skirt, and several butterfly clips in her hair. She’s been picking out her own outfits recently, but luckily they were still pretty cute.

She looks back at you nervously, but offers Dana a smile when she turns her head back. She gives the older woman a small wave.

“We didn’t want to have to spend the day at work,” you say to her, “but someone is a little hesitant to get her flu shot, so I thought I’d just bring her in and do it here.”

Dana shoots you a knowing look. “Well, let me know if I can help you guys at all.”—she turns to your daughter then, a smile on her painted lips—“Maybe if it all goes well, you can come see me for some stickers afterward?”

Your daughter grins, looking back at you. “Can we go do it now?”

You laugh at her sudden enthusiasm, turning to Dana. “You should come join us on the pediatric floor.”

“No thank you,” she says, shaking her head, “if I had to hear babies crying all day I’d lose my mind. Those days are over for me.”

“You have the touch!” you tell her over your shoulder as you weave into the elevator with your daughter in tow. 

“I have bribes.” Dana’s laugh follows you as the doors begin to slide shut. “Not the same thing.”

You continue to smile even as the doors slide shut and the familiar weightless feeling takes hold as the elevator moves. Your daughter slides her hand from yours and you quickly check your phone for any notifications. The last text you received was at 7am this morning—Jack sneaking out but not without telling you he loves you over text and that he’d made breakfast.

You bite your lip as you relive the butterflies that erupted in your stomach from the simple phrase. 

That is what is so rare, so special about Jack. He loves you unconditionally. Your last boyfriend, your daughter’s father, had practically skipped town when he found out you were pregnant. As far as you were concerned, he was just a sperm donor.

Luckily, you had met Jack about six months into your pregnancy. Somehow in that brief period when you spoke infrequently in between night shift consultations, you being single had come up in conversation and he made his move. 

Two years later, he was the one doing puzzles with your daughter and drawing with crayons at the kitchen table. Later, he was the one teaching her how to ride a bicycle and tie her shoes. When you and Jack got married four years ago, your daughter had beamed ear-to-ear during the entire reception—and had run up to give her new step-dad a huge hug that resulted in many resounding “awws” in the audience.

Your daughter knew no other male parental figure except Jack, not really. Your ex visited on holidays, often with some kind of lazy $20 Target gift card and a Hallmark card. There’s some kind of the mysticism that comes when you’re a kid that’s visited by an absent parent once in a blue moon that keeps them haunting the back of your mind like an apparition, always.

She doesn’t know him like you do, and she only sees him twice a year, so she doesn’t have a fully-realized image of what he is or what kind of person he could be. She gives him graces that she wouldn’t afford anyone else in her life that are constants because of that mysticism and childhood naïveté. You don’t blame her—can’t. You do blame your ex, but there’s really not anything you can do about that either—except demand child support and remind him with texts of her birthday coming up every year.

You reach over to squeeze her shoulder affectionately and she looks up at you, giving a small smile.

“It will be over in no time, I promise.” You let go of her shoulder just as the elevator dings and the doors slide open to the, thankfully, much quieter pediatrics floor.

In the distance, you hear a baby crying that is quickly soothed by their mother’s voice. You glance down at your daughter as she steps into the floor behind you and your heart pangs.

Her eyes are wide, taking in every person that walks by with scrutiny, and she tries to hide the slight tremble to her hands. 

You bend your knee, putting on your trained pediatrics smile. Her eyes dart to yours, a plea on her lips. “It will be over so quickly. I promise. And then we will see Mrs. Dana and she will give us stickers and we can go see Jack and give him a hug.”

She doesn’t seem entirely comfortable, still, but she nods and follows you as you lead her to the circle of desks near the center of the room. It’s a very similar setup to the emergency floor, except the rooms are less windowed for privacy and the walls are painted in a soothing nature scene for the kids to enjoy.

You find one of the pediatrics nurses, a friend of yours, and you ask him for some assistance. You set your daughter down in one of the stools at the front.

“Okay, this is mom’s friend Henry, and he’s going to help us with your flu shot. Is that okay?”

Your daughter looks over at the mid-twenty year old man standing across from her, hands clenched into little fists in her lap. She nods, then starts pulling at one of the strings in her rainbow skirt.

You look over at Henry, who begins prepping the shot. Your daughter stares at you with a tremulous chin, eyes beading with tears.

As Henry begins to wipe her upper arm with a sterile pad, she flinches and turns away, hiding her upper body from sight.

“I want Jack,” she says softly, “can Jack do it? I promise I will if he comes.”

You sigh and turn to Henry, who shrugs. You look down at your phone and raise a brow when it vibrates in your hand, as if beckoned.

Jack<3: how did little one’s shot go today? i’m on lunch

“Stay here with Henry for a minute, okay, honey? I'm going to go make a phone call.” Your daughter nods, but gives Henry a skeptical side eye as he continues to stand in front of her.

You back far enough away that your daughter can’t hear and press on Jack’s contact info to call him.

It only has to ring once before you hear his voice on the other side.

“You okay? Need me to head out?” 

Your stomach flutters at the concern in his voice, even though you think it might be a little sadistic to feel that. Maybe it’s just that every day, in little moments, you’re reminded how much you and your daughter mean to him.

“If I were to tell you I’m in pediatrics right now, with little Miss-Afraid-of-Needles near-hyperventilating at just the thought of getting her flu shot, what would you do?”

“I thought you guys had an appointment for that?” You can hear shuffling on the other end and the sound of someone asking him a question, which he replies in a muffled voice you can’t make out. 

“Well, I made a mistake,” you tell him, “I let her decide where we go to get the shot. I also promised she would see you after and that Dana would give her stickers. And she’s still upset about it all.”

“She’s got you wrapped around her little finger, you know that?” 

You snort a laugh through your nose. “Like you’re any better? Don’t think I didn’t see the smiley face you made her out of chocolate chips on her pancakes this morning.”

“It’s our Saturday tradition, honey. You know that.”

“I know, I know,” you laugh again, “just don’t try to lecture me about being too soft on her when I can literally hear you running to catch the elevator right now.”

He chuckles, then quietens.

“—I think the elevator’s about to arrive. I’ll see you in a minute?”

You nod, then you realize he can’t see you. “I love you. Thank you for making the time.”

You can hear the smile in his voice as he replies. “For you? Always.”

The call cuts just as you hear the elevator doors ding on the other side of the call. You turn around to look at your daughter, only to find her putting stickers all over poor Nurse Henry’s arm. You grin at her enthusiasm, striding over.

“You getting Nurse Henry looking pretty over here?”

Your daughter clams up as if she’s expecting you to be angry at her sudden 180 in emotion. You know kids, though, and you know that her fear was real and that just because she’s been distracted doesn’t mean she was faking it before. You squat down to her level, gently stroking her hair.

“Jack’s coming up now to give you your shot.”

Your daughter beams, but after a moment shrivels in on herself, her lip trembling. 

You give her a kiss on the cheek. You pull back, forcing her to look at your eyes with a hand on her chin. “It will be okay. I promise.”

As if on cue, the elevator doors open and Jack comes striding in. He looks around for just a few seconds before his eyes land on where you stand across the room. He beams and quickly strides over.

Henry steps back as Jack takes his spot.

“Hey, bug,” he says to her. He pokes her arm and she lets out a soft laugh, turning away. “I hear you’re a little scared of your shot?”

She wrinkles her nose. “It hurts. And I can’t sleep on my arm at night when I get them.”

“Well,” Jack says, snapping on a pair of gloves from nearby, “sometimes life is about doing things that might make us hurt for a day or two so we don’t get really hurt later.”

“But I’ve never had the flu before,” she says, furrowing her brows.

“Do you remember what I told you about our bodies? That we have fighters inside of us that are usually really good at keeping viruses like the flu from making us sick?” She nods, so he continues. “Well, this shot”—he picks up the needle to show her—“has a code in it that those little fighters can learn, so that when you do get the flu, you might not get sick at all, because now they know what they’re fighting.”

Your daughter nods very seriously. “So my fighters are like Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash learning more about Nightmare Moon so they can stop her from taking over the world next time she shows up?”

You notice from the corner of your eye Henry biting his lip to smother his laughter. Meanwhile, you’re actually pretty impressed by her comparison to her favorite show. You also think in the same train of thought that maybe she needed less screen time.

“Yep, exactly,” Jack agrees enthusiastically. “And this shot is like the Elements of Harmony coming to change Nightmare Moon back into Princess Luna.”

Now you’re the one holding back your laughter. You look over at Jack, impressed by his knowledge. He shoots you a sly wink as if to say ‘I know more than I’m letting on.’

Your daughter squares her shoulders and nods. “Okay,” she says, “do it. I’m ready.”

Jack smiles and grabs the sterile swab to rewipe her upper arm. She flinches at the cold liquid and you walk over to stand in front of her.

“Just look at me,” you tell her softly, “it will be over before you know it.”

She follows your direction obediently as Jack lines up the shot with her arm. As the needle enters, your daughter winces and tenses, but keeps her eyes on you all the while. Jack pushes the liquid in then removes the needle. He puts on a colorful bandaid to the wound.

“All done,” you say with a grin, “you did so good.”

She bashfully drops her eyes. “It barely even hurt.”

Jack stands, removing the gloves with a small, affectionate smile pulling at his lips.

She stands up from her stool. You think she’s going to move toward you when she surprises you by turning to hug Jack around his waist. Jack tilts his head toward her, surprised.

“Thanks, dad,” she says into his back. “You’re the best.”

She continues to bury her head into his scrubs, and Jack pats her head as he meets your shocked gaze. You think your mouth must be hanging open, but you can’t help it.

She pulls away and looks up at him. She frowns. “Why are you crying, dad?”

Jack wraps her in a gentle side hug, wiping away the small tears that had leaked out. “Nothing, bug. Just happy.”

Your daughter lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. She begins to move away from the two of you quickly. “Okay, well stop crying and come pick out stickers with me.”

You snort at her drill-sergeant order and look over at Jack, who continues to grin and shake his head. You reach over to loop an arm around his waist, planting a kiss to his cheek.

“You earned it,” you whisper, “only a dad knows that many My Little Pony references.”

Jack lets out a laugh, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a full kiss.

The moment is broken when your daughter lets out a loud groan from across the room. “Come onnnn, gosh you guys are so gross!”

You laugh and pull away. You sweep your hand toward your daughter with a sarcastic grin. “C'mon, Jack. Fatherhood awaits.”

© mariposium ; do not copy, feed into ai, redistribute, reupload, edit, translate, or otherwise steal my works, thanks!

[mariposium]

just read the lost prince and i love your writing sm❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹would you make a pt2?🥹

thank you :D

if you guys have any ideas for a drabble in the same universe, I’m happy to hear! i honestly am not sure where i could go with a second part.

[mariposium]

Ok please forgive me, the algorithm floods your dash if you so much as pause too long on something, so I haven’t seen the show but I come across many baelor fics..well many of the characters but mostly baelor so anyway. From all the fics, I’ve come to understand Aerion is cruel? Is that true? If so you could do like those k dramas I keep seeing on TikTok, the sisters fates get swapped and the spoiled one didn’t appreciate what she had & thinks she’s getting a better deal but then ends up getting a worse hand 👀 very Cinderella also lol well if you think abt the ever after version

hello! :)

yes, aerion in the show is pretty cruel/ruthless. he orders this actress woman’s fingers to be broken because she put on a play depicting dragons, for example. he gave me joffery (GOT) and aegon (HOTD) vibes when i first watched the show but i have since warmed up to aerion more recently bc of fanfics and having seen other works the actor who plays him as been in (backrooms!!). i’m actually writing a fic of him now but that’s another matter…

i assume you’re referring to the choices series, in which case i have thought about doing that! i have had both people asking to have lyanna marry aerion and i have had people asking them to not be wed, so i guess it will come down to what i decide, haha.

[mariposium]

➶ : THE LOST PRINCE — jacaerys velaryon

summary — while combing the beach for treasures, you stumble upon the unconscious, grievously injured body of a soldier. you decide to help him, but in doing so find love in a man that may never be able to return it. (11.4k)

featured — jacaerys velaryon / fem!reader

content — spoilers! tread carefully, fluff and ANGST, angst w/ a happy ending, hurt/comfort, canon divergent, jace lives, light medical descriptions, reader cares a lot for jace, dual pov!!!, inexplicit mental health struggles (reader’s deceased father), dead vermax ☹, 18+ MDNI implied sexual content/fade-to-black, tw there is a baby

a/n — am i anywhere near caught up with hotd? no. did i write this in spite of that? yes. i'm sorry if things don't make sense or are not in line with canon. the wiki and i did our best!

(cross-posted on ao3)

The cerulean waves lap at the silver beach, ebbing and flowing with the morrow’s breeze. Quiet has finally settled on the shores after a night of war and destruction. A battle beyond these argent sands occurred out in the gullet. All night, the savagery had kept you awake. This morrow, you collect treasures from your fish nets.

You step carefully across the sands, adjusting your silk scarf tighter around your mouth and nose. You bend the knee at the first net.

You heave it onto the shore. Nothing except too-small pieces of fabric and inedible shelled fish are in this one. You empty it and release the fish back to the embrace of the sea.

You stand again, taking a few more steps down. Your mind drifts as you fall into a rhythm of checking these nets, pocketing pretty shells and scraps of metal. Wonder pricks at the back of your neck as you imagine the war. As the lone tenant of this pier, you had never had to consider the rites of the Targaryen rulers. Most of your neighbors had already chosen their sides, even if it did not really matter in the scheme of things—neither of those fighting for the throne cared for their subjects, especially not those at the bottom, like you.

Rulers like these bled the common man dry while claiming it to be an act of love.

You move a little rougher with the next net. Nothing but rocks and debris in this one. You imagine it will be a while until you find a worthy treat. The Gods are usually not as generous on solemn days like these. War makes monsters out of men, and the Gods scorn those who partake.

When you stand again, your eyes drift a little further down the bank. At the edge of the shore, a clump of trees catch your gaze. The water is darker there, cloaked in shadow. The shrubbery bends so far, it almost touches the water. You draw closer, eyebrows furrowed.

A dark lump sits entangled by brush, barely concealed by the cluster of foliage. You draw closer, hesitantly. As your eyes adjust, you realize it is not a lump of debris, but a body. Your breaths quicken.

If the person is alive, would it hurt you? Never trust a soldier, your father had once told you.

You bend your knee just as if you are checking a fish net. Your hands unfurl from your sides, reaching out hesitantly. You can only see his body. It is clothed in thick leather, a quality of which you’ve never seen before. Several arrows stick out of his torso. A pool of blood stains the sand maroon beneath him.

You pull back the shrubbery to see his face. You startle at the sight, falling back onto your bum.

His eyes—they were open—albeit, he did not seem to see much of anything. His skin was not grey and placid like the bodies that you had seen before. Worse, you’d heard something when you held yourself over him. A breath, shuddering through his parted lips.

“Alive,” you whisper in awe. To survive so many arrows, then the tumultuous sea… it would take more than just courage. It would take something otherworldly. You know then that your decision has been made.

A huge piece of driftwood sits beneath him in the sand. You push it aside to straddle him. Gently, you grab his arm and sling it around your neck.

The rest of your journey back to the cabin passes in a frenzied blur. You move quickly, trying to spend as little time as possible forcing the grievously hurt man onto his feet. He lets out little grumbles as you move, head lolling this way and that like a puppet cut from its strings. You make it inside and push open the door that your father used to live, laying him onto his back on the bed.

Blood immediately infiltrates the off-white of the duvet, crimson floating before your vision. He groans continuously as you break the ends off of the arrows—serving as a reminder to the heart that still valiantly pumped beneath his ribs. Once they are off, you are able to slide the armor off. 

The tunic comes easily. It seems to be made of a material that deflects water, so when you drop it onto the floor, a puddle of liquid forms in its spot. You struggle a little with his breeches—though, those too come easily with a little pull.

After he is naked, you stare at his body in silence for a moment. You have helped men with injuries before. Arrow injuries just like these, even. But you’d never helped a man with this many. 

You reach out to touch his cold cheek. He is so young—had to be your own age. Too young for the cruel, unflinching hold of war. Gently, you close his eyelids, shutting away the dark brown of his unseeing gaze. He did not need to be witness to this.

You steel your nerves and clench your fists a few times to breathe life back into your numb fingers. Reaching into the bedside table, you grab your supplies—bandages, a bottle of rum, a couple cloths, and several blunt blades.

“I’m sorry, if you are awake,” you tell him, poising the knife along the edge of one of the arrow heads. “This will hurt a lot.”

Hours pass quickly under your blade. Each of the five arrows is cut away, sewn with fishing line, disinfected with rum, and bandaged tightly. Sweat falls into your eyes as you step away triumphantly, and you lift a hand to brush it off. As they are levelled with your eyes, you realize your hands are a bloody mess. Your stomach churns and you force the appendages away.

You hover over him a moment longer. You study the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering of his eyelids. He had a strong nose and jaw, thick dark eyelashes and a head of water-matted brunet hair. By all appearances, he was quite common-looking. He had the complexion and hair of any man you’d pass on the way to town. But something about him—the quality of his armor, the blemishlessness of his skin, it screamed something ethereal.

But even Gods can be killed. 

Your mystery man is not out of the woods yet. The chances of any of those arrows not nicking anything inside him is next to none. He’s also lost a lot of blood. The sheets are covered in it, not to mention the amount he was sure to have lost at sea.

You draw the hair sea-slicked to his head away from his forehead. Your hand slides to cup his cheek. He might never wake again. Your kind hand may be the last he knows. You wonder how many people missed him—if they were sitting with baited breaths, waiting for him to write. If only you could ease their worries.

You pull away and leave the room before your eyes can fill with traitorous saltwater tears.

There are few certainties in life. Ever since you were but a child, you had recognized this. Life is tumultuous and unfair. It takes and it takes, until you can give no longer. 

The sea is a comfort. She does not take, she gives. Usually, she gives you more valuable things than a body, but you try not to question her motives.

It’s been a day since you patched him and he still has not woken. His chest continues to move despite this disconcerting sign, and that remains your only comfort. You stood near-vigil at his beside for most of the hours following. Anticipatory nerves fill your every waking second, even at night when you lay awake trying to sleep.

You recognize that the danger has not fully passed for him. He had not had water in who knows how long. Eventually, his organs would fail due to dehydration and blood loss. That is, if the internal bleeding didn’t kill him first.

You also cannot help the hope that blooms in your chest as you gaze upon his face. Perhaps it is the fact that his skin seems more alive as of late. The fact that you have seen his eyes move behind his eyelids more and more often. The fact that you were quite insufferably lonely, and therefore latched onto any individual who came your way—alive or barely, as in the case of this man in your cabin.

You want him to survive because you want to know him. It is a thought that scares you as much as it invigorates you.

By his bedside, after a long morrow of scavenging by the tide, you dump your satchel of goodies on the now-clean duvet. (Now that had been annoying to do—having to move his admittedly quite heavy body over to remove the sheets). You begin to sort through them, cataloging them.

The silence is unsettling, so you begin to speak.

“The sea has been kind this morrow,” you say softly. You pick up a smooth rainbow shell, twisting it this way and that in the light. “These will sell for a couple of silvers.”

You put the shell down and then grab your cloth, gently stroking away sand and debris.

“My father taught me to do this,” you tell the man, “he taught me everything I know.”

Satisfied with its shimmer, you trade the shell for a clam. You pop it open forcefully—apologizing profusely to the creature as you did—and stick your fingers into the dark crevice you created.

“No pearl,” you report when your fingers come up empty. You bring the clam up to your eyes, stroking its now-broken shell. “I’m sorry, friend.”

The last piece had been one you were excited for. You grab the shrapnel of metal gently in your palms, categorizing the weight and feel of it with your hands. 

“Probably off a shield,” you decide. “I’m sure a blacksmith would like this.”

You put the metal down and let out a heavy sigh. You stare at the man, worrying your lip between your teeth. Perhaps some foolish part of you had hoped he would wake up to the sound of your voice, like the stories you had read as a girl.

But life is no story, as you had to continually remind yourself. Things like that just didn’t happen.

You go through a few other bits and bobs in silence, mood dampened by reality. A couple of small shells, a nail, and a scrap of maroon fabric. You aren’t sure why you grabbed the fabric—perhaps you’d wanted to try and sew something. It is quite pretty, you decide. It had belonged to someone once.

Once you finish polishing the items, you lift your head up to look at the man. Thoughts and images flash through your mind. What was he like? You wonder. He seems strong, based on his broad shoulders and defined stomach. But he also didn’t have the worn skin of a common man. He didn’t have callouses on his hands or fading scars upon his torso. He had to be a prince, you decide. A prince of a faraway land, hoping to bargain peace between the two feuding Targaryen houses.

You nod, satisfied with that recreation of events. Yes, a prince. A just, altruistic one. Perhaps he knew of the war and wished to come and save the small-folk.

You look down at his pale hand resting lifelessly upon the duvet. You swallow thickly. 

“You must wake soon,” you whisper, “the kingdom needs you.”

He does not stir. You sigh and gather your things into your satchel. If he is still not awake by the morrow, you decide, you will return his body to the sea.

That evening, you sit at the table with a plate of roasted fish and a glass of water. The fish is one of two meals you eat regularly. The other was for special occasions, depending on if you were able to procure bread and potatoes at the markets. 

You always eat the eye of the fish first. You do not like it looking at you as you eat its flesh. It feels wrong. The eye is not very tasty, though. The odd texture always makes you vaguely nauseous–the gooey, chewy ball. Your father had always laughed at you when you ate fish. He was not of an imaginative mind. He did not see the fish as being once alive, like you did. He did not imagine it swimming beneath the tide, with all its other fishy friends–before it was snared by ruthless hands and suffocated by the open air.

You stare at the vacant chair across from you with an empty feeling in your chest. It had been so long since you had a companion at supper time. Your father had not spoken much, but his presence alone was always enough to keep you happy. He is gone now, like with the ebbing of the tide, and all that is left is the shadow of the person he used to be.

His fishing pole, next to the door. His journal, where he kept extensive notes about what he found out on the sea during the day. His bed that now had a new, warm body sleeping in it.

You wonder what your father would have done, had he found the man. You take another bite of the fish, forcing it down with a thick swallow. Would he have left him? You had never thought of him as being cruel, but you also know he loathed unwelcome responsibility. He had enough of an imagination to conjure horrible images of betrayal and hurt, and so you decide he probably wouldn’t have brought him home to you. He had too much to lose to do so. Everyone did.

And so why did you? Perhaps, you think, you have lost everything that matters most to you already.

You stare down at the limp skeleton of the fish on your plate. You had never seen a person die of dehydration. Your father had once told you a story about a man he knew that had, and it sounded awful. 

You pick up your dinner knife, a sharp, clean-edged blade, and hold it in the candlelight. The silver edge catches the light, highlighting the sharp point. Your hand trembles as you study it.

Would it be quick, painless—slitting the sleeping prince’s throat? Or would it be messy and painful? Would it draw him out of sleep and would he gaze upon you with hurting eyes as he clutched the gaping hole in his neck?

Regret gnaws at you. As time draws on, you begin to think that the mercy you had granted your prince had been nothing but a farce. That by saving him for one moment had only just prolonged his suffering.

You put the knife in your satchel and stand. It is cruel, keeping a person alive only to die in a violent manner like this–it is inhumane. 

You take quick steps to the bedroom. 

You have never killed a person before. Your father had plenty. He always said the eyes, you can hear his voice in your mind now, the eyes are always the worst part. 

You can’t eat the prince’s eyes like you can the fish’s. No matter what you did, you would have to see those eyes. And with it, the betrayal. You stand over his prone body now. 

A sliver of moonlight streams in from the open window behind you, casting cool light across the heaving chest. He remains impassive, completely unaware of what you were about to do. You do not realize you are crying until you bring the knife up to your eyes and catch a glimpse of your face in the silver.

“I…I am sorry, friend,” you repeat the same mantra you had told so many clams before as you pried your fingers in their mouths, looking for a pearl. “But this is a mercy.”

Your hands tremble like windblown seagrass as you lift the knife against his skin. A moment of hesitation prevents you from acting. And it is just enough for a pale hand to wrap around your own and for dark eyes to snap open.

“Waaa-ter.”

You let out a sharp gasp and yank your hand away. The man watches you, his visage crumpled with pain.

He repeats himself, voice quieter than the first time. “Water, please…”

You move into action. You dart out of the room, hands fumbling with the metal bucket by your door. You run across the moonlit shore to the well that sits on the edge of the woods. Quickly, you fill the bucket. You curse yourself all the while–mind racing in what-ifs and guilt-ridden condemnations. 

You heave the bucket back into the house and grab the same goblet you had used with your own water. You take a huge scoop and shuffle back into the bedroom like a child caught with their hand on the sweets plate.

The man is still awake when you re-enter, his eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. You drop next to him on the bed and angle his head and neck up onto the pillows behind him. Finally, you fulfill his request. He drinks like a man in Essos who has wandered the Red Waste for weeks; heavy, desperate gulps of the liquid. Some fall and drip down his side, which you dab away with a nearby cloth.

When he finally drinks it all, he pulls back, his breaths labored and eyes half-lidded.

“W…Where am I?” he finally says once he has caught his breath. You notice him scanning the room as if trying to find the answer written in the stone.

You decide not to answer honestly. You fear what his reaction will be if he forces himself to recall the battle. Instead you say, “you are safe.”

He stares at you as if only just noticing you. His dark eyes are swallowed almost completely by night, exhausted and ridden with heavy bags. He lifts a hand, as if to touch you, but it falls short. His eyes flutter, and then shut.

He falls unconscious. You touch two hands to his chest to confirm his heart still beats steadily. You let out a breath you had not realized you captured when you find his pulse.

Shame hits you like a tidal wave. You were going to… you were going to kill him. You are shocked at the tears that swim in your eyes. You stand in a hurry–not without remembering to pull the duvet back up to his chest–and stumble out of the room. 

The adrenaline has all but worn away now. Tears clog your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. You allow yourself to feel the emotions–all of them. Relief, shame, exhaustion, and fear overwhelm you completely and you can do nothing but sob. On the table in front of you, the skeleton of the fish and the silver knife mock you without having to say a word.

Waking feels like drowning. Fighting against the wave ahead of you, trying to get your head above water. Then when you finally surface, you fall behind the waves again.

Jacaerys wakes to the sun in his eyes and a warmth around his waist. He thinks for a moment, perhaps, he is in a dream. Another barrier between him and wakefulness. Then, the pain hits him. No, dreams don’t feel like this.

The groan stumbles past his lips before he can stop it and his eyes shoot open. Everything is pain. It surrounds him like dragonfire and steals his breath. He trembles as he uses all his strength to cradle his side.

“Gods,” he murmurs. He feels beneath his fingers the familiar texture of a bandage. Someone helped him.

Helped him. Helped him from what? He gasps as memory rolls over him. Drowning. Arrows piercing through skin and muscle. A dragon’s roar of pain. No, not just any dragon—

“Vermax,” he cries out, tears springing to his eyes. No, no, no…

But it was true. His mind had never failed him before. His dragon. His beautiful dragon. Falling to the bottom of the ocean like a ship’s anchor. He tries to move, to jump to his feet, but he can’t. Pain ricochets up his side, and he can literally feel the side of his chest pulling taut. 

He stares at the ceiling above him with tears fogging his eyes and coating his tongue in salt. For one long moment, he despairs. Why? Why would he be punished this way? Forced to live without Vermax? The bond between rider and dragon could not—should not be severed. Not by something as futile as war. He can’t breathe, can’t think. Everything is despair.

He should have died. Living is not a gift in this condition. His knuckles go white against the duvet. Anger sweeps over him—hot, potent fury.

He curses everyone who caused this. Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, even fucking Helaena. He doesn’t care. They’ll all pay.

But not like this. He finally shuffles himself into a seated position, cringing at the pain that shoots from every direction. Every small movement feels like another arrow tearing his skin. 

His feet are unsteady as he finds his footing. For a second, he fears he might not be able to even walk. Then, he finds himself. He grabs his breeches off the table and slowly, painfully, shrugs them on. He leaves his chest bare—unable to even think about having to lift his arms over his head. He keeps one hand on the wall and the other around his waist as he stumbles across the room. 

The place he is in is frighteningly humble. There’s nothing unnecessary here. Everything has a purpose, a function. No gilded armoires, tall candlesticks, or commissioned portraits. Bare, cobblestone walls, sparse furniture (all glaringly handmade and rustic), and cobwebs hanging in every corner. 

Jacaerys moves slowly from the room he started in to the short hallway that opens into a tiny living area. A large fireplace is the only comfort to him. A pot of a molten, unappetizing glob bubbles above the waning fire. 

There are very few personal effects here. Nothing to propose any kind of hint or insight. Out the window of the front of the ramshackle building, he sees amber light flickering across a wide sea.

His breath shudders out of his lips. He doesn't recognize this place at all. He’s hurt. He has no dragon. He’s never felt worse in his entire life.

All of what energy he summoned flees him in that moment. He practically collapses into a nearby chair and it creaks pathetically under his weight. He hangs his head and a soft sob escapes his lips. 

Tears tremble down his cheeks and onto the wood table beneath his hand. His mind races, memory and pain and fury collide in a war of its very own. Vermax, his mind strays. The perfect dragon. Gone. He digs his nails into the grain of the table beneath his hands, trying to recapture something to ground him. Short, hyperventilating breaths escape his lips—his vision fogs.

Then, everything clears. His hands unclench and he leans back in the chair. He stares at the ceiling, measuring his breaths. You are still alive, he tells himself. Therefore you are still useful.

Because perhaps that was his real fear. That he would no longer be of use—that he would no longer be worth fighting for. He’d always measured his worth in terms of what he could provide to his mother. Perhaps the truth is that his worth stretches beyond that.

He hears the sound of crunching footsteps outside. He sits up in the chair, eyes flickering toward the door. Ahead of him, he notices with a jolt, a knife lay discarded on the table. He grabs it before he can think the better of it, brandishing it like he actually could fight his way out of this mess.

He ignores the pain throbbing in his side and pushes himself to stand again. He won’t die now. He can’t.

The door creaks open slowly, and he angles the knife in front of himself protectively. 

But the figure that crosses the threshold isn’t what he’d been expecting. Wide eyes and a mouth fallen open into an oval. Hands clutching a satchel of… is that a seashell? 

She drops the satchel with immediacy, hands flying into the air. Jacaerys thinks he hears something break inside.

He keeps the arm holding the knife up despite the involuntary tremble that has begun in his arm. A cool sweat travels down his temple. His vision wanes. Despite her… figure (she hadn’t brandished a weapon a day in her life, he thinks), he knows looks can be deceiving. 

“You’re up.” She does not immediately acknowledge the weapon in his hand. She’s either brave or simply ignorant. Jace is not sure what he’s more afraid of.

“Who—“ he starts to speak, but he breaks into a coughing fit. His throat feels like it is on fire. She takes a step forward, as if to help or harm him, but he freezes her in place when he turns his gaze back onto her warningly. “Who are you?”

She tells him her name. Then she quickly adds, “you washed up on the beach in front of my cabin. I found you.”

He bends over to clutch his side. He notices her eyes widen.

“Please, I’m not sure you should be up. You sustained massive injuries,” she tells him. “Your body needs rest.”

“I cannot—“ he scoffs, then coughs again. “I cannot simply rest. I must leave. I must…” 

A pang in his side makes him gasp and hunch over. The knife falls with a clatter against the floor but he can’t seem to bring himself to retrieve it. Everything feels like it is in slow motion, out of his reach and control.

She grabs him around the waist before he tips over. He stays conscious long enough for her to lead him back to bed, but he falls within the waves again the second his head hits the pillow.

Consciousness returns to him in fragments. The sound of footsteps by his head. A burning pain spreading up his chest, to which he thinks he shouts, but cannot prevent. The feeling of a wet cloth soaking his tears and sweat. 

When his eyes finally flutter open, it is dark in the room. A candle burns to a nub on the nightstand next to him, wax coating the wood. Sorrow fills his chest again so quickly it nearly steals his breath.

He sees her slip into the room like a wraith come to haunt him. It is ridiculous, he thinks, that she should be the one to stand over him. On any other day, in any other circumstance, she would not put up much of a fight. Now, he is at her mercy.

“You tore one of your stitches.” Her voice is soft, but it reverberates in his ear drums and skull like a dragon’s final roar. He clenches his jaw and turns his head toward the moon that hangs like a silver noose in the sky. “I had to sew it back while you were resting.”

Jace doesn’t reply. He isn’t sure he would know what to say. How does he encompass all his feelings—or even one of them, into a coherent thought? It isn’t possible.

She draws closer and he tenses. She notices. “Are you going to try and hurt me again?” 

He considers her for a moment, then shakes his head.

She pauses, thinking about something, then she settles upon his side of the bed. Jace notices for the first time since she’s entered the room, that she has a bowl of that wretched-looking soup in her hands.

“Here,” she says, outstretching the bowl. He leans back. She pulls away slightly. “Sorry.” She cringes like even she realizes that the soup is nothing to write home about. “It is all I have.”

Jace swallows thickly. He reaches a trembling hand out. She smiles, relieved.

He goes to take the bowl, but his arm feels weak. He pulls back. “Perhaps…” he pauses, clears his throat. “Perhaps you could…”

Asking for help has never come easy to him. Being weak is not something he is accustomed to. His other hand clenches the sheet in his fist.

She nods. He does not have to be explicit. He untenses his hand as she leans forward, a small bit of soup in the wood spoon.

The first bite makes his face twist. She laughs.

“I truly am sorry,” she says. “I know it is probably not what you are used to.”

It takes every bit of his strength to swallow the offending liquid. It is strangely salty. It tastes like the brine that filled his mouth when he— 

He cuts the thought short. No need to ruin his own mood again.

“Something happened to you out there,” she says as if she’d read his mind, and although it should be a question, it is not, “something bad.”

He swallows another gulp of the soup. He does not reply. 

She must realize he does not want to speak on that, for she does not press the matter. She lifts the spoon again and he forces down another sip.

“The soup has fish and some potatoes—oh, and they had carrots at the market today, so I put those in too. Perhaps those are the disgusting parts. I won’t purchase them again.”

Jace does not have the energy, or perhaps the heart, to tell her it is certainly not the vegetables that have made the soup taste like what sea captains scrape off the bottom of their ships.

She scoops another bit of soup and he forces it down. His mouth had begun to retain that saltiness even when he no longer had the soup in his mouth, like a stain one can’t wash away with soap and water.

She does not speak for a long pause, but Jace suddenly feels a bit antsy. It feels too intimate an act to not be speaking.

He swallows another mouthful, then clears his throat to speak. “Did you catch the fish?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“Oh, no, no,” she replies to him like it is a preposterous suggestion. Like killing fish is below her standards. “I just buy them.”

He frowns around the spoon in his mouth and hurriedly swallows the liquid. “Then why were you on the shore when you found me?”

She stirs the foul soup around for a moment, thinking hard about something, then she looks up at him. “I collect things. Shells, scrap metal, and fabrics. You would be surprised what comes with the morning tide, and even more what people would pay for them.”

An odd business, Jace can’t help but think. It seems like a hard thing to have to rely solely on the Narrow Sea for food and shelter. The Narrow Sea, he remembers with a sudden clarity. That is near where they fought.

“Are you going to tell your name?” Her head is tilted as she asks this, the soup bowl now empty and forgotten upon her folded legs.

He ponders the question for a moment. He could tell her his full name, but it might backfire, especially if she harbors a grudge against his family. He doesn’t think she has it in her to cause him harm, but he knows that many do not until they are cornered.

“Jace,” he finally tells her. “Just Jace.”

She smiles and her entire face lights up like nothing he’s ever seen before. Something twists in his stomach. “Nice to meet you, Jace.”

One, two, three, four. You count the shells noiselessly as you thread them onto the fishing line. They clink together softly as you pull the line taut around your wrist, measuring the width mentally. You remove the bracelet and add a few more of your little shells.

A few days had passed without much event. Jace drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day and slept soundlessly through the night. He did not complain, but you had seen his thinly-veiled winces and his shuddering breaths. You know that he is suffering more than he lets on. 

It is an odd thing, you think, to be harboring a man in your home that you know next to nothing about, but had inexplicably formed an attachment to. You still know nothing more about Jace than his name and even that had not been an answer easily wrought.

You slide the shells all to one side and swiftly tie a knot at the end of the line, forming a perfect circular bracelet. Putting it to the side, you cut a new piece of fishing line and begin sorting through your shells again.

Just as you go to slide the first shell on, you hear something behind you. The creaking of wood as light footfalls go across.

You turn your head, body tense.

“Jace,” you say, surprised by his appearance. You stand.

He had not been up since he’d ripped that stitch a few days ago, actually heeding your pleas to rest. But a part of you knew even then that the peace would not last long. He is a restless creature, like a bird stuck behind the bars of a cage.

“Do you need something?” You clutch your fingers together across your front, as if doing so could somehow steel your nerves.

He takes a step into the room. You notice his gait seems more steady today. He looks around every bit of the room, his eyes taking in all the pieces that make up your home. You gnaw your lip between your teeth. Did he approve of what he saw?

His voice comes suddenly, a blade cutting through the silence. “What are you doing?” 

It is not accusatory nor standoffish, instead it seems almost curious. You grab the bracelet you just finished and hold it out to him.

“A bracelet.”

Jace steps closer, tilting his head. “For what purpose?”

You let out a short laugh. “It has no purpose. It is just pretty.”

“Hm.” He stares at the offending object like he’s never thought about making something just for the sake of making something before. You smile. He averts his eyes to the other side of the room.

“You said you do not fish,” he says, “and yet you have a fishing rod.”

You follow his eyes to where the thing sits near the door. It sits, forgotten, in the corner of the room—there to haunt you and the person you’d never become, you’re sure.

“My father…” you start to say, but something gets caught in your throat. You forcefully swallow past the blockage. “My father used to fish.”

Jace’s accusatory eyes soften around the edges. He hobbles closer and takes the seat across from you at the table. Your father’s seat.

“And your father—“

“He is dead,” you answer curtly, “he has been for two summers now.”

You pick up the bracelet you had only just starteda nd slide a seashell onto the line. Hurt does not fill your chest like a cavity anymore—now all you feel is numbness as it spreads from your lungs to your heart. 

Jace turns his head to look out the window at the night sky. “My father is gone too.”

Your eyes leap toward his in a flash. He does not look at you, his hand tracing repetitive shapes on the table. The deep circles beneath his eyes have all but faded now, but the weariness to his expression remains. He possesses the gaze of someone who holds more than they can carry–a gaze your father shared.

Your throat bobs as you force yourself to swallow. You feel hollow, but a bit of warmth has reentered your chest. Two children, you think, without a parent—an awful thing, certainly, but not especially rare in Westeros.

You slide another shell onto the bracelet, fingers trembling. “He went mad.” Telling the truth, those three words, stings like betrayal. “He was a knight before I was born. He never… he never forgot what he had to do. The faces of the men he killed… they haunted him.”

Jace goes pale. His dark eyebrows furrow, the line of his mouth pulling down. “I-I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”

You nod. Put another two shells on the line. Desperately, you search for a way to change the subject. “He always wanted to teach me,” you say, gesturing to the rod, “but he never did.”

He drags a quick hand through his curly brown hair, then pauses as he gets caught in a tangle. He huffs irritably.

“Perhaps,” he says, onyx eyes catching the amber light of the candle flickering on the table, “if I could summon the strength to get dressed and brush my hair, then I could show you how.”

You swallow thickly. “You do not have to—“

“It is the least I can do,” he murmurs. “You saved my life.”

To smile feels inappropriate, so you avert your eyes and begin to tie a knot in another bracelet.

Jace stares at himself in the mirror that stands in the corner of the bedroom with solemn eyes. His eyes glaze over the bandages that wrap around his chest and lower torso, then the unfamiliar slightness to his shoulders and waist. He feels as though he looks at a person he no longer recognizes, like his mind has been transported into the body of someone much weaker than he used to be.

The old house is quiet in the morrow. Every once in a while, a soft breeze will make the house creak. One may occasionally hear a sea bird calling in the distance. Other than that, everything exists as if completely removed from reality; untouched by the war that rages just beyond the sea’s reaches.

His eyes flick back to the mirror and he sees her standing behind him with a deep green doublet wrapped in her arms. 

“It was my father’s,” she says, drawing closer. “It might be a little large on you.”

Jace nods. She hands him the doublet. The material feels like cheap linen, nothing to the quality he had worn before. He does not mind. It would be odd, he thinks, for him to expect anything better.

He lifts the top over his head and she helps guide it over. She seems to be trying not to touch his skin, like she thought he might be made of glass. He clenches his jaw when he feels the familiar tightness in one of his wounds as his arms stretch over his head.

The doublet falls over his body easily, but it does hang on him a bit like the robes a septa might wear.

He hears the sound of muffled laughter from behind him and he turns his head.

“My apologies.” She can barely get it out through her thinly-suppressed amusement. “You do look a bit funny, though.”

Jace feels his lips tug upwards in the first semblance of happiness he’d felt in days. It feels odd and out of place, and so it disappears with his next blink.

“Shall we go?” 

Jace nods. He follows her out of the bedroom and into the living area, watching as she bends to grab the fishing pole. He walks behind her as she leads the way outside, too slow to match her pace.

The brush of a briney mist against his skin feels like flying across the humid air on top of Vermax. His chest pangs and he forces the thought away. His eyes brush the swaying grasses that stand cloistered around the sea’s edge, each one caught up in a current of air drifting by. He watches the woman as she strides ahead of him.

She is quite plain. She does not have the dresses of the courts he is used to, nor the manners of a highborn lady. She moves unhindered by corsets and the plumes of expensive dresses. Her soft legs pump quickly across the sands, barefoot, like she has mapped every inch of the shore to near-perfection and knows without looking where she must go.

Seeing her slip ahead, her hair tangled in the sea’s mist, then as she turns over her shoulder with a jovial grin, it feels so different than anything he’s ever known before.

Baela is beautiful. She is poised, and gentle, but with a rough edge that assures him she could—and would—easily hurt him if pushed to it. But his stomach never flipped when she spoke. He never searched for her eyes from across the room. He never grasped her hand and wished he never had to let it go. He had known her for so long, he assumed she was all he’d ever need, that the feeling of content he felt in her presence was love. Now he isn’t so sure. 

She reaches the shore and stops when her feet hit the tide.

He meets her gaze as she turns to him. His heart pounds in his ears.

“Is it not wonderful?” She sweeps her arm in a half-arc as she speaks, eyes glimmering beneath the high morrow’s sun.

Jace draws his eyes away from her figure to the open waters. It is wonderful, he thinks. If not wrought with pain and regret.

He forces his gaze away. “Yes.”

“So,” she says, shifting on her heels, “how do we begin?”

Jace steps forward and picks up the rod. He retrieves the little scrap of maroon fabric that she had found a few days back and attaches it to the end of the hook. 

“It is always a good idea to have some kind of bait,” he explains, “fish are attracted to movement. If you can find insects or worms, those work even better. But this fabric may do. We will have to see.”

He moves close to the edge of the water and lets the rod scrape the top of the ocean. “Most fish do not swim right by the shore, so you will need to throw the line out a little ways. Make sure that you do not catch your skin with the hook.”

She nods, eyebrows drawn together in deep contemplation. Jace nearly smiles at the way she’s taking this all so seriously, before he catches himself and schools his expression.

Jace steadies his hand and propels the line out into the ocean. One of the wounds on his side complains at the movement, but he ignores it. He watches the line bob in the water with a softened expression. His memory flits between days spent under the sun at Driftmark and Dragonstone, laughing while he chases Lucerys with a wood sword; Laenor showing him how to fish among the tidepools; a fierce burn from the sun that is soothed by his mother’s affectionate hand.

“Who taught you this?” Her voice breaks through the silence that had settled between them. Her eyes keep steady on the line, lashes squinting against the harsh light.

“My father,” he replies after a moment’s hesitation. 

Another pause. 

He feels her shift to look over at the side of his face. “I’m sure he would be quite proud of the man you have become.”

Jace’s breath halts in his throat. Hands suddenly feel clammy. His heart hiccups and thuds against his skin. He had not thought of Laenor in a long time, Harwin even longer. It feels like decades had passed since he had seen either of them, a forgotten moment in his life overshadowed by tragedy after tragedy.

“Oh, look,” she says suddenly from beside him. “A conch shell.” 

She wields the massive thing toward him. Her entire face is bright with delight as she shows him the object that any normal person would completely disregard. She is anything but normal, though.

“These always sell for a few silvers at the markets,” she informs him, “the rich folk think they are good luck.”

He is not able to reply before his arm suddenly jolts and he is pulled a few inches forward. On the end of the line, something stirs in the water. 

“Come,” he orders her urgently. “Something is biting.”

She draws close, her eyes wide. The conch shell drops to the sand. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” he says, “here, you hold the rod.”

“What? I don’t know how to catch a fish!”

He thrusts the rod into her hands. “I am too weak to reel it in. You have to.” It is a lie, but she does not seem to recognize it.

Her hands slip all over the rod as she tries to fight the beast at the end of the line. Jace, pitying her struggle, slides behind her and steadies her hands by placing his on top of hers. She freezes for a moment, then begins to pull. Jace clutches her hands gently within his own and he notices that they tremble like seagrass beneath his own. 

“Hold it steady,” he says against the shell of her ear, “pull only when you feel it stop fighting. You do not want–”

Suddenly, the pressure is removed from the end of the line and they are both sent stumbling backwards onto the sand. Jace lands on his bum, but she is able to catch herself as she tumbles beside him. The line must have broken. The fish is long gone now.

“Oh Jace, are you okay?” He looks over at her as she crouches beside him. “You did not reopen your wounds, did you?”

The laugh that tumbles out of his lips makes her jolt back. Distantly, he is not sure why he is laughing. The fish got away, he landed on back on the sand, and now one of his cuts hurts. But he had just felt so alive. So unburdened by responsibility, like any man of ten and eight without the entirety of their mother’s empire resting upon their shoulders ought to feel. 

The laughter eventually abates, and all that is left is the open sky atop him and the sun beating down on his skin.

“Do you think that the fish I cooked last night was spoiled?” she asks in response to his exuberant mood. “Once, my father caught ill from bad potatoes…”

Jace feels another chuckle escape his lips. “Sorry,” he tells her. “I have… not felt that free in a long time.”

She lets out a soft ‘oh’ and moves to lay next to him in the sand. Far enough away that there is no chance that they will touch, but close enough that Jace can smell the lavender on her skin.

Jace stares at the clear sky ahead of him until he begins to feel his body ache with exhaustion. He pulls himself into a seated position, but she does not move immediately. She looks at him with soft eyes from where she lays against the sand, a small, affectionate smile upon her lips. Her chest rises and falls slowly, hand absentmindedly drawing pictures in the sand.

His stomach churns as he turns away. He stares out at the rippling current with half-lidded eyes. 

“How far is the nearest town?” His words are nearly carried away with the next tide that pulls up the shore. She hears him all the same, sliding to sit up next to him.

“Not far,” she replies, a toothy grin on her breath, “would you like to come and help me pick out a fish for dinner tomorrow?”

Jace does not reply. The hope tinged in her words makes something inside him feel rotten. Like he is corrupting the world wherein she lives. As he takes longer and longer to reply, he notices something settle upon her face. A realization that fades into melancholy.

“Oh.” She looks to the sea in an attempt to hide the dewiness in her eyes, but Jace notices all the same. “You wish to leave.”

“My mother,” he says, “she will be looking for me. She will not stop until she finds me.”

She nods.

Something compels him to continue. “I would stay. I would, truly,” he says, “but this is bigger than me. Bigger than this–”

“I understand, Jace.” But Jace is not sure she does. Her lips purse, her eyebrows drawn to form a small wrinkle between them. 

“I would at least stay a couple more days,” he tells her, “I need to make sure I do not simply hurt myself again by leaving too soon.”

She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her head upon them. “It sounds like a good plan,” she agrees quietly. “Perhaps… Perhaps I could pack you some food as well.”

“Yes,” he says this far too enthusiastically, but he notices her brighten at the joy in his voice and so he continues to smile. “That would be wonderful.”

She nods, pulling at a frayed edge of her dress. “Then it will be done.”

The two of them watch for a few more moments as the red sun burns a hole against the sky and as the water ripples with wrath.

“I will leave on the morrow”--That is what he had told you over dinner the previous evening. 

In the morrow, the sky opens and floods them with her tears. 

You stand by the window of the cabin looking out at the frightful weather. Rain falls like daggers against the darkened, tumultuous sea. Waves crash against the shore. A crack of lightning makes you flinch.

“The Gods are angry,” you say to the still air of the cabin. 

Jace sits halfway over his plate of roasted fish as you say this. Then he straightens, his eyes flickering briefly outside. The dark brown of his irises reflect the grey of the clouds swirling above. “Or they do not grant me leave.”

You force yourself to pull away from the window. Turning your head, another flash of brilliant light comes across the floor, painting everything white. You fall into a silence as you step carefully across the cabin.

You knew that from the moment you found him, that it would not be permanent. Just like the rains that fall from above now, this momentary storm in your life will too pass. You had not even wished for him to stay, initially. You recall that first night, sewing his wounds with fishing line, as your eyes stretched across his alien visage. You had told yourself that his presence would be temporary as a comfort then, now you tell it to ground yourself in reality.

Jace had become more friendly in the past few days. Conversation came easily to him and made the thought of him leaving that much harder. Now you were the one that deflated at the sound of his voice across the hall, the one that shrunk from revealing the parts of yourself that had not seen the light in years.

You are selfish. It is a quality that had always lurked behind your eyes, but had sharpened since your father’s death. It is a survival tactic. Every animal, even humans, wish to hold onto the things they hold dear. It does not matter if it is not much. Everything you have is in some way worth keeping–including Jace.

But you could not fight logic. His mother, his family–they had a higher claim to him than you did. You could not keep him like a bird with clipped wings. It is cruel to even think it. 

You scrub the dish in your hands until your hands feel raw and achy. The only light comes from behind you in the smoldering fireplace and the flash of light that illuminates the sky. You hear the clatter of the bowl from behind you as Jace finds his footing–the screech of the chair as it rubs harshly against the floor.

You feel his warmth as he comes to stand beside you. He reaches a hand into the soapy mess over the wood bucket and fetches your hand from the fray. 

“You have made yourself bleed,” he observes quietly, a finger stroking over the cuts. 

You feel your throat bob under the weight of his probing stare. You slip your hand away from his and turn your back to dip the bowl in the bucket of soapless water.

“Have I done something to upset you?” he murmurs. His words are echoed by a rumble of thunder in the distance.

You still your movements for just a second before continuing. Your cuts throb at the feeling of the cool water cleansing the blood from your hands. “No,” you reply simply.

“Then why have you been so quiet as of late?”

You drop the bowl onto the wood surface in front of you and turn, drying your hands with a near cloth. “I just haven’t had much to say, I suppose.”

Another flash of light. Rain as it beats ceaselessly against the metal roof. You face him, clenching the towel in your fist.

“Shall we remove your stitches?” It had been suggested a few days ago as the first thing he would do before departing, so he would not have to bother with finding someone to do it for him on the road. 

Jace looks like he might say something. Then he shakes his head. “On the bed?”

You nod. “That would be easiest.” 

You slip behind him as he moves toward the bedroom. On your way, you light the spill near the fireplace and bring it with you. Your eyes find his figure as it slinks through the darkness. He’s healed so much better than you had ever expected he might. He should not have survived his injuries—should not have been able to heal so quickly. You think the Gods must favor his survival much more than they favored the own laws they stipulated.

He slides off his doublet and lounges back into the bed. You let the flame on the end of the spill touch the end of the wick of the candlestick and the room is bathed in a soft glow. You suffocate the flame and put the spill onto the table next to the bed.

Jace watches you as you do this quietly. When your eyes move up to his face, you notice his eyes are lidded, the tips of his ears red. You feel a warmth catch hold of your skin at his gaze and you avert your eyes to his chest.

You begin your work in silence. You lift the knot of each stitch and easily slice through it with the sharp edge of your knife. At the end of your first removal, you are happy to see that the wound has faded to a pinkish stripe.

“Who taught you this?” 

You startle at the sound of his voice after several long minutes of silence. It is a deep baritone, rough around the edges. Its unexpected richness has you shifting in your place on the edge of the bed. A flash of white light from out the window bathes his face in color. 

“My father.” You do not elaborate further. You think it self explanatory. Your father taught you everything.

“Was he hurt often?” 

You cut another knot. “There are no maesters in the far reaches,” you tell him. A hint of bitter frustration lines your words. “I have assisted several people who have needed help in the village.”

“I did not know,” he replies softly, “that is quite kind of you.”

“We all share responsibility here, no one is without duty.” You put another piece of the fishing line to the side. “It is how things function when you do not have the entire Seven Kingdoms at your disposal.”

You notice Jace’s eyebrows furrow. His stomach tenses beneath your hand. “How did you…”

“It is obvious,” you say, “your voice, your cadence, the way you were dressed when I found you… you have no scars, no callouses. You did not offer your house’s name, so I can only assume—“

“Jacaerys Velaryon,” he says, “that is my name.”

You still. Your eyes dart to his, alarm filling your chest and stealing your breath. “Velaryon,” you echo, heart racing. “That is the name of…”

“Perhaps you know of Corlys Velaryon,” he offers, “the Sea Snake. He is my grandfather. Or Rhaenyra Targaryen, my mother—“

You stand, breathing panicked. “You must leave,” you say, “why did you stay so long? The realm… your mother… the Seven Kingdoms need you.”

Jace leans forward to grasp your arm. You allow him only because you fear you may topple over without the stability.

“I am of no use to them in this condition,” he scoffs. You notice a faraway look in his eyes. The same look he sometimes got when he stared upon the ocean or recalled stories of his father to you. “My dragon is dead, my body a wreck. There is nothing left of me for them to scavenge.”

“T-That is not true,” you stutter. “You must at least find out if they are safe. You have been healed for days… you could have left—“

“I stayed for you.” You fall silent at the sincerity in his voice. His hand drifts down the bare skin of your wrist to thread between your fingers. He cups your hand between his own.

“You cannot stay,” you tell him.

“It does not matter if I stay one more day. The realm will not fall today,” he replies, “we cannot travel in this ruinous weather, anyway.”

Your eyes drift to the window, where the wind throws its tears against the pane. You nod slowly and find your seat again.

You grasp the knife from where you sat it on the duvet. You slide the other to rest upon his warm stomach. His breaths quicken beneath your hand as you drag it up to the next wound.

“I almost killed you the day after I found you,” you whisper, “I thought it would be a mercy. The fact that you are here at all… alive, breathing. It is a gift from the Gods.”

He leans forward. “What stopped you?”

Your movements pause from where you had started to cut away another knot. “You did.”

His throat bobs. His hand moves from where it clutches the sheets to where your hand rests upon his sternum. He strokes the skin of your hand gently.

You lean forward without realizing what you are doing. He does not allow you to back away. He brings his other hand to the nape of your neck and leans forward to seal your lips with his.

The kiss is languid. His tongue probes the seal of your lips and you allow it to slip inside. You bring your hand up to cup his jaw and he drags the hand cupping your neck to your hair. You let out a soft moan against his lips and he responds to the noise by pulling you forward onto his chest.

You do not lean your weight onto him in fear of hurting him, but you feel his hands crawl to settle upon your heaving ribs. You gently settle your lower half onto his hips, settling your hand down on a part of his chest that had no injuries.

You and Jace continue to kiss for what feels like hours. It is exhilarating. It feels like flying. Your stomach feels warm and fluttery, and your lips are throbbing.

You shift your hips and Jace lets out a groan. You pull away from the kiss, concerned. His hand moves to grab the flesh of your hip, sliding you back some. There is a hardness beneath you that makes a pleasant chill slide down your spine.

“Are you alright, Jace?” 

“Unless you wish for us to have sex,” he grumbles, “you should move off my hips.”

You swallow thickly at the insinuation. Sex. A novel thing. A thing that should be saved for marriage. But marriage seems so far from your mind now, drifting away like a current.

“And what do you wish for us to do?” you murmur. You slide forward an inch and he throws his head back onto the pillows. His chest heaves.

“You know what I wish,” he groans. “Is it not obvious?”

You lean forward so that your lips barely brush his own. “Then take it.”

Sunlight streams through the window ahead of you, branding the side of your face with heat, and your eyelids flutter against the intrusion. You fist your fingers in the sheets and twist your legs close to your body. As you shift, you feel an arm pulling you backwards.

You grasp the hand splayed across your stomach between your trembling fingers.

“Stay,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. Tears bead in your eyes, but you keep them at bay.

Your thumb finds the pulse that thrums beneath his skin and you count his heart beats. The Gods are cruel, you think. They had kept Jace here long enough for you to miss him when he leaves.

You turn your body over to face him. You are not surprised to see him already staring back at you. His dark curls are a mess on the pillow beneath him. His lips pull upwards at the corners, but do not reach his eyes. He brings his hand up to stroke your cheek.

Your chin wobbles and he blinks away a frown.

“It will not be forever,” he tells you softly, reverently,

“I will return to you one day.”

You bring a hand up to wipe away the stubborn tears. “I suppose you do not know when that will be.”

He leans forward to give you a kiss and you know that is the only way he can possibly tell you no. 

Pulling away from the kiss feels like saying good-bye.

You stay in bed as he stands, sluggishly dressing himself as if he was still looking for reasons not to leave. You do not think he finds one. He turns his head to look back at you and his expression falters. 

A small smile curls at your lips as you mouth the word—go.

He heeds your instruction and leaves your cabin with a satchel of roasted fish, a map to the nearest town, and a bracelet strung with seashells.

ONE YEAR LATER…

The nets are full this morrow. The tide ebbs and flows, slinking across the silver sands. Birds let out cries of rejoice overhead for the plentiful bounty gifted by the sea. 

You bend the knee to heave the first net out of the water. You clutch your chest protectively as you search through the things with the other hand. 

“Hm,” you murmur, “a rainbow shell.” 

You bring the shell up to the light and small reflections bounce across your vision. Tucking it into your satchel, you search some more. A piece of metal, two scraps of fabric, and a clam.

You pocket the metal and one of the ratty pieces of fabric, but allow the clam to slide back under the tide. You bring your dry hand to rest upon the head of the babe swaddled against your breast.

“Shh,” you whisper to him as he begins to stir. “It is alright, my prince.”

He brings his head up slowly to peer at you. A splatter of sea foam settles on the side of his face, but he does not seem to mind. He gives you a gummy smile and you return it lovingly.

He watches with bleary eyes as you sort through the next net of things. You show him each individual item as you retrieve it. Your heart skips when you feel a familiar shape and weight in the palm of your hand.

“A conch shell,” you inform him with a giddy grin, “these sell for several silvers at the market.”

He stares at the shell with wide eyes. The pattern, a dark brown and white mottling, you think, must confuse or enrapture him by the way he looks at it.

The small of your back has begun to hurt. You straighten up and lift a supportive hand to rest underneath the baby’s bum.

“This will be enough for today,” you decide. “The sea has gifted us more than we need.”

The little boy smacks his lips as if agreeing with the statement. You nod and carry your satchel and the boy up the familiar path to the cabin.

However, your footsteps slow as you grow closer until you stop right before the door. Something is not right. You protectively cradle the back of your son’s head as you touch a hand to the door.

It pushes open with little resistance. You slide the knife you kept on you at all times to your hand in one swift movement as you step inside.

You take not but two steps beyond the threshold before you freeze. The knife clatters to the ground and a gasp shudders from your lips at the sight in front of you.

He stands across from you like he never left. He’s dressed in black gilded leathers, his body a tad leaner and steadier. His face looks older, more mature and shaped by circumstance, just as you imagine yours must too. His mop of dark hair curls around his ears, longer than when you saw him last.

His lips with awe. He stares at you and your face as if trying to map something with his mind. 

“Jace,” you say breathlessly. “How…”

“I saw you by the shore as I rode in from town,” he murmurs, taking a hesitant step forward. He lets out a soft laugh that sends your stomach aflutter. “I thought I might surprise you. I guess I am lucky to not have received a knife in my throat.”

Your throat bobs. Mistiness clouds your vision. “You came back for us.”

“For us?” Jace echoes, eyebrows furrowed. He comes so close he can reach out to you with his arm and you know that he has seen him then, by the shock that melts his features.

The boy turns his head to the best of his ability in your swaddle, his eyes searching for the unfamiliar voice. Jace’s mouth comes nearly unhinged, a trembling hand lifting as if to stroke his head, but it falls short.

He forces his eyes to look at you. “He… he’s mine?”

You bite your lip to suppress your smile as you nod. You reach around your neck with one arm while the other supports the baby’s bum. You unravel the swaddle easily, and the chubby baby flails his arms with relief. Never one to like a cage.

You outstretch him toward Jace and he takes him eagerly. He holds him with practiced ease. He supports the baby’s head and bum as he gazes down at him, tracing his forehead to the slope of his nose to the flutter of his lashes with only his eyes.

Jace finally breaks away from the baby long enough to look up at you. “And I just… I just left you. You and my son.”

Your heart skips a beat at the name. Son. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning like a fool.

“You had to,” you say, stepping forward to lay a gentle hand upon his upper arm. “Your family needed you.”

He clenches his jaw. “Nothing we did… nothing we accomplished… equals this.”

He strokes a featherlight touch against the boy’s cheek and he wrinkles his nose.

“Will you…” you pause. You try to steel yourself for the rejection that may very well follow, hands clammy by your sides. “Will you be staying long?”

Jace’s eyes rush to meet yours. He steps forward. The baby whimpers in his arms at the movement. 

“I would stay forever if you would have me.”

You feel your heart skip a beat. “What? What of the throne? Of your family?”

He shakes his head. Your stomach drops.

“My brother Aegon will be the next ruler. Wed to his cousin.”

“And you?”

His dark eyes soften as they consider this question carefully. He clutches the lost prince to his chest protectively.

“I am right where I want to be.”

© mariposium ; do not copy, feed into ai, redistribute, reupload, edit, translate, or otherwise steal my works, thanks!

[mariposium]

Your writing is so good!!!!!! The characterization of everyone you write is always spot on AUUGGHHHFHDHSHWKWLALDKFM it’s been a treat finding your blog and reading through your works ^^

thank you so muccchhhh :(( this is so sweet!!!!

i’m really shocked how many people have liked, reblogged, and commented on my silly little fics </3 you guys are the best

[mariposium]

hiii!! do you think you could write a jack abbot fic with nurse!reader based on the song expectations by olivia rodrigo? her ex boyfriend brought his new situationship to the er and he’s trying to win her back and bothering her at the nurses station where she teaches him how to take a hint and ensures she’s no longer interested due to her standards rising. jack makes sure he understands that.

hello anon! your request has been fulfilled here <3 hope you enjoy!

[mariposium]

❀ : HIGHER STANDARDS — jack abbot

summary — everyone has an ex that they’d rather forget about. yours is just more persistent than most. however, when he takes the initiative to show up at your place of work, demanding a second chance, it’s time for you to shut it down once and for all—and to show that you have standards now. (based on this request)

featured — dr. jack abbot / fem!nurse!reader, nurse lena handzo, dr. john shen, ahmad zidan

content — no spoilers for s1 or 2, fluff and angst, talk of drug abuse (not by reader or jack), past emotional abuse/manipulation, your ex is a possessive asshole, you and jack stand on business, dr. shen being iconic as per usual

(cross-posted on ao3) (the pitt masterlist)

The first call comes as you are walking into the PTMC that morning, your bag slung over your shoulder and one hand in the pocket of your jeans.

The frown comes with immediacy across your face as you realize you are unsure of who would be calling so early in the morning. You step to the side of the emergency room floor and brandish the vibrating mobile from your pocket. It is not a saved number in your phone, so you silence it without thinking twice about it. Spam calls these days have become so common that you average at least one a shift.

Crisis averted, you head to the nurse’s station and get changed into your scrubs. Even at three in the morning, the ER is already buzzing with life. You greet a few of the frequent fliers you pass on the way, an unshakable grin on your cheeks.

Once you’re dressed, the day officially begins. Despite yourself, you find your eyes jumping from person to person, eagerly looking for one doctor in particular. 

But he finds you before you do him. You jolt when his arm brushes against yours as you stand near the charge station. You angle your head in his direction and you feel your heart skip a beat as you focus fully on him.

“Hey,” you say to Jack, trying—and failing—to refocus on the schedule in front of you. 

He doesn’t even try to look busy as he drags a hand through his silver curls, eyes twinkling despite their exhaustion. “You’re starting early.”

You half-shrug, flipping the page over, scanning quickly through the patient list. “Lena needed another nurse on deck… something about Jacob’s paternity leave. So, here I am.”

“Here you are.”

You look at him fully then, an affectionate smile creeping across your face. “How’s the shift been? Chaotic?”

Jack shakes his head. He rubs his temple as if doing so would release every worry from his head. “Uh, it’s been about the same. So, catastrophic on every level. I had—“

Your Apple Watch suddenly buzzes twice in quick succession and your attention is unintentionally diverted. You frown, again confused why you were receiving nonessential notifications. When you open the screen, two text messages are there from an unknown number. You can’t preview the messages from your watch before the screen goes black, so you have no idea what they might contain.

“Everything okay?” Jack reminds you of his presence when he asks this, and you briefly look up at him to let him know you heard his question.

“Yeah, not sure what’s going on today.” You push and hold to silence the watch. “Spam callers are having a field day, I guess. Bet they just texted to let me know I have to click this sketchy link to prevent my nonexistent car from being repossessed.”

“Better get on that,” your boyfriend says with a light chuckle, “you know the United States government has an invested interest in your nonexistent car and those nonexistent toll fees.”

You grin at his sarcasm. Finally dissuaded from checking your notifications, you look up at him. “Now if only they could adjust their pitch to match Pittsburgh public transportation.”

“—Yo, lovebirds,” Lena’s voice commands attention from every corner of the room, and you feel your spine immediately go ramrod from her tone. “I got patients back here that would love an ounce of your undivided attention.”

Despite her tone, you know she’s not truly angry. You place a quick kiss on Jack’s cheek, then head over to your charge nurse. The text messages, phone call, and even Jack migrate to the back of your head as you get sucked into work.

You haven’t thought about your ex in a long ass time. It’s hard to reconcile that at one point in your life, he’d been all you thought about.

You had met in nursing school. He was the sweet, handsome, charismatic guy who sat next to you in pharmacology. It was hard to see in your young, 20-something-year-old brain the glaring red flags. Or perhaps you had ignored them in favor of the relationship.

You had the habit of focusing on the positives more than you did the negatives of any situation, especially regarding relationships. You focused on the fact that he always brought you a coffee when he got himself one, the fact that he would wrap his arm around you and tug you to his side when talking with friends, how he’d always make up for arguments with gifts and affection.

But as time wore on, his negatives only became more pronounced. He was not used to working hard for his degree in college—that is what happens when daddy pays for you to have good grades in undergrad—and flunked out. He blamed you for being a distraction to his schooling, but never dared breaking up with you. He started getting too adventurous with his drug usage, to the point finding his next fix took priority over everything else.

You broke up with him a year ago. Six months ago, you started dating Jack.

Jack is everything that he wasn’t. He’s responsible. Everything he has he’s had to work for. He loves you, and does not put you on the back burner when life gets messy, instead, he tries to make it work. Most importantly, though? He doesn’t fucking blame you for all his problems.

You stare at the phone in a stunned silence.

All it takes was two texts for you to remember why you hated being single those six months you were. The audacity of some men was truly astounding.

???: did you really just ignore my call? who the hell do you think you are?

And then, literally, seconds later:

???: are you in town, babe? maybe we could grab some drinks?

One might wonder how you knew it was him, but it’s just so obvious. No one else would be texting at five in the fucking morning looking to get drinks after a year no-contact. It’s the kind of insane behavior one could only expect from him. 

You shake your head after a few moments of staring blankly at your phone and stand. You throw the last bits of your meal away and drop your phone back off into your locker. As you step out of the nurse’s area, you notice Lena waving you over from across the room.

You make it over to her in two quick strides, eager to get your mind the hell away from whatever those texts were. 

Those dreams are dashed the second you notice Lena giving you a concerned look.

“Hey hon.” Hon? She never calls you that. “We have a man in North 2 asking for you by name. Want to take it?”

You cock a brow, mind moving a mile a minute as you try to quickly go through who that could be. But the texts still linger in your mind from moments before and you get stuck on one thought. Would he really be so stupid… so deplorable… to get himself admitted to your ER?

You sigh and nod, straightening your scrub top nervously as you approach the patient room door. You pause for a moment, trying to will yourself to just knock on the door. When you finally do, a smiling brunette answers it—not exactly what you’d been expecting.

“Are you the doctor?” she says, entirely too caffeinated and hyper for being in a hospital at five in the morning.

“I’m the nurse,” you tell her, smiling tightly. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, right.” She lets out a laugh. “Sorry, I see that on your badge now.”

She steps aside and you take at most two steps before your stomach drops to your feet. There he is, in all his glory. Considering the fact that you haven’t seen him in a year and he’s gained at least thirty pounds, you applaud yourself for recognizing him so quickly. He’s got one arm covered in gauze, and blood seems to have already soaked through.

The woman who’s with him goes to his side, stroking his unhurt arm gently. Poor girl, you think, if only she knew what she was getting herself into.

“I’m just going to take your vitals.” Strict professionalism. That is your aim for working with him. You grab the blood pressure cuff and loop it around his upper arm.

“Babe, how about you go get me a coke?” His voice is just as dry and grumbly as you remember. Once upon a time, you’d found it attractive. Now it was just grating.

You squeeze the cuff as the girl nods cheerily and practically skips out of the room. He lets out a quick breath through his teeth when you maybe squeeze it one time too hard. An honest mistake, really. You type down his blood pressure dutifully in his patient chart.

You gesture toward the door where the woman just slipped out. “Where’d you pick a girl like that up at?” 

“Eh, she’s just some squeeze.” He shrugs. “Nothin’ compared to you, babe.”

“I see your limitless assholery has remained the same.” You type a few more numbers into his chart, refusing to give him the eye contact he so desperately searched for. “So, what? You just so happened to cut yourself after texting me for the first time in a year?”

He winces as you reach over to pull back the bandage. It’s not too bad. You probe the edges of skin once, twice, then pull the bandage back over it. It looks like it might need stitches, which means, unfortunately, he will have to stay longer.

“Would you respond to me otherwise?” He makes a good point. You would never answer the phone if you knew he was on the other line. However, faking an injury and taking the bed of a person who might actually need it? Now that’s just wrong.

You snap your gloves off and go to add one more note to his file. Do not administer Oxycodone-based medications. That last bit of information comes from personal experience.

“Well, do you want the good news or the bad news first?” you ask, leaning up against the door of the room.

He doesn’t have to think on it for long. “Good.”

“The good news is that you will not be seeing me much more for the rest of your stay here. The bad news is you will have to stay a little longer. A doctor will need to come assess your wound.”

“How’s the good news good? I came here specifically to see you,” he says, his tone annoyed.

You give him your best attempt at a smile. “Oh right–that’s good news for me, not you. Have a good day.”

You leave the room quickly after that, ignoring his protests as you do. You pass the brunette on your way to the charge station, and you offer her a pitying smile. Poor girl really has no idea who she’s getting involved with, does she?

Leaning across the charge desk, you pinch your nose bridge in between your fingers and attempt to take several deep breaths.

Of all the things you’d seen in this profession; all the people that had been lost along the way… somehow, the hardest struggle was having to face your ex. How ridiculous was that?

“You good?” The sudden question is punctuated by a loud slurp of a drink, and you know who it is before you even turn your head.

“Hey Shen,” you greet him curtly. He shakes around the Dunkin’ drink in his hand, the ice cubes clinking together.

“You and Jack having some trouble in paradise?” Shen says before taking another loud sip of his drink. 

You can’t help the short laugh from snorting out of your nostrils. “No, no,” you tell him, “if only it were that.”

Shen narrows his eyes. He looks you up and down as if trying to discern the issue.

You sigh. “My ex. He’s in North 2. He faked an injury to see me.”

“No way.” Shen laughs. “Listen, I have some pretty crazy exes, but even they haven’t done anything that crazy.” His tone shifts when he realizes you aren’t in the same jovial mood. He steps forward, expression drawn tight. “You need help?”

You look off to the side, pondering. It would suck if Jack had to meet him. It wasn’t so much that you didn’t want Jack to know as it was that you didn’t want to have to deal with the embarrassment of having dated that thing for a brief point in your life. 

“You free? Think you could inspect his wound? Maybe put in some stitches?” 

Shen cocks a brow. “You sure you don’t want Jack to do that? Need him to go all macho on him?”

“I’d rather Jack not be involved.” You shift uneasily on your feet. “Not because he’s possessive, but because I worry my ex might get… unruly.”

Shen nods, then puts his drink down on the counter, even though Lena had explicitly requested he not do that. “Give me fifteen. I’ll meet you back here for consult.”

You watch for a few seconds as he strides away, then you avert your eyes to your hands. They’re shaking, but you’re not sure why. You aren’t scared of your ex—but that doesn’t mean you aren’t upset by his reappearance in your life.

You hadn’t been one of those couples that said “let’s just be friends!” even once they broke up. You’d been more so the type that you blocked each other’s numbers and you moved your entire career and livelihood to get away from him. It felt like two worlds colliding, him being here, where you were now a successful nurse and not his overly-reliant girlfriend.

As you continue to stand by the desks, you notice Jack stepping out of a patient’s room down the hall. You turn your back and attempt to look busy in sorting paperwork, but you know he’s seen you.

His voice breaks through your thoughts just as you begin to think he’s not coming over. “Working hard or hardly working?”

You smile despite yourself. “Hey,” you say, turning your head. 

His eyebrows furrow as he gets closer to you, able to see you more clearly. He leans beside you on the counter, chewing the inside of his cheek. He’s worried about you—he always does that when he is. “You alright?” 

You knew he was going to ask this, but it still catches you off-guard.

You don’t want to lie to him, but you don’t want to tell him the truth either. Subjecting Jack to your ex was not high on your to-do list. If all went well, no one would have to deal with him other than Shen. Besides, you don’t need a man to stick up for you. You could handle him just fine on your own.

You shrug. “Sometimes I forget how chaotic the night shift can be.”

He leans forward, voice soft. “If you’re struggling, I’m sure Lena will be understanding…”

You put your hand on his bicep and give it a squeeze. “I’m okay, Jack. I promise. Besides, your shift is over in, what, an hour and a half? Don’t worry about me.”

“I’ll try,” he tells you, “but you have a way of making it into my head whether I want you to or not.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

“—You ready to go, my favorite nurse?” you hear Shen say from behind you. He reaches between you and Jack to grab his drink, taking a long sip. The seriousness of the conversation he just interrupted is completely lost on him. He turns to Jack. “Oh, hey man. Didn’t see you there.”

Your boyfriend cocks a brow at you. “What’s going on?”

“A consult,” Shen replies simply.

Jack looks at you like he’s expecting a more in-depth explanation. You smile teasingly and pat his arm. “Back to work, doc. Patients won’t save themselves.”

Jack rolls his eyes affectionately as you step away, but once your back is turned, the expression falls away.

You clutch the suture kit cart as Shen knocks on the patient door then uses his hip to push it open. He stands to the side as you enter. Your ex’s new girlfriend shoots to her feet as you push the cart in, her eyes wide. You offer her what you hope is a comforting smile.

“Hello, hello,” Shen says as he takes a seat on a rolling stool next to his bed. “I’m Dr. Shen and I’m going to be taking care of you today. I hear you have a cut on your arm?”

Your ex doesn’t look at him as he replies, his eyes on you and the suture kit. “I slipped.” He reaches over to remove the gauze on his arm.

“Is it going to need stitches?” The girlfriend asks from behind you.

Shen inspects the wound carefully, eyes moving slowly across the ripped skin. He pulls away and nods. “Yeah, I think a few stitches. It’s pretty deep and jagged along the edges. What was it you slipped on?”

He moves out of the way so you can begin flushing the wound. You ignore the fact that your ex is flexing his muscles as you grab the cleanser, completely locked into your work.

“My damn hunting knife,” he says, “it’ll leave a pretty nice scar though, huh?”

You roll your eyes without even really meaning to, and you feel your ex’s glare on you.

“Go ahead and put some lidocaine in,” Shen tells you. He turns to your ex. “Don’t want you to feel your skin being pulled together with a needle, do we?”

Your ex goes pale as you grab the syringe and fill it with the liquid. “Uh, could I… does it have to have stitches?”

“Trust me, honey, you do not want sepsis,” his girlfriend says, “my cousin got it and—“

“—Just be quiet,” your ex snaps at her. You flinch at the tone, and accidentally spill a little bit of the liquid on the table.

Shen steps up behind you, crossing his arms in front of his chest. You know he wants to comfort you, but you’re glad he keeps his distance. “Your girlfriend is right,” he says, “lots of nasty things can happen if you let a cut like that not heal properly.”

You gently guide the needle into the skin above his wound and push the liquid inside. You turn to your ex as you pull the needle away. “It should be completely numb in a few minutes.”

You step back to let Shen take the seat again. You turn to look out the window of the room only to lock eyes with Jack. He’s talking to Lena, but his eyes are on you. You look away. You nervously shift on your feet, clutching your hands across your front.

“So, uh.” Your ex’s eyes are on you as he starts to speak. Your lips draw into a thin line. “You guys get out much? Have boyfriends, girlfriends?”

Shen knows who the question is aimed at, yet he answers anyway. “Eh, it’s kind of difficult,” he says, poking and prodding the arm. “I’m not much for commitment.”

You refuse to reply. 

“Okay, I think it’s numbed up, I’m going to go ahead and start,” Shen tells him. “Maybe try not to look at it. I find my patients who don’t usually have the best time with this.”

You hand Shen the threaded needle and help clamp the skin together with forceps. 

“And you?” His fucking mouth. 

You barely look up from his wound as your ex says this. “What?” 

“Are you dating anyone?” 

“Honey, I think they’re concentrating right now,” his girlfriend butts in. You shoot her an appreciative smile and keep your hands steady as Shen guides the needle through the first point.

“Surely she can answer a question,” he huffs, “I mean she’s just holding a clamp. I can do that.”

You shake your head and barely murmur, “I’m not doing this here. Not now.”

Shen goes through the third point, drawing the skin together tightly.

A few moments pass and you think he’s given up. Then, he says, “I just don’t understand what the big deal is. Why can’t you answer the question?”

You clench your jaw, barely able to conceal your irritation. Shen shoots you a look, but then goes back to sewing.

“Cmon, really?” he continues. 

“I have a boyfriend—is that what you so desperately want to hear?!” your voice is unexpectedly loud, and you immediately regret the outburst after it leaves your lips.

The girlfriend looks shocked—hurt, probably realizing that your connection with her boyfriend goes beyond a normal patient-nurse relationship. Your ex looks equal parts annoyed as he does satisfied with your outburst. Like he’d just proved some point in his head about how you weren’t all perfect.

Shen turns his head and says, “scissors.”

You hand him the utensil and he pulls the thread taut before snipping it. 

Your ex lets out a short laugh. You cock a brow, worried that someone had slipped him something.

“I don’t believe you.”

You roll your eyes. “Good thing I don’t care if you do or don’t.”

Shen turns to you. “I can wrap up here if you need to step out.”

You’re already halfway out the door by the time he says this. You move quickly to the stairwell, passing concerned nurses and doctors as you do. Once you are out the door, you have to bend over to catch your breath. Pressing the palms of your hands hard against your eyes, you will yourself not to get upset.

Only he could get you that flustered with hardly a word. And you fell for his bait every single time. You lean against the wall and try to steady your breathing.

A few minutes pass. More than you are sure that Lena would allow. The doors to the stairwell open and you turn to the side, hoping the person there can take a hint.

Unfortunately, Jack is persistent.

He gently grabs your arm and pulls you to his side. You allow him, and the stress of the day flows out of you with your muffled tears. You cushion your head against his chest, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He strokes the top of your head while the other arm holds you just as tightly.

Once you’ve released all the emotion you can handle, you pull back a little, wiping your eyes. Jack doesn’t let you get far, keeping you close to his chest.

“Shen told me you were upset,” he says, “what’s going on?”

You sniffle, trying to look away. He gently guides your head back to meet his eyes with his thumb on your chin. His fingers slide up to cup your cheek and you melt into his grip. “Talk to me, love.”

A fresh set of tears escape your eyes at the sweetness of his voice. The caring, affectionate man in front of you was so much better than anyone you’d ever been with. It makes you feel silly for crying, silly for complaining.

“This morning, when my watch buzzed.” You hiccup. “It wasn’t a spam number. It was my ex-boyfriend.”

You watch Jack’s face carefully as you say this, trying to predict his next words before he says them. You thread your fingers in his scrubs, anchoring yourself to him.

“Then, he showed up as a patient. He intentionally hurt himself to see me. And he’s been rude and crass, sure, but that’s not even what bothers me the most.” You wipe your eyes with the palm of your hand, knowing you must look a mess. “I don’t want him back in my life. Never. He… just doesn’t belong here. It makes me sick thinking he’s trying to worm himself into my perfect life that I’ve built without him.”

You pause, taking a panicky breath in. “I don’t want him to come between us. I don’t want you to think… I don’t want you to think less of me because of him. I mean, I can’t believe I ever dated him. He’s awful.”

Jack strokes your cheek, letting you get it all out. When he’s sure you’re finished, he speaks.

“First of all,” he says, “I’m never going to judge you for people you no longer have in your life. If you chose to get rid of them, I know there’s a hell of a good reason. And, personally, I think you’re a great judge of character. I don’t want to hang out with someone you don’t like.” You avert your eyes bashfully, but Jack angles your head so you’re still looking at him.

“Secondly, don’t blame yourself for the choices of stupid people. Just because you once associated with him, doesn’t mean you still stand by his choices today,” he says. “I love you. I mean that. And that means I trust you, implicitly. I wouldn’t have tried to get in the way—well, let me rephrase that. If you weren’t in imminent trouble and I thought you had it handled, I wouldn’t intervene with your issues.”

You let out a soft laugh at that last part. 

For a moment longer, the two of you stand there. He strokes your hair, you clutch his scrubs. Finally, you release him.

“I’ve got thirty more minutes left before the day shift inevitably arrives,” he says, “so, what do you want to do?”

You shake your head. “Honestly? I hope he disappears.” You push open the door with your hip. “But if he doesn’t, then I’ll let you know.”

You step into the buzzing ER and let out a deep breath. You start to head to the bathroom, when your eye gets caught on a figure quickly headed in the other direction. Her dark hair bounces against her back as she jogs away, her hand covering her face. The girlfriend. You imagine that their conversation didn’t go over well.

Your ex steps out after her, clutching his now-bandaged arm. He looks at her retreating back for a moment before he rolls his neck back, peeved. As he turns to go back in the room, he halts. Then his eyes lift and immediately lock onto yours.

A rehearsed grin spreads across his mouth. You turn your back, but he reaches you before you can push open the door to the bathroom.

He grabs your shoulder and you spin around, pushing him away disgustedly.

“Don’t ever touch me,” you say through gritted teeth.

“Woah, woah,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “Easy there, tiger.”

He jumps in front of you when you go to push open the bathroom door.

“Hey, just listen to me.” His eyes are like a weasel’s, predatory and conniving. “Just let me say my piece.”

“I’m not interested,” you tell him. “What part of that can’t you get through your thick skull?”

“Is this about the cheating thing? Are you really still mad about that?” 

“You really are oblivious, aren’t you?” You roll your eyes. “You can stick your dick in any hole you like. It’s none of my business. Why? Because we aren’t dating.”

You turn your back when you remember you have makeup wipes in your bag. But you can’t get far before a hand wraps around your wrist like steel. You don’t have a moment to think, your body reacts before your mind can. You turn and punch him squarely in the jaw.

He releases you immediately and lets out a loud groan, falling back against the bathroom door. He clutches his jaw with a fury in his eyes unlike you’ve ever seen.

“I said, don’t touch me, asswipe.”

He comes toward you, as if to retaliate, but then you feel an arm pushing you behind a sturdy body and your view is cut off.

“Who the hell are you?” your ex says, gesturing to Jack with a foul expression.

You look down at your hand and realize it’s bleeding. Your thumb might be sprained—you aren’t sure. It throbs painfully, but you can move it at least.

“I’m her boyfriend.” You peer around Jack’s shoulder and realize that your ex looks about ready to piss himself. “But that doesn’t matter. When someone asks for space, that’s when you back the fuck off.”

“—What’s going on here?” A voice cuts in. You turn your head to see Ahmad there, his hand resting on his holster.

You step forward. “Ahmad. Could you escort this patient out? He should be ready for discharge. I’ll fill out all the proper HR paperwork—this is all just a big mistake.”

“Hey, hey,” your ex says, waving his hand toward Ahmad,  “I’m not taking the fall for this.”

Ahmad grabs your ex’s shoulder before he can reach out and grab you. You look back and see Jack and Shen are there, both willing to corroborate.

You look back at your ex. “It’s time to go. And don’t come back.”

“Unless you get seriously injured in the vicinity of our hospital, then you can—“ Shen starts to say, but Jack elbows him in the side.

Your ex stares at you for a full second. Then he turns his head. You think he’s given up, then he mutters a very clear, resounding bitch underneath his breath and Jack is stepping forward before you can stop him.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“Jack,” you call out.

Your ex looks at him square on. “She heard me.”

Jack clenches his fists. You reach forward to grab his shoulder. You look over at Ahmad, who then forcefully turns your ex around and leads him away.

“Jack, it’s okay,” you say. “I’ve heard worse, believe it or not.”

“He can’t just…” he starts to say, then shakes his head. 

“I love you,” you tell him softly. “And I’m okay.”

Shen gets drawn into an incoming trauma and hurries away. You clutch your still-bleeding hand to your chest, which draws Jack’s attention.

“Shit,” he curses. “Why didn’t you say you’ve never punched someone before? I could’ve done it.”

Your hand is still shaking as you follow him to an empty exam room. He opens the door and you shuffle in.

“It’s really not that bad,” you say, “it’s mostly the adrenaline making me shake.”

Jack keeps his back to you in the room, looking through cabinets quickly. You sigh.

“Really, Jack, I needed to punch him. For my own mental well-being. I’d be kicking myself later if I hadn’t,” you say with a soft laugh.

Jack retrieves some bandages and disinfectant. He takes a seat on a rolling stool in front of where you sit perched on an exam bed, swinging your feet back and forth. Jack gently grabs your hand and looks over your injuries.

“How are you so calm right now?” he asks, unfolding a disinfectant swab. “Your ex just verbally assaulted you in front of the entire ER floor.”

You hiss through your teeth as he dabs the swab against your torn knuckles. He gives you an apologetic look, but doesn’t let up. 

“I’m sure I’ll start panicking later, once everything settles in.” You wince again as he wraps your knuckles. 

“Can you move your thumb?”

You move it side to side, then up and down. Confusion washes over you as he inspects it. “How’d you know I hurt my thumb?”

He laughs. “I haven’t seen a fist that bad since I was sixteen. You can’t tuck your thumb inside your fist when you punch—you’re lucky you didn’t break it.”

You pout. “I thought I did good.”

He lets go of your thumb to cup your cheeks together in his palms. “I didn’t say it was terrible. You still packed a pretty mean hook.”

You can’t resist. You lean forward to give him a kiss. He returns it wholeheartedly, angling your head with his palm. 

You pull away before it can devolve into something inappropriate for a hospital setting. He strokes the back of your neck even as you pull apart, his eyes soft and heavy-lidded.

“You better go brief the day shift,” you tell him, “I’m sure they’ve already heard plenty about your eventful night. You know Shen loves to gossip.”

He bites his lip and throws his head back with a groan. “God, all I want to do right now is go to sleep.”

“At least you don’t have to do HR paperwork with a hurt hand.”

“You got me there,” he says, gently tugging you to his side as he heads to the door. “You’re off tomorrow, right? Want to come over to my place?”

You grin at him. “I’d love nothing more.”

© mariposium ; do not copy, feed into ai, redistribute, reupload, edit, translate, or otherwise steal my works, thanks!

[mariposium]

Pls don’t betrothed Lyanna to Aerion in the next fic, don’t want to see her with anyone.

LMAO lyanna really pissed you guys off. understandable

[mariposium]

Pls make Lyanna suffer in front of everyone in the next chapter pretty please 🥹

will def take this under consideration ;)

[agentmilayawithshield]

in Westeros, you're not allowed to be the eldest son with a facecard they immediately end you

[mariposium]

✧ : NO MORE CHOICES — baelor targaryen

summary — your sister is betrothed to a prince you are hopelessly in love with. you are being forced to marry the worst targaryen of the lot. choice is no longer a simple pleasure, but a stolen freedom. (11.2k)

featured — prince baelor "breakspear" targaryen / fem!stark!reader

content — no spoilers for akotsk, this is the second part of a series linked below, kate sharma/anthony bridgerton dynamic but your sister is evil, reader is a stark bastard called "lady snow", implied age gap, aerion is still an ass, technically infidelity?, smut MDNI (18+), baelor is a consent king, implied virgin!reader, p in v, in a semi-public place, fingering, big dick break my back baelor, 2k words just of smut what have i become

a/n — only 10 years in the making, but it's finally here (: thank you all for your patience, i hope you enjoy <3

(cross-posted on ao3) (part one)

The deep grain of the wood table feels cold to the touch. The candles flicker and dance across your vision, playing in the stale air that does nothing but steal the very breath from out your lungs. A rack of braised lamb sits on a gold platter in front of you, honeyed glaze dripping off the red meat, tempting you to try a bite, but your stomach is so tightly twisted in knots you do not think you can.

You keep your eyes planted on the twisted wood beneath your hands. It grounds you in a way that nothing else is capable of doing at the moment. You trace the swirling texture as it moves forward in a straight line, then as it suddenly takes the plunge and falls and disappears beneath the velvet tablecloth stretched across the table.

You suddenly hear a chorus of laughter that draws your eyes up from the deep maroon to where your sister has her seat at the end of the table. Her entire face is filled with glee, mouth stretched wide and her eyes shaped into little squints. Any other observer would not catch the tremble in her hands, nor the way that her grin does not meet her eyes, nor the way her gaze never goes past where Aerion sits beside you in a stubborn attempt at forgetting your existence altogether.

You bring your hands away from the table and begin to thread and twist your fingers together in the hope that some kind of movement might distract your frenzied mind.

Across from you, your father picks at the lamb in front of him. His mouth is set in a hard line. You are not sure what bothers him, but you imagine it is probably in some way related to you.

Your eyes drift away from him and back to your sister. She lifts her hand and puts it on her betrothed’s shoulder. You cannot bring yourself to sneak a glance at Baelor’s reaction to the show of affection for you fear that you might see something there you could not shake.

Lyanna has not said a word to you. It has been two days since she saw you kiss her betrothed. Every instance you have tried to corner her in the hall or approach her in her chambers or seek her out after meals, she has always evaded you with curt words and carefully controlled mannerisms. She does not show her anger to you, nor does she allow herself to feel any other emotion she has so clearly hidden from you. She cannot even bring herself to look at you.

It hurts more than you could care to admit. Despite the fact Lyanna has never been or ever will be your full sister, she has always been there. In this tumultuous life, she has always been your one and only constant. The one person who did not look at you with outright scorn. Now, you find yourself wishing that she could at least look at you. You would bear her anger easily if it meant ridding yourself of this cold indifference.

You cannot blame her. You cannot fully say that if you were in her position, you would not have immediately gone to father and had her removed from the castle. You tell yourself that perhaps Lyanna did harbor some kind of fondness toward you, but another part of you thinks that she is just biding her time to ruin you the way only a sister could. Irrevocably. 

The fear prickles at the back of your neck and keeps your body from completely relaxing. You feel like a hare in the midst of a den of dragons, each person out for the kill. You shift in your seat uncomfortably and notice in your peripheral your nervy behavior has brought unwelcome attention.

“If I did not know better,” Aerion’s voice is hardly more than a mumble as he speaks this to you from where he sits at your side, “I would think you were not happy about our betrothal dinner.”

You turn your head in his direction ever so slightly, if only just to keep your eyes planted on him at all times. Your throat bobs dryly as you force yourself to swallow. It feels like sandpaper. You twist your lips into a smile to hide your unease.

“You are very astute,” you say to him. “Though, it is less the dinner I’m worried about as it is the betrothal itself.” Screw it, if Aerion wanted you dead, he’d just have to get in line at this point.

He lets out a dry chuckle. He stabs a piece of near-raw lamb with his knife and you watch as red liquid comes pouring out of the meat’s pores, falling onto the gold plate in maroon rivulets. His jaw flexes beneath his skin. 

He does not look at you. His mouth barely moves as he speaks again. “If we are to be wed,” he mumbles, “I think there are some things we should make clear.”

You pinch the fabric of your dress together between your nails, willing yourself to rid them of their incessant shake.

“You are to be my wife,” Aerion bites out, “and therefore you will not show me anything but respect. You will lay down and take me in every sense of the word like the good half-breed whore you are.”

The words do not shake you. You had expected it, or at least some version of it. Your eyes go back to your sister. She’s smiling at Baelor like she really means it. It is not fake compassion, it is genuine affection. Even if she does not care for him romantically, she can at least tolerate him. She will not have to “lay down and take” Baelor. Not in the way you will Aerion, at least.

Your eyes slide back to your betrothed. He’s taking a long drink from his goblet, his eyes shut in bliss at the liberation the liquid affords him. You watch as one droplet of the ruby libation slips from his mouth and down his neck and as it clashes against his pale skin and wonder what it would be like to see his entire neck covered in the same color.

Your eyes widen and you force them away from him the moment the treacherous thoughts enter your consciousness. 

The sound of a knife clattering against a goblet sends the table into a hushed silence at the same time. Your eyes get drawn to the middle of the table wherein Prince Maekar stands from his seat with a flourish.

You notice King Daeron’s eyes go from his son to across the faces gathered before they land on you. Something flickers in his expression. The taut wrinkles around his periwinkles eyes soften before they flit to the next person. 

You swallow thickly.

“I just want to say how wonderful it is that we are seeing the joining of the Stark and Targaryen in not one, but two unions,” Maekar says with a grin. It is an uncomfortable expression on his face. You get the impression it is not one he makes often. “I believe that the joining of my brother and Lady Stark, along with the union between my son and Lady Snow to be the start of a very long, fruitful legacy.”

Maekar taps his knife against his goblet once more before he sits down. Your father pats his shoulder in a friendly manner and they begin to speak in hushed, jovial tones.

You cannot imagine what you and Aerion look like compared to the happy couple at the end of the table. Are they just as miserable, down beneath their bright expressions? You cannot control your fleeting will to see your sister’s face in that moment and allow your eyes to dart over there.

What you land on instead makes your breath catch. 

One periwinkle, one brown eye stare at you from at the end of the table. His expression is soft, compassionate. His beard moves as his lips twitch upwards incrementally at the edges. You force your eyes away just as you notice Lyanna’s hand falling upon his forearm.

You suddenly feel horribly, violently ill.

It comes over you so quickly that your feet move before you can stop them. Your chair pushes out from behind you with a loud screech that sends eyes from every corner of the room landing on your figure.

“Is something the matter?” your father’s voice holds a warning in it that a part of you would ordinarily heed. In your current mind, however, all you can manage is turning your head away.

“If I could be e-excused, My Grace?” you look to King Daeron as you say this. His light eyes squint at your figure. “I suddenly do not feel so well.”

The lie tumbles from your lips so fluently that you are momentarily surprised by it. Lying to a king, no less. How far you have fallen.

“Of course, dear,” Daeron says, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. “Do you require any maesters?”

You shake your head mutely. Your skin feels flushed from the holes that your father’s gaze burns into it. 

You go to leave, stretching your slick palms across your gown as you spin away from the table. You try to escape without incident, but you do not move quite fast enough.

“Perhaps Lady Snow may require an escort to her chambers?” 

You turn your head to the side only for them to fall on Prince Maekar. He’s turned away from you, looking pointedly to his second eldest son, who’s currently slouched in his chair pretending he’s anywhere but here, you’re sure. 

You move to reply before Aerion can get the chance to. “It really is not necessary. I would hate to disturb the dinner for some stomachache.”

“Nonsense,” Maekar replies with a grin. His son still isn’t looking at him, instead stirring the maroon liquid in his goblet idly. His lips pull slightly down at the corners, his eyes narrowing with thinly veiled annoyance.

“Aerion?” he finally beckons. His second son finally looks at his father, then he looks at you.

He rolls his eyes away, and apparently emboldened by the maroon liquid in his goblet he says, “she can escort herself just fine. She’s got two legs and a sound mind, does she not?”

At the response, Prince Maekar looks like he is just one moment away from launching across the table and throttling his son. 

You burn with mortification. Tears bead at your waterline and you force your gaze away from the shocked spectators. You duck your head and take a few steps away.

You are stopped again by yet another voice’s interference. Of the Gods Old and New, could you not be put out of your misery?

“—Brother,” you hear someone all-too familiar say from across the table. You shiver at the gentle lilt that rounds off his words, at the softened edges of kindness and wisdom that accent his word. It is the first thing he’s said in your presence since it happened. You do not turn your head. “I would be happy to escort Lady Snow.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to mentally will Prince Baelor from saying anything more. It will only make this worse, you think in vain. Can he truly not see that he will be killing any chance of a relationship with Lyanna by doing this?

Maekar barely raises his eyes away from where he watches Aerion. His eyes reflect confusion muddled by annoyance. He looks over at you and you try your best to convey to him the fact that this is the absolute last thing he should allow. But the words get lost in translation. Maekar shrugs and you hear the screech of Baelor’s chair pushing away from the table shortly thereafter.

You do not look at him as he joins your side, but you can feel the heat emanating off of him like the fireplace in your quarters. You keep your distance from him as you take the initiative to go to the doors of the dining hall. 

There is a quiet space between the two of you as you walk side by side through the halls of the Red Keep. Everything feels wrong. The fabric of your dress rubs gratingly against your skin. Your mouth is still coated in the plain wine from the dinner. A cold drip of sweat goes down your neck.

Nothing is said immediately. Nothing has to be. The silence does enough. You think that you can breathe easily knowing you will not have to breach it.

Then, comes his voice.

“I suppose I should apologise,” Baelor murmurs. He keeps his eyes stubbornly in front of him as he walks, avoiding your probing gaze. “It was… unbecoming of me to do what I did that day. I recognize that I have caused irreparable harm to your relationship with Lady Lyanna, and for that I am distraught. I never wished to cause you harm… you or Lyanna.”

You feel something inside you break. Saltwater pushes against your waterline, searching for the least bit of resistance to escape and fall across your cheeks. You do not allow it, clenching your jaw stubbornly. That would be saved for the comfort of your quarters.

“It is just fine.” Your voice sounds meek, not at all carrying the strength you had hoped. “We both made mistakes.”

You feel his eyes on the side of your face before you see them in your periphery. He freezes in his stride, and you pause, eyebrows furrowed.

“I…” he starts, his throat bobbing, “I do not wish to give you the impression what we did… I did not think of it as a mistake.”

You do not reply immediately. Your heart stutters painfully, fighting against the confines of your restrictive bodice. Everything within you aches. It is the very last thing you had wanted him to say. The scorn, you could handle. The fear, the anger, the disgust, the regret, that you could handle. The way he stood before you now, his heart in his hands, reaching out for you to take it within yours, scared the shit out of you.

He backtracks when you do not reply. He clears his throat. “And of course, I understand that this is not something that can continue. You are at much greater risk than I. I also do not want to be presumptuous…”

“Baelor,” you interrupt, taking a few steps forward. He stops. His eyes soften and a hand comes to cup your cheek. You clasp it within your own two palms, preventing him from making contact. You hold his palm between yours against his chest. He squeezes your hand.

“I cannot be your mistress,” you say. His mouth opens to combat the notion, but you shake your head and he allows you to continue. “You say it would not be so, but I would be in the eyes of everyone else. I am a bastard. I am not ashamed of that, but the world will never let me forget it.” A tear flees from your eye and you watch his eyes trace it down your cheek. “You helped me realize I am more than just my name. I thank you for that. But you must realize… we cannot… we can never exist together.”

You drop his hand. “Lyanna is a good, virtuous woman. I have no doubts she will make a fine wife and an even better future queen.”

Baelor shudders. His jaw clenches as if holding back every emotion from stealing across his visage. You take a step back before you are dissuaded.

“Good night,” you say softly. “I can make it to my quarters from here. Go back to your betrothed.”

You leave before you can see his face fall.

The thing about sisters is that no matter what happens to cause a rift, one will eventually come crawling on their knees asking for forgiveness. You had tried that. Multiple times, even.

Any attempt to reconcile differences between you and Lyanna had been dashed by impromptu dinner plans, arrangements with septas, and other hurried excuses. She needed space, she told you once. Well, you had spent plenty of time holed up in your room between now and then. She needed time, you had given it freely. She couldn’t ignore you forever… could she? 

No. You decide that morning as a young handmaiden helps tie a cerulean dress around your waist. You will not allow your one friendship to wither away because of some inane… horrible… thoughtless mistake. You and Lyanna, you were sisters. Men cannot come between sisters.

Just as you begin to ponder on how and where you will corner her, your handmaiden breaks through your thoughts with a soft, tremulous voice.

“Mi’lady, I heard Princess Daella has sought you and Lady Lyanna’s company this morrow over tea. Would you like an escort there?”

A grin sweeps over your expression before you can school it. The handmaiden looks startled at the sudden change from solemn contemplation to jovial exuberance. You school your features.

“Yes, that sounds lovely,” you say, barely containing your anticipatory grin, “take me right away.”

For the first time in the two days since you destroyed whatever buds of relationship had formed between you and Prince Baelor, a sense of hope and delight lead your strides. The servant girl shows you to a secluded part of the Red Keep, overlooking a small sector of the royal gardens. You slow your pace once you catch a glimpse of the two heads huddled closely together under the protection of a blooming hibiscus. 

One has soft, silver hair that is braided in a crown on her head. The other has dark rivulets that shine under the morning sun. Whatever it is they speak of, it fades as they catch your eye. Your heart sinks at the silence. Sinks even further as your sister regards you with cold indifference and as Daella smiles sympathetically.

You take a seat across from the two girls and dismiss your handmaiden with a quick nod. Another servant quickly steps forth to pour a steaming, honey-colored liquid into your teacup. 

You cross your hands within your lap nervously, looking between the two girls across from you.

“I appreciate you for thinking of me, princess,” you say once you realize no one else is going to say anything. “It is always a pleasure to be in your presence.”

Princess Daella offers a soft smile, but does not say anything.

“We were just speaking of our favorite childhood stories,” Lyanna says, her pale fingers curling around her cup possessively, as if even that she worried you would steal. “Do you want to hear the one I was about to tell Princess Daella?”

Your first instinct is to frown. Though it feels good to have Lyanna’s attention back on you, something gnaws at you. Her eyes. The expression reminds you of her mother. Her cruel words and her cold visage. You take a small sip of your drink to try to keep fear from twisting your features.

“Okay,” you reply even though the words feel like a hurdle to overcome, “I hope nothing too terrible.”

Lyanna does not reply. Instead, she turns to Daella. “She was always an unruly child. From the moment father brought her home, she was unfettered by social decorum. Father said she cried for three weeks straight, even the nursemaids couldn’t soothe her.”

“I had a cold,” you interject, hurt, though Daella’s lips curl with amusement all the same.

“A dire wolf with a cold,” Lyanna says with a laugh, before it halts in her throat as a devious thought forms. “Though I suppose that can be attributed to the fact you are only half one.”

You feel mortification burn at the fringes of your consciousness. Daella does not laugh at that. Her wide eyes flick between Lyanna and you, biting her bottom lip between perfect teeth.

“She was always outside. She often came home after dark, completely covered in mud, twigs, and leaves. Guards would sometimes not let her in at night because they thought she was some peasant girl.” 

You know where this story is leading. You avert your eyes to the sight of a large blue butterfly flitting outside the castle walls. 

“One night she was locked out,” Lyanna continues despite your discomfort, her dark eyes gleaming, “we found her in the morning. She was curled in a ball outside. And what did she have in her hand?”

“Please, Lyanna,” you say, something like desperation in your voice.

She ignores it. “She was so hungry, she ate a rat. All that was left of it when we found her, crumpled in her hand? The thin, pink tail.”

The princess’s face falls. A flush covers her cheeks, periwinkle eyes wide. She has never heard such a thing before because she has never experienced desperation. She has never heard of fear, of loneliness, of the kind of ostracization that led a young girl to kill and eat a rat. 

You keep your eyes on your lap even as Daella stands.

“I have lessons,” Daella says, though you think it is just an attempt to escape the stifling tension brewing. Or perhaps she was just disgusted by the story, understandable either way. 

The young girl ducks her head and shuffles away. Two handmaidens high-tail it after her in a flurried blur.

Silence falls like a blanket of snow. Frigid and impenetrable. You clench your teeth together so hard an ache forms at your temples. 

“Did you like that feeling?” Lyanna finally says.

Your eyes dart to meet hers. She does not look like herself. Something has come over her. Some kind of predatory delight. The face only a dire wolf could make–and you, the hare stuck between her paws.

“That feeling of disgust? Of mortification?” 

Your eyes slide shut. You feel blood rushing in your ears.

“Good,” she continues. Your eyes snap open again. “Because that is exactly how you made me feel when you kissed my betrothed.”

You hear a gasp from behind you. Your eyes dart to find a handmaiden staring with wide eyes. The kind of eyes one has when watching a man be impaled in a tourney. 

“Do not fret.” Lyanna’s lips curl to reveal two sharp, gleaming canines. “They won’t tell. Not if they want to keep their tongues, that is.”

An idle threat, but it serves its purpose. The handmaiden ducks her head, hiding her shaking hands by clutching them to her front.

“You truly are not going to tell anyone?” Your voice sounds soft, so unlike your usual grit. You have been defeated. Who were you to think Lyanna would accept you with open arms? She had never been so forgiving. Not to anyone, not even you. Hardened by the heat of the Red Keep to a figure you no longer recognized.

Lyanna lets out a sharp laugh. “Tell father? And what purpose would that serve me?”

You swallow thickly. “You could have me on the streets in two days. You could have me ruined, gone from your life.” 

You freeze as you consider the darkness lingering in her eyes, and realization crawls upon you like ivy tangling around your throat. “But… I’m exactly where you want me.” 

“And I thought you were the smart one.” Lyanna takes a long sip of her tea. “Took you long enough to realize that.”

“But why?” you ask, “are you not worried someone will find out?”

Lyanna leans forward on the table. Her arm, ice cold and ironclad, comes upon your hand. You tremble beneath the weight of her stare.

“You will not tell if you know what is good for you,” she tells you. “Because you are smart. You know what your future holds, and honestly? I’m excited to see how it treats you.”

You swallow thickly at the implication. You remember Aerion’s threat. Your mouth fills with copper as you bite your lip.

“Besides,” she says, “I don’t give two shits what you do with my betrothed. Fuck him, kiss him, make him fall in love you with you. I don’t care.”

Your eyes widen and dart to meet hers. 

She’s grinning. Her canines catch the light of the morrow, casting a grim shadow across her maw. “Because I’m the one marrying him. I’m the one that’s going to be a queen. You? He’d never have you when he could have me.”

You stare at her grinning face blankly. It feels like something has died within you, some kind of childish naïvety. You had finally done it. Ruined the one person that loved you. 

Lyanna realizes this. She is enthralled by your suffering, the micro expressions flitting over your face. She stands once she’s had her fill of your misery. She waves a handmaiden to her side and saunters away. 

You stare at the two teacups left across from you in stunned silence. Loneliness is nothing new to you. It is as close to your heart as its own beat, and yet, you feel the hurt all the same. Perhaps you had never known true loneliness before this, only an illusion of it.

You leave once your tea grows cold and you feel that you can properly support yourself upon standing.

The walk back to your quarters is a daze. You stumble behind the door and shut it tightly behind you. You feel the urge to cry, but no tears come. The lack of emotion confuses you.

Lyanna is your sister, she had been raised as such (albeit with clear distinctions made between you two) and yet, you do not feel as though you have lost much. You have lost a friend, certainly. The only one you had. But you were beginning to think, perhaps, you did not really like friends. In theory, they are nice. It is quite fun to have someone to talk to that understands you on an intimate level, that cares for you. But in practice, they are just… messy.

They end up betraying you like you did to Lyanna. Or you just end up kissing them, like Baelor did to you. You muse on this thought as you call a handmaiden to fetch you a bottle of wine. She goes without question. She’d seen the argument, she knew best not to question your motives.

You take a swig of the wine and wipe the back of your mouth with your hand. Perhaps the problem with Lyanna is that she wasn’t a friend. You take another sip. You truly can’t remember the last time you and Lyanna talked about something you wanted. It was all about her, her, her. Another long drink. And what about that condescending look when you tried to fit in with her? She was just as bad as her father. She just didn’t want to admit it. Another drink. She didn’t deserve Baelor. You didn’t either, though. 

You are not sure how much time passes with you nursing this bottle of Dornish wine. It feels simultaneously like an hour as it does just a few minutes. You finish the bottle and put it down on the table. Or you think you do, but then it rolls across the floor so it must have not.

You stand and immediately regret it. Your head hurts. Everything is swimming around you. You have never felt this horrible in your life. You clutch your stomach as you hobble to the other side of the room.

You do cry then. It bubbles out of you like a fresh tap. Tears pour out of your eyes, your nose, probably every orifice on your face.

You stand there crying until you think you have released every bit of water in your system onto the hardwood floor. You turn your head and stumble, catching your hand on the dresser beside you to prevent yourself from falling. 

Everything is wrong. You thought it was wrong before, but it is worse now. Nothing will be the same again.

You hear something break through your self-wallowing and tilt your head toward the noise. It is so soft you barely hear it. You frown and drunkenly stumble to the left. You cannot pinpoint the noise’s direction.

It stops. Then, you hear it again.

As you focus on the noise cutting through your cotton-filled head, you realize it sounds like voices. You creep toward the source of the sound, and end up at your slightly cracked window. You peer closer out into the gilded garden and a stagnant air licks at your skin. The view you have of the royal gardens is half-way obscured by a large tree that branches and winds toward your window. However your ears are sharp and you can hear the click of boots falling against brick before you see two long shadows darting across the ground.

You sit underneath your window sill and pull your knees to your chest, relying on your ears to tell you who it is.

You cannot see the speaker, but you recognize the voice immediately. Baelor.

“…Nyke ju'thtnos gaomagon daor vēdagon ūja wï’zérys.” (I just do not think it wise).

Your drunken mind scrambles. There are only a few people he could be talking to that understand High Valriyan. Even fewer situations that would require use of it over the common tongue. Whatever it is he spoke of, it must have required secrecy.

“Kepa emagon ael'rheaedyā aep'prróvëdā jentorysor. Daorun kostion sagon tatagon.” The second voice is one you distantly identify as belonging to Prince Maekar. You can only tell because his voice carries a deep grumble. You can see his disapproving frown clearly in your mind’s eye. (Father has already approved the union. Nothing can be done).

You dig your fingers into your sides, trying desperately to make sense of what it was you were hearing. Union? Marriage — it must be. But which…?

They must have begun walking again. Their voices are more distant now.

“Zirȳ issa baz'thárrdza. Gaomagon Aeær’yónnā drēje wa'nthrys kesīr?” Baelor’s voice is soft, diplomatic. But it hesitates on that word… “baz'thárrdza.” Your drunken mind does not have to search for long to find the translation. It was one of the first you learned all those years ago—bastard. (She is a bastard. Does Aerion want this?)

Your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage. You close your eyes and will yourself to stop listening. To spare yourself from hearing Baelor’s true thoughts of you. Thoughts that were not yours to partake in.

“Muña issa rôll'ynngrys rȳ zirȳla grh'aevënos. Th'ínkéā skorī gaomagon ao cha'urreā abó'ûdhnos ón'ë’thva parr'éndhzza?” (Mother is rolling over in her grave. Since when do you care about one’s parentage?) 

There is a lapse in conversation. You think for a moment they have gone too far out of your hearing range. Then, Maekar’s voice comes again, louder, and no longer under the Valriyan ruse. You worry your lip hard beneath your teeth.

“Ah, but you do not care, do you?” his voice trails off with a disbelieving laugh. “You just want the girl for yourself.”

Your breathing gets halted in your throat. Your stomach rolls with sickness and anticipatory nerves. You cup a hand around your mouth, willing the nausea to dissipate.

“…It does not matter what I want.” Your vision swims before you. “I just do not wish for a mistake to be made.”

There is another pause. Then:

“I will think on it,” Prince Maekar says, and oxygen is finally permitted to fill your lungs again. “But it may be hard to convince father…”

His voice finally grows quiet and dies away. They have gone too far from your window to be heard. 

For a moment you continue to sit there, on the floor and against your window, staring into the darkness of your room. But then your stomach churns again, as tumultuous as the Narrow Sea. You do not possess the mental fortitude to continue thinking on the matter before your body decides it is time to head to the chamber pot.

The conversation you overheard has all but left you by the time King Daeron’s nameday comes a few days later. Preparations for the celebration begin before the sun has risen on the morrow. You have been dressed, have eaten, and have met more faces of nobles than you could possibly keep track of in a dizzying amount of time, until finally you are led to King’s Landing at midday.

The fanfare is signified through the sound of horns and laughter and the clanging of metal against armor. The noise only grows more raucous as you and the rest of the nobility are led to a private box overlooking the tourney stadium.

The red pelt hanging loosely around your neck feels a bit like a noose as you take your seat in-between your sister and Princess Daella. The thick black dress you are wearing does not help with this feeling of entrapment. Sweat accumulates in every fold of your body, some gathering at your temples and dripping down your cheeks.

When you chance a look at your sister, she does not look the least bit affected. The healthy flush to her cheeks could be attributed to the heat of King’s Landing, but it feels like a stretch. A handmaiden gently fans the side of her face, and Lyanna encourages her to move it more vigorously.

You avert your eyes away before she can catch you looking. Your eyes are drawn to the opposite side of the viewing gallery, where King Daeron sits beside his youngest granddaughter. He is laughing at something she’s said, his light eyes crinkled with amusement.

You furrow your brows and look away. In the lapse of action, your mind is able to finally drift to what you witnessed a few nights prior. The insinuation that your betrothal may not last. The fear that filled your chest that bled into hope into sadness.

Lyanna moves in your periphery. She’s leaned forward over the bannister as Prince Aerion charges on his steed toward his opponent. 

You clench your jaw and shut your eyes when the other man, a Tyrell, is unseated and sent flying down to the dirt with a sharp yelp of pain. Lyanna lets out a loud cheer that makes your ears throb. Aerion does a victory loop, absorbing the cheers from the crowd. The Tyrell man is helped to his feet, though his left arm lays limp and crooked against his side. You wince.

Across the field, your eyes get caught on the black and reds of the Targaryen flags. Four Targaryens in one tourney. It would make history. King Daeron himself had requested his two surviving sons to participate, and then a son of each of their choosing.

It was his name day, after all. And he was a king.

Your eyes get caught on one Targaryen in particular as he watches Aerion across the way. He is not in his usual finery. It is a welcome change to see him donning the dark armor of his past. He has removed his helmet for the time being, and you can see his face as it catches the sun’s rays.

He furrows his dark brows at his nephew’s strutting. You can see even from here the hard line to his lips, the quickness of his gaze. 

“Water, mi’lady?” a voice comes from your side. You turn to see a handmaiden there with a pitcher of water. You nod quickly, caught off-guard by the sudden questioning. 

The handmaiden fills your goblet and steps away to ask the next person.

“Your betrothed is a vision on the field.” Hot air cuts across your cheek as Lyanna whispers this to you. “Perhaps he may be persuaded to spend a night with me.”

“Go for it,” you say tersely. “I’ve heard Prince Aerion will take a lay anywhere he can get it. The easier, the better.”

Your sister burns a hole through your cheek through the weight of her glare. “Are you implying—“

You stand with a flourish before she can finish her statement. From behind her, your father shoots you a warning look. You do not heed it.

You are too hot, too uncomfortable, and much too bored. You need air. The next match is called out just as you make it to the bottom of the stairs, clutching your hands around your waist to make yourself look smaller. Unraveling the fox pelt from around your neck, you delicately dab the sweat away from your forehead and cheeks as you stand halfway hidden beneath a tree.

For a moment you stand there and watch as the world goes by without you. Children laugh and chase each other with small wooden swords. Ladies titter and swoon at their favorite contenders, or theorize on who may be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty. From what you overhear, Lyanna is a strong contender.

Just as you will yourself to go back to the stands, your eyes get caught on a figure approaching in your peripheral vision. His dark armor gleams underneath the red sun, his strides long and quick. You do not think he sees you, but then he turns his head and looks you right in the eyes.

He stops midstep. Stares. You feel a heat to your face that does not feel entirely wrought from the sun. The fox pelt settles softly back around your neck as you place it there, trying to will yourself to look somewhat put together and not at all like the wilted flower you feel like. 

Baelor does not seem like he is going to approach you. He is too chivalrous to go against your wants again. He does not want to upset you, though you think he might want to talk to you as much as you want to. 

You step forth from the shade of the tree and he turns his head, magnetized as your form is bathed in light. A smile curls at the ends of your lips as you raise your hand to give a small wave.

His lips curl to match your expression. Something lurks beneath his gaze, a question in the eyebrow he cocks in your direction. You move your head in a sweeping gesture, an invitation. You take a step back into the shadows of the tree.

Baelor reaches you in two quick steps. His armor rattles as he moves, his long sword clanking against his side. His mismatched eyes search your face as if looking for an answer to some kind of mystery.

“Not enjoying the tourney?” He does not seem the least bit offended by the notion as he asks this, rather, amused.

You look off in the distance in the practice of seeming coy. You do not wish for anyone to get the wrong idea by your conversation. “I suppose I am not one to enjoy public displays of violence.”

Baelor lets out a chuckle. You can’t help but smile a little at the throaty, unabashed sound. 

“How about you? Are you looking forward to your match?” You cannot deny that you are a bit curious. As a lady, you were always kept at a distance from the pastimes of men. You did not know much, but were always interested in the rites of masculinity.

He lets out a short laugh. “Mentally? I feel like a young knight again. Physically? I… have been better.” He looks down at his armor with a sarcastic grin. “I think I must appear the same as a fat lord on a hunting expedition compared to all these kingsguard.”

Your lips twitch with the force of smothering your laughter. You do not agree with the last analogy, but there is something to be said about the Lord Hand having to wield a sword again. From what you heard, many Hands of the King retire their swords the second they pick up the badge.

You step forward and lay a friendly hand upon his pauldron. “If it counts for much, I eagerly look forward to your match. Lyanna and I were raised hearing stories of the infamous Hammer and Anvil.”

Baelor lets out a long breath through his mouth. “I really do not feel any younger with that knowledge in hand.”

The unexpectedness of the statement and the realization of what you implied about your age and his, makes you let out a barking laugh. The noise startles him, but it is an expression quickly traded away as then a toothy grin spreads across his face. You eventually quieten your giggles, covering your mouth with your hand. 

“My apologies,” you say, though you know not what for.

Baelor watches you in silence. You swallow thickly under his heavy stare and cross your arms over your bodice. He snaps out of it when a voice calls his name from afar. He barely turns his head to face the noise, a veil crossing over his expression.

He turns back to you, his eyes somber. “May I request something of you?”

You startle at the question, your eyes widening at the possible implications. You trust Baelor, though. You nod, frowning at his seriousness.

“Never feel that you have to hide from me,” he tells you softly.

He does not allow you to reply before he turns his back and begins to stride away to where he was called. You watch him as he leaves until he disappears from view. A breath that you didn’t realize you held escapes from your lips. You rub the dewiness from your eyes and head back to the viewing box.

Lyanna barely looks up at you as you return. However, your father leans forward and sets his hands on either side of your chair.

“Where have you been?” His voice is low and vaguely threatening. 

You turn your head. “I had to get some air.”

A handmaiden comes by to ask him a question and he releases your chair and flops back into his own with a sigh. You turn back around just as two new competitors enter the jousting arena.

Your sister sees him before you do. “Oh, there’s Baelor.”

You angle your head to the side and you see him on his beautiful stallion—Vaegon, you recall—twirling his stick around idly. His opponent is a Lannister you only vaguely recognize. You had met him, but all details as to his personage have fled you.

The match moves quickly. Baelor unseats the Lannister without much resistance. Seeing the jousting stick put just enough pressure on the man without causing him damage makes you gain a new appreciation for Baelor’s wisdom and self-restraint. Qualities his nephew lacks.

The Lannister man scurries away as Baelor removes his helmet and grins to the cheering crowd. You hear King Daeron clap enthusiastically for his son.

As you watch him trot around the arena, flexing his legs and hips to guide his steed around sharp curves, something warm and fuzzy settles over your body. You shift to hide your unease at the feeling, crossing one knee over the other. Were you truly…? You shake your head and take a long sip of your water to chase away the feeling.

You were just lonely. That’s all it is. Or that is all you tell yourself. And yet as the matches fly by in quick succession, your mind keeps drifting back to that one picturesque moment when he removed his helmet. His face was still drawn tense with exertion, large rivulets of sweat dripping down the side of his temple and deeper into his armor, and his eyes were solely focused on Vaegon as he moved powerfully underneath him. You reminisce on how he bit his lip in contemplation, then raised his head to let the sun beat down on his skin and opened his eyes to his adoring subjects.

Something about the whole farce proves to be incredibly problematic for you. You know what arousal is, just as you know what sex is. It is the admitting part that makes you nervous. Were you truly so attracted to Prince Baelor that seeing him joust was enough to make you hot? It felt near blasphemous, like perhaps what you insinuated of your sister was actually true about you—that you were just easy.

You bite the end of your nail as the day draws to an end. King Daeron stands from his position on the far end of the box, his pale visage drawn ruddy with overwhelming delight. He gives a large speech about his appreciation of the name day celebration, that fades into a discussion on who it was who had impressed him the most.

“My grandsons, how youthful and strong they make an old man like me feel,” King Daeron says with a heavy sigh. He comes closer to the edge of the stage. He brandishes a flower crown braided of daisies, lavender, and calendula, and your sister tenses beside you.

“Prince Aerion, perhaps you may do the honor of choosing this tourney’s Queen of Love and Beauty?”

You shift unsteadily in your seat as your sister deflates. She believes her chances dashed at being selected. Aerion grabs the crown from his grandfather’s hand and leads his horse down the box’s side. 

He looks directly at you—stares so long that you think he might actually pick you. Then, something shifts on his expression. A smirk pulls at his lips. 

“Perhaps Lady Lyanna may take this laurel?” he offers, arm outstretched toward the silent ravenette beside you.

You do not allow surprise to take hold of your features, especially when you notice your sister turn her head victoriously in your direction. She’s looking for hurt to show through the cracks of your veil. You will not afford any weakness.

She stands with a delighted titter. Delicate white hands come to clutch the ends of her dress as she moves to the rail. She bends the knee and Aerion takes a long, torturous moment to place the crown upon her dark tresses.

You do not watch any longer as eyes and heads swivel in your direction. It is not a good sign for a betrothal to start in a betrayal like this, but it was beginning to seem you and Aerion had been doomed from its very conception.

You make it through the rest of the tourney unscathed. You dodge your father's questioning as well as concerned comments from Princess Daella and crude remarks from Aerion long enough to escape back to your quarters.

You suppress the tears that wish to escape and take a seat on your bed. As you put your weight down, you hear something rustle beneath you. You stand again, confused, and pull back your duvet.

What sits there, on the plush bed, makes your heart skip a beat and your breaths come out in stuttered gulps. Pinkish-orange hibiscus intertwined with vibrant lilies and snapdragon in a braided crown. Your fingers delicately brush the petals, a hand coming to cup your mouth in stunned awe.

As you lift it to rest upon your head, a slip of parchment falls to the floor. You bend to pick it up and read through the tears beading in your eyes.

For the true queen

— Baelor

Sleep does not come easily that night. Your drift between varying levels of consciousness, thoughts of sisters, betrothals, and princes. You wake with a start several times, your heart thudding against your ears.

By the fifth time this happens, you realize sleep will not be coming for you. You stand up from your bed and pull your comforter to hide the spot you once laid. The soft moon’s light streaming across the floor sends a shiver down your spine, worsened by the chill that erupts from the feeling of your feet landing on the cool hardwood. You move quickly to grab your thick wool-lined kirtle and draw it over your figure. 

Stepping outside your room, your eyes rapidly adjust to the warm light that flickers from each sconce on the wall, one hand drawing across the cool cobblestone walls. You weave silently through the halls of King’s Landing, hiding behind sandstone columns when kingsguard clank by. You reach the palace library with little delay, and you shut the heavy door behind you. 

The room is so silent one could hear a quill drop. Only one candle remains lit, flickering in the middle of one of the tables. You notice a book by that candle, as if sat out in preparation for your arrival. Moving closer, you brush your fingers across the worn leather cover. It has no title, and the pages are rustic and yellowed. 

When you begin to read, you realize with great surprise that the entire thing is written in High Valyrian. You contemplate not reading it, for it feels a bit like taking something that does not belong to you. Only nobles are taught High Valyrian in the first place, and to gaze upon an entire book written in the royal tongue feels close to treachery.

What was that saying, again? Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. You cannot prevent yourself from reading. 

You are not sure how much time passes as you parse through a few pages of the tome. You get utterly absorbed by the text, so much so that you do not hear the door open and shut behind you.

“Issa ao æn'njôyiñgtor yôûr'shëlfrys?” (Are you enjoying yourself?)

You leap to your feet. You spin around, but see only a figure cloaked in darkness. A very familiar silhouette, however. He steps forward into the amber circle of candlelight, and his features are brought into full focus. 

“Baelor.” Your voice comes out with more relief than you had intended. For a moment, you had been scared at the thought of someone less diplomatic stumbling upon you reading this ancient text. You turn your head to the book with an apologetic smile. “Ūja issa ju'thtnos zid'dhíngtor issar. Nyke ch'oúldñ'dva baelagon my’zélfrys.” (It was just sitting there. I couldn’t help myself.)

Baelor steps close until he is but an arm's length from your side. He sets a hand upon the book and turns to the first page. “The words of my grandkepa,” he murmurs in reverence. “I imagine my father or brother were doing some light reading.”

You study the side of his face as his eyes rove over the text. His dark eyelashes flutter and a soft breath huffs from his parted lips. He turns to you and you startle at the intensity in his eyes.

“Why are you here so late?” He is not accusatory as he says this, rather, he seems perplexed by your presence.

You rub your cheek and avert your eyes. “I could not sleep.”

Baelor lets out a huff of a laugh, and the air teases the tendrils of your hair. “That seems to be a common theme with you. Perhaps you should see a maester for some chamomile tea.”

“And what of you?” You grin, reaching forward to poke his arm. “Why is the Hand of the King awake at this hour?”

Something settles upon his face as he regards you. His eyes draw down your face as if painting a mental picture of your image. He turns his head back to the book forcefully, as if only realizing the impropriety of his staring. “I needed to retrieve a book to ease my worries. I find it helps to consult my ancestors on troubling questions.”

You nod at the somberness of his voice. You could not help but agree with the assertion that books made your worries often disappear. To get lost in a book is a treasure, a much-welcome break from reality.

“Did you…” Baelor clears his throat, unable to meet your eyes. “Did you like your gift?”

“Oh, yes, Baelor,” you say giddily, remembering the handwoven crown on your bed. You lay a friendly hand on his where it sits on the table. “It was absolutely wonderful.”

Baelor turns his hand up so that your palms touch. He clutches your hand gently, with enough restraint to allow you to slip away if you wish. You do not. “Aerion should not have done that,” he tells you, “it is a grievous insult to you and your union.”

You gnaw your lip beneath your teeth. “It was embarrassing, of course,” you say, “but… I cannot seem to make myself care beyond that.”

Baelor lifts his head to stare into your eyes. The candle’s warm light flickers across his face, something fond and raw in his expression. You step closer. 

“In truth, Baelor, I could not stop thinking of you.” 

His throat bobs as he considers the weight of your words and the tantamount confession strewn beneath the phrasing. 

When he does not immediately reply, you feel a rush of shame flood your conscience. “I am sorry.” Your heart pounds against your rib cage in fierce denial of his rejection. “I… should not have–”

You cannot finish your statement before his lips fall upon yours and a hand weaves across the side of your neck to cradle your jaw. You are now the one that is stunned. For a moment, your body simply does not respond. Then, life breathes itself back into your muscles and your lips match his pace. 

The kiss is not as juvenile and restrained as the one you shared so many days ago in the shadow of an empty corridor. This one is with full intent and determination to make a point. His lips are warm and all-encompassing. He tastes of sweet wine and hibiscus, and you realize that you have never loved the taste of anything more. 

Then, the moment is broken. Baelor pulls away slightly, his eyes drawing over the planes of your face as if he might never admire them this close again. A thin string of spit hangs like a lifeline between your two lips, stretched taut by the concern in his expression.

“I do not wish to cause you more difficulty.” His words are soft, devout. You can still taste the sweetness of his breath as he speaks quietly, only for you to hear. His hand gently strokes the part of your neck wherein your pulse thrums the loudest. “I do not wish for this to come between you and your sister, or you and Aerion.”

You let out a sharp laugh without intending to. Baelor’s eyebrows draw together. “Fuck them,” you say. Then, louder: “Fuck. Them.”

You lean forward to rejoin your lips to his, and he returns the initiative gladly. Soon you find yourself on the center of the table, your kirtle rucked up to your thighs, and the book and candle shifted to the corner of the surface. Baelor stands in the middle of your spread legs, one hand guiding your head to meet his lips while the other strokes your bare knee.

The heat returns in full force, a warm bubbling sensation rising from the bottom of your stomach to your chest. You drag a hand to the front of where his broach keeps his doublet together, fumbling blindly for some kind of give. 

Baelor breaks the kiss to unbutton his top. You drag your coverup over your skin, hesitating for a moment at your midriff, before releasing it over your head. What remains is your sheer shift and Baelor’s smock-covered-chest. 

You avert your eyes to the front of his white linen top, gently stroking his chest from where it peeks at the top. You cannot bear to see his reaction to your exposed skin, so you keep yourself occupied with tracing the defined line of his collarbone. Baelor does not let you continue the path as his large hand swoops to grab yours within his own. He cradles your hand to where his heart thrums underneath the cloth and the skin underneath, and you finally draw your eyes up to meet his.

His eyes are blown dark, so dark that you can no longer remember which is periwinkle and which is brown. A healthy flush covers the tips of his ears and his neck, and his mouth is parted to release short, panting breaths.

“Iksā gevie.” (You are beautiful).

The smile finds itself on your face as if it were always meant to be there, and you reach forward to stroke the fine, coarse tendrils of his beard. “Se ao.” (And you).

You can tell Baelor does not get complimented often for how he steps forward to bury his head into your neck, planting ticklish kisses across your exposed skin. You let out an airy laugh and move to bring your hand underneath his smock. His back is covered in corded muscle and healthy fleshiness, and he shivers as you bring your nails against his spine.

He pulls away to remove his smock. You watch as his stomach and chest are revealed to the silent library. For the first time since beginning the affair, you feel nervous. Baelor has literally and figuratively bared his skin to you, allowing you to be the one to see his battleworn skin, the curled, coarse hair that covers his pectorals and navel, and the slight pudge to his stomach. He has given all to you. Now, it is your turn.

You let your feet hit the floor and begin to lift the top part of your shift over your head. You are barely past your midriff when Baelor stops you with a gentle hand.

“You do not…” he starts, “you do not have to get completely bare if you do not wish it.”

You shift uneasily on your feet, threading the thin linen between your fingers. “I… I want to.”

Baelor strokes the skin of your wrist once more before pulling away. You remove the rest of your clothing without any other delay. You draw your arm to protectively stand beneath your breasts, but do not cover them. 

Baelor steps close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of his skin. He touches your upper arm and you shiver.

“You are made of what Old Valyria wrote songs about.” 

You turn your head bashfully. “I hope of the love songs, not the ones about war and destruction.”

Baelor lets out a grumbly laugh, his chest moving with the sound. You bring your hand to cup his where it sits upon your arm. You drag it to touch your breast.

“Do not be afraid of what I think,” you tell him softly, “I want all you can give me.”

Baelor’s throat bobs, but he heeds your request. He gently squeezes your breast, then draws his opposite hand to hold your neck as he kisses you. He finds himself in between your legs again as you attempt to squeeze them together. You feel a pool beneath your thighs forming, and you draw your lips from his to settle beside his ear.

“Perhaps you may take your breeches off now.”

He does not reply, instead his hand that was touching your breast draws down your hip and to the crevice between your thighs. The warmth there–the immediacy of the flesh against uncharted territory, makes you flinch. But Baelor does not remove himself.

You instead shift further back on your tailbone to accompany his adventuring fingers. He gently touches the outside of your hole and you shiver. He drags his fingers through your wetness so slowly it’s tortuous.

You shift in place and a small smile curls at his lips. “So impatient,” he tuts.

“It is not my fault,” you whine, “you have been nothing but a tease all day.”

“A tease?” He punctuates this by bringing his middle finger to circle your clit. You arch your back with a sharp gasp at the sudden overwhelming arousal that controls you like a puppet. “How so?”

You can hardly think, much less talk. To make it worse, he’s got a finger in you now, slowly pumping back and forth. It is too slow and too fast all at the same time. You squirm, letting out a soft groan.

“Seeing you all hot”--your words are broken off by a sharp moan as his finger is joined by a second–”and sweaty, riding your horse…”

He lets out a chuckle. “You really have been neglected, haven’t you? Getting all worked up over near-nothing.”

You can feel something delicious building in your loins, and you grab his wrist as he speeds up, not wanting him to slow or speed up, but hold the pace he was at infinitively. 

“I suppose no one can blame you,” he says, “I have waited far too long to help you.”

The feeling is close to making you burst. You arch your hips as a third finger joins the fray and suddenly everything goes white. You dig your nails into his wrist as you let the feeling take hold of you. You think this is the reason people do anything for sex; sell it, trade it, commodify it. For this one brief moment of physical enlightenment. Your mind scrambles and then settles, like falling off the edge of a cliff. Your stomach feels like nothing and then everything, and then you hit the bottom and everything is normal again.

Baelor removes his fingers and brings them to his mouth. You watch through hooded eyes as he sucks them dry. You feel a familiar stirring in your mons and energy revitalizes your movements. You stick your fingers in the front of his pants and pull his hips flush against yours. Eagerly, you try to untie his breeches, but he stills you with a gentle hand on your wrist.

“Allow me,” he says. He blissfully does not pull all the way apart from you to drag his fingers into his breeches. 

“Damned things,” he mutters as they fight against him. He finally pushes them hard enough to release his waist and they fall away. All that is left is his pulsing cock, staring directly at you.

You swallow thickly. This is what… this is what you are expected to fit inside you? It is so large, so much longer and fleshier than you had been expecting. Your–albeit brief–forays into the steamier literature on the male physique had not prepared you sufficiently for this moment. 

“It is…” Baelor pauses, and turns his head bashfully. You notice a red tint to his ears. “It is a touch larger than most men’s, I am told. I… do not want to hurt you.”

Your breathing stutters, but you shake your head immediately. “You will not,” you tell him sternly, “I know you won’t.”

He does not seem entirely confident in the statement. He stares at his cock like it is a disembodied curse, but it does not register his eyes as it stands tall and proud against his stomach.

You move your leg to hook around his back, bringing him flush against you. “I trust you.” 

It is all the encouragement he needs as he grabs it and lines himself up with your entrance. He looks at your eyes once more, as if giving you another chance to change your mind, before he enters you with one smooth thrust. 

You let out a sharp gasp that has Baelor immediately stalling inside of you. He pushes past his own overwhelming arousal to wipe his eyes down your face. You feel the sharp pain ebb into something primal, more raw and dizzying. You dig your fingers into the wood grain beneath you.

“Gods Old and New,” you say into the still air, “forgive me for my lust.”

Baelor lets out a soft laugh, taking your words as encouragement. He backs out of you then settles into a pace, in and out, in and out, in and out. You moan, grabbing at his back as he brings himself upon you, digging your fingers like blades against his ribs and spine.

Baelor vocalizes just as much, his eyes fluttering shut then bursting open when he hears you moan, as if the very sound awakened something within him. As your high approaches, he begins muttering something under his breath. You can barely hear it through your own fogged mind, but you can catch pieces of it.

“Bisa iksis iā irudy… Gevie… Gevie… Nyke dōrī jaelagon naejot henujagon,” he chants the phrases as if in a spiritual trance but you are his idol and he is but a lowly septa. (This is a gift... Beautiful... Beautiful... I never wish to leave).

You capture his jaw with your hand and bring him down to seal your consummation with a kiss. He returns it in full. It is messy, all tongue and teeth clipping and noses bumping. But it feels so fucking right. Everything does.

You pull away to let out a loud groan as your climax reaches its precipice. 

“Baelor,” you call out.

“I know, I know. Let go for me, love.”

You reach your release with a moan. You clutch your legs tightly around his still-thrusting hips, and drag your nails down his back. He follows soon after you, finding his home in your sweat-slick neck, groaning so loudly and guttural, it shakes your pulse. His hips slow as he finishes, before they finally stop altogether.

He pulls himself out of you and you feel liquid follow. You continue to lay there on the table, breathing heavily, for several moments. When you come to, Baelor is next to your head, gently dragging a cloth against your sweaty head. He has his breeches back on and his smock, and his eyes look so gentle and so reverent you feel like you could cry.

“Perhaps you should get dressed,” he murmurs, “I do not wish for anyone to see you now.” He drops the cloth and strokes down your cheek with his fingers instead.

His thumb drops to your lip and you bite it softly. A low noise escapes his lips, but he shakes his head.

“The sun is rising,” he tells you, “I do not think we have the time for a round two.”

“Will that be the jousting round?” you say breathlessly, “are you going to hit me with a big stick? Oh wait, you already did that.”

Baelor barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “You minx.”

You stand on the feet of a fawn. You collect your shift and coverup and dress in silence. When you are finally covered, you turn your head to see Baelor watching you.

Sadness falls over you as you watch his loving gaze, a hollow pit in your stomach where warmth used to reside. You draw your hands protectively around your waist.

“What now?”

Baelor’s eyebrows furrow. He takes a step toward you, arm outstretched. You allow him to touch you, but cannot fully bring your eyes to meet his. You are afraid of the rejection that may come.

“I believe that I have a long conversation with my father in my future,” Baelor says, bringing his hand to cup your cheek. “And I will not be stopping until he gives me what I have claimed.”

You lean your face into his calloused hand. “They will be angry.”

He draws closer still, his nose brushing against yours. “Let them.”

“And if they decide I am not worthy to be a princess?”

“It does not matter,” Baelor’s voice is soft as he says this, as if he had already considered this possibility. “For you will not be a princess. You will be a queen.” 

He seals his vow with a kiss.

tags -> @ynnlvrs @nearria @loonylups @raynetargaryan2 @lucycarlisleswife @nalitali @snorklingfae @fantasyfan4life @bellarkeselection @hydracassiopeiadarablack @heavengirls111 @sigilofdragonfly @aleemendoza2425-blog @lolabunnyworldss @bbblackmamba @itsmejen @celestrys @motelmorado @averagethottie @fraaiefreule91 @shamelessblazecrown @lihane @ateliefloresdaprimavera @princessaasblog @emily-century @saturnknows @langsnscraps @clocksonthewall79 @tremendouschangelingneophyte @ichiban94 @matt-sturnioloo @snowwythegloww @noone1233nobody @calvin-evans-littul-white-shorts

[mariposium]

No pressure I just wanted you to know I haven't been able to stop thinking about your Baelor/Stark bastard fic I'm absolutely obsessed

It’s been a month since this was asked but I just wanted to let you all know I’m not dead!! I have been dealing with some issues in my own life but I am still hammering away at this second part.

Feel free to let me know if you are no longer interested in being tagged in the second part! I know it has been a while since I posted and don’t want to bother anyone who is no longer interested in the series :)

[mariposium]

sorry for the bit of radio silence here. i'm finally through with my finals, so i'm hoping to sit down and actually write soon. prioritizing second part of "his first choice," then i'm going to do some requests <3 :) thank you all again for all the love and support! i appreciate you all!

[mariposium]

aerion smut? 👀

i wouldn’t be opposed to it ;)

i feel like ive written a lot of aerion as a bad guy so id love to explore other milder sides of him. he will probably need to be written a bit ooc just so the smut isn’t ridiculously dark though

[mariposium]

Hi! I am absolutely obsessed with His First Choice! That Valyrian dialogue is chef's kiss.

thank you so much! <3 it's funny i went back and forth on whether or not to do the Valyrian dialogue because technically it's only really learned by Targaryen royalty but i'm glad i did! i think it is a huge reason baelor takes an interest in the reader because it shows her intelligence :)