Description: James didn’t like the idea of a tutor but maybe you weren’t so bad as he thought.
Wordcount: 2400+ words
Warnings: bickering. fluff.
Author’s note: This is my first request and I really loved this idea. The idea is based on the request of @ames1stuff. I hope you like it, love.
“A tutor?” Sirius exclaimed, laughing. He was doubled over and holding tight to the couch. There were many things Sirius found funny in life, but James needing a tutor would make the top of his list.
“It’s not that bad.”
Remus tried to soothe the wound but James wasn’t having any of it. “Not that bad? I don’t want a tutor. I don’t need one.”
“Well if they appointed you one that means you do, buddy.”
Sirius always made the situation a little worse as he patted James on the back.
“Look at it on the bright side, she might be cute. Or he.”
“Shut up,” James grumbled and dropped himself on the couch next to Sirius. “Tomorrow is the first lesson or class?”
“You even need a tutor to tutor you about tutoring.” All his friend offered was laughter and jokes while to James it wasn’t a joke. He pushed Sirius off the couch and claimed it for himself. His arms are over his eyes.
“I am not going. I can get help from Remus, Right?”
From the look of his friend James should have known the answer was no, and it would stay no until James Potter was deemed hopeless to teach.
You could turn to the clock as many times as you wanted but the truth was, James Potter was late. Not just a little late but over thirty minutes late. He had reached the maximum of time you would waste on people.
With a sigh, you grabbed all books and papers that were scattered on the table.
You might have already left if it weren’t for your name being mentioned.
“I am James Potter.”
It took a second for you to turn around. Swallowing the annoyance you feel when looking at him. You had known James Potter, the boy that always pulled pranks with his mates. “You are late.”
“I know I’m-”
“Thirty minutes late,” you snapped at him and dropped down in the chair. This would be the second time you would occupy it and you wanted to make it quick. It was never a good start to be late but when they were thirty minutes late you were left with the feeling of disdain.
James didn’t finish his sentence. He just sat down, grumbling under his breath in order for you to miss it and watched you. Even when you raised your eyebrows at him he still watched you.
You sighed again and pushed your own books to him. “Next time bring something. No, next time don’t waste my time.”
“You sound mad,” he said in response, leaning back in the chair.
He jumped slightly at your dry laugh. The book was no longer in front of him as you pulled it back. “If you want to fail why didn’t you just say so?”
All he could do was watch you gather your things and watch you walk away. The screeching of your chair bought the attention of other students to the two of you and he hated that they witnessed this fiasco.
He cursed under his breath and quickly hurried after you.“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t.”
“It feels like I did.”
“I’m not offended, I’m annoyed,” you stated and turned to him, “but that might not be something you usually pay attention to.”
James simply rolled his eyes and pulled the closest two chairs back. “Please?”
You weren’t sure if it was actually pity you felt for the boy or if you simply caved because of the shy smile he gave you but you sat down and opened your books again.
You really hoped the third time would be the charm.
If there was one thing you had learned from time it was that James Potter had a tendency to arrive late.
You promised yourself to leave after thirty minutes and this time the shy smile wouldn’t help him. The first fifteen minutes you kept telling yourself it wouldn’t be like last time. That James Potter truly wanted to be tutored in order to pass, but as minutes pass you also told yourself how stupid that now looked.
When twenty-five minutes had passed you were grabbing your things.
It was official, James Potter wasn’t worthy of your time if all he did was waste it.
“I know that look, you gave it to me yesterday.”
You hadn’t expected him to show up. The little jump made that clear. You even dropped some of the papers that you had in your hands.
“So you decided to show up?” You snapped at him.
James still took his seat, like he wasn’t almost a half hour late again.
“Are you always late for tutoring?” You asked him when you looked down at him.
James watched you as you still stood before him. He noted how you didn’t take a seat, how you didn’t put your books down.
“Is there anything I can do to make the situation better?” He pulled a sweet smile this time and it would have made you cave the first time but not the second time.
You laughed at him, dropping your books and letting the sound carry through the library. James shrank into himself. He wanted to hide behind the stacks of paper but you were holding them all.
“Maybe come on time. That would be a start, but I am not tutoring you today. You can come back in two days when our next session is scheduled.”
“But I need help now,” James tried as he rushed out of the chair.
You didn’t give in this time. You just looked at him and picked up your books. “You should have thought of that before you wasted my time, again.”
Sirius knew the moment James returned he had somehow made you angry at him. He already laughed before James had to explain everything.
“Yeah, keep on laughing. I am the laughing stock today,” James grumbled when he dropped onto the couch, “you laugh while I go get some new friends.”
“You are always so dramatic. Now, tell me, what did you do?”
He only groaned. James wanted to sink further into the couch, till nobody could find him again. “I was late.”
“That ain’t so bad. Just say you are sorry and really need this.”
James shook his head and turned to Sirius. “I was thirty minutes late. Twice.”
He waited for his friend’s reaction. he expected laughter and jokes, but nothing came from Sirius. Nothing but silence filled the room and came on James like a thick blanket waiting to suffocate him. he shouldn’t care that he made you mad at him, he barely knew you. He didn’t do it on purpose and that made him hate it.
You only tried to help him and he treated you and your help like something he can cast away and retrieve when he saw fit. Of course, you were mad at him, he should be mad at himself. He already was mad at himself without knowing what this felt like.
Disappointment, sadness, injustice. Everything James felt now was not something he liked and he had to agree with you. He should have given everything more thought.
“I’m here, I’m on time.” You jumped in your seat when James Potter stood hunched over the table. “Please tell me I’m on time.”
He looked like he ran a mile, and had to escape some teacher but he was in fact on time. “Yes, you are.”
He dropped himself on the chair next to you and took a book out of his bag.
You couldn’t help but watch with confusion as he then proceeded to take out a feather.
“Who are you and what have you done to James Potter?” you asked him with a laugh.
“Has nobody ever told you that I am a master in being excellent in everything?”
“If we forget about our first two meetings, I still wouldn’t believe that,” you said with a smile and took out your books too. You had kept them in your bag just in case but he had surprised you in the end. “I think we should start on page 394.”
You were impressed by James. There wasn’t much comparison to previous encounters but still, he exceeded expectations. He wasn’t your best student and he lost concentration quickly but he did make it fun.
When you had everything in your hands James turned to you. He wore a kind smile this time when he grasped your attention, “thank you, for helping me. I know I haven’t said that before.”
“It’s no problem. I think you will be just fine for the next test, all you need is just a little more tutoring.”
“Nobody needs this much tutoring,” Sirius said as he watched James sit on the wooden chair next to you.
He flipped the pages over while his attention wasn’t on them at all. Remus too could see he was doing things without a mind on it.
“That boy has been getting tutored by her for over two months now. He already passed. You can’t tell me he is doing this to learn. Yeah, learn how to actually get the girl.” Sirius laughed at his own words, still watching his friend
“You think he needs a little help, don’t you?” Remus turned to Sirius who watched the two with a devious smirk on his lips.
“Maybe just a little.”
They waited close to the library, all for James Potter to finish his tutoring session. The moment he was close to them Sirius spoke up, grasping his attention.
“She doesn’t do dates, James. Not once this year or any other year,” Sirius said as he pushed himself off the wall, “couldn’t you find someone easier?”
James jumped up. “No need to scare me, man.”
Sirius shook his head and watched you go, already rounding the corner out of everybody’s sight.
“James, you might want a great plan to agree on a date if you like her,” Remus said softly and placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He squeezed him softly for encouragement.
“What gave it away?”
“You. Nobody needs this much tutoring when they already passed. You look at her so long I’m surprised she didn’t notice it yet.”
James nodded. His friends were right, he knew that. He had told you he wanted more tutoring for other subjects, all to extend his time with you. He even had you agree to more sessions in a week. James was desperate to spend more time with you and it was only a matter of time for the boys to notice.
“I’m gonna make her go on a date with me, and if she doesn’t like me after that then that is fine. But I’d be damned if I didn’t try.”
James Potter managed to come on time for his tutoring session. In fact, he was never late again. It truly was the third time a charm.
“You got it?”
He hummed at your question, his eyes focussed on you, not your explanation but just you.
“James?” You waved your hand in front of him until he snapped out of his trance. “You good?”
“Yes, sorry. I was on a different planet I think.”
He could already hit his own head at the answer. Another planet? How dumb could he sound? But your giggle made brightened his mood instantly. Like the sun was the only planet he was on and he didn’t mind if he burned on it.
He didn’t mind the burn. He didn’t mind the answer. he didn’t mind if you told him no and didn’t want to see him again. The only thing he minded is if he didn’t try.
“I got a proposition,” he told you and sat straight in his chair.
Your eyes scanned his face for a sliver of information but there was nothing on his face that gave you an answer. You had to hear it from him.
“I had a test last week and any day now I will receive my results. If I end up being the best of the class I want to take you on a date.”
He said it like a man that had nothing to lose. Like the smile you gave him was his reward, it even felt like it when you shook your head smiling like a mad woman.
You had to give it to James, you had never had this proposition before. The chances of James actually ending up highest were slim. He still made mistakes every time you tutored him, he always asked for more time. But a part of you did hope for a good result.
Maybe because of that, you agreed so easily. Because no matter what outcome you would like it either way. A date, or him needing to spend more time with you. There truly was no downside in his little proposition.
“Okay, but if you don’t have the highest, you have to bring me my favorite candy at every other tutoring session.”
James smiled, he wouldn’t mind that at all.
You waited patiently for James to arrive. The courtyard was almost entirely empty except for some other students.
When he showed up he waved a piece of parchment in the air. A look of pure happiness on his face that instantly lit up your own. You knew what that piece of paper would tell you. James Potter was not so hopeless to teach as you first thought he was. He had surprised you in the way you liked it most.
“Look what I have,” he told you and held his score in front of you.
“I am so proud of you.”
When James pulled the paper away he could see the meaning the words held. You were proud of him, of his accomplishments. He almost felt sorry for making you think he still needed tutoring but he didn’t. He liked seeing you proud, especially when it was at him.
“I believe you owe me a date.”
“I do, but that also comes with a confession,” you told him with a smile. There was no need to fear what you would say next, he made all your past doubts vanish from the face of the earth. “I would have gone on a date with you even if you didn’t.”
James wrapped his arms around you and pulled you to him, beaming down at you.
“Then I will confess something too. I didn’t need those extra lessons. I just needed to spend some time with my favorite tutor.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at him. “I am your only tutor.”
James tightened his arm around you, pulling you in until there was barely any space between you two.
“Exactly, why do you think that is?” he asked with that stupid lovely smile.
genre, warnings ⊹ angst. more angst. fluff. maybe some comfort ? reader is pregnant. established marriage. tragcest. reader is jace's aunt. second daughter of viserys from aemma. wc メ 700.
• to leave his pregnant wife is worth it or to stay ?
“ jace ! jace-” you followed him as he stepped towards rhaenyra's chambers. and you saw him locking the door. and at that moment you realised, thats it. he is going to leave. he is not going to listen to anyone not even you…
you lifted your hands from your sides, placed it on your belly and started rubbing it, which was visible beneath your gown, to calm yourself down and perhaps the babe.
“ oh. my sweets. ill be back.” he walked towards you with slow steps, he locked his crazy gaze with yours pleading and disbelief ones.
“ you are not- you are not planning to fight…” your voice was cracked it was muffled while you try to control your sob.
“ please..” you added softly this time, as the sobs left from your mouth.
“ shh, hey… i promise. i will be back unharm.” he cupped your cheeks with his palms gently, and slowly wiped away your tears with his thumbs.
“ jacaerys velaryon. im with your child… we- we need you here.” you tried to speak harshly to make him understand.
“ they need me as well. i- cant just stay still… she is my queen…” his voice was filled with authority which scared you even more.
“ they took luke away from me… i wont let them take her from me…” he added his voice was desperate.
“ what of me ? your unborn child.” you raised your voice in rage and anger. as you tried yourself to pull away from him. but he grabbed your shoulders forcefully this time.
“ my sweetling.” he pressed a kiss on the corner of your mouth.
“ my heart.” he pressed second kiss on the other corner of your mouth.
“ my love.” he pressed soft kisses on the apple of your cheeks.
“ my sweet lady wife.” he pressed one last kiss on your forehead. as he murmured your name lovingly against your skin.
then he pulled back to upon your pretty crying face. tears streaked cheeks, red and puffy eyes.
“ iー will be back..” he whispered softly as you both maintained the eye contact.
“ and my child is safe with you… i know that. so my sweets worry not. i will achieve a great victory.” he spoke confidently there was a proud but pretty smile on his pretty pink lips.
“ i should come with you…” at that he just shook his head in denial. “ i have a dragon, let me…” you pleaded him with your soft and loving voice.
“ no, we cant risk it. and baela is going with me.” he spoke tenderly. as he wiped tears from your cheeks. which made you sobbed even more.
“ you are carrying my babe, my legacy.” he pressed his forehead gently against yours. while gazing upon your eyes. he was smiling, at that moment he looked like the most beautiful yet sorrowful thing that has happened in your life.
“ but-” he did not let you finish your sentence this time, and pressed his mouth against yours with slight force. the kiss was almost soul wrecking and consuming. his fingers threaded into your hair, you placed your palms on his chest to anchor yourself.
tears were streaking down your face, the kiss was messy with salt and saliva. after some moments, he pulled away first slowly there was a string of saliva connecting you both.
he rested his forehead onto yours, your both breathes were brushing against eachother lips. he leaned closer and nuzzled his face between your neck and shoulder, like he was breathing you in, while leaving soft kisses on your neck.
“ wait for me, hmm..? ” he murdered against your skin. his strong arms were wrapped around your waist. you just nodded slightly, words did not come out from your mouth. and honestly there was nothing else to say.
and after some moments later he left. flying upon vermax, while you just watched him in the dragonpit with tears in your eyes. and your hand on your belly.
just a small drabble or oneshot. i wrote while listening to another love... oh i miss jace so much.
FEATURING: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader, minor Aegon II Targaryen x fem!reader
SUMMARY: After eight years away, Jace finally returns to King's Landing and comes face-to-face with you for the first time since the two of you were children. You have always been cruel and capricious, but Jace does not know what to make of your sudden interest in him—is it genuine, or another scheme you've concocted to humiliate him? He cannot tell, and he cannot seem to stop himself from being drawn into a game whose rules only you seem to understand.
WARNINGS: fem!reader. targtower!reader. reader is a Targaryen (daughter of Viserys & Alicent)—no physical features are explicitly described (silver hair, purple eyes, etc) BUT it is implied through the way she bullies Jace. On the topic, she is a bit of a bully LOL, she gets a kick out of antagonizing Jace, and though she does have some depth, we don't really get into it until the second part. Jace is unfortunately very, very into it too LOL. Jace is highkey going through the ringer, he's constantly spiraling because of her and doesn't know what to think LOL. He wants her bad but is going through it. Targcest (aunt-nephew). Explicit smut. Oral (m!receiving). Bit of face-fucking. Implied dacryphilia. Semi-public-ish.
NOTES: EUHUUHUHUUH I rlly was going to post this all in one part but it just got too long, so this first part is 15k and the next part (posting next sunday) will prob also be around the same length. I'm having sooo much fun with targtower!reader, she is such a bitch, but she's a bitch with DEPTH I swear. That being said, the depth is not really shown in this part LMOAOOOOOO the two parts are essentially structured 1) shit I want her (sexual) and 2) SHIT I want her (emotional) LOLLLLLLL. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Comments and reblogs always appreciated!
"I do not know why you drag me here. I have no interest in watching our brother spar with Cole, sister," Aegon sighs as he leans against the pillar next to you, a goblet of wine dangling between his fingers. "I would literally rather be anywhere else."
He raises his eyebrows at you when you do not respond, and you loll your head back against his shoulder to give him a teasing smile.
You drawl, "Perhaps I hope you might learn something." Aegon snorts beside you, taking a long sip of his wine before letting out a heavy breath, head tipping back against the stone. You add, "Perhaps one day I shall have the pleasure of watching you spar with Aemond."
"Hah!" Aegon laughs, the arm draped around your chest flexing slightly as he lowers his face to your ear. "If you are so eager to see me sweating and out of breath, sweet sister, you only need ask. There are far easier ways to arrange it than putting a sword in my hand."
You wrinkle your nose, though you cannot quite suppress your smile. "You are disgusting."
"So you tell me," he says. His lips brush the shell of your ear as he speaks, his voice dropping low enough that it's nearly lost beneath the clashing of sword and morning star. "And yet, you never seem to complain when I am in your bed, do you?"
You drive your elbow into his ribs hard, and he grunts, nearly spilling his wine.
"Careful," he complains.
"Then behave."
"You would know very well if I stopped behaving, sweet sister," Aegon murmurs, and you can feel his lips curved up into a sharp smile as he ghosts a chaste kiss below your ear when no one is looking. "I could be doing far worse right now."
You roll your eyes and turn your attention back to the yard. Aemond has managed to drive Cole halfway across it now, the two of them circling each other beneath the afternoon sun. Even from here, you can see the determination carved into your brother's face, the set of his jaw each time Cole manages to turn aside one of his blows.
"How much longer do you think mother will allow you to get away with postponing your wedding?" Aegon questions, rolling his head back against the pillar. The apparent mockery in his voice is betrayed by the way his thumb stills from where it had been tracing absently at your shoulder. "Not too much longer, surely."
You hum, considering the question. "I imagine for as long as I continue asking her."
Aegon lets out an incredulous laugh. "Mother spoils you far too much. Do you know what she did when I asked her to postpone my wedding, sister?" You raise your eyebrows, not really listening. "She slapped me, and then had me dragged to the sept."
"Well, it is not my fault mother loves me best," you say, taking a sip of your own wine and ignoring how Aegon rolls his eyes at you. "What? Do not be cross—you know you would take advantage of it too, sweet brother."
It has been this way for as long as you can remember.
When you were sick as a child, it was your mother who dismissed lessons for the day and stayed beside your bed until you slept. When you cried over a scraped knee, she had carried you herself despite your protests that you were far too old. When you want jewels from Yi Ti or silk from Naath, it is your mother who makes the necessary arrangements for trade during the next Small Council meeting.
Your mother loves all her children, of course—you have never doubted that—but loving them have never come as easily to her as loving you.
Aegon had frustrated her from the moment he was old enough to defy her, and Aemond had been easier in some ways, dutiful and serious, but difficult in intensity. And Helaena—your mother loves her dearly, you know that she does, but she has never understood her. She never knows what to do when Helaena begins speaking of things no one else understands, or how to respond when she recoils from a comforting touch.
With you, everything had been simple.
You were close enough to your mother to allow yourself to be loved, unlike Helaena, who seemed forever just beyond reach, but you had never clung to her with the same desperation Aemond sometimes did. You were not openly defiant like Aegon, forever testing the limits of her patience and forcing her to choose between anger and forgiveness, but neither were you so desperate for her approval that you shaped yourself entirely around pleasing her.
Loving you required no effort at all—and your mother was ever-stressed by the men of the Small Council and your rotting father, so it was you she came to when she needed to be with someone who would not bring her more problems.
Of course, that would bring its own issues for you, because your mother has much higher expectations of you than your elder siblings, but you can relish in the boons and deal with the banes as they come, as you always have.
"If she loves you so much," Aegon drawls, "then why does she force you to marry him at all, hm? Surely, she sees how much you loathe him?"
"I do not loathe our brother, Aegon," you say immediately. "He did me a favor by winning the tourney five years ago, you know that." Aegon's gaze averts to the side at that. "He is just dull. Boring. I loathe the idea of wedding him, not him himself. He does not wish to marry me either. I rather like him, actually—he brings me pretty jewels."
Aegon raises his eyebrows at you and then gives you a mocking smile. "The question remains, I fear."
You exhale through your nose and look back out to the yard, watching as Aemond narrowly avoids a swing of Cole's morning star.
Because she does not want to send you away. If you wed some lord, you would be expected to leave King's Landing and go wherever his miserable castle happens to be. Casterly Rock, perhaps, or Highgarden, only the gods may know where you might be cast out to. After what happened at the tourney for your hand five years ago—that marcher lord that nearly won and thought to take his prize early—she has been ever paranoid about your father wedding you off. It spooked her how close you were to being sent away, and she thought, since Aemond won the tourney following the incident, that at least if you marry him, the threat of distance and mistreatment disappears, because Aemond is a prince of the blood, and his place is in King's Landing.
"You know why," you finally say, tiring of this conversation as you settle against him. "Have our half-sister and her plain-featured sons arrived yet? I'm quite eager to see them. It has been years."
Your eyes drift searching around the training yard, giddy at the prospect of your nephews arriving in King's Landing for Vaemond Velaryon's petition. You have missed Jacaerys—you always found yourself seeking him out before your half-sister dragged him away to that dreary stone across the Blackwater. He was fun to toy with—sweeter than your brothers, and always eager to please.
"She should have just wed us," Aegon says at last, ignoring our question. When you start to roll your eyes, his arm tightens around you, head dropping slightly so that he can look at you. "Think of it, sweet sister. Mother gets to keep you here, you get a husband who is not painfully dull, and I might have actually enjoyed my marriage. Everyone wins."
"Except Helaena," you say dryly.
"Helaena most of all, I should think," Aegon counters. "She could have married Aemond. They could sit together in silence for hours, or she could speak of her insects, and he could brood ominously beside her. A perfect match."
You snort despite yourself. "You are horrible."
"Perhaps," he agrees, mouth curving as he drops his chin on your shoulder. "You and I would have had fun together."
"We have fun as we are," you say simply. "You would have hated being married to me."
Aegon laughs at that, though there is a distinct lack of humor behind it. "Would I?"
"Oh, yes," you say simply, gaze drifting along the outskirts of the crowd to all of the knights and squires pretending to focus on the spar taking place, and not the two of you. "Within a moon."
"A fortnight, perhaps."
"A week," you counter
"Three days, most like," Aegon says with a sharp grin. Then he looks down at you, a bit more serious. "But I would have had you."
Aegon inhales, eyes drifting over your face, something unreadable crossing through his eyes before his attention returns to the yard again.
"I am not some horse to be had," you finally say, rolling your eyes.
"No." Aegon takes another long drink of his wine. "I would be considerably less vexed if our brother were marrying my horse."
You do not know how to respond to that, so you turn your attention back to the training yard, gaze idly wandering the crowd gathered around the sparring ring. You think you should return back to your chambers and change into a new dress—your mother had new silks imported from Lys that you've been meaning to wear, and you mislike being around sweaty men, you just found yourself bored with tea and cake.
Then, you see them.
You tilt your head curiously when your eyes land on the newcomers. At the opposite edge of the circle stand two boys you do not recognize at first, dressed finely enough in black and red that they could only be royal, though neither has the pale silver hair that marks the majority of your family. The younger one is watching the spar with wide eyes, but the elder is the one who catches your attention.
You straighten against Aegon, absently fixing your hair.
Surely not.
"Are those our nephews?"
Aegon follows your stare.
Jacaerys Velaryon is no longer the little boy you remember teasing until his eyes welled up with tears, ever-following Aegon around everywhere through the halls of the Red Keep. He has grown taller in the years since you last saw him, the childish softness gone entirely from his face. His dark curls fall loosely around features that have sharpened considerably with age, and when he turns his head to say something to Lucerys beside him, you find yourself staring.
He has grown handsome.
Very handsome, actually.
"Oh," you murmur.
Aegon's head turns sharply toward you, but you barely notice. Jacaerys laughs at something his brother says, and your eyebrows lift with sudden interest.
"They look rather comfortable," you say absently. "Shall I, ah, draw some attention them?"
"Hm?"
You are distracted as you pass your goblet of wine to Aegon. "Hold this."
"What?" Aegon demands, fumbling with your cup, but you're already walking away, crossing right through the sparring ring.
Cole's eyes widen as he sees you step directly into the sparring ring, and whatever blow he had been preparing to deliver dies instantly. The head of his morning star crashes harmlessly into the dirt instead, kicking up a spray of dust a few feet from your skirts.
"Princess," he murmurs, inclining his head
Aemond lowers his sword with an irritated huff, following Cole's stare until his gaze lands on you.
"Must you interrupt everything?"
"Hm?" Your eyes skim over him without lingering, already searching beyond his shoulder. "Oh. Yes. Apologies. Do continue."
His brows furrow, following your gaze.
You step past him, hands locked behind your back, ignoring all of the eyes suddenly pinned on you, dress swishing at your feet as you approach the two boys at the edge of the crowd.
"Nephews," you call brightly, watching as their heads lift from where they are bowed together, both startled at being addressed. "It's been so long."
Lucerys looks rather like a deer caught before a hunter, eyes widening as you approach, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from mocking.
Jacaerys, however, merely straightens, surprise flashing across his face before his gaze settles properly upon you. You watch the recognition dawn slowly in his dark eyes, followed by something else entirely as they slide over you—the loose fall of your hair, down to the cut of your gown, lingering for half a heartbeat before returning to your face, flustered, as though catching himself doing something he ought not.
You smile.
It would seem, you think with a thrill of satisfaction, that you are not the only one pleasantly surprised by what the years have done.
It is rather inconvenient, you think mildly as you finish making your way across the yard. You have always been drawn to your nephews, but it was easy to ignore when you spent years hearing your mother speak poorly of them. Rhaenyra's plain-featured boys with their dirt-brown hair and equally brown eyes—all unmistakable evidence of their bastardy written on their faces. They were cute enough as children, but as cute as you imagine any stablemaster's son would look, not how a prince should look. You had expected them to remain unfortunate-looking things, if you are being entirely truthful—common beside the silver-haired beauty of true Targaryens.
Yet there is nothing unfortunate about either of them now.
Lucerys still has the softness of youth about him, rounder in the face than his elder brother, with wide brown eyes that make him appear younger than he likely wishes. He is sweet-looking, you decide, though the thought does little to hold your attention when Jacaerys stands beside him.
Jacaerys is something else entirely
Perhaps it is because he looks so unlike the men you have grown accustomed to that you are so… compelled. There is no silver in his hair, no violet in his eyes, none of the Valyrian beauty you have been taught since childhood to admire above all else. He is dark where Aegon is pale, warm where Aemond is sharp, and somehow the very features that ought to make him look painfully ordinary have arranged themselves into something you find inexplicably captivating.
"Aunt," Jacaerys murmurs, voice smooth in a way you do not expect. He adds politely, "It is good to see you again." Though you do not think he means it from the way the corners of his lips tighten.
Your lips curve into a faint smile. "And you."
You extend both hands toward them, palms turned down expectantly.
Lucerys looks briefly startled by the gesture, but recovers quickly enough. He takes one of your hands politely, bowing his head to brush his lips against your knuckles.
Jacaerys takes the other hand in his, and you cannot help but notice the difference. His hands have outgrown the boy you remember, fingers long and lithe, callused across the palm and pads from years spent with sword and reins alike. They are warm around yours, and his grip is gentle.
He bends dutifully to kiss your knuckles, dark curls slipping forward over his bow.
You watch him for a heartbeat, admiring him openly. Then, before his lips can leave your hand, you turn your wrist within his grasp. His brows knit in confusion as your fingers slide beneath his chin.
Jacaerys stills as you tilt his face upward, brown eyes meeting yours from beneath the fall of his curls, surprise plain in his expression, and you take shameless advantage of his momentary confusion to study him more closely.
Yes, you think. Definitely handsome.
"My," you murmur, tilting his chin slightly to one side, examining him with such open interest that the tips of his ears begin turning red. He tenses, and you wonder if he expects the familiar barb—a cutting remark about his brown eyes, his brown hair, or the father everyone whispers he bears no resemblance to. Instead, you smile, thumb brushing lightly along the line of his jaw. "You have grown to be quite handsome, haven't you, Jacaerys?"
Jacaerys's lips part slightly, and it is an effort for you not to slide your thumb up to rest against the fullness of his lower lip.
"Have I?" he manages, his cheeks flushed a light pink, confusion shifting into suspicion. His gaze flickers across your face, as though searching for mockery, but when he finds none, he looks even more flustered.
"Very."
For a long moment, Jacaerys only stares at you, still half bent over your hand, chin still resting between your fingers.
You can almost see the confusion turning over in his mind—you know your half-sister and her brood have returned to King's Landing for the Driftmark petition that you and Aegon have been laughing endlessly about. He must have braced himself for ridicule, and you suppose you cannot blame him, you had planned for ridicule until you saw just how handsome he had become over the years.
Unfortunately, your biggest weakness has always been a pretty face—it is why Aegon has charmed his way into your bed so many times over, despite his despicable personality—and it seems your nephew appears to have grown into one pretty enough to make you forget entirely that you are meant to dislike him.
"You are kind," he finally says.
"Observant, perhaps," you murmur, fingers finally slipping from beneath his chin, though you linger just long enough to smooth an errant curl away from his forehead before letting your hand fall to your side again.
Lucerys watches the exchange, bewildered, gaze darting from your face to his brother's and back again.
"… Jace?" he ventures.
Jacaerys seems to remember himself all at once, clearing his throat and taking a step backward, though the color stubbornly remains high in his cheeks
"It has been many years, aunt," he properly greets at last. "You have—"
He falters, and you raise your eyebrows expectantly. You prod, "I have what?"
Jacaerys's throat bobs.
"You have changed as well," he finishes diplomatically.
You stare at him, displeased. "Changed?" you echo scornfully. "That is all you have to say?"
"I—"
"You disappear to Dragonstone for eight years and return to find your beloved aunt transformed into a great beauty, and all you have to say is that I have changed? I believe I was far more generous to you."
"You were," Jacaerys concedes, lips curved up into a small smile.
"Then?"
His gaze returns to you. This time, when his eyes move over your face, there is nothing accidental or subtle about it. They linger upon you with a newfound boldness that sends a pleasant little thrill through, and you wonder whether he has decided that if you are permitted to admire him so openly, he ought to be afforded the same privilege.
Ah, you think, thoroughly intrigued. You had always liked playing with Jacaerys when the two of you were young—you think you are ready for some new games with your nephew.
"You have grown very beautiful, aunt," he finally murmurs, gaze lingering on your lips for just long enough that you notice before it lifts back to your eyes. "I hardly recognized you."
"Much better," you say, before your gaze drifts over to Lucerys.
He gives you a tentative smile. "It is good to see you again, aunt."
Your lips curve up into a smile, lips parting to reply, but before you can, an agitating, grating voice comes from behind you.
"You seem very comfortable," Aemond's cool voice observes.
Your eyes roll up in irritation as you toss your hair over your shoulder to look at Aemond from the corner of your eye.
He stands several paces away, sword still held loosely in one hand, silver hair disheveled from exertion, and face decidedly unimpressed. His gaze moves from you to Jacaerys, lingering upon the latter for a long, unpleasant moment. Both of the boys stiffen at the arrival of your brother.
"Quite, until you arrived," you drawl, huffing a breath through your nose. "Your talent in souring a perfectly pleasant moment remains unmatched, brother."
Aemond's jaw tightens. Jacaerys glances between the two of you, clearly uncertain whether he ought to speak up, while Lucerys's eyes slide shut as though he would prefer to be anywhere else.
"I had not realized you were so eager to welcome our nephews home," Aemond notes disdainfully.
"Neither had I." You glance back at Jacaerys, gaze traveling over him once before meeting his eyes. "But I find myself suddenly quite eager to become reacquainted."
Jace's cheeks flush instantly, lips parting in confusion as he looks at you, and Aemond notices, mouth pressing into a thin line. You can practically feel whatever unpleasant remark is forming on his tongue before the sudden sound of the doors to the yard opening draws the attention of you all.
Your gaze lifts as a small party of Velaryon men passes beneath the archway, dressed in sea-green and silver, the sigil of House Velaryon flying above them. At their head walks Vaemond Velaryon himself, a scornful expression crossing his face when his gaze lands on Jacaerys and Lucerys.
All of the warmth disappears from Jacaerys's face.
Ah, you think woefully, you almost forgot
You glance at Lucerys. Whatever tentative ease had begun to settle over him has vanished entirely, jaw set and anxiety plain in his eyes when Vaemond's lip curls up in disdain as he passes by.
"Well," Aegon says from behind you, shattering the silence. "How delightfully ominous."
You turn as he approaches, still carrying both goblets. He hands yours back so that he can drape his newly freed arm across your shoulders and draw you into his side, grinning wildly.
"I believe we have endured enough familial affection for one afternoon," he declares. "Come, sweet sister. Let's go find more wine."
You hum, glancing down at your goblet, frowning when you see there's significantly less than there had been when you had passed it off to your brother. He gives you a boyish grin and a wink, and you roll your eyes.
"Yes, let us," you agree with a sigh. "It appears my cup has garnered a hole in it since I passed it to you, Aegon." Your gaze flicks over to Aemond. "Come with us. You have sparred enough today."
Aegon rolls his eyes, barely withholding a groan, and Aemond looks at you, frowning, because it is not often you invite him anywhere with you, much less with him and Aegon. Truthfully, you are just hoping to avoid a scene between him and your nephews, lest he ruin any game you might choose to play before its even begun. He blinks once before he nods.
Pleased, you turn your back to leave, but then Aemond speaks again.
"I suppose we shall all discover soon enough whether Ser Vaemond's journey was worthwhile, nephews."
Your eyes slide shut. You look at Aegon from the corner of your eye, and he immediately forces the amusement off his face, clearly recognizing the warning in your expression.
"Though I confess," Aemond continues. "I find it curious that a matter of succession should require such extensive debate. One would think blood would make the rightful heir obvious."
It is a familiar jab. One you have heard countless times over the last decade. On any other day, you might have smirked, offered some clever remark of your own, delighted in watching your half-sister's sons squirm. Today, you feel no such compulsion—not now, Aemond, you think bitterly
Instead, your gaze drifts to Jacaerys, how he shields his younger brother by shifting to angle himself partly in front of him.
"It does," he says, voice clipped
Aemond's mouth curves. He asks softly, "Does it?"
Aegon lets out an overly dramatic sigh as he reaches for Aemond, grabbing the taller prince's doublet and yanking him hard so that he comes stumbling along with the two of you.
"Come, come," Aegon says, ignoring the flinty look Aemond shoots him to drop his arm back around your shoulders, steering you toward the castle. "Before our dear brother remembers another insult he has been rehearsing for the past eight years. We have more pressing concerns."
Aemond scoffs, irritated both by the insult and how Aegon had handled him. "Such as?"
"My empty cup," Aegon says with a sharp grin.
"And mine," you sing, lifting to dangle it in front of his face. Before you can stop yourself, you look back over your shoulder at Jacaerys. He is already looking at you. You call, "Do try not to become any less handsome before I next see you, nephew."
His mouth twitches. "I'll endeavor not to disappoint you, aunt."
This will be fun, you think. Let the games begin.
—————————
Jace hated you when you were both young.
Hates you.
Hated you?
He isn't sure.
His relationship with all of his mother's half-siblings was—well, complicated. He's not sure he really cared for any of you, in truth, but some of you were decidedly easier to tolerate than others.
Aegon had probably been his favorite of the four of you back then—five of you, he supposes, because that other brother of yours is back in Oldtown, but he hardly counts. Aegon had seemed endlessly exciting to Jace, who was five years younger and endlessly bored, wanting friends in a court that seemed to dislike him before he was even old enough to speak.
Jace had followed him around for years, and Aegon had been irritated by it for perhaps three days before he realized how easily his younger nephew could be led into trouble. He had never been malicious enough to place Jace in genuine danger, but he had found his fun in convincing him to sneak into the Dragonpit, prank Aemond, and hide from maesters until half the Keep was searching for him. Every time they were caught, Aegon somehow escaped the blame, and Jace never did.
His relationship with Aemond was the simplest—he did not like him. Even before Vhagar and the lost eye, there had always been a severity to the older prince that made Jace uneasy. He disliked losing, disliked foolishness, disliked noise, and, Jace had eventually concluded, disliked him, so Jace disliked Aemond in turn.
You and Helaena were different—because you were girls, maybe, and harder for him to connect with when he was just a boy. But also because he never quite knew what to make of either of you.
Helaena, at least, was easy enough to categorize. She was simply… strange. Sweet, certainly, and far more gentle than the rest of you, but she spoke in riddles that frightened him when he was younger, and he'd never enjoyed being near the insects she kept around her. He tended to give her a wide berth when he could, though looking back on it, Jace supposes she was really the only good one of the four of you.
You, on the other hand, defied categorization altogether. He has never quite met someone as unpredictable as you are, and it has infuriated him his entire life.
You were the crown jewel of King's Landing when you were all young, even now, he supposes—beautiful and charming, the perfect princess, the court would sing, eyes following you as you laugh brightly at whatever poor joke a suitor made in hopes of wooing you. Everyone adored you, and Jace did too, to an extent. He has never felt so high as he did when your full attention was on him, his little heart fluttering in his chest whenever you were near.
But what the court did not know was that you were vicious and cruel as soon as the attention drifted from you.
Jace cannot count the number of times you had pranced around him with veiled insults toward his parentage. Mocking him with Aegon, or Aemond, or even just by yourself. You would go on and on until Jace's face burned hot with humiliation and his hand twitched at his side, fisted and trembling with restraint.
It was an ugly, violent feeling, one that only you seemed capable of drawing from him, and by the time you inevitably grew bored of him and skipped off to find one of your brothers, all that remained was shame. His mother had taught him that a prince did not raise his hand against a woman, no matter how furious she made him, yet there were moments when he wanted nothing more than to make you regret provoking him.
Those days, he hated you so terribly that it made him sick. Made him want to cry. Made him want to make you sorry. He would grind his teeth as the ladies of the court tittered at your stupid jokes, roll his eyes when men twice your age would bring you gifts to curry favor—if they knew how terrible you were, he would think, they would not like you at all.
Except maybe they would, because Jace knew just how cruel you really were when the mask dropped, and yet every time your attention turned toward him pleasantly, he would forget it in hopes of things being different this time.
You would appear beside him in the library after spending a day tormenting him, ask what he was reading, and spend hours listening with such genuine interest that he would forget entirely what you had done hours before. You asked thoughtful questions. You remembered the names of the heroes he liked best and recommended him books that included them. When he mentioned starting a new story, you would read it too, and you would argue with him over endings as though his opinions genuinely mattered to you.
Eventually, of course, you would flash him that infuriating grin and remark that perhaps brown-haired almost-princes were not entirely hopeless after all. The jest itself was harmless—tame compared to what you usually say—but it always landed harder than the crueler remarks, because by then, he had already begun to convince himself that you genuinely liked him, saw him beyond the hair and whispers.
You had an uncanny talent for making him lower his guard before reminding him exactly who you were. The only consistent thing about you was that you somehow managed to make him feel foolish every time you crossed paths.
That, at least, has not changed in the years of separation, even if everything else has.
His jaw tightens as he makes his way up the final flight of stairs to the top of the eastern tower. His skin still burns at his jaw where your fingers had held him still, tilting his face toward the light as though you had every right to touch him—perhaps you thought you did.
The idea of it infuriates him, vexes him like none other, because you have always believed the world belonged to you—the perfect princess, he thinks again scornfully, beautiful and charming, ladies flocked around you for your favor, men fought for your hand before you were even of age. He loathes the idea that, for one bewildering moment, he had acted as though he belonged to you, too.
He should have stepped away or laughed in your face. He should have reminded you that he is no longer the gullible little boy who fell for your pretty smiles and soft words when he knew all you wanted was the satisfaction of knowing how easily you could ensnare him.
Instead, he had stood there while you turned his face this way and that, studying him with shameless curiosity, and when you called him handsome, all he had managed to do was stare at you like a fool.
He had even blushed.
He grimaces at the memory as he reaches the top of the stairs.
It should not have affected him so much, truly.
You had called him handsome, that was all. Baela has called him handsome in passing. A servant girl whispered it while he was passing through the halls at Dragonstone when she thought he wasn't listening. His mother tells him all the time. Jace knows he is handsome—it is hardly a declaration of love, nor even an especially intimate compliment. He is not sure why, when the words left your lips, he felt so thrown off-kilter.
Perhaps it was because the way you said it made it seem more intimate, he thinks, mind drawing back to that moment for the hundredth time just in the last hour—your voice was soft and your gaze drifted over him with an intimacy that left him feeling strangely exposed, as though if given the chance and privacy, you would unlace his clothes to assess him properly, fingers running along his skin like they belonged there.
Or perhaps it was because it almost sounded sincere. Mockery from you, he understands—you have mocked him since the two of you were children, and he had learned long ago to expect it from you. Sincerity is something he's not sure what to do with, floundering just at the prospect of it. Because what does that mean?
Even now, hours later, he cannot decide which possibility he dislikes more—that you had been toying with him all along, or that you had actually meant it.
He despises the idea of the former, because then you have once again succeeded in making him dance to whatever tune amused you most, and somehow, after eight years apart, you still know exactly how to make him feel like the most gullible little boy in the Red Keep.
Yet, for some reason, it is the latter that makes his stomach twist.
There is a lump in his throat and heat runs through him as he pushes open the door to the small room at the top of the tower, intent on taking in the old, familiar view of the city since sleep continues to evade him.
Because if you had meant it—
"Jacaerys, isn't it past your bedtime?"
Jace stills instantly, breath hitching and gaze lifting from the floor to where your mocking voice had come from.
You are sitting on the narrow windowsill, one leg hanging over empty air, head lolled back against cool stone. Moonlight spills through the narrow opening behind you, turning the dark green silk of your gown almost black wherever the light does not touch. Your eyes settle on him beneath half-lowered lashes, drifting over him carefully before returning to his face—not hurried enough to be mistaken for surprise, nor bold enough to be entirely indecent like earlier today.
His throat bobs as he stares at you, and your gaze sharpens, eyes tracking the movement the way a cat watches the flutter of a bird's wings.
The corner of your mouth curves.
Jace feels distinctly like prey.
He should turn back.
"Were you looking for me?" you ask with a teasing smile, head tilting slightly to the side. There is a brightness to your eyes and a sweetness to your smile that makes you unbearably pretty, and Jace suddenly cannot breathe under the weight of your full attention. "Hm?"
"No."
The word comes out too harsh and too fast, but you do not look bothered by it, humming lightly as your gaze slips over him again.
You say simply, "Pity."
Then you look away as though he isn't even there, and Jace can breathe again, inhaling deeply through his nose to fill his burning lungs.
What the hell was that? How had you managed to steal the breath from him with just a look?
You rest your head against the stone and peer out over the darkened city below. King's Landing stretches in every direction, Blackwater Bay shimmering beyond the walls.
For several long moments, you say nothing at all, and Jace frowns, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, waiting for you to turn your attention back to him, but you do not. He expects another teasing remark or a question that would make him want to bite his own tongue off, or even for you to start mocking him as you used to, but instead, you seem entirely absorbed by the horizon.
Irritation blooms in his chest. He hates that he can never anticipate you. Hates that he is always rendered dazed and confused every time you cross paths. How has he let you have so much power over him? Even now, after all this time?
"What are you looking at?" he asks at last, hating how obvious it is that he's seeking your attention, and pressing his lips together when you neither turn your head to look at him nor immediately speak.
He hates you, he thinks so viciously that he's almost embarrassed by the violence that thrums in his chest. He hates even more that the longer you do not respond, the more antsy he is for you to address him again, mortified as his lips part to ask you again.
"Māzigon kesīr, mandianna," you finally murmur.
Come here, nephew.
The breath leaves his lungs again.
Jace has heard High Valyrian his entire life. He has spent the better part of eight years studying it until it rolled easily off his own tongue, until he could read ancient histories and speak to his mother without ever slipping into the Common Tongue, and yet, somehow, he has never heard it sound quite like this. His mouth is dry as he stares at you for a moment—mandianna, mandianna, mandianna—the pretty, syrupy word ringing through his head on repeat.
By the time he realizes he has moved, he has already crossed the room.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye, satisfaction flickering across your face, gone almost as quickly as it appears. His jaw tightens because, of course, he obeys without putting up a fight, just like he did earlier, just like he's done his entire life, only for you to laugh in his face without fail every time.
Jace swallows again, frustrated now, but falters when you track the movement once more. This time, your gaze does not immediately flit away, fixated upon his throat as though you have forgotten yourself.
It almost appears to be an effort for you to lift your gaze back to his face.
Oh?
A thrill runs hot in his chest. What does that mean? Were you being genuine earlier when you called him handsome? Could you actually be att—
"Closer," you tell him quietly.
Jace frowns, then takes another tentative step toward the narrow window you're seated on, close enough that the tops of his thighs brush the fabric of your dress.
"Closer."
He looks at you, bewildered, before he finally understands what you mean—you are seated, and he is standing, even this close, he stands over you. He presses his lips together, bracing himself, before bending at the waist until his head is level with yours. His lashes flutter when he takes a breath, the faint scent of rose oil clinging to your hair, dizzying.
He is close enough that were he to turn his head, his lips would brush your temple. That he can feel the warmth of your body against his, can see the tip of your tongue dart out to wet your lower lip. His gaze drops lower, to the slope of your neck—lower still, and Jace suddenly feels flushed, gaze snapping back up to your face.
You are already looking at him, lips curved up, eyes glittering.
Jace has to stop himself from shutting his eyes in mortification, certain his face must be beet-red.
You lift your hand to his chin, and his breath hitches when he feels your fingers trace along the front of his throat, right over where you'd watched it bob as he swallowed, until your middle and ring fingers settle beneath his chin, tilting his face up just enough so that his gaze is forced to the sky.
You turn your face toward his, lips brushing his ear, breath hot and pleasant against his skin as you murmur, "Watch."
Jace does not know what he's looking at. His skin is on fire, tingling beneath your touch, breath unsteady, the longer your lips remain at the lobe of his ear. He cannot think, he cannot even breathe straight with you so close, so warm, so—
A trill rings through the air, drawing his gaze upwards, and Jace's lips part as a black blur sweeps through the sky above before swooping down low, circling around the tower the two of you are in, coming so close that the rush of air messes his hair.
"That is—"
"Starchaser," you say with a fond smile, face no longer tilted toward him as you look out at your dragon. Jace glances at you, momentarily struck by the adoration plain on your face—it makes you look softer, younger. He has only ever seen mockery and scrutiny; this is… "She enjoys taking night flights. I come up here to watch her. Sometimes she drags Sunfyre along with her, but—"
You falter when another, sharper trill cuts through the air, brows furrowing slightly, leaning forward to try to figure out which dragon had joined yours for a flight, and Jace suddenly cannot breathe again because Jace would recognize that noise from anywhere. His chest is tight, lips parted; that is—
That is Vermax.
His lips part as he watches Vermax swoop down after Starchaser, playful and impossibly swift.
Starchaser lets out another happy trill before veering sharply away, silver-edged wings catching the moonlight as she twists through the air. Vermax follows without hesitation.
They sweep over the rooftops of King's Landing in great looping arcs, one forever just out of the other's reach. Starchaser dives. Vermax dives after her. She climbs, rolling gracefully onto one wing, and he answers by matching her ascent, their paths weaving together so closely Jace is certain they'll collide, but they never do. Instead, they separate at the last instant, only to circle back toward one another again.
Beside him, you have fallen silent.
He risks a glance.
Your lips are parted slightly, eyes wide and openly wondrous as you watch the two dragons chase one another through the night sky.
You are beautiful.
The thought comes so suddenly that it catches him off guard, heart in his throat. He knows you are beautiful—all of King's Landing, Westeros, even, knows you are beautiful. Bards have sung of your beauty, and poets lyric tales of it; as much as he has loathed you for your cruelty, he has never been able to deny your beauty without feeling foolish.
But this is… different.
This is not the knife-like smiles he is used to—it is not the poisonous words or the careful calculation, it is not even the facade you put up before the court, the pretty flutter of your lashes to whoever you deign to give your attention and the honeyed compliments that he knows damn well are fake. You look—you look unguarded, as though, for a few precious moments, you have forgotten there is anyone beside you to perform for.
He wonders, distantly, whether this is the truest version of you he has ever seen.
Then, if anyone else has ever seen it.
"I have never seen her fly like this," you finally admit, voice soft. He cannot tell if you're talking to him or not, and he almost doesn't want to risk ruining the moment. Luckily, you do that yourself, because you seem to catch yourself, tone sharpening into something ar more familiar: "And to think it is with your dragon of all of them, how quaint."
Jace's gaze cuts to the side, jaw tightening. "And what does that mean, exactly?" he asks, voice low.
The wonder has disappeared from your face, replaced with a calculating look in your eyes and a curve of your lips that sets him on edge.
"Oh, nothing," you say easily. "I just thought Starchaser would have developed more, ah, discerning taste."
Jace's heart sinks, even though he knows he should have expected this. He lets out a low scoff and steps away from the window, away from you, trying to mask the wounded expression that he knows crosses his face before you can see it. He does not know how he always lets you get away with this—does not know how he always manages to fall for the honeyed words and syrupy smiles he mocks others for being fooled by when he knows better than anyone that you only plan to lure him in to twist the dagger.
"Of course," he says bitterly, shaking his head. He hates that despite everything, he had thought of your words earlier in the day and wondered maybe if things might be different now that you were both older, that maybe you weren't playing another game with him, that maybe you might want him, the same way he has always—he does not dare finish the thought. "I do not know what I expected. I should return to my chambers. Have a good night, aunt."
His voice is strained to hide the hurt and rage that threaten to creep into it in kind—he is not sure if he is angrier at you or himself. He has always been prone to being hard on himself, eager to blame himself before anyone around him, but you have always been the one person who could successfully get under his skin enough for him to want to direct that anger at you. He hears you shift on the windowsill, feet dropping lightly on the stone floor.
"I upset you," you note.
Jace's eye twitches—is it not enough to get the dig in? You must bring attention to the fact that he's wounded by it, too? You have always been cruel, he has known better than most, but still…
"Of course, you upset me," he hisses before he can think. "I thought—"
He thought what? He thought that you meant it when you called him handsome? That the way your fingers lingered beneath his chin had been something more than another elaborate jest? That the softness in your voice, the look in your eyes, had been meant, at least partially, for him? That this was more than just another twisted way for you to lure him in to sink the knife in his back as soon as he allows himself to hope?
Gods. He had actually believed you might like him—again. Heat floods his face, equal parts humiliation and anger. He has not felt so spectacularly foolish in almost a decade.
He should not be surprised, he thinks, not for the first time this night. You have always been fond of toying with him in these ways. Perhaps Aegon is somewhere nearby even now, slumped against a doorway with a wineskin in hand, waiting for Jace to leave so the two of you could laugh at the gullible nephew who had mistaken your amusement for affection. It would hardly be the first time the pair of you had made sport of him.
He lets out a humorless laugh.
"I ought to know better," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "You always do this." His eyes lift to yours. "I am only disappointed I let myself believe, for even a moment, that you might have grown tired of it."
You tilt your head to the side, eyes glittering with amusement in a way that makes his fist curl at his side, shaking, like it did when he was young, and you would push and push and push until everything threatened to break.
"You misunderstand. I only mean to say, nephew, that it should not be so surprising," you say, hands locked behind your back as you approach him with a teasing smile and an unreadable look in your eyes. Jace thinks he should step back, but cannot bring himself to do so. He hates that you are as beautiful as everyone praises, and he hates that he cannot drag his eyes away. "Dragons do tend to take after their riders, after all."
All of the air whooshes from Jace's lungs as he stares at you, words registering much too slowly.
His mouth opens, then closes again. He stares at you dumbly, tongue-tied for the second, third, fourth time—he doesn't even know anymore. He hates the effect you have on him, and he hates that even now his chest blooms traitorously with the hope you'd just crushed moments before.
You lean in so close that your lips ghost his ear, and his nearly brushes along your jaw. He does not dare to breathe in fear that you'll hear how unsteady it is.
"She has clearly inherited my taste," you murmur. "I should think that if our dragons are inclined to pursue one another all evening, it would be rather rude for their riders not to become better acquainted, don't you?"
What?
"I do not understand you," he says through his teeth, breath ragged as he inhales, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. He feels your hand ghost along his torso, as though testing to see if he'll withdraw from your touch. "You are so—"
"Cruel?" you offer, though you sound distracted.
When he does not pull away, your hand settles atop him, fingers pressing lightly into his body. He is grateful that your face is tilted up toward his so that you cannot see how tight his pants are.
"Impossible," he corrects, though cruel fits too, his voice strained and body wound tight. "I do not—"
Jace falters, lips parting when he feels you brush your mouth against his jaw, and every single coherent thought leaves his head. He forgets where he is, what he's doing, skin prickling, hot and burning where your mouth had just touched.
His gaze cuts to the side, and instead of the smug expression he's used to, he sees a tentative one, gaze sharp still as you search his face, but uncertain in a way he isn't sure he's ever seen you before. It vanishes so quickly that he almost convinces himself he imagined it.
"Ah," you murmur, recovering your usual composure with infuriating ease, smile teasing again. "You make this entirely too easy."
Jace's jaw tightens. "Do not."
"Do not what?"
"If this is a game, then find someone else to play it with. I will not let you make a fool of me again."
You study him for a long moment before the familiar smile returns.
“How disappointing,” you sigh. “And here I had thought you were finally beginning to let loose.” You incline your head, all false courtesy. “Forgive me, then, Lord Strong. I will leave you be”
The words strike like a slap. He inhales so sharply, drawing back, that he does not notice the wince that crosses your face as soon as the words leave your mouth. He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he turns away from you, planting both hands on the cold stone ledge of the window.
"I do not know why I keep expecting you to stop reaching for the cruelest thing you can say."
He stares out across King's Landing, refusing to look back, refusing to let you see the way his chest aches at how effortlessly you can dismantle him. His cheeks burn with humiliation at the number of times you have managed to make a fool of him in the span of a single evening.
Worse still, he has no one to blame but himself. He had seen the softness in your smile, the wonder on your face as you watched the dragons, the uncertainty after your lips had brushed his jaw, and, like the hopeless fool he has always been where you are concerned, he had mistaken each of them for sincerity. He is furious with you for wielding his hope against him—and even more furious with himself for handing it to you so willingly.
He hears you move in his direction—soft footsteps cross the stone floor, each one quieter than the last, until he feels your presence at his back.
He closes his eyes, jaw clenching. "Have you not had enough?"
The only answer is a soft hum. Jace's breath catches when he feels your arms snake around his waist from behind. Your palm flattens against his abdomen, and your lips press to his ear.
"Jacaerys," you say softly, and Jace shivers at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue so naturally—he is sure you can feel it. "Forgive me. I'm sorry. I cannot help myself, it seems."
His throat spasms, lashes fluttering as your hand creeps down his abdomen, lower, lower, until the tips of your fingers dip beneath the waist of his pants. You hold them there steady, ghosting your lips to the shell of his ear before you kiss beneath it once.
Did you just—did you apologize? You're touching him—your arms are around his waist, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his pants, your lips are pressed to his ear, and Jace cannot think, his heart is beating frantically in his chest and his ears are rinning. He blinks wildly, lips parting, what is happening? Why—
"I should not have said that," you continue quietly, and you kiss him again, lower on his neck, lingering. Jace is hardly breathing, dizzy from your mouth, your breath, your fingers pressing lightly into his pelvis. Fuck, he thinks, breathless. "It was unkind."
"Everything you do is unkind," he forces himself to reply, voice far raspier than he would have liked. "You make me feel like a fool."
"I know," you agree, and you sound regretful—but is this a trick too? Another performance to get him to lower his guard? Jace doesn't know; he can't fucking think straight when you're touching him like this. He thinks it must be intentional. "It is easier for me to be cruel than to be honest. I do not like being hurt."
Honest? he thinks distracted by your hand on his body and your lips at his neck. He should press—honest about what? What are you worried will hurt you?
Instead, he breathes helplessly:
"I have never wanted to hurt you. Never—" The admission is mortifying to speak out loud, but the words spill out before he can think better of it. "—and yet, you have always—I have only ever wanted—"
You.
He has only ever wanted you; defying all sense and logic, everything that screams at him to keep away from you or make you sorry for being cruel. It all boils down to the frustrating reminder that no matter how much time passes, he will always be the stupid little boy who wants your attention. Years can pass of him convincing himself that he hated you, hates you, but a single moment in your presence will remind him that it was never hate at all—only the bitterness of wanting someone who never seemed to want him back. Hatred would have been easier—safer—because hatred would not unravel the moment you brushed your fingers against him.
"Oh, mandianna, iksā tolmiot tolī dōna," you breathe, and Jace's pulse jumps when your fingers work at the laces of his pants, breath hitching when you mouth gently at his pulse. "Skorkydoso kessa nyke mirre jiōragon ao naejot shijetra nyke?"
Oh, nephew, you are too sweet. How will I ever convince you to forgive me?
Jace's eyes slide shut, lips parting over a silent moan when your free hand drops to his waist, gently turning him around so that his back is to the narrow window you'd been sitting on and the two of you are face to face. Your hand slides up his chest as you look up at him through your lashes, and Jace can hardly breathe when his gaze meets yours—the soft smile on your lips, how your pupils are blown wide, you can't be faking that, can you? This must be real, but—
—but what does that mean? What does this mean?
"You've always been my favorite, you know?" you tell him, leaning so that your lips ghost his teasingly.
Jace almost finds himself chasing when you pull back before your mouth touches his, the near-taste of you drawing him in like a moth to flame—he smells the sweet arbor red you've been sipping at, and his mouth waters at the thought of tasting it off your tongue.
Desperately, he tries to regain some control over himself before he makes a bigger fool of himself than he already has.
His heart pounds as he leans in before he can think better of it, nose bumping yours lightly, close enough that he can feel your breath on his lips.His mouth curls up into a smile he hopes is mocking as he breathes, "And you've always been a pretty liar, aunt."
A thrill runs through his chest when you lean in to close the distance, lips not quite touching because Jace pulls back to deny you. You're thrown off by the sudden distance, blinking once, then twice, before you look up at him with a bemused expression. He wonders if this is the first time anyone has denied you anything—wonders how many other men you've lured in with those pretty words and prettier smiles.
The thought settles poorly in his stomach for some reason.
You compose yourself quickly, tilting your head to the side carefully as you look over him. He barely catches his breath from hitching when he realizes that you've finished unlacing his trousers, one hand lingering at his pelvis as you lean in to ghost your lips against his jaw, trailing your mouth up the sharp line to his ear.
"It's the truth," you insist, free hand slipping beneath his tunic so that you can slide your hand up his slim torso. "You don't believe me?
No, he wants to say, but his lips part over a silent moan, abdomen tightening when he feels your nails scratching lightly against his skin, palm warm and electrifying as you map out his body with your fingers, tracing each and every line with reverence. His lashes flutter when you rest your forehead at his temple, and he can feel how unsteady your breath is against his jaw.
"Do you know why I was always so cruel to you?" you ask him softly.
He lets out a short laugh, fingers tight around the edge of the windowsill as he stops himself from reaching for you. It is a terrible enough effort to focus when he can feel your chest flush to his, one hand exploring his body while the other settles far, far too close to his aching cock—he does not need to deal with his own wandering touch on top of it.
This is a mess, he thinks, but does not push you away. He came here to be alone, to think on what had happened today, to get his mind on straight before the petition tomorrow, and now you have reduced every coherent thought of his to the dizzying warmth of your hands and breath—is that why you are here? To distract him?
No, you had already been here when he arrived. You couldn't have sought him out.
Fuck, Jace can't even think straight anymore.
His voice is hoarse as he forces out, "I imagine you're about to tell me."
Your fingers trace lazily over the lines of his abdomen. You tilt your face up slightly so that your lips are almost pressed to his jaw again, nose bumping his cheek. You say simply, "I liked looking at you."
He stills, words drawing him from his haze. "We both know that's not true," he scoffs. "You were the biggest offender when it came to insulting my—"
His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring as he takes a breath to calm himself.
"It is," you say simply. "I needed a reason that wouldn't draw suspicion from my mother or brothers, so I made certain everyone believed I couldn't stand the sight of you. It was easier to mock you than explain why I kept watching you."
You're lying. You must be.
Jace's breath is unsteady as your words register, mind racing, hardly able to keep up. You have him distracted with every sweep of your fingers against his tense muscles, every time your lips press lightly to his skin as you speak—he can hardly focus on what you're actually saying, but he knows that is a lie.
"And then I realized, I liked looking at you more when I could finally make you forget yourself. When you were angry." Your thumb brushes against his ribs. Jace's heart hammers. "When you tried so desperately not to cry." Your lips curve faintly. He can feel the smile against his jaw. He hates that it makes him shiver. "Especially when you failed."
What?
"Your cheeks would flush. Your eyes would shine. You would bite the inside of your cheek because you were too proud to let anyone see. You were the prettiest boy I had ever seen," you breathe out, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your fingertips ghost over his chest before your palm settles there firmly. Jace wonders if you can feel how hard his heart is pounding in his chest. "I wonder, you've grown to be so handsome. If you cried for me now, would I still think you were the prettiest thing I'd ever seen?"
The words should strike him like a slap—just like Lord Strong did not too long ago. It sounds less like a confession than a warning, as though you are placing every card on the table before inviting him to lose anyway. It should be enough to wrench him free of you, to remind him that this—whatever this is—began with an admission that you had delighted in making him miserable. That perhaps you still would. He should hear the trap snapping shut around him. He should step back while he still can.
Instead, he finds himself searching your face for the answer to a question he has no business asking.
Would you?
It is humiliating, he thinks. He sees the snare, understands exactly how it is baited, and still cannot bring himself to turn away.
"So that's what this is?" he asks after a moment, voice low. "Another way to make me weep? What insult should I expect that you haven't already spoken a dozen times before?"
"We are older now, nephew," you say with an easy smile. "There are more pleasant ways of making you cry than cruelty."
Your hand slips out from beneath his tunic, both sliding up his body until you're holding the back of his hair, fingers threading through the dark curls at his nape as you lean in so close that your nose bumps his gently. Jace cannot bring himself to move away this time, gaze dropping down to your lips just as your tongue darts out to wet them. His breath is unsteady, and his heart is pounding so hard that he can hardly hear himself breathing over the sound of it.
"Any more clever retorts?" you breathe, and Jace relishes in the fact that you sound just as wrecked as he does just from touching him.
"You've made them all quite difficult to remember," he replies, voice wrecked.
"Good."
In truth, Jace does not know what he is doing.
He is not inexperienced by any means. He has courted women, kissed them, lain with them, but the moment your lips are on his, Jace's brain shuts off. His hands fly to your waist on instinct, head tilting to the side and lips parting before he can remember every sensible reason he ought to stop.
Your lips are soft and sweet, and just as he thought he would, he can taste the remnants of your wine on your tongue as it curls against his—it is intoxicating, you are intoxicating. He is like a fly that has dared too close to the spider's web, a moth drawn too close to flame. This is not something he will be able to stop, will want to stop, now that it has begun.
One hand stays at your hip to pull your body close to his, breath hitching when your thigh presses into aching cock, while the other slides up your body. He savors in the way you arch into his touch, in the soft moan that spills into his mouth, and how, for a moment, you forget you're kissing him entirely—lips parting, lashes fluttering as his hand palms over your breast, lingering for a moment longer there than he should, thumb rolling over your nipple through the fabric of your dress before he continues upward, until his fingers can entwine with your hair, holding the back of your head and your hip to pull you close and kiss you deeper.
It is mad, he thinks, drowning in the sounds of your shared, ragged breath and the wetness of your lips sliding against one another. If someone had told him that his first night back in King's Landing would be spent in the tallest tower of Maegor's Holdfast with you, of all people, he would have laughed in their face.
And yet, here he is—years of mockery and cruelty slipping through his fingers as his grip tightens on your hip and hair.
You pull back enough to catch your breath, forehead pressed to his, eyes sliding shut as you share the same sliver of air. His own breath is shuddering, head a bit light as he tries to get some air into his burning lungs, but he still slides his hand from where it's resting at the back of your head to cradle your face, fingers slipping beneath your chin, thumb resting over your bottom lip as he tilts your face up just enough to force you to look at him.
Your pupils are blown wide, lips slick and swollen from his—he is sure he likely looks no less disheveled, but cannot help the satisfaction that curls low in his gut, because there is no hiding the faint bits of astonishment in your eyes, much as you seem to be trying to mask it away.
"Where…" you start to breathe, blinking once, then a second time as you desperately try to compose yourself, sucking in a quick breath.
Jace's lips curl up into a mocking smile as he leans down so that his nose bumps yours again, tilting the lower half of his face close enough so that he can brush his lips briefly against yours before he murmurs, "You did not think you were the only one who has noticed I've grown handsome over the years, did you?"
Something hot flashes across your face, eyes sharpening and lips pressing together, but it is gone before he can place exactly what it is—jealousy? Possessiveness? The mere prospect makes his pulse jump.
"Careful, nephew," you whisper, lips curving. "For someone so pleased with himself, you are making it rather obvious that you are not as composed as you'd like me to believe."
Jace's eyes slide shut, head hanging forward slightly, lips parting in a silent moan as you put more pressure on his cock with your thigh. His abdomen tenses as he clings to a sliver of dignity in his attempts not to spill his seed in his trousers just from that bit of friction, breath ragged.
You huff out what sounds like a laugh as you brush your lips against his again.
"If you ask me nicely, Jacaerys, I'll help you with it," you purr into his mouth, kissing him again, deeper this time. Jace moans into your mouth as you grind your thigh against his cock, tongue dragging along the roof of his mouth.
You are going to be the death of him.
"Please," he breathes, eyes barely half-lidded as he looks down at you through his lashes, not able to stop himself from chasing your lips this time when you pull just out of reach. "Haven't I already made fool enough of myself? Have some mercy on your favorite nephew, aunt."
You hum into his mouth, considering, and Jace shivers. Your lips finally leave his, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, starting down his neck. Jace expects your hand to slip into his pants, expects to feel the warmth of your fingers around his cock, the softness of your palm as it glides over the length of him. He tilts his head back slightly as your lips trail down his throat, lashes lowered and breath hitching when your teeth graze over the apple of his throat, and then—
—then your lips disappear, and he hears a rustle of fabric.
His gaze cuts down, bemused, and then his whole chest seizes when he sees you on your knees in front of him, green dress pooled on the floor around you as you busy yourself with finishing unlacing his pants.
Oh, he thinks dumbly, lips parted as he stares down at you. His cock twitches, dizzy just from the sight of you—you—on your knees before him like this.
He has fantasized about this, he recalls absently, shamefully, one hand reaching out to caress the side of your face before he can stop himself, the backs of his fingers running along your cheek, over your lips.
Many times over the last few years, when word reached Dragonstone about whatever feast or tourney was hosted in your honor, and he would be tortured by the endless chorus of praise bestowed upon a woman he knew intimately to be merciless beneath the pretty smile, he would find himself in a restless obsession over you for days at a time. His family learned to keep a respectful distance, mistaking his foul temper for stress or exhaustion; they did not know every passing mention of your name set flames beneath his skin that threatened to consume him whole.
He would replay every slight you had ever dealt him on repeat in his head; in his mind, he won arguments that had long since ended. He thought of clever retorts he should have made, humiliations he wished he had returned in equal measure; he imagined finally leaving you speechless instead of standing there dumbly, red-faced and teary-eyed, wounded as you've left him countless times before.
And some nights, when Dragonstone had long fallen silent and sleep would not come, his thoughts would take an even more mortifying turn. His head would fall back against the frame of his bed, eyes sliding shut, and he would wonder—would you run your mouth so much when he had you beneath him? Would you be so quick to insult when it was his hand that would decide whether or not you would find pleasure that night? Would you still find it in you to get a taunt in while you were stretched open, or would you look up at him with those pretty eyes of yours, wide and teary, not a single thought running through that cruel little brain of yours while he had you at his mercy?
It was shameful—he was always filled with a certain type of guilt in the aftermath, jaw tight as he cleaned himself. He did not enjoy thinking of any woman in such a degrading way, even one as vicious as you, but you have always managed to bring out the very worst of him.
Heart racing and barely able to stop his fingers from trembling, he grabs your hand to stop you before you can slide his trousers down his thighs. You look up questioningly, and Jace swallows thickly, taking a moment to steady his breath and voice.
His lips dart out to wet his dry lips. "Are—are you certain?"
You give him a droll look that makes him feel stupid. "I would not be on my knees if I were not, Lord Strong."
Jace's nostrils flare, grip tightening on your wrist slightly as you look up at him with eager, glittering eyes—are you trying to make him lose his temper? Are you—
I liked looking at you more when I could make you forget yourself.
Gods, you are insufferable.
Jace hates that some shameful part of him enjoys it. It is odd, he should think, that he craves someone so determined to draw the worst from him.
Anyone else would be appalled by the viciousness of his tongue and the flashes of resentment he spends every waking hour concealing so that he may be the perfect prince for a court that has already decided it will not accept. He has spent his life learning restraint—swallowing his temper, smiling when slighted, bowing his head when insulted—but you pluck at his temper as though it were the strings of that harp you so enjoy playing, smiling brightest only once he's finally abandoned every pretense of civility.
You make him sharper, crueler, quicker to anger. You draw retorts from him so petty they would embarrass him if they came from anyone else's mouth, and you reduce years of discipline to ash with a single taunting smile. And yet, there is something liberating about it, he thinks, that there is someone who does not flinch when he gives into the uglier sides of himself.
Or, perhaps, he is just trying to justify the way his cock is weeping as you finally slide his trousers down over his thighs, the way his lashes flutter when you press your lips to his hipbone.
"My, you have grown pretty everywhere, haven't you, nephew?" you murmur, both hands coming to rest on his thighs as you lean in, gaze sharp and appreciative as you study the length of him.
Jace notes, absently, that you do not seem discomforted, or even surprised, by the sight of him so near to your face, which leads Jace to the unfortunate conclusion that this is probably not the first time you've been so close to a man's cock, and that only serves to aggravate him for reasons beyond his understanding.
You are betrothed to Aemond, are you not? Have you lain with him already? Aegon? Both?
His fingers slide from where they're resting atop your cheek to beneath your chin, lifting your face just a smidge so that your gaze shifts up to meet his. He nearly loses his train of thought when he sees how your attention lingers on his cock, pupils blown wide when you finally look up at him.
"You are bold, aunt," he notes, still stuck on the fact that you had the nerve to call him Lord Strong again when you are on your knees before him. Your audacity truly knows no bounds. "To insult me, considering the position you are about to be in. Do you not fear being at my mercy?"
Your lips curl up into a pretty, pretty smile that knocks the breath from his lungs. You breathe out, "I long for the day you finally give me a reason to, nephew."
You do not give Jace a chance to make a retort this time, leaning in to press your lips against him. He inhales sharply through his teeth, eyes sliding shut as you press open-mouthed kisses along the length of his cock, tongue teasing at the vein that runs on the underside.
His hand instinctively slides from your chin to the back of your head, while his other tightens around the edge of the windowsill he's leaning on. Desperately, he tries to use the cool night air to ground him, but it proves futile when you reach his tip, tongue flicking along his slit as you lap up the seed already leaking from it.
Breath ragged, he dares to spare a glance down at you, teeth nearly sinking through his bottom lip when he sees how you've devoted your whole attention to his cock, nails stinging at his hip and thigh as you hold him for leverage as you take him fully down your throat.
You have done this before, the thought hits him more severely, fingers tightening in your hair as the warmth of your throat fully envelops him, as his abdomen spasms, thighs tensing beneath your touch. The idea of it—of you on your knees for anyone else, of you allowing one of your cunt brothers to sink his cock into your mouth the way he is now—infuriates him more than he can articulate.
He hisses when he feels you moan around him as soon as he inadvertently tugs at your hair, heat spreading fast and all-consuming through him, cock twitching in your mouth, hips jerking slightly as he forces himself further down your throat. Your throat spasms around him, choking, fingers digging so deep into his skin that he thinks you draw blood, and instantly, his grip loosens on your hair, an apology on his lips.
"Sorry," he gasps, chest heaving, a bit dizzy as he forces himself away from the peak he nearly found himself on. Thighs still trembling as he tries to regain some control of himself. "I did not mean—"
He feels you pat his leg, and his eyes slide back open, focusing on you again. He almost cannot keep his gaze on you, because the sight of you on your knees, lips stretched around his cock, eyes stinging with tears, nearly undoes him entirely. He sucks in another sharp breath, jaw tightening as he wills away the tightness in his stomach, but it proves impossible. His breath hitches over something closer to a whine than anything else, because he does not want to finish, not yet, but—
You pull off his cock before he can make a fool of himself, and somehow that's even worse, because he can hear the way you laugh when you see how he hisses at the loss of your warmth around him, knees nearly buckling.
"Lose your restraint," you tell him. "I can handle it."
Lose his—
For a moment, he isn't sure what you're implying, blinking down dumbly at you, still reeling from how close he'd been to finishing and how easily you'd denied him. When your words finally begin to process, his face flushes a deep red, throat bobbing.
Are you telling him what he thinks you're telling him?
"Come, tell me you haven't imagined it, nephew," you murmur, voice hoarse from having his cock in your throat, but you are still unbearably smug—more than you ought to be, he thinks spitefully. You kiss his hip, his thigh, and then the tip of his cock, flicking your tongue against it lightly, savoring in the way it twitches beneath your lips. "Prove to me that there's some bite to your bark, Lord Strong."
He knows you are trying to provoke a reaction from him.
He knows it.
His jaw clenches, his fingers tighten in your hair, and he knows he is giving you what he wants because your lips part in anticipation, eyes half-lidded and waiting as you look at him through your lashes. And he doesn't want to give you what he wants, he doesn't. He loves the idea of denying you when he knows no one has ever denied you before, wants to see your lip pushed out in a pretty pout, wants to see the confused expression on your face as you tilt your head and look at him, but—
—but his hand slides behind your head again anyway, easing you forward until your lips brush his tip again.
"You will tap twice if you need me to stop," he tells you, waiting for you to acknowledge his words. He sees the thrill that runs through you when you realize he is actually going to go through with it, and he feels it himself, low in his stomach, hot and tight and so, so dizzying. "Hm?"
"Yes, yes," you agree absently, and he is not sure if you are listening to him at all, and he can hardly focus with the way your warm breath is fanning over his aching cock. "Not that you will be able to make me, my lord Strong."
Jace presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, rage and desire flooding him in earnest as his grip tightens just enough on your hair to coax another soft, breathy moan from you. Your gaze flicks up to his, somehow still mocking, somehow still behaving as though you are the one in control, and Jace does not hesitate this time as he guides your mouth to his cock, down his length until your lips are flush to his pelvis and your eyes are watering with tears.
Instinctively, you try to pull back, but his hand is firm at the back of your head, holding you in place. He tilts his head to the side, lips curled up into a lazy smile that he hopes belies the way his entire body feels as though it's on fire at the feeling of your throat wrapped tight around his cock.
"Already, aunt?" he mocks, relishing in the irritation that crosses your eyes. "I would think—hah—"
Jace stumbles over his words, choking on a breathy moan when he feels you purposely work your throat around his cock. His eyes fly open, lips parting—your throat tightens around him, and Jace cannot think, all coherent thought slips from his mind, reduced to the warmth of you, the tightness, you, you, you.
This is you on your knees for him. Your lips stretched around his cock, your nails in his thighs, your eyes tearing up at him. You, you, you. The girl who has always held herself above him, mocked him, teased him, tormented him until he was angry to the point of violence and hurt to tears. Every fantasy of petty revenge slips away because this—this—is all he ever needs, is all he's ever wanted.
He rolls his hips slowly against your face once he regains some slivers of control, watching as your lashes flutter, a soft moan spilling from his lips when he hits the back of your throat and feels your tongue drag along the underside of his cock.
Jace is not one for violence or pain—where other men chased screams and took their pleasure roughly, he has always preferred sighs and caresses—even you, with your insufferable taunts, he's careful not to rock his hips too hard as he begins to set a steady pace, because he has no desire to hurt you.
His hand slides from the back of your head to your neck, cradling your throat in his palm, fingers stroking along your skin as he feels the small bulge when your nose presses to his abdomen again.
Fuck, he thinks, breath hitching as he feels himself moving inside you. He lets out a long, shaky breath as his abdomen tightens, cock twitching so hard in your throat that it makes you choke again.
His lashes flutter shut, head tipping back out the window behind him; the cool night breeze does nothing to quell the heat rushing through him as your nails dig deeper into his thighs as you brace yourself for leverage to retake control, lips sliding up and down the length of his cock in earnest now, each time his tip hits the back of your throat drawing another pitched gasp from him.
His eyes half-roll back when you press your tongue flat against his slit, a louder moan spilling from his lips. His vision is blurred and lidded as he tries to focus on the sky above, the stars, your dragon and his still dancing around each other, but every small thing he tries to grasp onto so that he doesn't spill his seed down your throat slips between his fingers.
"Hah, I—" he stumbles over his words, another groan that pitches into a whine when you swirl your tongue around him. "I'm close, fuck, I—"
He thinks you will pull off him as most have done in the past, but your grip tightens on him, and you take him into your mouth in full one last time, holding yourself there as he lets out a string of incoherent babbles—your name, aunt, please, fuck—each one caught between a breathier moan than the last, hips grinding against your face as though he can press himself impossibly deeper inside you before his vision knocks white and the coil inside him finally snaps.
He chokes on a moan, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he spills his seed down your throat, entire body trembling as you keep him in your mouth, lips sliding up and down his length as you ease him through his high.
He does not know how long he stays there, panting, head tipped back out of the window as he desperately tries to regain some control, but it is only when you finally pull off him that he dares to roll his head to the side to look back at you.
You are sitting back on your heels now, your own breath ragged, lips swollen and wet. You lean forward to rest your head against his hip, breath hot and unsteady against his thigh as you try to catch your breath.
Jace's eyes slide shut again, an indescribable feeling settling over him—regret? shame? or, perhaps, shame but only because he does not regret this at all when he knows he should. His fingers absently card through your hair, trying to catch his own breath, thighs still trembling in the aftermath of his high.
At last, you shift as though to move, pressing your lips to his thigh, his hip, his sternum, his pulse, jaw, and then you ghost your lips against his face, tongue darting out to lap at the tear he hadn't even noticed had slipped from his eye.
"I was right," you breathe, brushing your lips against his. "You are still the prettiest thing I've ever seen."
Shit, Jace thinks, chest heaving as he stares down at you, heart pounding. What did he just let happen?
summary: garrett is your protective older brother who doesn’t know you’re dating dean and walks in on the both of you when you’re together.
warnings: nothing much.
you and dean had been seeing each other for months now- but were still hiding it from everyone, especially garrett. sleeping with your brothers best friend never went over well.
dean had convinced you to come over to the house, swearing on everything he held close that all of the guys had gone out for breakfast somewhere . . . or something like that.
you were holed up in his room, wearing nothing but one his t-shirts that was ripped at the hem and a pair of boyshorts.
“god, you look so good wearing my clothes” dean murmured, playfully pulling you on top of his body which elicited a string of giggles from you.
you rested your hands on his chest as a mischievous smirk took over any humour on your face, “what if i didn’t have any clothes on at all?, huh? what then?”
he threw his head back, a throaty groan leaving his mouth at the mere idea of you being naked in his bed right now.
you gripped the ripped hem of the t-shirt between your fingers and pulled it over your head, revelling in the way his eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store.
“fuck, baby you’re ki-“ dean was cut off as a loud voice filtered underneath the door from the other side.
bang bang bang, “dean, i swear to fucking god if you missed practice because you’re banging one of your puck bunnies-”
your eyes widened as you recognised the voice as your brothers, “you have practice?” you mouthed at him.
you scrambled off the bed, frantically searching for the t-shirt that you had literally only just taken off.
dean shook his head against the pillow, his blonde bed hair shaking with the movement, “no? i never have practice on a thursday”
you were going to kill this idiot.
you took a deep breath before slapping his bare chest, “dean, it’s wednesday today”
his eyes widened in realisation just as yours had before and he started cursing under his breath, throwing your t-shirt back at you.
“i can hear you in there, di laurentis” garrett yelled.
you scrambled off the bed, the t-shirt barely over your head when garretts impatience vanished and he barged into the very unlocked bedroom.
garrett stopped halfway through the doorframe, his hand still wrapped around the doorknob as he came to a screeching halt.
his eyes went back and fourth between you and dean, not believing what he was seeing right now. surely this was just a bad dream, something he was going to wake up from any second now.
dean hadn’t managed to get any of his clothes on, the thin blanket on his bed working overtime to conceal his big frame.
how was this happening right now?
“heeey there, we were just uh- um- dean was just-“ you stuttered, not knowing what to do or say.
garrett put his hand up in disgust, “jesus christ y/n, i don’t need to know what you were doing”
his thunderous glare turned towards the blonde idiot laying in bed and garrett started towards him, his loud footsteps echoing off the wooden floorboards.
“i wouldn’t” dean says with a smirk on his face, “i’m very naked right now”
the muscle in garrett’s jaw twitched as he had to physically stop himself from lunging for dean, this information doing nothing but fuelling his already bad mood.
oh god, this had to end right now you thought to yourself.
“garrett, i love him. i know you think he’s a fuck boy- which he definitely was” you say pointedly at dean, “but i love him”
your face face flooded with red hot heat at the words you’ve never had the guts to say out loud.
“see, she loves me g” dean says proudly with a stupid, boyish grin on his face.
the room was quiet for a second, uncomfortably quiet and you didn’t know where to look or what to say.
garrett took a deep breath and rubbed his temples with his fingers, “fine. hurt her and see what happens di laurentis”
you knew it pained him to say that and you could tell they weren’t the words he actually wanted to say to the two of you, but you were just grateful that this didn’t end in tears . . . or blood.
“now put some goddamn clothes on and get your ass to practice” garrett says, nodding at you once before throwing one last look of disgust in both of your directions as he left the room.
blowing out a sigh of relief, you sat on the edge of the bed and took a second to process what your brother had just walked in on.
the two most important men in your life were riled up hockey players, it was always going to end in disaster.
“i love you too by the way, puck bunny” dean teased, breaking you from your thoughts as he pressed a sloppy kiss to your cheek.
you rolled your eyes at the name and accepted the response, even though he was 10 minutes too late with it.
“i was told sirens drag men to their deaths.”
“we do.”
jacaerys velaryon x fem!siren!reader
words: 23.2k
notes: this was written before s3e1, but still contains major spoilers. non canon compliant. i have a lot of new followers since i last posted & im v happy to be back writing here; pls feel free to stop by my inbox to chat or request something <3 description of reader is intended to avoid physical features, including skin tone. this is relatively unedited so sorry for any errors.
warnings: heavy discussion of death. fear. angst/grief. graphic injuries, mild horror & gore, vomiting, allusions to blood eating. fluff tho! reader is a siren and not human so (?). sex - piv, nudity. light praise kink, inexperienced jace, experienced (?) reader. light power dynamics but relatively tame smut. fluff & a surprisingly happy ending for me !
WHEN HE FALLS FROM THE SKY, THE SEA DOES NOT CARE THAT HE IS A PRINCE.
In fact, it does not care that he is the story of the sky and the sea both, nor that he carries within him both a line of an old empire and a claim to a kingdom. No, the sea does not care that Jacaerys is a prince; it takes him all the same.
Scorched by a burn down the throat of Dragonfire – though not in flame, but the aftertaste of it, he sinks; orange veins through black, smoke threaded deep into his lungs with the craning roar of Vermax long since vanishing from his ears through the crushing depths around him.
There is no color left now, not enough to discern banner from banner or hull from hull, scale from scale. Bizarrely, what remains is red, and it lingers both in the water and his mouth; And soon, true as the gods and their cruelties, it is also drifting in thick ribbons from his shoulder.
Though he is well submerged in water, in an instinct at the basest of his kind’s nature, Jacaerys inhales.
Choked immediately by the force of salt down into his very being, Jacaerys tastes iron and brine and something scorchingly distant, the residue of dragonfire made to liquid, swallowed back down into the deep as it tugs at himself, too; rolling in fizzing bubbles of fire and thundering waves overtop his back.
He does not remember the fall, and he hardly remembers the splitting of both sky and earth; Only that glassy world between the two, reflecting in depths and in minds alike, echoing the sound of groaning hulls and roaring beasts and the warbled screams of dying men.
It is a deep descent, crushing with a searing pain that emanates in the ribbons of red that float out from him, flying leathers heavy, dragging him down, down, down.
He is learned enough to cease his useless inhales as the salt hardens and grows deeper, meeting that which flows through his veins, dizzying his mind until water and salt and blood are all he tastes. The fire of war becomes a distant thing high above his sinking body as his consciousness loses him for what might be the last time.
Indeed, he hardly feels it when the sudden, ripping jerk tugs his body; up, or sideways, or some elsewhere – through something darker than anything he’s ever known.
WHEN HE WAKES, JACAERYS BLINKS AGAINST A SKY FAR TOO VAST.
The smoke of battle has thinned into a distant smear upon the horizon, a notion he gathers only after coming to and completely emptying his stomach of kelped water, scraped with barnacles and blood and shipwreckage splintered into his throat in their ascent from his guts.
A length of broken timber presses beneath his spine, which is his second gathering; Perhaps a spar from his grandsire’s fleet, or perhaps merely the rib of some lesser ship cracked open like a carcass to be feasted by the vulturous gulls of the Narrow Sea.
When at last, sluggish and stinging, his eyes open – they do so with a fluttering knot of long lashes, and he must squint into the vastness above and around him, feeling the wilt of hope dying like a low wyck in his chest. There are no sails near him now; nor cries, nor banners.
Jacaerys well and truly and fully floats alone.
He lets himself stare, just for a moment, to gather himself. A fine day, by any standards less measured with the smoke and searing screams of both sky and sea, the sun hanging upon its bright band in the heavens and oppressive enough to give Jacaerys need to close his lids once more. Gulls circle lazily in the distance, a sole sign of life in a deserted plane of rocking water.
Well, then. He is far from the Gullet now.
Indeed, he is far from anything, as indicated by squint of his eye; The sea rocks him on his raft like the cradle of a cherished babe, horrible but lulling as his mind drifts further than his body. He lies flat upon it, cradled by splintered wood that dips and sways with the sigh of the sea.
Perhaps it would be a gentle thing, if not for the arrows lodged deep through the flesh of his shoulder and chest.
He had not felt their strikes, though now he indeed feels them. Each shift of tide drives the shaft in his shoulder deeper, grinding splintered wood and barbed iron into bone and muscle alike, a searing ache that permeates each stretch of his being. The shallower one, Gods be true, lies in the fleshy muscle of his chest, lodged but loose enough to flounder like a babe newly-horsebacked with each shift of wave. Because of this, breath fractures into something ugly and thinly agonized, pressed by cheek against the splintered wood beneath him.
He does not give himself more than a moment with this unceasing pain; instead a hand rises, weakened and trembling and searing with the protest of barbed metal against bone, to tug at the wood protruding from his chest. The shoulder, he knows, is no use to try and save now; but the nearly insouciant rhythm of the shallow arrow upon his chest mocks him with its pulsing agony, and thus he tugs at it with all the dwindling strength he may remain. A roar rips from chapped lips, burning with the taste of bile and dragonsmoke; and still he pulls, the sinewy rip of arrowhead as it dislodges itself from its shallow grave and frees, violently, into the salty air. Jacaerys lets out no more than a whimper at the gaping, pulsing pain now ebbing from his wound; the arrow in his grasp is listlessly cast from his palm, down into whatever depths now lie below him.
The wound pulses with every faint heartbeat, and though he should surely press it to fend too much loss, he finds himself weakened with agony and exhaustion. Water still lives there, salty and ancient, in his lungs; he feels it with each inhale he takes. A warmth both viscous and determined seeps sluggishly down his side and crawls into the dip of his collarbone and throat, pooling in a glistening ruby shimmer before diluting pink into the endless blue beneath him.
Jacaerys watches the darkest parts of him go with not so much a single sound besides wafery breaths delivered sparsely between groans of aching ribs and short, wet coughs.
A prince should not bleed so quietly, he thinks.
Though it is for hours Jacaerys floats like this – if he is so to believe the lies spun by the sun in the sky – shifting upon agonizing weight every few moments, feeling the life of him seep out with every weak pump of his tremored soul. He floats limply, one weakened boot dragging in the cold water beneath his torrid liferaft of broken war.
It is too lonesome for a boy like him, perhaps. All that emanates from his brain is an ache of heart, the memory of screeching; of the jerking strike and dragging descent, such a slow death. Jacaerys floats for hours and hears wailing; sees the final glance of his lifelong companion, his truest friend; feels the sinking again, the horrible moment when he and his Vermax were swallowed beneath the surface. He wonders, in that dim place between consciousness and sleep, if there are those looking for him. If Rhaena and that wild beast are back on land; if Corlys and Baela and the rest are safe, dry perhaps, unscathed; if his mother remains still untouched by danger. It was a fair trade, he thinks. Their lives for his own.
The agony in his chest and shoulder grows as the sun slips into a smoky horizon. He is blistered by the sun and drained of half his life, memories of his drowning roving sluggishly in his mind more as sensation than coherence: A sharp tugging, far less than natural, from the very depths of the sea. He recalls, only faintly and through some hazy delirience, that he did not resurface, nor did he pull himself rightwards onto this very raft; He has hardly the strength to move his arm at all, and knows best that he did not, indeed, save himself from the death that found him just hours ago in the Gullet. A horrible thought pulses just beyond coherence; the sensation of wrongness permeates the prince as he lies, motionless and alone, in the middle of a silent sea.
Jacaerys falls in and out of the world with heavy, tear-laced eyelids and a ceaseless ache in his torso.
WHEN HE NEXT FINDS HIS CONSCIOUS, THE SUN HAS BEGUN TO DANCE VIOLET AND ORANGE ALONG THE GLISTENING RIPPLES OF SEA.
He stirs not from pain nor hunger nor any kind of distant tremoring sound; instead, he is roused by the sensation of something brushing his ankle.
Unable to do much else, he only stiffens; The water beneath him is darker than it ought to be, sheared in half by a bright and burning glint reflecting from the horizon, a shifting pane of glass so v ery fathomless and swallowing in its wholeness. He squints at the burning orange searing the water and lives, for a blissful for moments, in the belief that it is only delirium of a dying man that makes him feel the brush against his boot, surely only the blood clotting his sight into the watery depths which his leg splays into.
But then he sees a flicker.
Silver, or perhaps its more shyly shimmering cousin; some reflective thing which catches the light, winking like ancient dragoncoin beneath sand, glinting against the oppressive glare of dying sun splitting his vision in half.
Blinking salt and dying sun from his gaze, he lulls his cheek back upon the raft, tasting his blood as it resides within the grain of wood and the split of his lips alike. His wounds are near dried now, though he is no fool. He suspects the Stranger will visit him quite soon.
But then, a drifting, long-winding vision once more through the water, near his boot beneath the shifting of his splintered raft. Long and swirling like weeds at sea, it coils and slinks just out of sight; though still, Jacaerys is given a startled pause.
Hair?
A squint against the sting of salt in lashes, hazeled eyes catch not the jerking dart of fish, nor the rolling glide of a seal or any such beast. It is real – perhaps only in the way visions might be real to one on the brink of death – though real all the same as the arrow through his shoulder or the wound in his chest.
Whatever it is, it circles.
His pulse thunders weakly, and in a delirious moment recalls stories of pirates across the sea who leak from the cracks of the Stepstones and surface from the sea itself; men who swim upon unattended boats to thieve the pockets of men who lie shipwrecked.
“Go,” he rasps madly, though his voice is hardly more than wind over broken mast, matted with pain and expiring life. It takes the last of his very soul, the raw and trembling memory of green scales sinking into the sea, that he presses. “Please. I’ve…I’ve nothing left to steal.”
And a tragic truth his words are. The sea answers the Prince with a soft lap against wood, echoing gently as a kiss against his cheekbone; and then, as though relenting, the shape vanishes.
Wildly, perhaps madly, Jacaerys laughs once; though the salt and brine have made a home in his lungs, and blood slicks his lip now. Yes, death will find him quite soon, it seems. He tastes himself again, metallic and fading. If this is death, he thinks, it is far quieter than he imagined.
He lets his head fall back, and the sky blurs.
HE DREAMS OF WINGS BURNING.
Or something of the sort. Scales which rot, boys with laughter like bubbles in the depths, a garden with a rusting gate and a fog that seeps into his mind and twists his feet until his boots are gnarled roots; he dreams of dragons sweeping in from the skies, of an ancient beast swallowing an entire dragon in its maw, of fire upon fire, claws tearing and blood weeping over entire ships until the whole ocean lay rubied and burning. He sees odd things, indeed, in his dreamy death: girls trapped under ice, brides kneeling at empty graves, men growing into trees; he sees moons and suns dance, he sees women with sharp teeth and soft skin, he sees tears that fall like moonlight. He sees poisoned teacups, singed butterflies fluttering out of spiderwebs; black cats slinking like shadows around breathing roots.
It is peculiar, perhaps, that he dreams so many deaths so vividly, and yet Jacaerys wakes only after their horrors subside.
He jolts to consciousness violently to find that the sky is enormous above him, a vault of black pricked with viciously indifferent stars. His wake comes body-first, mind trailing behind as the residue of sleep melts away, fading thoughts of smooth skin giving way to coyish glints and roaring waters and sighing voices.
And there, nearly indistinguishable from above or below, the sky’s twin yawns in a stretch, that dark mirror – the sea. He watches that glassy expanse breathe slow, tidal sighs against the splintered timber that keeps him from sinking.
For a moment he does not remember where he is, only that the world is vast and he is very small within it.
But then it is when he takes a breath, and in such a daring intake, shifts his shoulder just partially; then true, raw agony explodes down his arm and across his chest. A broken noise spills from him before he can swallow it back, dampened only by the largess of the world around him, the depths swallowing the pain of one mere boy.
The pain, it seems, tears more than breath from him. Memory follows, from the expiring mind: of smoke and fire and ships and men dying and women screaming on dragonback. The moment comes to him far too soon and with it, a wash of agony so raw and true that he suspects the last time he felt such a way was when he lost his brother.
“Vermax,” he calls, throat raw and cracking, and like a boy he waits, tears slipping and burning against his sun-scorched visage, staring up as though a shadow might pass over the stars. As though green wings might descend from the heavens or surge up from the starry depths below. He knows, though, that even beyond the horizon – beyond wherever he is, now – there does not remain a dragon searching for him.
The sob which escapes him is restrictedly delved in searing pain from his wounds; his cries die on the water, so unlike a prince, as he whispers the name once more into the dark, followed only by a weak call for his mother.
The name is swallowed there, along the starry water, as is his grief.
In a turn of mercy, the pain surpasses enough to render him lack of thought; after only a final hitching breath, Jacaerys is stricken mind-numbed with a plaguing grief, tamped only by the unending agony haunting his form. A turn of cheek presses a metallic mouthful of seawater through sunscorched lips, and he coughs it back out into the deep with tormented effort.
The glint strikes him, then, as he coughs his blood back into the sea.
Across the glassy pane of stars, just an arm’s reach away: A lurking thing, reflecting back whatever meek light survives the night’s breath across the sky.
He cannot make it out fully, but it ceases his mind cold with a sharp turn of familiarity, that lingering horror of nails trailing down the back of one’s nape or the draught of chill in an empty graveyard.
Jacaerys blinks at it with that same low strike of horror; At first he deems it merely the moon fracturing the water’s skin, some trick of depth and distance. He blinks once, slow and heavy, as if that might wash the vision clean; But the shape does not break. It lingers there until the doubt in him thins, until even his certainty of illusion begins to feel like a falsity he has begun to assure himself for the sake of breathing; and only then, in that false security, does he come to understand what the shape truly is.
Eyes.
Eyes, true as the gods, fixed upon him and tilted upward from the depths below, bewilderingly catching the moonlight instead of merely catching it. As the raft dips in a slow wave and relevels, he catches the curve of a forehead, too – and then, gods, the slow inky spread of salt-threaded hair; he sees it then, flowing out its tendrils like weeds of the sea towards the measly splinter of wood upon which he lies.
Panic surges up raw and ancient in Jacaerys; older than any crown or dragon or war, something buried deep in marrow that recognizes the shape of a predator in the basest part of a man before his mind might dress it in the common tongue.
There is a woman in the water, a strange thought comes to him, lucid in its stillness, and he begins to wonder whether delirium has perhaps granted him some courtesy of idiocy. A woman, where no woman should be.
A lurch of the body, called upon by sole instinct; Every lesson beaten into him since boyhood demands that he rise and reach for a sword no longer hanging at his hip, that he make himself larger than his fear and meet such danger standing rather than waiting for it to devour him.
Instead, agony flowers white through his shoulder and chest, so bursting and complete that his limbs answer with little more than a miserable tremor, feverish and vitiated, and his near-valiant effort dies unborn. Among the shards of moonlight glass shattering the sea, he is pinned not by rope or chain, but by his own ruined flesh and the arrow lodged deep within it. Should this woman – this creature – wish to come for him, there is naught left with which to refuse her.
His eyes, ambered in the brightest of his days but now sooted with the grim ash of war and loss, do the only thing left to do; stare back. And this creature, this nightmare, this woman – whomever she may be, she remains there in her pool of ink and watches him in patient return.
And so, time sifts.
The moon lays a narrow road of silver across the water, and in that thin illumination he conjures only fragments of her horror as she finally nears; the smooth curve of forehead breaking the surface, a sharpened gleam fixed upon him, so unnerving in its patience; the breath of cheekbone and brow, far too fine to belong to any storm-battered sailor’s daughter. When the sea parts, next come her tresses, which fan outward along the surface like ink spilled in the dark night, water-darkened tendrils drifting and coiling as the lulling coax of kelp swaying in the tides.
Perhaps Jacaerys has gone mad. For, as he stares helpless as a babe unto a descending knife, he comes to understand that she is beautiful.
A vision of moonlight upon ruins: she is jagged, obscured and sharpened only where soft sighs hide themselves away; though he is not a man wholly mad-made yet, for her beauty – however intrinsic it might be – does not beget the wrongness of her presence, the impossibility of eyes at this hour, in this emptiness, so far from shores that even gulls have long abandoned him.
His pulse stammers painfully against his ribs, and the sharded arrow in his shoulder throbs in time with it, each beat threatening to unmoor him from the fragile raft entirely. Though fear licks itself in shivers of agony across his spine, he dares not move again.
Eyes – those glinting coins so mad under the grace of moon – do not blink once.
The prince swallows against a throat flayed raw by salt and smoke and swallowed seawater, and his lengthed voice is scarcely more than wind dragged over broken wood.
“Are you real?”
A question which drifts uselessly into the air, swallowed by stars both hanging in the sky and swallowed in the depths below; she nor the sea answers his question, only rippling and sighing, only her eyes ever-staring, unceasing.
She remains still for so long that Jacaerys begins to blink out the thought of the eyes at all, wondering if his mind had tricked him into conjuring up company in the middle of the world where there is none.
Perhaps that is all there is to death, Jacaerys thinks: some slow unspooling of the mind, a final merciful trick where pain and terror are softened into symbols and story until what remains is merely a dream stitched together from drowning thought and fading blood.
What strange mercy, he thinks distantly as consciousness slips from him, that the mind, standing upon the threshold of oblivion, should choose not horror but a beautiful woman waiting beneath the water.
HIS DREAMS, IT SEEMS, DO NOT CEASE EVEN ONCE HE WAKES.
When he stirs again, it is to a sky rinsed pale and enormous above him. And, he registers in turn, to her.
A startled jerk drives a battered back to jerk faintly against waterlogged wood; an agony of dying-man’s pain ripples from sunscorched lips which part in raw, pulsing horror. Fire explodes through his shoulder; his ribs protest with a sickening ache; his vision burst in lurching lashings of white, until sea and sky become one blinding smear which remains even when his lids sew shut.
He breaths out a disbelieved sigh. Cursed as they are, Jacaerys always thought dreams to be faithless things, ones which vanish with coming daylight. Though here one lies, lurking in the dredges of nightmarish deep waters even in the forgiving breath of day.
A petrifying thought, which permeates his sleep-laced mind with a strike of cold deeper than the sea itself: She remains here, in the silver light of dawn, as though she had kept watch through every pained unconscious hour.
He finds the strange woman half-emerged from the deep blue waters, elbows resting lightly upon the broken spar of wreckage which keeps him from the deep. Her chin is balanced upon interlaced fingers in a posture nearly – gods preserve him – nearly girlish; the pose occurs so absurdly innocuous that, in any other place or perhaps upon any other woman, he might have mistaken it for idle curiosity.
Though there is nothing idle about this creature, no thing innocent at all in the incessant bore of her gaze; a luminous thing, glowing like mother-of-pearl and flashing deep as his stare of horror meets her own hungered one.
Then, with the flow of tresses across a bared shoulder and the sharp flash of a blinding, pearly smile, she speaks.
“Am I real?”
The fear finds its home burrowed beneath the wounds of his chest, the splintered wounds seeming suddenly to send dark roots through his body, tendrils of fever and terror winding together in a spreading, helpless dread. He stares, and stares, and stares; a gaping thing, a helpless thing, marooned upon a floating shard of war with a woman he believes is far too beautiful to belong anywhere land might dare reach.
Jacaerys finds no words to offer; instead a gaze skitters in disbelief, lower and lower, until it dares the water itself.
The tide, it seems, remains loath to surrender her entirely from its foamy grasp; yet the dawn has stripped away the moon’s deceptions. Jacaerys sees, in its bareness, the horrible line where soft flesh churns into something iridescent and blooming; a vision of scales delicately breathing down curve of hip, only to vanish beneath the shifting blue. Light fractures there, living colors or breath – silvered coin to heavy moss to bruised violet; it is the sight of crushed old jewels and of forgotten gods, a thing from so deep it seems to swallow the sun.
Within his ruined chest, a fevered breath snags.
The stories conjure to him in a half-breath’s moment, swirling in his mind with the faintness of memory; His father's voice upon the deck of a ship as he taught his sons to read the currents and to never hearken singing over open water.
His grandsire’s grim tales at Driftmark, softened by the spray of ocean as he told how the sea keeps daughters as well as tides. There too had been stern faces of septas beneath vaulted ceilings of that keep of Red, with their hands folded within sleeves and eyes far too sharp for jest. There are creatures whom the Stranger did not intend for the land.
There were things in the sea, they all said; things older than the kingdoms who watched ships and learned of the longing which laced itself into the weak fabrication of human hearts.
Old stories shake loose from childhood until they drift before him like wreckage: Sirens whose bellies hung swollen with the flesh of drowned men; whose true faces, septas insisted, belonged only to the daylight: slack with rot, mouths split too wide for any mortal smile, eyes filmed pale by the abyss; and yet when the moon pours itself across the sea, that same cold light becomes their greatest deceit, veiling evil beneath impossible loveliness until lonely sailors mistake hunger for some kind of beauty.
He remembers an old captain, spoken of as though he had once truly lived, who abandoned his helm to answer a woman's laughter floating over calm water; how weeks later they found him cast upon the strand, tangled in flowering kelp with his body bloated white and his eyes pecked hollow by gulls unwilling to look too long upon whatever he had seen beneath the waves.
There were darker tales still: Of fishermen, taken whole into the green-black depths, where the sunlight and the Seven alike surrendered their potency; of merchant princes lured ashore into hidden coves by women whose songs promised warmth and whose mouths promised kisses, until those same hands opened a man from throat to belly and peeled apart their ribs like the bars of a cage.
It was said, too, that sirens slept inside the hollowed remains; nesting deep within the boned ruins of the men they lured.
There had been a time that Jacaerys had laughed at such tales. After all, there is little room for fear of monsters in the heart of a boy who commands one of his own; though now, upon a broken raft with death bleeding slowly through his flesh, he finds the old tales returning with only sufferance.
He lifts his eyes to her once more.
But he finds that, despite the tall tales which ebb and flow within his fevered mind, she is not the grotesque nightmare promised by septas; he finds no slack-jawed carrion thing crowned in weeded sea nor whale bone.
Indeed if anything, the dawn is crueler still – for it reveals that her beauty belongs only to her.
Her hair, lighter now with the glint of early sun and lacking in distortion of depth, spills over her shoulders, threaded with strands that catch silvery and oddly pearlescent when the light tilts just so; wet tresses cling to the graceful hollow of her throat, to the slope of her collarbones, garnering affection from the droplets of seawater which gather there greedily before falling one by one upon the weathered timber. Her eyes are clear, no longer luminescent but merely intent, fixed upon him with an unwavering and unsettling stillness.
Jacaerys stares at this creature because he cannot do otherwise.
She is the only solid thing in a world that hours ago dissolved into blood and brine; and those eyes, wide and reflecting and sweet and hungry, watching him back without embarrassment, without coyness, as though he is the creature newly risen from myth and she has been only patiently waiting; stilled in predatory wait for centuries, to examine him. Perhaps he should feel stronger fear than has settled into his bones; Perhaps he should scream, or merely attempt as much, with what little life he has left to fight.
“I’ve died,” he says instead.
His voice is thin, scraped raw by salt and disbelief, and it falls along the flat plane of sea that stretches around him farther than the eye can strain. From his rather blunt observation blooms the faintest crease between her brows, a consideration almost scholarly in its descent over so sinless a visage. For a moment her eyes travel along the span of his ravaged, waterlogged riding leathers, the ripped remnants of war – then up to the lick of his exposed, blood-beating skin; Her gaze deepens. He feels his heart, a slow-march but suredly still there, thump within the mass of his chest’s swollen flesh.
But then a slight intake of breath breaks loose from her parted lips in a sudden laugh.
The sound is the quick silvered cry of a gull cutting across morning air, not dissimilar to those harkenning echoes of song which wailed across the sea in the darkest hours of night past. Shivers rise beautifully along Jace’s chest at the sound and he watches her eyes follow their trail over the exposed skin of his neck. The echo of her laugh stills the salt air and cloudless sky high above; and, though it fractures the heaviness between them, it does not fully dispel it – for it rings chillingly and yet entirely captivating nonetheless, a note plucked from the sweetest, coldest reaches of the sea itself.
“No,” she sighs just then, a tilt of head to expose a curve of throat, the water which lives there so sweetly in the junction of neck and chest. The water pearls, too, where her palms cradle her chin. Her eyes do not blink. “Though… you nearly did.”
Her voice is wrong, he thinks, for a nightmare; for it falls so incredibly soft, so full of wonder and voracious low-buried hunger, and he finds himself more unsettled by it than any shriek might have rendered him – though still, some low-reaching part of his gut shivers in an expression less than fearful. Hungry, he thinks faintly.
And she is wrong, he thinks; indeed, the proof of it is there, in the souring wound of his chest, in the blood which has begun to seep once more from the arrow lodged firm in his shoulder upon his startling wake and the feverish haze which has crept through base of skull to linger front-of-mind. No man survives such wounds.
No man survives drowning.
Breath grows shallow from both injury and the vastness of what he does not understand – and then comes the growing churn of unease within his stomach that might possibly be starvation, too. Might a dead man starve?
“What are you?” he asks faintly; the question trembles upon that string of reverence and accusation and she studies him with an unsettling seriousness, lonely only to the wake of lapping waves. It is too quiet for far too long in that solace of sights, rocking upon his death.
“Hungry,” she answers at last.
The word slips into him and coils low in his gut once more, birthing a horrid sensation which is not wholly fear but perhaps something darker and more unknown, the basest of human instinct sacrificed to churn instead some anticipation he knows not how to tame.
Though accompanied with a bitter, half-delirious laugh, his voice carries a fragility; the cadence of a man who has already crossed one threshold and suspects another waits nearby.
“Have you eaten me, then?”
That same laugh touches her mouth again, soft enough to be swallowed by the very foam of the sea which cradles her, and it sends a new jolt of shivers through his whole being; though seared pain chases those quivers immediately. The moan of suffering he lets out at the shifting of his shoulder draws her gaze to the faint rust-colored pond of the junction of his throat, where his blood has pooled and since half-dried into a congealed offering before the sea might fully claim it.
Her head tilts with the rocking of the raft. “Not yet.”
It is a thing that would make a sane man recoil.
He knows he ought to perhaps demand whether her teeth hide long and sharp behind that gentle curve of lip – whether she means to devour him and take his bones to whatever cathedral of wreckage lies beneath her domain; But the sea around them is impossibly calm, stretched glassy and infinite to a horizon so distant it seems to play more of a trick of eye than any such reality, emptied of sails and smoke and war and left only in calm.
There is nothing but the prince and the siren and the fragile slab of driftwood that, in this moment of death and between, binds them bizarrely together.
Perhaps from his startle, blood has begun to leave him once more in streams; little rivulets this time, which twist down and drip in lurches onto salt-swelled wood. Jacaerys’ head grows heavy, and the dizziness comes creeping through like fog at the corner of garden gates, slinking through the darkening edges of his mind, rendering him aired and heavy in the same labored breath.
“It was you, then.” The words come as wreckage to rocky shore, splintered into odd sensations of memory into near-coherence, laced with strange visions of women with teeth lodged within their cheeks and talons long as his own sword; of bubbles swallowing a massive beast and the shock of sharp chill as his own body sunk to a watery grave in the Gullet’s roar. “You pulled me from the deep.”
When his eyes open once more, he finds hers resting upon him with that same patient stillness. “No.”
A crease grows upon his brow. His neck slackens against the splintered timber, too weary now to hold itself upright, landing below with a weak breath of expiring life. Above him the sky yawns open without end; he imagines it swallowing him whole.
“I promise you,” her voice comes, a soothing balm, so very cool where the sun has left him burning. “I kept you from it.”
He might have responded, in another life. Though now, pain has ceased to belong to any single wound; It wanders him now, crawling beneath skin – living fire, it finds fresh places to bloom and scorch until he can no longer remember what it felt like to possess a body untouched by suffering.
Somewhere beneath the fever, Jacaerys accepts that his consciousness will soon be lost; to either the tide, or the Stranger himself.
The knowledge, as it comes, is strangely peaceful. So in his last moments, Jacaerys lets himself mourn as he stares at the strangely beautiful woman in the water, at the dawning sky and stretching sea behind her.
His mother's face comes first, as it always has; followed by his brothers, blurred by memory until laughter and quarrels and childhood become indistinguishable in his slogging mind: and Baela, Rhaena, Joffrey, Aeg and Viserys; all of them, in the breath of a moment. The sea rocks him in agony as he thinks of Dragonstone rising black from the sea, of Vermax banking through cloud and soaring through breathless air; of the long hall of the Keep, of the salt upon Driftmark’s shores; of the gleam of Ser Steffon’s blade when Jacaerys squired for him in that final tourney; of his grandsire’s knee, upon which he perched on that throne of swords and heard the promises he’d been deigned since birth.
Whole kingdoms rise and vanish behind his closed eyes; wars begin and end, lives he has lived and those which he will never reach – hundreds of deaths and hundreds of lives split apart and seal themselves in the seams of his mind, all in the space of a single trembling breath, before dissolving into the tide.
His cheek settles once more upon the weathered wood, eyes drowsy in the pale-lilac of early morning. You pulled me from the deep. The fight in him is nearly gone; only one question remains upon his tongue.
“Why?”
A shift below the depths as she pushes upon the raft with flattened palms, and Jacaerys watches in awe how water yields so willingly round the soft flesh holding her ribs; the sensation of the war-battered raft tilting him down, tantalizingly closer to those singing depths hardly breathes across his mind.
A tongue passes thoughtfully across glossy lips. “You were sweet,” she murmurs at last, a chill of breath crossing over his own cheeks, loosing a wave of shivers through his spine. He can only watch as her arms give way once more to sink down, as the sea – so resentful to lend even this much of her to daylight – claims all but her shoulders and head.
There is blood in his mouth now; he tastes iron upon tongue as his eyes fall shut, a spinning sensation conjuring to his mild the felled taper of a feather, fluttering to lie at rest upon a pond. An odd death for a prince, indeed. His voice escapes him as little more than a frayed whisper. “S-sweet?”
He can think of no stranger a word to be labeled in those last moments of battle. Sweet. His eyes slide beneath their lids, a slogging thing in their sun-dried, salted shells, laced shut with exhaustion and perhaps delirium.
“Your blood,” her voice murmurs, and it has become near enough now that he can hear the movement of water bubbling when she breathes; a lulling sweetness which sticks to his teeth and dances upon his tongue. Just a taste, he thinks just then, rather absurdly.
“It tasted of the sky,” comes that voice once more, a bubbling wet sound as though her mouth has descended to taste whatever now leaks into the water. “And… I wished to know you.”
Nausea finds him at the thought. “You tasted me,” he grunts through pain-wired teeth, delirious, odd visions of swimming scales and lace-frilled fins skittering from outreached hands. He imagines that river of blood seeping from him now, flowing into an open, hungered mouth.
“I did.”
This pain is too much for life, he believes. It consumes him, so intense it has numbed him, bled a fever into his mind and stretched the tendrils of infection through each last vein in his body.
“Then I am dead,” he decides quietly. For what else would he be?
The water stirs, and when he feels her presence once more his gaze strains to return, blurry and searing when he pries his lashes apart.
She leans close enough once more, close enough that he might smell the sweetness of her, something so peculiar for mid-sea; breeze and softness and shadowherbs lace through his inhale and stir some hollow hunger in his gut, a piercing, ravaged thing that brings a bout of nausea to return.
“If you were dead,” her lips are glossed with the sea, “you would be far below me.”
His pulse answers in a hare’s pace, quickening beneath skin rotting and infected and plagued with a slow death. “Then,” his tongue darts out to soothe the pain upon sunscorched lips, but instead is met with dry air and dripping blood, slicking from his mouth. Her eyes glint at the sight, an observation which twists unease deeper within his gut. “...Where am I now?”
The smallest smile touches her mouth – a thing soft enough that once more, upon another countenance, it might almost have nearly been kind.“The sea,” she says. “Of course.”
Of course. Heavied, his head falls once more against the weathered timber, a movement slow and borne from exhaustion; drowsy eyes gaze into the endless blue where sky and water seem forever to pursue one another without meeting. Here he lies suspended between them all the same: neither upon the land nor surrendered to the abyss, neither wholly living nor yet claimed by death, merely adrift upon that trembling boundary where one world dissolves into the next.
The woman watches him stare out at the expanse for another long while before speaking again.
“You must rest, Prince.”
The title bears itself foreign upon her tongue; Jacaerys wonders, with a rather dislocated peculiarity, how she might know it belongs to him at all. In three-and-twenty years, he has never once heard a tale in which a siren urged a man to sleep for any purpose save to ease his passage into her hunger; though still, true as the gods, fever laps at the edges of his thoughts.
His eyelids descend by degrees, each blink lingering longer than the last against the shimmering yawn of morning, until the daylight begins to disappear between his lashes, swallowed by that other abyss. “If I do,” his breath utters weakly, wondering to himself whether he asks from futile hope or some simply morbid curse of curiosity. “Will I ever wake?”
His vision is betrayed; all which he knows are the steady rock of his rotting raft and the ache of his agonized body. The plaguing sun scorches one side of his visage whilst the sea cools the other; and he thinks, as his lashes flutter again sun-oranged lids, that he hears a voice once more through the waters:
“Perhaps.”
THROUGH HIS UNCONSCIOUSNESS, JACAERYS STILL FEELS.
Peculiar enough that his mind churns even as it once did when he lived on land and rode through the sky; And yet it is more peculiar still that he so faintly in his fever registers himself being turned; dips with the wreckage as it tilts beneath him, feels the lick of sea shift its grasp upon his failing, limp body. An interruption of the boiling heat; some chilling presence pressing firm against his chest and splaying over the slow, weakened pulse of his heart. Agony is a memory, a faint pulse like the outer ridge of a bruise or rime over spring fields in the Vale.
While Jacaerys dreams of a hundred deaths, he dreams, too, that the arrow in his shoulder leaves him without the violence of pain.
There is no fresh burst of agony as when he’d expelled the first one, no sharp white flare behind the eyes; It is as though the wound inhales and exhales and then merely forgets its own carved carnage, the blood that had been pulsing from him like a rubied river beginning to reverse its direction.
The deaths come to him in fits not unlike the rolling pangs of arrow wounds: He dreams of Vermax dragged from the sky, of Luke swallowed by stormy sea; of his mother’s crown dripping and glinting red as fresh meat.
Most peculiar yet in this sluggish purgatory between slumber and awake, he feels something freezing and dragging against his throat; lapping, like the waves upon the shore. He feels, too, how that chilling sweetness spreads within him in a foreign rush, coming as nothing so familiarly savage as dragonfire – that blaze he has known since childhood – but instead as something slower and stranger, a cooling calm which seeps instead of burns, which travels along his veins like tides instead of flames.
Only then does he wake once more.
THE SUN, THAT GREAT OPPRESSOR, HANGS MIDDAY WHEN HIS EYES OPEN.
For several moments Jacaerys mistakes waking for dying once again; Light pours over him, molten vast sheets which strike the water until the sea becomes a field of shattered mirrors, the sky above a merciless blue, immense and empty as eternity. He lies upon the slab of rotting wood and wonders if this is what remains after death has finished with a man.
Though grief, such a fickle thing, sneaks itself back through his weary bones, tearing with a force that casts his mind about and settles where fever once lived. Only then does he become aware of his body: a shift in his chest as he lets a small sound escape him, ragged as he wakes.
He swallows, bracing instinctively for the agony of grinding iron lodged in bone; but there is nothing.
It occurs then that his shoulder is bare to the slight seabreeze, and wholly unburdened. The arrow is gone; the wounds which had poured him into the sea exist now only as faint blushes of new skin, smoothed and unbroken with the passing of months which could not have passed in the space of a single night. Even the salt-burn that had left his skin raw and flayed has disappeared, flesh warm and sun-browned rather than blistered and fevered.
Impossible. His riding leathers are gone; everything above his waist has vanished entirely – save for the leather riding boots which sit propped sidelong near his breezed, salt-laced trousers – left only in bared skin and a scattering of freshly silvering scars. Wonder and horror mix within his gut as fingers flex experimentally, braced for pain which never comes, save for a faint weariness of tightened muscle.
It does not occur to him that this was anything else but the work of that creature from the water. And so, habit asserts itself; for he is still Prince as much as he is castaway, it seems, and dragonlord still before any such prey.
“Show yourself,” he commands to the shards of mirrored ocean, voice hardened with some falsity of health he has yet to fully take to mind – for he knows, indeed, that this was no immaculate recovery of mercy from the gods.
Though the fever has left him, weakness remains; he cannot yet sit wholly upright, the cords of his stomach quivering with an insatiable hunger and exhaustion.
The day lives on silently, for a moment, and within him grows an impatience sprouted by nerves; he is healed, miraculously so – and in those odd, faint memories of dying rest, did he not feel touch, feel that chilled drag laving over his very skin as a parched hound might a fresh pond?
The sea stirs and then, only after another moment, she surfaces several yards away.
With her comes no violent breach of the surface nor shrieking gulls; she comes to the glassy glint of eye with the sea parting its dark skirts, water streaming from her in glistening threads to cling to the lengths of long tresses and running in shining rivulets over bare skin of sunbreathed beauty. A sight to be seen – particularly for a prince so lonely.
Jacaerys stares once more, stripped of every certainty and left with only wonder and dread to keep him company. A wonder it is, her bareness hinted only by the breaking surface of reflected pools at the soft turn of her chest; and Jacaerys draws away his eyes in some gathered lucidity of shame, no longer coaxed to desire by fever. He swallows back a hoarse laugh, cheeks heated by not merely the sun’s glare but her beauty so raw and unmodest in front of him.
She waits for him, all those reaches away, watching with a peculiar apprehension as though he might perhaps take her down to the depths instead to give some odd, murky end to her own life.
“You healed me,” he says at length, accusation and gratitude so closely twined in his words that neither might be separated from the other. The sea seems to breathe for her, and it trembles with some unknown nerves.
Her head inclines by the smallest degree, that odd glint in her gaze once more. “Yes.”
The simplicity of it disturbs him, he believes, far more than denial might have done. “You admit it so easily,” he says then, because he can think of little else to say.
A flash of a pearled, glinting grin that brings even the sun-kissed sea to shame. “You wished to know.”
As though this were answer enough; As though all truths are equally plain to her and require no ornament nor human ceremony of explanation. Jacaerys draws a slow breath, tasting salt and sunlight and the faint metallic tang of his own fear lingering upon his tongue.
“I was told sirens drag men to their deaths.”
She, it is no denying, has floated closer to his small raft of living death. Her eyes watch unblinkingly; a chin tips until only the soft peaks of shoulder and bottom lip peak out from the murky sea. Her visage has gone dark with some horrible hunger.
“We do.”
There comes no hesitation in her reply, nor turn of trick, and the honesty of it brings him no refuge in disbelief. His stomach seems to fall away beneath him; for it rings with it the realization that he is alive, indeed. He is alive, yes, only stranded – a castaway clinging to a forgotten shard of war in the middle of an endless sea; alive only because a creature of the deep has chosen, for reasons he cannot yet fathom, to keep him so.
It leaves him strangely breathless. “Why?” he asks, roughened by salt and disuse. “I was – I was dying. Y-you could have taken me.” He is unsure what compels him to remind her of her own nature, though fear laces itself tight around his abdomen.
For several heartbeats she only regards him, and in that silence there is something so old and fathomless that it makes the skin along his arms prickle. Then, at last, she speaks.
“I’ve known of your war for some time,” her voice comes low. “One drowned sun past, I watched your great beast’s fire swallow the men who have hunted me and my sisters for eons. I watched you kill those men and leave them for my sisters below.” Silence comes between them, save for the gentle dripping cascade of water from her countenance to return to the sea. “And I saw you as you fell.”
Jacaerys’ eyelashes flutter in a sudden sting of salt and memory, though he dares not speak.
Her tongue sweeps once more over glossed lips. “The cries of the men upon the hippocampi ships said that you are a prince,” she murmurs, leaning closer as though a thought too reverent to speak aloud, “a son of both salt, and fire.”
How wrong she might be, he thinks – for he is not son of salt; Velaryon blood runs not through his strong veins, though still the words are cold water poured over a fevered brow, spoken with a strange and almost reverent note.
“My sisters have told stories of your kind,” she says, and her eyes drift briefly toward the horizon as though somewhere beneath it lay the endless kingdom from which she had come. “Those humans whose blood carries flame, who ride the sky upon winged beasts. We have watched them for longer than your kingdoms have stood.”
A faint smile ghosts across her lips, and it is haunting as it is ethereal, glinting in the sharp edge of teeth. “I had never seen one close enough to taste.”
Her eyes glint, and he feels the familiar churn of unease. “I wondered” A tilt of her head, studying his bared chest and visage with a curiosity so untouched by human shame. “If the sea claimed a son of fire,” Her gaze drops briefly to where the arrow once buried in his shoulder, “...would he burn beneath the water?”
Despite himself, despite the bewilderment and discomfort threatening to steal him away once more, a breath quite near a laugh escapes him. “I’ve disappointed you, then.”
She, it seems, is quite unfamiliar with the mortal crutch of humor. “You’ve done no such thing,” she assures dazedly, though her gaze has unsettlingly drifted toward the bare expanse of his chest once more. Jacaerys stiffens in nature, his own hand rising without thought to his throat; The touch of something wet and careful in memory, the blood which had gathered at his neck and collarbone, laved away, cleaned with a voracity which only bordered on tender.
He nearly recoils at the thought. It had been her, indeed, who tasted him again. With it comes another bout of nausea; though quieter, and more treacherous still, is the hungry and awed way in which he cannot cease his staring.
She is beautiful – in the line of flesh so cool beneath the water, such swirling, glinting eyes and gentle turn of cheek; that glint far below, silvered as mother-of-pearl and strange iridescence as she moves with the tide.
It is perhaps this trance, this pull of fate or of fools, in which he extends his fingers – weak still despite their healed wounds – towards the very water which clings to her shoulder. There are glinting marks there, some half-scaled beauty, and he moves slow enough for her to vanish into the depths if she wishes.
She does not move – only watches him nearer with a stillness so harrowingly unnatural.
His fingertips brush her shoulder, so very cool to the touch; enough so, such a respite from the beating oppression of the midday sun, that Jace lets some strangled breath loose from his throat, a half-relief at the sensation of cooled, glinting flesh so sweet against his burning palm.
She, in turn, leases a short inhale, chilling enough to send ridges of thrill across his bare spine. The noise which leaves her is none he has known of man nor beast; a sound of glistening shores and soaring seas, of sunkissed reaches and tidepools swirling in slow wakes.
A jolt from his touch, swallowed of regret and instead burgeoned by a sharp motion, her fingers perhaps tightening somewhere below the greened depths of the mirrored sky. Glossed lips then tremble, eyes flicking to his and down to the slip of wood which separates his warm shoulder from her sea.
“I’ve brought you something,” she says gently, and when her elbows beach themselves as they had yesterday upon the edge of his raft, he finds her palms abound with bounty.
In one hand comes a small, dripping bundle of greenery – dark fronds and pale, tender shoots which look as though they sprouted from some moonlit cavern far beneath the waves; in the other she bears a cluster of oysters and other mollusks, their shells slick with salt and glinting beautifully in the sun’s breath.
Jacaerys watches in startled awe as she lays them before him upon the raft, visage painted with some odd, nearly unnatural shyness about her. His lips part, though the tearing, churning hunger persists violently within his stomach; she offers food to him now, as she keeps him alive and afloat. “You must eat.”
Her voice is a sound which bubbles gently against the lapping of water over her elbows, bare skin warmed only by the sun.
Jacaerys does not waste a moment more.
It is an effort, indeed, to rise himself to his elbows; hauling himself upon rippling, quivering muscles into a position where he might grasp the kelp and seaweed by the handfuls and tear at their stringy flesh with his teeth. He eats them handful by starving handful.
A savage, he must be; for he does not so much as turn his mind over as he swallows the pale stalks tasting of pepper and brine, nor do his lashes flutter in the slightest when she bends her head and, with the sharp glint of nails he hardly glances, pries open the shells one by one.
The meat of them lie glistening and large, singing with a gentle grace of saviour to his ears as he finishes the greenery in mere minutes.
Her nails, nearly claws, rip through shell seams as though they’re merely sheaths of parchment; the sound of it sends shivers through him and goosepimples along his flesh, lets his voice splinter in a half-moan of hunger as she pierces into them as though shell and flesh alike are no obstacle to her will.
In her clutch comes the first scallop, offered to his lips.
He eats from her grasp as though he has not tasted food in weeks, perhaps longer; he tears at the meat with a hunger never felt before, brine running down his chin and slpping onto his chest. Still he scarcely pauses, too ravenous to care for such things as propriety, and all the while two glinting eyes watch him with such concentration it nearly feels like a touch.
For a long while they remain suspended between sea and sky as the prince gathers strength one careful mouthful at a time; the siren only lingers beside the raft, elbows anchored lightly upon the weathered timber. The tide whispers in patient breaths as sunlight wanders across the waves, reaching her face and fracturing into shifting gold upon her damp skin.
“Gods,” his voice nearly cracks only once the remains of broken shells and the trails of oysterjuice track down the sun-browed skin of his chest. His finger graces over the oystershell nearest his knee as he half-sits, energized from the sustenance. “Thank you.”
She smiles at this; a bizarre yet gentle thing, just a breath away, with her own elbows perched upon the raft. His fingers brush the shell again, tracing the smooth curve worn soft by the endless overchurn of the sea.
“It is a shame,” he finds himself murmuring absently, “that there was no pearl within.” With his words come a strange bashfulness, an emotion so foreign upon him that he’s struck to hear it at all. There is little left of the prince in his voice now; Only a boy adrift upon broken wood, speaking to a creature who should belong only to nightmares. “I would have had something to give you in return.”
A dip of brows upon her ethereal visage; an expression enough to rouse a dusting of heat to his cheeks.
“We give pearls as gifts,” he explains quietly, watching the blank confusion linger across her countenance. “To those who are…special.” The words catch faintly, tumbling in sheer awkwardness as he wonders faintly if the fever ever truly left his mind. “I suppose it is not the same for your kind.”
The sea dips them; her coiled hair, shining with the remnants of the deep, curls over the broken timber where the ship’s remains have since become the expanse of this strange world. His hand rests near it, close enough that the strands occasionally brush against his fingers when the sea moves.
She stares at him, always so watchful; Even as saltwater slips over her lashes and gathers upon her gleaming eyes, she does not blink.
“Have you gifted pearls before, my Prince?”
Heat touches his face, caught entirely unprepared. He looks away with a faint, embarrassed breath that might have once belonged to some other boy – some boy who’d not fallen from the sky, nor stared at the starry sea of death and found a woman waiting beneath the waves.
“No,” his voice is far softer than he’d endeavored. “I’ve not.”
This, it seems, affects her. A strange flicker warms her expression, fleeting as first light of dawn; not human, but recognizable in itself as Jace watches her lashes dip over her pearled eyes. Shyness, he thinks wondrously. A creature who could drag ships beneath the waves and rip men open whole; and she is shy.
I’ve gone mad, he thinks, and the vision of her is so impossible under the midday sun that he nearly smiles. The sea rocks them gently upon the raft, the movement drawing her hair away from her shoulders which gather sunlight in soft, golden sighs; Jacaerys realizes he’s been staring for farr too long and casts his gaze upward, half-closing his eyes to feel the sun true and warm upon his countenance once more.
For some time, they remain like this: the prince regaining his strength, the siren floating beside the raft, the smell of the seabreeze between; The water whispers around them in secret sounds, and when Jacaerys tips his gaze to levy her once more, he finds the sunlight trembling over her features, rendering her unreal in the golden shimmer of warmth. At last, very quietly, he speaks.
“You are quite kind, I think.”
The words seemed to startle her even more than his touch had; her eyes dart, skittish things, from his propped elbow and down towards some unseeing depths which linger far beneath them. Still, he continues. “You saved me. You healed me, fed me.”
Marked by the silence of the sea, Jacaerys lets his head fall back to hang upon a stretched neck, exposing his throat to the open air, to the sun, to the salt; there is a prickling awareness there, of her gaze upon the pulse beneath his flesh, though he does not, for once, return her stare.
“If you mean to drag me beneath the waves one day,” he continues – and he is mad, surely, for there is now a faint, unsteady amusement in the curve of his mouth, “then perhaps I am a fool.”
He glances back toward her to find surprise glinting so slight and fleeting over her visage; a small trace of humor lingering in her own curve of cheek.
He shrugs, a half-boyish thing belonging to another lifetime. “But you are kind nonetheless.”
The silence which follows swallows; it is full of her watching, and of the sea breathing around them. Kind, that word conjured once more – she acts as though perhaps she’s unfamiliar; As though no one has ever looked upon her and chosen any name but monster.
Then, for the first time since he had seen her rise from the depths of the murkiness the night past, she truly looks away – and before he can ask what he has done, she slips beneath the surface entirely.
The water closes over her, merely a shadow of shoulder and hair lingering like shadow before it is all swallowed by the blue – a final glimmer of silver follows, that glint of treasured coin; and then she is gone. She leaves behind only the trembling of ripples and the bright, indifferently gilded sunlight scattered across the vast expanse of sea, a blinding thing now that there is no beauty to obstruct its harshness.
The tide shifts beneath his raft, and for the first time since he fell into the water, Jacaerys is well and truly alone.
HIS SIREN, SHY AS SHE MIGHT BE, RETURNS WITH THE SUN THE NEXT DAY.
And, indeed, the same time the day following. Habit grows within this drifting life so quietly that Jacaerys notices it not until it has rooted itself far within him; for three days pass in the very same rhythm, churning with the slow grace of heat and then chill, shivering and sweltering, some warmth in his skin which bleeds not and sheds not but always persists in hunger, if not for sustenance than company, or its more wretched and unknown twin.
The sea becomes his tell of time; tides mark the hours better than bells ever had, and somewhere in those long hours between sunset and moonrise, she always appears.
Sometimes he finds her instantly; that coy shape glittering in sharp glints beneath dark water, silvered scales catching and vanishing amongst the waves. Sometimes she watches him first, a sensation which comes to him as a strange awareness upon the nape of his neck and deep below his stomach, lingering as though some odd thing awaits for him across the water.
Always, though, she brings him food. Bounties of shellfish, mollusks, fish gleaming like polished coin, strange seafruits and vegetation which taste of figs and peppers and salt and brine; once she returns with an odd brown-haired hard shell, which contains within it not only a sweetly hardened white fruit but also water – a sugary kind, which drips itself across his thirsted flesh and dries tacky until the next morning he wakes to his skin laved fresh and clean once more.
There are many things he learns during this time. Most of all, he learns that questions mean very little to her; and answers, perhaps, mean even less.
When he asks how far they are from land, one morning as the sun rises soft and pale over the endless blue, she only tilts her head. “The sea touches many lands,” she provides in response, a notion which is incredibly uneasy as it is exacerbating. Jacaerys discovers then that the creatures of the sea do not measure distance as men do; They do not count leagues or days or the fading hope of a distant horizon finally appearing, for the ocean is no obstacle to them, but a home.
There are other times in which her companionship is close as he can remember to any other; She learns of him through the little movements of his human visage – captured things, the pull of amusement at his lips and the lowering of sadness at his eyelids. He catches her watching him often, studying these small betrayals of emotion; One afternoon, as the sun dances upon her bared back, she attempts to replicate his amusement upon her own ethereal reflection.
A near imitation of a smile grows too intentional and solemn, reflecting a study of joy yet not yet a true wielder of it in the flesh. The sight pulls a laugh from him, boyishly bright, doubling him from the waist in amusement.
She, at his outburst, reflects a ture smile – not forced or painted but merely grown of inordinate pride that she might create something so bright within him. It is the first instance, perhaps of many, in which he finds himself watching her lips with a very specific intention of curiosity.
Days pass, or weeks; Time behaves strangely upon the sea, and he watches suns rise and fall, tides come and go, no stretch of land or ship or life in any distance.
THough each day and evening she returns, and eventually he learns the sound of what passes for a name amongst her kind. It is a sequence of beautiful notes which his human throat cannot wholly reproduce; and each time he attempts it, she only laughs, a sound somehow more beautiful than what she is called, and it rises and falls like water spilling through caverns. Eventually, with some fond exasperation, she allows him a shortened thing, a simpler name which his tongue can manage. In return, she learns his; and she calls him Jacaerys in that watery lilt of hers, so low and fresh and pulling.
One night, as she brings him a supper of squid and weeded sea, she requests something of him in return.
“Tell me of your kind.”
He looks up from the small task of fastening reeds and torn netting together, a distraction made for himself to tear his eyes away, for at least a moment, from her cloyingly alluring countenance. His nose scrunches against sun-kissed freckles, tipping his head. “Men, you mean?”
Her tresses are floating tendrils in the near-dead sun, so different from their glimmer of day, and he watches in entrancement as she shakes her head; Another human instinct she’d learned from him in days past. “Your kind,” she repeats, coming closer to the raft. He no longer recoils at her proximity; now, when she approaches, his first instinct is dizzying anticipation instead of fear. “The ones whose blood tastes of fire.”
His stomach finds a chill at her words, though he only leans back upon calloused palms and glances up and the nail-sliver of moon peeking through bruise-crushed curtains of sky.
He tells her, then, of Old Valyria; of dragons filling the sky and empires of families, the dredges left of them who crossed both Doomed ash-shores and poisoned seas, carrying the last embers of a dying civilization. When he thinks he’s finished, or that she might tire of his voice, she only asks more – starry eyed and curious, leaning her head against the wood and asking how it feels to fly upon the sky.
It’s only after the sheer blackness of night has found the sea that he speaks of Dragonstone. He murmurs of his own family, too; he tells her of soaring towers black as dragonglass and fields of lurching green which become swallowed up by jagged volcanic breath, of his mother and the war in her name. He whispers of his Usurper uncle; of Luke and Arrax – and that is when words truly start to tremble. He does not realize he weeps until he tastes the salt of them, until she lifts a cool finger to wipe them away and taste them instead upon her own tongue.
He whispers the rest – of Meleys and her rider; then of Vermax and of the end in the Gullet. And when he finishes, she remains silent for a long while.
Her voice comes in the watery traces of a whisper. “You have been lonely.”
He does not respond to her.
He couldn’t have, even if he’d wished to; there are truths too large for the mouth to carry, and this is one of them.
So he turns his face away, letting his gaze drift over the restless dark of the sea, over the silvered shiver of moonlight trembling upon the water’s skin. But she has watched him long enough to understand despite this, and the glint of her is dimmed under the blackness of the sky, that mirrored world broken only by her sweet form half in the glassy depths.
“I have sisters,” she says then. “I know I’ve spoke of them to you before.”
And though she’d indeed mentioned it days past, still it is odd to think a woman like her – if she is to be labeled such a thing, so swathed in tide and shadow – might have a family at all; His eyes find her and try to conjure the thought of a life down below. Within him he finds something curious and tender. “Do you have many?” he asks, because it is the easiest of his questions.
She nods, a spill of hair along her shoulders. “Yes.”
“How many?” he asks then, shifting upon the raft to lie closer along the edge, his bared shoulders freckled even beneath moonlight, their faces so very close.
And so with a dip of her chin, she tells him in turn of the hundreds of sisters which live down in the depths, of the Mother-sister which birthed them and watches them, and of the ribbed-world of bleached bone and darkness which she came from. He asks her of her childhood, and of her people; and when she gives him all in kind, he finds himself pondering – with a distant recall of dragonseeds and countless nameless silver-haired visitors to the island – how abundance itself can be another kind of exile.
ON THE EVENING FOLLOWING, SHE COMES TO HIM WOUNDED.
He had waited for her through the expanse of the day. It was a strange thing, he thinks now, how he had once every morning begun with thoughts of war and strategy, of what ravens might arrive and what battles might be waiting beyond the horizon. Now, he wakes with the sun and listens for the sound of water changing.
He’d fashioned something resembling a task for himself; a crude thing, a boy’s invention against the endless boredom alone at sea; With reeds and pieces of his torn trousers and the remnants of salvaged seanet, he has rigged a small tether, a foolish little snare which occasionally lures fish close enough for him to catch if his hands are quick and his luck is kinder. Still; after exhausting himself upon the empty bounty of fish his game provided him, he’d waited for her for far too long.
When she comes, it is in the glint of moonlight which catches red upon the curve of skin, and his heart thuds once within the cave of his chest when he finds the long, horrid lacerations crossing one shoulder like clawmarks across her flesh.
“What did that?” he asks her sharper than intended. She only watches him; She has brought him a handful of shells, gathered carefully in her torn and bloodied fingers, a sight which churns painfully in his chest. She has come to him injured, and still carrying gifts. “Are you all right?” he attempts again, kinder this time.
It is silent for far too long as she dips her head, working open the few shells for him with jagged nails, which he takes hungrily, though not distracted enough to forgive the strained stiffness of her normally voracious movements. At length her voice comes in a quiet tense, low as a groan.
“My sisters are displeased.”
It is enough for Jacaerys to study her, those lacerations and such sweet skin ripped apart, and understand enough that the wounds have something to do with him and, indeed, with the food she brings to the surface each turn of sun. Perhaps, too, with the sheer notion that he still breathes at all.
“Because of me,” he whispers, and she says naught but a small trembling sigh; though when his knuckles raise to tenderly trace along the marred flesh of her shoulder, she does not turn away. A churn of water, she keens to his touch, coming nearer until and she is close enough to drop a weary, shivering cheek upon the cloth of his thigh. Heat burns there, roving from the seeping chill of her bare cheek upon his pant. She gazes up at him once more from his lap, a reflective but morose thing, as though she doesn’t quite understand why he sees her suffering as so horrible; as though perhaps it is merely the price of wanting something and keeping it.
He whispers to her then, when she asks – tales of Princely youth and sailing upon the sea with his father; and she whispers quietly of her own life, of the schools of fish which keep her company and guide her to the most treasurous depths of the sea.
And that night, after she leaves, he lies awake and watches the stars.
They are cruel things, stars – so beautiful and yet unreachable. And the songs, as they always do, begin sometime past the hour of Ghosts, reaching him across the water from the odd-hazed distance; the song of her sisters, he’s come to understand. He lies upon his raft and wonders if she will return tomorrow – and then, if she might one day decide he is no longer worth the trouble, worth her pain.
He thinks then of his mother, and of Dragonstone, and all those who must believe him dead; who have likely carried on in the war that he has so reluctantly left behind.
And beneath it all, in that endless sky of stars, there remains one true wish upon his tongue: that his siren might come back unharmed.
TWO DAYS PAST, AT THE EDGE OF THE BAT’S HOUR, SHE FINALLY RETURNS TO HIM.
She reveals to him in a depth of shimmer, dancing upon a surface of purple and orange which streaks his tanned skin and curls his hair with salt and warmth, still in the early eve of the day. Water warms him; the sunset bleeds crimson across the horizon and Jacaerys sits at the edge of the wreckage with both legs dangled within the sea.
She surfaces soundlessly between his knees, an appearance so sudden he nearly startles back; with a glint of amusement she stares, brows ticking upwards in an impossibly human expression. Jacaerys, warmed through his unease shock, lets his lips curl in a fond relief.
In an urge so boyish; a thing laced with sheer hope and solace, he forgets himself and, indeed, the weakened state in which she’d appeared to him two long nights past.
“Hoping to drown yourself?” he jests before he remembers himself.
She – having since learned the human habit of jesting and recently found herself one for the same sharp wit he often bears – only tips her glinting, glimmering eyes skyward in a roll of vexation, a thing she’s also long learned from him to do.
“I cannot drown,” she chides, voice like seafoam, amusement leaked so warmly through her mouth that he nearly forgets the glint of teeth which live just beyond those sweet lips.
“No,” he, solace at last to have his siren returned unharmed, only smiles. “I suppose you cannot.”
Her hands settle upon the timber, mere breaths from the outer line of his thighs as he leans back upon palms to regard her fully. “Are you well?” He wonders – and then, with a faint heat upon his cheeks that grows not only due to the dying sun, “I worried for you.”
It casts something bright upon her eyes and twitches the coltish smile which belies her lips; and the shimmering is there once more, so evergreen in her beauty as she pushes only closer to him, her cheek ghosting that giving fabric which clothes his inner knee.
For a moment he merely gazes down upon her visage, raining with beauty and dripping still with that unsettling stillness. Her eyes glint only faintly in the dying day, so beautifully lit between his thighs.
“You should come in,” she says in response.
To this, Jacaerys laughs. It is not the first offer; indeed it is a thing she’s supplied in more than a handfuls – when the sun reached its blistering peak and he winced at the searing upon his flesh, when the moon made whatever hides below her hips in the depths glow, even when the breath of conversation dwindled in the easy laze of the heat, the water so inviting as it kissed over her skin.
And Jacaerys might, these days, be a mindsick – or lovesick – fool; but still, he knows better.
“You hide it well,” he murmurs, only partial in his jest though some lace in the back of his mind truly yearns to yank himself from the pull of those depths, to coil away in fear of the creature between his legs. “But you cannot trick me, siren.”
She does not particularly enjoy the name; though still she only tilts her head, a coy thing he resents only so far as it makes the urge to slip into the water even stronger, to feel her skin between the warmth of the water and his own salted skin, cooled by the depths below.
“I only wish for you to join me,” the words rise from her with the hush of tidewater slipping through black stone, soft and inexorable, the sea itself speaking so longingly through her mouth.
There is little mirth in the laugh he gives once more. He mirrors the tilt of her head boyishly, curls tangling with lashes. “And be dragged into the depths?”
The levied gaze upturned against the glint of dying day does not waver from his visage; in the dimming light her eyes hold such strange, fathomless brightness, submerged stars peering at him through leagues of darkened water. “ I would not drag you.”
It is so sweet, the lie; and perhaps it is not inherently such a thing, but instead borne from those odd, coiling natures which juxtapose her very being – to tear flesh and to soothe it, to lave upon fear and to charm it away. She is kind, and she is, despite it all, sweet – though yet, Jacaerys remains uneager to discover yet whether her self restraint survives immersion into the sea.
Nonetheless, he cannot help his faint tick of a grin, amused perhaps only at the absurdity of it all.
“I am not eager to test your limits,” he confesses.
A ribboned smile, lurking against the water as her hands grasp the wood beside his knees. Something in the depths brushes his ankle; boot against something stronger, faint and fluttering though still startling enough to ridge his bare spine. She hums. “Do you think so little of me, Jacaerys?”
It is a song, to hear his name from such lips. The sea rocks impatiently, and he feels the leverage of his hips tilt just so against the tides. She rocks with them, a gentle flow that splays tendrils of hair across bare shoulders, glimpses of sweet skin lower than his eyes dare dip. “I think,” he says with a wettened lip, “you have already admitted to dragging men beneath the waves.”
She finds amusement in this, it seems, and she gives a small tilt of head. “Men.” Such emphasis comes with a tightened flutter across his chest, and his brow lifts, emboldened so as to lean forward until their breaths meet the same stretch of salted air.
“Am I no man to you?” he wonders.
Her eyes, those unblinking lives of dying stars through the last breath of day, flare with some kind of heat from the expiring sun. “You’re far more than that.”
In her wake washes aboard his wooden raft a fresh kiss of sea, straining her bare chest against the expanse of plank between his thighs; the movement is a gentle rocking, though it brings them keenly close, so close indeed that Jacaerys is rendered dizzied by the sweet smell of her once more, of the cloying honesty in those deepened, reflective eyes.
Jacaerys has lived a life told of titles and beings; prince, son, rider, piece upon the board of kings and queens, bastard and heir, all of the muddled things which lie between old bloodlines indistinguishable from myth.
He watches that myth now, splayed before him, and silently marvels at her tangibility. So he says her name, her common-tongued name, and tips his head boyishly. “You say such strange things,” he murmurs.
Her head tilts in a mirror, one which makes his heart skip over itself faintly, the lick of warm sea against his knees lapping over the salted air. Her skin glows under the red-streaked sun, a thing of marvel and unconfounded beauty. “As do you, prince.”
A laugh escapes him, bubbled from the space between them as it rocks, the sea yearning for the two hearts which beat not together nor on the same natural track but instead in some odd counterbeat of each other; and Jacaerys lets the water dip him forward just so, enough to see the iridescent lines shimmering upon her cheeks. Her face is so very pure in the setting death of sun.
He tips his head sidelong, somewhat intrigued by her words. “And what strange things have I said to you?”
She, who never blinks, is overcome with some minute breath of shyness, a mirror memory of nights before, and her gaze drops to the fire-streaked water before looking to him once more. “You call me kind.”
Of all things, the prince thinks; Of all the impossible, absurd madman things she has witnessed him do: speak of dragons, bleed upon the sea, command her to rise from the depths as though he still possessed a court and the shadow of a crown to succeed – this is what remains with her.
“You find that so strange?” he shakes his head faintly, letting his lip lift slightly. “You have spent every day proving it.”
She says nothing; The silence between them is no longer the terrible silence of their first meeting, for it is now laced through with those more sweet things, a vulnerability shared through salt-laced glances and small smiles.
“You healed me,” he continues quietly when her voice still shies away from sound. “When there was no reason to. And you fed me when your own kind would sooner have fed upon me. You listen when I speak, though I imagine my life must sound terribly unexciting beside yours.”
This, at last, coaxes a small curve of glossed lip to her visage.
His smile is slight, too, though still he continues. “And when I grieve...” He lowers his eyes toward the darkening glass slipping between the broken planks, thinking of ancient wings and smoldering waters. “...you still care, even if my troubles seem so minute to you.”
The sea breathes around them in spilling sighs of waves; She studies him with that unnerving patience once more, until she asks, in a voice so soft he almost mistakes it for the tide, “is that truly kindness?”
His brow knits, struck at once by both her honest bewilderment and, too, her capacity for tenderness. The breath which slips his lips is one of wonder. “What else would it be?”
Her gaze drifts beyond him, toward the place where the sun has nearly drowned itself beneath the world’s edge, and her head tilts in that learned habit, a small mirror of his own.
“My sisters sing until men forget they are afraid. And then they feed.” she says after a long while. Her fingers trail idly through the water, and the sea bends around them as though eager for the touch. “When I first saw you upon your beast,” Her eyes lift to meet his once more, startlingly bright. “I thought I might do the same.”
His heartbeat stumbles; a thought which should bring terror but, in its absence, only reminds him how very alive he still is. She speaks before he can dare.
“I do not know why I did not.” A draw comes upon her brow, a tremble of her lips. “I only know that when you sleep...” she murmurs, almost wonderingly, “...I do not wish to leave you.” Her fingers curl and he watches them catch upon the pearl of sea. “When you laugh, I wish to hear it again, and when you hurt...” Her voice catches upon something. “...There is… pain in me, also.” A shake of tresses, bewildered. “I have never known that before.”
A burgeoning warmth spreads across the very fibers of his being. The last breath of day lingers across the water between them, red as banked embers beneath ash, and Jacaerys stares at the woman who saved his life, wondering how she has gone a whole life without ever hearing a gentle name spoken of herself.
“I should think,” he says softly, scarcely above the whisper of the tide, “that whatever name your sisters would give such a feeling…” His heart skips its own beat within his chest, watching how her eyes dance with the light of late eve, “…among my people, we would simply call it affection.”
The evening deepens around them; she does not respond but instead leans closer to him, just slightly so, her bared beauty brought higher momentarily. The sun has nearly swallowed itself unto the horizon, leaving only the last remnants of gold bleeding beneath the line between sky and sea; the water beneath his knees is dark and glassy, reflecting the first early stars as they begin to appear one by one.
“Affection,” she repeats, a sweet thing from lips so parted, wondering. Warmth spreads boyishly across Jacaerys’ visage, and he only nods gently.
It is this very moment that she chooses to spill her grace onto the palms steadying her between his legs; he watches her rise higher from the sea, arching until the water gives way to the scaled glow beginning below her hips.
Early moonlight pours over her as though it has waited all evening for this very purpose; and his gaze follows the hush of young moon over the sky of deepening violet, tracing how beauty glows through the curve of her breasts as she breathes shakily in the salted air. Lower still, with heated cheeks, his eyes fall – down where human shape surrenders into luminous impossibility.
He must have stared too long, for her mouth parts in a chilling breath. “You stare at me often, Jacaerys.”
“You are difficult not to.” It comes from his lips with no such reservation of courtly politeness nor intent to charm; it is a simply known truth, one he’d likely repeat with each breath, if she so wished to hear. “Surely, you know such things.”
Seabreeze breathes the wet strands of her hair in damp kisses across her cheek; the sea rocks gently beneath them as though to lull him closer – though he needs no more encouragement than the sight of her alone.
“I truly wish you would come in,” she chides, and her voice – a thing nearly lost beneath the hush of the water and the gentle streaks of dead sun; a confession of sorts, some private form of longing which spills from glossed lips into the air of hunger between them.
Her breath ghosts upon his cheek as she leans impossibly closer between his thighs. “Though, I suppose I must come to you instead, prince of the sky.”
A quiet smile ghosts across his mouth, a jilted thing borne from nerves and, perhaps, fate; If such there is a thing. And there, beneath the youngest stars of the sea’s early night – after days of floating in the wide expanse of nothing – he kisses her.
Her lips are cool as water beneath shade; rainfall upon fevered skin, and from sugary lips comes the faintest breath of her surprise. She presses against him with an eagerness bolstered by uneven weight, a lamb unstable upon fresh legs, some sweet hunger that calls to him louder than the songs of her sisters which have already begun to leak over the surface of the horizon.
Lips shift, sliding salty and sweetened with hunger. The raft shifts beneath them at her eager lurch; Jacaerys’ hand comes to steady himself upon the wood as his hips cant, slipping further towards the edge of that abyssal water, and still he does not resist, he merely lets his other palm, the one so hungrily pressed to the flesh of her collarbone, slide upon wet skin. Her own ripple upwards like waves upon shores, threading like rivulets through his curls and the other casting her chilled palm over the warmth of his pounding bare chest. Webbed, he thinks faintly, as her fingers splay over his skin; The stars above seem to tremble upon the water in her rippling wake as she presses closer still.
Tongues prod and slide, a slow dance neither is particularly familiar with though the beat alone brings them closer, breaths melting into soft sighs and gentle hiccups of need. Her lips are of brine and sweet seafruit, and he finds himself insatiable to the taste.
His hand, hungry and of its own mind, slides past supple flesh; he squeezes only where her sighs come out with faint sounds of enticement – exploring where the deepest keening of her throat meet his own, whilst her own exploration tugs at his scalp and grasps sharply at his warm skin. Hunger and that deeper urge mix deliciously within the basest instincts of his manhood; though his hand pauses at the place where her skin changes, where the familiar ends and the sea wholly begins. Perhaps, days ago, he’d have recoiled at such a sensation – though the man he is now only feels wonder.
And so he pulls her closer, close enough to taste the brightness of her tongue, so cool and familiar in his memories of his bloodied flesh, so hungered and placant still. And when she pulls back, hardly enough to breathe, her forehead presses cool against his.
“You taste of fire,” she whispers, a trembling and insatiable thing.
A smile touches his mouth, and he imagines she can feel it all upon her own lips. “And you of salt.”
For the first time, she laughs against his mouth; and the sea, ancient and endless, carries the sound away.
JACAERYS IS NOT LOOKING WHEN THE WORLD RETURNS.
Indeed – as has become the quiet habit of these strange and borrowed days – his gaze has long since abandoned the horizon in favour of the creature beside him. The world has narrowed these days to a single pair of luminous eyes and a curve of shoulder which rises with the tide; to the silvered wake she leaves whenever she slips, laughing, beneath the glassy panes of water and vanishes into whatever hidden depths lie beneath the waves. He watches her instead, the compass by which all mornings begin and all nights fall.
Seamist sighs over the Narrow Sea in wandering veils, drifting along the horizon and stitching the heavens to the waters with threads of pearl; The sun has drowsily set itself an ascent, still seeping pale across the panes of water, when she grows suddenly still.
“What is it?” He inquires, voice still syrupy with the dredges of sleep. He lies upon the swollen and salt-rotted board, one arm draped lazily over the edge of the raft, fingers absently threaded through the cool silk of her hair so unable to ever fully dry from the cloying breath of sea.
She does not look at him, nor answer; a glossed gaze remains fixed upon the immeasurably distant horizon. Perhaps, if he were not drunk with the drowsiness of morning laze and early heat – if he’d not given up the hope of such sights days ago – he’d have turned and looked with her.
Only after so long a silence that he almost repeats himself do her lips part.
“Land.”
This, indeed, sobers the prince entirely. He rises at once, the raft pitching beneath him as he lurches quickly upon one knee. Fingers, still caught amongst her hair, loosen hurriedly lest he pull her with him; He shades his eyes against the low morning light.
Afar stretches the same rolling sea, thick with mist and silent as a phantom, that horrible blue which has swallowed days and weeks from his life. His eyes strain, a sharp sting of salt and sun, though still he soon makes it out.
It’s a far distant thing – far beyond the rolling waves, hardly more than a shadow painted against the morning; despite such meager an observation, Jacaerys lets out a breath through laced teeth. A miracle, a blessing answered by the gods who had watched him drown and then live in the same eve.
How many nights had he whispered it into darkness? When his fever burned, and the sea seemed endless, when the empty sky swallowed the empty sea and rocked him, lonely and stranded, in a cold nothingness.
Land.
For the first time in what could be weeks, or months – or perhaps merely some strange lifetime lived entirely between one sunrise and the next – Jacaerys feels the world opening again, yawning back into a wide berth of cliffs and coves and spine-ridges mountains, of valleys and lakes and beaches and forests.
And an odd thing passes him, then. Jacaerys has now lived so long suspended in this place, so far between water and sky, between continents, between worlds; how odd to remember a life, as though peeking into a jarred, seaside old bottle-scroll of another man’s dream.
When he lowers himself again, it is not the distant shore that once more first claims his attention.
She has drifted nearer without his noticing, borne gently upon the breathing swell until her face nears the side of the raft, a glint of silvery tendrils curling just beneath the sun-shattered surface. His boots, which lie at the end of the disintegrating raft, dry in the early morn; she leans a cheek drowsily upon the sun-warmed wood near his knees, and he has a mind to trace the soft curve of her there, that sweet expanse of skin. Though her words come before he might even think to lift his palm.
“I will bring you there.”
The words are gentle, and only after he takes time to study her face does he discern it: Shine glistens there, upon her cheeks – no seawater nor salted spray, but some pooling glisten of silvery glum. It pools there, clinging to her lashes for a final moment before it slips soundlessly along the delicate slope of her cheek, falling unto the weathered timber between them where it shines for one heartbeat before the thirsty wood drinks it away. Another follows, then another. She is crying.
The sight unmakes him.
Though not one to ever endure the tears of any woman so disheartened, this proves impossibly more grievous: This creature of the deep, born of sea and darkness, who he once believed belonged only in stories meant to frighten babes – weeps now with all the helplessness of any mortal girl. The tears which fall from her eyes catch the light of morning; pieces of the moon itself, dissolving upon her skin.
A man at his very core, his words come foolish, perhaps. “Why do you weep?” His hand rises to instinctively brush away the shining path glittering beneath her eye.
“It is foolish,” she murmurs, a thing so nearly human that Jace forgets himself; wrought, momentarily, with visions of some garden back on his Island, of curling tresses and sweet fruits and quiet whispers and gentle laughter.
“You’re no fool,” he insists with a whisper of her name, quiet as the waves coaxing them closer to that distant promise on the horizon. Jacaerys soothes beneath her eye as one rescues dew from the petal of a flower; his signet glinting upon his thumb though he possesses neither dragon nor kingdom here. Touch has grown familiar now, a thing he’s been gifted to explore for the better of four passed days together, natural as the sunrise.
“There are those who still wait for me,” he says quietly, a sprout of hope tugging at his chest at his own words; and though her visage remains sweet as the sunlight, lashes tangle and loosen a small wave of silvered sorrow onto the wood. He leans upon elbow now, so close he might feel her chilled breath upon his own lips. “My mother, m-my family, my people, my… my home.”
At this, her eyes flutter open, kind as she is understanding. “You belong to the land, Jacaerys.” her lips wilt with the beautiful breath of shared sorrow. “I have long known this.”
He, unable to help himself, searches her face; a twinge of desperation, that old thing, tugs within his chest. His eyes sting. “And you?”
A curious sadness enters her expression then, a flicker of some emotion Jacaerys thinks is, perhaps, not fully known to man. She says nothing again, and in this silence, his gaze flickers toward the scars that still cross her shoulder – though the wounds have begun to close beneath whatever strange grace lives within her blood, they remain angry against her skin.
The sea moves around them and it churns restless, unhappy; dangerous as the land in the distance, roving and hungry as those ancient creatures who lie in wait, far beneath. His lips part in a horrible fear. “Your sisters.”
At the flinch of her visage, he only cradles her further in his palm, tipping his face to find her gaze watery, silvered even in the breath of morning. His own gaze swims with tears. “Will they hurt you, for what you’ve done?”
Her gaze remains on his, and the reflection of them brings a small mirror of his own sorrow. “There will be no place beneath the water for me as there was before,” she breathes, as though exile is merely another current she must learn to swim against. “Though I knew this the moment I chose to take you.”
The words ache all through his marrow, coiling tenderly in the notches where once arrows had struck through him. She speaks of it as though kindness is a betrayal; some selfish thing instead of the most selfless thing a creature might ever do.
It is a horrible moment in which Jacaerys looks toward the distant shore, voice imbued once more with the memory of smoke and fire, of burning ships and dragons swooping from clouds. A lifetime, it seems, has passed.
He takes her hand, that webbed softness which boasts tender flesh and frilled wonders of silver, and when she takes him in kind, the feeling is still just as strange and wonderful as the first time he felt her under his palm.
“I cannot remain upon the sea forever,” he says. “There is a war waiting for me. A life.” The taste of salt upon his lip; in the distance, a swooping shadow dives toward the pane of sea, and Jacaerys sees the first gull he’s seen in days. “But..” he murmurs, and a faint smile touches his lips. “There could be a life waiting for you, too.”
There is some gleam in her eye, a terribly sad thing. Her cheek lifts from the wood to near his own visage, sweet and chilled by the breath though none the less warm in her unending kindness.
Her lips curve into a watery smile. “You promise impossible lives, Prince Jacaerys.”
“I promise the only one I possess.” He only pulls her closer, lifting her hand between both of his. "Dragonstone rises from the sea; Every stone of it knows the tide. If there is a place in this world where sea and fire have ever learned to live beside one another…” His smile, though weary and water-laced, has found him at last. “...Surely it is there.”
Hope is perhaps too dangerous a thing for a creature such as her to possess. He wonders, fleetingly, whether she has ever known it at all. She looks at him then, and he finds not hope within her gaze but something gentler, infinitely sadder: the aching desire to believe him, shining there with its silvery terrible nakedness. Very quietly, she asks, “And if the sea wishes for me back?”
Jacaerys rests his forehead against hers, and her skin carries with it the scent of salt and deep places untouched by sun. His own lashes flutter shut.
“Then it may ask.” A faint shake of his head, voice scarcely stirring the morning seabreeze. “It has taken enough from me.”
He feels the tremble of something across her lips; and then, before the shore can steal another heartbeat from them, she rises just enough for her lips to find his.
He turns instinctively to meet her, his mouth yielding beneath the cool sweetness of hers, tasting of salt and seafruits and sweet residual of those peculiar sweetwater shells. Her hand comes to rest against his chest, splayed lightly over the place where once an arrow had sought his heart; his own disappears into the silken weight of her hair, drawing her nearer. A sighing thing, the sea, as it lifts their joint mouths and sways Jacaerys closer still to the depths she hales. Wood sighs beneath their joint weight, small waves claiming its splintered sides; the morning is still, water softly hushing around them. There are no birds in the sky.
Jacaerys thinks, for a moment, that if the world were to end now, it would do so quite gently.
WHEN LAND FINALLY CLOSES AROUND THE RAFT, IT SWALLOWS THEM WITH A FUNEREAL QUIET.
In the very last stretch of current, spurred by both tide and whatever ethereal tail lies below her hips, the sea narrows gradually; great walls of black stone rise from either side as they float nearer to the shore, until the open world is swallowed behind them into a small opening, a breath of sunlight through the keyhole of some grand door. Jace sits upon the wreckage, watching the horizon as that endless breathing vastness that had carried them for so many days retreats into a distant strip of silver; When the land swallows the last of the abyssal sky, he is finally welcomed by the first breath of shaded light he has felt in what might be ages.
It is a balm to his being.
An old-born tyrant, weeks beneath the sun’s gaze has tanned and chapped him; Salt lives in every crease of him, wind has carved into his bones. A sigh of seeping shade crossing overhead, the looming shadows of the cliffs are cool, rich with the scent of stone and moss, and Jace draws a breath so deep it begins to ache in those places where the arrows once lived.
Passing into the mouth of a cave the size of a small ship, the rock shoots high overhead, blacker than any rock he’s yet to see in his three-and-twenty years; The slate slices sharp from the water, scarred and riddled with smaller caves whose mouths yawn open toward an emptier abyss further within the dark. Some are no larger than doorways, though others crack open high to the heavens, large enough to swallow entire fleets.
Jacaerys finds himself staring at their scars; the sea has gnawed these caves for a thousand years, and its teeth marks rake through sharp stone everywhere.
Soon, the cove opens around them, and the water becomes clear; and there, so close he could perhaps dive and swim to it, the water yields to a rocked edge of beach.
Breath catches within his throat; a stretch of black beach, soft as velvet to the eye for a slope which turns flat with slabbed black rocks, warmed by the breath of sun but cooled by the deep cavernous chill. Pools gather within them in fragments of captured sky; He looks into them and feels a tremendous relief.
It is only then, that his gaze falls upon the bones.
Lying strewn among the rocks is a whale’s skeleton, half-entombed, the great spine twisted through the stones; ribs arch upward in weather-worn curves, bleached white as old moonbone. The wind moves through them with a hollow music, a sound so mournful it brings shivers cascading down Jacaerys’ bare spine.
As they near the cove’s shore, there reveals more bones beyond the whale’s shattered being – and these are not the bones of beasts. With the creeping dread of a fever dream, the cave peels back its own skin: A skull half-buried in stone, empty sockets filled with shadow and crystallized salt; A yellowed hand thrust up through the earth, still crawling itself towards the spot of dripping sunlight from high above; Fragments of a spine tangled in driftwood and root. Jacaerys feels that cold thing so long past creep over his chest once more. Death has not passed through here and moved on; indeed, it has become one and the same with the cove – one with the rocks and caves and tide pools.
His breath only ceases entirely when he finds the skeleton laid beneath the nearest cavemouth. Ribs have been forced apart; shattered not by storm nor time but instead pried wide apart with care, a doorway of the corpse, a nest.
A gaze lies upon its mangled shape in horror as those same old stories of youth now rise in him like bile; His stomach tightens, mouth stuffed of cotton and pulse pounding within his chest.
Nearby – scattered among the rocks as though left by pilgrims or fools, lie offerings of silvered halfgroats and Tyroshi copper, greened with age; strings of fine stones dulled by salt, salt-rotted silk, fragments of pottery, even a rusted gilded dagger.
Jacaerys feels, once more, impossibly small upon the broken raft. How many men have stood where he stands now, trembling before the dark; How many had crossed black waters with pockets heavy from gold and bellies full of fear, believing that beauty might yet bargain with death?
With a flick of fear, his eyes shift to the glistening clear waters. Beside him still, she watches from the shallows, and he finds that she remains beautiful as the sea when it means to kill a man; floating in the clear waters, visage kissed from pearled ripples, entirely at home among the bones as though she has spent all her life here with the dead to keep her company. Perhaps she has.
Old as it is, still the fear returns to him, surging to his throat at the sight of the pried ribs, to the trail of finger-bones littering the nearest tidepool, to her. And, after all, Jacaerys is only a man.
“Are you going to eat me?” His voice calls out quiet, but in the wake of silence, it rebounds through the cave – a sonorous thing, not trembling though surely frightened the same: eat me, eat me, eat me. It falls dead after its repetition, laying to his expanse of bare back a cool whistle of breeze which sets the hair upon his nape on end.
Her eyes still in the water, as still as the day he first caught glimpse of her. What comes next is a minute shift; a fall of gaze, some learned softness drawing away as a crab takes to its shell, and the cove falls still. Even the water ceases, for a breath, its incessant lapping at the black-beached shore.
“The death of so many suns,” comes her voice at last; a thing scarcely louder than water finding a path along the sand. “And birth of so many moons.” Her eyes lift, and within those wisps of lashes, so sweet and salt-clinging, he finds only that very moon she speaks of, reflected so deep, so sharp and luminescent. “And still, you fear my mouth.”
Jacaerys opens his own to answer; though worse still is the breathless thievery of his chest – the lack of words which crawl to his throat yet remain perched upon his tongue. Words gather there, frightened birds against the bars of his ribs, yet refuse to fly – because he knows not what he might say.
For he has spent weeks dying in the water with her hands upon his skin, her voice in his ears, her lips upon his own; with her keeping breath inside his ruined body. And perhaps he could tell her that still, beneath all such tenderness, a frightened boy remains – that the songs of his childhood are carved too deeply into him; that men are weak creatures who inherit fear long before they inherit wisdom. Silence answers for him instead.
His gaze returns to her, then.
And he finds that here, in the lucid water of the cove, nothing is so softened by darkness; the sea renders her wholly to him now, silver scales glinting as hammered mail and stitched from both woman and abyss alike. Fins, a near translucent thing, taper along the delicacy of hips and fold in the current of a dreadful languor of tail; a strong shing, a terribly powerful thing which scatters ribbons of light across the cave walls as she shifts.
Her gaze rests upon him, so eternally unblinking, and a faint smile touches her mouth then – a smile made of frost and moonlight, beautiful and dangerous and far too sad to any longer be called kind. “I could have eaten you when your blood first touched the tide.”
The sea stirs around her hips as she shifts. Her gaze does not leave his own. “I could have eaten you when your fever took your senses and you hardly knew your own name, when all you could do was cry out in the dark.” Tresses curl, tendrils cloying towards the edge of the wood. “I could have eaten you when I drew the wounds from your flesh and cleaned your blood.”
Eyelashes burn as Jacaerys watches her, helplessly foolish to hois own nature; he traces how her visage shifts under the reflections of the shimmering waters.
“I could have eaten you when you first laid your mouth on mine.”
His breath catches in a shamed flush to his cheeks, for memory betrays him all at once: her laughter beneath the stars, the cool sweetness of her lips, the shy turn of a smile after a handful of shells were deposited upon his lap. That she should speak of it all now, with such resentful sorrow – a horrible emptiness within him gapes further.
“But you ask now,” eyes lift to him once more, moonlit and wounded even in the light of day. “even after I have done each kind thing you once praised of me?”
Regret coils ugly within him. He lurches toward the water without thinking, knees upstable upon the disintegrating salt-logged wood. “Wait,” he calls, hand outstretching in some boyish fit of desperation, as though command might counter the hurt he’d levied.
She only slinks away, velveted water swallowing more and more of her.
Sorrow, that horrible thing, falls deep within him at the sight. “Please.” The word breaks from him then, raw with a desperation he cannot hide; The cliffs catch it and throw it back at him once more in a hundred dying echoes – please, please, please – the cove lamenting his grief.
Her eyes shimmer with unspilled silver. “I know you do not wish to fear me.”
It is then that she lets herself fall back into the sea. Scarcely a small sigh of water; Jacaerys is helpless to himself as the dark swallows her, absorbing the shape of her glinting scales as completely as though she had never existed at all.
He is left quite alone.
Silence occupies not just the ear but his bones themselves; Jacaerys remains kneeling where she vanished for some time, a hand suspended foolishly above the water in hopes the tide might, struck by some late compassion, yet choose to return what it has taken from him. Water kisses the edges of his boots and the splintered ruin he floats upon, and only when the last warmth of day has wholly bled from the cliffs lining the mouth of the cove does he at last force himself to move.
His limbs, it seems, have long forgotten the labor of belonging to him; For weeks they had been sustained by the cool touch of her palms against burning skin in the dead of night – that curious miracle by which each waking day found him a little less dead than the evening before.
Rising upon his feet calls forth a strength he’s not attempted in what feels like true moons.
Boots sink into the black sand; Solid earth has haunted his prayers through endless nights upon the water, yet now it feels strangely faithless and wholly dead with its lack of sway and ease. He walks because standing still becomes unbearable in both his limbs and mind.
Slowly the prince wanders the little cove she had chosen for him. He threads first between the vast white arches of whale skeletons; then, fingertips drift across stone polished smooth by centuries of tides. Here and there the sea has driven whole ships into the stone, timber petrified into the bones of the earth; Human skulls peer from beds of mussels, seagrass growing through the hollows of their eyes; And yet nowhere among these countless things might he find the single thing he seeks.
In time, night paints the caves into a black mouth, moonlight catching to glow horribly upon saltbleached bones. Jacaerys could leave; There is land beneath his feet, a miracle for which he once would have traded kingdoms, and somewhere beyond these cliffs there must surely be roads or villages with harbors and living men.
He does not go.
Instead he returns to the water’s edge and lowers himself among the abyssal sand, and tells himself that he will wait only until morning, when either his siren returns or daylight might reveal some path for him inland. He makes no fire, for the darkness feels less lonely when it remains unbroken; hips upon land and back against sharp rock, Jacaerys stares at the shifting current with broken regret.
And when dawn finally begins to silver the eastern rim of the cave, washing the black water pale as beaten steel once more, bleeding with that softened lilac, Jacaerys is still there, watching with sunscorched eyes for any hint of silver within the waves.
JACAERYS WAKES TO COLD.
No chill which lives in the memory of his bones – not that of blood seeping from a dying body; he wakes to the roll of the frigid tide reaching calves, just where he’d collapsed upon the sand. Water laps over his boots and retreats again, a chilled thing as eyelashes unlace themselves from their salted hold upon his consciousness.
For several breaths he reposes where he is, suspended in that memory of sleep and waking. A turn of head, pressing cheek to softened volcanic sand; and then his eyes open in memory, a lurch of disorientation at the sensation of land beneath him.
What he finds, instead, are eyes.
They are waiting for him from beyond the dark shelf of rock where the cove deepens suddenly into black water, faintly luminous now beneath the gentling dawn. He is struck with such immense relief that he laughs before he knows he has done so.
He croaks out her name, carrying with it all the lonely hours of the night between them as he rises swiftly, stiffness of limb protesting with the neglection of weeks upon the raft. His balance falters upon the uneven stones, though he crosses the cove as swiftly as the gods allow, ducking through whale ribs to where she waits where the black stone falls sheer into fathomless water, only her shoulders and head above the tide, hair spreading behind her.
Jacaerys lowers himself carefully onto the warm volcanic rock, stretching close so he might lie upon his stomach along its edge, one arm hanging over the precipice towards her watchful countenance. The tide slips lazily between her tresses, coiling shyly.
“I was cruel.” He murmurs, gentler than the lick of tide which coaxed him awake though the words scrape against his throat. “I have no excuse.”
She studies him without expression, unsettling enough that he cannot tell whether she means to forgive him or leave him once more.
“I am so sorry,” he whispers, one last offering cast into the cove alongside the coins and daggers and futile silks of drowned things long past. Nothing answers him but the crashing wave, coaxing the glint of purpled crabs alongside the underbelly of his rock.
Only then does her arm emerge from the water; with an upward reach, she glances up at him – and there he finds a bewildered heartbeat of hope that she might touch him again. Instead, her fingers unfold; in the glint of morning glare, Jacaerys blinks upon her palm, leaning further once more to find there, resting in the center, something shining.
A pearl, fresh and small enough to disappear beneath his thumb. Morning gathers itself there upon its surface, a stolen captured piece of dawn pale as milk and luminous as mist-laced moon.
Lashes flicker momentarily as the breath catches within his chest, a small laugh of absurd affection rising sweet and sharp in his throat as his eyes burn with emotion.
Hesitation sits so strangely upon so beautiful a creature; her eyes glisten with those silvery tears, too, as her lip trembles. Her voice comes between pressed lips, a rather bashful countenance among the waves. “I wished to bring you one before you left me.”
Her palm, he registers, trembles with the small thing, a glinting haze of the cave; affection burns bright through him as Jacaerys takes her palm with his own, closing her fingers gently around the pearl.
“I don’t wish to leave you,” he says instead, and the confession comes before pride can catch it, before the careful walls built by a lifetime of crowns and expectations can remind him that princes are not meant to plead with the sea. His fingers remain around hers, warm against the strange coolness of her skin, the pearl hidden between their palms as though they have together captured some tiny fragment of the moon itself. “I wish to stay with you,” he whispers wetly.
Her eyes swim just as the ancient, beautiful tail of shimmering silver does beneath the waves; currents curl and fold, and she remains utterly quiet for one moment, hand trembling within his own. Her gaze lowers briefly to the pearl still enclosed between them, then lifts again.
“The place you spoke of,” her voice ripples along the whisper of the tide. “The stoned castle that watches the sea, the home you say waits for you beside the water.” A lip trembles before it is speared with sharpened, pearled teeth. “You would truly bring me there?”
Dragonstone. He thinks of black towers rising from volcanic earth and halls warmed by fire, his mother’s chambers and dragons circling above cliffs where the wind wails.
“Yes,” he says, lacking any such hesitation of a prince with the duty of war still looming upon his back. “I meant it. Truly.”
Something changes in her face then, though still he leans closer, lowering himself further over the stone until the water nearly reaches his bared visage, nearly kisses his chest. But before he might let his body follow that burning instinct of his heart to slip into the water after her, her hand slips from his own to disappear into the water.
The pearl lies in his own palm; He watches her once more leave him.
“Wait,” his voice tapers, though his disconcertion grows so completely that he remains frozen upon the rock, watching as the sea carries her not away this time, but instead towards the shore.
It is only once she reaches the sand, long taloned things grasping in wounds through the dark, that the prince snaps upwards, heartbeat thundering upon his throat. A grieving veil, the dark water shifts and folds along her body, so unwilling to surrender what it has kept for longer than most men have had names for their gods; glassy folds climb her skin and slip over the silvering scales which remain among her sun-breathed skin.
The unnatural grace begins in a wail of tide; a large crash of seafoam submerges Jace, his lungs filled once more with burning salt and unforgiving sting; when he surges to, upon his knees against sharp rock, he hears it: a wailing horror, splintered as shards of bone snap against echoing cave walls. His siren screams.
Salt slides in drips from his vision, though still he finds the horror, a darkened sea of shimmering deep – no color of mortal blood, but perhaps an open vein in the ocean itself which spills a piece of its darkness upon the sand.
The stories return once more of the she-creatures coming to land to nest; and, for the first time, the sound that leaver her is not some haunting sweetness meant to lure men closer.
It is sheer agony, and it jolts him to action quicker than any war bell.
Screams echo through the cavern, horrible and dragging; and hands catch the sharp of rock as Jacaerys descends, a scrambling desperation of fear as his knees strike the cold sand and stumble twice. The strength that has carried this far was never his own; it has always belonged to her and the breath she gave him, the kindness of a creature he once feared. Now, he spends what remains of it reaching her.
He rears the largest rock just as the last of the blooded dark water retreats; waking itself only in foam and silver upon the shore.
And just there: His siren lies still upon the sand.
Upon reaching her, he falls to his knees. He finds, in trembling breaths, the sea’s remains upon her: laces of that old magic, shimmering scales along her skin; a strange elegance to her form, a brightness reflecting in her gaze, so akin to mother-of-pearl.
She is no ordinary woman, but his woman.
A trembling palm rises to brush away the remnants of foam and weeded sea, clinging to her as a dying man might his lover; and she only meets his own watery gaze, a small puff of air passing her lips. “I told you, I wished for you to come in.”
The words undo him, loosing a laugh helpless in its wonder and grief, watery in bewilderment. Glossed lips curl, that same old glimmer in her eyes as she whispers next: “I suppose I once again had to come to you instead.”
A hitch of his breath, swallowed in a rush of thrill as a palm comes to cup his own jaw, soothing as fingers spread along the curve of his cheek. “My prince of the sky,” she chides, her eyes carrying pools of the very same, that broke-open expanse of light high above the cavernous dark. Fingers brush away his salt-laced curls.
He gathers her to him wholly, and she comes so very willingly, no longer divided by anything so distant and unknowable as the sea.
A simple miracle; for she is warming, a living thing against him, breath trembling and falling in ripples of warmth along the bare of his shouldered back. Here she is, in his arms.
Jacaerys presses his face against damp tresses and closes his eyes, overcome by the strangeness of the world having allowed such a thing to happen; and she in turn tightens her grasp round him in a gesture so truly human that it nearly brings the sting of tears to eye. The cove roars louder now, perhaps distraught with its loss; the water thunders along their bared legs, and at length, Jacaerys slowly pulls back.
Slow, his gaze drops to her legs – the unfamiliar grace of twitching tissue and flesh and muscle and bone beneath the morning light; concern touches his heart and perhaps, too, his visage.
“Do they hurt?” he asks softly, tipping his head to catch her eyes. “Your legs.”
She looks down as though considering a question yet to be occurred within her mind; and then at length, she lifts one supple foot and nudges his side with a shy, almost playful firmness. A gesture moves through him, lips curling in a gentle affection at her nudge.
“I have had them before,” she reminds him then, in hint of faint pride and amusement. He only smiles, no longer afraid of what she has been before him, what she is. For she is his, too – and he, hers.
“Does it feel the same?” he wonders, gaze lingering over each sweet part of her, so real upon the shore.
For the first time since she came ashore, she falters nearly unconfident; a startling transformation which renders Jacaerys marveled at such bashfulness. Her gaze slips away from his, and when she answers, her voice is barely above the whisper of the tide.
“No,” she hums, a small thing; and her fingers tighten faintly against his bared shoulder, nails blunt but sharp still. He can see how warmth touches her cheeks, how her lip catches upon sharp teeth. “This… feels far better.”
Jacaerys smiles then, a hand falling tenderly upon her face. A thumb brushes the dampness at her cheekbone, the silver traces still glimmering there like moonlight caught so stark against the real nature of her skin.
And then he kisses her, slow as fate; a warmed mouth lingers against hers, patient and gentle, her hands rise to his back solidly to grasp at his warm flesh; the sea groans behind them, and the wind howls through the bones along the shore.
Her breath catches when his hand slides to the sides of her – and he feels the shiver that passes through her then, not of fear but of sensation, an old recognition of something newly awakened. It answers in him at once, too, so low and bright and aching.
She leans closer once more, and he meets her there.
The kiss deepens unhurried and tender; fingers curl in the muscle of his back, his own palm reaching the strange, living warmth of her skin, the quickening pulse there, the breath of her body now made real in his world. When she makes a small sound against his mouth, soft and startled by her own response, he draws back only enough to look at her. Her eyes are wide in a dawning tide of astonishment, swimming with the same heated thing that kisses across that sweet skin which once never knew the true touch of warmth.
Jacaerys rests his forehead against hers and smiles, his own breath uneven now, his heart no calmer than her own within their beating cages. “Are you alright?” he murmurs.
Her answer is to kiss him first. Jacaerys makes a low sound against her mouth and gathers her closer once more, one hand at the nape of her neck, the other spreading along her waist, feeling the tremor there as though her body is remembering itself once more upon land. It is a sweet thing, a tangle of tongues languid, enough to perhaps remind her that tenderness can be just as fierce as hunger.
She moves against him with a wonder that undoes him; She has known desire, he can see that in the way she breathes, in the way her fingers tighten at his shoulders, in the bright, startled heat of her gaze, the memory of muscles when he shifts to press himself hard along the line of her own wanting body. Indeed, she is not one who hesitates; She knows the language of wanting better than he does, and he is not ashamed to learn from her now.
When he draws away only enough to look at her, her lips are parted, her eyes dark with a confusion that is almost pain.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says softly, the words trembling with nerves that guide her closer to him still. “T-tell me if you do not want this, please.”
Her hand rises to his face, and the touch warms across him, spreading down trembling throat and quivering chest, far lower, igniting some spark within him.
Her thumb brushes his mouth, and there is a smile which graces across her own. “I want,” she says, and the ocean crashes itself against their shore, folding over their hips as though it, too, wants.
He swallows, his body already hard with his own wanting; his voice comes lower, hungry for the sweet softness beneath his palms. “What do you want?”
Her gaze holds his. “You,” she says, helpless to the unnatural flow of tresses which still seem to float gently round her beauty even left of the tide. “Only you, Jacaerys.”
Eyes shut for a heartbeat, if only in effort to steady himself; and when they open she still watches him in that patient, unsettling way.
“Please, let me be careful with you,” he whispers, nearly desperate. She only nods, so ethereal under the breath of faraway sunlight, and her words come in the same tremble of needed breath. “Let us learn of each other.”
And so he leads her from the waterline of the softer black sand and up where the dawn has begun to warm the flatter, kinder stones. And there, beneath the pale opening sky, he eases the salt and cold from them both.
Fabric, fear, distance - one by one they fall away from their entwined forms until there is nothing left between them but breath and the bright, trembling ache of wanting. He lays her down with care, and when he follows her onto the sand, his mouth finds her throat first, then the hollow beneath her ear, then the place where her pulse leaps beneath the skin. She arches into him at once, a soft gasp breaking from her when his hand slides over her waist, then lower, learning her with a cruel patience.
“Jacaerys,” she breathes, a plea, a praise which makes him shudder. He answers only by kissing her harder, one hand threading through her hair, the other braced beside her head as he lowers himself over her. Her fingers clutch at his shoulders, then rake along his back, unsure whether to pull him closer or hold herself steady; He gives her both – indeed, he gives her everything he can.
His mouth moves over hers, then down again, tasting salt and warmth and the faint sweetness of her breath, ghosting over the tantalizing flush of skin upon her breast, teeth scraping only softly. When she trembles, he stills at once, looking upon her with salt-kissed lashes. “Too much?” he inquires gently.
Her eyes are dark, her lips swollen from his kisses, and she looks nearly frenzied at the though of ceasing.
“No.” The answer is breathlessly hungry and he smiles against her skin, slower now only because he wants her to feel every stroke of his hands, every tendered bite of teeth, every careful press of his body against hers. Her hips lift to meet him; it sends a sharp pulse of heat through him which coaxes a soft groan, lost to the plush of her skin, and she startles – perhaps at the effect she has on him.
“Again,” he begs, guiding her with his hands though his lips leave their marks upon silver flakes along her skin.
She moves once more; the black sand clings to their skin and the morning wind cools the sweat at their backs.
And when he finally joins her, it is with a groan that feels torn from somewhere deep in his chest; she tightens around him in a surprised thing, melting into wanting, then wholly his in that moment. He pauses only long enough to look at her, to make sure she is with him; and when she nods, brow knit with a pleasured desperation, with her fingers digging into his shoulders and drawing half-moons of red, he presses into her warmth nearer to worship than any prayer that’s ever left his lips.
First, with the wash of waves, it is a slow thing of breaths and shaking laughter and trembling moans – though it grows deeper, growing a heat that builds and builds until the air between them seems to crackle with it, until his pleasure rolls over him in heavy immense pressure, until her own gasps sharpen and their fingers fall, entwined together, to find the spot upon her which coaxes her eyes back in ecstasy.
Her head falls back against the sand and lips part upon a sound that is half-gasp, half-plea. He drinks the song, kisses the line of her throat, the curve of her breast; finger turn, pressing gently in a caress along the trembling place where her body meets his, and each touch draws another shiver from her. She is beautiful like this, so flushed and undone by pleasure and trust alike; the sight of her makes him impossibly harder still, makes him want to give her everything, makes him want to keep her here in this moment forever or keep her upon a throne or wherever she might wish to be.
“Look at me,” he begs, a broken sound.
And the sight of her eyes on his, dark and dazed and full of him, is enough to make him lose the last of his restraint. He moves with a steadier rhythm then, one hand at her hip, the other braced beside her head, grasping along the smooth rock, his mouth returning to hers whenever he can bear to leave her skin. She meets him with such growing fervor, hands roaming, learning the planes of his muscled back, the line of his jaw, the taper of his hips, the damp hair at his temples.
Pleasure gathers tighter and tighter between them; The sea roars in the sonorous echo of two exiles making a home of one another. It is only then, as she pulls his chest upon hers and lets out a soft tremble of sigh, that they find the peak of their ecstasy in harmony.
It rolls within him as tide turns stones upon the shore – sun-drenches and ebbing, his pleasure tumbles, his groan falls into a taper of her name, or that which his tongue can form; and she, in turn, with trembling legs and wettened eyes, smiling at the bewilderment of such earthly delights. When he comes to lie beside her, when their sweat and sand-laced skin sticks gently to one another in a lazy, sweet whispering sigh of exhaustion, her eyes meet his once more.
A shared laugh, one of relief and bubbled affection, curls around their small cove. It is not untouched by grief, nor lacking in the gods’ cruelty – though it drifts out still across the water, and echoes only in sweetness as their foreheads press.
And when at last he draws her down with him, when the last of the morning light spills over them and the cove becomes all hush and salt and the soft ruin of restraint, it is not hunger that remains between them but love – deep, astonished, and newly named.
For some time, the waves come and go.
It is when the sun fully glints through the clear tidepools that his siren rises, and offers her palm. When they gather themselves from the rocks and sand, pearl stowed within the pocket of battered sunbleached riding leathers, Jacaerys finds pieces of old silks among the bones; he wraps her in them, a first garment for a woman who crossed from one world to another.
She laughs when he fusses over the tie of her new dressing, attempting in gentle adjustments to ensure it bothers not the scars which still stretch across her shoulder; the sound of her laughter follows them as they move away from the shore.
The path upward out of the cove is narrow and ancient, carved through stone by years of rain and wind and the endless pummel of waves. They walk slowly, dually unsteady beneath the unfamiliar weight of land, rendering both their bodies unsure; for once, neither belonging to this world but both traversing it, sharing in stumbles and laughs and small conversation.
At the top of the path sunlight finds their skin, and the world opens; horizon stretches wide before them so endless. In the breath of the world once more around him, grief and death melt; water dries upon warm skin and his siren lets out a breath of shock, of wonder. Jacaerys holds her palm as her other runs over the tall wildgrass swaying around them in a tide of seabreeze, holds her tightly as she throws her arms round him with bubbling laughter.
It is only then that the shadow passes in the distance. His breath catches, her own coming only a moment later; For far along the coast, beyond the cliffs and the rolling sea mist, something enormous moves through the sky, massed and raining shadow upon the earth. Even at a distance, even as only a shape against the morning for, he knows.
He remembers the curve of the wings and the weathered roar even before it meets their ears; knows the glint of faint gold and rubied heart along the breast of the great beast as he knows the back of his palm.
His mother’s dragon.
And so together, with splintered breaths and wettened eyes, hand in hand, Jacaerys and the siren run toward the shadows in the distance, unaware of the rising smoke and distant screams beneath it.
whew! that was long
requests open.
starting new taglist; pls lmk if you'd like to be on it.
masterlist
Since my stewpid ass accidentally posted it and then panic-deleted it instead of just saving it as a draft… 👩🏻🦯😭
It does get a little spicy toward the end 😏 And fair warning, my lingerie descriptions are absolute garbage, so I included some links to help with the visuals in case my rambling doesn’t make any sense 🥹💀
Once more, enjoy?? 😭
Jace had been in a good mood since breakfast.
You could tell because he kept humming under his breath in the car, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, thumb moving in slow absent circles over the seam of your jeans. He'd asked, somewhere between the second and third traffic light, if you wanted to go anywhere in particular. You'd said yes. He'd said okay and that’s how you found yourself at the mall.
The first stop was a skincare counter on the ground floor of the department store, all white marble and lights so bright they made the sales associate's eyeliner pop. You picked up a small glass bottle of serum, turned it over, tried to read the price sticker on the bottom but Jace slid it out of your hand before your eyes could focus.
"Do you want it," he said. Not a question the way most people ask questions. Flat, already halfway to yes.
"I was just looking."
"Do you want it."
You made a face at him. He put it on the counter next to the moisturizer he'd already added, and a cleanser, and a little tub of something you'd sniffed and put back that had apparently offended him by being returned to the shelf. The card came out of his wallet before the woman at the register had finished totaling. Matte black, his name etched in silver, that dumb little dragon sigil embossed in the corner. He handed it over without looking at the screen.
"Sir, would you like the receipt in the bag or-"
"Bag's fine. Thanks."
He tucked the card back into his wallet, took the paper handles from her, and looped them over his wrist. You had opened your mouth to say something about the total and he was already walking, herding you gently toward the escalator with a hand at the small of your back shushing you.
By the second store he had four bags. By the fourth he had eight, plus a coffee for you balanced improbably in his free hand, along with your jacket over his forearm because you'd said you were warm and he'd taken it off you without comment. He looked ridiculous and yet he looked pleased about it. Every time you turned to him with something new to consider, some sweater or a pair of earrings, his face did the same thing: a small twitch at the corner of the mouth, one eyebrow going up, the head tilt that meant and?
"You don't have to buy everything I touch."
"Mhm."
"Jace."
"Mm."
"I'm serious."
"I heard you."
He was scrolling through something on his phone by then, screen tilted away from you, the pad of his thumb dragging along the glass in that lazy way he had when he was half-reading and half-waiting. Some email, probably from his mother. The bags rustled at his hip. You slipped a matte lipstick from a display into his hand and he put it in the pile without looking up.
You had, at that point, developed a small idea.
The next storefront was tucked between a shoe boutique and a place that sold overpriced candles. Blush pink signage in a curling script, a mannequin in the window wearing something that was mostly ribbon and lace. The name above the door read Realms Delight in soft gold lettering, and beneath it, in smaller print, the tagline the marketing team had apparently gotten paid actual money to write: for every princess in the seven kingdoms, and the one who spoils her. (Consider this kings landing version of Victoria’s Secret🥴)
Truly, whoever came up with that deserved to be fired and hired again on the spot. You steered him inside and Jace followed without checking, thumb still moving across the screen.
Then he looked up.
The color that appeared on his face happened in stages. First a blink, slow, the kind you do when your brain refuses the visual for a half-second. Then a stiffening at the shoulders. Then heat rolling up his throat from beneath his collar, past the line of his jaw, into his cheeks and the tops of his ears. He looked at the pink walls, looked at the pale wood display tables piled with folded silk and then at a mannequin wearing a black harness of some description over a lace bralette and finally looked at you.
"Sweets."
"Yes?"
"Where are we."
"Shopping."
He inhaled through his nose. The bags in his hands crinkled as his grip tightened.
"I'll wait outside," the words leaving his mouth quickly. "Like a normal person. I'll wait outside. That's what boyfriends and Husbands- Whoever- That's the convention. That's the accepted-"
"Jace."
"There's a bench. I saw a bench."
"Jaceeee." You caught his sleeve. "The shop's empty. Look."
He looked. It was, aside from a woman in a silk blouse folding thongs at the back counter and another arranging robes on a rack near the fitting rooms. Neither of them had glanced up. You could hear the hum of the overhead speakers playing something soft and instrumental, and past that, faint traffic from the street outside, and somewhere in the ceiling a vent breathing cool air onto the back of your neck.
"I need your opinion," you said.
His jaw worked. He glanced at the floor once more, then he looked at you and away again, because looking at you here apparently constituted a moral hazard.
"Please."
He exhaled the exhale of a man who had, over the course of two years, learned that this particular please was not one he was equipped to refuse.
"Fine."
You pointed him toward the little seating area outside the dressing rooms. He walked over there with the stiff dignified gait of a hostage being escorted to a photo op, arranged himself on the velvet sofa, set the bags neatly beside his feet, put his hands on his knees, and fixed his gaze on a tile of the floor about three feet in front of him. He looked like a man attending a funeral for his own reputation.
You bit the inside of your cheek and went to browse.
The first set you picked up was practical. A cotton T-shirt bra in nude, with matching briefs, something you'd actually come in for and would actually wear beneath every other piece of clothing in your life. You carried it to the fitting room, gave Jace a small pat on the shoulder as you passed, and disappeared behind the curtain.
Inside the little booth the light was warmer than out on the shop floor. There was a mirror on each wall and a small hook and a padded stool, and the faint smell of clean fabric and lavender from whatever sachet the store hung in the vents. You changed. You looked at yourself. You looked fine. Bra fit. Briefs fit. You could have walked back out and shown him and been done in ninety seconds.
You peeked through the curtain instead.
Jace hadn't moved. His posture was so straight it looked painful. His hands were still on his knees, eyes were still on the floor. Occasionally his throat moved when he swallowed. He looked like a very handsome garden statue.
Something wicked settled behind your ribs.
You pulled the curtain closed, put your own clothes back on over the plain set, and slipped out of the fitting room past him.
"Stay right there," you said.
"Where are you going."
"Shopping. Stay."
He made a noise but you were already gone.
Gods, what did I do in a past life, he thought, watching you disappear between the racks. Which of my ancestors did what, and to whom.
The rack you found first was the good rack. The pieces you had never in your life purchased for yourself because you had never had a reason to justify the cost. You ran your fingers over silk and lace. You found a slip in a deep crimson that looked, on the hanger, like something out of a painting, and you carried it back to the dressing room over your arm along with two other things and a small mischief you were not going to explain to anyone.
Jace looked up as you passed. His eyes tracked what you were carrying. His face did a very small, very telling thing.
You winked.
He looked back at the floor with renewed intensity.
Behind the curtain you shed everything and pulled the slip on carefully, one strap and then the other, feeding the delicate lace up over your thighs. The satin was cool against your skin at first and warmed quickly. The bodice cupped you close, structured seams running up along your ribs, sheer mesh panels between them so that the shape of you underneath became a suggestion the fabric only half-kept. The neckline sat low, gathered lace framing the top of your chest, tiny rosettes stitched at the center. Below the corseted bodice the chiffon skirt fell in weightless folds to the middle of your thighs, its scalloped hem brushing your skin every time you shifted your weight. Ribbon ties trailed at each hip. The crimson caught the light and looked, in the fitting room mirror, like something you'd stolen.
You turned to check the back and remembered, conveniently, that the clasp needed help.
"Jace."
Silence.
"Jaceeee."
A cough. "Yes."
"I need help with the back."
"You can't reach it?"
"No."
"There's no-" A pause. You could practically hear him rubbing his face. "There's no attendant?"
“Do you see anyone around here?"
Another silence. Then the soft sound of him standing, and his footsteps coming across the tile, the pause outside the curtain during which you knew he was doing whatever calming breathing his father had taught him for board meetings.
He pushed the curtain open just enough that his head and shoulders and one arm came through. The rest of him stayed firmly on the other side, as though the threshold were a legal boundary.
"Where's the-"
He saw you in the mirror.
The sound that came out of him was small and mostly involuntary, a soft catch of breath that he tried to swallow and could not quite manage. His eyes moved without his permission. Down the sheer panels at your ribs, across the shadow of your nipples where they poked through the fabric, over the curve of your waist, down the chiffon to the strip of thigh below the hem. His Adam's apple moved once and he looked at your face in the reflection and then, when your eyes met his there, he looked at the ceiling like a man being tested by his gods.
"The clasp," you said sweetly.
His fingers came up to the small of your back. They were warm. Slightly unsteady. He hooked the clasp on the first try, which honestly was disappointing of him, and his knuckles brushed your spine as he let his hand fall.
"What do you think?"
He looked back at the mirror because you asked him to. He wet his lower lip. When he spoke his voice had gone low and slightly rough, the way it did when he'd just woken up.
"You look breathtaking, love."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
His eyes flickered again, down the length of you and back up.
"What's this about, though."
You shrugged one shoulder. The strap slid a little. His gaze followed it.
"I want to look pretty for you like this sometimes. That's all."
He was quiet for a beat. Then he leaned in through the gap in the curtain, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck, and pressed his mouth just under your ear. Not a kiss you could call innocent but not a kiss you could label anything else, either. Warm lips, the faintest edge of teeth, then his voice against your skin.
"You're always pretty for me, love."
He then pulled back. His hand lingered on your jaw a second longer than it needed to as he stepped out through the curtain and let it fall closed behind him.
You stood there in the crimson for a long moment listening to him settle back onto the velvet sofa. You could hear his exhale from here.
You smiled at yourself in the mirror.
Oh, you thought. No. We're doing this.
The second piece you tried came out of the box with the reverence of an heirloom. Ivory lace, so pale it looked almost like unbleached linen against your skin. The balconette cups sat low, lightly structured, embroidered all over with tiny flowers that you could feel more than see, scalloped edges tracing along the neckline. A row of pearl buttons ran down the center between the cups, sitting on a panel of sheer lace. Shoulder straps so thin they almost disappeared. The matching high-waisted briefs came up to sit at your natural waist, the same floral lace, scalloped edges at the leg openings, and small cutouts at each hip that showed off the curve of the bone underneath.
The pearl strand was a piece that came with the set. You draped it low around your hips, letting it settle over the waistband like jewelry someone's grandmother might have worn to be scandalous.
Everything about it looked delicate. Everything about you in it did not.
"Jace."
He came without being asked twice this time. His face appeared in the gap of the curtain, and this time he didn't pretend to look for the clasp. His eyes went to the pearls first, then up to your face and slowly, back down.
You hooked one finger under the waistband of the briefs and let it snap softly back against your skin. You watched his jaw tense.
"What do you think?"
"I think-" he started.
You turned around, slowly. Let him see the back. The lace over your ass. The strand of pearls around your hips. You looked at him over your shoulder.
"Hm?"
You caught it in the mirror. The line of his trousers where they should have been flat and where they very much were not. The way his weight shifted, and the way one of his hands drifted from the curtain down to adjust himself before he caught himself doing it and put the hand back on the fabric.
"Oh," you said. "Oho. Did Jace Jr. decide to join us."
"Love- please."
"He looks excited."
"You are going to get us kicked out."
"How? We're just shopping."
"You are shopping."
"That's what I said."
"Come on, sweets. Let's just go home."
You pouted at him in the mirror. You watched his eyes drop to your mouth and back up.
"Patience. I have one more."
He shook his head slowly. Not a no. More like a man trying to physically dislodge his own thoughts. He backed out of the curtain, and you heard him make his way back to the sofa, and you heard, very faintly, the sound of him adjusting his trousers before he sat down.
You waited until you were sure he was seated before you started laughing quietly into your hand.
The third piece was the one you had been saving to be absolutely mean.
It came off the hanger heavier than it looked. A bodysuit, corset-inspired, the mesh so sheer it wasn't really mesh so much as a suggestion of fabric held together by embroidery. Pale blush pink, embroidered from bust to hip with clusters of pink blossoms and thin green vines that climbed the boning channels in soft curling lines. Satin piping ran along every seam. The cups were sweetheart-shaped, softly padded but not enough to hide anything, and above them the embroidery gave way to a straight line of sheer mesh that stopped just below your collarbones. Satin ribbons tied at each shoulder in loose bows. Larger ribbons bloomed at each hip like something out of a doll's dress. The bottom half was cut high on the thigh, mesh framed by satin trim, and the mesh at the front hid absolutely nothing.
You could see yourself through it. Every inch. The intimate spot between your thighs. The shape of your nipples pressed against the embroidery. The faint pink flush that had started somewhere at the base of your throat and was creeping down.
You tied the shoulder ribbons yourself and took a small breathe before-
"Jace."
You expected the shuffle and the sigh and the head-through-the-curtain routine.
What you got instead was silence for a beat too long, and then the soft controlled sound of him standing up, and then his footsteps, and then the curtain being pushed aside just enough for him to look at you fully.
Whatever you had planned to say slid backwards down your throat and died there.
He wasn't avoiding your gaze anymore.
His eyes moved down your body once, slowly, like he was cataloguing every inch of the embroidery and every inch of what it wasn't covering. When he reached your feet he came back up just as slowly. When his eyes met yours in the mirror they were dark, pupils blown wide, and his tongue was poking against the inside of his cheek, his chest was moving with a slow deliberate rhythm that meant he was counting his own breaths.
You tried to smile.
"Jace-"
He glanced backwards. Over his shoulder, out through the shop, at the empty aisles and the woman at the counter still on her phone and the other associate who had wandered into the back room. He measured the space with a look. Then he stepped forward, into the fitting room, and let the curtain fall closed behind him.
The space was small. He filled it.
"Jace, what are you-"
His mouth was on yours before you finished. Not soft, his hands came up and caught your wrists and pinned them to the wall on either side of your head as he pressed his whole body flush against yours and kissed you like he'd been holding it in for the past 20 minutes or so, all tongue and heat, wet at the corners, teeth catching your lower lip once and letting go. Your back hit the wall. The mirror was cool against your shoulder blade where the mesh didn't cover. He tasted like the coffee he’d bought mixed with the mint gum he'd chewed after.
He rolled his hips against yours. Slowly and deliberately and you could feel him through his trousers, hard against your hip, the friction of the satin between your legs pressed against you in a way that made your knees almost give out.
He pulled back an inch. Just enough to look at you.
His eyes dropped between your bodies. He looked at the front of the bodysuit. He looked at the small dark patch that had bloomed on the satin gusset in the last thirty seconds, wet enough to shine faintly under the fitting room lights.
He groaned, quiet but Deep, the noise coming from somewhere deep.
“Fuck," he says quietly. Then, closer to your ear, "Listen, love. Listen to me. The absolute last thing I want is to end up in some tabloid, drag the family name through the mud like my uncle Aegon. So here's what you're going to do."
His thumb traces your bottom lip. Your wrists are still above your head. You couldn't move them if you tried.
"You're going to change, quickly. And I'm going to buy every single thing you tried on today. And when we get home I am going to tear each of them off you. Okay?"
Your head is buzzing. Your knees are somewhere on the floor, metaphorically. You nod.
"Say it, sweets."
"Okay."
He kisses you once more, softer this time, almost apologetic. Releases your wrists and steps back. Adjusts himself with a wince and pushes his hair off his forehead, and by the time he sweeps the curtain aside and walks out toward the register he looks like a functional adult human being again.
You slide down the mirror until you're sitting on the little bench, still in the blush mesh, cheeks hot, thighs pressed together, one bow already coming untied at your shoulder.
You distantly heard his voice at the counter, and the polite murmur of the associate, and the beep of the card reader.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, the lipstick was almost gone, hair loose from where he'd pinned your head to the wall and your legs were shaking. The wet patch at the front of the bodysuit had gotten worse.
You reached back for the ribbon on your shoulder with fingers that wouldn't quite cooperate, and started, very slowly, to change.
jacaerys velaryon x fem!stark!reader
words: 9.5k
requested: yessynopsis: “it is rather custom to marry within the bloodline,” jacaerys admits, hesitating, “but there are other duties,” he murmurs, “–ones that even the Gods cannot ignore.” notes: thank you to the anon who requested this, it was months and months ago <3 i found this written and dusty in my drafts and realized how much i liked the concept of it so i finished it up, changed up a lot of plot (sry). peace & love (thinking abt when @softspiderling said that cregan & r had chemistry in this fic. fuck you)
warnings: canon-typical marriage betrothals. something something heavy belief in the divine right of kings (cringe!), jace is so in love again guys, fluff and flirting, feelings of anxiety & worry, heavy on politics and the targaryen prophecy. doubts of magic and light religious tones. kissing.
requests closed.
masterlist.
THE CRYPTS BELOW WINTERFELL ECHO WITH FOOTFALL.
A dripping thing, echoing through low ceiling and sliding over stoned walls; your pace moves slow, measured.
Aboveground yields a morning snow; it is no harvest season, yet you worry so of the rime which curls its way over the tender shoots of crop; kissing a delicate crust atop glacial lakes in the near distance, lining the roofs across Winter Town.
Down below such crust of earth, the crypt holds no true warmth, instead boasting a rather eerie silence; though you’ve always felt drawn to such quietude in certain times – moments punctuated only by the rustle of fur cloaks, the steady drip of tallow wax candles that burn beneath the proud visages of ancient stone.
A gentle sigh escapes your lips.
Your breath, barely visible in the cold, dissipates like a whisper of a cloak around a corner; The man beside you paces with deliberate slowness, though still his long strides force you to quicken your own.
A familiar rhythm from childhood.
He broods – or perhaps merely reflects; it is difficult to tell, though his introspection proves an unwelcome distraction and concern alike.
“You think far too loudly, brother.”
Your voice, a stone dropped onto the serenity of a glassy pond; stirring, your brother beside you lets out a soft huff of amusement, turning to glance at your profile. "Aye, it seems I do,” he acquiesces, though he seems more than content to leave it as such.
And the ensuing quiet – his scrutiny of your features becoming almost unsettling. You purse your lips, folding your arms over the furs that ward off the chill, slowing to a halt – he, in turn, slowing beside you.
“Cregan,” you cast a guarded glance his way, “I appreciate your company, but…” You pause, clearing your throat, “Why did you ask me here?”
You cannot ignore the furrow of his brow, nor the weary sigh that escapes him. “I do not wish to burden you with troubles, sister,” he murmurs, his gaze drifting – mindful of spirits; watching, listening. “But there is something we must discuss.”
You, softly gesturing for him to continue under the flicker of torchlight.
Yet, he does not speak at once; instead, guiding you further along the shadowed path. You allow him the moment of silence, a foreboding drop stirring unbidden in your chest. Has the time come to prepare for the Wall – will you set the Greybeards alone to fight in the Southern war? Dribbling wax slides over the edge of a wyck - a white tear falling to the frozen earth below. Winter is coming, you know; and so does war.
You stop before a weathered stone – Cregan, his face so hardened even with young age; you recall in the earliest recess of your memories a more youthful visage – the brother who dangled you by the ankle in the Great Hall; who dragged you along to target practice in the yards, who met your gaze with mirth when you were scolded at the dinner table. Much has changed.
“A raven came from Dragonstone this morning,” his voice is steady – the mention flares a mild concern in you; your brows furrow.
“Different from the letter that arrived at my chambers just moments ago?” You wonder – the scroll was penned by Prince Jacaerys; though this is an occasion not extremely uncommon, as you’ve grown to write to him often in the past months of his departure.
But your brother nods. “Aye.” He affirms, “It was signed by Queen Rhaenyra.”
You blink up at him, breath bated – palms, growing moist though the cold nips gently at your nose: Never has the Queen herself sent letter by raven. Cregan utters your name, and you meet his gaze.
“Prince Jacaerys has asked for your hand in marriage.”
Of the many possibilities you’d imagined, this was not one of them; shivers of flattery over your spine, quivering your breast in an icy shock.
And a scroll unread, perched upon your drawing table in your quarters – has Jace written to you to ask you himself? Your lip, plump under the pressure of your teeth.
Though not wholly unpleasant, it is still a sudden shock to you, and your mouth opens – then closes with a soft click. You find yourself momentarily lost for words.
A breath, warm against the cold, escaping your mouth, fingers restless within your thick gloves. “Did–” You pause, clearing your throat, willing your heart to steady its foolish race. “Have you sent a response?”
A flicker in an otherwise stoic facade, gone in an instant: Some amusement laced into his visage that vexes you in a way only a sibling can.
Quietly, your brother denies. “It was requested by the Prince for you to send a response yourself. The Queen wishes to be assured this is a marriage that will bring strength to the realm – one that will be strong from the beginning. She does not choose the future queen regent lightly, it seems.”
A heat that grows twofold; and a sprouting dizziness as the proposal hits you. The future queen regent – Gods be good.
The proposition is far from traditional.
As the sister of the Warden of the North, you have always assumed your path would lead to a marriage with one of the High Lords of your own region – though with great war comes change, you understand well – and Cregan has mentioned it satisfactory to find a Targaryen princess among your House; perhaps you and Jacaerys will serve in such a steed.
A glance to the stone man before you; an ode, to Torrhen Stark. The King Who Knelt.
A shiver of reality. Leave Winterfell, as a Targaryen bride – to go to the war brewing in the South – and there grows a flicker, beneath your concern. Hunger, pride.
You’ve always known what’s expected of you; and Starks do not shy nor cower from responsibility.
“This is no small task.” Your words, quite blunt as they often are – another nod from Cregan.
“I remind you,” He assures, “It is no done deal.”
A flicker of your lashes as your breath clouds before you; above your head, you wonder if the flakes which flutter from the sky have ceased in the wake of the day’s far sun.
It is indeed a thought to consider; the North, your endless horizon of snow and stone – of moors and fields, of steep slopes and commanding eminences, carved by the hands of gods more ancient than the first of men.
That cold kiss of wintered forests, of towering pines in snowed shadows; gnarled branches of the Wolfswood, icy rivers of threaded silver untouched by the frills of southern decadence; and the cold less endured than revered, a landscape of beauty drawn within the fierce devotion of its people.
An unshakeable and profound sense of soul that tugs you towards the frozen earth, to the bodies brought back through turns of Winters, of endurance, of love, of life.
“I would mislike to leave Winterfell,” You admit; a child once more, tucking toes beneath warmed covers as you hid from shadows upon walls.
Perhaps he recalls those same nights; when you’d stayed awake against the syrupy droop of eyelids, listening to your Lord father’s tales of hunts and beasts beyond your comprehension.
“As would I regret to let you leave,” His voice comes after a moment. “Your insight is not to be understated. Perhaps this is why the Queen wishes you to join her council in my stead.”
Another shock to you – to marry the Prince, yes, but to join the Queen’s council? A flash of pride, conspicuous, licking up your spine – though you’re lost in the trappings of memory; of loss, of life.
“What is it father said?” You muse quietly, watching shadows flicker over a contoured face of stone. “The South…Where men smile with daggers behind their backs.”
Some huff from weary lips. “I hold no concern for how you might fare against a dagger, sister.” He reminds you; your fingers, calloused in the grooves of a longbow – you placate a wry huff, mind saturated with thoughts. “A serpent's lair, the Crownlands are.” He gruffs.
It is solemnly that you nod; a wistful memory of your Prince, curls entangled with the sharp wind, embedding pearled snowflakes into tresses.
“I am not without my own doubts,” Cregan slowly admits, “Leaving the North – in wartime, as well – holds few assurances of safety, even at Dragonstone.”
Your voice is considerably less steadfast than it’d been an hour past, when you’d directed the letter from the Prince to wait until your duties with Lord Stark were through – “I would not leave my home, my charge, merely for some Prince.” You mutter.
Yet, the glance from your brother brings a small grin to your lips.
He perhaps agrees with your stubborn resolve; you two, cut and sewn from the same sturdy cloth, borne with the same pelts upon your back. A tilt in his visage, looking at you.
“Our father’s word was given. It is our duty to uphold it.” He murmurs; and then, a melting of such a look – as if Lord Stark has retreated, yielding Cregan in his wake: “You’d be queen one day, long after the war.”
Still reeling, a warmth to your face as you consider the Prince – rosy cheeks, with that smile brighter than snow; he, with a fur cloak gifted to him in his visit to treat with your brother those months ago – a regal face, if you’ve the grace to know what such a thing is.
The boy with kind words and genuine laughter; a fleeting brush of his hand on yours as he’d greeted you to his ancient beast; The square of his shoulders as he’d solidified Northmen for his Queen mother’s banners. A look, shattered and wet, as he mounted his beast in the wake of his brother’s death. Septa’s voice from the vestiges of adolescence: Heavy is the crown, my dear.
“It is my duty,” you murmur more to yourself than to your brother, “To Winterfell, to the North. To our Queen… and the realm.”
Cregan’s hand finds your shoulder in a grasp, “Sister.” Your eyes meet his own. “I would not have you do it if I did not believe it was the right choice. Jace is a good man. He will treat you right.”
Indeed, a union of your house and the Prince’s would strengthen the North; you could ensure the maintenance of autonomy – and loyalty, a venerable duty long upheld by your house for hundreds of years. A marriage that serves not only your people, but such enduring legacy of kin.
“Just as well,” He adds, “the prospect of marrying Jacaerys might prove rather agreeable to your sensibilities, would it not?”
He jests. The corner of your eyes narrow as you shoot him a sharp look; a smile emerging despite your efforts to conceal it. The warmth of anticipation creeps across your cheeks, a delicate flush across your face despite your valiant efforts to contain it.
"You overreach, brother,” you speak, though both you and he can hear the fondness in your voice.
A quiet moment, in which a memory surfaces – Jacaerys, bidding you farewell months past; a pain in his eyes, ragged with grief and urgency to return – his younger brother, killed by Aemond One-Eye.
A shaky kiss upon your knuckles, the cracking of a voice otherwise proud; the last glance of that massive beast swallowed up by the clouds. Your heart skips a beat at the knowledge of him, as your own.
“I will marry Prince Jacaerys,” You agree, hoping to conceal the eagerness from your tone, “...for the good of the realm."
Cregan huffs, pulling you into a brief embrace, your eyes both stuck on the statue before you. "Aye, and perhaps a bit of warmth for your heart, too.” He jests; a rare occurrence, and certainly in these days of war and the eve of winter.
“Is that not what you’d wish for your sister?” You jest in return, hiding the fluster of your cheeks.
His expression sobers minutely. “You bring honor to our house.”
The long, stone face of Torrhen Stark watches your breath rise and fall from your lips.
Hesitance melts away, leaving a giddiness, a sense of duty softened by an affection in your heart. “A wolf in the South,” you murmur.
And a dragon at her side.
VERMAX IS RATHER DISPLEASED TO FLY NORTH AGAIN.
Huffs and whining screeches; saged scales that melt tiny flakes of snow around the saddle - Jacaerys consoles his steed with a huff of amusement. “Se iōrves kessa daor umbagon syt mirre, Vermax.” He insists; The cold will not last forever.
It is not until the sloping valleys and rolling mountains give way to dusting of snowcaps and frozen-earth that his stomach begins to burn with that odd feeling; excitement.
Trees that reach up towards the heavens – ever green in their life, barely stirred by the beating of Vermax’s wings high above.
Otherworldly, the North is; and Winterfell, with towering walls, sprawling courtyards, the frosted roofs that glint even through the thick of cloud – pure earth, that ancient knowledge within the ground, held for thousands of years past. Wisdom, sewn into rings upon rings within trees – depths of icy pools, glistening cold as glacier’s tears even in the dead of summer.
Something, an aching feeling returns; not an ache for home, but for you.
Eyes, amber and anticipatory, searching the grounds so far below – a wall, dark and thick in the sprawl of the low cirque. Vermax breaks through the clouds with a call, the whipping Northern wind blowing icy shards into Jacaerys’ inhale. Still, he looks with a fire, an intent – battlements, courtyards, all bustling and brimming.
The familiar banner of black and red, raised by the men sent weeks ahead in anticipation of the Prince’s arrival – and the Stark banner, hanging large enough to just see from the outskirts of Winter Town.
The East Gate opens; a company awaits his arrival, bustling in the yard of the Great Keep – squinting against sharp air as Vermax circles in agitated descent. It is an odd thing, to see the expressions of men, women, and children become clearer in descent – to see the fear, the astonishment, the reverence in the ancient being in the sky. But he searches each visage turned up towards him; and then, there – with a grin and a flip in Jacaerys’ stomach, he finds you.
Piled, swathed in thick furs that bring out your hair; standing straight beside your mass of a brother; a warmth that blossoms into heat as your head tilts, tracking Vermax in the sky.
A heavy thud against the muddy ground encrusted with a fresh layer of crisp rime; the rich shades of green across the North have been kissed by some fae of frost that barely cowers under the heat of his ancient creature – and though it retreats in his molten wake, Vermax huffs at the feeling of frost and snow.
Jace dismounts Vermax; pressing his forehead to the dragon’s thick neck, the warmth a final solace before he faces the unforgiving weather of the North – a mutter to his steed, running his palm over the scales, “Sȳz, vermax. Ao ipradtis; ao gōntan sōvegon sȳrī.”
Good, Vermax. You must eat; you flew well.
He is accompanied, then; two dragonhandlers bowing to him, draped in borrowed furs as they tend to his weary beast. It is rather comfortable, to hand him off to them; a luxury, he supposes, when they are here to tend to the Valyrian rituals that will come in just over a week’s time. A skip in his heart as he thinks of the night to come: You and he, bound for life.
His title is announced in the quiet of the Keepyard; he enters, feeling rather foolish as just one man faced with such a company – his eyes, unable to unstick themselves from you. The young Lady Stark; the Northern Star, some have called you; He finds himself agreeing.
Head high, he walks as the prince he is, nodding to Lord Cregan; Formal proceedings that are blinked away in moments with a very present preoccupation of trying to keep his stare off your face.
And then, after a lingering moment, ravens circling the sky, wind howling down the slopes of distant mountains, Cregan steps forward, arm extended – Jacaerys returns his grin, a camaraderie returning in his chest.
In the grasp of his forearm, in the rough hug he shares with his friend, Lord Stark murmurs. “I see now why you were so reluctant to leave the first time, my Prince.” Cregan’s voice, rich with mirth; a sheepish grin that grows upon Jacaerys’ expression. Laughter between them, as easy as it ever was, the weariness that’d built in Jace’s flight northward dissipating. “I’ve been told a wise man knows when he’s found something worth returning to, Lord Stark,” Jace quips in response, the heat on his face deepening when his gaze darts in a glance towards you. Your brow, lifted at his words; full of grace but with a smattering of warmth across your cheeks, a small smile.
The cold air seems to have brought a flush to you – dipping into a graceful curtsey, the wolf clasp of your cloak catches in the cloudy light of afternoon. His heart flips as you greet him: “My Prince,” and gods, your voice – “I hope you and Vermax found no undue hardship enduring such a journey.”
It’s all Jacaerys can afford to bow deeply in return, eyes remaining on your own gaze; a gesture of respect and courteousness, but a strike of something far more personal lingering behind his stare. Your palm is bare, he’s shocked to see; and lifted within his own, his lips brush over your knuckles.
Your cheeks darken, and he feels his heart race. “The purpose is far worth the journey, my Lady.” His voice, earnest, polite.
Your smile widens just so.
THE GREAT HALL IS DOUSED WITH LIT HEARTHS.
The celebration is a swell feast – Jacaerys sits, having dined on a hearty meal and several goblets of wine: Roasted game, honeyed bread, mulled wine. At the high table he sits, and the din of the hall rumbles around him, drifting slowly into the high-beamed ceiling.
A lingering storm has momentarily lifted in the warmth of familiar faces, of the unrelenting bite of cold that still yet lingers in bones weary from flight. There is a dread that has stayed within Jacaerys for many turns of moon now – a mourning thing, one that has left him with less and less smiles to divulge with each passing day.
The horizon brews; a clouded thing, one dark and full of smoke and whispers – and yet here he sits, warmed by furs, by hearth, by ale – and by you, aside him.
A girl no older than himself – a friendship kindled merely in the beginnings of formality, of happenstance; polite smiles and high chins, eyes lingering as he followed your brother into the study.
A peculiar thing it is now, to sit beside you, to feel that string pull between you so inevitably; and though he is turned away from your warmth, well engrossed in a discussion with Lord Stark, he feels that tension – that tautness that soon will be severed with unseen shears, which will seal a dream conjured years before your birth.
And throughout the evening, his gaze has more than often wandered to your own visage, carved in those same harsh winds of beauty – a smile warm and true, a depth sinking into his stomach; for as Jacaerys has dined heartily, his appetite for food has given way to an appetite for conversation.
The hall boasts cheer, laughter; an odd thing, in the tide of coming war, in coming strife even this far North; the Lord returns to the Wall not even a fortnight after the wedding, and with him goes half the rations of crops saved through the Northern harvest.
With Jacaerys will go his new wife – and with you, a secret untold to any but those who sit the throne.
The fire in the hearth is great, and it swallows Jacaerys’ eyes as he sips from his cup; licks of flames, screams unheard through halls – the final breath of many, the staggering gasp of death.
Outside, snow blows harsh and cold against the walls – a breath of winter, howling and iced.
It is a song that lingers in Jacaerys’ mind, even as the music inside the hall crescendos and the ale flows; and finally, he is torn from his trance with the departure of a lord from White Harbor from before you, leaving you finally by your lonesome.
Jacaerys turns to you – and at his stirring, you glance to his hoping gaze; your cheeks warmed in the same breath as his own, you glow in the firelight.
He gestures gently before you, towards the hall brimming with people, “A celebration in our honor, yet it seems finding a moment alone has proven rather difficult.” His voice remains as warm as he’d hoped, though evergreen and mantled by duties, by composure. And you, a flower of grace and stoicism, nod kindly - he's always found the dance of formalities to be amusing.
“It seems the whole land has anticipated your arrival once more, Prince Jacaerys.” Your voice is tinged with that same warmth he remembers from those moons ago.
He ought to accept your kindness with compliment; or perhaps ask how the owl that’d nested in the rook outside your chambers during his last visit fares – but indeed he is met with that insistence of passing time, of his mother’s words fallen onto his shoulders; of a whispered dream of years to pass and years still to come.
When he looks at your visage, honeyed by the glow of firelight, some warmth mixes shockingly with an icy knowledge of what is to come.
“It has been too long since we last met,” He says - and, perhaps in a moment of insecurity, his lip is bitten and pulled from pearled teeth. “I have missed your company.”
He does not miss the soft growth of affection that blossoms upon your countenance, nor the shift in your hips as you turn to face him more, your fingers absently tracing the rim of your goblet in a mirror of his own nervous habit.
“And I have missed yours,” your voice is equally quiet to his own, in some conspiratorial hope to remain private while remaining in a room full of guests. Your lip is caught between your teeth just as his was – he wishes to unfurl it with the soft of his thumb. “Though, I confess, it is strange to know that soon we will no longer need ravens to speak to one another.”
A soft chuckle from his lips – a thought indeed that crossed his mind after sending his last raven Northward; and in the shadow of looming war, what a relief it may be to have you beside him.
If he were any more a fool, Jacaerys might worry indeed for your safety in the coming times – and though that thought lingers still in the stoop of his mind, he is no more ignorant to your abilities than he is admiring them.
A memory, one of fresh falling snow and the youthful innocence of only half-year ago; before the shift of tides, before the moonlit jaws of Death found his brother – before the death of the young one in the Red Keep, and the fall of Rhaenys and Meleys just days ago at Rooks Rest; before it all, when still the horizon brimmed with a more peaceful hope for settled war, there was time of laughter. Of a hunt drawn about for a Royal Guest in Winterfell, when he came with wishes of an alliance, of oaths sworn in blood and brotherhood. The hunt brought anticipation - and, in his foolish Southern ways, Jacaerys had wondered if you’d see he and your brother off in the courtyard of Winterfell – perhaps with a favour of yours to gift him, and a kiss upon his cheek for well-hunting.
It was not such delicate smiles and whispers he was met with; no, instead he found another horse, saddled with your frame and a bright grin upon your face, your hair plaited away from your peripherals and a longbow strewn across your back.
A fond memory, those days watching you traipse across snowstruck Wolfswood – and the snap of a string, the fall of a buck into the earth below. Your grin, your appearance; so unlike your kin, and yet so shared in hardiness with your brother – a warmth now so foreign in a world laced by such ominous ideas as fate.
Jacaerys chuckles at the memory, and also at your words, sobering as they are light. “Strange,” He repeats, tilting his head to you. “-But welcome, I’d hope?”
And though it is a tease sent with the efforts of putting the thick tension of betrothal at ease, there still lingers a fear of the answer; and a leak of hesitance in his words.
When you hold his gaze for a moment, he nearly doubts the flicker of affection that still drips from your rosy cheeks. But your expression softens, and your earnesty is undeniable. “Of course,” You beam and it sends his heart into a flutter, “It will be quite welcome.”
And it is in this moment, a quiet one, that Jacaerys nearly cracks; a split that would leak out the foreboding world of prophecies, of danger and fear and worry – if only in search of some comfort, of some assurance that the truths he lives are merely the whisperings of a bloodline destined to rule.
Though he loses the moment when you turn to the revelry before you; and Cregan rises from his seat beside Jacaerys, drawing his attention away from blistering flames and flurries of chill that strike through his heart.
YOU FIND A MOMENT TO CATCH YOUR BREATH IN THE MORNING.
The sun is high in the sky for such an early hour; perhaps a reflection through of the sheet of thin gray which stretches from one horizon to the other. A sweet light over the rather empty training grounds – and your skirts drag along snow as you brush hair from your cheek, nocking another arrow.
The target, more than plenty paces away, is riddled with arrows from your work – the bow in your hands, warm and smelted to the form of your grip, carries that same woody scent from youth. You draw back with an inhale.
Though you know very soon of a presence in the morning courtyard; You can feel the gaze upon you as soon as he enters. And with a small tremble, it occurs to you – no matter where the Prince goes, it seems you can always feel him near.
You resist a small grin, exhaling as you release the arrow; it embeds itself into the center of the target, a light thud that presses your heart against your ribs.
Jacaerys watches you; this, you know – and you nock yet another arrow.
The prince leans rather casually against a post just a few paces to your right, though there is little casual about the heat of his stare upon you – your glance is merely through the side of your lashes, a short thing in effort to pretend you are less effected by his presence.
Though, you cannot deny the burning in your cheeks, a determination in your throat as you draw the bowstring once more.
A murder of ravens scatter across the sky to the South – you let the arrow fly; It notches just to the right of your previous shot. A smile, tugging the corner of your lips once more before you drop your arms, glancing to your audience.
“Impressive as ever, my lady,” Jacaerys muses; his gaze is imbued by lashes and the sun, though there is some esteem within his stare that brings a flutter to your stomach.
Impressive.
A heat on your cheeks – as if you’re a blushing little maiden, complimented for the very first time. Though, you remind yourself, he’s spent his life in the highest courts of the land; he himself squired for many years, acquiring fair skill in such trades – and you hum, mind filled with visions of men from all stretches of the realm and beyond – jousts, tourneys, all to show at the King’s court.
“Well,” You brush the hair from your cheek once more against the faint wind, nocking and drawing a fresh arrow, much less focused this time, aware of his gaze burning through your frame. “I’m sure Southern men like you have seen feats far more impressive.” You tease, eyes locked down the line of the arrow.
Jacaerys huffs a small laugh at your jest, stepping further into the training yard. The wind blows, and you wonder if you should have taken another fur; but his voice is warm and you are put at ease.
“Perhaps,” He agrees, voice nearing your focus, “But some Southern men certainly know to appreciate what we cannot find back home.”
You’re lucky you’ve released the arrow just as he finishes his sentence; your stomach flips, butterflies sprouting within your chest at his gentle flattery. He is quite the charmer - and though you find amusement in his attempt, still grows your warmth at the attention.
It is still in the courtyard, and Jacaerys nods toward the target, where your arrow has hit the mark. An approving hum, brows lifted to underscore some coming point: “Like a woman who can outshoot any knight in the realm.”
A blatant praise – and you lower your bow, hoping to suppress the blush creeping up your cheeks. “Why don’t you try your hand?” you suggest, your tone teasing in attempt to flit such fluster upon the Prince instead.
He grins in a way that brings to mind a time less full of strife – always one for a friendly back-and-forth; Hands upon the hilt of his sword, Jacaerys shakes his head. “I’m not foolish enough to challenge you, my lady. I’ve learned to respect northern steel – be it by sword or arrow.”
You tilt your head, unable to school such a playful glint in your eyes. “So you’ve come all this way just to be bested by a woman?”
A provocation; perhaps testing the waters. And it shows in his expression, the stark divergence between your brother’s personality and your own; you suspect he is pleased with the opportunity.
His grin, as you’d hoped, only widens – cheeks reddened by the morning chill, eyes bright against the sun. “I’d consider it quite an honor.” A flick of his gaze to the target and back.
A roll of your eyes – highly inappropriate for a lady, especially to the Prince - but he only seems to find it more amusing. The smile tugs at your lips; you tamper it with your teeth, “I don’t believe flattery helps your aim, Jace.”
At his nickname, his cheeks seem to glow – a name he’d insisted you’d call him in the dark solitude of the Godswood during his initial visit to Winterfell those many moons ago.
He shakes his head, ever the charming Prince: “My aim is of no consequence. I am more than content to watch you hit the mark every time.”
The space between you has begun to narrow, and you can just make out the freckles which kiss the bridge of his nose. You hold the bow to him, “Come now, my prince.” You insist – and he acquiesces, stepping forward with a growing smirk.
You, in effort to see the blush upon his cheeks again, send him a smile. “Aim for the center, and you might impress me.”
The look he gives you is mildly amused; his shoulders, proud and brushing against yours as he handles your weapon. Deft fingers wrap around the bow as he tries to mimic your stance; and it is rather clear, as it’s been the handful of times you’ve seen him in the yard sparring, that he is far more comfortable with a sword in his hand than a bow.
And your smile grows at this; the heir to the Iron Throne, trying to impress you with a weapon that is not his own.
Your amusement is not so concealed; in a moment, he glances to you and huffs, arms still stretched to aim for the target. “I see your confidence growing, my lady,” he chides, and you lift a brow – he grins boyishly, eyes returning to the target, “Perhaps you mean to humble me.”
A feigned thoughtfulness as you tilt your head, tresses of silken hair glinting against your furs, “Humble you, Jace?” You feign surprise, blossoming at the growing smile upon his countenance, “That seems an impossible task.”
There's a warmth lying low beneath your jest – and whatever sharpness delivers with your wit is softened by the candid affection you hold for your newly betrothed. He laughs, and it is a song you wish to remember for the rest of your years.
His cheeks are that same very pink you’ve cherished for many moons - and he lets the arrow fly; though it strikes the target, it lands fingers shy of the center, and you conceal a laugh.
Your prince sends you a look, and though his mouth opens with some likely sharp words of humility, he is interjected by another voice in the yard.
“–Impressive,” Cregan’s voice cuts through the morning wind, startling you and Jacaerys alike. Jacaerys turns, hands lowering the bow as he nods almost sheepishly; Cregan steps closer – an expression only mildly imbued with amusement.
He regards you first, then your betrothed. “I see our prince has found a new skill.”
Flustered as though caught stealing wine from the feast table, you busy yourself adjusting the bowstring; and though Jacaerys chuckles, the sound is tight.
“It seems I’ll need more practice,” He says easily, eyes flickering to your own warm gaze and leaping away when heat creeps onto your cheeks. Cregan merely claps him on the shoulder, a grin small and amused upon his visage, “Come with me, then. You’d best not distract my sister.”
A sheepish glance with hot cheeks between you and Jacaerys before you bow to him, sending a sharp glance to your brother.
The two leave you to your practice in search of a hearth in which to discuss before; and you nod to them, cheeks alight and eyes trailing over the silver dragon holding together the Prince’s furs.
THE DAY JACAERYS TELLS YOU IS A DAY BROUGHT ON BY A SQUALL OF ICE AND SNOW.
Since his arrival, days have fallen in succession of clear skies and silent winds; and with the weather has brought a change in your betrothed. You have spent most days watching frost curl over begging pines from your chamber windows with growing unease - though your warmth is still shared well and kind between you, Jacaerys grows agitated in his time away from the war; a thing you understand too well, and wish to ease in the coming days.
And, unlike the days of his arrival, there is too much to do now to any longer relish in the still-present small moments – the times which bring in the smell of holly and pine, of clove and spiced wine, of wide smiles and the steaming scales of your betrothed’s ancient accompaniment.
The wedding has been planned – and in only a few more days, you and Jacaerys will become one; you will whisper words long thought and wondered, you will bind your palms, you will share your blood.
Though in no way unsure of the union, still lingers the presence of something unspoken – in the growingly distant amber eyes, in the insecure stuttering of words, in the shaky palm which soothes over your own underneath leathered gloves. It seems Jacaerys furrows his brow in riddles more and more these days – and a darkness follows, some weight that brings his lips to drop and his voice to taper in the ends of sentences.
You have begun to wonder once more why indeed a union between you and Jacaerys was so suddenly proposed by the Queen.
Your breath shows against the casement; The day has brought with it more than a chill – and in search of an excuse, you wonder if the Prince has drawn a large enough hearth, if he has found furs thick enough to stave the chill. Yourself, a girl sewn and grown from Northern soils, still finds a strike of shiver from your veins when you rise from your own hearth; and so, with a small flash of worry and a gathering of pelts from your own bed, you set off to the guest quarters.
JACAERYS SITS BEFORE HIS HEARTH.
He welcomes you with a nod and a gesture to join him upon the settee; you deposit the armful of furs upon his bed with a gentle breath and murmured words – and though it is well into the morning by now, Jacaerys looks as though sleep evaded him in the night previous – teeth-bitten lips, mussed curls, a heavy gaze that lingers upon the melting flakes of snow in your hair.
It is only moments of gentle conversation; a tale of the nesting owl above your chambers that brings a gleaming smile to Jace's eyes, a wonder of the turned crops coming from the Neck; mere half-hour passes before he, ever mindful, shifts towards your visage.
“What troubles you?” he wonders – a stare that leaks with some unknown vulnerability, that stiffness that has still pervaded the pair of you despite your comfortability.
And perhaps that very observation is it; you swallow down the rising resistance - a melting of icy hesitance, a heavy weight shared between shoulders so different yet destined.
Jacaerys watches unblinking – you notice for perhaps the first time the signet ring that perches upon his smallfinger, glinting black and ruby in the daylight. Your own ring – a wolf, dark and proud, sits upon your middle; and you wonder how indeed a wolf will fare in a den of dragons.
You’ve spent enough time with Jacaerys – though this has been swaddled in the nest of the North; your own comfort of life, of family and that sweet soul-binding heritage. Perhaps what troubles you is this – of the impending binding of your life to his own by duty and blood: To know him and be known for the rest and beyond; of fighting a war not of your own making but of your own fate – and yet, with your love and devotion for him fostered and growing, leaking from your very core, it still feels foreign.
“I do not know,” you admit in a surge of emotion, glancing into the open pit of emotion within his gaze. “I cannot help but wonder…why,” you utter slowly, eyes shifting under the uncomfortable embrace of vulnerability.
And his own vulnerability shows upon his sleeve as he turns to face you fully, drawn in silhouette from the glowing embers that warm the chill in your heart. “Why?” He repeats, eyes searching your own.
You do not fear your betrothed; you know nothing but faith and conviction laced between your hand and his own. Jacaerys is of good blood; not in the sense perhaps that his ancestors might boast, but that of the same very blood your Northern people acclaim – honorable.
He, even in the unlikely instance of a lack of a lasting affection or love, will always hold you honorably as his wife, and in time his Queen – and this, indeed, you hold in common.
You will perhaps always hold flame for Jacaerys, even if time passes in your marriage and he does not hold such equal affections – and this is some comfort in itself, to know that he will protect you no matter where you lie within his heart.
Your words come easier in the passing moment, as Jacaerys awaits your gospel with the veneration of a knelt pilgrim – and you come to understand that somewhere within his breast is a flame alight; an affection returned, with your name burning there.
Your lips part, and his eyes track the motion.
“Our union. It is…” You swallow, “Unusual.”
Your heart aches only in the flickered trace of sorrow that paints his gaze; he leans back to the settee, an expression clouded by unnamed emotions. It is not any absence of affection, then, from either of you – a coupling not lacking in love, then, but instead marked by a trace of fate that drags your heart into worry.
After some time, your prince speaks. “It is rather custom to marry within the bloodline,” Jacaerys admits, hesitating. Amber eyes, flickering deep into the hearth, as if trying to light the embers that die down with just his stare; you wonder, faintly, if he could. His words are an echo of many nights swirling in doubt above your bedposts – and to hear them, a warmth of relief in your breast.
“But there are other duties,” He murmurs, “–ones that even the Gods cannot ignore.”
His tone has reduced to a rather trance-like state; your eyes, roaming the rich of his furs before focusing in the distance; a ring of clouds, circling the light of the sun just out of view.
Beams of heavenly breath, breaking through the cold sky; a break in the squall, some gasp of mercy from the Old Gods – and a ring of light, sprouting from Jacaerys’s head. It is some ancient song, an echoing you’ve only truly felt in the silence of the crypts low below your feet – you blink twice at the sight of such a reverent sight, his grace outlined in the slope of his nose, the pout of his lips.
His voice is lower than a whisper when it comes once more.
“Aegon.”
Rather struck by the light of heaven’s breath breaking around Jacaerys, your brows furrow; you tilt your head, rising to follow as your betrothed leaves the settee. His eyes are stuck on the flutter of snowflakes from the heavens, his back aflame with the fire of the hearth – and he stops before the window, blinking away frost.
An odd, ancient feeling stirs in your mind – your shoulder brushes the fine tailoring of his cloak as you join him at the casement overlooking the Godswood; Your voice is clear against the blanket of quiet.
“The Usurper?”
His lips are pursed for a moment before a gentle shake of his head. “The Conqueror.”
It is once again awakened – this seed of uncertainty, the knowledge of the trickling poison which drips from the old blood of Valyria and poisons the minds of those men upon their Stone – but you tilt your head to your Prince, considering his words.
A breath that plumes against the crawling chill of snow, and Jacaerys’ voice is distant once more.
“I’ve heard his song.”
Perhaps Jacaerys has been kept inside too long: In that way the cold can take a man’s mind – curl around it with frost, trickle ice into veins so sewn with fire; turn him mad.
You take a small step closer; cold air upon your face, the warmth of his arm brushed against the peak of your shoulder.
It is an attempt, youthful and unsure, at comfort – though he accepts it as he turns to look at you. A gentle gaze, the kind he’s always saved for you, warming the side of your visage; you’re much too gone in thought, eyes stuck at the peek of red bleeding through the pines in the distance.
The leaves are frosted, though they remain ever crimson, ever watching. You whisper to Jacaerys, eyes upon the godswood.
“Dead men don’t sing, my prince.”
YOU FIND YOURSELF REFRESHED IN THE BREAK OF WINTERSNOW THAT AFTERNOON.
The Godswood; a sheltered overhang provided by the sprawling branches of the Weirwood – your knees floated within the chasmous snow pelted fresh-fallen and sweet onto the frozen earth.
Jacaerys rests near you – perched on what below lies a boulder, he watches the flakes fall gentle onto the surface of the pooled spring behind you, your quiet words deadened in the blanket of snow.
The wind is forgiving today – and you can only hope, as you rise from your knelt position before the tree, that it will extend its mercy unto the ceremony in three day’s time.
There is only the plume of your breath and the muffled compaction of your boots against the settled snow that accompany the short distance to your betrothed.
Steam rises in tendrils from the warmth of the pond’s depths; a simmering fate from the icy flakes which flutter onto its surface, giving the last breath of their life in sacrifice for its own.
“How fares Vermax?”
Your voice carries with it that sullen evergreen repose – Jace looks up at you from where he sits, a small smile gracing his countenance. “He has found a cave to the West.”
You nod with a knowing smile, lowering yourself to perch beside your betrothed upon the soft snowed earth, your furs dark against the bright kiss of the Gods. “I wondered if he might,” You murmur, recalling the natural springs not unlike the one you sit before; their warmth a relief to any who are graced by their presence within the caves of the slopes. “It would do him well to return home soon.” You murmur, eyes roving over the hands, ungloved and calloused with cold and fight, which rest in Jacaerys’ lap.
Perhaps in resistance to the weather or from the heat of your attention, he flexes his lithe fingers; and with the breath he takes, he looks to you. “He’s never quite agreed with the North.” He admits with a soft smile. You nod thoughtfully, wondering indeed how such a being of fire could fare against the land of ice.
“And his rider?” You wonder then, eyes hinged on a swaying pine in the distance, its needles shed of snow as a pile falls to the ground.
Jacaerys looks at you with that expression once more – a warm one, but one hesitant by nature. “I’d say he is learning to weather it,” Jacaerys answers with a lingering smile, though his gaze shifts momentarily to the horizon, where the faintest sliver of dusk begins to creep through the flurry of snowflakes. “He's come to learn that it grows on a man, much like its people.”
Your lips curve in a bout of shy flattery, and you shake your head.
A loss for words stretches on into more; the water is calm in its reflection, and you watch snowflakes flutter from the stretch of gray, kissing your hair and tangling in your lashes. The clearing is large, though still so very intimate – it is not long before your thoughts meander to the days ahead, to the many preparations still to be done despite your moment of respite.
After a beat, you speak into the blanket of quiet.
“Three days.” You muse, blinking away flurries of white and turning to your betrothed. “Does it not feel strange to you, that in so little time, we are to be bound?”
Jace exhales, his breath clouding the air which swirls before you, and you look up to him in wait. He tilts his head just so, blinking away flakes as they come to kiss his flushed skin. You watch them melt to his lips with some faint lick of envy.
His voice is hardened by the deadened air of winter, though you know there is nothing but kindness laced within. “There is no hesitation in me, if that is what you ask.”
A warmth pools within you at his chosen words, at the thought of he and you, under the very tree which you now sit, joint in hands and bound by blood.
Perhaps it is that small yearning that festers unsaid in your heart – or it is the residual worry of his words of songs and men long-dead this morning in his chambers; but you press on gently. “And why is that, my Prince?”
He looks into your eyes, then – and you see some search for verity amidst the downfall of snow; your fingers are cold, and they itch to hold his own. “Do you hold your own reservations?” In his tone holds no such judgement; merely the curiosity of a boy no older than one and twenty – and you, in the same turn of years, shake your head.
“No, I–” Your lip is bitten once more, and his eyes remain upon them despite the flush on your cheeks. “I suppose I just wish to know,” You whisper, swallowing thickly, “If it is all… for strategy.”
Jacaerys takes a moment; you allow it, watching as the flakes fall into the curls, as his eyes skim over the Northern edge of Winterfell, falling somewhere far, far beyond. “It is not simply a duty for me,” He chooses, tracing your visage with the care befitting of one who’s known you for life. “I believe you know this.”
And perhaps you do; you smile under his accusation, tilting your head. “I suppose so, though I should like to hear you say it,” You admit, looking towards the very horizon he’d worried over. A murder of ravens, cutting dark through the gray blur of afternoon. “You speak too much in riddles these days.”
It seems as though your words penetrate whatever foggy worries swirl within his sharp mind; and he nods solemnly.
“You’re right,” and his voice is quieter now, guarded; unsure whether to reveal what such odd whisperings might mean. “I must have you know,” he starts, glancing to you, “that my care for you goes beyond duty.”
His words are a balm to the brunt of fate that now befalls you; his cheeks as pink as your own, and he whispers kindly. “I have long held an affection for you in my heart, and hoped you might feel the same.”
Any words of agreement are halted upon your lips when Jacaerys takes another breath, one laced with the weight of a realm divided: “But after Lucerys…” He clears his throat once more and you are struck with his pain.
Your palm finds his knee in some hope of comfort provided; his own falls atop it. “Princess Rhaenys and Meleys fell at Rooks Rest while I travelled North; a war wages still - and yet I had to come. I know you wonder why, and you deserve to know.”
And you wait with breath bated, as you have for many days in wonder of why indeed now seemed fit for the Prince to come to the North for you.
“My mother… shared something,” he begins once more, his tone low, “Passed down through our blood, through King and King – from long before Viserys, to my mother, and now me... A prophecy.”
Your stomach has grown a pit of anticipation, some dreadful cloud gathering above you. Your Prince blinks to you shortly, brows drawn in consternation - as though it is a far crime and violation, what he is to tell you.
And then he begins: words strung with the cloudiness of destiny, of doubt lingering in a stream of worry – and you sway where you repose, in a blinking dread when mentions come of a common enemy, of a terrible winter long to come.
And you, then, are struck with thoughts – of the long nights at Castle Black; of the men who patrol the wild lands, who speak in hushed voices and train with hard hands – of the old memory of Death, which lingers in the dreams of Northern children and on the tongues of Septas sat before hearths.
You turn your gaze from the Weirwood’s branches above to Jacaerys, who looks out over the horizon to the breath of twilight leaking through.
A song – a dead man’s dream; of the ice of the north, he explains, and the fire of Valyria.
It is a cold many minutes in which you breathe, a dread lingering between you and your beloved prince, hands clasped together and hearts beating as one. It does not do well to play on a foolish man’s beliefs – though your prince is no foolish man, and the hands of fate are too tightly bound.
“You speak of fire and blood,” you whisper finally, “Of dreams that burn through the night?”
The eve that falls is quiet, and the wind forgives your trespassing. He nods solemnly, your prince; and his absence of further response lets your mind wander.
Swirls of snow dance along the footprints left in your previous wake; the wind blows strands of hair across your vision.
Jacaerys’ eyes are amber pools and you drown in them, in the heat that has grown in the knowledge of words dreamt by a long dead man, in the legacy which leaks through each new crowned Targaryen. You drown in the knowledge that perhaps, in some way, a truth rings within this so-believed prophecy; secret as the lands which lie far to the North.
Your lips are wetted gently, shaking your head as you continue your thought. “But magic does not only run hot,” you murmur, “It does not only belong to the South.”
His expression turns – and a weight which indeed shrouds him finds you too, cocooning you and your betrothed, binding you with threads of fate long ago tied and drawn. The woods whistle with the breath of winter, and you hear their song.
“It is in the roots of the tree, in the bones of this land,” You admit, “My ancestors prayed to the Old Gods, and in return they whispered in the wind, spoke in the silence. And they, too, endure.”
Jacaerys shifts beside you and your palm is taken into the cradle of both his own. “I do not wish to burden you with such things.” He murmurs - and a memory of your brother's same words the day this very betrothal became so; it is forever, then, that the men of your life will wish to protect you from harm.
In the moment’s breath, you speak quietly: “–But such things are ours now, are they not?” You wonder aloud; and in the relief of a smile, he nods smally.
“There are threats to face sooner; I know it is no small ask to bring you into the throes of conflict. But perhaps our blood,” He murmurs, cheeks tinged pink, “might one day save the Realm.”
An odd thought – but still one that does not change the truth: You go into the heart of the fire in three days’ time; but you will go with Jacaerys, and you will not be alone. A wolf in the South – and a dragon by her side.
In the lingering peace of companionship, Jacaerys huffs gently. “I wish I could have done more,” He murmurs, “Ensured a proper betrothal.” His cheeks remain stained in that crimson colour against the fading light of the sky, and you resist the longing feeling to feel his lips against your own.
You laugh, a short thing in the muffled quiet, “It matters not, Jace,” You promise, a smile small and kind upon your visage. In his shift, you slide gently between his knees – and your palms squeeze his own.
“I’d have courted you,” He insists in that boyish nature you remember from those moons ago – and the air that’d frozen your lungs in the moments fallen behind has thawed into a budding giddiness. You smile at his tone, tilting your head. “Is that right, my Prince?” You tease, lifting your brow, “Taken me for strolls in the gardens, picked me flowers?”
His smile is so boyish and hopeful; your heart skips as he nods. “Of course.” His grin grows softer as you shift.
It is when the space between you narrows in a moment that you purse your lips gently, eyes tracing the curve of his own cherried lips. “Though my duty is to the North, it is also to the Queen,” You begin. His eyes fall to your own lips. “And to you. I hold love for you in my heart, Jacaerys,” You admit, cheeks warm, “And I am quite pleased to be your wife.”
His hand leaves your own – and in its ascent, you see a slight tremor; when your face is cradled by his palm, you let your eyes flutter shut.
It is only a momentary shock when lips, cold and light, press to your eyelid; a brushing so gentle, you wonder if it will not melt into the snow itself.
Jacaerys’ breath lingers, a quiet warmth as he moves to your other eye, kissing away the flakes of snow which cling to you in reverence. A stirring in your breast as your hands find his cloaked arms, strong beneath your grasp; a whisper into the earth around you as snow falls.
He pulls away only in a plume of warm breath that you feel against your visage; your eyes open to find his own, warm and wanting. A fire burns in you, and it calls his name – somewhere in the distance, Vermax roars. The edges of the pond lap over a small crust of ice, and your touch warms against your betrothed.
“I was made for you,” He murmurs, lips chilled against your warm cheek; and you believe it. He says your name, and it falls from bitten lips with a desperation that sets your nerves ablaze; "I will love you with everything I am," He promises; and fingers trace the curve of your jaw, a gentle thing – a lingering of breath with your own, a hitch to your lungs as desire claws at your throat. Your smile is small and melts under the weight of heat.
In a moment, you cannot bear the space which lingers, small and unforgiving, between you; Without hesitation, your palms slide over his furs, kissed with snow – and soon, you card your hands through the curls at the nape of your betrothed’s neck.
It is a pull towards your awaiting lips, and soon Jacaerys kisses you soundly.
Hands slide to your waist, dropping from your jaw to cradle you between his legs, flush in the heat of shared life; and you, a blossoming flutter of affection and anticipation for nights to come. Hands tremble – yours, around his neck, his, curved around your waist.
The snow falls heavier still – and a howl of wind that blows you closer to Jace, a short share of giggles between you, giddy and alight with some small kernel of hope. The Godswood is quiet, and your lips slide together in a shy, lingering sweetness; he pulls away from you only to press small kisses upon each exposed breath of skin you offer, and you laugh into the quiet, heart beating as one.
“I am yours.”
And for some time, a soft exploration of affections beneath the sprawling limbs of the tree – and the words fall from lips taking and giving, smiling and sighing, pursuing and pressing.
The woods sing with the bells when supper is called; and so with hair tangled, cheeks warm, you rise together.
Arm in arm, your betrothed and you retrace footprints kissed with the gift of fresh-fallen snow; words quiet and half-burdened with the weight of the future – but still remains the lingering of hope, the promise of love even in the dreary eve of fate.
The Godswood of Winterfell echo softly with footfall; The warmth of the Great Hall awaits you both. Jacaerys presses a kiss to your knuckles, and you push open the doors together.
jacaerys velaryon x fem!wife!reader
words: 7.8k
synopsis: being the prince and princess of dragonstone has its troubles.
notes: i literally just wrote this in a fever... ohmy gof this is ... im ashamed of this one yall. (ps the amount of times jace says 'love' in this... eugh sorry) & i guess you're not rly a princess but walk with me here ok idc! but thank you to my slut cult for the aid & encouragement. this isn’t edited at all LOL love u xoxo
warnings: au - canon-divergent & set after the dance; rhaenyra sits the throne, & all is peaceful. nothing but pure smut this is - PiV, fingering, dirty talk, semi-public sex, slight mentions of exhibitionism, love biting, switch!jace&switch!reader, spitting kink (dont look at me.) size kink, jace smacks reader's ass a bit, multiple positions, slight argument, TEASING, hair pulling, theyre pent up and desperate and in love ok. valyrian is translated at the end (author uses a translator so if its wrong im sorry).
feedback is appreciated<3
requests open.
masterlist.
THE SCRATCH OF QUILL BITES AT YOUR MIND.
Such a cavernous room - an empty, wanting room - to be unoccupied at this hour. Precariously structured at the base of the stone drum, it is swallowed by the earth surrounding it, warm only from the magma which churns deep below your feet - and you feel warm, too, though you remain in clothing lighter, looser than normal.
It has proven a summer longer than expected; the end of a dance, with your husband’s mother sitting upon throne of steel. The nights short and days long - languid, with the scent of salt, of peace. Days of warmth that drips into the sip of deeproot trees, which pump through rooted veins and spill from the tips of greened leaves, even upon the ashy earth of Dragonstone; rolling over moors and hills in waves of distant languorous heat.
Bits of dust fall from the higher scrolls of histories towering above your head - and you, hair tied back just enough to keep tendrils from obscuring your vision, fingers guiding the quill which scratches against parchment. Your skin has a sheen of sweat; your gown - if it could even be considered such, not much more than a summery slip - sticks to your spine despite the cool air of eve outside the castle’s walls.
Doors to the stairs above creak - the mouth of a dragon, some ancient serpentine form carved along the walkway descending down to you; though you do not look up, even with the echo of footfall down each step.
A focus, rather, on the deft melt of darkened crimson wax, of the sigil you press lightly to it, in hopes of returning sentiments across the Gullet.
There is a book discarded next to you - in some petty breath, you sigh and move your attention to it, feeling the sting of trivial unimportance as you catch a glimpse of dark curls against the candlelight.
Perhaps your husband fancies himself a sneak; he fails to remember you’ve known the sound of his footfalls as well as your own since you were quite young. You do not bother yourself to look up to him, not when the irritation within your veins runs as hot as the dragons which stir low below the rock in the Mont.
“Good evening,” You greet instead - the line of handscript before you is quite gripping, and you barely regret keeping your eyes away from his own.
He of course takes notice of your clipped tone; a step towards you, a sigh tinged with exhaustion.
“You weren’t in your chambers,” Jacaerys observes - his very own tone equally clipped, assuming. Your husband has been plagued by court and duties quite oft recently; and you, quite strung by the demanding nature of your own responsibilities - the exhaustion of diplomacy and liaisons have smelted your spine into a rather straight rod, though your eyes weary with exhaust.
“Ser Bentley told me you’d gone on the ride alone.” Jacaerys observes again in lieu of your silence. “I asked him to deliver my apology - I had to attend the court. It was… unavoidable.”
The pages of parchment, traced with your finger before flipped over. A memory of the muggy evening- sunfall, when Jace had promised to ride alongside you on horseback to the village in the Southern coast of the Island. A quieter ride when alone, for certain. Jacaerys’s weight shifts in your forevision, a tell; he’s tired of your quiet. A sigh from your lips, nodding slowly.
“Aye, he did, and I heard him.” You affirm, rising from the bench, eyeing the book and letter you’d left discarded upon the stone table. “But I did not wish to waste the day in wait for your spare moment.”
At this, he bristles; you see it upon his handsome face, graced with the kiss of candlelight - a self-reproach laced into the clench of jaw when he comes closer to your watchful glower.
He murmurs your name, low. “I regret that I left you alone. I am sorry.”
You nod, “I know you are.”
You sigh, leaning just against the side of the stone table as you wave one hand. “It is past.” You assure your husband, watching his eyes rove over your figure, fleeting in the faint flickering of night.
He knows you, just as well as you know him; and his arms cross over the hilt at his side, empty of the sheath nor regular sword he oft carries. His brows are drawn low. “I would have accompanied you if I could.” He, with a lick of defense upon his tongue - an addition, his eyes moving from your own to stare across the way, at the shelves of books: “This is never what I wish to happen.”
And something about it; perhaps the heat, the exhaustion, how you miss your husband - it drives you to exhale sharply, a bitter laugh escaping your lips.
“-And yet, it is what happens.” You cross your arms, tone sharper than intended. “Court. Council. The men who cling to you with their endless needs - small as they might be - they always come first.” It is your futile attempt to sound indifferent, though there is a bitterness that falls flat upon the air between you and him.
Jacaerys’ eyes narrow as he levels you with a look, exhaling sharply from his nostrils. There is a reflection, there - a molten amber that drips from the torches lit low across the library, from the stagnant air of the history of his ancestral house surrounding you, scribbled in scrolls, bound in tomes.
He sighs, palm running over his face. “It is not by choice, my love. If I could leave them to their own devices, I would - but I have a responsibility, and you of all people should understand that.” He argues, gesturing to the scroll that sits just upon the table, signed and penned for the Queen herself. Your own political role, never brushed to the side by your husband nor you.
Your laugh is short, mirthless. “I do understand.” You acquiesce, nodding, “But it doesn’t mean I have to enjoy being ignored in favor of the court.”
A moment, where his lips purse; a very handsome man he is, you observe with a rush of affection - and it is also true, he works exhaustibly for what he loves. This, you know.
He murmurs your name. “You are second to nothing in this world, or above.”
His words are genuine - his love for you, a devotion; a marriage of strategy and yet grown with love, with care. And for him, from you - the very devoted same. You sigh, nodding gently.
Although, a lingering resentment - not at your husband, for all his kind and valiant efforts to assure you do not feel alone in the weeks past - festers, bubbling in your gut as your hands fall to interlock before your hips in a passive shrug. “I can only assume your precious council kept you with their endless bickering.” The tone is curt in your attempt to stay calm; perhaps a near imperceptible shift in the air along the base of the stone drum as your husband levels you with a rather exasperated stare, jaw tightening.
“They are imbeciles,” he agrees - clearly on edge, “Arguing over things that should’ve been decided moons ago. I waste hours, listening to men who wouldn't know sense if it struck them.”
The glint of his signet rings catch your stare as lithe fingers run through curls; your eyes track the dark metal as they gleam against faint light.
His voice grows harsher, though you resist the urge to smirk at your husband’s ire.
“-I’ve no choice but to listen, but gods, how they test me.” He mutters, tilting his head back; and the expanse of creamy skin, lit golden in the candleglow; his hair, thick tresses that move when he exhales sharply.
The sight is maddeningly enticing; you huff, glancing away - reminding yourself now is not the time for improper thoughts.
Your own frustration begins to ebb. “Your temper will find you in trouble, husband,” you warn, knowing his words aren’t aimed at you; and the bite in his tone sends a flutter of interest through your stomach.
Maddeningly, his lashes flutter and kiss the breath of skin above his cheeks when his glare sharpens; a flare of irritability, that thing you know hangs over the head of any who bears the weight of impending crown. Heavy is the breath of kings.
“You mustn’t chide me. I know my anger is misplaced,” he snaps - your brows raise, unimpressed by his temper.
Yet then, more softly, almost defeated, he shakes his head - an apologetic ring in his gaze. “I apologize, my love. I am not blind to how little time we find.”
A heavy sigh as he shifts against the table, thighs spreading as if inviting you between them, should you so choose; and Jace - your Jace, looking upon you with melting eyes.
His touch, - kind, as his hands find your own. “I’m pulled in a hundred directions each morrow,” He murmurs. A squeeze of your palms in his own as you step between his thighs - a weariness seeps into his words. “-But I never intend to leave you… neglected.”
His lips, plump and worried under his teeth; soft, sweet, ripe for your own to find. You hum, eyes stuck on the curve of his upper bow; in the warmth of breath that falls from his regretful lips.
Neglected. It is indeed true, that you’ve been neglected as of late - the moon has well waxed and waned since you last welcomed him between your thighs, and you find yourself aching terribly for him.
No fault of his own, nor yours; the world simply moves in a pace much too quick for your desire - trips to the capitol, holding court for the constituents of the Crownlands; duties plenty as Prince and Princess of Dragonstone.
Your palm cups his jaw; tense shoulders fall at your warm touch. You wish to say many things, but you see the storm brewing behind his gaze, and so you instead hum gently, “I mislike competing with the realm for you,” You admit, the ghost of some rueful smile, echoed in kind by your husband, “We both deserve more than promises of time that never comes.”
There is an ebb to the discontent in his gaze; a melting of memories of whatever foolish lord had suggested new embargoes with the merchant pirates across the Narrow Sea; of whomever held up his time this afternoon so his stew went cold and uneaten just in exchange for a new opportunity for trade crops with the Reach before summer’s end.
You allow your hand to travel over the countenance you love so dearly; valleys and ridges, stern brow that eases with your touch. And in his stare, some ire that melts into a molten craving you indeed echo within your own gaze.
His lips press a gentle kiss to your thumb when it grazes his cheek - in turn, he grasps your hand, tugging the soft skin of inner wrist, pecking it gently.
“I’m trying…” Jacaerys whispers after a heavy pause, “I’m trying to be everywhere I’m needed, but I-” There is a tinge of frustration in his tone that he suppresses with a swallow. “I’m failing you, aren’t I?”
It is with a soft heart you take in the sight of your husband - torn between many mounting responsibilities, the shadows of grief, the whispers of life after the end of so many. Indeed, war is a grotesque masquerade - and it is worsened only by the shadows of its afterglow.
A shake of your head, thumb smoothing over his high cheekbone. “You’re not failing me, Jace.” You whisper, “I know what weighs on you.”
It does not deter his determination to beat himself to the ground at your feet.
“You said it yourself,” his voice, strained, “You miss me -and Gods, I miss you infinitely more. I truly regret that we’re always apart.”
Perhaps he notes the rumbling undercurrent of yearning to your next words, the smoldering churn of magma within your gaze, “Well. I am happy that you are here with me now, Jacaerys.” You inform him, “I have missed you in every way and more.”
Jacaerys exhales heavily; a brow, subtly lifting against a lick of flames over his jaw - and a tenderness there, some mirthful interest at your tone.
“You’ve always been too forgiving,” he decides with a small smile; he is close again, near chest to chest with you when he rises from his perch against the stone table - and how he remains, breath fanning over your forehead.
“And what of my duties to my pretty wife?” He whispers - his eyes search your own; chasms of honeyed desire, spooling around you, wrapping you in a silky web of temptation, of charm.
Warmth in your gut at the timbre, how his voice rolls thick through the quieted silence of the old library. He hums in question, then, a provocation - some light amusement at your sudden silence rendered by the heat of the moment. A knuckle grazes hair away from your neck, his lips lifting at the sight of goosepimples in his wake.
Your heart flutters, the ache of your chest spurning into that known burn of desire. A small grin that you attempt to conceal, relishing how his hand snakes then around the back of your neck, cradling the base of your head.
“What duties would that be, husband?” your voice - breathless, teasing.
The hand not threaded in the roots of your tresses moves to pull you by waist; and a slow, knowing hum, his eyes darkening with intent as his thumb grazes the sensitive skin at the base of your neck.
He leans into your space - breath hot against your ear, and shivers find themselves upon the ridges of your spine. “-Of loving you as you deserve,” His thumb strokes your waist, “Worshipping you. Of making you mine in every way.” His tone, sultry - a tease, your husband can become when he so wishes; breath warm against your ear. The hand on your waist moves, brushing the fabric of your gown with maddening lightness. “-Of showing you just how much I’ve missed you, how much I need you.”
A swell of heat; your eyes, flickering to the eastern end of the large staircase, where heavy doors lie; and your sworn sword and Jacaerys’s own, posted just outside.
Jace watches your every move when your gaze returns; the curl upon his jaw, how you take in his regal shoulders, the slope of his nose, the plush of his lips. His eyes burn into yours. Deep, hungry, intent - your swallow is thick. “Perhaps you should attend to those duties.” You suggest, ignoring your breathless tone.
His gaze darkens in that way that always brings your stomach to flutter. “Here?” You do not miss the excitement laced through his tone at the thought. “-Is that what you desire, my love?” His lips, so very close to your own; hunger spurs you on your toes, pressing up against his warmth.
Some searing need, that pressing and all-consuming desire that climbs from your aching core and begins to choke you with its intoxicating spell. “Yes,” your hands, lithe and gentle, slide up his chest, curling into the fabric of his doublet. “-More than anything.”
He hums, eyes alight with devotion. With a slow, deliberate motion, he tilts your head from the base of your neck up towards his own.
A gentle pull towards him - and your noses, sliding along warm skin, breaths puffing in stuttering need. And after a moment of anticipation, your lips upon his own.
A soft sigh from your mouth into his - and Jace’s warmth, how it bleeds so knowingly into your skin.
His hands cradle your jaw and hip, some hunger, a relief between your joined mouths as those sweetened lips follow your own - slow, purposeful; taste of wine and of those sweet anise cakes he seems to eliminate by the plateful.
An adoring smile from you, teeth clashing just so as Jacaerys takes a step and then several more, coaxing you back, away from the table.
A heady rhythm - your fingers snake to cradle around the base of his throat and shoulder as you stumble backwards, just grazing the bare of his skin above his doublet tenderly as he presses you back.
A groan when you hit the nook of the stone readingsill carved into the wall of the library; propped back against the sill, your thighs part for his own leg to slide between - and a firm press of his body against you. A gasp that falls onto his parted, hungry lips.
The castle above you seems to groan, as if a night storm has rolled in from the bay; distant, there is the roar of a dragon above inky water.
Only a breath as he pulls away, your eyes dark and heavy with hunger. “I’m truly sorry, my love,” he whispers against your lips, hands pressing your hips back against the stone nook. “I swear to you, I’ll not leave you wanting again.” He insists; you believe him.
And when you pull him back to you, fingers upon the base of his neck, you smile. “See that you don’t, husband.” You order; he smirks just ever faintly into your own grin, shaking his head as his lips move to your jaw.
A soft sigh from you, kisses that pepper down your jaw and the sweet column of your throat - gentle as he oft is, you enjoy the fire that seems to grow between you and him; some desperation lingering from the nights spent alone and the frustrations residual in both your minds. A nip of his teeth against the juncture of your neck and collarbone; and his hands, roaming over territory surrendered to him moons ago, fingers catching on the thin fabric of your dress.
Hungry, your own hands fumble to snake around his shoulders, suddenly tugging him against you- Jace stumbles just slightly, chuckling into the skin upon your neck as his hands fall to catch himself upon the stone on either side of your hips.
“Easy, my love.” He murmurs against your flesh, raising goosepimples where his breath fans over you.
You huff, “You’ve made me wait far too long in the last moon, Jacaerys.” You argue breathlessly, flustered as your husband moves to drag at the neckline of your dress with his teeth. “You’re too patient for your own good.” You accuse, though it loses to a sigh as he bites the heated flesh of your breast.
He hums against you once more, pulling you tight against his own hips; a slow roll, a near tease - the length of him, that promise of his own arousal pressed against your desiring heat sends your breath in shutters, shakily exhaling into the library’s air.
He enjoys your reaction very much - a shiver of pleasure through you as he rolls his hips again, slower yet, his eyes watching with increased interest as your lips form a delicate moan.
“I am actively suppressing the desire to disrobe you and take you here, against this very wall,” he groans - a flutter of arousal at his blunt words.
Jace’s fingers slide down your waist, gripping with that possessive fervor you often are reminded of in stolen moments like these; your pulse quickens, core throbbing with hungry need. His next words are pressed into your neck, as if trying to bury them there, “It is less about patience, and more about propriety.”
You huff a short air of amusement through the thrill of butterflies within your stomach, leaning forward into his own space, relishing at the slick of wetness between your thighs.
“Worry not for your manners, Jacaerys.” You whisper, teeth scraping a soft earlobe; his own shudder, a soft groan as your hand snakes lower and lower yet, fumbling with the buckles of his belted sheath. “I’d rather you act upon such desires.” You tilt your head with a hum, “You are the Prince of Dragonstone - are you not? Who’d dare stop you from taking what is yours, within your own castle?”
He groans, a short burst of hot air against your neck as your palm grasps his cock through his trousers - his grip stuttering in the tangled grasp of your tresses. A slight buck of his hips into the cradle of your palm as he lets out a strangled noise.
“Gods,” He nearly groans, “-Let me have you.” He nearly whines, teeth scraping against the heartbeat of your throat.
That coil of arousal has mounted, and you believe you might pass out if he does not take you now. “You needn’t pray to the gods for permission, Jacaerys. Have me.” You murmur - and a gasp when he grasps at your thighs, lifting you just slightly.
You shudder under the touch of his slender fingers, gripping the soft flesh of your backside, pulling yourself to him; and he lifts, then - pushing you onto the ledge, sitting you upon the cold stone before him.
Legs, freed from the skirts of your dress; you pull him by hooked ankle against you, gasping at the immediate press of his cock against your wanting heat.
A shadow dances across the hall above - a gull outside, perhaps, fluttering silkened wings from the moonlight outside; and the far wall, criss-crossed with scrolls towering higher than your eyes strain. A wonder, if either of you would find the will to stop if the shadow weren’t a gull but a human - with a thrill, you come to recognize that it would stop neither of you.
Your husband in front of you, eyes bespeckled with lust and hunger and love. Canting his hips towards your own in a short burst of tease - you let out a startled moan, jolting in pleasure as your arousal stirs - it echoes rather deviously through the empty library, and you have the decency to remember your shame.
There is a mischievous glint in his eyes when he pulls back - a thrill up your spine; “You must be quiet,” he murmurs - a low command, one filled with some delicious lick of urgency. His hands grip your hips tightly and your own palms, grazing over the layers upon his chest and upwards, towards his thick curls. “We mustn’t-”
But he does not finish his thoughts; your fingers, carded through thick, silky tresses, give a playful yank; his head tilts back, and a deep, throaty groan escapes his lips as he shudders in response.
“-Gods,” he groans once more - and his tone, that pleasure, that frustration - you use his momentary distraction to lean in close, your lips brushing against his ear, “Perhaps it’s you we should be worried about.” Your voice is light, pressing a kiss over the goosepimples that have spread across his neck.
Jacaerys’ eyes spark with infatuation. “How I’ve missed you,” He confesses into your open lips, his hands sliding down your leg - tugging until your knee is hooked up above his hip, his palm graces over the bare of your calf, squeezing the muscle which trembles in anticipation.
He lifts by junction of knee, palm moving slow over warm skin revealed to his hungry endeavor; sneaking under your skirts.
Your lashes flutter closed as he kisses you rather deeply - thoroughly - his fingers drag up skirts as they travel, exposing your lower half and allowing the fabric to pool around your waist.
Your teeth nip at his lower lip and you hum, “-And I’ve missed you,” You affirm unto his lips; your hands slip to tug him closer to you by his shoulder blades, he dotingly obliges - lips, breaking from you with a wet string of hunger, his breaths ragged.
They move to travel down the column of your throat, biting softly at the sensitive skin of your neck - you swat his shoulder playfully when his wandering palms squeeze at the junction of your arse and thigh, landing a sound smack upon the rounded flesh.
His searing, cheeky smirk is a most beautiful brand upon your skin.
And perhaps at the reverberation of his smack upon your skin echoing in the empty room - a reminder of your location - he grows deliberate; palms finally grip the back of your thighs and tug your hips abruptly forward on the readingsill.
A thrill of arousal through you at the quick motion, and your husband dips his head - his kisses descend lower, to the hollow of your collarbone.
One of your hands roams to his stomach, the other sliding round his neck as his own fingers dip beneath the fabric of your bodice, pushing it aside just enough to bare more of your skin to his ravenous mouth.
The moment his teeth graze the newly exposed skin, you can’t help the gasp that escapes you, your hand sliding into his hair, tugging sharply once more.
Jacaerys groans against your skin, his hips instinctively bucking against yours as he looks up at you, eyes dark with desire. A teasing grin ghosts across his lips, some ire and amusement only you seem to coax out of your husband.
“-Tug at me like that again, and I’ll forget where we are entirely.” He promises you, fingers sneaking just under the hem of your skirt - and his voice, breathless but with that utter demand - your eyes narrow. As if you and he are both not fully aware of your location?
A challenge, as fingers trembling with heat drag up the bare of your thighs. “-And what exactly does that mean, Jacaerys?” You question him as his fingers continue their ascent, driving you mad with anticipation.
Your voice, echoing in the empty room; doors await at the top of the stairs, ready for near any wandering pair of boots to enter - with an excitement, a thrill, you do not care either way.
Tauntingly, your hands twirl around his curls; and he, with that smug look upon that countenance, blessed by the gods themselves. Jacaerys hums lowly at the flushed tint of your cheeks, and then: His fingers, feather-light, teasing.
You nearly jolt as his touch slides through your molten heat - the tip of a finger gathers your arousal, spreading with a deliberate caress. Your head, weak as you fall back in pleasure, in growing ache and need - and Jacaerys’s palm, cradling the back of your skull to pillow it against the stone behind you.
His breath follows you, whispering into your ear. “It means,” His voice is lower than you’ve heard in many moons - a stirring, haunting hunger within you. “-That I will not hesitate to leave you breathless if you do not cease with your tease.”
Gods, you think, you’ve missed him. “I will cease when you do.” Are instead your words; and with a lift of brow, your husband’s fingers, two dextrous, lithe digits - slide into you, curling just as you keen forward.
It is a stretch you have thoroughly missed; he knows you, he knows the lilt in your breath when he slowly begins to move his fingers, gathering your desire with a swipe of thumb and caressing over your swollen pearl.
“Jace,” You whisper, grip tightening against tresses as you melt into the saccharine feeling of your husband's fingers rocking into you. He hums, “You’re- Gods,” He groans, fingers beginning to pick up their pace, impatient after only a few moments of pressing into your sweet cunt.
Your hands fall as your head tilts against stone; you, mind heated with the desire to hear his own pleasure, feel him inside you, filling you- with a gasp, you let your hands move to his own hips, scrambling for purchase, searching for the fastening upon his belt.
And he, reaching that spot that makes your toes curl; with a whine, you pant out a swear, cheeks heating at the wry grin that falls onto his lips.
Any sly remark dies on your husband’s tongue when your hands finally breach the waist of his trousers; his cock in your palm, achingly hard, throbbing as your hips move against his own hand. Your name is so sweet when it falls from his needing lips; with a kiss, you shush him just gently; his groan falls into you when you begin to move your palm, gathering the leak of desire from him and slicking over his length slowly.
You are close to release already when he lets out a small moan into your ear, “Let me,” He pants, “Please, let me-”
You bite your lip, keening your hips as you nod, “Gods,” You whisper, “Jace, I need you.”
He does not dare wait a moment longer; his fingers leave you before you can find your peak, but it matters not; he’s pulled himself out of his trousers, stroking himself slowly in the dim light of candle and torch.
Your heart slams upon your chest - an angelic view, your husband: Eyes lidded low in desire for you, his lips glistening with your own saliva, cheeks high with flush, the glint of jewelry and riches - a vision of grace and disgrace.
And when he brings himself to your spread thighs, pushing your skirts high enough for you both to get a glimpse of your glistening arousal; how his cock spreads your folds, breaths of need from you and your husband. “Divine,” He murmurs, hand trembling as he guides himself against you - and you, thigh trembling just the same, pulling him by hip flush against you.
And any semblance of poise or grace leaves your mind when he bends just so, spitting; a trail of saliva from his mouth and onto your joint flesh and a jolt from you at so obscene an act, fingers curling against the stone as he shakily groans.
“Jace-” You moan against the pressure of your clit with the tip of his cock; flushed, the two of you shaking in the heat of the library. And then a hand, a warm palm that presses against your panting lips, cupping around your chin.
“Hush, my love,” He murmurs between gentle nips to your neck; a rush of desire warming between your thighs, clenching around nothing as his length spreads your arousal, “You’d not wish for us to be discovered, would you?”
The groan is muffled under his warm skin as he drags over your weeping cunt - a shaky sigh from himself as he moves his hips, finding your pearl. It is near amusing, this game he tries to play; as if the thought of being found was not as riling as your own touch. A small press of your lips to his fingers - a kiss, a nip - and his hand slips away to instead pull your thighs open.
You seize your opportunity as it comes; his lips, parted, eyes churning with pure desire.
“You imply that you are afraid of those who walk your own halls?” You wonder aloud, watching the hunger in his eyes - he’s always craved such teasing as much as you. And a twist of the knife of arousal; you pout your lower lip, watching his gaze track the action darkly.
“You do not wish them to know how you enjoy your time with your wife, Prince Jacaerys?”
A breath from his lips as a hand comes to cup the back of your neck; and his cock, notching upon your entrance. His cheeks are bright red - flustered from your salacious words, from his own debauched, unprincely desire for the entire household to hear him claiming you. The ashamed, hungry look, spurring your arousal further as he presses, breaching your wanting heat with the tip of his length.
You gasp at the sensation, and he growls against your lips. “Fine,” He nearly snaps, tension of desire entwining your spines as you press together, his cock easing into you slowly, agonizingly. “-Let them hear us then, my pretty wife.”
You let out a moan when he presses into you, easing into your squeezing walls; and with a stuttered moan of his own, his face buries into your neck, muttering something in that ancient tongue of his.
And from there, you and your husband are one; he moves into you with slow, deep movements. Your legs hook around him, spine curving with the touch of him, everywhere - ecstasy through you at the deep spot he begins to hit, thrust after slow thrust.
His moans, muffled only into your skin or tresses of hair; and your own gasps, as his fingers fall to tease your clit, a slow circle that drives the simmering pleasure in your gut. The drag of him through you, rocking with your hips; and his mouth, searching for your own in the recess of each moan spilling from honeyed lips.
The noise of you; shared arousal, a lewd echo through the high vaulted walls of stone, and your nails drag over his clothed shoulders - wishing nothing more than to sink your talons into his soft, lovely skin.
His thrusts, not nearly enough to push you over the edge you feel in the distance but enough to bring you to it- with a sigh, you register the knowing lilt in his hips, how he grinds the base of him low and deep, eyes bright when you keen, smirking when he is bottomed out and you are full of your husband.
and then his hips push against you just that much more - a cry of ecstasy at the fullness, then your hands grasping him - a tease, he is.
“Jace, you-“ your voice falters, as his hand, large, has fallen to press upon your lower stomach; and a cacophony of groans as you both feel him within you, palm lightly pressing against your skin as he thrusts slowly.
Your eyes nearly fall back; your voice, cracked with pleasure. “You must stop teasing like this.” Your voice is just as regal as his can be; though he’s found some ire, perhaps an outlet you have welcomed - and he merely hums mercifully at your command.
But his hips slow their roll even more - and you press to the edge of stone to relish the deep drag of his cock through you, his thumb soothing your stomach as his cock brushes the very deepest part of you.
“You’d wish for me to cease?” He hums, the picture of innocence: lips pouty, kiss-bruised; brows knit in his pleasure, eyes thick lidded and syrupy with mounting pleasure. His hair, thick tresses of dark curls, messed by your devoted fingers.
You, in a breath of irritation, unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of such tease. You cant your hips, feeling his own hips falter at the clench of your velvet cunt around him. But your hands, falling to his chest with a gentle push; a challenge in your eyes, stern. Eyes lighting, he hums, pulling away from you - and you bite back a gasp at the feeling of him leaving you empty once more.
Your legs are weak as you slide off the ledge - he dares swat again at the round swell of your behind, coaxing a playful lift of brow to his seraphic visage.
A jut with your chin; a silent direction for him to move - and with a turn, cheeks bright red with eagerness, he heeds your prompting.
Amber eyes dart to the discarded chair beside the table, nearly hopeful - and for a moment, you consider pushing him down upon it, drinking in the sweet moans he gives you; it has indeed been too long since you felt the deep pleasure of climbing atop your husband to take what is yours. Though tonight, this is not what you want.
And so you move, then- cupping his cheeks, hands sliding up from a heaving chest; you snake yourself around him, weaving some ancient enticement on your tongue as you whisper his name, arousal slicking your quivering thighs.
Jace’s eyes blow wide when you turn in his loose grasp; a press of your plump backside to his unclothed arousal, and he groans into your ear. “Love,” his voice, deep, melodic as he follows your lead.
His hand snakes up your spine, pressing you down as he goes - and soon enough you’re guided onto the table, the cool stone pressing against your cheek, the skin of your breasts pinned against dried sheets of parchment.
Jacaerys’ eyes darken further, the meaning of your words igniting something raw within him. “Gods,” he breathes behind you, his voice low and reverent as his hands slide over your hips. “Look at you. You’re beautiful, love.”
You glance over your shoulder, catching the way his eyes drink you in, the tension in his jaw betraying just how much he holds back; though that restraint crumbles quickly as you murmur, “Do not dare to leave me waiting again, Jacaerys.” You chide; his cheeks, red and nearly bashful as he steps forward, his hands gripping your hips with a possessive need.
Hands drag your skirts up and over you once again; Cool air against the slick of your desiring, aching core. He bends, just slightly - and then a whimper from your own throat as you feel your husband’s saliva fall to your cunt once more, his breath hitting your aching need. Your head cranes and your husband takes in the sight of you; transfixed, palms grabbing the flesh of your backside as he watches saliva mingle with the juices of your arousal and the premonitions of his spend. “Dōna ābrazȳrys,” he mutters, eyes flickering then to your own - sweet wife.
You, tired of waiting, press back against him; basking in the moan that leaves his lips as his cock, tip flushed and coated from your previous union, slides once again over you.
“I love you,” His voice, breathless as he leans forward, hand guiding himself through your folds, lips pressing over the peek of skin where the tresses of your hair part; and then, as if he cannot wait a moment longer, he presses into you.
Ecstasy.
“I love you, Jace-” You keen, though your spine curves at the intrusion; A gasp from him as he slides easily into your channel, and heat. Heat, everywhere as the angle allows you to move back against him; Jace, his hand falling to lace with your own upon the stone table, the other gripping tight against the junction of your hip.
His hips, rolling into your backside as he slowly begins to pick up rhythm, lips loose as he mutters words into the sweat of your neck, interrupted only by his own shaky moans and yours.
You coil in desire; a ravenous, hungry appetite that is satiated only by the fill of his cock deep inside you; the sound of skin against skin in the library, a groan from his as you find your strength, moving with his thrusts, gasping at the deep reach of him.
The simmering grows as the roll of his hips does - and, with a press of a kiss to your spine, he leans back; your eyes roll in sheer pleasure as one palm wraps around your leg, tugging you just slightly.
A new angle, where your knee shakily props against the stone table; your toes curl as your husband’s fingers move to your pearl, pressing gentle circles upon your sensitive clit.
“I’m-” A broken moan that echoes in the library, “I’m close-” He whimpers; and you feel him, hips sloppy as he presses deep into you, grinding in the way that has your eyes roll in pleasure. His fingers do not cease- you only hum, nodding against the hair that sticks to your forehead in sweat. A fierce promise that lingers and burns, driving you towards some blinding ecstasy. Your breaths harmonize in the empty air of the library; a glint of candlelight, your shadows pressed together in a heated stone embrace. “As am I,” You admit, hoarse as your fingers fly to grip the edge of the table, his hand digging into the soft flesh of your hips. “H-harder.” You instruct; your husband groans, heeding your wish as his grip on you tightens desperately.
“I love you-” Jacaerys groans, cock pressing just into the part of you that sends you to the edge, “-fuck, ñuha gevie ābra-”
Perhaps spurred by the delicious curl of foreign language upon his tongue, or the delicious depravity of his swear - likely both - you hit your high with a trembling gasp, unable to breathe.
His hips are unruly, staggering; The angle, the reach of him as he moans your name, the clench of your cunt around him. You murmur your professed love for him as you ride through the shaking ecstasy - and chasing, sloppy thrusts as your husband soon meets his own high, your name sung on his lips.
You feel him, his seed warm within you, pressing into your womb with the slow roll of his hips; his chest presses to your spine, lips grazing the shell of your ear as you both ride out your highs, together.
As your breaths begin to steady, Jacaerys lets out a low chuckle; his forehead pressed against your back, heart slamming in his chest.
Hands, still warm from the fervor of your embrace, lazily trace patterns down your back as he moves, cock stirring within you. “Perhaps, my love,” his voice is affectionate, breathless, after few moments of silence. “we should move somewhere with less... ink.”
Brows furrowed and forehead sheened with sweat, you send him a puzzled look - with a sheepish grin, he nods to the corner of the table as he pulls out of you. A gasp in the sensation of loss that is only swallowed by the widening of your eyes; a spilled well of ink, seeping over the finished letter you’d intended to send off to the Queen this evening.
The dark liquid trails in rivulets, small tributaries of black blood, reaching towards you and your beloved as your heartbeats correct, your joint spend gathering between your thighs.
His lips press to your hot cheek - and you can’t help the sly smile that curves your lips. “Is that an invitation to retire to our chambers, then?” You hum - and his hands are gentle as he coaxes you from your previous position, unwilling to separate too far from your heat as his arms circle your waist.
Your hands slide affectionately into his curls; your thighs shake, though his lips find yours in a sweet, gentle kiss.
You pull away to right your dress with a deliberately slow, languid sweep - his lips brush just beneath your ear as you do so, his desperation regaining strength so soon after you’ve finished; a flutter in your stomach at the feeling of his grin against your neck. “-It is, my lovely wife.” He affirms, humming, “I believe there is a bath drawn and waiting, if you’d care to accompany me.”
You roll your eyes, laughing softly; his hands are gentle, smoothing over your hips as he pulls back, amused himself: “No?” He wonders, eyes alight with love. You smile affectionately, shaking your head, “You’d like that far too much, wouldn’t you?" You tease.
Jacaerys lets out a low laugh, his eyes glimmering and playful as he traces lazy patterns along your waist. “I admit, I would... but merely because I know you would too,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over your jawline.
Your smile is bitten; a new hunger, insatiable as you take in the dark beauty of your sweet husband. The tenderness in his gaze has always been too much to resist. “I suppose a bath wouldn’t be so terrible,” you concede with a smirk, “Provided you behave yourself, of course.”
His grin widens as his lips brush over your temple, taking your hand in his tenderly, guiding you towards the staircase.
“I find it remarkable you imply that I am the one who must behave.” You let out a small laugh; in the echo of your footfalls upon the stone, Jace leans in close enough that his breath tickles your skin. “I have to make up for lost time,” an intimate whisper as you near the doors at the top of the stairs, “And tonight, I am yours - and yours alone.”
Your cheeks do not calm their flush in the path back to the royal apartments; neither do your husband’s.
˗ˏˋ i'd go blind (just to see you) ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon
jacaerys velaryon x fem!lady!reader
words: 10.9k
synopsis: It’s always been entertaining, this little dance of teasing words, of stolen glances, of flushed cheeks; Yet now, letters and suitors flood the Keep, eager for your hand - and the game has turned rather bitter in taste.
notes: heyyyy sorry this took so long but im back! this fic has made me want to [REDACTED] myself for over a month so here it is i'll never look at it again. i didnt rly edit this sorry but thanks to my perfect princess @softspiderling for beta-ing this
warnings: canon-divergent; dance does not happen. characters aged 20+. Rhaenyra is queen. jealousy, best-friends-to-lovers, yearning, mostly lots of fluff, slight rude jace, he has wild older brother vibes, kissing, tipsy jace and reader, allusions to smut. reader is so infatuated with him
masterlist
THE SUN IS NEAR UNBEARABLE PAST MIDDAY.
It bakes you, an oppressor in the sky; your hand, fanning yourself gently as the other drops to lay the parchment aside. A sheepish smile as you watch your handmaids, eyes flickering about the letter with excitement - but you’re rather unwilling to give it further thought for the time being.
A delicate hand against the rays of the sun, pressing to your brow; a short sigh that escapes when you shift in your dress. The heat has begun to draw sweat upon the soft of your thighs, collecting at the base of your neck - dripping in a lick down gentle ridges of spine; though you are never one to resist such fresh air.
Tea is poured for you.
And though you know you will not so much as touch the cup of steaming liquid, a gentle thanks from you to the girl before you. The tree line shimmers in the distance, green points with spinning tops that blow against the blue breeze of day.
“Another one?”
A voice, familiar and warm, startles you from your daydream.
Against the glare of the sun, you note your visitor - a grin that stretches over your flushed cheeks and sheened brow; It would be futile to attempt any concealment of your delight.
“My prince,” you rise to curtsy, but make it not even halfway before he’s regarding you with a rather amused glance - you bite back a roll of your own eyes, delivering him a severe look in return.
In the earlier days, when your father first joined the Queen’s council, you and Jacaerys adhered quite obediently to the formalities expected of young lords and ladies - but as turns of moon became turns of years, polite conversation became a tight friendship; and with it, you’ve both found much humor in addressing each other so formally.
Jacaerys always claims you curtsy like a young mare, and in response, you tell him he bows stiff as a plank.
A lifted brow in jest; regarding you with that warm disposition and crooked smile.
“Jace,” You relinquish with a smile of your own, hoping your affection doesn’t completely drip through your polite welcome. “Come join me.”
He does, and with a boyish eagerness that often endears him to you further; Sitting with knees spread and arms draped over the back of the chair rather un-Princely, Jacaerys looks wonderfully at home amidst the half-eaten cakes and teacups. A maid steps forward to pour him a fresh cup of tea, and he returns an effortlessly graceful smile of thanks.
“This makes the fifth proposal this week.” A gesture downwards to the parchment, its waxy broken seal crumbling below it.
You smile sheepishly, regretful to admit. “I’m afraid so.” A relief that such scrutiny from the prince is not upon your countenance, but rather focused downwards - subtly reading the gaudy words frilled upon the parchment.
You tilt your head at his interest, “Though I don’t believe I have been keeping track.”
He hums, either in response to your observation or perhaps unsatisfied with the pompous letter sent to you - and takes the moment to tilt his face up in relish of the same sun that seems to scorch you.
His skin has always taken to that kissed-look, for as long as you’ve known him; rosy cheeks so becoming, a charming smatter of freckles, a flush over his cheeks that sprouts after an afternoon sparring - or perhaps riding - and blossoms even in the respite of shade afterwards.
He’s always enjoyed bathing in the sun, and you’ve always quite enjoyed watching him.
Though you flush in embarrassment when Jacaerys cracks an eye open, glancing sidelong to catch your stare, he mercifully has the grace to not mention it - and so you look down to your cup of tea, how tendrils of steam climb out and stagger into the molten afternoon air.
A smattering of petals, torn from the shrub beside your restless hands; blowing in the warm breeze over the discarded parchment. “You're quite popular these days." He says after a moment, his long, dark lashes fluttering shut once more.
“These days?” you chirp, unworried of the playful lilt in your voice, "And here I thought people have always sought my company. What could have possibly changed?”
A small laugh, though his eyes do not open- unstirred by your attempts to provoke him, shifting in the warmth like a cat in a corner of sun.
A low hum from pink lips, lazy as he grins; Eyelashes fluttering over cheeks. “I wonder if I’ve grown accustomed to being your favorite.” He decides lightly, “Or perhaps I simply enjoy watching you when you can see no one else.”
A familiar flutter of excitement dances through you, a warmth blooming in your cheeks at such uncomplicated charm.
And it is the truth - Jacaerys has long past commanded your attention, been the first you seek in any room, no matter how vast; Perhaps there truly is no competition anymore. A glance to the parchment before you - and the returned stare of the word betrothal inscribed in frilly handscript.
“Is that so?” Your voice, mercifully, does not betray your fluster, “Well, poor luck, I suppose. I’m afraid I seek the company of one who appreciates not my countenance, but my presence.”
Some huff of amusement exhaled sharply from his nose, tilting his head further - a slope against the sun, the expanse of a throat; the bob of an apple. “Then you look in the wrong places, my lady.” He decides, nodding towards the discarded letter, “Tales of beauty are one thing, but I'm afraid mere letters can not do justice your presence.”
An effortless compliment; one of many shared between your lips and his. He’s right, as he so infuriatingly often is - though it does nothing to quell your reluctance to select a husband.
In fact, it simply stirs the warmth that lies within your chest; and he, with fluttered lashes, blissfully unaware of how his words stir your heart. You cast your gaze to the letter.
“It's overwhelming.”
And concern leaking through the opening of an amber gaze as you continue, thumbing the napkin in your lap.
“I don’t know these suitors. Most of their fathers write to me." You confess, knowing how improper it would be to complain under regular company; but this is Jace.
He leans forward at this, ever eager to bestow upon you his undivided attention - yet he merely shrugs, as though remarking on the weather, “It is little wonder they should be so interested. It is you,” And his tone, as effortless as the breeze. A leap in your heart. “The true question,” he muses - a distant melody, “is whether any of that interest might be returned.”
You pray your countenance might be enough to save you from the embarrassment of candor; Yet of course he plays the aloof, tilting his head. His hair looks quite full today - swept away from his cheekbones, sharp as the slopes of the Eyrie.
Indeed, you have interest to return - but not for any of those lords, nor their land, nor their riches.
It seems nearly impossible that Jacaerys might be in any semblance unaware of your affections for him; everyone else has surely taken note, and you’ve hardly gone to great lengths to conceal them - just as you’re certainly aware of his own.
It’s always been entertaining, this little dance of teasing words, of stolen glances, of flushed cheeks; Yet now, letters and suitors flood the Keep, eager for your hand - or your father’s army - and the game has turned rather yearning in taste.
Some ancient, desperate ache within you - a wish that it were the boy beside you, not these distant lords, who vied for your hand.
“-If you’re asking if I have a particular suitor in mind, then…” Your heart skips a beat at the fleeting spark of interest within an amber stare. A heat, an affection you must not name, blossoms in your chest at his interest; though you lose your confidence just as you get it. “...No.” You say, picking at a loose thread on your fine gown, “None of them.”
He makes a noncommittal noise, moving to take a bite out of one of the sagecakes, warmed by the sun. The Blackwater glistens in the distance; Jace strikes a relaxed conversation with the handmaids.
A HALF HOUR IS SWALLOWED IN THE SUNSHINE.
Birds sing - a hummingbird zips by, coaxing a gasp from your lips when it dips into a thatch of flowers before darting away unseen - absently, you’ve busied your hands with a ribbon that refuses to tie properly upon your hair.
It seems Jacaerys’s hunger has quelled, half the sandwiches and cakes replaced with staling crumbs. A brushing of his fingers, the shift of his chair in the shade. Eyes, warmed pools of honey that begin to drip with quiet amusement as you struggle to untangle the ribbon.
"Would you care for some help?" His voice is full of quiet mirth, and you, embarrassed by the difficulty, nod with a sheepish glance - “Please.” You agree, shifting closer.
“-It’s bothered me all day, I can never get it to sit right.” Your voice quiets as you turn slightly away; perhaps it would be more appropriate for one of your maidens to relieve its knot, but Jacaerys has leaned behind you already.
His touch is gentle, as it usually is - calloused fingertips from training in the yard, from riding Vermax - soft. He whispers, less than a breath. “Tell me if I hurt you, gevie.”
You feel the word, whispered under his breath like a secret - perhaps it is, because it is not ever spoken in your common tongue, but in his own ancestral one.
Deft fingers, warm breath upon your neck; a bee buzzes lazily into the brief shade above you. A spare glance to your handmaids, who hover on the other side of the small canopy and whisper to each other with poorly concealed grins; you’re sure to deal with a barrage of giggles and inquisitive whispers once back within your chambers. The thought lights you with your own giddiness, feeling the brush of fingers against the damp skin of your neck.
A taught, gentle pull of the ribbon; a small pinch of hair that makes you wince gently.
Jacaerys’ hands still against your head, cupping the base of skull gently - resting for a brief breath - and as the flush creeps across your cheeks, his palms then return to his lap. “There, that should hold.” He murmurs.
A warmth as you whisper in return. “Thank you, Jacaerys.”
His grin is almost shy as he shrugs, cheeks bright pink and eyes squinting lightly against the bright day as he looks off towards the bay; you, too, return your gaze to the wild of the sea, ignoring the crashing of your heart against your chest.
It is quiet for a few minutes save for the birds in the distance, the babbling of a stream round the bend - you’ve taken to examining the bump along the bridge of his nose when he exhales, eyes opening slowly to find yours once more.
You force your eyes over the row of bumbling hedges, to the small insects that lumber around the prettiest of blooms. The burn of a gaze in your peripheral; slight breeze rustles the ribbon he’d just fastened.
“You know, it’s quite the thing to be sought after by so many.”
You truly wish he would let the subject go.
The parchment on the table - forgotten by only one of you, it seems. A tremble in your cadence gives way your failed efforts to remain nonchalant; worry, that unwelcome friend at the feast within your heart.
“Yes, but they don’t know me, Jace.” You sigh; what heart palpitations your lord father would find if he heard the tone you take with the Prince of Dragonstone. “They see only what my father can offer to their house.”
Jacaerys nods, thoughtful as he prods a half-eaten cucumber cake - he too, is of age, more so than you; he surely knows just as well what marriage means. “Come now,” He says, voice kind, gentle, “There must be someone interested in the woman behind the name.”
A short sigh escapes your pursed lips. “If there is, he must be hiding under some dock, or his raven lost in some storm,” You thumb the teaspoon upon your saucer, “Because I’ve not yet found him.”
He knows you too well - a smirk growing at your indignant tone; and a crooked grin on your own lips as you shake your head, letting out a soft chuckle that he echoes.
Heart fluttering, some burst of amusement coaxes you to continue, if just to hear his laugh through practiced diplomacy.
“Unless there is somebody you have in mind for me, Jacaerys?” Your voice belies all effort to remain less than invested; a desperation that you do not dare admit any further.
You truly should know better than to act so bold when there are servants and guests walking around the grounds; the walls have eyes in the Keep, but indeed do the garden’s leaves.
Jacaerys ceases pushing the handle of his teacup round with his pointer finger. "Someone in mind?" He repeats it; tone light, almost teasing.
The question awaits a response; Heartbeat, soft and insistent, in your ears. Say it, please, your eyes wish. But then his fingers resume to toy with the handle of his teacup, the movement casual, "It would be unseemly for me to play matchmaker, wouldn’t it, my lady?" There is an equally desperate twinge in his own tone, one masked rather gallantly by practiced etiquette.
Your lip is warm between your teeth - the Prince’s gaze flicks with such movements, of only for a second.
“You imply I should not trust your opinion, then, my Prince?” You counter with his own title, a jest; he shakes his head with a soft smile, rising to gather himself. Your gaze catches the fluttering wings of another hummingbird just before you, dipping in to collect nectar before you.
Its feathers, a quick blur, eyes beady against a bright glare. Such a peculiar barrage of colors, flashing - red, some iridescent green…
“In these matters…” A hum as he rises behind you, grasping the letter you’d left before you; you are stuck watching the small creature flutter before you, unaware of his eyes roving with a heat over the words written before him. “-Perhaps not.”
Though his words are distant as you stare at the little bird; peculiarly, it stares back, its head tilting when your own does.
Your hum is an echo of his own, earlier - noncommittal, far away. The hummingbird sips from bright blossoms of sweet honeysuckle, its tiny eyes flicking to you to perceive any threats. It finds none.
A drop of the letter back beside you, a hand steady upon the back of your chaise, “-Conflict of interest, among other reasons.”
His words in your ear, tapping your shoulder lightly; you snap away from your daze at the touch, blinking to see his hand outstretched to you.
What had he said? Clearing your throat of the butterflies which threaten to escape, you grasp his hand in your own, regretful that you seemed to have missed the opportunity to address the words he’d uttered - afraid to do so, to unturn the raw earth beneath this game you and he play so well. You wonder absently where the hummingbird’s gone off to.
A murmur of your name as his hands fall to your shoulders, steadying you to take in your flushed face.
“You’ve caught sun,” He chides, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, brushing his finger over the apple of your cheek; A brief touch - and a good-natured roll of your eyes to hide the flutter in your chest.
“Let us get you into the shade, gevie.” He gestures the path upwards to the Keep.
You knock shoulders into his own, an effort against the upslope - clinking behind you as your maidens begin to tidy your tea spot as you begin the short walk back towards the chalky stone halls.
“HIDING, ARE WE?”
You hadn’t meant to startle the prince.
Yet when he jolts slightly from where his head rests upon a sharp jawline, you have to conceal your giggle with a palm.
A slow blink of sleep from his syrupy dark gaze as he remembers himself, stirring from such a hunched position.
“Oh, you truly didn’t have to stay up for me, Jacaerys.” You tease, swiping a hand over his sturdy shoulder as you slide onto the bench aside him.
The library is a wonderfully cool refuge this time of day, and after the heatwave that has welcomed so many lords and ladies to the castle, you are appreciative of such solitude.
He has the grace to laugh, still blinking sleep from his eyes. “Well, I suppose I tired of waiting to see if you’d show.” A smile so striking upon his lips you have to look away.
“I am sorry I’ve come late.” you apologize earnestly, taking the leather of the book he’d taken for a pillow, opening it up.
He hums, watching with his head propped similar to how you’d discovered him moments ago - though now, his eyes burn alight with amusement. Jacaerys decides to begin your lesson promptly; perhaps making up for lost time.
“Skoriot istan ao?” His voice, that smooth caramel; you ignore the heat that licks at such a tone - you’re here to learn, you remind yourself.
You pause, trying your hardest to comprehend the sentence; What…what time is it? With a blink, you lean forwards, squinting in an attempt to gauge the position of the sun through the window’s mottled colors.
There is indeed no part of you unaware that such a gesture leaves the line of your chest direct with his gaze; nor are you unaware of the eyes that trail down the slope of you; though his eyes are schooled to your visage once more when you return to your sat position, his cheeks pink.
You return a smile, sweet as can be; hoping he will have mercy upon you today, as you have less than a clue of what he’s asked.
“M…” You’re unsure, and it shows. He holds back a grin, but you choose to ignore him once more. “Mōris hen tubis?” Your accent is rough, poor; as is your translation.
You think it is nearing the end of the day - but you also are not sure if that truly is what he asked you at all. The page below you is not helpful; ‘Word Cells in High Valyrian,’ - written in High Valyrian.
He shakes his head - that stern, scholared look, the one you’ve grown to cherish. You smile at him, unknowing, hopeful that he’ll take pity on you.
“No, gevie.” He chides, an amused smile, “Skoriot istan - Where were you?”
Oh. You bite away your sheepish grin, stretching your arms in a rather unladylike way; Jace watches you with that kind, patient look all the same.
“Nyke…” You pause, cringing at the pronunciation - a glance shows that Jacaerys does not bat an eye. “...rȳbagon vala ȳdragon…naejot nyke… lēda ñuha muña.” It is a crude sentence, a crude translation - but you believe you’ve done well enough.
Jace spends a moment deciphering your butchered phrase of his ancient ancestral language - in stride, thankfully - and then frowns. “You were… listening to a man speak?”
You flush, “I do not know the word for courting, I’m afraid.”
A minuscule reaction - likely more involuntary - the tighten of a jaw, and a spine growing rigid.
A moment before he mutters. “Rudhy.”
His words are through clenched teeth; his eyes, alight with something unspoken, some faint irritation or envy.
You clear your throat, holding his steady gaze; you repeat the word again, though it lacks the melodic quality with which he speaks. “Rudhy.”
For a moment, he simply holds your gaze; until, as though jolted from a trance, he nods, letting out a soft breath. “Good,” he murmurs, barely audible.
A heat you dare not name, and the clearing of your own throat. “Well, if you must know, it was no one of consequence,” you reply with a sigh, skimming the page before you.
Your gaze flickers over words: gaomilaksir and rigle - you pay them little mind at the moment. “He was rather brilliant at making grand gestures, but sadly, that is not what I truly desire.” Your words are light, but as clear as you can put it; Though some armor or defense between you both as the crooked grins and wry grins come back.
Sparse noise - the ruffle of parchment rows away, where a worker returns scrolls. The distant clink of a blacksmith in the distance.
“Is that not what you want?” Jacaerys quips, a playfulness in his voice; you’ve always so loved when he finds that light, when he forgets about those princely duties, about the crown he will one day wear - when he lets himself laugh and tease and smirk and enjoy his time with you as he pleases.
His head tilts in that way you adore, “-Am I not making grand enough gestures?”
A moment in the silence of the library where you grin - you and Jace, and that odd line you so love, straddling truth and tease. And he, cheeks pink; certainly, it was not his intention to come off so coy - but you don’t mind, no, in fact you flourish under his attention.
You let out a small laugh, eager to soothe his apparent fluster. “You? Oh, you’re quite grand, but not in the way you might think.”
He clutches his heart; he knows how you laugh whenever he does so - always one for the dramatics, he groans in false pain. “You wound me.”
And he watches for your reaction; your giggle comes muffled by your palm.
A brief moment where a cloud passes the sun behind your backs, light blotted and red with the stain of glass. Your soft laughs die down together, you and Jace’s breaths drawn together, threaded from the same ancient string.
His back is straight - a princely figure as his shoulders brush your own. You hide the wash of shivers down your spine at the faint scent of him.
“Well, do tell, what kind of grand gestures would meet your exacting standards?” He murmurs with a grin. “I should take notes to distribute to all the men lining our Keep, waiting for a lone moment with you.”
Our Keep. You don’t let yourself think too much on the phrasing, covering your flush by a finger to your lips, pretending to consider his words.
As if the gesture of teaching you a language you wished to know did not set the very standards he also exceeds every moment you spend in his presence.
As if the small gifts - a flower plucked from those hidden bushels in the garden, books slipped from the rows and slid under mattresses until the Maester is gone, sips from his own cup of wine when your father deems you’ve had plenty - isn’t enough.
As if simply spending time with him isn’t enough; As if you would not deny every single gesture in the seven kingdoms, no matter how grand, if he were to simply offer his own hand to you.
But you wouldn’t dare admit such things, not when his grin is so wide, when his eyes are alight with that joy of jest.
“Well, it might start with being genuinely interested in who I am, rather than what I might bring to the table.” You mutter, opting for a less revealing honest answer.
A lithe finger toys with the bands around his others; he pretends to consider such a thought. “Quite a tall order.” He mocks, “I worry if I can do that, gevie.”
His voice betrays the lie as he says it, and then, as an afterthought: “Besides, you didn’t bring anything to the table today.” He adds, lifting a brow. You roll your eyes; Jacaerys and his ravenous, insatiable appetite.
“Septa Jaenna took my by ear to kneel before the Seven when she caught me bringing you sagecakes last.” You defend, shaking your head, “I would do many things for you, Jace, but enduring her spittling rants is no longer upon that list, I’m afraid.”
He shakes his head in mock disappointment, taking it upon himself to flip to the correct page of the book you share between you; his palm, calloused as it brushes your own, though if he notices, he does not mention it, still caught on your words.
“You, enduring a lesson from Septa Jaenna…” He hums, eyes searching over the Valyrian upon the book, “A gesture too grand for the likes of me. I understand.” He jests, a small smirk growing on his face. “I hope your future husband does not succumb to the same ill fate.”
His ribbing tease settles something less than pleasant within your stomach though, a cold wash off reality hitting you in the chest. Swallowing, you fight for a weak smile, knocking your shoulder into his.
The motion, gentle as it was, sets his cloak askew upon the brooch which holds it to his shoulder - it slips off, but he smiles all the same.
You do your diligence in haste - fingers fastening it properly for him once more, hiding your soft smile and shaking fingers.
You pretend not to feel his attentive gaze upon you as you do so.
FOOTSTEPS ECHO IN CORRIDORS; A RHYTHMIC TAP OF BOOTS BESIDE YOU.
Another blistering day - sweat gathering upon the peak of your hairline, sliding down the skin that welcomes beams of sunlight - a shiftier gown, light and breezy upon your frame. The young lord at your side is amiable enough; his voice smooth, words flowing of his family’s lands, ancient tales of the Riverlands. You, with suppressions of yawns, humming along as you look out to the gardens, a spot you’d much rather be.
His stories fluctuate - yet your thoughts, leaves caught in a breeze; pulled inexorably towards a head of dark curls, of crooked smiles, of metal rings stamped with signet of dragon and seahorse.
Your father’s voice echoes in your mind - consider the advantages of such a match - and a well-practiced young maiden you can play, as you smile and nod in all the right places.
Your heart may not be in it - but your head is, and as you turn a corner, your gaze is drawn from the fluttering of hummingbird wings upon honeysuckle bushes in the near distance.
A pair, boisterously striding down the corridor opposite you; The Royal Princes.
Some quiet excitement, a lurch in your heart at the sight of him: Jacaerys, with such proud shoulders - dark hair tousled, cheeks beet and freckled with exertion.
Beside him, Lucerys - an image of Jacaerys years past - hands, animatedly recounting some tale with a boyish enthusiasm. A flicker of relief at the sight of such familiar frames; you nearly forget yourself in an urge to abandon your unvaried duty and join their sides, to hear the tale from Luke’s lips, to fall into worn chaises in their drawing quarters; to laze with them on fruits and cakes, hiding in the shade before the duties of the afternoon call.
But Jace’s eyes, sharp as a hawk when your presence is noted - and within a moment, they become rather fixed upon the man beside you.
A drop in your stomach of surprise rather than any kind of true consternation, unused to such blatant show of opposition from him.
In that impressive way he can, Jace’s visage is quickly schooled into indifference; but you know Jacaerys, you know the tightness in his jaw, recognize the cool in his gaze. A heavy silence falls as you come upon the princes; some levity within your stomach at his gaze, stuck upon your arm in another’s. I do not want this, you hope he hears; I solely want you.
“My lady,” Luke’s smile is mercifully amiable. “It is good to see you.”
You incline your head in return, your heart pounding beneath your ribs. “And you, Prince Lucerys,” you reply with a practiced smile; memories of youthful jaunts in the outcroppings of court - a boy prone to mischief, whose company you’ve always enjoyed.
Jacaerys offers no such courtesy; with shock, you regard Jace’s icy gaze, a disposition well prepared to freeze over the Narrow Sea.
A moment before Jace parts his lips - “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says, his voice low, clipped - any semblance of amiability you’ve grown accustomed to has all but dissipated.
Lucerys’s eyes meet your own in a quick glance; exasperation must hang upon the downturn of your lips, for he glances sidelong to his elder brother.
Your suitor, rather taken aback by the chill in Jace’s tone, quickly introduces himself; the prince merely nods, offering no more than that - your jaw clicks shut in disapproval, any amusement you’d drawn at the taste of his envy dissolved with an overhanging dread, some sad misery.
Ask for my hand, Jacaerys - you bite your lip to quell your foolish mind. Ask for my hand, and I will be yours.
In some half-decent attempt to bridge the gap of tension that burgeons, you weakly mutter, “Were you sparring in such heat?”
Jacaerys meets your gaze briefly; seeking something he is too proud to ask for, before a flush of some shame flickers over his countenance.
“Yes,” he replies curtly, eyes falling to look away, seemingly finding the wall behind your head infinitely more interesting.
A breath, in which the breeze through the windows plaster a new sheen of sweat upon your spine. It’s almost as if some green-eyed beast has taken your friend; no flicker within his eyes, only a sullen gaze leveled down the slope of a regal nose.
Lucerys seems to take the reins, in a step forward and bright, princely smile. “Jace bested me, as always,” and if you knew him any less, you’d think his laugh was simple, of amiability; though a lilt at the end, some strain to ease the tension of his elder brother’s rather serrating gaze upon the man beside you.
“Perhaps you might join us next time, my lady? I imagine it would be a welcome change from the dullness of court.” His voice, joking; you send him a wry grin imagining yourself attempting to wield a sword - though it falters with unspoken words - the man beside you, stiffer than a board beneath your hand.
“I would like that,” you reply, though your eyes stray to Jace - he, not daring to spare you a mere glance. Silence, stretching between the four of you tighter than frayed string; And then Jace’s voice, quieter now, almost reluctant.
“Well. I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to,” he decides dismissively; it stings you, brows furrowing.
Your suitor is rather unaware of the undercurrents - thankfully, he merely delivered an awkward chuckle, suggesting that you continue your walk. It is with force that you nod, following though each step is excruciating.
You pass Jace with a brief moment of brushing shoulders - a scent of steel, of salt, of citrus; and an immaculate success of personal discipline as you continue forward, head not daring to look back.
The gaze of Lucerys in the corner of your eye, some small comfort of sympathy and confusion in his stare; your suitor has begun to prattle on inconsequentially once more.
You wonder if your father would have you hanged, were you to deny the betrothal right there.
PERHAPS IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN OBVIOUS.
Maybe, it was obvious - it is indeed hard not to notice when eyes pierce you all night.
A feast, you’re at; a wonderful one, with many lords and ladies and music and laughter. You’ve danced yourself to the edge of the room, yet you can still feel those eyes upon your frame as you converse lightly with a woman you vaguely recognize.
You’ve quite enjoyed the feast, though you’re afraid Jacaerys has not.
He’s been stuck to you; eyes, unrelenting, yet neither body nor mouth approaching. You nearly asked him to dance several times, but each attempt to cross the massive room to him resulted in you becoming whisked away for another dance.
The cups of wine come quite easily; you’ve never been one to shy away from a feast, and the spirits are quite high. A man before you, speaking at you; you don’t find yourself too bothered, enjoying the fuzziness awarded to you by the contents of your cup. The wine on your lips is light, and you give minimal effort to focusing on the man’s words.
“-Should I be worried?”
You blink, frowning at the man in front of you - several years your senior, his brow furrows as he glances just over your shoulder, gesturing with a cup of wine. The son of Lord Royce; intelligent, handsome… not any interest of you, however.
Frowning, you turn slightly; following his gaze. Your stomach flips. Jacaerys, across the way, watches you as a hawk does a mouse; intense, open - sharp. Though at the turn of your head, he has the audacity to look away - pushing the food around in front of him half-heartedly upon the plate.
He is sat next to his mother at the large table before the entire procession; barely a moment before his gaze befalls you and your company once more. You lift an inquisitive brow - if you won’t provide me company, your look says, I’ll find it elsewhere.
He simply looks away.
You shake your head, turning back and suppressing the flutter in your heart. “He’s just protective,” You reason, hoping you sound casual.
The son of the lord lifts a brow. “Protective? The Crown Prince looks ready to challenge me to a duel.”
But eventually, the son of the lord is replaced with a new one; You enjoy another dance with the young man, who turns red as Highgarden Beets when you accidentally spill a drop of wine upon your chest.
It is not until you find yourself reposed at a banquet table with his younger brother does Jacaerys finally find his way to you.
“-and then his foot caught on his cloak and he tossed over,” Lucerys recalls, grin wide. You smirk, amused by his story, sipping on water. “He tried to play it off but, Gods, he looked so pompous-”
You let out a short laugh, “At least he had a sense of humor about it.” You defend - but Luke’s eyes have fallen behind you, where a shadow appears.
“Jace!” Luke greets the figure behind you with a friendly grin, his eyes lighting up. Your stomach warms, turning with a lifted brow behind you. Jacaerys’ eyes are already on yours when you turn, and you’re struck by his proximity.
“Luke,” Jacaerys greets smoothly, nodding to you with a small smile, “My lady.”
You return his smile, feeling a pleasant flutter at his attention. Your mouth opens to greet him - perhaps sneak a comment on his lingering attention this evening, but Luke speaks first. “We were just recalling that boy who made such a spectacle of himself asking for her hand before the festivities,” Lucerys continues, his laughter light.
He takes your hand in his, playfully mimicking the young lord’s desperate plea as he falls to one knee before you; you laugh in surprise, Luke’s voice high as he mimics, “Please, my Lady, I’d even take your house name—”
You laugh, swatting Luke’s shoulder with a gentle nudge. “Hush!” you say with poorly concealed amusement. “He could be near, Luke.”
A hand comes to the back of your chair; as you lean back, fingers trail slowly through the strands of your hair, grazing the nape of your neck. A warmth stirs as Jace leans around you, fixing his brother with a look. “Yes, well, Luke.” His voice is rather tight; you can hear the hint of tension. “I think it’s time you bother someone else.”
Alarmed, you send Jacaerys a rather bewildered look - an irritable sentence, never one to be so forward. Lucerys similarly seems to pick up on his brother’s mood, shifting uncomfortably.
“Oh, come now, Jace,” he says lightly, hoping to ease the tension. It is rare that Jacaerys displays such an attitude towards his brother in your company, nor at all, “We were just having a bit of fun.” He defends.
Jacaerys gives a tight nod, his hand unmoving from the back of your chair. “I’m sure you were.”
Luke’s eyes flicker between you and Jace, reading whatever either of you refuse to say. A small understanding that lurks within his mirthful gaze, eyeing his older brother, “Oh, I see.”
Jacaerys simply tilts his head with a withering look, one that prompts you to hold back a laugh of amusement.
“Well,” Luke says, standing up with a nod. “I think…” He squints, humming, “Oh, yes- mother’s beckoning me, I see her just- well, I’ll leave you two to it.” He turns to you, bowing with a grin poorly concealed. “My lady.”
After you’ve bowed back, you resist a sigh - Jacaerys watches Lucerys go, his hand still resting rather possessively on the back of your chair. Half exasperated and half amused, you murmur Jace’s name; his head swivels to you, the scowl melting from his face. “Sit,” You gesture.
He takes the seat beside you, the bitterness seemingly having worn off, steadfastly avoiding your eyes. “You need not be so discontented, Jacaerys,” you say, leaning in slightly to meet his gaze. “It’s just Luke. He was only providing me company.”
Jacaerys raises an eyebrow, his eyes dark though he tries to conceal it. "Of which you've had no shortage all night," he retorts, his voice low.
You sigh, shaking your head. Jacaerys, by nature, is a friend of great kindness and patience; Yet, of late, he has grown increasingly impatient and possessive, having apparently decided he must vie for your attention with greater urgency than usual.
It would be both a lie and a sin to deny that you relish such devoted attention from a man like him.
Perhaps this is his way of grappling with the unspoken affection that binds you both—a matter you have both struggled to address openly, and of which you have taken in better stride than he as of late.
His attentiveness is flattering, though the extent of his possessiveness comes as a surprise; your cheeks grow hot at the look in his eyes.
There is a piece of lint upon the top plane of his shoulder, just near the junction of his neck; you pinch it, ridding him of the slight imperfection with a sigh. Your Jacaerys; so handsome, so chivalrous, so bold - so unwilling to cross certain lines, yet so ready to dive headfirst over others.
He relaxes under your touch, and you cannot help but speak the truth.
“You look quite handsome this evening,” you murmur softly, observing the blush that creeps up his neck.
“Thank you,” he accepts, his voice carrying that slight hint of shyness you so adore. Jacaerys is not blind, nor is he a fool; he certainly knows of his looks, though despite this, he so often grows bashful at each compliment you deliver.
A group of children rush past your table; you watch fondly as the two kids at the front avoid running into the dancing couples. A small laugh from you as the child in the back trips over a gown train.
“You look quite beautiful, as always.” Jacaerys says; you snap back to him with a small smile. He, too, is no stranger to showering you with praise nor flattering remarks; and you, just as well, always find yourself exceedingly pleased.
You both sit in a comfortable silence for a moment before he clears his throat. “Would you care to dance?”
A thrill of delight courses through you, though you mask it with a serene smile as you take his offered hand. “And here I thought you quite content to brood in the corner,” you tease gently.
“I was not brooding,” he retorts, guiding you towards the dance floor with soft hands. “I was merely allowing you to enjoy the company of others.”
You find his protests endearing, though you say nothing as you follow him gracefully. “You know I prefer your company,” you reply sincerely; he takes your hand and places it on his shoulder - you let your thumb soothe over the muscle, feeling the tension slide away.
His pleased smile is tilted down at you, and you provide a half shrug as you begin a gentle dance, murmuring, “Besides, you’ve done a splendid job of deterring any potential suitors away from me.”
A hint of satisfaction crosses his face briefly, though he tries valiantly to hide it; a subtle smirk tugging at his lips before he schools his expression. “Have I?” he asks - eyes light with that underlying warmth. You roll your eyes good-naturedly.
“You have, my prince,” you affirm, leaning in closer as you guide his hands to your waist. Your voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “If you continue in this manner, you may well spoil my chances of finding a decent husband of the lot.”
Jacaerys’s smile broadens, and his gaze softens. “I would not dream of it,” he replies with a playful grin, leading you in a gentle dance. You roll your eyes, unable to resist his charm this evening.
“Of course not,” you say with a smile, enjoying the moment.
You find it rather soothing to dance with him; you always have. The lights are dim - music smoother, laughter soft and smiles gentle when he steps on your dress skirt - or you on his toes occasionally.
Swaying rather gently, you enjoy each other’s company - discussing his training, your academic endeavors, how Vermax is faring after having not flown in a few days.
Perhaps the wine has helped; the room is amiable, dark - cinnamon, cloves, amber. Jacaerys is warm against you, his own cheeks reddened with the wine coursing through his veins. A giddiness slips into your veins, content with his company.
And then Jacaerys whispers quietly to you, a teasing joke about the inebriated couple to your left; a laugh that flies out of your lips before you can remember your courtly manners - stark and unladylike, it turns the heads of several couples around you.
In sharp reaction to your disturbance, he tugs you to him tenderly, shushing you only slightly - his own laughter stifled in your hair to save face, concealing both of your giggles in a short embrace.
Laughter from you, trying your hardest to resist - another glance to the man beside you, drunkenly letting the woman dip him low, fumbling with his weight - your hands find their place upon Jace’s neck, fingers grazing the soft fabric of his red cloak as he laughs again, ducking his face into the gentle curve of your shoulder.
Your gaze lifts at the tailend of your ungraceful bout of amusement with a mindless wander, enjoying the pressing warmth of Jace in your arms - the rest of the evening second to him.
Your eyes trail up to the dais: catching a penetrating stare that washes you cold.
In the midst of the entire court, you catch the eyes of his mother, the Queen.
Mid-laugh, your stomach flips as a chill runs through you. The warmth of Jace’s breath does little to nothing for the sudden cold creeping over your face - he, oblivious to his mother’s gaze, pulls you even closer, his laughter a warm breath against the nape of your neck.
And for a moment, you hold her regal gaze; any urge to step back and maintain a more appropriate distance with her son is suddenly discarded when you find the warmth in the Queen's eyes, the hint of a smile growing upon her expression.
And then a slight nod from her, crown glinting in torchlight - some acknowledgement, some permission; with a mixture of nervousness and respect, you return the gesture, your heart pounding as Jacaerys pulls away, resuming a dance with you. Blissfully unaware.
THE NIGHT STRETCHES LANGUIDLY.
Burnt torches are replaced with fresh flames; you lean into Jacaerys's embrace, lulled into a tranquil haze by the heartbeat beneath your palm, by the melody played in the corner.
“I believe we’ve heard this tune already,” you muse softly, breaking the spell once your heart has calmed from its earlier flutter.
Jacaerys glances toward the quartet in the corner, their music weaving through the evening air. “I had not noticed,” he replies, his gaze lingering on you with a hint of surprise.
A smile dances on your lips with ease — hours have passed since the festivities commenced, yet this is the first time you have seen Jacaerys take to the dance floor. Though princely duties might have called him elsewhere, you are warmed by the knowledge that tonight he chose only to dance with you.
“You know,” you tease, lifting your eyes to his, “if you had asked any lady here to dance, she would surely stumble over her skirts to accept.”
He raises a brow at this; regarding you down the bridge of his nose as his hands squeeze your hips in a slight tease. “You’ve seemed perfectly fine on your two feet, gevie.”
You shake your head, laughing gently - You have no clue, you fool, your mind sings to him. “Only because I’ve danced with you countless times before, ñuha darilaros.” You reason. My prince.
The High Valyrian term rolls off your tongue, and though you stumble over the pronunciation, you catch the glint of satisfaction in his eyes - anything to see that fleck in his eyes, that flash of pride that you so crave.
“Dārilaros,” he corrects with a lift of his brow, making your heart flutter despite your best efforts to remain composed.
Biting back a grin of your own at his correction, you send him a disappointed look. Always so dutiful - you purse your lips, “Jace, you mustn’t be so harsh on me.” You jest, fingers flexing over the fine material of his doublet. “It’s a feast. Have mercy.”
He gives you a look, “Is that a pout I see?” He muses, eyes flicking to your lips and back to your gaze, your hands warm as he guides you in a small pattern dance. You simply tilt your head - he shakes his head shortly, though you see the pink upon his cheeks. “If you’re trying to sway me with such a look, you might try a bit harder,” He lifts a brow, “I’ve seen you use such charm on far less deserving targets.”
You bite your lip, a flash of memory at his icy stare, you arm-in-arm with some far-off Riverlord’s son. The dragonclaw clasping his doublet is crooked; you righten it with your thumb and forefinger gently before returning your hand to his shoulder.
A flash of desire, wishing to provoke him - you crane your neck, pretending to search the crowd. “Perhaps I should seek out one of these less deserving targets to practice my charms on, then?” You hum, “They’d surely appreciate them more than you do.”
His grip on your waist tightens, and abruptly, he halts in his steps, ceasing your dance. The music continues, yet you stand still amidst the swirling crowd, eyes locked on his in surprise.
“I would sooner meet the Stranger than let that happen.” His words are dead-honest.
Your heart leaps, mouth drying as you try to find some joke in your mind about his dramatics.
You open your mouth, but in that peculiar way in which he always seems to read your mind, he insists. “I do not jest.” He adds, shaking his head.
Your eyes take in his own; warm pools of honey. Some familiar urge - that yearning to pull him down to your height, to kiss him soundly - you toss the thought away, instead licking your bottom lip, heart thundering.
“Nor do I,” You whisper, searching his eyes, feeling a pull towards him that you cannot resist; anticipation drips from your body as you drift closer, feeling his warmth.
A shaky sigh from his lips, eyes searching your own. “Then I beg, do not feign ignorance,” he murmurs, his voice low and edged - the music is less than background noise. You are lost in him, just for a moment.
“It drives me mad to see you surrounded by suitors. Truly. I could not say I find pleasure in watching others vie for your attention.”
You look up at him, the heat in your cheeks likely quite evident despite your effort to remain nonchalant. You intend to keep the conversation light - though you know such a task would be impossible with how you stand motionless, holding each other in a crowd of swirling bodies.
Yet before you can respond, an elbow jabs into your back; you gasp and stumble, but Jace’s hands wrap around you, pulling you to him as he avoids the flick of a woman’s hair — his body shielding you from the encroaching crowd of dancing lords and ladies.
Without another thought, you and Jacaerys resume your dance, slowly swaying, his hands flexing against the fabric at your waist as you bask in the heavy air of his words, your eyes tracing over the gold laced in his doublet.
There are those within earshot; Lucerys and Rhaena dance just aside you now, and you press slightly closer to him, looking up into the freckle that lies just within the ring of his left iris.
“Jacaerys,” You start, a brief whisper; still warm from his possessive words, “How should I interpret your words?” You ask, breathless, hoping. “You say you do not enjoy seeing others bid for my hand - though you’ve seemed quite absorbed in their efforts as of late.”
He delivers you an incredibly knowing look, one that douses you in warmth.
A long knowledge between you and him - between every being that takes a breath within the walls of the Red Keep.
He lets out a short breath, tugging you into his - as if unable to look you in the eyes as he speaks, your face nestles into the crook of his neck. “Believe me, it is certainly not your allure I dispute. Rather,” He wets his lower lip, “I detest the notion that another dare try to know it as intimately as I. To know you as intimately as I.” He breathes lowly.
Heat spreads through you at such words; a flattery, yes, but a confession that is much too genuine to be of the aloof coy nature you and Jacaerys often share together.
Despite the shock of his confession after such a long yearning, you smile against him; a giddiness in you when your warm breath raises goosepimples upon the skin of his throat.
Gently, you press a light kiss to the space below his ear, feeling his spine shiver under your touch.
As you pull back, your lips still close to his ear, you whisper softly, “You can become so wonderfully jealous, Jacaerys.”
One hand slides from the nape of his neck to cradle his sharp jaw in palm, watching his face contort in mild irritation at your tease.
Your brows lift at his sheepish blush, tilting your head in amusement. “Did you truly believe you were being subtle?” You question, hiding your laugh for the sake of his pride.
The apple of his cheeks darken, his jaw tight as he presses his lips together, but you soothe his expression with a murmur, “I suppose if you find it so troubling,” your finger soothes over the muscles of his shoulder, swaying along with the dance though the external world is long dissolved, “perhaps you should focus less on guarding me from others and more on ensuring I remain by your side.”
A flicker of hunger; inhaling deeply through his nose, his eyes pin you before him, hands impossibly tight against your dress. You brush against a back in the crowd as Jace spins you slightly - pools of honey do not leave your gaze.
“I would gladly take every opportunity to ensure such a thing,” he says quietly, his breath mingling with yours as the music begins to change - no longer slow, but a jaunt. He tilts his head down in that way you so love, “Yet to act upon my desires here would be…” He swallows thickly, his throat moving visibly, “...less than appropriate.”
Heat licks through you at the admission, at the candor in his tone. Your voice, no more than a murmur. “I can be a patient woman when I must be.”
His nod; flushed cheeks, darkened eyes - the ghost of a smirk. “Good.”
You do not trust yourself to speak; a hunger that devours you - so you lean into the music, allowing yourself to enjoy the moment.
Jacaerys, his hands firm upon you, thumb tracing over the fabric of your gown with a heat you’re unable to ignore.
IT IS NOT SO SOON AFTER THAT YOU TIRE OF WAITING.
Patience; you must have lied to him, when you’d promised such a thing. His hands, so warm through your dress - his eyes, so affectionate - the gaze of his mother across the hall, returning to you and him every few minutes with a ghost of a smile.
Your hands have begun to sweat.
You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze as you sluggishly follow his lead. “Have you tired of dancing?” You wonder, searching his face for any lack of enthusiasm.
Jacaerys, his eyes filled with adoration, simply brushes a stray flyaway from your cheek. The gentle shake of his head that gifts you the soft smell of amber and soap upon his skin. “Only if you have.”
Feather-light, a thumb gently caresses your jaw — faint before fleeing, knowing better than to display such actions in the eye of public.
A warm smile spreads across your face, touched by his consideration, and you bite your lip. “Perhaps a breath of fresh air,” you whisper, your voice soft.
He catches on, as he always does with your veiled words - a slow smile spreading across his face, he nods just as gently. “Lead the way, gevie.” he says; Despite what would be otherwise considered unbefitting of people unwed as yourselves, you take his fingers intertwined with yours, guiding him away from the crowd.
THE AIR IS COOL AT THIS HOUR.
The birds have gone to rest; in the twilight of evening, the moon leaks silver onto the balcony, Jacaerys’ palm warm in your own. Your gown, ruffled sleeves from a small breeze - you sigh, reposing against the stone, looking off towards the gardens.
His own gaze is directed towards the training yard, upon the other side of view, as if imagining himself below, sword in hand. It is calm, in the silence; a sweet respite, a stark contrast to the intensity of the four walls inside the hall.
You’ve been out here, on this particular balcony, before - you quite often find yourself leaving the duties of court with Jacaerys, finding forgotten corridors or courtyards to hide in, to study, to enjoy each other’s company. Quiet jokes in the heat of the afternoon, a breath of fresh air when a roll of storm clouds loom in the distance.
“I realize I have perhaps been a bit overbearing,” his gaze is on the yard below, sighing as if letting you in on a secret. You fight the look of impression upon your face.
“I regret that I have made things difficult for you.”
You shake your head with a smile; always so polite, even when seeing green - and you, pushing buttons just to shy away from the reaction.
“Well, I’m relieved you no longer look as though you’re ready to kill any man who looks my way,” You sigh coyly - the dock upon the Blackwater in the distance sways; Jacaerys’ profile illuminates in the silver of the moon. “Though I admit I do not mind your passion.”
A brief flash of flattery and some mild embarrassment in his expression; his eyes, darting from yours to the stone ramparts that give way to the winding streets below.
In the distance, the royal fleet rocks gently, flying the flags of his house’s sigil. You watch them with a trancelike interest as you wait patiently, heart in your throat. You know Jacaerys enough to know when he is gathering his thoughts.
“A few nights ago, after…seeing you,” He hesitates for a moment; his voice wavering, warm. “I…spoke with my mother. About us.” This, near a whisper swallowed in the temperate breeze.
Oh.
Red blossoms from his ears, cheeks, neck; a sheepish expression that he schools - and your smile, growing in flattery, touched that he would think so much as to confide in his mother, the Queen, about you.
He clears his throat. “It seems she has…already been in discussions with your father about a potential betrothal.” A smile, shy - almost sheepish - but your own is warm, elated. You’d wondered if such plans were being discussed. He clears his throat, “It indeed did not take much convincing at all.”
Your heart warms at the revelation, your cheeks flushing anew. “Oh?” you murmur, unable to keep the bashful relief off your face.
Jacaerys nods, tinged in that regal glow; the same one he shares with his mother, brothers. He nods. “I hope you’re not too upset that we were kept out of the initial discussions.” He looks down to where your hands rest against the stone balcony; he lays his hand upon yours, and a jolt of affection rolls over you. “And…I would not impose upon you an unwanted proposition. If you wish to consider other suitors, you have the freedom to do so.”
You hold back any playful remark about his valiant effort - casting daggers with his eyes at anyone who dared approach you too closely - but indeed, it matters not to you. As if there was ever any doubt that you would choose Jacaerys over any other.
You opt to brush the hair that blows over his temple in the cool breeze, soothing the tresses until you cup his jaw gently. Jacaerys's breath catches in his throat; a flutter of dark lashes over cheekbones as he swallows. When he opens them again, you whisper. “Jace. There is nothing to fret over.” Your hand slides to smooth over the contours of his cheek, “I hope you know just as everyone else does that I have been yours since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
He indeed beams at this - a wide and flattered smile, dimple carved by a kiss from the Maiden. He tilts his head. Hands find your hips again, pulling towards himself as though he cannot help it. “As I have been yours.” He murmurs, pressing a fleeting kiss upon your hairline, letting his forehead meet your own.
His breathing, soft as yours, though your heart pounds hard in anticipation.
The faint music from the hall, your breaths.
The distant crash of waves, your breaths.
Your heart beating in your chest. His breath, with yours.
Jace’s voice comes no louder than a whisper, then, “I want…” he seems to retract his thought - you, hopeful, keen into him, “What do you want?”
He looks at you, and it strikes somewhere deeper than your heart; He shakes his head. “I want to kiss you.” He admits.
A dip in your stomach at the thought of doing so.
His lips, trailing ever so closer to your own as he looks down at you, eyes nearly pleading. The line of his jaw is warm under the gentle trace of your fingers; your stomach, fluttering. “You need not ever ask,” you whisper back, your voice tender and reassuring.
A lift of a brow, his head tilting to you; yours, craning up, his lids low as he considers your words - never one to throw out your thoughts, no matter how inconsequential.
Fingers, curling around your hips rather possessively, tugging you into the cradle of his embrace. “Not ever?” He muses, and you, intoxicated by the proximity as he leans further, your lips nearly touching.
His eyes, dark pools against the kiss of night; you whisper, “Never.”
He seems to enjoy the flush upon your skin, the rapid beating of your heart - as if he himself is not a flustered mess. “Not even in the midst of a feast?” He wonders, eyes amused, “With everyone watching?”
A flutter as you shake your head gently, words lodged in your throat as your heart pounds.
The corner of his lips, twitching, torturous - you have half a mind to jump up, press your lips against his; but patience is indeed quite a virtue.
A mumble from his chest, nose brushing your own, lips faint as he murmurs, “Daor isse Valyrio Eglie?” He wonders; your breath catches. Not in High Valyrian?
You are much too wound up to consider his tease, nor to worry if you’ve translated his words correctly; with a shaky huff, you murmur, “No…Lo ziry…raqagon ao, ñuha Dārilaros.” You take the time to ensure your pronunciation mimics his own, rolling and smooth: He seems very gratified with your response - unless it… pleases you, my Prince.
A slight, almost desperate noise from the back of his throat - his hands, around your waist as he pushes you back against the bannister, stone cool through the fabric of your dress, murmuring, “I am going to kiss you.”
And his cheeks, growing a shade red as he sends you a boyish grin; a reminder of the Jacaerys you know, you’ve known, you will always know. Giddy, you grin back at him, voice coy as you tease him. “Are you? It seems you’d rather talk about it than actually do it-”
A flutter of pleasure and relief one and the same — and he silences you with his own lips.
Messy, he presses into you eagerly; your nose upon his own, lips sliding together. Warmth. His hand sliding up your spine, tugging you in a motion against his own chest, a kiss rushed and filled with shy fervor.
You, tugging at him by the lapels, as if he’d dare step away from you; He tastes of mulled wine, spices, sweet like sagecakes - the feeling of a smile, shy and still proud, as you lean under him.
A sudden rush of need overtakes you both. Jacaerys’s lips capture yours in a fervent kiss, one that sends your heart racing, heat tickling your heart. The music drones in the distance; a whisper in your mind - indecency - but who is to care? Jacaerys is to be your husband, after all.
You gasp as his grasp threads through your hair with a desperate urgency; fingers, tangling in the ribbon of your hair.
He groans dramatically against your lips, “Gods-” tugging your hair between his fingers, he mumbles against, “damn this ribbon.”
And without another thought he tugs it free, the sudden release of your hair sending a shiver down your spine; what if someone were to find you and Jace, now? A lick of possession as you see him pocket the strip of ribbon, his hands rising to cup your cheeks as your hair falls more free around you.
A heat in your stomach as you press up into him again, chasing the dizzying feeling of his sigh against you. “Beautiful,” He all but groans into your mouth, tongue running along the seam of your lips, “You’re so beautiful.”
Footsteps in the hall just inside the balcony; You snap back to reality, the public setting crashing into your consciousness.
A flush of embarrassment colors your cheeks, and you pull back slightly, your heart pounding wildly.
Jacaerys's eyes flutter open, his breath ragged and uneven as a freshborn doe. A moment suspended in the air as voices and footfalls rush past; you and your Jacaerys, staring wide-eyed, hungry, your cheeks warm against the fine fabric of his ceremonial doublet.
And then his voice, rough and low with desire as he mumbles, eyes flickering just inside the hall, “M-my chambers are just up the stairs in the royal apartments-”
It is nearly embarrassing how quick you keen, murmuring eagerly, rushed lips brushing against his chest, “Yes.”
Even in the widening of his eyes, his lips quirk in a grin - his hand, trembling as he grasps your own, guiding you with poorly concealed urgency towards the staircase.
Soft chuckles when you duck away from sparse guests that linger outside the hall, hand in hand, cheeks flushed. His hand, pressed over your lips as he peers around a corner, waiting for the guards to cross the corridor of his chambers - and you concealing a giggle, pressing your lips gently to his palm as he does so.
His hand on the small of your back, ushering you into his chambers with a molten gaze.
The swallow of a groan as you finally press him back against the wood of his door inside, warm with his touch, murmuring husband into the shell of his ear.
He, as your lips press into the warm skin of his neck, whispering wife in return.
˗ˏˋ On Sunny Days I Go Out Walking ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon
jacaerys velaryon x reader
words: 3k
synopsis: Jacaerys is learning that the world moves on.
contents: angst. mourning, grief, major character death. mentions of depression, anxiety. sad jace
notes: i was listening to the song francis forever by mitski and this somehow showed up fully written in 20 mins. also some inspo from mind over matter.... im so happy idk what else to say. super happy fic im happy and fine. this does not follow canon, jace aged up, no spoilers rly but like... iykyk. ps im sorry @softspiderling for what ive done. the gun is at my temple
feedback is appreciated <3
requests open.
masterlist
THE DARK IS NO FRIEND OF JACAERYS VELARYON.
A flicker, the single room illuminated in the obsidian of the castle at such an hour; the dark crawls upon him, slow as shadows, stealthy as the beast that lingers empty within his stomach.
The dark has begun to infect him.
Seeping slowly into skin, carving through into the sponginess of his bones - some shadowed poison, twisting and lingering in the blood that dawdles slowly through his veins. The quiet is deafening, in the way it had been up in the North those months ago; when snow tumbled from the chasmous skies in the dead of night, a blanket of reticence chilling him to his heart.
Breaths tumble scarce from his lips. The darkness crawls, it whispers; fingers, blotched and stained, though he has scarcely written one word upon the parchment in the hour since he’s crawled from the refuge of bed.
Perhaps, if things were different, there would be hands; hands, sleek and gentle, sliding over the slope of his shoulder, wrapping to embrace him from behind. A sweet whisper in his ear, encouraging. A ward to the shadows; though darkness swallows up any memory of that touch, the memory of which becomes more and more scarce with each breath he takes.
Waves crash in the distance, twisting the dagger further into his gut. The word stares up at him - and he, avoiding the swimming vision, stares out into the pain of a world so large, so cold.
Dearest,
He cannot bring himself to write what comes next. Your name, so sweet - your name, the world. His limbs frozen in fear - to pour his self into this letter, to release the pressure that has built and built and festered and rolled its beastly body upon itself to reveal a soft underbelly; a sharp pain below his ribs, one trembling hand pressing against the lids of his eyes, vision swimming in soft patterns. His lips wobble with poorly concealed anguish.
Jacaerys is no stranger to the feeling of loss - a swallowing, consuming dissolution, the eclipse of any warmth with the cold strike of grief. His father, fathers - and then when he lost his brother, he lost himself; anger, mistrust, pain. Your hands, the sweet embrace of your warm breast, heart beating strong enough for both of you when he thought his own might stop. You had been the one to suggest it, back then.
The irony of it makes a vicious wave of bile begin to rise in his throat, fingers trembling as he holds a quill, shaking his head to rid himself of the barrage of sorrow that tears at his chest.
You were there. In the middle of the night, when he could not find rest; in the peak of day, when the sun served nothing but a reminder of the laugh he would not ever hear again, you’d been there. Write a letter to him, you’d suggested.
Jacaerys did not heed your suggestion for many days; a young man, festered with anger, revenge, grief; your insistence, despite his vicious sorrow, breaking through and softening the blow of life without Lucerys. With shaky hands he wrote the letter, one day. Brother, he’d addressed it to - and then, after sealing it in a bottle, had sent it into the tides in the early hours of the morning, turning to relieve his grief upon your shoulder. You’d held him in the wet sand until the sun rose in the sky.
You would want him to do this, he knows - you, always pushing him to be better, to speak and be understood, to listen and understand, to feel, to love. To prepare, because when the time comes, when the crown is heavy upon his head, he will rule well - and you… to rule aside him.
And that’s what it was for, in the end. You were what it was all for.
But nothing of that remains; the quill hovers above the parchment, suspended in time. Jacaerys’ hand trembles with the weight of what he knows he could never convey. How can you express the loss of the entire world, your entire being, everything you are, into one piece of parchment? How can he confess that when you were consumed by those depths, he too was lost within them?
Jacaerys swallows the lump that rises; the parchment before him is warbled, dipping and swimming in his vision. His grasp shakes - with a soft whimper of desolation he realizes his foolish hand has marred your name, that sweet word, upon the parchment. Tainted, smudged now with darkness.
Your name, so sweet from the curl of your lips - lips now so cold to the touch, blue and purple with the unrelent of the ocean. That haunting thought - did you realize, in those last moments?
Did you understand when you were going down, aflame and prepared to meet the Stranger? Was it Luke, who welcomed you with pale lips pulled into that ceaseless grin wherever your soul went after your body was dragged under the currents?
A choked gasp, tears splattering upon the parchment.
Jacaerys used to grow exasperated with how Luke seemed to follow you and him around - blathering ceaselessly about anything he could think of; a menace, snickering when Jace threw glares at him yet beaming when you sent him a sly wink. You told Jace you didn’t mind Luke’s company, so Jace grew to enjoy it, too.
After all, you’d always wanted a younger brother.
Gods, why not me? The salinity mixes with the ink, tainting the curve of the first letter of your name as it begins to bleed through. He cannot stop the tears, his gasping sobs swallowed by the dark of eve.
The letter is shoved away from him expeditiously, a heavy cloak falling upon him as he tries to suck in breaths; letting loose an involuntary groan of sorrow, his fingers tug at the laces of his tunic, much too tight against the heart beating into his chest. The parchment flutters to the floor.
The cusp of adulthood was tread only by the hand within his own, the smiles in dark, the terse furrow of strategizing brows in the light of the council room. Jacaerys is a man, now - grasping, unsteady in the ground that has been ripped and overturned, the stench of fresh earth suffocating. The pillow that lies in the empty space of his mattress, illuminated by the second of two lit candles; dragged with detached hands that night when the raven came home, but you did not.
It is beginning to smell less and less like you - like the dahlia blossoms you’d clipped in the gardens and refined into oils and pressed between the pages of Jace's old journals, the sweets you’d sneak into his chambers after a visit to the kitchens. Perhaps worse - with a violent twist of his gut, a panic; what will he do when the pillow is absorbed, the last of your scent snuffed by his own? Where will you have gone?
He cannot bring himself to lay aside that pillow; with a shaky breath, he discards his tunic, running a shaky hand over a clammy chest, wishing it felt more like your own palm.
In only a few hours, the sun will wake.
The darkness over the island will dissipate, the fog creeping along the coast in a slow crawl; and Jacaerys will rise, bleary and red-eyed, throat hoarse. He will break fast alone, as he does these days. He will rip apart pastries just to discard them upon the plate uneaten, take a sip of tea and force it down his throat; he will recall how you used to dunk little cookies into your own, how you often preferred to take yours with his mother when time allowed it, because you both enjoyed a later tea.
He will walk to the hall, see to his duties - the Prince of Dragonstone; he will stare at the seat you used to occupy, recall the day he’d lifted you upon the table in isolation, how you’d sighed with a frilly laugh into his neck as he’d kissed the expanse of your face. He will walk to Aegon’s Garden, but he won’t go all the way towards the end where the freshly turned soil of the memorial grounds bears a new member.
The darkness will dissipate; the sun will rise.
The sun will come, and he will remember the way your hair shined in the early mornings, slumped upon the pillow, tickling his nose as he woke.
The sun will rise every morning, but you will not.
JACAERYS USED TO LOVE WATER.
He is kin of salt and sea; in one way or another - and the ocean, a soft presence, some secret rebirth. In youth, it held him like he was its own - wading, throwing stones, floating on lazy afternoons. Sailing with his father, slipping on the quarterdeck, diving into the captain’s quarters under rough seas.
Jacaerys stares down at the water that surrounds him: Things are no longer what they used to be.
The bathwater is warm - his skin, pinked by the heat as tendrils of steam rise, a handmaid lifting his arm to scrub underneath his nails. The bath is full; he stares helplessly upon the ripples that undulate over the surface, eyes harrowed by his own reflection. A man he does not recognize.
And a blink, then the face that stares back is so similar to his own; carved of the same bedrock stone, birthed of the same love, kissed by the same gods. Not himself, but one who knows him just as well, as close as one… a brother. Panic, a flash of jaws larger than the moon - pain, the wail of a lifelong companion, swallowed by a beast. A freefall, wind in ears. The cold, tumultuous sea, swallowing yelps, gasps, struggling to stay upright amidst screams for mother, for brother. Then, hair; not his own, nor his brother’s, but a reflection upon the refracted waves, a scream warbled as water fills sweet, kind lungs. The reflection of the one who knew him more than he knew himself - a smile, a gasp of pain. Legs, thrashing against currents, littered with arrows and tangled by a thick riding dress; skirts heavy, riding armor dragging to depths as hands grasp fruitlessly at a splintered castaway of shipwreck.
This life; merely borrowed time from the Stranger.
His hands tremble under the soft grasp of the houseworker; he ignores the looks of concern, sliding back until he is nearly submerged, letting the water flood his senses. This life - bright skies that leak through the curtains he continuously draws closed - soaked and numb, deafening silence as water trickles into his ear canals, an urge to breathe though he is submerged nearly to the line of lashes that weep from below his eyes. A voice asks meekly if he’ll be breaking his fast in his chambers this morning. He does not hear himself respond.
A rippled noise as his hand slides back into the water, the handmaids rising with worried looks before bowing, exiting to give the prince his privacy. He is left alone, isolated, small. Tired.
Is this what it was like?
The cold, empty silence that followed your fall, bones splitting at the surface, water swallowing you, meeting with the same cruel depths that somewhere still tether Luke’s body to a watery grave.
Do wait up for me, my love… Your voice suffocates him. His throat tightens, head thumping against the back of the tub, tilting his head back to suck in a watery, ragged gasp, eyes screwing shut. Hot tears upon his cheeks. I heard they’re preparing lamb roast this evening, you’d told him as you’d straightened the clasp of his cloak. Such a sweet observation - his favorite of the meals the cooks oft prepared. Your bravery - a promise, a resolute promise.
You’re ill, Jacaerys, you’d reminded him when he suggested once more he should come with you. You must rest. His worry was not easily concealed; yet you, with a smile so graceful it lit up the dragonmont; you, knowing him as familiar as your own reflection; you, brushing his hair away from his cheeks, poking his nose. -But do wait up for me, my love, and we can share dinner. I heard they’re preparing lamb roast this evening.
He’d sighed then, worry lacing his heart as he roved his hands over your hips - for the last time. Your voice was so sweet, playful. I'll be fine, Jace. Don’t you trust me?
A question asked rhetorically; yet he’d nodded, pressing a kiss to your hairline, straightening the riding armor over your dress, murmuring into your skin. I trust you with my entire being - with my life, and every life after.
Your breath, shuttering as you tilted your head up, brushing your lips against his, whispering: And you, with mine.
But the lamb roast went cold in the kitchen that evening. You did not return. A raven, broken whispers, his mother with unshed tears, choking as she grasped his shoulders, cradled his head - whispering: I’m so sorry, my sweet boy.
These days, the sun beats upon the castle; scarce clouds that begin to grow and cluster upon the shoreline, rumbling as they begin the slow descent upon the island.
The scent of pine lingers in his nose; a sharp break from the salty air of coast, Aegon’s Garden is cloistered with tall trees, swaying in the breeze. The light that filters through the needles high above flickers in his vision; dappled shadows spreading across the path, crawling in a slow lumber towards the end of the garden.
He can feel you here, more than most places.
The soft breeze in the wind, a fleeting touch of your nose against his neck. The trickling water of a stream nearby, crawling its way towards the sea - the bubble of your laughter between sheets, his fingers tickling your side gently, your hands pushing him away and then pulling him close.
Those perfumed oils. gentle, sweet dahlia petals - lingering upon his clothing, upon his face after you'd pressed a kiss to his cheek. The call of gulls in the distance, the ones that'd flee when you and Jace, wild and yelling in joy upon Vermax's back, gave chase across the glassy refraction of the sea. Quiet afternoons under the pines, his head in your lap - he'd read you the history of house targaryen; you'd thread your fingers through his hair, and hum his favorite song.
Here, near the Dragon's Tail - where he taught you to weave wild grassroots and flowers together, and make a crown. You'd worn yours to supper proudly one evening, coaxing a grin from his mother and uncle alike when you'd placed the crown, wilting and too large, unto Joffrey's little head.
His steps are heavy; boots crunch softly on gravel as the pines sway, their needles whistling in the breeze. A sparse raindrop upon his shoulder.
Silence passes until he's carried himself much too far - a tightness in his chest, breath coming in quicker as he nears the corner of the garden.
The intention was to turn around; though lost in the emptiness of his mind, watching a fat bumbling bee struggle to float its way past him, recalling when you'd helped Luke mend his split knee after tumbling from the low-lumbering branch of the tree near the Sept - Jacaerys’ steps slow, then stop altogether as the path bends and returns from whence it began.
He told Baela he would not venture this far; though she told him it would be good - even offered to accompany him. The taste of his lip between his teeth has grown metallic as he stares ahead, eyes burning, heart stopped.
Beauty is never consolatory, you’d told him once. He stares, heart pinched - a plethora of flowers - and there, carved in stone, fresh.
His vision swims, taking a staggering step forward. The bush of forget-me-nots - vibrant, full of life - a soft, wistful blue, so matching the very shade that his brother oft favored. The flowers have grown in the months, spreading delicate beauty - indeed, not consolatory - and curling around the name: Lucerys Velaryon.
And there, just beside them, white blossoms of dahlia. Your name.
His knees buckle.
The ground welcomes the brunt of his weight upon his knees, trembling as he gasps - buds have just begun to open - white, bleeding with a deep red, leaking through and bursting sharply against the forget-me-nots. A new memorial grave.
The buds flourish under the broken sunlight, even as light rain begins to kiss over the stones, sending heavenly tears over your name, over Luke’s.
A glance upwards; some self-comfort, a seek for the dragons which circle the sky - the sunlight is gapped between the trees, swaying as rain falls from invisible clouds. Rainshine, you used to call it: Rainshine, Jace - You’d laugh, tugging him outside onto the ramparts, twisting the two of you in some lazy waltz through rain, smiling up at him, sunshine in your eyes, in your hair, in his heart.
Tears fall from his aching eyes, though he is unsure if they’d begun when he entered the garden or just now, as he’s crumpled to his knees. A leaf falls, fluttering to land on the path beside him, orange and yellowed from the liquidation of summer.
He stares in disbelief at the forgotten frond, settling itself onto the pavement, so ready to be trampled, discarded, destroyed. Some sick cycle; a long season through, fruit rotting unpicked, sunshine and days of warmth melting fresh and revealing upturned decomposition of below. Summer is ending.
The smell of earth, of ocean; the sweet sick of flowers, once so lovely, now nauseating. It hits him within the chest: this summer cannot end - you are still here. His heart, suffocated as he stares, hands beginning to shake.
Fingernails cake with dirt, grasping at the soft earth that lies before him; the heavy smell has begun to take over, a thick, lingering sweetness that has turned bitter in his mouth, rotting dahlias festering in the late heat of summer, soon to freeze and wilt in the cold of winter coming.
“No,” His voice is hoarse. His head shakes, palms to the ground, reaching for whatever part of you remains in this cold earth. The sound of the ocean, mocking; The rattle of a hoarse whimper, tears hot and lethal against the apple of his cheeks, “Don’t go.”
His words remain empty, heard only by the flowers blooming in the sorrow of the garden, forgotten by ears long since gone. “Don’t make me, please,” He sobs, now - eyes squeeze, tears fertilizing the deep roots of your flowers, “Please, don’t make me leave you.” He whispers, voice cracked and trembling with emotion. Don't make me leave you in the decay of summer.
He remains, miserably curled between your memorial and his brother’s, pillowed by his hands as though he is once again a boy; head bowed, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Pine, earth, flowers - it is overwhelming, so thick he might choke on it. A blurry glimpse against the rain, against the hues of white, of red, of blue - the light which filters down upon him, a mockery - bright, much too alive in the garden of death.
Jacaerys’ head tilts back as he sucks in a gasp, tears leaking hot over his red cheeks, a dizzying wave of vertigo spinning the world around him - stumbling backwards down an endless staircase, reaching for the cold, lifeless hands which once held him so lovingly.
The leaf finds itself in his hands - a blurry hole through it, tiny, from the jaws of some insect; eaten through, a skeleton of summer.
There is something etched into it by the hands of nature; though he swears it almost spells your name. It is crushed with the weight of his fingers, disintegrating into the stream that trickles just beyond the flowerbeds, pulled along, towards the deep blue of endless sea to watch over you and Lucerys' forgotten graves.
Jacaerys curls in on himself, wracked with quiet sobs that dwindle into a tranquil stare at the blotches of sunlight through the trees; he should have let Baela come, or perhaps sought the company of his mother - the garden is awfully empty, the world awfully empty - in such a large absence.
His fingers trail shakily over the curved letters of your name, carved into the stone as he stares, tears ceaselessly leaking, chest hiccuping. “P-please,” He whispers again against the straining pain in his chest, lips brushing the earth, trying to recall the sound of your voice, the feeling of your lips. The twisting days, shortening with the fall of each eve; soon, he will have to face winter, and you will be left in summer. His tears are salted; they sting over his lips as he whispers against the stone of your name. “Please, I don't want to. Don’t let me leave you.”
Whispers in the wind that almost sound like you, calling his name. But there is no answer.
Leaves rustle in the breeze, the sunlight dapples across his body, the birds sing, the flowers bloom.
The world continues to move on without you.
taglist: @bitchydragonparadisee @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley @jottositto @chloe-petrichors @elaena-aerrin @smurfelle @greenvita @alyssa-dayne @uhnanix and also to @cregan-starks ily. @dipperscavern pls do not revoke my writing skills. also i need that shotgun pls and thx
jacaerys velaryon x fem!wife!reader
words: 5.6k
synopsis: you remind Jacaerys that there is no shame in accepting help, especially from his wife.
notes: this idea came to me in a fever dream the other day idek. this can be read as an au, it is implied that the dance happened but that luke is alive so idk. as i always say: do what you love. i think jace can be happy for a bit, as a treat. this is honestly like 3k fluff and 2k smut lol. pls lmk what you think <3
warnings: canon-typical injury. jace is so horny and in love that he becomes a poet! light dirty talk(mostly in valyrian bc jace is shy), very very brief breeding kink, slightly sub!jace, praise kink (mutual), slight size kink, hair pulling, pussy whipped jace, PiV creampie, reader rides him. valyrian is translated at the end (author uses a translator so if its wrong im sorry).
feedback is appreciated<3
requests open.
masterlist.
SHADOWS DANCE.
Toes cold upon empty stone, you pad across a corridor; short, illuminated in torchlight. A path you’ve taken many times.
Worry twists your fingers together, toying as you watch the silhouette of your night shift swish upon the contours of the wall. Chamber doors which connect the small hall to your own are open; an afterthought, perhaps, though your husband quite often prefers to slumber with his door to yours drawn open.
He is hurting.
Not in any dire way, not by far. Burns, the whispers had reached your ears - from maester to house worker to ladies in wait - burns, across the Prince’s palms; some troubles while handling dragonfire. You have been alive for long enough to have seen dragons dance, see the flesh melt from bones of even those coursing with Valyrian blood in their veins. You cannot imagine the pain of it, lying marred in his palms.
The maester has seen worse, you are told. He is not in too much pain, to your relief - he is neither sick nor hurting but rather unable to perform any tasks, no matter how menial; something you know your husband will not take lightly. Only a few paces and you reach his chambers, taking in the sandalwood and cedar smoking in small dipped sticks; a favor of his mothers, he told you once. He’s taken to them recently, to the comforting scent; as have you.
Feet move slowly into the archway; his chambers are always so much warmer than your own. Furs, thicker - bed, more comfortable, hearth, drawn larger. Though it is more likely to do with the company.
Your husband stands before the mirror of his chambers, his back upon you.
You watch for a moment - his brows, furrowed in the reflection, a razor is held rather uncertainly in a bandaged grasp. A pang through your stomach at the sight of the gauze, restricting his fingers; a kind glow of candlelight dances across concentrated eyes, once-steady hands trembling as he holds the blade against his cheek, head tilted back.
Slow breaths - your chest moves with his, as it seems to do more and more these days; a drag of a blade, the wobbling of which sets your teeth upon edge. Such a mundane chore, shaving: yet you know just as most how painful the burns of dragons may be upon flesh.
Your sweet husband is a proud soul; you can almost picture him, resolutely dismissing any offers of assistance before he readied himself for the night. Struggling to wet the razor, to lift it upon his face, yet doing so with a bristling determination. You linger, a specter in the doorway, fingers tracing the stone arch beside you as he works. Slow, determined.
His chest rises and falls beneath the simple tunic; unlaced, revealing the glimpse of skin awaiting beneath as he clenches his jaw, metal dragging against porcelain.
Though as soon as you draw a breath, a hiss from him - the razor has slipped, blood thinning in a bloom upon his cheek. Stark against such pale skin. He curses softly, thick brows knitting in some helplessness as his wounded fingers, shaking in pain or perhaps frustration, brush and come away crimson.
You step forward immediately, concern overriding all hesitations and shyness you’d felt previously.
"Jacaerys," your voice, soft and scarcely a whisper, carries through the room. Through the mirror your husband looks up, his eyes meeting yours.
A whisper of surprise in his visage that melts into some shade of embarrassment as he turns to you. Your name, falling from his plush lips, bitten in previous exasperation. His voice is warm, guilty. "I did not wish to wake you."
You shake your head softly - he’d not made a single sound since you returned from your evening duties to retire. You learned of his injuries through scarce whispers in the corners of your chamber, not from any loud disruptions from within his own.
Ignoring his words, you move closer - feet light, heart aching for his felt helplessness; A crimson tear beads out of the thin cut upon the cut on his cheek. You tilt your head to look into the warmth of his eyes. "You should not be doing this with your injuries," you chide, nodding to the strips of bandage around his palms.
A sigh from him, gentle nod as he looks down upon your expression. "I did not wish to trouble anyone," you find a touch of frustration still coloring his voice, but are not foolish enough to believe an ounce of it could ever be directed towards you. "I am not so helpless." he prepends with a clenched jaw.
Nodding, you gently take the razor from his loose grip. "No, you are not.” You agree gently, “Sit.”
You guide him to the table aside the mirror with light hands. He murmurs your name; it slips through his lips like honey. "I do not wish to burden you. It is late, I would not want to keep you awake."
You cannot help the surge of affection; your husband, so doting, thoughtful. A gentle touch to his cheek, your fingers grazing just under the fresh cut as you swipe away the red. "Sleep can wait.” Your voice is just as gentle as his own. “And you are not a burden; You are my husband. Your troubles are mine."
He sighs, a small appreciative smile growing upon his lips. "I resent being unable to tend to myself." he admits sheepishly.
You run your hands gently over his palm, tracing gently over where gauze conceals marred flesh. “You must heal fully so you might be of aid again soon.” You pull away, crossing the room to retrieve the cloth, oils, and small bowl of water; “In the meantime, there is no shame in accepting help. Especially not from your wife."
His eyes follow you upon your return, your sleep gown swishing against the quiet of the apartments; aware of the semi-sheerness of the fabric, you feel yourself flush. His smile is appreciative.
The bowl makes a small noise as you place it upon the table - you watch the soft illumination of your reflection ripple in the water. “I am a lucky man.” He says, as if to himself; you resist the shy smile that grows upon your lips, looking away from the contents of the bowl and shaking your head gently. He does not seem prepared to leave it be, though: “I scarcely know how I came to deserve someone as wonderful as you.”
He prefers it like this, you’ve learned; kindness, candor, sweet admissions - flushed cheeks, soft smiles. A true marriage, one being built with respect, with love. And still, moons after your union - every compliment you pay your husband he seems to return tenfold.
It is content, quiet against the spitting of embers in the hearth as you bend before him, seeking an angle safe enough to press the blade to his skin. A soft conversation, scarcely more than whispers in the eve - though you become weary at the prospect of a safe approach.
His legs spread wide as he watches you pace - expression somewhere between an amusement and puzzle; You let out a breath in a small huff as you draw a decision.
Your hand falls first onto his shoulder - a steadying grip as you slowly slide onto his lap, positioning yourself to see his face clearly; Jacaerys, with eyes widened in surprise and arms instinctively rising to hold you steady. Despite his injuries, his touch is firm, wrists pressing to you where hands cannot.
A thick swallow within his throat that you steadfastly ignore.
The touch of his arms around you, of your thighs straddling his lap - you burn, clearing your throat. Your voice comes, barely more than a breath. "Is this- alright?"
His lips, parted with the proximity, flutter before he finds words. “Y-yes. More than alright.”
With a small grin, you school yourself; pouring the oils upon your palms, you begin to smooth the ointment upon his skin. Cheeks, down the short shadow of stubble he has so resigned to eliminate this evening. A sharp jaw, a strong chin, plush lips. His breath is scarcely more than puffs against your cheeks as you press gently into his jaw muscle; his eyelashes flutter closed.
When you bring the blade to his skin, it is with no hesitation he tilts his head for you; eyeing you through lids, the apple of his cheeks warm in the light. You release a short breath and begin to shave him with slow, careful strokes. Jacaerys remains still, his eyes fixed - you drag the blade with light pressure, a relief building in you as you begin to effectively remove shadows from his cheek.
As you continue, the room grows quiet; a soft song of the gentle scrape of the blade and the crackling of the fire. Your heart may have fluttered ceaselessly had you been any less focused on ensuring you do not hurt him; Though there is no doubt - a very handsome man he is, and a very lucky wife he makes you.
“How did you learn such a skill?” His voice, curious as you tilt his jaw slightly. You do not pull your eyes from your task as you hum gently, aware of his warm stare.
“I’ve never done it before,” you admit, tilting your head along with him, focused on the glide of the blade against the bristled shadow of his jaw. “Though I watched my lord father do it many times. He’d often have me sing to my younger brothers before they were put to chamber - he tended to perform tasks as such when I did so. They used to love watching him.”
Jace nods contentedly, humming at your recount. "Lucerys used to watch me when he was younger, as well.” It seems at the memory he laughs gently - the motion stunted as you hold his face in your grip. “One day he decided he was old enough to give it a try. He sneaked into my chambers and took up my razor."
You can't help but smile at the image, lifting a brow. "And what came of it?"
You sit back, preoccupied with the story - your hand wipes the blade upon the rag beside you, meeting his warm gaze as his grin widens. "I found him standing before the mirror, razor in hand.” A flicker of his gaze to the mirror behind you before he finds you once more. “I tried to warn him, but he was too stubborn to heed me. So, I stood back and simply watched."
Your eyes widen, lips parting in mild amusement. "You let him to do it alone?"
He chuckles lightly, tongue prodding his lower lip. "I thought it best he learn a lesson.” His arms unconsciously pull you closer, readjusting your position upon his lap. You swallow down the warmth at such casual intimacy between he and you. “He managed a few strokes, was quite proud of himself, until... he nicked his lip." A small gesture with his jaw towards your own, his eyes focused on the bottom lip that has found itself caught between your teeth.
You lift your brows, your hand pausing as it rinses the blade in water. "Was he quite hurt?"
"No, just a small cut," Jacaerys soothes, laughter bubbling up again, eyes tearing from your lips up to your own warm gaze; your stomach flutters at the sound and you can no longer suppress a small giggle of your own. "But the look on his face! He was so indignant, I reckon more in his failure than the pain. He turned to me, lip trembling, and demanded to know why I hadn't helped him."
You swat his shoulder gently with the rag, trying to suppress your own laughter. "You are incorrigible, Jace. You laugh at your brother's misfortune?" You chide, teasing; He shrugs, still grinning as his eyes trace over your face warmly.
"It was a valuable lesson, one I had to learn myself once. Besides, he forgave me soon enough. I helped him finish shaving properly and patched him up. We've laughed about it many times since." His voice is soft against the crackle of flame, adjusting his posture slightly under your weight.
You laugh gently, the image of a young Jace and Luke pulling a grin to your lips. "You two are quite the pair."
Jacaerys’ eyes soften as he hums in agreement. "I have to let him make a fool of himself now and then."
He’s taken to moving a stray thumb - one not restricted with salves nor gauze - upon the line of your spine. A gentle ghost of affection as you shake your head fondly at him.
You hum, resuming your efforts, now moving towards his chin with a gentle grasp. "Well, just be glad I am here to ensure you do not cut yourself again. I should not trust you alone with a razor any longer." You tease, wrinkling your nose as you fix him with a faux stern stare.
Jace’s laugh is rich, warm. "You wound me, wife.”
The gentle laughter between you trails off amiably as you move your focus upon his upper lip; you, dutifully focused, worried of your own skills, knowing you could very easily slip and cut him - he, enduring your hand around his chin, eyes ceaseless upon your face as you move him how you please.
You finish the last stroke, setting the blade aside; his eyes are pools; sunlit amber. The cloth is wettened - you string it out and gently press it to his skin, wiping away the remnants of shaving oil and the small trail of blood from his previous nick.
Jace’s breaths rise and fall languidly with your own in the quiet of the chamber. Your movements are slow, tender; your focus entirely on him, ignoring the heat growing in your abdomen, his muscles flexing beneath you. A shift in the calm of the room; a once placated, gentle silence has grown into a thick, tense quiet - enunciated through short puffs of breath and the slow shifting of your bodies as you clean him.
A lean closer, his finger idly trailing your hip as much as the bandage might permit - you inspect his soft skin, the scent of the oils clouding your mind; lavender, cedar, sandalwood. Incense sticks have lost ember in the corner, the ocean rolling in tides upon the distant shores. You find no missed stubble, only undeniable affection in his eyes; you’ve begun to trace the cloth rather idly along his cheek, eyes rising to find his own gaze stuck upon your lips. Echoes of a house attendant walking out in the halls.
“Done,” You whisper, making no effort to rise from his lap; the warmth that has only grown has begun to make you sweat, that desire, still so new, growing between you. He shifts beneath you, staring blatantly, speaking no words. Worry flickers - a foolish thing, to worry when you’re with him - yet you still murmur your words. "Have I overstepped?” you ask softly, gaze flickering down to his plush, parted lips, watching as he shakes his head vehemently.
"Never," he breathes, "I’m merely admiring your beauty."
Heat. Jacaerys has never, not even in the earliest days of your betrothal, hesitated to praise you for your beauty, intelligence, wit, or heart; yet it still sets your mind dizzy each time. You send him a coy smile, hiding the flush of your cheeks under his compliment, “You only say such things because of the blade in my hand,” You tease.
Expecting a retort from your sharp husband, your eyes flicker to his; he grins at your jest, whispering, “I would speak such words even if you held nothing but air.”
His gaze roves over the heat of your cheeks, the flutter of your lashes. Want grows hot within you; to be seen, to be so cherished, it is more than you could wish. Jacaerys stirs your heart like no other could. You do not miss when he leans forward slightly, into your own space; the longing in his gaze is rather unmistakable, and it sends a rush of thrill through you.
Heart, singing in your chest. “Jace.” you whisper.
He breathes your name in response; a prayer.
“What are you thinking?” You hum, your breath hitting his own; your hands fall to grasp his shoulders, fingers trailing over the crook of his neck, the ties of his tunic.
"I'm thinking," His hands, despite their bandages, pull your hips upon his own quite subtly - your stuttered breath, shaky at the feeling of him beneath you, arousal growing just as your own. His voice is husky, "-that I’d like to kiss you."
A thrill in your stomach; you purse your lips against a smile of affection before closing the distance, your lips meeting his.
Warm, soft; gentle as he always is with you - but soon in the undercurrent of the late hour, of the thin material upon your frame, you feel fever infect you.
It comes in a tilt, sliding your nose against his own, lust coiling between your thighs; any tension of before melts, soon replaced by an urgent need to be closer. Your tongue finds the plush of his lower lip, sliding hungrily.
He groans softly against your mouth, his injured hands pulling you tight; The faint smell of incense, an intensity of desire matching your own - your hands tangle in his hair.
A wince as you shift, his hand flexing and drawing a grunt of pain from his lips.
You pull back instantly.
"Jace," you murmur in concern, even as his lips chase your own, a small bridge of saliva between you two in the firelight. Your voice is breathless, filled with longing. "We shouldn't. Your hands."
He shakes his head, his lips seeking yours. "I care not," he whispers fiercely. "If you cease for my sake, I will perish."
Your eyes roll at his dramatics, though your heart flutters at such fervent words. The desire in his eyes is undeniable, and you are finding it harder to resist such pretty requests. "I do not wish to hurt you," you protest softly, though your resolve weakens with each passing moment.
He gazes at you with a mixture of tenderness and longing. “You could never hurt me. Please, let me feel you. The only pain I feel is the distance between us.”
Unbelievable, his cunning knack for dramatics.
Despite the lifted brow you send him, there is an undeniable tremor within you, your hunger growing at the lilt of his tone. Perhaps, you should feel some kind of shyness; Indeed, you’re still learning of each other. You’ve lain with Jacaerys only a few times since being wed last moon—and yet perched so firmly atop his growing arousal, you can’t help the rush of need.
“Well,” You sigh, hand gracing his soft cheek with a small look of pride, “You mustn’t beg.”
He breathes as a smirk of his own grows, “I am a prince, dōna riña. Begging is beneath me.” He murmurs, eyes aflame with that teasing craving, “but I'd gladly beg if it means I get to have you.”
His ravenous words, mere kindle to the flame. “It is fortunate for you that I am so generous, then,” you murmur, seeking the warmth of his lips once more. He hums in agreement; a reverberation in his chest below your palms stirring a shiver through you. “Fortunate indeed,” he breathes. “Now please do not torture me any longer.”
You pull away from his searching lips just so, watching as he chases the warmth of your breath. "If you insist," you whisper, your lips brushing against his. His breath is sharp - he dislikes being so teased when he cannot deliver it in return. "I do insist.” he murmurs, words swallowed by the surge of him, teeth and noses clashing as you exhale, stomach flipping.
His tongue, sliding into your mouth; eager, you part lips for him. The chamber fades into shadows, a dim glow as the witness to your ardor, the only thing to hear such soft sighs and groans from you and Jacaerys. His lips leave you rather soon, peppering kisses upon the flushed skin of your neck.
A glance behind his shoulder as you cast your neck to the side - flickering shadows, intertwined with each other in a rather sensual embrace upon the wall; Jace’s nose pressed to the heartbeat of your throat as he bites gently against your skin.
His lips are fervent - the warmth of his breath, his chest heaving below your palms, the scent of his shaving oils - a fierce wildfire within you, consuming every thought but the touch of his body against your own.
An urge, the light pressure of his wrists, desperate to move you upon him - and then his voice, a growl. "Feel me," he breathes against your throat, pulling back so slightly to catch your gaze as his hands, light but insistent, press upon your waist.
You respond to his urging without a thought; your hips instinctively shifting, meeting the rise of his form with an eager press. The sensation is both thrilling and intoxicating - his moan of pleasure only spurs you on, a shiver of ecstasy as you press just so upon the sensitive of your heat.
The space between you is gone, the touch of his hands guiding your movements lightly, encouraging your slow rolling hips. The air is thick with the mingled scents of desire and embers low - you, lost in a sea of sensation. His breaths grow ragged, the intensity of his gaze never wavering as he watches you with a look of utter devotion. "Yes," he murmurs, his voice nearly breaking, "-like that, gods - let me feel every bit of you."
At such words, your cheeks heat vividly - you surrender to the heat of the moment, your movements growing more urgent, more desperate. His breaths are hot against your cheek as you let out a small moan, toes curling as you rove your hips, chasing the heat of pleasure.
Your movements become more frantic with each passing moment, the need to be close to him overwhelming your senses. His heart, beating as wild as a beast against your own chest; Your head grows dizzy with need, a small noise from the back of your throat as his wrists coax your hips against him.
“Jace,” Your breath comes in puffs, cheeks hot with the incessant need to feel him within you. “I need you.”
He hums against your mouth, tantalizing as he tilts his head, “I had not noticed.”
So cocky; you sigh, hips ceasing slightly, hands trailing over the fabric of his night shirt, feeling the warmth of his lean muscles beneath your palms. “You tease me.” You pout; he kisses the expression away with a small grin. You insist in the absence of a response, “You are cruel, to make it so hard for me to remain composed.” His arms pull you by the small of your back in an embrace - shivers over you as you feel his hard arousal drag along the heat of your aching cunt between too many layers of clothing.
“I would have you mad with desire, if it means knowing you are as consumed by me as I am by you.” He mutters into the shell of your ear. Your cheeks, constantly heating under his words, so effortlessly setting you afire.
You pull back enough to trail your lips over his jaw, dropping to press a soft bite upon the skin of his neck; savoring the soft noise, near whimper, from his lips. “You speak as though you haven’t already driven me mad,” You murmur into his skin, “Though I pay it willingly; I would have it no other way.”
To wait any longer would be torture; your hands, hungry and insistent, begin to gather the skirt of your sleep gown - Jace, watching with desire burning heavy in his eyes, hands lying uselessly - the glint of frustration in his gaze is not missed; though you know he wishes to touch you, you revel in the scarce opportunity to take care of him as he does you.
A soft smile plays upon your lips as you look into his fervent eyes, feeling the heat of his desire merge with your own; Slipping beneath his trousers, you let your fingers graze his skin just enough to drive him wild; deliberate, as slow as his own fingers often are when he finds himself between your thighs.
His cock is heavy upon your palm; your thighs, trembling with need as you place a few languid pumps upon him. His head, falling back, hands unable to truly grasp your hips - a groan, uninhibited as his brows knit together. “You’re a vision, my love.”
The endearment sends your hips in a short buck - grinding upon his cock, your arousal finds his own; a choked moan from yourself, falling forward to his chest. Laborious sliding of your hips over his own, spreading your need and coating his cock with your desire. Fingers, twitching against your spine - your own threading through his hair. Breaths together, short huffs and unsteady inhales as you finally guide yourself to the tip of his cock.
“Are you-” His swallow is thick, “Are you sure, love?” He has the gall to question you after such excruciating a wait - though as you stare into his eyes, a flicker, a fleeting observation; He has always taken more than enough time to prepare you to take him; it is no lie that he is rather blessed by the Father - Such memories heat your cheeks. And though you know it may sting, it does not matter to you; You would certainly welcome the sensation. You stir your hips, biting back a noise at the jolt of your sensitive clit against his cock. “Yes, Jace. And you?” You question. An insistent nod, a short groan - "Gods, yes- stop teasing me," he near whines. You conceal a small chuckle of amusement, pressing your lips soundly against him.
And you sink onto him slowly, eyes screwing shut at the sensation - he, with a low groan, head lolling back to expose the long stretch of his neck. A sharp exhale as you lower yourself, heart slamming as you’re filled; a sating desire within you, growing as you find yourself adjusting to him.
When you find yourself fully speared upon your husband, you let out a shuttering whimper; his fingers twitch where they lie, pupils blown wide as he gazes upon you. Your lips find his once more in hunger, whispers of moans swallowed, tongue warm as it slides into his mouth. He tastes of the anise candies he favors; a hint of wine, cherry and dark.
He remains, hips static as you breathe through the sensation of being full of him. His lips are fervent, though any wild need to feel you around him tamped momentarily by his concern for your own comfort and pleasure.
A distant rove of waves upon a shoreline; the memory of Jacaerys, flushed and wide-eyed the first time you shared his bed. You slowly grow accustomed to his size, the hunger boiling within you as you slowly shift, growing restless.
And slowly, experimentally - Jacaerys’ hips push slightly up against yours. You stir at the sensation, his cock pressing a spot deep within you - a keening gasp against him, swallowing his short moan with your lips. A slow lift of your hips, feeling him press against you - your eyes flutter shut once more as a flooding of pleasure courses through you, liquid fire within your veins.
“Gods, my love-” He nearly chokes, “J-just like that-”
Your small gasp as you begin to rock against his pelvis, cock stirring and pressing deliciously against the deepest part of you; upon shaky legs you rise, gently allowing his cock to drag out of your hungered cunt. “Jace,” Your voice is whiny, breathless - unsure what you plan on saying otherwise, your hands slide into the curly locks, tugging gently. He is rendered unable to speak, mouth open before moving to lick the slight salt from your skin.
A flush has grown upon your chest; your husband’s lips have found your breasts, peppering bites and lingering upon a spot just under your neckline, his groans reverberating within your skin. Steadying yourself upon him, you find a rhythm - his cock reaching the deepest parts of you, your head tilting back in true satisfaction, a heat coiling within your gut.
And his lips, ceasing only when your fingers tug at his curls; a curve in his own spine, head falling back against the back of the chair with a groan of pleasure. Heat curls and coils, lit afire by Jacaerys and the feeling of him reaching deep within you.
“Jace, you’re so deep-” You whisper, toes curling with the sounds of your shared desire echoing in the chamber softly. He lets out a small noise at your words, a smattering of pink across his cheeks; cock twitching with desire within you.
The hunger calls you. Without further consideration, you snake a hand between you, down to the heat of your cunt taking him, fingers shaking as you seek your yearning bundle of nerves; His eyes, lidded as he watches you. Jacaerys, in his endless pursuit to ensure your pleasures, has always provided his fingers or tongue to bring you closer to finish - though with him injured below you, you do not mind picking up such slack yourself.
Especially when it brings such deeply melodic sounds of need to his lips. Despite his arousal at your actions, your hand shies away - knowing whatever extension of pleasure you wish to give yourself will be no match for how he so often touches you.
Your grip rises instead to steady yourself upon his shoulders, spearing yourself onto him in languid thrusts, ecstasy climbing within you like the wild of fire.
“Look at you, ābrazȳrys.” He mutters, pupils blown in pleasure, hips canting to meet yours. Though you speak not the language, you are familiar with such a word: wife. A shudder of pleasure at his ancient tongue - of which he has whispered many words to you, most unknown.
He, the picture of the gods below you, letting out a sharp exhale in his own pleasure. His lips, slick and bright, mutter your name - at the summon your gaze finds his own, molten and hungry as your hips move together, the feeling of his cock twitching within you, reaching a spot that has your back keening.
“I’m c-close.” He whispers, a heat upon his cheeks - embarrassment, perhaps, at his eagerness. His eyes find you; you’re met with that dark gaze, regally commanding as he speaks. “Gaomagon ziry. Touch yourself, love, I want to feel you.”
Gods save you.
Just as your husband wishes, you drop your fingers once more with no hesitation, jolting. You do not slow your pace; thighs burning, you keen forward, whispering his name against the pulse of his throat, groaning as your fingers press further, tight circles that bring shudders of pleasure.
“Jaesa, so pretty. Renigon aōla.” Jacaerys’ brows, knitted upwards in gratification; voice, leaking of desperation, of some kind of adulation. He quite often slips into that frantic tongue - the rush of pleasure, of ecstasy, his sharp mind rendered unable to decipher the common from the ancient tongue. You do not know the delicious words that fall from his lips, yet it does not matter - they spur you closer still towards completion.
“Jace, I’m close,” You hiss, teeth clenched in desire; your hips, dropping upon him slower, deeper; his arms pull you closer with a groan, lips falling to nip small marks into the smooth of your neck. A moan, unbidden from his sweet lips, “Do not stop, please-” he wishes, and who are you to deny such pretty begging?
When you hit your high of ecstasy, it is with a muffled moan of his name; into the thin linen of his tunic, legs slowing as you roll through pleasure, spasming gently around your husband. His own, quiet moan into your hair, wrists pulling you into him as he whispers, “Yes, ñuha sȳz byka ābrazȳrys, fuck-”
A thrill within you as you ride your high, such vulgar of a word from your husband; and all, your doing. A frantic whimper from your lips into his throat as he bucks his hips up into you, chasing his own high with a soft whimper. “You feel so good, Jacaerys.” You keen, raising to his face as you feel his abdominal muscles tense beneath you; pressing your forehead to his own, you ride through your completion, heavy breaths upon each other.
Noses sliding against his, you drink his small groans, holding him close; a ghost of his lips against yours, a nip of your lip by his teeth. Long lashes fluttering, Jace finds his own high. He releases his seed into you; you feel him, his hips thrusting up into you weakly as the warmth of him spreads within you. His breath, hot against your cheek, lips chasing yours as you pull away slightly, the slight shift in position sending you both in a harmony of whimpers at the sensitivity.
The chamber’s hearth spits and crackles; an ember lands near the floor beside the chair. It smolders out, fading slowly into darkness against the stone as you rest your cheek against Jacaerys’ chest, pleased by his gentle kisses upon your hairline.
After moments of silence, basking in your shared pleasure, you press a kiss to his chest. “Are you alright?” He asks gently, soothing over your spine with the soft of his forearms.
You let out a shaky sigh of satisfaction as you pull back, feeling his cock within you - a fleeting thought; you hope his seed takes. He watches you, eyes warm and gentle as a shaky finger, curled in pain, wipes a stray strand of hair from your forehead - you nod, lifting your hand thumb away the bead of blood that has appeared once more on his cheek; “Yes. And you?” You wonder, pressing a kiss to the freckle upon his lip.
His smile is the kind that makes your heart skip beats. “Always.”
jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader
words: 6.8k
synopsis: "When they were young boys, Lucerys would often whisper at night some childish fear about spirits and phantoms roaming the unlit halls. Jace used to tease him for it, jumping out at his brother from around corners to make him yelp; Come now, there’s no such thing, Luke - But now, standing alone in the moonlit road, he's not so sure."
requested: yes
notes: hi!! here's, as requested, a smut (that has very little plot), but this idea came to me and i wanted to see how it turned out! lmk what u guys think, comments/reblogs/asks are my biggest motivation. follows a non-canon timeline/events (they remain at King's Landing, and none of the canon events have happened). Jace is aged to 22. this is so unedited its actually insane.
warnings: canon-typical injuries, canon-typical treatment of sex work, drinking/slight intoxication, it's ambiguous if jace is a virgin or not but reader isn't, suggested/implied sex work (also ambiguous), size kink(?), jace has a big dick ok, also he carries reader for a split second, vaguely possesive!jace&reader, teasing, fairly vanilla, fingering, PiV, praise kink (its Jace ofc he has one), hair pulling.
feedback is appreciated <3
requests open.
masterlist
JACE SHOULDN’T BE HERE.
Despite the excitement thrumming in his veins, the pleasure of escape, he should certainly know much better.
Around Jacaerys, people walk - stumbling drunk, laughing with pairs, or pulling each other into shadowy alleys and poorly lit edifices; an inebriated grunt from beside him that turns into a slow drawl. For the hour of the bat, the quarter is rather boisterous.
He does not pay his uncle Aegon mind when the man murmurs something, sluggish steps rolling to a stop and knocking on a large wooden door.
There is a slow trickle of liquid that finds its way spreading through the cracks between the cobblestones - upon closer inspection, Jacaerys is unsure if it is water, ale, blood, or any other unpleasant liquid that could possibly have found its way flowing down the street.
Despite this, his senses are filled with rather pleasant scents: roses, highly perfumed oils, incense - lights range from dim to bright within the buildings that line the narrow street, partially occluded by the hood pulled low over his head. A cacophony of laughter in the distance.
It feels illusory, to walk unassisted (forget the staggering drunkard beside him) through a world he had only ever heard of in whispered tales and drunken boasts; dim lanterns cast flickering shadows on the cobblestones, illuminating faces of women and men who lounge in doorways or called out to passersby with suggestive glances.
He avoids them all, the warmth that’d spurred this pilgrimage all but subsiding from his blood.
That last cup of ale had done him in, but that had been an hour past; foolishly convinced by his boisterous, cruelly smirking uncle. Twenty and still haven’t tasted the true pleasures of King’s Landing?
The specific thought had rather irritated him; he grew up in the very same keep Aegon did - though he’s never ventured to this specific road before, Jacaerys has become well-adept at finding his own kinds of pleasures.
Though the prospect of sneaking anywhere had seemed utterly thrilling in the safety of the Red Keep after many cups celebrating another year; now, standing amidst the chaos, Jace feels a rising unease.
Jacaerys keeps his gaze low, eyeing the flicker of any cloak that seems too white, avoiding the gaze of any whose lingers too long; despite his disguise, the fear of being recognized gnaws - and the Red Keep watches from high above, its imposing silhouette a stark reminder of where he should be sleeping now.
He does not follow either when Aegon disappears into a particularly rowdy establishment, laughter echoing behind him as the door slams. The light that had illuminated him momentarily is diminished within a breath, and he turns to eye the winding cobblestone before him.
Aemond had similarly slinked into the shadows long before - his movements as silent and unsettling as ever; Jace feels rather relaxed to be rid of their presence.
For a moment, Jacaerys considers how safe he is, unarmed and alone; yet the increasingly sober part of his mind cringes at the fear of seeing something he would be unable to scrub from his eyelids should he follow his uncle inside.
Instead he remains, now by his self, head taking a double as a flash of familiar hair pops through a crowd down the street.
He blinks.
What an odd vision; he has not had too much to drink as to incite any kind of hallucinations of the mind - yet he could have sworn…
When they were young boys, Lucerys would often whisper at night some childish fear about spirits and phantoms roaming the unlit halls.
Jace used to tease him for it, jumping out at his brother from around corners to make him yelp; Come now, there’s no such thing, Luke - But now, standing alone in the moonlit road, Jace feels a shiver run down his spine.
He takes a step forward, squinting against the clashing of ale mugs, the shoving of two men in a brawl, and the flickering light; he swears he just saw…
It’s not possible.
He knows better, yet his feet move anyways.
Weaving through groups of rowdy men and painted women, he keeps his eyes locked on the figure - the cloaked head is shorter than himself and he finds his head raised over crowds to follow.
He winds through a maze of distractions; boisterous laughter, clinking coins, the seductive calls of courtesans - but he presses on, his heart pounding with a mix of dread and hope. It can’t be.
The figure slips through the crowd with a grace that stirs memories long buried - gliding in and out of rooms, watchful eyes and bright smiles.
Jace quickens his pace, desperate to keep up.
It cannot be, but…there’s something unmistakable about the way the figure moves, the tilt of a hooded head.
…Perhaps he is still slightly inebriated.
It isn’t until the figure disappears down a narrow alley that leads to a winding stair that he becomes aware. He’s chasing shadows; feeling flushed and a fool, Jace stops just as the figure begins an ascent towards a small tenement above a tavern.
Then, in a fleeting moment, he sees it: a small scar on the hand, catching the light. His stomach lurches - only one person he knows has such a scar.
His breath catches; without a moment to consider, Jace pushes forward, heart thundering in his chest.
Hiding as he can in the shadows, he climbs up the narrow stairs, watching the end of his ghost’s cloak slip around each corner as he follows.
He does not look up until he finds himself at the very top of a narrow spiraled stair corridor; much too late.
He stops short, blinking in disbelief at what he finds in the small entryway at the top.
You.
It’s as if you’ve been waiting for him; standing against the opened doorway, your arms crossed, eyes a mix of expectant and hopeful. Your voice whispers and is nearly lost to the wind, falling through the narrow halls and spilling onto the dirty street below.
"I thought that was you, my prince."
Your cadence, still so familiar - were he not so on edge, he might have stood dumbfounded in the stairway until someone jolted him awake.
Knowing better than to speak openly about his identity, you slink back into the doorway behind you, figure illuminated in the flickering candlelight.
Jacaerys is numbed with sheer disbelief as he follows you; he enters the room, removing his hood now that he is away from prying eyes. Most of them, at least.
"You recognized me?" He asks, rather unable to conjure up the words of bewilderment at seeing you again.
The wooden door is latched behind him; he watches, eyes circling as you move around him, coiling around him like a snake in grass. "Even in disguise, my prince, you’re hard to miss." You smile faintly, a touch of mischief in your eyes. “Though it has been quite a few years. You’ve grown your hair.”
He cannot help the huff of disbelief from his lips; When he last saw you, you were a girl. Just a mere girl, wearing those plain dresses, with a quick smile and an even quicker wit.
Yet now you stand before him, cloak draped bewitchingly over curves; hair that was once pulled back dutifully now cascades freely. The softness of youth has all but left your face, leaving a sweet femininity, eyes flickering with maturity.
He finds you now - a woman, standing in her own room - nearly impossible to associate with the girl who once bowed each time he entered a room, who attended his aunt dutifully but was never afraid to speak freely with him and the others when the other adults weren’t around.
Though he cannot deny the thundering relief to see you, his stomach has hollowed; you act as though you left for a mere few weeks - that you’ve only been gone, and not gone. Ignoring the wounded part of him, he shakes his head.
"I thought you dead.”
You barely bat an eye at his words. His voice is more angry than he intends as he adds, “Everyone said so."
Your smile nearly unnerves him, your eyes flickering. "Maybe I am."
He doesn’t laugh.
"Many mourned your loss," he says, this time more softly - he remembers; a thing of youth, a sadness that had perturbed the court and echoed in your absence from your halls. Even Aegon and Aemond attended the ceremony held in your honor, though likely by their mother’s pinch of their ears.
You cross the room to pour wine from a pitcher, removing your cloak and laying it atop the meager mattress. The motion causes his traitorous eyes to glance over; dipping below the lines of your gentle face, over other gentle parts of you; A heat through him that he steadfastly chastises himself for. He’d be no better than the men out in the brothels lining the streets.
He can see the playfulness soften and leave your expression. "I am sorry, Jacaerys. I had no choice."
He finds himself relieved he does not have to request you address him by his name and not his title - but your words settle a stale taste as they leave your lips. You had no choice?
“I don’t understand.” He states, brows furrowed, “Why would they say you were dead?”
Your eyes flicker. “People believe what they want to.”
Something tugs at his mind; you’re far too secret - you’ve suddenly come back from the dead, yet you jest as if this was just another evening. Night, he reminds himself - the moon tracks across the sky with a mischievous wink; It must already be near the hour of eel.
You shift slightly, the playful air fading for a moment. “I didn’t want to leave, Jace. But I suppose the Gods chose for me a different path.” You say gently.
“A path that led you to this?” His gaze sweeps the room again, concern etching on his features though he tries to school it. You hand him a cup of wine that he takes with shaky fingers.
He follows you when you gesture further into the small room, to the table which rests between the small hearth and the meager straw mattress. “This place,” His eyes flicker out the window, out to the street below. “It's not for someone like you."
You tilt your head, crossing your arms. "Oh, and what kind of place is it for then? Someone like you, perhaps?”
His cheeks flush bright red.
"Hiding from your uncles and the cloaks has become second nature to me, Jacaerys, but I've never encountered you here. So tell me, why might a prince like you find himself on such a street?" Your voice has never purred as much as it does now, in the low light. “Chasing for trouble, perhaps?”
The effects of the ale have long since worn off, yet he is a stammering fool before you. "I- my uncles…" He clears his throat, watching as you move to lean against the small table. “It’s my nameday.”
As if that should clear it up.
You nod slowly, a slow grin that looks nearly wicked in the light as you take a sip of your wine.
"Well, happy nameday, my prince," a hint of amusement in your sweet voice, "Your uncles certainly know how to show you a good time."
Jacaerys shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, feeling a mix of embarrassment and interest at your tone. He clears his throat, searching for words. "It's not what you think. They insisted…"
You raise an eyebrow, teasing, and he feels himself lose track of his thoughts; Shifting his weight, the cloak around his shoulders becomes rather warm. "I wanted to leave the Keep." He admits honestly.
You lean forward slightly, a playful smirk on your lips. "And of the whole city, you happened upon the Street of Silk?” Your head tilts, “Surely you must be enjoying it a little."
Jacaerys runs a hand through his hair, torn between frustration and fascination. "I came to escape, not to... to indulge in this."
Another mistake of words.
Your brow lifts, eyes flickering around the humble accommodation. “This?”
He is growing used to your teases, and wishes he’d be less easily flustered this late into the night. He gestures with his chin towards the rowdy yells of the street below,“That.” He corrects with a dutiful glare.
You hold your hands up, a small surrender; the scowl on his face melts into a small smirk. The wine you poured is surprisingly pleasant - spices, currants. He takes another sip, eyes roving over the room - humble, with meager belongings. Have you really lived here, just under the looming watch of the castle, for six years?
Jacaerys shakes his head, trying to gather his thoughts. "What brought you to such a place?” His eyes flicker out the window, out to the street below, where an indecent man is being thrown from a brothel, women screaming and throwing a plethora of detritus at him.
His brows furrow. “You’re not…” He doesn’t finish his question; He cannot imagine how he’d reacted had he stepped into the threshold of a brothel and seen you; Gods, if Aegon had seen you-
You raise an eyebrow. "Do you think me a common harlot, my prince?"
He blinks. “Am I supposed to assume otherwise?” He counters. A flash of a smirk upon your lips at his sharp tongue; he never has been able to control his temper well when provoked.
“I just… can’t imagine it.” He says, unsure if he means you, a whore - or you, alive at all. After all, both remained completely unfathomable until a quarter of an hour ago. It grows a sense of shame upon his neck to think of such things.
“Why?” Your tone swims between warm and cold waters, “Do you think me unable to be successful in such a profession?”
Panic; He’s caught off guard, brows furrowing as he swallows a dry throat, not wishing to offend you. “No, I imagine you’d be great, I just-” He stops himself, but the damage is done; a grin spreads across your face. Gods, you sure enjoy watching him squirm.
You step closer, your voice low and challenging, “You imagine I’d be great?”
He cannot help but bite his tongue, staring down at you somewhere between excited and maddened. His brows draw low, eyes leveled in sternness as you tilt your head up at him.
“Do tell, Prince Jacaerys, what makes you think so?” You purr.
Seven hells. It’s like torture; gritting his teeth, he’s not sure if he might kiss you or snap at you. He allows a deep breath into his lungs, watching the way you press your lips together, eyes flicking down to his own lips. His stomach flips at the prospect.
Perhaps his rationality is clouded by the lateness of the hour and the prostration of your sudden reappearance; The night is already deep - he may have a better chance of slipping back to his chambers unnoticed if he lingers until the last candles are snuffed and the whole castle goes dark.
And you stand so close - your gaze burns with poorly-concealed desire; he’s not naive enough that he cannot recognize the looks many send him, yearning glances and hungry stares. But with you…
You are ravishing; and though he is bound by duty and honor, the allure of your presence weaves a spell around his senses.
Perhaps yielding to this temptation, just once, would not be so wrong.
Your cheeks are heated, a darker color than normal - hands still wrapped around a cup; his own is nearly empty, and he holds it out to you silently.
He shouldn’t play such power tricks on you, not after all that’s been lost and suddenly regained, not when his palm risks trembling under nerves; though the way your eyes flicker down to the cup and back up to his own gaze sets an arousal deep within him.
In the catch of your breath, the shakiness of your hands, Jace already knows: You like such games.
When you reach for the pitcher of wine, leveling him with eyes much less than modest, his voice comes lower than expected. “I can imagine such things,” He watches your eyes widen at his candor, “But I wouldn’t wish to provoke you with such thoughts.”
Something in your eyes flicker in delighted amusement, biting your lip; his arousal coils around his abdomen when you stare up at him.
“YOU SPEAK AS IF I DON’T WISH TO BE PROVOKED.”
You’re relieved to find that your words come out less than shaky as you pour wine for the prince; a charged silence following your admission as he towers over you in plainclothes that look quite unusual on his regal chest. His lips curl, some sort of power play that he’s just found in the dark of this night; as if you don’t see his trembling fingers, hot cheeks. It’s quite absurd, how warm you burn for him.
But you wouldn’t dare let him off so easily.
“If I may remind you, my prince, you’re the one stammering after the slightest incitement.” You muse, grinning as you set down the pitcher.
His lips are so full; in the dim light, he wettens them. You wetten your own, bringing your eyes to that jaw - sharper than those years of youth, more handsome than you’d care to admit. It’s rather unsurprising, yet you feel astounded by how incredibly striking he’s become in your years apart.
You know better - Jacaerys is by nature polite; respectful, kind. You knew he’d never make an advance that he wasn’t sure was clear; so, you made it clear.
And yet his response, lower than a secret, rumbling with desire as he grins boyishly down at you.
“You’re so sure I can’t find a way to make you stammer?”
He’s suddenly close to you; breath just over your cheek as he leans, eyes boring into you, to set the cup down behind you on the table. You find it suddenly hard to breathe.
You’re not so sure, now; not as he leans and you can smell the riches upon him - bathing oils from Dorne, soaps from the Vale. Some whisper of a forest, of that dragonsmoke you so often wondered of in your days in the Keep.
Perhaps his shyness was a symptom of the rendered shock of earlier. You, too, had been more than surprised when you’d seen those eyes - below a hood which concealed those dark locks, a palpitation of your heart at seeing such a friendly face after all this time.
He doesn’t seem any bit shy anymore.
Hands encircle your waist, warm and possessive, drawing you nearer. The discarded cups on the table behind you seem like distant memories, fading into the background as your heart hammers, desire pooling between your thighs as you lean against the table, pulling him between your spread thighs.
“Perhaps I’ve underestimated you, my prince,” you whisper, your voice low, teasing; though your hands threaten to shake with desire.
He smirks back at you, head declined to watch your own expression. Heat consumes you.
The slope of his nose, the freckles across the bridge, the depth of his eyes below full brows - a face written about in stories, a face one could remember for years, lifetimes.
“I should prove you wrong.”
You can feel the heat radiating from his body, and the distance between you dwindles until there's barely any space left to navigate; your own palms come to rest upon his chest, fingers tracing over the clasp of his cloak.
Anticipation coils tightly around your heart as his gaze drops to your lips, a silent question lingering in the air.
“Perhaps you should.” you agree breathlessly, a whisper into the night - It seems enough for him.
He wastes no time with the tenderness of a first embrace; when his lips meet yours, they are hot, wanting. You are not shocked - after all, he found himself on the Street of Silk for a reason tonight, didn’t he?
A lick of pride and relief that he chose to follow you instead of finding himself surrounded by countless painted women and whores this night; a possessive streak causes you to push up against him, pressing your chest to his own.
His nose slides against the bridge of your own when he deepens the kiss; tongue sliding against your lips, roving shivers down your spine. Your fingers flex against his chest, feeling the heart that beats strong below his cloak.
He tastes golden in the blanket of night; warm, dripping like honey and earthy from the wine that remains in your cups. He's hard and strong against your body, tugging you impossibly close as you surge, lips fitting together just so; you nearly forget to breathe.
His tongue slides along your lip like velvet; warm, hungry, desperate. You melt into Jace's touch, breath hitching as his hand slides over your hips and lower, grasping suddenly at your arse cheek. Heated desire courses through you, pumping along the veins which have long yearned for a body so close to you.
The low hum he lets out against your lips sends goose-pimples across your body, your fingers soon sliding to fumble with the clasp across his chest.
He takes pity on your hungry touch; rising to help you, he makes quick do of his cloak, stepping towards you as it falls to the ground.
You’re backed against the table; the surface digging into your behind, you let him crowd your space with a tug on his chest towards you.
The boisterous street outside remains loud; fading as it does in the background of you and Jacaerys’ breaths, your lips sliding messily together under the pressure of time and circumstance. You cannot believe the stroke of luck, to find him once again.
His fingers shake just slightly when they find your tunic; pulling back, you’re struck by his sheer beauty in the low light. Eyelashes, dark and long, frame those pretty eyes - expressive, wondering, begging. Seven hells, what you’d do to hear your name from his lips again.
You nod so smally you’re almost unsure he notices; but he’s soon tugging your tunic over your head, eyes falling to your bare chest with a groan. “Gods,” His voice is dangerously low as you stand, eyes wide and pooling with desire.
A finger, tracing from your arm over to your breast; a shiver from you, swallowing as his knuckles graze your pert nipple, his eyes hungry, wide, exploring. Your palm cups his neck, threading through the curls as you tug him towards you, too impatient; teeth clash slightly, though you can only let out a breathy whine as his hands find your breasts, arousal flooding your senses.
Gasping, your back arches when his fingers find your bud and pinch gently, cascades of arousal shivering over you from the sensation.
You begin to tug off his own tunic; it falls to the floor near the bed as he tosses it, but your eyes are too preoccupied with the sight before you.
He has grown, indeed.
Chest, broad and panting as he stands before you; your nails slide over shoulders and down his chest, eyes taking in each part of smooth skin awarded to you - the muscles of his torso, refined from what you can only imagine is constant training in the castle yards.
An overwhelming desire; to see him fall apart, cheeks flushed, lips parted as he looks down at you - you must have him, now. And so you allow your hand a bold move towards the waist of his trousers, watching to ensure he remains enthusiastic. His breath is choked when you grasp his hardening manhood; shyness having melted off the two of you, all that remains in the air of your apartments is the desire, strung thin and hungry with anticipation.
Gently, you tilt your head, watching him with innocent eyes, knees weakening at the feel of him firm beneath your palm.
Your name comes from his lips in a breathy moan before they attach themselves to your neck - a bite, soothed with a sharp tongue. You are dizzy with desire, hand slowing as his own palm creeps, sliding down your chest and pressing below your stomach.
“Jace,” You nearly whimper; his eyes, molten, find yours.
A beat; two pairs of eyes flicker to the corner of the room and back to each other before his hands grab your thighs, coaxing you upwards into his grasp.
You nearly yelp as he grabs you so intently - lifting your legs, you let out a sharp moan when his clothed arousal presses firmly to your own.
He takes only a few steps before dropping you as gently as possible on top of the thin furs which lie on your bed; your hands around his neck drag him atop your own body, lit with the excitement of forbidden desire.
A gentleman, he is - undoing your trousers, your stomach flutters when he presses gentle kisses along the exposed bare skin of your thighs, fingers dragging heat along wanting flesh.
You watch with bated breath as he pulls back, fingers fiddling with his hands- then he’s dropping several bands of dark metal from around his fingers onto the table.
The rings make a small noise when they hit the wood; you open your mouth but he’s suddenly back against you, palm cupping your heat and swallowing your gasp with his own lips.
His fingers over your smallclothes sends a keening arch of your back; his own arm slips under your spine, pulling you to him as he presses his tongue against your pert nipple.
Pleasure spills over you as he flicks his tongue, wet and hot; fingers, rubbing lazy over the apex of your thighs, nudging gently against your clothed pearl as you sigh in pleasure.
He is an attentive lover; Bites and kisses upon your chest, whispers against your skin, teasing for as long as you can stand it. You know Jacaerys can feel the moisture of your desire seeping through the seat of your smallclothes - you know, because a smirk has grown upon his regal face.
The waiting becomes agonizing; with a panting breath, you grasp his forearm. He halts, eyes searching for a problem. You ease his worries simply. “Jacaerys. I cannot bear any more teasing, I want to feel you.”
His lip catches between his teeth - an expression you’ve never seen, yet enjoy thoroughly; you wonder how he’d moan against you if you were to bite him like that.
“You’re tired of the teasing?” He mocks - you roll your eyes, about to mutter that it is different to tease with words than with hands - when he speaks again.
“I was told..” His cheeks are a sweet burgundy, eyes flicking down. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” He insists, “And I want you to feel good.”
You can’t help the heat of your cheeks as you follow his gaze, to the admittedly large bulge of his trousers. It had not occurred to you until now the innocence of the man before you; with a blink, you smile. “Always a gentleman.” You whisper, pressing a kiss to his lips, “As you wish, my prince.”
He lays you down, at this; between kisses and shared breath, fingers slowly slide over the hem of your smallclothes, dipping and spreading the syrupy desire that spills from you.
“Fuck,” His lips whisper - a shock of arousal at his touch, more so at the lewd word you’d never imagine the Prince ever uttering to you. “You’re-” he chokes, though, as your hips buck; he’s found your sensitive pearl - inexperienced as he may be, he’s incredibly attentive.
He always was a quick learner.
Your legs quickly weaken; your nails, tracing over the planes of pale skin, the freckles that peek over his shoulders. When he slides a finger inside you, he watches your expression with a heat you’d never seen before.
His name falls from your lips in a whimper; fingers long, deft, capable - and he watches with kiss-bruised lips, a reverence within his eyes that warms both your chest and your core.
You whine, he shushes you; as if born to lie with you, he finds the spot that makes your head fall back against the flat mattress, his finger beginning languid pumps.
The stretch when he adds another digit has him groaning along with you - a whisper, against your ear. “Are you okay?”
You nod, resisting a moan. “Don’t stop, Jace-”
He must like the familiarity of the nickname; a short breath from him, watching in awe as you writhe below him. “Do you know how intoxicating you are?” His breath is hot against you; ecstasy clenches you around his fingers, hands sliding down his own bare abdomen, feeling the muscles which lie below.
“You must know,” He adds, voice laced with desire, heat. Your head tosses back as he hums, palm brushing against your sensitive center. “Looking at me like that,” He’s in his own world, eyes stuck on his hand beneath your smallclothes, the sound of your desire between you. “Teasing me.”
The coil of pleasure is so close to snapping, your hand begins to push against his chest; heat, you feel hot - you’ve never been driven to such ecstasy so quick; the feeling is overwhelming.
“Jace-” You fight not to writhe against the feeling, his fingers deep, dragging perfectly against the spot that has your vision blanking. He whispers your own name back to you, a prayer.
You find your release not soon after; his other hand soothing over the hair that sticks to your forehead - a moan echoing in the walls of the small quarters. His own shaky breath, muttering in a language you’d only ever heard those of dragonblood use as you drag nails over the warm skin of his back.
When his fingers leave you, it is a scandalous sight; sitting up above you, knees upon the mattress and backlit by the flickering firelight, your prince watches you. Slowly, he raises his glistening digits, imbued with your arousal, between his lips and groans at the taste - salacious and nearly sacrilegious to watch.
You might pass out.
Instead, your hands tug him over - with wide eyes, he watches you straddle his thighs, eager to let him feel the throbbing pleasure he’d just shown you.
An indescribable heat; roving your hips over his, feeling his cock against your slick - his own head rolls back, though he suspends himself on strong arms. You kiss the column of his throat, whispering - “Would you let me feel you, my prince?”
His hands find your hips, pushing your hips over his own, his size sending tingles of anticipation through you. “Yes,” He murmurs against your lips, “Please.”
You aren’t one to deny your prince’s wishes.
His own trousers are tugged off rather sloppily, discarded with you still in his lap; he kicks them off his feet and then you’re both in your smallclothes, staring at each other with heat.
Your lips find his - wet, eager, perfect.
A string of saliva remains when you pull away from his wanting lips, your heart hammering in your throat. Jacaerys’ eyes are wide, pupils dark and blown with desire as your hand trails its way, dragging light nails from his neck, down a heaving chest. Over the ridges of his stomach, you find yourself grasping his cock once more through his clothing - his groan is quiet, eyes rolling lightly as you slip off his lap.
When you push his smallclothes off, you cannot help but stare. He’s glorious; bare, skin glowing in the light - cock hitting the low of his stomach, the tip of him is flushed and leaking with his unrestrained desire - you slide your own remaining garment off until you are similarly bare, sliding back onto his lap.
His hands slide over your bare thighs, inciting small goosepimples in his wake as he finds comfortable purchase on your hips. There is no worry in his eyes, no hesitation - only hunger, if not impatience, and he murmurs your name with a small, please.
When he pulls you to him, one hand sliding up the warm skin of your spine, you feel his cock against your slick - both moaning, your lips find each other in a succession.
You waste no more time - one hand around his length, you guide him, lifting your hips just so you hover above him; with eyes pleading and clouded in lust, Jacaerys’ lips part.
You sink onto him slowly, agonizingly.
Both letting out a gasp - he, eyes widening with pleasure, you with the similar warmth yet struck by the stretch of him spearing you. “Gods,” You whisper against the hollow of his throat, damp with exertion, “G-gods, Jace.”
His hand moves to push hair behind your shoulder - a tenderness that has your heart fluttering as you slowly relax, letting him fill you.
You can hear the strain in his voice, but there is a genuine concern. “Are you okay, darling?” The name has your throat drying up; unable to stop at the wave of desire the simple petname spouts, you feel yourself clenching with desire. He lets out a choked moan, fingers tightening around your skin.
“Yes-” You sigh, kissing his lips with fervor. His eyes flutter shut and you sink lower, legs trembling. The candle beside your bed has nearly burnt through its wick, the wax spilling and dribbling to the stone floor.
Your arms tighten around his shoulders as you finally seat yourself fully with him inside you; a deep, warm feeling of ecstasy as you breathe, the sharp stretch soon melting into a burning need, fullness. A breeze through the window, but it does nothing to calm your hot skin.
“You’re- you feel so tight.” He whispers; a flush on his cheeks as your eyes shut, nodding. You cannot wait much longer; slowly, you left yourself up again, relishing in the sweet pleasure coursing through you at the feeling of his cock dragging through you.
His sigh is one you will never forget. There are no more noises elsewhere; the city is gone, no calls nor shouts nor distant songs - it is just you and Jacaerys.
His palms are large, warm as one cups the side of your jaw, tilting your head back to watch you, all of you, in the light.
His lips find the marks he’s already peppered about you as you begin to rock yourself, so full and following that bright stirring of ecstasy within. Palms slowly find your breasts, squeezing the pliant flesh as your pace quickens; a rhythm you settle, arms locked around his shoulders, one of his at your hip and the other holding himself up.
“Jace, you feel so good,” You whimper - he groans at this; you feel him throb with pleasure, hips bucking up suddenly. You keen loudly, gasping at the extra bit of pleasure; his own eyes are cast down in desire, watching your bodies meet, a quickness in his breath.
He’s rendered nearly speechless; breaths puff from his plush lips, jaw clenching as he bucks up against you - your thighs soon tire, though you cling to that simmering feeling, the approaching release that his touch coaxes you towards.
He says your name - once, twice; a hand on your jaw, strong as he coaxes you look to him in the throes of your passion. A thrill in the commanding look on his face.
“Lie back.” He orders, voice surprisingly confident - or desperate, perhaps - as his hands pull you. You let him move you, whining at the absence of him when he removes himself from your wet heat; yet he doesn’t let you get too far, as he crawls atop your body, pressing heated kisses to your clammy chest.
His arms propped beside your head, caging you in, you let your fingers thread into his hair. With strong hands, he lifts your legs; your eyes widen as he places them upon his narrow hips, lip caught in concentration. His hand pumps his cock, sliding over your cunt and nudging your pearl; you yelp in pleasure, toes curling as you push down with fists against the mattress.
When he pushes into you again, he buries his moan in the crook of your neck. You, unable to do anything more than whine at the angle, the stretch of him in you; your legs hook around his hips, pushing him deeper, deeper.
He’s somewhere between frantic and patient, some inexplicable combination that has your head spinning. Your fingers tug at his hair when he soon finds a pace that hits your spot repeatedly, toes curling in euphoria.
“Feels so good,” You can’t stop - he grasps at your breast, toying with your nipple as he rolls his hips into yours; The man above you is attentive, passionate, his hips striking deep within you, lips pressing hot kisses on every exposed bit of skin. Groans and short breathy moans in your ear, his lips slide over your throat. Lovemaking, you might call it - the thought spurs heat within you, clenching as you near your high.
His hand falls to your hip after you begin to arch; pushing you down, you realize you’d begun to writhe in ecstasy. “Fuck,” he hisses again; Your eyes nearly roll back at the ease in which he holds you down, conscious or not to his own effects on you.
“Please I’m-” His voice is nearly ragged, a broken desire for you that nearly drives you to madness. You wish to consume him, for him to consume you.
“I’m close.” He whispers your name, hips picking up pace; your eyes roll back, one hand dragging down the expanse of his back, unable to stop yourself. He hisses in sharp pleasure, head falling back as he groans, “Where-”
You swallow, curbing a moan, “My st-stomach,” you stutter, rendered similarly unable to speak cohesively through the muddled ecstasy of your impending spend.
It’s when his hand, shaking and desperate to see you finish, falls to rub against your sensitive pearl; your hand flies to his forearm, the muscles flexing below your nails. “Jace!” You nearly squeal, unable to hold off any longer.
You nearly lose consciousness; in your peak, your hips spasm, cunt clenching around your prince, coaxing a choked moan from his lips. Pleasure rolls over you in waves, breathing heavy as he whispers into your ear, hips not ceasing.
Jace lasts only several more thrusts before he pulls out of you, sweat sticking a light sheen to his forehead, lips pink and plush and parted. He can only pump himself with his fist a few times before he’s spilling his seed upon your heaving stomach.
Your voice is a whisper against his clammy cheek, watching with arousal at his sweet bliss, the glisten of his spend against the soft skin of you.
He collapses, breathing heavy and heart pounding as hard as yours; the action bouncing you slightly on the bed. The noises of the street below return to your ears once more, but all you can do is pull his hand to you, pressing gentle kisses to the tips of his fingers as you both recover.
A breeze, thick with warmth, curls through your room - he turns, eyes meeting yours with a small look of embarrassment. Your own face must mirror it - lingering in the distance is the castle; you know he must return there soon, but a selfish part of you wishes to remain with him for longer.
After all, it’s been far too long. You have much to discuss.
“Would you…” you trail off, unsure if it would cross a line undrawn to ask such a foolish thing. But his eyes are so wide, pools of warmth; he looks as though he would say yes to anything you might ever ask of him.
“Would you hold me, for a moment?” You ask, avoiding his eyes, “Before you return.”
His brows furrow, though he says nothing - pulling you to his warm, glistened chest, he grabs a rag from the bend of a chair beside you, wiping himself off your stomach. “Of course.” He says gently.
You pretend not to notice the pang in your chest, remembering the life you could have now; pouring wine for lords and ladies, spending time with Helaena, and sneaking off to see Jacaerys in your free time. Sometimes, even after all this time, you wish you never had to leave the Keep.
Jacaerys presses a kiss to your hairline as his arm, heavy and intent, circles your bare waist.
You allow yourself to simply exist in the moment with your prince, listening to his heart beat against your cheek.
“WILL I SEE YOU AGAIN?”
Jacaerys’ voice is soft in the night as you smile at him. His hands run over your shoulders, slipping the strap of the sleep gown you’d just donned back over your shoulder gently. “I can’t help but worry I won’t.” he murmurs.
He could swear there is a warmth upon your cheeks in the faint light.
“Worry? For me?” You smile, a hint of vulnerability breaking through the teasing smile, “You’ve grown into quite a man these last years,” You hum, “but you’re still the sweet boy I remember.”
The warmth spreads through him, his hand caressing your jaw. “And you’re still the girl who I find difficult not to worry about.”
You laugh, a sound he thought he’d forgotten; he’s suddenly two-and-ten again, watching with shock as you present the burn scar upon your hand to he and his uncles - I burned it, you had boasted so proudly, do you think I’ll have it forever?
His hand catches your own - warm, small in his own palm as he turns it over. You’re quite close - he can see the smile lines on your face, the flutter of lashes. You’re beautiful.
You’d burnt your hand while serving tea to Helaena when you were a girl of one-and-ten; the pain hadn’t made you weep, but gasp, watching in interest as the skin bubbled and marred.
He watches your skin under his touch, recalling the emptiness of the halls once you’d gone; the same emptiness he’s about to return to.
You laugh softly, your eyes sparkling. “You flatter me.” You say earnestly, your free hand brushing a strand of his curls from his forehead. “I have missed you very much, my prince.”
He smiles faintly, as you pin his cloak tighter against his chest - old habits must die hard, even after all this time.
“You know where to find me.” You whisper, “I’d not go anywhere if I knew I may one day see you again.”
Your voice lingers like a sweet echo, even when he’s walking back up the street towards the Keep, watching your silhouette disappear from the upstairs window.
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jacaerys velaryon x Tully!fem!reader
words: 7.3k
requested: here + here
synopsis: "Luke’s face brightens, nodding quick. “Oh, Jace loves history, he’d have mentioned it to me hundreds of times already if he knew you like it, too.” or: four times Jace and you are teased about each other.
notes: switching povs. au - dance of the dragons does not happen; Harwin Strong is soooo back!! Rhaenyra & her family reside in King's Landing, Jace is aged-up to be around 20. reader has brothers and a cat and everyone teases her and Jace lol. also guys im so fr, i do not know any high valyrian, pls pls message me if you have corrections or if you'd be willing to help me with translations in the future haha!
contents: brief mention of alcohol, just fluff. kissing. a bit of innuendo, aegon being an ass.
feedback is appreciated <3
requests open.
masterlist
THIS SUMMER HAS BEEN LONG AND SWEET.
Stretched days, sun kissing skin, peace in the realm. Days unencumbered by anything more than his regular duties, Jacaerys Velaryon has begun to wonder if the changing of winter might bring forth anything of interest to the kingdoms.
A goblet falls to the ground near the table - a glance behind him, he moves to pick up the fallen wine cup and sets it on the servant girl’s tray, insisting gently and with a warm look to placate her apology. She sends a bow and he nods back.
Sweat beads at the nape of his neck and he gently wipes it from his hair as the cacophony of scraping silver and sharp laughs echoes through the hall. Yes, the summer has been fine; Though, as wonderful as Jace finds the warmth, he wishes more than anything for the chill breeze of Winter to relieve him from this feast.
“It is quite warm here.”
The words hit Jacaerys’ ears like a soft song, a beckon to turn his head.
The lighting is lower than it once was, and Jace has trouble eyeing the roast that lies before him. The wine in his cup is heavy - Dornish Red, the kind that has left Jace with a fuzzy mind and hot cheeks; Though perhaps that has more to do with the girl next to him tonight.
Respond, she said something. He blinks, nodding as he chances a glance at you; your hair looks so nice pulled away from your eyes, where he can see the lines of your face, those sweet lips, curling over a gentle smile. It’s warm in here, so warm.
"Yes, it is.” He observes - wonderful conversation, Jacaerys. Gods, what is his problem?
Eyes stuck on you, that’s his problem - the cut of your dress is rather stunning, and the way you smile so gently has his stomach warming.
It is not an unusual thing for a highborn family to visit the keep: Treating with his grandsire, Jacaerys remembers meeting lords and ladies with their children from all stretches of the seven kingdoms since he was no more than a babe. Though he has never once met someone so alluring before you arrived four days ago with bright eyes and a gaze that didn't seem to stop finding him.
Your arrival with your lord father from Riverrun was intended to be a routine matter of diplomacy and courtesy. Jacaerys had been present out of duty, standing attentively to the exchange as his grandsire the King was presented with your family.
He was nearly bored until his gaze fell upon you - an effortless poise as you’d greeted the king with a bow, your stifled smirk concealed with a duck of your head after your younger brother had tripped himself.
Introductions had been made, formal and courteous. Of course Jace could not help when his heartbeat quickened under your stare; He had been introduced after his mother and Daemon, offering a polite bow and nodding gently despite the sudden rush of nerves as you curtseyed back to him gracefully.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, my prince."
Though your brothers were brought to train in the sparring courtyard with Jace, it was you who he thought most of and sought out with the small free time he could scrape together. He’s always known his duty and his place, but rarely has he felt such a personal desire to know someone beyond the formalities of court.
Despite his best efforts to remain composed, Lucerys caught on to Jace’s newfound fascination quite quickly. The teasing in private was its own thing, but with Luke making exaggerated sighs and fluttering his eyelashes whenever Jacaerys happened to glance your way during the feast, he is now very nearly ready for the floor to open and swallow him whole.
Thankfully, his aunt seems to be willing to relieve him of the silence he’d left in the wake of the less-than-engaging response.
“It’s usually much warmer here than it is in the Riverlands, especially on the eve of summer.” Helaena shares, nodding gently; thankful for the reprieve, Jace takes the opportunity to take another gulp of his wine, his eyes meeting his brother’s from across the table briefly.
Luke’s grin is enough for Jace to poorly conceal an eye roll, glancing sidelong towards where his mother and grandsire sit, conversing with your lord father.
Unable to resist, he turns back to you. “Have you enjoyed the capital so far?" He can’t help but want to hear your opinion on every single thing, still dizzy from the radiance of your smile, the shifting of your dress as you turn back to him.
You seem to consider for a moment, grinning almost sheepishly in that way he’s come to notice you sometimes do. "It’s very different from Riverrun, but I quite like it."
Your brother - of twenty and just one year older than Jacaerys himself, chuckles. "I’m sure she likes the company more." He mutters, nudging the second-born, a boy of seven and ten.
The younger brother has a laugh. "Yes, the princes are quite charming, aren’t they, sister?"
Something warm swirls in his stomach at the teasing words - flattered and slightly sheepish, Jace grins towards the plate below him before schooling himself. Across from him, Joffrey whispers into Luke’s ear. His eyes flicker down the table, where his uncles sit, speaking amongst themselves. A short breath leaves his lungs - at least they weren’t within earshot.
It is entirely captivating and impressive how you maintain a polite façade, even as Jace notices you kick your brother’s shin under the table, "The company has been very kind." you even wear your smile with poise, proud chin tilted up.
“I’m just impressed she’s made it three sentences without bringing up dragons.”
A hearty laugh follows.
You did bring up dragons, Jace remembers—after he’d introduced himself to you, days ago. You’d asked, uncharacteristically shy as you tucked your hair behind your ear, where they were kept; Jacaerys, struck by your interest, had painfully stuttered his way through a half-brained response.
He wonders if you’d like to see them.
YOU AGREE RATHER ENTHUSIASTICALLY TO SEE THE DRAGONPIT ONLY A FEW DAYS LATER.
It is a fine morning to be out - a gentle breeze, bringing the smells of the plants along the path to the pit and a hint of the ocean. Arm in his, you’ve fallen slightly behind the others; Jace, murmuring his apology, is pleased to see you shake your head.
“It’s quite nice with just us,” You placate his heart as your eyes pass over the Hill of Rhaenys, observing the city and the Red Keep just yonder, “I’ve begun to learn that they can be a lot.” You sigh, eyes ahead on Aegon, who stumbles as if inebriated.
A halt, then - your face has turned, cheeks dark as you shake your head. “Not to insinuate that the Princes are anything but-”
Some kind of amusement flickers in Jace’s grin as he looks down on you. “If you’re worried about speaking ill of them,” Jace says with a wry grin, “don’t be. They're well aware of it. I have plenty of rather unkind thoughts about my uncles myself."
You chuckle softly, the sound sending a pleasant shiver down Jace's spine. "I'm sure you would never have any unkind thoughts, my Prince." Your lips drip with tease- a thing you've begun to do a lot more as he's gotten to know you - but your tease is different. Your tease makes him grin like a fool, makes him stammer over his words half the time, but it also makes you smile even wider, talk a bit closer to him. He's come to crave it.
There is a desperate desire to see the way you seem to keen into him when he encourages your words, and so he leans towards you, “Not when I’m in such pleasant company.” He says lowly.
There is soon a shadow trailing behind you and your response, whatever it may have been, is interrupted by his aunt, who sidles up upon your other side. “Good morrow, Jacaerys, Lady Tully.” She says quietly - Jacaerys nods at her. He’s always quite enjoyed Helaena, even if she can be a bit odd; her serenity and quiet is a welcomed presence whenever he sees her.
“Hello, Helaena,” He greets her, watching the shadows of you and him morph to three-long as Helaena links her arm with your other; your cloak is a radiant color that nicely contrasts the gold of hers and the deep blue of his own.
The final stretch to the Dragonpit is sweet - Jace, listening as Helaena chats with you about the flora of the Red Keep, your own voice, interested and kind. Slow blossoms a fondness within his chest; he barely notices as Lucerys joins his other side.
“It’s so large,” You stare as you come upon the entrance; Your hair changes color slightly under the massive shadow of the dragonpit - flushed cheeks and slightly out of breath, your hand is still held lightly around his arm.
His brother, noticing your position on Jace’s arm, sneaks his own hand through Jace’s empty arm; a silent tease as he bats his eyelashes at him.
Hiding a scowl, Jacaerys glares at Luke, swatting his arm and shoving him off his side. Stop it, his eyes hiss; Luke laughs to himself as Helaena tells you about Dreamfyre tranquilly.
Jacaerys can nearly sense your growing excitement; he can only be pleased he got through the walk to the pit without tripping over his toes or being pestered by any other dawdling member of his family as the guards hold open the entrance; he and Luke gesture for you and Helaena to enter first.
Jace is pleasantly shocked to see you’re more excited than afraid - when he rejoins your side he can just make out a hint of a grin. Your fingers flex and spread over Jacaerys’ bicep; he blushes at the action, but you scarcely notice.
“It’s huge,” you observe with wide eyes, craning your neck.
“It’s not so scary,” Lucerys promises you kindly; Jace conceals a smirk as you nod politely, grinning at the young prince. “If you say so.” You reply to Luke, “After you, then.”
Jace turns - your eyes meet his in a small hint of amusement over his brother’s valiant chivalry. He can’t help the smirk as he nods to you in a mockery of his brother, “Yes. Please don’t be scared, my lady.”
Your eyes, fluttering and light as you roll them; a gentle swat to his arm and a laugh before you turn to trail after his brother, Jacaerys watching with a rush of tenderness before following behind you, your cloak gracing his shins as you run to catch up.
The purple stain of wine upon Aegon's lips make him look ill; a prickle of apprehension trickles through Jace's spine.
The handlers prepare the dragons for them. Aegon’s eyes rove over you in a way that spurs heat in Jace’s chest, turning to face you, taking in your awed expression.
“I’ve never seen a dragon before,” Your voice is breathless in a way that conjures less than appropriate thoughts Jacaerys must swallow down quick; you stare into the wide cavernous room, inhaling the ancient scent of dragonsmoke.
"First time, Lady Tully?” Aegon's voice is not sinister, but Jace knows better than to trust his uncle. He hums, turning to Jacaerys, but before he can run his mouth, Jace acts. "-Mind your tongue," Jace snaps, tone sharp with warning.
Unsurprisingly, this just spurs his uncle further. “Perhaps you should show her your dragon, Jace," Aegon's drunken smirk turns Jacaerys' blood to boil, "I’m sure she’d love to see how big it is." He turns to wink at you.
His nostrils flare. It is one thing to joke about such things around Jace and their brothers, but another to tease in front of a lady. Not here, Jacaerys reminds himself. Do not kill your uncle in front of her. He can see your face flicker from below his shoulder - you're rolling your eyes.
Yet Jace is rooted to the ground in anger; jaw clenching, he breathes heavy through his nose- yet before he can lunge at Aegon and throw a punch, Aemond turns with the hint of a smirk. Surprisingly, he addresses his brother, his tone cool and placating, "Let’s not cause a scene. We have a guest."
"Respect yourself, Aegon, or at least pretend to." Jace hisses, actively suppressing the urge to launch his fist into his uncle's jaw.
But a soft sensation on his side momentarily distracts him from seeing red - "Let's not entertain him," Your lips nearly brush against his neck as you rise on your toes, whispering into his ear. He swallows, willing himself to calm down, because Gods does he like how your breath feels against his cheek.
Aegon, eyes surprisingly clear after staring at his younger brother, scoffs. The tension hangs thick in the air; each person waiting for the handlers to return before visiting their dragons; Jace cannot bear to look at you and instead glares daggers into Aegon.
"I've always loved the smell of dragonfire," Helaena suddenly remarks wistfully, gaze lingering on the mouth of the pit - unexpected, a touch of innocence to her words amidst the strained silence. Aegon clearly becomes bored; distracted, he sniffs the air for his own try at nostalgia over the scent, and Jace glances with gratefulness to his aunt, who plays gently with the rings on her fingers, your voice soft as you ask her about her dragon.
If there is a moment of hesitation on your part, it is when you first lay your eyes on the creatures.
You’d watched in shock, plush lips parted as his brother had spoken with the dragon keepers about Arrax; Aegon had approached Sunfyre with a gentle smile and mercifully forgotten of anyone else’s presence.
“And yours?” Your head tilts, a rhetorical question. Your smile is quite bright; it nearly makes Jace’s heart pound. "This way," he says, guiding you further into the pit.
Helaena releases your arm with a small pat, allowing Jacaerys to lead you closer to where Vermax rests. At the noise Vermax lifts his head; Jace smiles fondly at the familiar eyes. “Rytsas, Vermax,” He calls as he approaches, greeting his companion.
You trail just a step behind him, your hand remaining steady against his arm as you stare with wide eyes. "This is Vermax," Jacaerys introduces, unable to keep the affection from his voice, "He’s been with me since I was a babe."
You turn to Jacaerys, your eyes wide with astonishment. "You’ve had your dragon since you were a child?"
Jace is rather pleased by your interest, nodding. “We rested in crib together.” He says, eager to see as your face changes, a nearly alarmed look flooding your face. “You-”
He laughs gently at your expression, “As an egg, we shared a cradle. It is when we first came to bond.”
You blink, turning to stare at the dragon with soft awe, enthralled. “You’ve grown up together.” You say softly, smiling.
He sees your free hand twitch; with a rush of desire to share his love of Vermax, he leans to your ear. “You can touch him if you like.”
You stare at his hand, outstretched to guide you to the dragon; Vermax, sensing the gentle curiosity in your demeanor, lowers his massive head slightly, his eyes fixed on you with an intelligent gaze. “Ziry iksos sȳz.” Jacaerys ensures. She is kind.
You glance up at Jacaerys, a mix of awe and uncertainty crossing your features before grasping his hand; it is smaller than his own, warm and soft. He swallows back the surge of jitters at your touch, redirecting his gaze to where Vermax's scales gleam in the sunlight filtering through the dome of the Dragonpit.
"He won't harm you," Jace assures you quietly, his eyes watching your reaction closely, your eyes so wide he has the sudden urge to kiss your temple to ease the tension. Brave girl.
As you take a breath, you extend a confident hand towards Vermax's snout, your pinky looped through Jace’s own to ensure he remains with you; The dragon rumbles softly, a sound that reverberates through Jace’s chest familiarly.
"He's incredible," you exhale with sheer wonder as you stroke the dragon's scaled face gently. Vermax tilts his head slightly, seeming to enjoy the attention, his eyes half-lidded with satisfaction; Jacaerys cannot contain the grin from spreading across his lips.
"He likes you," Jace comments softly, his voice tinged with pride. You sook similarly proud when you turn to him.
“He reminds me a bit of my cat.”
THE KEEP’S LIBRARY IS A KIND REFUGE FROM THE BUSTLING OF THE CAPITOL.
It is a lazy kind of afternoon, one after high tea with the other ladies of the court; you have since retired from the sun to the cool shadows of the library to enjoy some reading.
You’re rather nested into a comfortable chair, leg propped quite unladylike upon the edge of the table in front of you; a tome on the history of the Seven Kingdoms rests precariously upon your thigh. You’re nearly lulled into trance at the soft parchment, ancient and rustling, and the stagnant sounds of the cavernous room.
A spider meanders quietly across the shelf in front of you; curiously, it begins an ascent up towards the more ancient scrolls and you wonder which history it will begin to make its silky home within.
The breeze of an open door rustles you just so; You are to meet the Princess quite soon and you really should freshen up - your hair has begun to fall loose from its style, unused to the humid heat of King’s Landing’s bay, and you’ve noticed your cheeks flush much easier lately.
Blame it on the heat, your mind chides, not on anybody in particular. You bite your lip, willing yourself to not become distracted once again by thoughts of the Prince you’d spent quite some time with since your arrival.
His voice, so soft and ensuring as he spoke in that ancient language of his to Vermax; hands, warm and guiding, as you reached for those warm scales. Not when I’m in such pleasant company, he’d said. You bite your lip, quelling the giddiness at the memory of his low voice, kind smile.
The tales told of Princess Rhaenyra’s chivalrous, handsome eldest son were nothing in comparison to his real self; A strand of hair slips loose and tickles your neck, you conceal your smirk with a bitten lip.
A rustle in the aisle just to your right snaps you to attention - drawing your leg to return to a proper sit, you clear your throat; a flash of brown locks walking down the aisle.
Cheeks flushed, you squint - not Jacaerys, you realize.
The visitor walks past and you clear your throat, heart returning to its pace as you register the Prince Lucerys; you find yourself pleasantly happy to see the young prince, especially as you watch him search the top row of shelves upon his tip-toes. He is much more tolerable than his uncles, as well - charming and playful, much like his brother, with more of a nose for mischief, if not a bit hesitant.
“Prince Lucerys,” You call to him, hiding a small smile as the boy jumps slightly, head turning at your voice.
A distant cough from a maester somewhere in the depths of the aisles, a rustle of a page elsewhere. The prince grins when he sees you.
“Hello, my Lady.” He nods politely, book in hand as he crosses the row to you. “What are you reading?”
You gesture down to the book - larger than your head, dusty, and written by some Maester decades ago that had less than coherent calligraphy. “Nothing too exciting, I’m afraid,” You don’t wish to bore the prince with your interests, “Please, sit-” You say, scooting as he hovers in front of you.
As he does, you flip to the cover, finger tracing the bound spine with a small smile, “Just a book on the history of the Seven Kingdoms."
The prince nods, eyes tracing over the cover thoughtfully, "I’m not so good with history. My brother is much better, he’s always loved history.”
The mention of Jacaerys has your heart beating hard in your chest; hoping for nonchalance, you nod, “I quite like history, too - I suppose I’ve yet to mention it to him.” The piece of hair near your neck becomes too much; you should really be getting to the gardens to meet Helaena, but you must re-do your hair lest it drive you mad.
Had it been a week ago, you would not have dared to let yourself remain so unladylike in front of a member of the royal family; but in your days in King’s Landing, you’ve come to grow quite comfortable with Lucerys and his brother. He would likely not even notice your less than ceremonious state, and if he did, his mother has taught all her sons to be quite respectful.
Lucerys’ face brightens, nodding quick. “Oh, Jace loves history, he’d have mentioned it to me hundreds of times already if he knew you like it, too.” He sighs, looking away as if forgetting with whom he is speaking, “He’s always talking about you.”
You, having half-undone your hair, pause as your curiosity piques.
Heart hammering, a flustered heat imbues your skin, your hands resuming to pull pins and re-fasten them to hold your hair. Jace talks about you?
You cannot help the smirk that grows - if he were here, he'd probably be mortified.
Luke seems incredibly distracted by the pins you pull and place on top of your book; you lift a brow, a warmth climbing up your chest as you tilt your head, unable to resist prodding with a heat upon your cheeks. “Is he?”
Lucerys nods, though his eyes track your hands as you set a jeweled pin across from you. “Yes, he’s always speaking of how much he likes-” He stops abruptly, eyes wider than a deer in a hunting field; you resist a grin with a bite to your lip as it must begin to dawn on him he’s spoken too much.
You should resist. He’s clearly panicking - Luke is no longer interested in the mechanisms of your hair pins, now staring at you with parted lips like a fish starved of the ocean. You shouldn’t prod, lest the Prince become unable to breathe or pass out in a panic.
You lean back, remaining as casual as possible despite your fluttering heart. "How much he likes what?" You ask him, pulling the last pin - your hair, down and natural, frames your heated cheeks as you begin to gather it again from the heat of your neck.
A door somewhere opens, footsteps echoing down empty stone floors. A maester passes by, head in a book.
Lucerys' face is pink as he scrambles to cover his tracks, clearing his throat. “Er, how much he likes your company."
You can’t help but smile at his attempt to recover, heart soaring as you consider your fondness for Jacaerys. You try not to let your voice betray Luke’s failure to convince you.
“Really? That’s good to know." You say evenly, playing your hardest at nonchalance as you hide a grin of flattery. Jacaerys, taking an interest in you?
Yet before you can probe further, a call from behind a shelf: you recognize the voice at the same time as the boy across from you. Both of your eyes widen, yet for very different reasons.
“Luke, where’ve you gone? Maester Pyne is convinced you’ve run off-”
Jacaerys rounds the aisle, stopping straight as his eyes meet yours; heat envelopes you, stomach dropping at his height, staring down at you.
The cloak he wears is a dark red; framed wonderfully with his curls, your eyes trace the slope of his nose, the slight part of his pink lips.
As his face turns a similar shade to his cloak, he greets you with surprise. “My Lady,” He nods - you can barely greet him back with a smile before his eyes flicker suspiciously to his brother. "Luke, what are you doing?" he asks cautiously.
Lucerys, looking slightly guilty, replies quickly - "Nothing! Just talking."
You can’t help the feeling of delight in the way Jace’s long dark lashes flutter as he stares death down at his younger brother; But his eyes turn soft under your own demure smile when you speak up.
“Your brother was just telling me how much you enjoy my company."
Perhaps it is just to see him squirm - to confirm that he, too, feels the tickle of attraction, of interest. You silently thank the maiden for your resilience against teasing; your brothers first mortifying you in front of Jacaerys at the feast nights ago, you’ve tried hard to school your infatuation until you can squeal and smile into your pillow in the safety of your bedchambers each night.
At your words, Jacaerys' face turns a brilliant shade of red, much like his cloak - his sharp jaw clenching as he sends a look to Lucerys. "Was he?”
A rhetorical question; Luke averts his eyes to the table as you purse your lips. After a moment Jace’s eyes slide from the heated stare at Lucerys back to you, nodding, a hand running through his curls, “Well, I… do."
His embarrassment is incredibly endearing; you smile softly, feeling equally flattered and infatuated. Shrugging one shoulder, you can’t help the flush on your cheeks. "I enjoy your company too, Jacaerys." You ensure him, moving to finish the last pin within your hair, effectively bringing it back to its tamed state.
You do not wish to, but you could not leave the Princess waiting alone. With a clearing of your throat, you rise to your feet.
"If you'll excuse me - Princess Helaena promised to show me where the largest beetles crawl in the gardens.” You explain with a smile to the two in front of you; one, staring at you as if begging you not to leave him alone with his vexed older brother, the other watching you with exceedingly kind eyes and very red cheeks.
You stand, brushing invisible dust from your gown before curtseying. “Good evening, Prince Lucerys,” You nod, eyes flickering to the honey eyes of Jace, standing with full lips and full brown locks; you cannot resist giving him a final, coy smile. “Prince Jacaerys.”
You do not let yourself linger much longer; briskly walking away, you conceal a small pleased smile at your newfound knowledge - Luke’s voice echoes in your mind. He’s always talking about you.
As you stride towards the exit, a muffled thud of a fist hitting clothing is followed by a hushed whisper; harsh and incredibly apologetic. "I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to say anything-"
"-Just be quiet, Luke.”
“Jace, I really am-”
An exhausted sigh - “It’s fine, really."
You smirk as you push open the doors, excitement tingling in your stomach. It is fine. Really.
THE SUN CASTS INTRICATE PATTERNS IN THE STONEWORK OF THE GARDENS.
Jace does not spend much time here; only when accompanying others does he ever really venture out to the gardens, often too occupied with training, lessons, or other duties. Yet today the sun is so warm on his skin that it feels a crime not to spend some time underneath it.
The book he’s studying remains lit despite his respite under the shade - Battle Tactics of Far Essos - and all that remains otherwise is the rhythmic clinking of a blacksmith's hammer in the distance.
“Prince Jacaerys.”
He nearly jumps; it’s been well over an hour since he last spoke or was spoken to - this section of the gardens scarcely find themselves visited.
Yet you stand in the foreground, hands clasped and a smile on your radiant face.
He cannot help himself as he matches your expression; a smile of his own, flustered but warm, as he stands to greet you.
“My lady,” He blinks away the surprise at seeing you, of all people, here. After yesterday, he’s been torn equally between wanting the ground to open and swallow him whole at the thought of seeing you, and waiting anxiously for the next opportunity to see your smile, make you laugh.
It is a sweet kind of torture, he reminds himself.
“I didn’t expect to see you here.” You say kindly.
He nods, “You mentioned the gardens the other evening, I felt like enjoying them for myself.” He explains, setting his book down behind him. "I've yet to find any large beetles, though."
This makes you laugh gently and he pretends not to feel it in his chest. He watches as you rock on your toes - a girlish thing, one more youthful than your age, but it is incredibly endearing to Jacaerys.
He must have been staring too long - you look down, cheeks warm.
“Would you care to walk with me?” You ask, voice sweet and welcoming. He runs a hand through his hair - a nervous habit, one his mother so gently tells him will make his curls even more unruly.
“I’d love to.” He agrees, cheeks hot.
He should be less surprised by now at how conversation between you flows so easily - you are kind, smart, funny, and incredibly endearing; a confident woman, just shy of his own age by one year and two moons. As you walk under the sun, your cheeks become more full of color - his knuckles brush yours accidentally when you become distracted by a bushel of bright yellow flowers and he has to hide his sharp inhale with a clearing of the throat.
Gods, pull it together Jacaerys, he scolds himself, sending you a nod as you begin to explain the pollination cycle of the plant before you. You’re knowledgeable, and each question he asks, you seem more eager to answer.
He’s never found the gardens particularly interesting, but as you softly tell him of the soil cycles and how to replant non-native flowers, he finds himself growing more and more charmed.
Your lips are quite plush - glossy, pink; he wonders how they’d feel upon his own as you continue to walk, the path winding deeper into the garden.
After a half-hour, he nearly forgets about the embarrassment of yesterday - a piece of cotton from the cottonwood trees nearby floats, catching the sunlight.
He watches it for a moment as it lifts and ducks, swaying and teasing, until it nests itself into your hair; you're telling him of the time your brother trapped a wild hare with just sticks and twine, and he stops abruptly, causing you to halt your tracks inquisitively.
Not a moment to consider his actions, his fingers reach to brush the piece of white out of your hair.
He cannot help but hover for a moment as your sentence tapers off, eyes waiting as you stare up at him. Gods, it is so warm out today. A pad of his finger brushes against your jaw, feather-light; his cheeks heat at the feeling of your skin against his own.
You open your mouth, but sharp rustling and a snort of laughter from behind the hedges jolts you both.
With shock, you both spring apart, startled - Jacaerys' heart sinks as he recognizes the unmistakable voices down the path. Fuck.
Not a moment later, Aegon stumbles into view, a bottle of wine in hand; flanked by a few of his friends, all of them clearly inebriated. "Well, well, what do we have here?" Aegon drawls, a drunken smirk on his face. "Having a little rendezvous in the garden?"
Jacaerys feels his face heat with a mix of anger and bitter embarrassment - is there no cease to the teasing in this castle?
"What are you doing here?" he demands, trying to keep his voice steady.
Aegon ignores his question, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I didn't know you liked midday strolls in the garden, Jace," he teases, swaying slightly as he takes another swig from his bottle. "Or is there more to it?"
Jacaerys steps in front of you slightly, his jaw tightening. "What do you want, Aegon?"
Aegon laughs, the sound grating upon his ears. "Just enjoying the lovely day, dear nephew,” His gaze shifts to you momentarily, a playful glint in his eyes. “-But it looks like you're enjoying it even more."
He could strike Aegon, he could knock him to the ground-
“We were enjoying the quiet, Your Grace.” You say, face ever polite, hand gracing Jace’s arm just out of sight of the others - it sends warmth through him.
Aegon raises an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by your words - a warm flush of pride in Jace's chest at your gracefulness. "Enjoying the quiet?” Aegon’s head tilts, eyes flicking from you to where Jace stands, fists tight against his side. “Well, I suppose we are disturbing your peace, then, aren’t we?"
Jace’s knuckles are white, teeth clenched as he sends a false nod to the man in front of him, "Yes, you are. So if you don't mind..."
Aegon waves a dismissive hand, his smirk fading slightly, "Alright, alright. No need to get so worked up, Jace. We'll be on our way." He turns to his friends, motioning for them to follow - as they stagger off, Aegon calls over his shoulder, "Enjoy your stroll!"
Gods, sometimes Jace swears he could kill that imbecile.
Once they're out of sight, Jacaerys lets out a long breath, turning to you while trying to let go of the frustration laced through his shoulders. "I'm so sorry about that."
You shake your head, grasping his hand in yours gently, “-Oh, it’s nothing. My brothers can be similarly tiresome. I'm...used to him, by now.”
oh, right. He nearly winces recalling the dragonpit; Aegon's foolish words. The meddling in Jacaerys' interests is something he is quite used to from his uncles; yet after the soft smile you give him, resuming your slow stroll through the garden, he begins to forget the irritation that simmers within him.
Eventually, you slow to a stop, eyeing a small alcove under vines and stone pillars with a small carved fountain - encouraging, you grasp Jace's hand and lead him over to it.
He spares a glance down at your hands as you pull him to duck under the shade of a nearby pillar, soft and much more smooth than his own calloused palms.
Vines trickle low like the gentle water that escapes the fountain in rivulets, sneaking near his shoulder and dangling above your head as you clear your throat, whispering his name gently in a way that has his chest squeezing with affection.
“I’ve been thinking,” your voice is barely above a whisper; Jace has to stoop over you slightly, bending so he might better hear you over the birds chirping and blacksmith in the distance - your cheeks heat even more at this, and Jace saves the observation for another time.
“-About what your brother said yesterday when I saw him in the library.”
Jacaerys can’t help but stiffen slightly, stomach dropping - Gods, what an idiot Lucerys can be. “What did he say?” His voice is much less calm than he intends.
You turn your face up to his own and he watches how your eyes adjust in his shadow, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “He said you…talk about me, a lot.”
Oh Gods, kill me. Please. Or, kill Luke.
He cannot manage his blush - eyes darting away, he soon becomes extremely interested in the stone wall beside him. “Luke has a big mouth,” he mutters, embarrassment leaking through his voice.
It isn’t until he sees your shoes step closer to him that he catches your smile, the genuine kindness in your own eyes. Your voice is that coy tone as you shake your head gently. “I didn’t mind, my Prince. In fact…” You bite that pretty lip again and he resists an urge to free it from between your teeth with his thumb.
“-I was quite flattered.” You confide.
He glances at you, stomach flipping in delight, “You were?”
Your face is quite close to his - he can see the ring of color outside of your irises, how you have a small scar on your brow. “I like knowing that you think about me.”
Your voice is again that dallying tone, blinking slowly up at him - he's caught your game by now. “I do,” he admits dumbly, spurred on by the infatuation in your voice, entranced by the way your hand slides up his bicep.
“Do you?” your tone is teasing - none the harsh tease of his uncles, nor the jesting tease of your brothers; no, this tease is special, he realizes - flirty. Just for him.
He nods, heart beating faster by the second as he watches the flush spread across your cheeks and chest. “Of course I do,” He smiles, “You’re unlike anyone I've ever met."
Your own smile widens at his words; his heart skips, unsure why someone so stunning would ever choose to give him the time of day. "As are you," you say softly, your eyes locked with his. "I've really been enjoying our time together."
Jacaerys nods, his heart pounding in his chest. "As have I, " he admits, his voice barely above a whisper as he says your name.
Your hand brushes against his arm; gentle, shy - it sends a shiver down his spine.
You hum, "My brothers were right, you know?”
He tilts your head at your words, and your lips twist into a smile - mischievous enough to light his abdomen with warmth. “The princes here in the capital are quite charming.” You grin.
He can’t help but shake his head good-naturedly, biting his lip to conceal a pleased smirk. “Is that right?” He asks, allowing his hand to gently graze the side of your arm; Your breath hitches, just slightly. Jace nearly melts, his heart thrumming within his chest in a sweet pattern - it sounds almost like your name. "All of them?" He teases. Your nose scrunches up slightly and he feels lightheaded.
"Only the ones who talk to their brothers about me all the time."
Your eyes are so bright, even in the shade, and he wonders how anyone could ever tire of looking into them - his mind betrays him, momentarily, as his gaze flicks to your lips. Still so pretty, glossy, kissable - he brings his eyes back to yours to find a charged, heavy air between you.
Perhaps he is simply caught in the moment, but he swears he hears you incorrectly as you whisper once more over the rustling leaves. "Jacaerys," your eyes are so wide, "Would you kiss me?"
He swears he cannot breathe for a moment, heat flooding through him at your question.
Neither can he help the rush of adrenaline at your words, his heart pounding in his chest. Searching your eyes, there is a vulnerability and desire that so mirrors his own; His voice catches in his throat for a moment before he manages to respond, "Would I...?" He repeats softly, testing the reality of the moment.
It is simply a kiss you asked for - not for him to take up the black and relocate to the Wall - yet there is a bashfulness and curiosity in your voice that tugs at the back of his mind.
Gods, you must have suitors falling to their knees at your feet. Jace knows he would; in fact, he’s shocked he hasn't already.
You nod, your strong gaze steady. Your eyes seem to swallow him, stare into his very soul. "I would very much like it if you did." You whisper, your own eyes flickering down to his lips, watching intently as his tongue presses to the back of his teeth, biting his bottom lip gently.
Jacaerys has had his share of experiences, and yet he’s never found himself so completely enamored, so desperate to feel someone’s lips against his own. His heartbeat is nearly in his throat.
You blossom brighter than any flower in the gardens as his hand rises to cradle your soft cheek; a breath against your forehead that has your sweet eyelashes fluttering. “I would- I would too," Jacaerys murmurs, stammering his way through his sentence like a fool; still full of disbelief that you've chosen him, taken an interest in him. His thumb brushes lightly against your cheek, feeling the warmth of your skin under his touch.
The sunlight is dappled, the blossoms fragrant; even the sound of the breeze through the brush fades away as Jacaerys leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wish.
To his relief you stay, pushing up on your toes as you lean into him, breath mingling with his own. His eyes flutter shut after yours do; with a slight lurch in your breath, his lips gently meet yours.
It's a soft, tentative kiss; a sweet exploration of unfamiliar territory, your lips just as plush and gentle as he’d imagined. Your hands slide over his chest, leaning further into him - he’s hit with the sweet scent of your perfumed oils; nearly as intoxicating and lovely as the sigh you let out.
His heart races at the way you lean into him, his fingers spreading over your jaw and the small of your back. Jace cannot help but deepen the kiss softly, leaning over you and gently pressing you back; you let out a quiet noise, one that sends a rush of excitement through him, as your back brushes the stone pillar behind you.
You smile gently against his lips; it brings him back to the present, his head dizzy and heart pounding as he pulls away. It is with a thrill that Jace watches your lips chase after his, just slightly.
Your hands remain upon his chest as he pulls back, thumb sliding over your cheek with disbelief. “I…” You trail off as you purse your lips, smiling gently, “Thank you,” You say. Affection spurs through him.
He lets out a soft chuckle, unable to hold it back as he tugs you closer once more, “Why do you thank me, dove?” He whispers, shaking his head; he’s nearly embarrassed by the unexpected pet name that escapes his lips, but the way your breath catches makes his own heart flutter. “It is I who should thank you,” He breathes.
Your fingers trace small patterns into his chest and it makes him nearly dizzy; not as much as when you quickly surge up onto your toes, pressing your lips quickly to his again.
His brows raise as he kisses you back, too short and too late. You pull away with a large smile, laughing softly as he chuckles too.
"It's as if you're trying to make me forget how to breathe," he says breathlessly, unashamed of the giddiness of his voice. You seem to like it, anyways.
You grin. "Maybe I just enjoy seeing you blush." you retort, your tone light and teasing. "It's very charming." You inform him with a giggle. He rolls his eyes, but pulls you to his side gently as he ducks away from the shade.
The stroll back towards the Keep is alight with whispers and gentle conversation; across the yard, Lucerys trains with Ser Harwin Strong. Jace holds back a huff as Aegon trips while tightening his chestplate; a sardonic smile on Jacaerys’ face, he turns to you, "I hope he hasn't soured your view of King's Landing," he tilts his head; you do not need to hear Aegon’s name to know what he means.
You watch Jace for a moment - then, your eyes glance around; before he can blink, you’re pressing a kiss to his cheek, just above his jaw from your passing height.
Jacaerys grins stupidly large down at the stone floors as your hand comes to his arm, shaking your head gently. “There's no reason for you to worry, Jace," you reply so kindly. "You've more than made up for it."
requests open. chat with me.
taglist ; @bitchydragonparadisee
jacaerys velaryon x queen's advisor!fem!reader
words: 4.6k
synopsis: “After we heard news of your success in the rebellion, Her Grace was eager to have you sit council with us. She seems to remember you quite fondly.” He says honestly, “She believed we would get along quite well.”
notes: switching povs; can be a oneshot, or perhaps i'll make it a short series. follows a non-canon timeline/events; Jacaerys is not betrothed to Baela. characters aged-up to 20/21.
warnings: canon-typical mentions of war, kissing, allusions to smut. Jace is kinda horny and very flirty. unedited. that's all.
feedback is appreciated <3 requests open.
masterlist
JACAERYS VELARYON IS WELL ACCUSTOMED TO RECEPTION FEASTS.
In fact, this is the first time in several moons where he has yet to feel slightly taxed at the experience of one; roasted meats, glazed fruits, vegetables with garnish, ale…
People, too - always fluttering around benches outstretched before some great hall, he and his family perched at the forefront, as if on display for those to gawk at.
Of course, this time, he is alone.
The great hearth that sputters and licks in the corner of the hall casts long shadows upon the chalky walls; no great beauty, perhaps, but this castle is indeed very alluring. He can imagine many fond memories could be made having grown up in a place like this.
Jacaerys watches the girl in his peripheral pour another goblet of ale; a servant offers to pour it for her, but she waves them off with a shake of her hand, smiling nearly as warm as the fire which eats away at her backlit shadow. A girl he’s known since he was just a boy.
You.
Your name rings in his head; He’s always found you quite interesting.
Jacaerys remains unsure as to why; was it the way your ankle sometimes wobbled when you curtseyed in front of his mother or his grandsire the King, back in your youth? Or the way that smile only seemed to grow under the dim lights of the Red Keep - your hair, done quite elegantly by one of the many ladies who had once tended to you, torn away from its restraints and ribbons as you ran down the halls with trickling laughter, dogs at your ankles and Lucerys trailing after you.
Perhaps the way you spent hours, sitting quietly with his Aunt Helaena, threading needles through fabric and listening to her bizarre cadence dance in the breeze. The day you hit his Uncle Aemond, striking his cheek with a wooden toy and receiving twelve lashings as punishment?
You and your brother grew up in the Red Keep just as the others - not as frequent as he and his Aunt and Uncles, but still, you remained - with your Lord father as a member of the King’s council, your laughter oft echoed through the hallways of his youth.
The quirk of a lip, the flicker of an eye.
When Jacaerys was just one and ten, he met you for the first time. It had been on an eve cold and miserable - the summer storms in the crownlands could be confusing and harsh, boasting days of rolling thunder and a torrential pour from the heavens that would have windows boarded and children gathered round the hearths.
You had three brothers; two younger, plump things that would squirm in the ladies’ arms and couldn’t yet speak - and then the other one, the eldest; the heir to your Lord father. He had a laugh much like yours, though was much more reserved.
Jacaerys found him easy to converse with, showing him Vermax and hiding a huff of laughter when the boy’s eyes widened in poorly-concealed fear.
You, if ever having a lick of that same fear, never dared show it on your face. Though you were but a mere girl, barely one and ten yourself, there had been no trace of a quiver when Jacaerys had taken your palm and led it towards the huffing, roving snout of Vermax; indeed, there had instead been some honeyed warmth in your eyes, alight with interest.
That day was quite long ago. From what he understands, your Lord father relocated back to your ancestral home just shortly after Jacaerys’ mother returned them to Dragonstone - your father died shortly after, and your brother has ruled Lord since he was fourteen.
But it has been nearly seven years since Jacaerys last saw you, he supposes - as he is now one and twenty; and now, in just three days’ time, you will return with him to Dragonstone.
His arrival was swift this evening - less chilly than the day you’d first met all those years ago, Jace wasn’t nearly shivering - but Vermax was tired and hungry, and he’d found himself feeling quite similar.
They, of course, knew the reason for his visit: You grew into quite the strategist when your family fought a resurgence just last year against a rival House; his Queen mother desires your mind and your presence in her council in the days leading to war.
It was your brother, the Lord, with his wife who’d accepted Jacaerys; you’d been there, too, standing beside him with the rest of your siblings and your mother. He'd been struck by the woman you've grown to be - not only the curves of your hips, nor the graceful smile, nor the spark in your eyes - but the mind so valuable his mother sent the Prince to deliver you to the council. You’d been proud, dressed elegantly in an intricate gown, bowing graciously with a grin that grew when he kissed your knuckles, the wind whipping your hair the same way it did in your youth.
Yet you’re no child now.
Jace chances a glance down the table again, seeking you once more. Your body is turned, conversing with the young girl who pours your brother’s ale beside Jace; A laugh echoes through the hall at some murmured joke you tell her.
He’s once again astounded by your beauty.
Your hair is braided away from your face, skin reflecting gently in the firelight - the gown you’ve donned is intricate, with your family’s sigil sewn into the breastpiece; the hemline of which dips low enough for a fierce heat to grow over his cheeks as he takes in the supple and forgiving skin that shines gently when you laugh.
Jacaerys forces himself to take a large gulp of ale, relishing the chilled beverage as it slides down his throat - a brief respite from the heat that has begun to gather in his abdomen as you tilt your head, catching his gaze from the other side of your Lord brother.
He could swear his heart stops when one of your eyes, alight with some misbehavior, drops in a slow wink - a color upon your cheeks that he is unsure is from the heat, the ale, or something else entirely.
He surely knows what his own blush is from.
Nails dig into the carved wooden chair below him - how must he be expected to endure such sweet torture for days with you on dragonback? Never mind, the subsequent days in which you will reside with them on Dragonstone as a new member of his Queen mother’s council?
“My Prince,” you call from your seat, gathering the attention of your brother as well - Jace’s attention is given to you fully and immediately as you tilt your head, “are you enjoying yourself?”
He nods curtly, swallowing as though caught. "My apologies, I seem to have been lost in thought," Jacaerys replies, thankful that his voice remains smooth and measured despite the momentary distraction. He sets down his goblet, eyes lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary; such beauty has always captivated him, and it makes his cheeks impossibly warmer when your brow lifts tauntingly.
"Indeed, the feast is quite wonderful.” He adds, “Your House’s hospitality is renowned, as always."
The Lord’s eyes twinkle some mixture of pride and amusement as he nods, "It is our duty to ensure our Royal guest feels welcome.” He turns to you, then, “As my Lady wife is quite sick at the moment, I might ask my dear sister here to show you the grounds and your quarters after our meal - if it is not too much.”
You glance at your brother with a mock sternness. "Too much? You speak as if I'm prone to causing trouble, dear brother."
It is with irony you say this: Jace remembers all the troubles of your youth; the Pink Dread, the toads under pillows, the hide-and-go-seek games you played (one-sided as always) with the kingsguard.
The jest in your eyes brings a smile to both Jacaerys and your brother. The man beside him chuckles, his demeanor lightening; "On the contrary - trouble seems to follow you like a faithful hound, doesn't it?”
Your eyes, in a bashful glance towards Jace, reveal the honeyed state of your eyes; they seem to melt, with some steely devotion holding you upright. He can see why his mother is fond of you.
“But Prince Jacaerys is more than capable of handling it - in fact, I’m worried to recall in our youth, he may have been the one to encourage it." A jest - well-meaning, good natured; Jace laughs, shaking his head as the Lord claps his shoulder.
He is not the boy he once was; duty matters, now. You and Jace are to be joint members of Queen Rhaenyra’s council - you must act like it. A lingering voice whispers in his mind, persuading as your eyes land on his - perhaps duty can wait until you land in Dragonstone.
You bite your lip when Jacaerys offers his arm to you; taking it delicately, you smile graciously as he bids the members of the feast a farewell and lets you guide him softly into the castle’s halls.
PRINCE JACAERYS VELARYON IS MUCH TALLER THAN YOU REMEMBER.
Granted, you were merely a young girl when you last laid eyes on him - then, still a scrawny boy who poked and prodded those blonde-haired beasts in the halls of the Red Keep; but now, as you gaze up at his strong jaw, the curls of dark hair that move in the gentle wind, you have to school the warmth that grows in your abdomen.
There is a silence that swallows your footsteps through the dimly lit corridors; the familiar scents of your castle – a mixture of old stone, polished wood, and the faintest hint of lavender – envelop you, reminding you of your childhood days in the Red Keep. It makes you smile, fingers itching to flex over the bicep that lies under your palm.
“Much has changed since we were children,” you say softly, glancing up at Jacaerys in the quiet - his face is partially obscured by the shadows, but you can see the faint smile that plays on his lips. There is something in his face - the quirk of lips, the slope of his nose - that reminds you of his mother.
“Indeed,” Jacaerys replies, his voice warm and low, “But some things remain the same.” He looks down at you, and for a moment, you feel as if he can see right through you – past the years and the changes, to the girl you once were.
It makes your cheeks redden, turning to look out at the walls of portraits, ignoring your very own face, stern and nearly regal, staring down at you as you end the hall.
Your smile is soft as you catch his eye, "It seems you know, flattery will get you everywhere, Prince Jacaerys.” You tease, shaking your head. “I can see why your mother chose you to carry her diplomatic wishes.”
“After we heard news of your success in the rebellion, she was eager to have you sit council with us. She seems to remember you quite fondly.” He says honestly, “She believed we would get along quite well.”
It is an incredibly large compliment, one that you struggle to accept with grace. It makes you smile stupidly at the stone, carrying on through the castle with polite conversation on the local history.
Eventually, you stop at a large wooden door, intricately carved with the sigil of your House. “These will be your quarters, my Prince,” you say, opening the door to reveal a spacious, elegantly furnished room. “It’s quite late; If you’d prefer, I can show you the gardens in the morrow.” You offer, itching for a chance to rid yourself of his company, if only to ignore the heat and desire that has begun to spin you into its web. The youthful crush and giddiness has returned with so much force it’s taken you in a whiplash, flushing cheeks and racing heartbeat - a girlish smile that cannot wipe itself from your face under his handsome stare.
A fire crackles in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room.
Jacaerys takes in the room appreciatively. “Your family’s hospitality is truly remarkable,” he says, turning to face you. “Thank you.” His voice is much deeper than you remember, of course, and it lights you with something near desire. Hunger, perhaps; in its peculiar ways. “If it isn’t a bother to you, my Lady,” he says, voice somehow soft under the glow of fire. “I’d like to continue. I’m feeling rather restless.”
You smile, feeling a heat once again rise to your cheeks. “It would be my honor, my Prince.” You agree, torn between nerves and flattery, relief that he wishes to remain in your company for the evening.
He steps closer, his eyes searching yours, as if hesitating for a moment, before speaking. “And please, call me Jacaerys. We’ve known each other far too long for such formalities.”
You nod, your heart pounding in your chest. “Very well… Jacaerys.”
You resume your stroll through the castle - you tell him all you know of its history, as he has proven a keenly curious and attentive listener; though your mind begins to stray as you make your way into the castle gardens.
In a few days, you will leave this castle. You will leave the Riverlands, to return with the Prince to Dragonstone - a sense of dread begins to settle in the pit of your stomach. The excitement of seeing Jacaerys again is tempered by the daunting task that lies ahead - joining Queen Rhaenyra's council is the greatest honor of your life, yes, but it is also a tremendous responsibility.
You glance at Jacaerys, who seems so confident and composed in the moonlight, and a wave of insecurity washes over you. Though you gained valuable experience during your House's war last year – strategizing, negotiating, and leading men into battle – this is different.
This is no war over plots of land and trade routes - this is a war that will determine the fate of the realm.
"What troubles you?" Jace asks suddenly, his voice gentle; as if he sensed your unease. You trail through a row of hedges shrubbery, and you notice how well the green agrees with him. The observation feels sacrilegious.
You force a smile, not wanting to burden him with your doubts - "It's nothing," you say, but he stops and turns to face you, his expression earnest.
"I can see something is weighing on you." He’s cordial, concerned as you meet his eyes once again, jaw clenched slightly.
It feels odd, this connection - this mood, more somber and serious, is a sharp contrast to the jesting you’d delivered in the great hall nearly an hour ago.
"I... I suppose I'm worried," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "I've had some experience, yes, but… I fear I might not be prepared for what lies ahead."
Jacaerys looks out to the white flowers that climb along the hedgeline. One ethereal hand, glowing in the moonlight, graces its petals softly. "I understand," he says. "But Her Grace values loyalty and competence above all else. Traits you have grown to more than embody, my Lady.”
The compliment is nearly too much; so you insist, with a soft voice, that he calls you by your name as well.
He repeats your name with a small smile and a nod, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary before he looks away, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as you continue down the stone path.
"You must have seen many changes here over the years," Jacaerys considers minutes later, looking along the fine herbs and beautiful plants which sprout from the earth; you nod. "Indeed," you agree, grateful for the shift in focus. "Though this castle has a unique way of honoring its forebears." You gesture to a line of statues along the right of the path; your brother, the most recent and less attended by the degradation of time - vines with purple flowers curl around his chest like armor and you smile fondly.
“A statue for the past,” you say quietly, eyes roving over your brother’s stoned face, flickering over to your late father’s, where a yellow flowered vine spreads over his own chest, “and a plant for the future.”
Jacaerys looks rather touched at this. “And who chooses the flowers?”
You smile smally, “Their wives. As a tribute to their heirs.”
Jace stares, taking in the row of statues - the castle stony and large in the distance - just far enough to miss the music that fills the hall. A flicker of a breeze kicks a curl up from his temple; torn, your fingers nearly reach out to brush it off his horehead. Bizarrely, you can’t draw your eyes from his lips.
“And you?” He asks after a moment; you freeze, heat clouding your cheeks. He clarifies after your look, clearing his throat and remaining facing the statue. “Are you… spoken for?” His voice is barely above a whisper, his gaze flickering uncertainly to yours.
Oh.
Your breath catches at the question, surprised by its directness yet unable to deny the thrill it sends through you. You hesitate, considering your response carefully - the tension you feel, that pull - it cannot be one-sided, you know that. But there are duties, there are diplomatic barriers. You wish you could tear them down without risking reputations.
“I have not yet found someone to…” you clear your throat, cheeks heating. “No.” You gesture to the line of stone men, “Only the Lords and their Ladies remain in our garden, anyways,” you shrug with a small smile, willing your heart to stop racing over his attention. "Maybe I'll plant a vine elsewhere before I leave."
You begin to walk again, down the row of stony men who watch over you. In the silence, your burning curiosity gets the best of you. “And you?” you ask as you find yourselves in the center of the garden, besides the intricate fountain which trickles with water.
It seems your question has caught him off guard - he blinks, lips parted as he stares at you. For a moment, you’re unsure if you’ve crossed a line - your heartbeat echoes loudly in the stillness of the courtyard.
"I... haven't made any such arrangements," Jacaerys admits, shaking his head with a small smile, voice low. Some heat - relief, or interest - blooms in your chest and you nod at him, pressing your lips in a small smile.
He hums, seemingly turning the conversation away from the tense air around you. “I believe you will enjoy Dragonstone, though it must be hard to leave.”
You swallow, considering - looking over the view, the wild grass, the flowers that peek up through the splits of ancient stone. It’s quiet in the dark, the moonlight glittering your gown as you smile wearily, “I suppose I’ll miss this castle very much. Though surely one day, I might return.”
He hums, considering the view himself, illuminated in a holy light that has your cheeks hot. “I’d miss it, too.” He agrees, looking to the warm hall that still flickers with the lights of the feast. “This castle is nearly welcoming enough to forget the impending responsibilities."
You chuckle softly, your eyes meeting him with a spark of mischief, "Nearly? My Prince, I'd hate to think we're only 'nearly' at impeccable hospitality."
He smiles, a glint of amusement in his eyes though his cheeks glow a rosy hue at his slip-up. "Yes. It would be a shame if that were true," he concedes, his tone light, "But I remember all of your secrets in our youth, and your brother seems to believe you carry some of that tenacity still."
You flush, cursing your brother's teasing in front of the Prince.
"He enjoys embarrassing me, I'm afraid." You sigh, biting your lip. Prince Jacaerys quirks his own smile, tilting his head - a less regal, more boyish look that makes your heart flutter. "Still," He starts coyly, "there must be some hidden treasures you reserve here, my lady."
Your heart skips a beat at the suggestive undertone in his words; the Prince, Jacaerys Velaryon - bold, none the boy he used to be. Back straight, chin tilted as if there was already a crown upon his head, yet he speaks so freely about such private matters. It sparks your coyness.
Thankfully, your brother is right; you do indeed dance with trouble quite well - especially when trouble comes in the form of a handsome, curly-haired prince. You lift a brow, matching his playful demeanor, "Oh, undoubtedly," you reply with a mischievous smile. Gently, you reach out, running the tip of your finger over his black doublet; his eyes stay on you as you trace the dragons inlaid in red over his chest. His breath catches gently at your motion and you can't help the surge of satisfaction. "But revealing all the secrets too soon would ruin the fun, don't you think?" You all but whisper. "Especially when our guest is so noble as yourself."
His eyes dance at your words, alive with some kind of desire. You wonder if it is repeated in your own gaze. Jacaerys dares lean closer, his voice a velvet whisper. "And if I'm a very impatient noble guest?”
You swallow around your heart-thundering throat, shaking your head gently, as you close the small gap between you even more, until you can see the few freckles bore on the bridge of his nose, the slight plush of his lips. “It’s a good thing you are here for several days, then, my Prince.” You whisper.
He shakes his head gently back at you, a light mockery, but you’re stuck on the hook of his eyes that bore into your lips, stuck on how you can feel his breath against your forehead. “Jacaerys.” He corrects, watching you wetten your bottom lip.
You hum, “Prince Jacaerys.” You mend, hiding a smirk as he licks his own lip, eyes cast down at you as if he cannot look away. You worry you cannot, either.
He shakes his head again as if stuck in a loop, curled strands of hair moving with the motion. “Jace.” He insists, brows furrowed gently. You watch his face in the moonlight, beautiful and regal.
You smile coyly, “Prince J-”
He shakes his head, leaning in closer until he is flush against your ear; shivers rove over your spine and you can no longer blame it on the chilly breeze of night. You cannot escape the smell of him - amber, some hint of smoke, leather, and distinctly Jacaerys.
His lips brush against the shell of your ear, “I thought I asked you to call me by my name, my Lady.”
A deep heat of desire coaxes a sharp breath into your lungs at the sensation of his lips. You can almost feel his smile that grows against your skin as he feels your skin raise in small bumps of desire. "You know me well enough, don't you?" He asks once again.
You let out a stuttered breath; do you know him well enough? You certainly wish to. You are doused with the thought of your brother, of the Queen, of Dragonstone, of the war - you should not be acting like children, playing such games with each other.
“Jace.” You relent, cursing how his name falls from your lips like sweet, molten honey; how you sigh out; how you take a step towards him to breathe in his scent once more. "We shouldn't," you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper, the words laden with both desire and caution.
Leaning back, his gaze locks with yours; dark and intense. "I know," Jacaerys replies, low and filled with longing, his hand brushing against yours as his palm slides up your forearm. You swallow thickly, unwilling to be the one to pull away first; Though, what would people say? The Prince with you, neither betrothed or courting - about to depart to join a war for his own family's claim to the Iron Throne?
Such worries soon melt away when arousal swirls in your lower abdomen - his eyes take in your figure, roving slowly over your curves, eyes hungry with want and breath thick with desire.
"We have…" you begin, voice trailing off with a gasp as you struggle to find the right words amidst the overwhelming pull you felt towards him; how his hand slides over your shoulder and moves to grasp your cheek gently.
A thumb, slightly calloused, graces over your skin with some kind of desperation, his eyes searching yours. "Duties?" he finishes for you, echoing that very diplomatic reason that binds you both.
"Yes," you agree softly, your heart racing as the magnetic attraction starts to suffocate you. He nods along with you, and you cannot help but let your head tilt up - towards those very pink and full lips, towards his whisper. “Yes.” He repeats, agreeing with you. “Responsibilities,” he whispers, and it is with a complete jolt to your system that you feel his words brushed gently against your lips. "We shouldn't." He agrees with you.
“We must keep level heads if I am to be a consultant to the Queen.” you say gently, your own hands landing on his chest, not pushing away but tugging, nearly shaking with desperation, to pull him closer. He lets you as he nods, “Your… devotion is admirable.” He agrees against your lips, “But...”
His words trail off as his hand moves from your cheek to the base of your neck, tugging your hair until your breath is tilted just against his lips, his other hand falling to your hip, pulling you closer. Heat thrums in the chill air, your bodies now a breath apart - the shrubbery and plants cease their rustling, the courtyard around you seemingly holding its breath.
"-But?" you whisper, barely able to contain the eagerness in your voice. One hand, adorned with jewelry, snakes towards the nape of the Prince’s neck, his curls thick at the nape - you cannot help the bout of curiosity.
You are rewarded plentifully when his eyes roll back and close momentarily as you tug impatiently on his curls, waiting for his words. A small groan that makes your heart pound and your legs weak.
"-But," he murmurs, his voice suddenly much more husky with desire, "I find it…difficult to resist you."
His lips hover near yours, a magnetic pull, a scream of defiance against your shared words. You silently sigh in relief at the acknowledgement that most of the castle remains in the great hall still, nobody to witness the sins you might just commit.
"And I, you.” You admit, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, “We shouldn't," you murmur against his lips, even as your fingers curl into his hair, pulling him closer.
"I know," he breathes, his voice strained again with the circle game you play. You hold back a whine of satisfaction as his hand slides up to cradle your face, looking into your eyes. There, amidst the burning fire of his Targaryen blood - you find some molten, honeyed desire. It burns for you. “We won’t.” He affirms, your lips missing the warmth of him so close.
You nod, unsure how the gap is once again closing between you; do you pull him by your grasp on his hair, his doublet? Or does he, hands strong and capable, tug you against him?
“We aren’t.” You whisper, eyes flickering to the lips that you so desire. He shakes his head microscopically as he repeats against your own, “We aren’t.”
But you are.
Jacaerys’ lips are warm and insistent against yours; heated, in that way your desire has spurred you, but still shy - a glimpse of the boy he is, who likely has had very few romantic trysts just as you haven’t. Your arms wrap around him as you press up onto your toes, his embrace tightening against yours as he deepens the kiss.
The brush of a tongue, the sharp curbing of a short moan of desire. Your stomach does circles within you as his thumb soothes over your jaw, his large hands encasing your face.
There is a shout elsewhere on the castle grounds, but it provides the jolt of reality that had disappeared from your minds. Still the kiss lingers, a blend of urgency and restraint against your lips and Jace’s, small smiles and bashful chuckles.
If you’re not back to your quarters soon, there might be some questions - and as much as you love a small bit of gossip, you wouldn’t dare admit what you’ve just done with the heir to the Iron Throne.
The thought makes you flush once more.
With practiced grace, you look down; his forehead falls to yours as he takes a breath. You smile smally, “It is getting late; I believe the feast has finished.” You say, trying to ignore the rush of chill that finds you when his body slides a small distance away from your own.
“Indeed.” He agrees, slipping back into his own gracefulness; chin up, eyes strong. You try not to let yourself go giddy at the memory of his hands on yours, or how he offers his arm to you with a small, knowing grin. “Thank you, for…” He clears his throat and you cannot fight the flush on your cheeks. “Showing me around.” He finishes, eyes glancing once more at the statue of your Lord brother across the hedges.
You nod, grateful for the momentary reprieve from the charged atmosphere between you; a pleasant respite from the anxiety that has, admittedly, lessened after your conversation with Jace. "It was my pleasure, Prince Jacaerys," you reply with a hint of playful formality; His cheeks still blush that same pretty pink as when you were children.
And as you begin to walk back towards the main hall, if you catch him sparing several glances at your visage, then so be it.
After all, you will indeed be spending much more time with him in the coming months.
@missconduct1676 -> By any chance is it possible to have Harry and Co Star Reader attend a convention for guest appearances? Perhaps the two do a panel to promote the show? The interviewer asks them typical question like: What was your reaction when you were casted? Who did you tell first about booking the role? What was it like first day on set? How did you feel when you first got into costume, hair and makeup? Then onto more personal questions seeing as the two play lovers in the show. Questions like: How did you two prepare for your roles as lovers? How did you two build up chemistry? How does it feel to grow up together on the show?
MATERIALIST
“Wait, are you actually wearing that jacket, or are you just trying to steal the spotlight before we even step out there?”
Harry didn’t look up from his phone, though his mouth twitched into a familiar, quiet smirk. He was leaning against the backstage dressing room table, one high-top propped against the frame, casually tossing a piece of dried mango into his mouth.
“First of all, this jacket is classic,” he said, finally looking up through the mirror. “Second of all, if anyone’s taking the room today, it’s you. Look at you”
“Don't dodge the question Collett, you’re definitely trying to out dress me”
You walked over and tugged at the lapel of his leather jacket, catching the faint scent of his cologne - low-key earthy, and entirely comforting, without missing a beat, Harry tossed his phone onto the table and hooked an arm around your waist pulling you close, he rested his chin on your shoulder for a brief, quiet second before looking back up.
“Never” he murmured, his tone dropping into something far warmer than his usual banter, “you look amazing” he sighed “ready for this?”
“Honestly? A little weirded out” you admitted, resting a hand against his chest, “we’ve done press before, but this is the first proper panel since… well, they know we’re together off-screen too” you bit your lip nervously “what if they ask us weird questions, have you seen what happened with the guys from winx club? That got weird real quick”
Harry let out a quiet laugh, the sound instantly cutting through the nervous edge in your chestt as he pressed a quick kiss to your temple, his thumb brushing against your wrist, “hey. It’s just us up there, same as always. We sit down, answer some questions, try not to spoil season three, thats easy”
“Easy for you, saying this as if you’re not the one who nearly leaked episode one in London”
“That was one time” Harry defended himself, a genuine grin breaking through, “and the question was tricky”
A knock at the door cut him off, a runner stepped in, holding a walkie-talkie, “Hey, five minutes to stage for Harry and Y/N, room’s packed”
“Right, thanks” Harry called back, he turned back to you, his eyes steady, “Ready?”
“Let’s just get it over with” you teased.
“Fair” he chuckled, lacing his fingers through yours, “let’s go”
The noise hit like a physical wave the second you stepped through the heavy curtain.
Thousands of people were shouting, waving flags, and holding up signs, the floor of the convention hall literally vibrated, you waved, keeping your smile natural as Harry led you out toward the seats, he gave your hand a quick, reassuring squeeze before letting go so you could both sit in the armchair setups under the bright stage lights.
The moderator waited for the noise to settle before lifting her mic.
“Welcome, everyone!” she shouted over the lingering cheers, “please give it up for house of the Dragon’s favorite couple”
The room blew up again, Harry leaned into his mic, raising an eyebrow, “so how’s it going, London?”
The crowd went wild as you laughed, adjusting your mic, “Hi, everyone, seeing this many people in one room is still bizarre”
“Right?” the host said, turning to you both, “we are so hyped to have you here, the dynamic between your characters has been a massive talking point online, but before we get into the heavy stuff, let's take it back to the start”
She looked at you first, “what was your reaction when you actually booked the job?”
“Honestly? total shock,” you said, “I think I just stared at my agent for about thirty seconds, my brain kind of rejected the information, you’re like, what the actual fuck, It didn't actually hit me until the first table read”
“What about you, Harry?” the host asked, “who did you tell first?”
Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “well my mum, immediately, I think I was in the kitchen when the call came through, I hung up and just froze, she was making tea, looked at me, and asked if someone had died. I just told her… mom I got the role and she nearly dropped the mug, total chaos”
The audience laughed.
“And that first day on set?” the host pushed, “what was that like?”
“Intimidating very very intimidating” you said glancing at Harry who nodded, “you step onto these massive physical sets and realize how huge the machine is, real stone, real fires, a lot of extras, my hands were shaking so much during my first take that I had to tuck them into the pockets of the dress”
“Yeah, same but with our the dress” Harry agreed laughing, “my first day was in the courtyard, I was trying to look brooding and important, but internally I was sweating, then you get thrown into the hair and makeup trailer an hour go get the stupid wig from season one” he groaned.
“Right, the transformation” the host noted, “how did it feel seeing yourselves in full gear for the first time?”
“It shifts your mindset” Harry said, “you put on the leather doublet, they pin the wig and suddenly you’re into medieval times, you look in the mirror and go, ‘Okay, cool I can get the plague now.’ It changes how you act completely”
“I honestly thought that I could make a lord fall in love with me” you added.
“Literally” Harry laughed. “Zero thoughts, just waiting for her coffee and a lord”
“I mean you are kind of a lord, no? I mean prince, lord, noble man I could conquer” you giggles as you looked at harry.
He looked at you, a soft glint appearing in his eyes “oh, and you did”
“Speaking of sitting together in the morning” the moderator said, her tone shifting slightly as the room quieted in anticipation, “let’s talk about what everyone’s been waiting for…”
A subtle wave of giggles ran through the front rows, harry caught your eye, offering a quick and amused glance.
“The connection between your characters is one of the most popular parts of the show,” the moderator continued, “classic slow burn, how did you two build that dynamic on screen?”
You shifted in your chair, “we spent a lot of time doing reads and rehearsals before we ever filmed together but I think everything came naturally, we were friends before we even started filming”
“Yeah,” Harry nodded leaning back, “we decided early on that our characters had to be each other’s safe space, Dragonstone is chaotic, so they had to feel grounded with each other, we talked a lot off-set about their backstory, some stuff that wasn't in the script, just to make the connection feel real by the time we shot”
“Was the chemistry instant?” the host asked.
Harry laughed, “honestly, it was just really easy, which was completely fine until we had to do serious scenes.”
The crowd cheered, and you shook your head laughing along.
“No, seriously do you know how hard she makes it to not laugh?” Harry pushed on, grinning, “we just got on immediately, same dry humor, we could be in the middle of this intense, dramatic moment, and the second they called cut, we’d start messing around”
“It made the work so much easier” you said looking at him, “because we trusted each other, we didn't have to force anything, the hardest part was keeping a straight face during heavy emotional scenes because we knew each other too well”
“There was one scene in season two” Harry added, looking at the audience, “very, very serious the director told us with the straightest face possible that we could not mess around, so I’m supposed to give this grounded, responsible heir to the throne speech, you get me. And right before ‘action,’ a fly landed right on my nose, and the light was dying, so I couldn't break. I had to look into her eyes while being cross-eyed, trying to ignore this fly.”
“And I was supposed to be dead silent letting him break down” you laughed, “but I was literally shaking trying not to laugh out loud, we lost twenty minutes trying to stop laughing”
The crowd cracked up.
“You two basically grew up on this set together” the host said softly with a knowing smile in her face, “looking back, how has that experience been, well professionally and personally?”
Harry’s tone shifted, losing the quirky tone for something quieter, “It’s been huge, this industry is weird and moves really fast, having someone next to you who’s navigating the exact same madness keeps you grounded, Watching y/n work and grow as an actress has been brilliant, we basically grew up on set we spent 5 years filming together, but off set, we just helped each other stay normal”
“100%” you agreed. “It’s very easy to feel overwhelmed on a project this big, having harry there from day one made everything so much manageable, It felt like having a constant anchor on set”
The host smiled, “and now, of course, we have to mention the real-life side of things,.”
The room perked up again, “for a while the fans were guessing…” the host said, “…then a few months ago, you officially confirmed you’re dating in real life, congrats by the way, how did that transition happen from friends to you know, something more?”
Harry looked at you, letting you take it if you wanted, you gave him a subtle head nod, letting him go ahead.
“It was just slow…” harry said simply, “we were best mates for a really long time, purely platonic, I mean eating cold catering and complaining about 5 AM pick-ups isn’t very romantic” he mentioned pursing his lips.
“Strictly platonic,” you added, “even though my mum asked me about him every time I went home to visit”
“Oh did she?” Harry asked, genuinely surprised, “smart woman, thats why I like her so much”, you rolled your eyes at his phrase.
“So who realized first?” the host pressed.
Harry raised a hand right away, “Me, oh yeah definitely me”
A collective laugh went through the crowd.
“It wasn't a dramatic movie moment to be honest” Harry explained, “we were filming in Wales, terrible weather by the way, and freezing rain, we were stuck in a tiny holding tent for hours waiting for a reset, everyone else was knocked out, and she was just sitting across from me wrapped in about what,four coats? trying to teach me some terrible card game, which I completely forgot how to play by now” He smiled at the memory. “I just looked over, saw her laughing at some terrible joke I’d made, and realized, ‘Ah, right. I’m fucked’ It hit me all at once, after that I tried to play it cool during romantic scenes, but that was pretty much impossible”
“You never told me it was Wales” you said, looking at him in disbelief.
“I couldn't say anything back then” Harry joked, “we had three weeks of shooting left, It would’ve been weird”
“I wouldn't have cared” you replied, bumping your shoulder against his, “I was already struggling to keep it professional anyway”
“Wait, so you both were hiding it?” the host asked, amused.
“Completely,” you confessed, “It’s scary when your scene partner is your best friend, you don't want to make things uncomfortable on set if it’s one-sided…so we just spent months pretending everything was totally normal while internally stressing out”
“We were terrible at hiding it, apparently” Harry chipped in. “the cast knew way before we actually said anything, Tom literally pulled me aside one afternoon and told me to get on with it because the tension was annoying everyone, everyone! I was stunned”
The audience broke into a laugh.
“So how did it actually happen?” the host asked.
“After the wrap party,” you mentioned, “end of season two, we were outside the hotel in London around two in the morning, just saying goodbye because we weren't going to see each other for a few months, you know summer break”
Harry picked up the story, his voice quiet. “I just realized if I didn't say it then, I was going to regret it my whole life, so I stopped overthinking, and just said, ‘Look, I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with you for a year, and it’s ridiculous at this point.’”
“And your response?” the host asked you.
“I didn't say much…” you admitted giggling. “I just kissed him and said, ‘Took you long enough, Collett’”.
harry leaned over and knocked his shoulder against yours, the crowd reacting with another loud wave of applause “and now you’re public, doing press together…” the host said. “How’s that transition been?”
“Honestly fine” Harry said, “The fans have been decent about it, It’s actually nicer doing these press tours now because we don't have to act like we’re just very polite co-workers”
“Much less exhausting I must say” you agreed.
The panel shifted into fan questions shortly after, covering light topics like line memory, stunt mishaps, and costume blunders. Harry was sharp and easygoing the whole time, occasionally tossing in a joke or leaning over to whisper something off-mic to make you laugh. When the moderator finally wrapped things up, you both stood, waved to the crowd, and made your way offstage behind the curtain, the deafening noise of the hall faded into a low hum the second the thick fabric fell shut behind you. The quiet backstage hallway felt cool and empty.
Harry stepped into the space next to you, pulling you slightly to the side near the break room doors, he reached out, wrapping an arm loosely around your waist to pull you close, leaning his forehead against yours.
“That went surprisingly well” he muttered, a small smile on his face.
“not bad” you agreed, putting your hands against his jacket, “though telling several thousand people about Tom was a choice.”
“It was relevant to the story darling” Harry chuckled softly, his eyes staying on yours, “and as much as it pains me, he was right anyway”
“About what?”
“About getting on with it” He leaned down and pressed a short, soft kiss to your lips, quiet, simple, and entirely away from the cameras, just yours to see and feel. When he pulled back, his hand stayed on your waist, his thumb lightly tracing the hem of your top. The faint hum of the convention hall buzzed in the distance, but back here in the dim backstage corridor, it felt miles away.
“ Im starving” Harry said suddenly, the quiet romance instantly giving way to his usual pragmatic self, “are you starving? Because if I have to look at another piece of dried fruit or lukewarm catering sandwiches, I’m going to lose my mind”
You laughed, resting your forehead against his chest for a second. “I could eat an entire pizza right now”
“Say no more then” Harry unclipped his body mic and handed it to a waiting sound tech with a quick, appreciative nod, he grabbed your coat from the break room rack, draped it over your shoulders and took your hand, leading you toward the back exit where a tinted van was idling. “Jhon’s or proper wood-fired? I’m feeling proper wood-fired”
“Wood-fired, extra cheese” you specified, sliding into the back seat of the car.
Harry climbed in right after you, slamming the door shut with a satisfying thud that cut off the lingering noise of the venue completely, he sank into the leather seat letting out a long, dramatic exhale that made his shoulders drop two inches.
“God” he muttered, running a hand through his messy curls, “panels are brilliant, but my head is literally ringing”.
“You did great…” you said, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Very charming, a little bit of oversharing...”
“I didn't overshare” Harry protested, though he immediately wrapped his arm around you and pulled you sideways so you were comfortable, “the people want authenticity, love”
“You told them my mum was shipping us before we were even a thing”
“And she was…” Harry grinned down at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m definitely putting her in my speech if we ever win a couple award, ‘Special thanks to y/n’s mum for seeing the vision’”
“Ugh don't give feed her ego, she’ll never let me hear the end of it”
The car glided through London’s late afternoon traffic, the rain just beginning to smudge the windows into long streaks of yellow and red light, It was quiet in the back seat, just the soft hum of the heater and the low ambient chatter of the radio. After weeks of high energy promotion, long interviews, and constant fan interactions, these quiet pockets of time together were the only moments that felt entirely real. When you reached the quiet pizzeria tucked away on a side street in Soho, Harry shoved a beanie over his head, pulled his jacket collar up, and hopped out to open your door, he kept a steady grip on your hand as you both slipped inside, securing a small, dark booth tucked into the back corner away from the main windows. Within twenty minutes, a steaming pizza and two drinks were on the table.
“Right” Harry said, tearing off a massive slice, “No talk about season three, no talk about dragon CGI, no talk about press schedules, oh and talking my posture is completely forbidden, deal?”
“Deal” you agreed, giggling before taking a bite, “Just completely normal human talk, got it”
“Proper normal” he nodded, pointing a crust at you, “so… what are we watching tonight? Because if you suggest that dark crime documentary again, I’m going to have nightmares”
“It was very fulfilling for you information”
“It was terrifying dear” harry corrected, chewing with a deadpan expression “I feel like watching something stupid, a cartoon movie, oh or a terrible reality show where people marry strangers” he mentioned while rising his eyebrows.
“You hate realities” you said mocking him “what are you on about?”
“I hate it until episode three and then I’m emotionally invested and crying on the sofa because Dave didn't pick Emily” he admitted without a shred of shame, you shook your head, smiling into your drink. Looking at him sitting across from you, arguing passionately about trashy telly while wiping pizza sauce off his thumb, it was hard to reconcile this boy with the solemn, brooding prince millions of people watched on screen every week, but you guess that was the best part of it all, he was still just Harry, the boy who made you laugh until your ribs hurt in freezing holding tents.
“What are you looking at, do I have something in my face?” Harry asked, catching your gaze with a suspicious smile.
“Oh nothing” you said softly, “just glad we got through today”, Harry’s expression softened. He reached across the small table, his fingers finding yours beside the napkin dispenser. He squeezed your hand, his thumb gently rubbing over your knuckles.
“Me too…” he said, his voice dropping into that familiar, quiet warmth, “doing all of this… it’s brilliant, but doing it with you? It’s the only reason I stay partially sane”
“Don't get mushy now, Collett…” you teased gently, though your chest felt light and full, “you promised normal talk, remember?”
“Right, sorry,” he smirked, sliding another slice onto his plate, “so…back to Dave and Emily, I’m telling yo Dave’s red flags were visible from space”
lmao not me changing how they realised they were in love and how they confesssss, not sorry. 😭
also apologies bc this has been unfinished in my drafts since the start of july 💔
Summary: after Dean gets into a fight with Hunter at Malone's, they both got arrested. And the person Dean calls to bail him out, is you, his ex
Warnings: fighting, mention of blood, handcuffs, jail (idk what else)
Word count: 3235
Author's note: As I said in a post, I'm gonna focus on writing with Off campus characters. Either it's a request, my idea or saw something and got inspired. So, here's a Dean fic which was one of my idea's that I finally finished.
Author's note2: not proofread. Also English is not my first language so maybe there will be mistakes.
Dean Di Laurentis Masterlist
Off Campus Masterlist
Main Masterlist
A few months ago, you and Dean were a thing. At first, things were just causal between you two. But both of you knew that there's something more between you two than just sex. Even though neither of you said anything about it, you acted like a couple. You were there at every hockey game, wearing his jersey. He always brought you coffee. You came to parties together and left together. Dean was also very protective of you and if a guy tried to hit on you, he made sure the guy knew you're off limits. So, it was never casual between you two. Especially because once you started hooking up, he wasn’t seen with another girl.
But every relationship came to an end once. So did yours. Actually, Dean broke things between you two. After months of being together, the guys started teasing Dean that he finally got committed to someone. To you. That you were his girlfriend. At first Dean just ignored their comments but then he realized the others are right. He realized it’s not just casual between you two. He realized that he loves you. More than he thought he will. And this scared him. He was scared to have a real relationship. He was scared that he will fuck it up and you'll leave him. So, he left you before you can leave him. Which was the biggest mistake of his life. But the way he did it was even worse. He just texted you that he wanna end whatever is going on between you two then he just ignored you. He ignored your texts, your calls and avoided you. He didn't even give you a proper explanation why he's breaking things off.
This hurt you a lot. He broke your heart. You knew you were never exclusive. And you tried not to fall in love with him. But you couldn't resist him. Just like any other girl, you fell in love with Dean Di Laurentis too. That's why it hurt you so much what he did. But at the same time, it also made you angry. You were mad both at him and you. So, you decided to get over him. No matter how hard it'll be. You won't let him break you. So, you stopped trying to talk to him or contact him and focused on other things.
You even went on a few dates. But it wasn't the same. You were waiting till the end of the dates and kept comparing every guy to Dean. Which you shouldn’t do but you couldn't stop yourself from doing it. This just added more reason for you to hate Dean. Especially that he started hooking up with other girls pretty soon after your "breakup". But the worst part was that he pretended that what you two had never happened. Like you didn't even exist anymore. You hate him for it. Or at least you tried really hard to hate him. But somehow you couldn't. He broke your heart, yet you couldn't hate him.
Then there was Dean after your "breakup". The moment he sent that message to end things between you two, he regretted it and he wanted to delete it. It was already too late. You saw it. You saw the message and texted back. Asking for an explanation. An explanation he couldn’t give. He couldn’t say he wanted to end things because things became too real. That he wanted to end this because he cares too much, that he loves you too much and that he's scared he'll fuck it up later. That he was scared that one day, you realize you deserve better than him.
So, he did what he thought would be the best. He left before you could leave him. He didn't think about how much this will hurt you too.
It just hurt him more that you kept trying. You kept trying to talk to him, you called, you texted. But he ignored you every time. He even avoided you in public or left the other way when you tried to approach him. Which was pretty hard to do because all he wanted to do was the opposite. Then you stopped trying. The silence from you affected him more than he wanted to admit.
No one said anything about it, but everyone noticed how much he changed since the breakup. Even though Dean kept pretending he's fine, everyone knew he wasn’t. Then Dean saw you with other guys which hurt him more than he wanted to admit. He was jealous, he wanted to keep other guys away from you. But he couldn’t do that. He broke things off, he had no right to do anything. He had no right to stop you from being happy. So, he thought the best will be if he goes back to his old lifestyle. So, he started hooking up with different girls once again.
No one dared to question what happened between you two. Except Beau.
"I don't get it" Beau said as he shook his head.
"What?" Dean asked as he leaned back in his seat at one of Malone's booth.
"Why did you end things? You loved her" Beau stated.
"No. I didn't. It was just casual" Dean lied and Beau raised an eyebrow.
"I have eyes, Dean. And I’m not dumb. You loved her. And she loved you. So why?" Beau asked.
"Because I was scared that I'll fuck it up. Things got too real" Dean finally admitted it.
"So, instead of trying you decided the best will be if you break things off and hurt both of you?" Beau asked.
"It seemed like a good idea when I did it. But believe me when I say that I regretted the moment I sent that text. But there's no going back now. The damage was done. See, I fucked it up anyway. Now, she hates me" Dean said and ran a down his face.
"So, make it right" Beau said, like it was so easy to do that.
"It's not that simple" Dean said.
"Then fight for her. If you really love her, fight for her" Beau told Dean, and he knew his best friend was right. He had to fight for you, for your forgiveness to get you back. And he was ready to do anything it takes to get you back.
The only problem was Dean didn't know how to make it right. He was sure you hated him and didn’t want see him, so he couldn’t just approach you. He also couldn’t text because it would be too weird if he texts you out of the blue now. He has to come up with a plan. A good one.
He has to make sure, you know how much he regretted what he did. He has to make sure you know he loves you. He would even beg on his knees if that's what it takes for you to forgive him and take him back.
"Do you know what you'll do?" Beau asked Dean a few days later, after a hockey game when all of them were going towards Malone's.
"No. I still have no idea. Hannah said that she might be here at Malone's tonight. So, I'll just apologize first" Dean said as they finally reached Malone's and he sat down by the bar counter with Beau and they ordered a few shots.
"That's it? That's your big plan?" Beau asked.
"I didn't have a better idea, okay? First, she needs to hear me out anyway" Dean said then he looked around, his eyes searching for you "She's not here" he stated and turned back to Beau.
"Maybe, she'll come later" Beau tried to keep Dean's hope up with his words. But even he didn't believe you'll show up.
"No. She won't come" Dean said and drank his shots.
Then the bell rang above the door and both Dean and Beau turned towards the door. Dean hoped that it'll be you who walked in, but it wasn't you. It was much worse. It was Hunter Davenport. Dean's eyes darkened the moment he saw him. He couldn’t stand Hunter. Everyone knew that they were enemies but only Beau knew the reason why. And you.
"What the fuck is he doing here?" Dean muttered and got up from his seat approaching Hunter.
"This is not good" Beau said as he quickly jumped up from his seat, knowing it's not gonna end well.
"The fuck are you doing here?" Dean asked as he stood before Hunter.
"I heard your team needs saving" Hunter said calmly with a smirk on his face.
"Yeah? Get the fuck out" Dean growled and as Garrett saw Dean with Hunter, he left Hannah's side ready to intervene if needed.
"Hey, Logan... you said this was his idea" Hunter said as he looked at Logan and pointed at Dean. Dean's head snapped towards Logan at Hunter's words.
"You said what?" Dean asked.
"Dude, you didn't" Tucker said beside Logan who didn't know what to say in that moment.
"Hey, what the hell is going on?" Garrett asked as he approached Dean and Hunter.
"You weren’t there? I had to make a call" Logan finally spoke up which angered Dean even more.
"I'm not skating with this prick" Dean shouted and pointed at Hunter.
"Aw. What, are you scared I'm gonna dust your ass again?" Hunter asked mockingly which only fueled Dean's anger.
"You wanna try? Yeah?" Dean asked.
"Yeah, I do" Hunter answered, enjoying that he can get a reaction out of Dean.
"I would like to see you fucking try" Dean snarled and pushed Hunter back who lost his balance for a second.
"Get the fuck out of my face" Hunter growled as he pushed Dean back when he regained his balance. Dean regained his balance in no time and pushed Hunter back against a table.
"Hey! Hey, Dean! Hey" Garrett shouted as he acted quickly and pulled Dean back from Hunter.
"Whoa, whoah!" Tucker shouted as he ran to help Garrett holding back Dean while Logan followed closely holding Hunter back.
Dean was so blinded by anger that Tucker and Garrett together could barely hold him back. While Logan tried to calm Hunter down. While the guys tried to stop the fight, Beau was standing by the side with Hannah, Allie, Jules and Dexter.
"Drama, drama, drama" Dexter muttered
"I know this would get messy" Jules said as she was filming the whole scene with her phone.
"That is Hunter Davenport. Dean's biggest enemy" Beau said.
"What? Why?" Hannah asked.
"That's a long story" Beau said, trying to avoid answering why Dean hated Hunter so much.
"Dean, calm down. We lost Garrett. He can't play. We need someone who is good" Logan said after Hunter and Dean somewhat calmed down a little.
"If he's in, I'm out. I'm not gonna skate with him. Anyone else would be good. Just not him" Dean said, anger still buzzing in his veins.
"Come on, Dean" Tucker said.
"No. I'm not gonna skate with him" Dean said as Tucker and Garrett finally let him go.
Dean walked to where Beau was and took the red cup from his friend’s hand and downed it down. Garrett, Tucker and Logan followed Dean so now they were all standing around a table while Hunter stayed by the counter.
"Why do you hate him so much?" Hannah asked.
"That's not important right now" Dean dismissed the question "I need another drink" he said then left. He didn't even see Hunter by the bar until he spoke up again.
"You know what?" Hunter asked as he leaned against the counter and looked at Dean. The voice immediately caught Dean's attention, and he had to take a deep breath to calm himself down.
"What do you want now?" Dean asked as he turned to face Hunter.
"I think I already know how I'm gonna celebrate getting in the team. With Y/n" Hunter said with a smirk on his face.
If Dean was angry before, now he was furious. Only hearing your name from his mouth made his blood boil but imagining him with you was something different. He hated it. His hand clenched into fists as he thought about you with his enemy.
"Now, that you broke up with her, I can have her" Hunter kept talking and this was the last drop. Dean's anger snapped. Then the next moment Dean's fist met with Hunter's jaw. The hit throw Hunter back. He didn't expect it but he quickly punched back. But Dean was obviously stronger, so he quickly got on top of Hunter as he started punching him.
"Shit" Beau muttered when he saw what's happening and he jumped into action. The guys quickly followed Beau as they tried to get Dean off Hunter.
"If you touch her..." Dean threatened Hunter after Garrett, Tucker and Beau got him off Hunter.
"What if I already did?" Hunter asked, enjoying riling Dean up even more as Logan helped him up.
"What the fuck did you just say?" Dean asked as he was ready to attack Hunter again.
"Dean, calm down" Garrett said.
"I said, maybe I already did" Hunter repeated and Dean's face contorted in anger. He got out of the three guy's hold and started punching Hunter again. Now, it was harder to get Dean off Hunter.
"Don't you fucking there to go near her again" Dean growled and throw another punch.
The fight got so out of control that someone even called the police. Soon, four police officers walked into the bar, and they had to break the fight. Two officers pulled Dean off Hunter while the other two held Hunter back.
"If you just breath near her again, I'll kill you" Dean growled towards Hunter, while they got handcuffed. He didn't even care that moment that police officers heard his words.
"Okay. That's enough. Both of you are under arrest" one of the officers said as they led Dean and Hunter out of the bar in handcuffs.
They put Dean in one of the cars and Hunter into the other car. Two officers drove away with the cars while two stayed behind and asked everyone what happened. How exactly things happened. They questioned everyone who witnessed the fight one by one which took a lot of time. Then the officers said they're free to go but they can't contact Dean or Hunter until everything is sorted out.
At the police station, they took pictures and took Dean and Hunter's fingerprints then they got locked into two different cells. Both of them had dried blood on their faces, bruises already forming on their face and knuckles. They were sitting in their cells for hours until they both calmed down so now, they waited what will happen next.
"Can I at least make a phone call?" Dean asked after he got impatient waiting around.
"Yes, you can. But only one" the officer who was sitting by said as he let him out of the cell and led him to the phone "if they bail you out, you can leave. If they won't you have to stay the night here"
Dean nodded at the officer's words then he dialed your number. He wasn’t sure, you'll answer the phone. It was the middle of the night. You were probably sleeping. But he didn't know who else to call. He couldn’t call the others.
After you didn't pick up for the first few rings, he thought you won't answer at all. But then you picked it up and he heard your sleepy voice.
"Hallo" you mumbled as you answered the phone without looking who's calling so latr at night.
"Baby?" Dean asked, the nickname slipping out of his mouth without he can think twice.
"Dean?" you asked and pulled the phone away from your ear to look at it and make sure it's him and you're not imagining things. But on the screen, you didn't see his name, it was an unknown number.
"Yes. It's me" he said "I wasn’t sure you'll answer. I'm glad you did"
"Why are you calling me in the middle of the night from an unknown number?" you asked.
"I'm in jail. Kind of" he admitted and you immediately sat up in your bed.
"Kind of?" you asked shocked and you were very awake now.
"Doesn't matter. It's a long story. Let's say I got into a fight" Dean said then he took a deep breath before he continued "I know you hate me. After everything I did. How I ended things. You have every right to hate me. But I didn't know who else to call. Can you..." Dean started but you didn't let him finish the question.
"Yes. I'll come" you answered interrupting him. You didn't even think about it before you answered.
"Thanks" he said then time was up, so he had to hang up the call.
You sighed as you got out of bed and got dressed up. Dean was partly right with his words. You hated how he ended things. And you wanted to hate him. But you couldn't. Because for some reasons, you still loved him. And you couldn't let him be in jail longer than necessary. Especially after he decided to call you out of all people. Then a smile formed on your face as you slowly realized, if he called you from jail, it means he memorized your number.
Once you arrived to the police station, you asked for him. The officer by the cashier's window told you that he can be released if you pay the bail. Which you did without hearing how much it will be first. So, you paid the bail then the officer left to get Dean while you waited. Dean got released from his cell and got back his belongings then he was free to leave now.
"Hey..." he said with a forced smile as he saw you waiting for him. But seeing him like that, with bruise forming under his eyes, dried blood under his nose made your eyes widen.
"Oh my god... Dean, what happened?" you asked as you stepped closer. You wanted to touch his face, but you held back.
"It doesn't matter. Can we go please" he asked and you nodded. You left the police station with him and you both got into your car.
"Seriously Dean... what happened?" you asked again "With who did you fight?"
"Hunter Davenport. He said some shit and I lost control. But I don't wanna talk about it more" Dean quickly dismissed it with that.
"So, where should I take you?" you asked, instead of asking more questions about the fight.
"I don't know... I don't wanna deal with the others yet. I don't wanna answer their questions yet" Dean said and looked out of the window as you started the car.
"You can stay at my place tonight" you offered and Dean's eyes lit up with hope. Maybe, this was his chance to make everything right between you two.
"Thank you, baby" Dean said gratefully, the nickname slipping out of his mouth once again. Hearing it from him after such a long time, made you smile a little. You missed it. You missed him. Just as much as he missed you.
“you’d miss me, if some other man were the one to take me.”
“i’d only regret not being the one to take you myself.”
jacaerys velaryon x fem!pirate!reader
words: 7.5k
notes: hey im still on painkillers & recovering from the break but i had this ready in the drafts! this is an au, as requested - jace & everyone is aged up to around 24 so the timeline is whatever u want it to be - but several years after the dance, rhaenyra sits the throne; baela & jace were never engaged & she rules driftmark. reader's character is v v loosely inspired by korra the cruel ! description of reader is intended to avoid physical features.
warnings: brutally unedited. suggestive content. fair amount of euphemisms. brief mentions of bondage lol. cocky prince jace & confident reader & flirting that's all.
masterlist
“I RECALL YOU ONCE INSISTING TO ME THAT YOU NEVER POUT.”
Jacaerys does not turn at the voice, though it reaches him rather clear and thin, even across the wind that’d been whipping since dusk began its gradual bleeding into the sea. He stands now at the prow of his flagship, eyes laid upon the horizon where that last dying wound of day seeps red into blackening water, dipping and swaying with the rocking of the bow, crashing itself relentless upon the waves.
His smirk betrays him first, at the playful tease, only in a faint twitch quickly smothered by tightening of jaw; rather unbecoming, he thinks, of a man playing so earnestly at solemnity this evening.
“I don’t,” he tells his cousin, a lie plain as any he’s told, when she finds him at the rail with her arms crossed to mirror his own stance. Her cloak snaps against the wind with the mainsail overhead, and he needs not look upon her visage to know what grows there; that old teasing grin, an unconscious mimicry so oft shared between them even after all these years, remaining from a childhood spent trading mockeries back and forth between the Red Keep and Dragonstone and the salt-dried halls of Driftmark.
He shares the grin anyway, and turns his eyes back to the bleeding sea.
A year and a half, he has sailed these waters in earnest now; ever since his mother, from her seat upon a throne of a thousand dragonmelded swords, pressed the command of half the Velaryon fleet and half her own into his hands and told him that a prince who wishes to keep a realm in the future must first keep his own sea lanes safe. Duty, to some. A chore, he rather thought it was, for the first few moons.
Trouble breeds thickest here, in this scattering of world between two great continents; scrapped by listless gods and haunted by freebooters and their merchant-thieving ships. His mercy in it, beyond learning to love the sea the way his father once did, has been Baela; the Lady of Driftmark runs her ship twin to his through their campaign of squall and fog alike, and hers is familiar enough a presence now that he no longer has to hold his grief alone on the longer nights, nor his laughter on the easier ones.
It has been, for some time now, an interspersed life: when he is not on Dragonstone or King’s Landing, he is instead upon the sea – imbued with storms that swallow the sky, blooded skirmishes fought by torchlight, drowned sailors fished up bloated from cold waters bearing the mark of the Butcher of Tyrosh; all of the endless grey business of regulating a strait that kneels to no crown at all, however many dragons might darken its sky.
A year and a half, too, of her.
With half-rueful eyes, Jacaerys glances to the distant black rocks scattering the dead horizon. A woman he has chased across half these waters and never once truly caught, who has put more nicks in his pride than any blade nor war arrow has ever put in his skin, who haunts these crossings and his sleep alike enough so that he hears her laugh folded into the crash of every wave against black cliff, finds her shape waiting in every shadow he lets his eyes rest on a moment too long. Worse - he tastes salt on his own mouth some nights and wonders, absurd as it is, whether she might taste of the very same thing.
It is a bad habit to keep, his father told him once, over a decade gone; a horrible habit, wanting of someone who would sooner choose the sea over him. Still, he keeps it.
“Yet here you are,” Baela chides then, drawing him back to the bow, “our fearless captain, undoubtedly pouting at the horizon.”
Her voice lilts a half-teased tone that needles him just as well as his brothers’ once did - as it always does - without mercy. She leans her elbows upon the railing, silver hair drug loose of its braid in the wind, the scaled clasp of her cloak glinting before the wind steals the gleam of it away. “You do it every crossing, Jace. One might assume you’re actually hoping.”
It is, perhaps, a curse to be known this well by someone who has watched you grow into yourself, mistake by foolish mistake.
Jace pushes off the rail, jaw laced only faintly, and wets his lips against the salt already drying there, bitter and vexed as a wound freshly prodded.
“I'm hoping,” he corrects, glancing at her sidelong against the burning wreck of the sky, “that we find the Butcher of Tyrosh before the moon turns.”
“Mm.” Baela does not look convinced, and Jace finds that he hardly blames her; for after the war years past, after all they’ve seen and endured and buried – still, after all this time, he has no honest label for the thing that keeps his eyes fastened to these particular black rocks, searching, against every instinct bred into him since the cradle, for a shadow he has come to indeed hope he’ll find.
SHE COMES FOR HIS FLAGSHIP ONLY ONE NIGHT LATER.
It is, by any sane reckoning, a rather absurd decision – his ship rides full-crewed and three vessels at her wake besides, and there is nothing aboard worth the taking but Velaryon steel and supply, which she has no need of, and Targaryen pride, which she has never once shown the slightest interest in owning. If she is feeling particularly reckless, which she so oft is, there is also his composure – which she has made a fine and patient study of these past twelvemonth and more, cracking into him like a crabber to a kingshell, shameless and only for the singular pleasure of watching his face while she does it.
Jacaerys hears her first, come nightfall. She arrives to him as a laugh, threading soft through fog-dripped dark whilst he sits the quarterdeck above his own cabin, charts spread beneath a tallowed wax candle. The sound raises the hair along his neck just as distant thundercrash might, and he is on his feet with a hand already at his sword hilt before he’s finished registering the sound.
“Careless of you,” she says, landing light on the balls of her feet not ten paces off. Her cutlass is already loose of its sheath, with its old fine steel – stolen, she’d once bragged him, from a slaver who’d had no more use for fine things – catching what moon there is like a second, slyer smile. “Leaving your flank so open, Prince. Anyone might slip aboard.”
Battle-learned instinct finds him swift as he sizes her against his own admittedly off-guard self. He is taller, certainly – and broader through the shoulder, the muscles of him drawn firm by moons of hauling line, sailing, riding Vermax; alas, his paces are few but firm as he crosses the deck toward her now, strength and height at least nominally his advantage, for he is drawn less by danger and more by something much less sensible.
“Anyone didn’t.” He draws his sword slow as he speaks, unhurried in his movement – rushing at her has never once worked, and he has made enough a fool of himself trying before. “You did. Again.”
He ought to call the deckhands, his guards, his men – Baela even, with her savvy eye and sharp triggerfinger; But he does no such thing, only pacing close enough to glimpse the glint of small stolen jewelry thread wild in her hair, the breath of bare skin as the moonlight coils in little tidepools along her collarbones.
She circles him now, so very unbothered by his drawn sword, close enough now that he can make out the faint seam of a scar along one brow – a story he’d asked after the first time it’d appeared, yet never once gotten the truth of – and the wicked curve of her mouth that has haunted far more nights than he’d admit.
“You know,” she murmurs, slinking close enough for him to grip the hilt of his sword, “for a man who commands the strongest fleet and allegedly flies a sky-beast besides, you’re remarkably poor at detecting one woman in a rowboat.”
His pride, perhaps, takes the smallest wound. “You haven’t sailed that rowboat in a year,” he counters, tipping his head. “I believe I burned it, somewhere off the Grey Gallows. Did I not?”
Her eyes drop then, traitorous as his own had been only a moment past, tracing slow along the cut of his doublet, the breadth of his shoulders; eyes, reading a coastline it means to plunder.
“You noticed, did you?” Her voice is sharp in tongue as she is in wit, and something in the low murmur collects within his ribs, a stirring beast lifting its head.
“I notice everything about you,” he says well before he can think better of the saying of it, and then watches something flicker startled behind her eyes before her grin rises up to swallow it whole, quick as a wave of sediment folding atop a fool’s cast coin.
“Careful, Prince,” she chides, circling him once more. “A woman could get ideas, saying things like that.”
He let his own mouth curve, just slightly; eighteen moons of this has taught him this much, too: She likes the fight better when he gives as good as he gets, and her eyes go brightest not when he surrenders but when he matches blow for blow and word for word. And he is no fool, besides. He has seen how her eyes track him, how they linger upon his lips or jaw on the evenings he forgoes a shave, how they trace along his hands far longer than any true pillaging might require.
“You’ve had ideas about me since the second time we crossed blades,” he parries, lifting a faint brow. “No need to pretend otherwise.”
Her lashes flutter, just once; a small, betraying warmth blooms then across her cheeks, amusing as it is rewarding to witness. Jace imagines frost, finally give way on a pane of glass after a man has been breathing on it for the better part of ages, and he smirks.
“It’s why you keep coming back,” he presses, voice piercing the shamed quiet that followed his previous words, turning with her slow circling now; two hawks, riding the same updraft. “Not for the coin – you never take mine, though you know well enough I’ve plenty of it to spare.” His head tilts, some faint echo of Vermax’s own considering gaze, curbing away the clawing grin that threatens his visage. “Not even the sport of it, not truly. I begin to wonder if you merely miss me, when you’re off robbing lesser men.”
She hums, low, a sound gentle enough to soften the crash of water against his hull, though the sea remains merciless in its violence far below.
“You make me wonder the very same of you, Prince, when you’re off hunting lesser marauders.”
“It is true of me,” he admits plainly, and feels a small, unworthy satisfaction watching her flinch minutely – the way she never flinches from steel, though she flinches always from this – before she must cover it with a laugh that does not manage to reach the whole way into her glittering eyes. And, just as he expected, this proves well more than enough for her to excuse the restlessness he sees living in the flutter of her trouser legs, the twitching regrip of her cutlass.
She lunges then, testing him first the way their dance always begins. And he, as the tide turns, parries back.
It comes clean, far more conversaton than any true intent of killing. He catches her blade with his own and their steel sing bright into the dark, moonlight winking upon the curve of both her smile and her blade’s, and his own grin grows, improper as it is, at the prospect of a proper spar. Gods, he’s missed her this last fortnight.
They’re close now, enough so that her hair carries the scent of orange rind, the fruit the Tyroshi crate and sell in high summer, strange against the salt of everything else about her, and he finds himself craving it in a small, weak moment; for her sweetness comes rather absurd for a woman who has spent the better part of a decade sleeping under canvas and burning slaver galleys down to the waterline. It is a scent he has come to think of, against his better senses, as belonging to her as the tide belongs to the moon.
“You're slow tonight,” she breathes, dragging their blades low as she presses in, closing distance enough that a stranger, or a smarter man, would already have steel through her belly. He does no such thing.
“You’re rather reckless,” he answers, leaning nearer instead of away. “Boarding my ship, alone, in the middle of a hunt you know I’ll never call off.” He lets his mouth slide into a small, falsened pout, gazing down at her with lidded eyes. “And all for what? To prove you still can?”
Her eyes glint with moonlight just like the water beneath them, mist curling loose the strands at her temples – and she is, he thinks, a rather splendid vision to find waiting on a man’s own deck in the hour of the Eel, wrapped in salt-worn fabric and leather laced wonderfully close at the waist. Both their blades have gone slack at their sides now, abandoned for the sharper sparring of tongues instead.
“To prove I still want to,” she corrects, and wets her lips slow enough that he loses entirely the thread of whatever he’d intended to say next. A sensation blooms, one he only ever lets live in these clashing moments of steel and word and empty threat – and it comes sudden and total as a wave closing over a man who has forgotten how to swim.
“Don’t you ever wonder that, Jace?” she hums, furrowing her brow in some wonderfully mocking concern of her own. “Whether you still want to? All this time, and you’ve never once actually closed the net.”
He is not sure which net, in particular, she speaks of now; for in her hand is her blade, but in her eyes is something far brighter and certainly more salacious. His own eyes betray his focus, dipping once more to the revealing cut of her collar before rising, chastened, to find hers again. She only tilts her head, that wicked grin deepening into his wounded pride like a pressed bruise.
His swallow comes thick, lamented by his suddenly upticked heartbeat as licks of want roll through him in a familiar, persistent desire. “I’ve closed nets on cleverer women than you.”
He means the words to irritate her perhaps, or, more honestly, to coax something like jealousy loose in her; though both attempts fail alike, for she only laughs, a plume of sweet breath blossoming in the cold air between them, gone before he can even taste it.
“Is that so?” a boldness that has nothing at all to do with the blades still hanging forgotten between them, stepping near enough that her breath ghosts warm against his windburned cheek. “I might inform you, Prince – you’ll need a much larger net if you mean to come out on top tonight.”
He only watches her, wary now of the smirk spreading slow across her mouth beneath his evident confusion.
It’s when her hand rises – and indeed he might be a fool, for if she had come tonight to kill him, she’d have easily done it in that very breath – to grasp at his jaw, fingers strong but cool and shockingly soft of touch, that his resolve shudders. Heat blooms upon his skin, so greedy for her touch even as her fingers dig into the hollow beneath his cheekbones; and, with strength he will likely dwell upon much later in the dark, she drags his head to the side to glimpse round the mizzen mast’s large oaken shadow in the dark.
What lingers there, in the very far distance, is a ship; black sails, tethered with maroon and purple, rocking with the tide’s slow breath, perched sneakily just within his fleet’s wake.
“Maneater,” Jace breathes, jerking free of her grip, glare sharpened now that embarrassment spreads hot beneath his collar; for his entire fleet slumbers around him, it seems, and not one deckhand, flagship or other, has raised the alarm. She has well and truly snuck up on him.
At the name of her ship, she only smiles; a proud thing, beautiful, one that might have been gentle if not for the cruel amusement lacing it, the way frost laces itself through windowpanes and becomes so lovely in doing so. “Reckless as I may be, Jacaerys,”she croons, stepping closer until he can feel the warmth of her against the fabric of his doublet, “I would not come for the Crown Prince of Westeros’s ship without my crew.”
Seven Hells. Did she row herself upcurrent alone, at such an hour, merely to taunt him? Though, he thinks as he glances down at the bright glint in her starry eyes, it might well be that this is the best kindness she might offer him, in a life with no truer gentleness besides.
“A crew you've hidden well,” he concedes, eyes flicking once more toward those black sails riding low in his fleet's wake. “Just the one hull, this time?”
“Maneater is certainly enough,” she reminds him. Her thumb drags slow along his jaw where her hand had grasped so rough just a moment before; her touch is softer now, almost fond, some echo of gentled waves after loosing the brunt of themselves upon a battered shore. “Women, every one of them. I find they think quicker than men do, and they’ve considerably less patience for princes who think their crowns makes them clever.”
His jaw sets, faint, as he regards her through half-lidded lashes, the moon breathing its sweet silver breath along the sharp lines of her visage. “I wear no crown,” he reminds her. “Though if I did, I’d have no need of it to be clever.”
“No,” she allows, tilting her head, considering him with an attention that makes his skin feel too warm and tight for the night air, makes his chest melt with a horrible thing – a hunger, he supposes, though hunger feels too belittling a title for a beast that claws so thoroughly at a man’s noble heart and slinks itself through the whole of his dutiful mind, infesting it instead with a deep need to satiate itself.
“You rely on that jaw of yours instead,” she murmurs, squeezing his chin once before soothing over it with her thumb, her gaze traveling his visage, a slow tide finding every hollow of a shore it has already discovered a hundred times before. “And those eyes; that lovely hair.” She tugs, gentle enough, at a dark coil near his temple, and then dares sigh some half-dreaming, half-burdened sound. “It’s terribly unfair, Prince.” And her lips, such a delicious pout, curving so sweetly in her sigh that he wishes, for a weakened moment, she’d only close the last breath between them. “I’d have robbed you and your men blind a dozen times over by now, if only you weren’t so horribly handsome.”
They certainly both know her words for the lie they are – his fleet is to strong, his mother’s rule known far more for justice than cruelty. She has never once, in all this time, touched a Velaryon hull’s stores nor men, despite them rather constantly crossing these waters she so claims as her own. He imagines she never will, unless he gives her good enough reason.
“And you rely on distraction,” he counters, “when you haven’t an honest answer ready. You still haven’t told me how many hulls you’ve brought against these ships of mine - or is it truly only the one, and your measly little rowboat?”
A lick of realization glints for a moment, just in the curling of seabreeze between them, as her eyes shift.
A half-glanced thing, though Jacaerys is sharp enough to know what it is: a tell, so sweet in the casting of her attention from him to somewhere off, somewhere overboard, as though checking that her pathetic rotted rowboat is still tethered to the starboard of his ship.
Jace tuts a chastising sound, that horrible cockiness – the very same that his mother so warns about each time he returns to court – still grows along his lips as he watches her drop her weight, only faintly, back onto the balls of her feet.
“Does it matter?” She recovers, gaining that confidence of which must have dissolved only momentarily to the night air. “You’ve already lost, whatever the count.” Her hand hasn’t left his jaw, thumb tracing slow and idle along the line of it. “Letting a marauder onto your deck and not so much as signalling for your men?” She tuts, chiding and mocking both at once, and the heat in him slides brighter, lower, churning into something considerably less noble than he ought to feel, and certainly more reckless. “Don’t fret, Jace. I’ll only take what you’ve no need of. I’ll be sure to be quick – I’m told I’m quite good with my hands.”
Empty threats, these, same as always; though now they come with a cattish wink of her lashes, so terribly alluring and still yet wholly needling. And only hungrier still does that heat grow of Jace’s interest, her words curling round his mind and making way for a hundred improper thoughts to rush in all at once.
“You’re a wanted woman,” he says then, casting away any such desires from his mind before they might finish unfurling. “Your hands are good for nothing but thieving and plundering.”
Her gaze drops easily, nearly smug, to where his fingers have curled around her wrist instead of her sword hilt. “Seems to me you’re not using your hands for much of anything useful tonight, either.”
Something horribly close to desire pulses in his blood, singing where her warm skin meets his. “Then you mustn’t tempt me,” he spits swiftly, biting as he is confessing.
She only blinks up at him, something bright and amused glinting in her eyes, flickering, a warm torch left lit past its hour. “I’ve been tempting you for a year and a half,” she says, soft and wicked and wholly, unfairly lovely. “Imagine my exasperation, that I’ve only recently begun to find satisfactory results.”
A scoff, from him, is his only response.
A flash, just after the air leaves his lips, that she renders him pressed back by half a step, warmth of her presence following the same and chilled only by the ice of a whipped new blade – smaller and wickeder than her cutlass – with a flat edge coming to rest cool against his cheek. There lies no true threat at all in the pressure of it, only the gentleness of a hand laid over a sleeping child, or the caress of a lover’s cheek. Jacaerys, regrettably, tries exceptionally hard to not feel flattered by it.
“I’ve a crew of madwomen aboard that ship,” she murmurs into the night, “who’d come across in half a minute if I called for them and remind this strait who it truly belongs to. And you’ll do well to remember that, Prince, next time you think to cross my waters without treating with me first.”
Ah, he thinks. So he has hurt her pride, it seems, in his trespassing without thinking to first pay her visit. She missed his company, is that it?
It is not the first time, admittedly, they’ve had a conversation of such nature, and indeed not the first time a blade has been pressed to flesh for it. Though neither of them, save for hairline wisps, bear any such scars to tell of their encounters - bloodless as they always end, despite the reputations both drag behind them like wreckage on a keel, weeded sea to an abandoned anchor.
Heis eyes narrow faintly. “You won't call your crew.”
He is a madman, certainly - not for stating such boldness, for they both know it to be true - but instead for the turn of cheek he gives afterward, pressing faintly into the blade at his jaw and not so much as flinching from it. He relishes, madly, in the flare of surprise that swims past her visage.
He shakes his head gently, voice coming in a warm taunting whisper. “You’re too honorable to bleed a crew of the Queen’s men over a game you enjoy playing far too much to end so early.”
There is some small irritation somewhere in her gaze. She wishes, perhaps, to cast him overboard; it would not be the first time such an urge arose, and indeed she might one day attempt it yet; but this dance has steps, Jace knows, and they both tend to follow them faithfully, even though neither would ever admit.
“Honorable.” She hums over the word, eyes tracing slow and hungry along the shadowed line of his jaw beneath her blade, then sighs: and she is so harrowingly lovely in the wash of clouded moonlight, her expression laced through with perhaps some mock and yet also weary solitude, as though this observation has burdened her the way true insult might, the drag of rolled eyes and huffed doubt. But Jacaerys knows far better than to assume she takes offense, for he sees the small, pleased flush slinking along her neckline, and he too notices how her breath hitches when his thumb slides, gently, overtop her wristwrappings.
“Still,” she recovers once more, so false and so horribly charming. “I’ll need something for my plunder tonight, or my crew will think me gone soft - cozying up to a prince, instead of robbing him blind.”
The blade at his cheek is truly no matter to Jace, now, at all. He grins against it, in fact, lips curving in flattery and some faint arroganace, having won at least this from her, and claiming yet one more victory more: Her eyes, depthless as the water all around them and star-caught in the deep night, trace the shape of his smile like she truly means to memorize it.
So he reaches up then, unhurried, and unclasps the small silver dragon pinned at his doublet: old work, older than any language one might conjure to admire it, and worth more coin than any fence in the Free Cities would dare show upon his face when naming a price. He has three of its brothers, clasps just like it, in a chest back on Dragonstone that he has not opened since boyhood at least, and has never once missed one yet.
He suspects, lifting it now into the moon’s thin light and watching how her eyes catch the blaze of it, that he will not much miss this one either.
“Will this satisfy your crew’s opinion of you?”
Her eyes go first to the pin, hooking for a long moment upon its simple but masterful beauty, then down to the place his hand still fastens her wrist, and up once more to where her own palm keeps the knife pressed light against his jaw. An accounting, he thinks; a reviewing of the ledger of this such interaction.
“It might.” She leans in to study it properly, close enough that her breath moves warm across the small silver wings and enough, too, that Jace might feel some of it upon his own cheek. From her lips comes a sound of mild appreciation. “I might confess that I find your people’s worship of skybeasts to be rather a childish thing. This, though.” In the pause that brews, she considers the silver without grasping it, her hands both otherwise occupied with him. “This is well made.”
He is reminded, in that moment, of how little her world has ever truly reached his, beyond this narrow stretch of the sea; where she was raised – some low country of the far east he has never troubled himself to ask her the name of – dragons are, it seems, only the memories of a crumbled empire, myths mothers tell their babes to quiet them after dark.
It astounds him, truly, that she has never once glimpsed a living dragon.
He suspects, though, that will not remain true much longer, if the troubles with that marauding Butcher of Tyrosh do not soon cease; and something anticipatory and rather mean within him ignites at the prospect of being to one to prove to her his birthright.
Before he can say as much, she moves, and in such flash of hair under moonlight, his eyes widen only faintly.
She leans in, that wicked woman, and takes the pin from his fingers with her teeth. She does it rather slowly, evidently in no particular hurry to finish the theft offered so willingly to her, as recklessly fearless as he is harmless in the moment that her breath ghosts warm across his knuckles. As though he were some greenboy, Jace goes utterly still, her knife still resting cool and taunting against his cheek, his own sword helpless at his side.
And her eyes – those terrible siren-eyes – do not leave his while she does it, not once, so that he understands with a shamed, hunger-laced catch of breath, that he has certainly lost whatever remained of his footing.
That will not do, of course, for the Prince of Dragonstone.
So whilst she is still savoring the theft, that glinting silver pin caught between her lips like treasure-coin beneath a cursed man’s tongue, Jace closes his free hand round the wrist still holding her knife to his cheek. In a quick tug, he turns it, and the blade comes free before she has even finished registering that her hand is emptier than it was a breath ago.
He has her knife sheathed at his own hip before her breath finishes its startled catch against the metal still held, light and astounded, between her lips.
“There.” He does not try especially hard to hide the satisfaction in his words, nor the gloating lilt lingering in the grin upon his lips. “Seems I’ve done a bit of plundering myself, tonight.”
And she, of seawater and stone, recovers swift as always, plucking the pin from her lips with two fingers of her now freed hand and tucking it away somewhere at her belt. Though, Jace notes with satisfaction, the flush still lingers high in her cheeks and betrays her far more than she’d likely wish. Her needled scowl is just as beautiful as her smile, he thinks.
“That was cheap, Prince.”
“It felt fair enough to me.” He shrugs, unbothered, watching the shame and the delight dance rather unconcealed across her visage, drenched in moonlight. He witnesses, just as gleefully, the reluctant breath she takes in which she settles upon conceding instead of sulking like a child with a stolen toy. Something foolish and unsafe goes rather giddy in him, at the sight of her bested and so glowing for it.
“One day,” he says, eyes still resting where the dragon had lived only a moment ago between her lips, “you’re going to pick the wrong ship.”
“You’d miss me,” she says, girlish for one unguarded instant before her voice drops, at the last of it, into something much less jesting than perhaps she hopes, “if some other man were the one to finally take me.”
And her words, infuriatingly, are true – worse than true, it is the truest thing he has found in all his time on this water, sailing under his mother’s appointment. He has read the reports himself, indeed gone over them line by line with Baela against every burned hull and shattered manifest the Stepstones have regurgitated this past year: she never touches honest cargo, never spills blood that hasn’t been owed a hundredfold; she takes gold only from men who trade in chains and lords that profit from misery.
She has had a dozen clean chances to plunder his own fleet, or Baela’s, or Alyn’s, and yet has taken none of them, whatever ugly rumor precedes her into room or shipdeck alike. Jace figures that as pirates go - and indeed the Stepstones breed them thick as flies on a corpse - she is, by any honest measure, the only one he would ever call decent.
It is this, more than anything else, that has ruined him across a year and a half: not her beauty, though the gods know that alone would be enough to unravel the will of any man, but the unbearable fact of her goodness, so hidden in sharp words and sharper blades still.
“I find,” he says slowly, watching the black of her eyes swallow the whole of the abyssal sky stretched starry and vast above them, “that I would regret it. Not being the one to take you myself.”
He leaves the words open to whatever interpretation she likes, craving the spark that catches in her gaze at them, the answering flicker at the edge of her lips; and it is in that rather unstable breath between them that she twists past his guard entirely, breath warm against the chill of the nightbreeze, her empty hand coming to grasp the front of his doublet before sliding up to the join of his throat and shoulder.
Suddenly, there is no distance left between them at all.
She is close enough to him that her breath presses uneven against his jaw despite the coolness in her voice, close enough that the thin scar near her brow is the only thing keeping his eyes from settling, helpless and perhaps unseemingly desperate, upon her mouth. Her thumb dares drag against his collarbone, and it requires within him every scrap of the discipline his mother and septas and maesters had impressed upon him since boyhood not to close that last inch himself.
“Arrest me, then,” her voice comes with the wind, so low and daring and laving against his ear. “Go on, Prince. You have the men, the ship, you have your hands right here.” Her gaze drops, rather pointed, to where his fingers have since curled around her wrist once more, as they oft do.
Then her eyes, mischievous and warm, return to him. “I don’t see rope, though I imagine you’ve plenty of it somewhere on this hull of yours.” A wicked flicker of her lips given in a huff of something mean, something that would come a touch cruel, if not for the immediate hunger it pierces into him. “Perhaps in your bedchambers?”
His wanting turns rather greedy at that, keeping pace with his own pulse as her words dissolve into the seamist around them. Gods damn him.
He tips his chin up, if only to make her crane her neck to keep her eyes on his, and then his free hand flies to catch her wrist where it still rests at his neck. He does not dare move their hands once they’ve found each other, even when he feels her fingers flex, instinctive as a stutered breath, around the coils of inky tresses at his nape.
“I would very much like to arrest you.”
Her mouth curves at his words, so very pleased with something in his face he cannot see and, likely, would not admit to even if he could. It is a valiant but admittedly doomed effort that he gives, to curb whatever such lingering emotion lives there.
“You’ve told me as much every crossing, for a year and a half now,” she tips her head, so wicked, “And yet I always seem to slip free. Curious, isn’t it, Prince?”
He laughs, and does not care to pay much attention to it, for he is rather too enamored by the shape of her lips at present, the press of her warmth so very close to his own. His own quarters sit just beneath their boots, he thinks presently: a chamber with warm furs, a sturdy mattress, a door that locks.
“I look forward to the day I finally arrest you,” he murmurs toward her mouth, thinking of that banked hearth beyond his cabin door, the way she might sigh against his soft sheets, “each time I let you go.”
She only hums, thumb finds the collar of his doublet, idle as it lingers there a moment longer than the tease alone requires. He wonders whether she can feel his own pulse hammering up through his skin to meet her; and then, releasing her wrist, his hand falls instead to grasp rather boldly along the line of her waist.
Her breath, delicious in its caught tremble; her eyes remain lit, through she draws a shaky hitch into the quietness between them. There comes a wavering in her expression then, not the usual delighted startlement, rather gentler instead and gone before he can blink once more. “Mind what sweet things you say to me, Prince. I might keep them.”
“Keep them, then.” He is well past shame now, watching the flicker of her eyes in the dark. His voice has gone rough, and he does not trouble himself to hide that either, nor the flex of his fingers along the line of her leather-laced waist. His gaze drops, for a moment, toward her belt, where lies now his silver dragon. “You’ve kept everything else of mine you’ve ever wanted.”
Added to the tally of falsities they share; another stoke to their fire; Still, she lets twitch something bright and heated along her lips, and her thumb smoothes languidly over the pulse in his neck.
“Not everything.” Her gaze drops, brief as it is intentional, to his mouth and then back up again. “There are one or two things I’ve left you, out of mercy.”
“Mercy, she says.” Jace repeats it with some disbelief, laughing through the exhale of it, and she smiles at that, too, guileless in a small laugh of her own.
And then, because she has always been faster than his good sense, she kisses him.
The press of her lips against his own comes hard but brief, a brushing of mouths more as hungry tease than any kind of mistake. Her mouth, he thinks, tastes of salt and orange rinds; an answer to more nights than he would admit to, lying alone on his mattress, wondering after exactly such things.
He leans into it for half a breath, fumbling only in shock and eagerness, before her mouth is gone from his.
Something mischievous lights her eyes when he opens his own once more.
“Thank you for my treasure, Prince.” She draws back half a step and his hands release her, catching upon warm fabric and the warmer, teasing slip of skin along her hip - though her breath still ghosts gentle and cloying towards him, reluctant to leave just as the tide is reluctant to turn.
Her lips press together, as though – and, admittedly, such a notion flips Jacaerys’ stomach – she yearns to taste him again, too.
“Do stay vigilant,” she says. “I hear there are dreadful pirates haunting these waters.”
He cannot help the boyish grin that captures his lips, nor can he resist the way his whole chest aches to draw her nearer again, to taste the peel of orange once more, to invite her down below to those warm captain’s chambers.
“I hear the same,” he says instead. “I’m told one of them owes me a proper answer, one of these nights. Something more than a kiss and a stolen heirloom.”
Whatever has put the heat in his own face seems to have found hers too – a soft, unwilling flush along her visage, subtle enough to leave his teeth aching with its sweetness. She smiles, and it brings with it something rather honest in the dark.
“One of these nights,” she agrees, and there is a promise lingering there, on the tip of her tongue.
And then she is over the rail and gone, down into black water, before he’s quite ready to watch her go.
Not long after, as he stares aimlessly and struck at his discarded maps, he hears rowpaddles find the water below, coiled through with that flighty, slinking laugh that trails with her into the dark. Madwoman, Jacaerys thinks, and stands there still, long after her small boat has slipped into the horizon toward the Maneater’s black sails, his hand curled where hers had rested at his jaw, salt and orange still on his mouth, thinking for not the first time that he is in very serious and quite lasting trouble.
“YOU LET HER GO AGAIN.”
Baela says it the next morning after only quarter hour of arriving in his Captain’s solar, the two of them tasked, ostensibly, with reviewing routes the Butcher’s fleet has not yet raided. It comes from her with a rather blatant grin cast over the ship’s log, a sing-songy thing which whittles down the rather aloof nature he’d worked so dedicatedly to conjure when he’d first informed Baela of the past night’s breach.
Jacaerys, nursing a faint ache beyond his eyes since waking, presses fingers against the waxmap beside him and says nothing for a long moment.
“I did not let her go,” he finally defends.
His cousin’s lips tremble in amusement at this flimsy defense, stoking his cheeks to heat further though he attempts still to regain some of his practicality from where it has, evidently, cast itself out to the sea. “She’s – exceptionally difficult to catch.”
Baela's brow arches in utter delight as their eyes meet. “Difficult, Jace? You told me you had a hand at her collar last night. What, pray tell, made it so difficult to finish then?”
Silence is its own sort of interrogation, and Jace laments its effectiveness. With a sharp sigh, he straightens himself in his chair, drops his boot to the floorboards, and lifts his hands in gesture. “She pulled a knife on me, when I was not prepared. I was–” though he dares not finish his sentence, instead lacing shut his jaw with a terse exhale, shame flooding his cheeks.
Baela’s laugh fills the small cabin entirely, indifferent to the pitch and roll of the ship beneath them, that gray chop visible through the storm-marred casement; though neither of them pay much attention to the sea beyond the window, rather adept by now at avoiding the sea legs it once so easily harkened.
“A knife, cousin, whatever could you have done?” She has wholly abandoned their morning’s task, instead leaning an amused chin upon closed fist. Jace, in turn, pinches fingers to bridge of nose.
“Baela.” Jace warns the ceiling.
She gestures to him. “Well, something must have gone right. You're sitting here yet, wholly unscathed.” Her eyes drop then to his chest, squinting where newfound drapings of his stations pin cloak to shoulder; And then, as though guided by the mockery of the gods, she glances lower still, to where an unfamiliar dagger lies, now properly snug and sheathed upon his hip. “Save for a rather curious trade, it seems.”
Jace ppresses his lips together, resenting the mind he had the night before; Shame, he finds, always burns brighter in the light of day. A shake of head then, perhaps in some weak denial or to merely dislodge the rather stubborn memories of a dip of bodice, a curve of smile.
“She’s been a wanted woman this long for a reason,” he tries.
“You are the reason, Jacaerys.”
Gods damn her, he thinks, for being so blunt. Though still he laughs, some strangled boyish sound of embarrassment crawling up his throat, cheeks gone past warm into something closer to scalded.
“I only mean - she’s cleverer than she’s given credit.”
A huff comes from Baaela’s lips, disbelieving as she is amused, and kind still for her torment. “If her reputation for thieving only thieves and harming only the harmful isn’t credit enough, I’ve heard plenty more of it from you - rest assured.”
Jacaerys wonders, momentarily, if he might simply throw himself off the sidedeck and into the deep, instead of endure this any longer.
Though mercifully, at whatever emotion has crawled upon his visage, Baela relents. A rest of quill comes, and she turns with lips still pulled in a grin yet a voice gentler at last. “You’ll have to decide, cousin, whether you’re hunting her or courting her.”
Startled, Jace scoffs - flighty and unconvincing.
“Because plainly speaking,” she continues, “it has not seemed like the former in a very long while.”
Jace rolls his gaze away then, unable to stomach the look upon her visage, so pleased with herself at the gathering of red along his cheeks, spreading past his neck and blooming at the tips of his ears.
Indeed, there is no honest answer that wouldn’t damn him further; for he knows there is nothing princely in any of this, nor proper. He suspects, if he were the man his mother’s court believes him to be, he would care rather more than he does.
Glancing out the canted, storm-weathered glass of his casement, Jace traces the faint line of the green sea, how it dances, blurred and restless, along the horizon. And out there somewhere, far past the black rocks of the Stepstones and the seamonsters further still, a woman who owes him nothing but trouble and near eighteen moons of sleepless crossings is surely laughing at him still.
Next time, he tells himself, the way he always tells himself, after every crossing his cousin spends laughing at him. But he doesn’t truly believe it, even as he thinks it. He never has.
