- ser gwayne hightower x rhaenyra’s daughter!reader
synopsis. Ser Gwayne Hightower is tasked with escorting you, the sole daughter of the newly anointed Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, across the Reach and into the Crownlands as part of a deal securing amnesty for House Hightower. Along the way, you realize you do not hate him as much as you thought.
contents. smut, angst, slowburnish, reader is rhaenyra’s eldest daughter (around the same age as aegon) and silverwing’s rider and is so spoiled that she has never seen a baby chick before, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, grief, show elements but also canon divergence, sex pollen, oral (f recieving), fingering, p in v, loss of virginity, multiple orgasms, cum eating, bath sex, reader is comically oblivious at some points, gwayne needs you so bad
a/n. 13.5k words wow big day for me, spoilers for the show?, inspired by a request i got (thank you very much anon wherever you are), inspired by the film lady chatterly’s lover at some points, takes place directly after jace dies and rhaenyra takes the throne
It was a glum day, the day you were told your brother was dead, and you were alone with the usurper’s uncle. The dread—that feeling that something was just wrong—settled deep in your stomach before the words came out of his mouth.
The Hightower army had found you many months prior, nearly deceased following an attack on your dragon, Silverwing. You had told her to fly home to Dragonstone, to leave you, and you have lived off of the hope that she made it back safe.
They took you as prisoner that day, and in spite of all you thought of them, they did not treat you too horribly. You believed it was like preparing a pig for slaughter, though, so you never wavered in your loyalty to your mother. You would die as a Black. It was not going to take the threat of death to let a word of the Green agenda come from your mouth.
Surprisingly, it was your cousin, Daeron, who offered you the most kindness. He was the only person you could yield to in the entire Hightower base. You could only pray he wasn’t relaying every conversation you’d had back to the Lord Ormund Hightower.
Everyone else treated you like you were common. Specifically Ser Gwayne Hightower.
He was rude—and vain—and arrogant. He was irritating. When he would try to make conversation, you would always end up in a fight. And it was just your luck for him to be the one instructed to take you on a multiple-week-long journey from the Reach and back to your rightful home in the Red Keep.
He was the one to tell you that your mother had taken King’s Landing back. You assume your mother saw it fit to have the Queen Dowager’s brother be the one to accompany you, because maybe she has something in store for him when you make it there. Perhaps a beheading? He could do without the ability to speak.
Then he was the one to tell you that you would join her in King’s Landing. That you were finally going home. It was the only thing to come from his mouth that made you joyful.
You overheard chatter that by you departing the Reach as soon as the letter was received, and by you making it back unharmed, House Hightower would be granted something close to immunity for their role in the war. You knew it was something a lie. Your mother and stepfather would never let the Green beasts live with what they had done—not only to you, but to her son too. To your mother herself.
The thought of what your mother might be doing to the Dowager Queen now gave you anxiety from being excluded. You should expect that they’ll be calling for Daeron’s capture too, though perhaps you will be able to put in a good word for him—get him sent to the Wall instead of hanged.
Speaking of Daeron, he was already somewhere distant when you had finished gathering your belongings, even though the things you owned in the encampment were scarce. You had said your goodbyes to each other not long ago—he claimed he had to prepare for something with Lord Ormund, and that he would not be available the next morning, for your departure.
You were, as expected, ready to leave. You had wanted to lie down and rest so that the next morning would come sooner, but Ser Gwayne had called you into his tent for one final word.
“There was something else written in the letter. Something I believe should have been saved for a calm moment, such as this,” he begun, and held up the refolded parchment which illustrated the clemency that would be provided to House Hightower upon your safe return to King’s Landing. “Would you prefer to read it, or shall I?”
The glint in his eye was one of compassion. You did not like it.
You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Proceed.”
He raised his brows, pressing his lips together before giving a heavy sigh and opening the parchment back again. The fingers that gripped either side of it seemed to waver. His eyes quickly found the line he had so desperately wanted to read.
He inhaled a heavy breath. “The Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne Jacaerys Velaryon was slain in battle against the Triarchy Fleet. He was struck down by crossbow fire alongside his dragon, Vermax, in the waters off the Gullet.”
Gwayne let his hands drop slowly, and he sealed the parchment back. He looked back up at you.
Your head was shaking back and forth. Denying his words, maybe. The movement had come naturally, and you could not stop it.
“Is this a jest?” you exhaled a small laugh, hoping it would work to quell the distress already coursing through your veins.
You knew it was not a jest.
You knew if the war did not end soon then he would die in some violent, gruesome way, but to hear it confirmed was something entirely different. To hear it confirmed by a Hightower was something worse. The primal need for the man before you dead, perhaps in such a way your own brother was killed, washed over you in an instant.
He remained silent at your question. "It pains me, though your brother's death does not alter our course,” he said instead. “We shall depart at first light.”
It pains him?
You will show him something that pains him.
There was a lengthy distance between the two of you already, but you quickly closed it as you rushed across to smack him across his cheek.
Your hand stung, yet you did not wait for his reaction. Instead, you turned on your heel and left the tent.
Jace did not hit you until the fresh air did, and you let yourself shed the tears that you had pushed back into your sockets. The tears that you could not—would not—let fall in front of the enemy.
day one
You never liked Gwayne. He was arrogant, and he would treat you as if you weren’t the daughter of the Queen—or more importantly to them, the granddaughter of King Viserys, and the niece of their usurper.
The ride up the roseroad so far had been silent. He had tried, but you did not speak a word in response. It pains me, he had said, and then he practically told you to get over it and go home! He is moronic, and conceited. It pains you that you have to make this journey with him.
If need be, you could be doing this by yourself. You’re fierce enough to ride alone—gods, you’re essentially already riding alone, Gwayne’s useless self.
Your brothers taught you to be fierce, in spite of their age. Jace had always insisted on letting you spar with them in the yard of the Red Keep, and you learned quite well from it. You certainly couldn’t beat a knight with your skills, but it had helped you gain a certain confidence that princesses tend not to have.
Aegon had never liked you practicing with them. Neither did Ser Criston. You did beat the usurper once—caught him off guard and swept him out from under his feet—which must have bruised his ego in the process, as he felt it just to push you to the ground when your back was turned right after. That earned him a clout in the ear from Ser Harwin.
You chuckle to yourself recalling the memory—specifically Aegon’s stupid face when he realized who had hit him, and more specifically when Ser Harwin did not get in trouble for it—and you notice Gwayne looking at you in your peripheral. The smile is wiped clean off of your face.
“Does something amuse you?” he mutters.
When you look over to see him, he is glowering at you, his upper lip lifted with judgment.
“I understand you may not have many fond memories to look back on when times are tiresome, but I do.” You look forward at the road ahead.
He scoffs out a laugh. “I have many fond memories.”
“Tell me one,” you counter.
All you can hear is the wind blowing through the trees. Ser Gwayne Hightower, the parentless knight, no recollections to look back on fondly.
Gwayne sucks in a breath. “I do not have to.”
“That is what I thought.” You smirk to yourself, and lightly kick the side of your horse, forcing it forward and ahead of him.
day two
You were unsure if you should speak the words you did, but they had just slipped out at a certain point.
“I take it you did not care much for Jace.” Your gaze had already been trained on the head of your horse. It seemed hard to look anywhere else.
You and Gwayne had been mindlessly trekking forward all morning, both of your eyes still heavy with the slumber that you had lacked, sleeping in an inn on top of stiff beds.
“What makes you say that, princess?” he asks.
“You are a Hightower. Your sister is the Dowager Queen. Your nephew is the usurper. You kill for them—” you look over to him. He has been staring at you the whole time, and he looks quite furious.
“I believe you will find I do not have much of a choice in the matter,” he interjects sharply.
Your head shakes. “Everyone has a choice.”
He huffs. “What do you reckon I do? Desert my army? Get caught and hanged for treason?”
“I would.” You look back at the road ahead. “I should.”
Gwayne sighs, and returns his attention to the road as well. “We both have duties, my princess. Duties one cannot simply run from once they get to be too demanding.”
“Essos is said to be nice this time of year.”
A short laugh escapes him. “Essos is said to be nice all times of the year.”
You let out a heavy, deflated sigh. “Would it not be nice? I’m sure they don’t care about who we are there. We could be free. You could be a sellsword, and I…” your thought trails off. You cannot think of what you would be somewhere like Essos.
“You could be a scribe,” Gwayne says sincerely.
You nod. “I could.”
The idea of a life in Essos, perhaps with Gwayne, seems appealing at the very moment. The lack of sleep much be getting to you.
It does seem nice. Abandoning your name, as much as you are loyal to it, could be the best decision that you have made. He seems to want the same, if you convince yourself his words weren’t just tactical, some way to earn your empathy so that you will convince your mother to spare him once you reach the Red Keep.
If the war would not come to an end with her taking of the throne, you would have to escape there yourself. And if Gwayne wanted to come with you, if he was still alive by the time you left, you might just be willing to take him with you. Silverwing—who had surely made it back to Dragonstone—was large enough to saddle two.
day three
The inn you would stay in tonight would be much worse than the last. Not only because of the stiff beds, but because of the lack of them too.
Gwayne knew of the ones that would not ask any questions while not costing all the coins in his possession. So far they had been shit, but they had been true to their history of keeping quiet with matters that did not concern them, as far as you both knew.
You would remain outside with your cloak hood pulled tight over your head and your body facing a wall until Gwayne would come fetch you to take you to the room.
He would refer to you as his squire to the innkeepers and guests who questioned your presence. If they had questioned your demeanor, he would call you reserved and paranoid. Nobody had asked anything past that, but if they did, he was prepared to tell them that you had been tormented by some childhood event.
When Gwayne had taken you to your room that night, you had not expected to be faced with a singular bed.
“Have you gotten your own room?” you had asked, not realizing until you had drawn off the cloak from your head that there was only one mattress before you.
Gwayne only shrugged. “It was all that remained. The innkeeper told me that puppeteers are traveling in town, and all seem to be staying here.”
You could not contain your fury at the thought of sharing a bed with him. Or making him sleep on the floor. “How many fucking puppeteers are there?” you demanded, body tense with unreasonable anger.
He scoffed out a laugh. “My princess, it isn’t exactly the largest inn.” He had already begun shucking off his armor, as well as ridding himself of his gambeson and chausses. “You will live. I will sleep on the floor.”
“Are you sure? Can’t you speak with the innkeeper?”
“There is no need to draw any more attention to us. And what, princess, will you be sleeping on the floor in place of me?” he mocked, already in knowledge of the answer. “Do not fret over it. I have slept in worse places.”
You were silenced at that, and had called him for help with undoing your dress. The whole ordeal was strangely impersonal. He had done it the night before, and you felt nothing. Perhaps it be the exhaustion both of you had carried.
The two of you had retired to your respective sleeping areas shortly afterward, both clad in just your smallclothes.
Later that night, you found yourself wide awake, shivering in the relentless cold that seemed to break in past the shut windows.
Gwayne had been sleeping on the floor furthest from where you were lying on the bed. You assumed he was sleeping as well, but it was strangely silent. You had expected to hear the soft breathing of someone consumed by their slumber, though all you heard was the whistling of wind outside.
And your heart still held unpleasant sympathy for where he had been forced to rest. If your thoughts were true, he was not sleeping at all.
“Ser?” you whisper.
“Is something wrong?” you hear from below.
You smile at his voice. No, at being right. You do not smile at his presence, you smile because you like being right. You rolled over then, the mattress groaning beneath you, to stare at the dim expanse of the side where he lay.
“Are you comfortable there, on the floor?” you question, smile piercing through your words.
He scoffs. “You jest, princess, but I have no doubt that this floor is just as soft as the mattress you lay on.”
You were hit with a flurry of breathless laughter at his words. It must be your lack of sleep. You could hear him chuckle too after some point, but both of you had been slowly silenced as the seconds passed until you could only hear the commotion outside again.
Perhaps you should invite him to sleep alongside you. You are not without mercy. Of course, it would be strictly unromantic, not like how a wife and her husband might find one another on restless nights such as this one.
“Would you like to put that to the test?” you say without a second thought.
Gwayne clears his throat. “I would not want to invade on your solace, princess.”
“There is plenty of room for you.” You crawl across the bed to see him.
Your eyes find him as he thoughtlessly fiddles with the edge of his chemise, and as he freezes once he meets your gaze.
You beam down at him again. “And it would bring me solace, knowing you were sleeping the slightest bit easier.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“I am.” You think it is the sleep deprivation deluding you. You would never act like this normally. He can sense it too.
He slowly rises from his position on the ground, and multiple bones crackle once he stands.
You roll back over to your side of the bed, watching as he joins you. He seems tense, especially as you join him under the covers.
The two of you lie in bridled silence, neither one of you able to fall asleep. A chill runs through you from the temperature, and Gwayne’s head swivels to look at you.
You turn over on your side to meet his gaze, expecting him to say something. He does not, and looks back up at the ceiling instead.
Your brain, clouded by the fact that you are simultaneously freezing cold and devastatingly fatigued, opens, then pauses as you search for the words.
“Are you cold as well?” you mumble.
Gwayne shrugs nonchalantly. “Slightly.”
You chuckle mirthlessly. “I am.” The sheets suddenly feel rough against your skin. “More than slightly.”
“I can ask the innkeeper for another quilt.”
His earlier words flash back to you. “There is no need to draw any more attention to us,” you repeat.
You see the corner of his lip turn upward. “What do you reckon I do, then, princess?” he asks, and you reach out to touch his arm.
The muscle quickly tightens under your hold.
“You’re warm.” You move closer to him. “If we lie close together, we might just make it through the night.”
That is how you ended up huddled next to Ser Gwayne Hightower for the rest of the night.
You were unaware of the fact that he was lying frozen next to you, and that he did not get a wink of sleep, especially as you mindlessly slung an arm around his middle in your slumber. And as your nipples, solid from the cool breeze that had seeped in through the windows, brushed up against him as you shifted throughout the night.
day four
Gwayne had stopped to relieve himself when you heard them.
The myriad of chirps from some kind of birds had caught your attention, and you had jumped from your horse in an instant, following the sound.
You found yourself on the edge of an open field, behind some bushes, as you looked down to some small yellow birds that weren’t flying away. You deduce that they must like your presence.
It wasn’t long before Gwayne anxious voice interrupted your calm, calling your name just moments before stumbling upon you.
“What are they?” you whisper.
“Chicks,” he responds, in a normal tone. At your silence, he continues, “baby chickens.”
“Truly?” you question, head cocked to the side, watching them.
Gwayne stares at you. “Have you… never seen chicks before?”
“No, only…” you turn your head to him, “chickens.” You shrug.
He shakes his head with a theatrical sort of despair. It would have seemed real if the corners of his lips were not upturned.
“You truly are a princess,” he mutters, and crouches down to the ground.
You stoop down alongside him, watching as the chicks run past one another, chirping quietly.
“Can I touch one?” you mumble.
He gestures with a chin toward the chirping bunch. “Go on, then.”
You reach down to one of the animals, but you can’t quite seem to get a good grip on it. You don’t really try to grip it. You do not find the chance to. Instead, your hand just lingers hesitantly above the crowd of them.
Gwayne’s hands come down to meet yours. He grabs one of them, effortlessly and gently, cradling it in his hands.
Your hand is still lingering beside his, still in a motion as if you were going to grab one, as he did, so he brings the chicken in his hands to yours. You bring your free hand to join the other and cup them together.
He lets one hand release the chick into yours, and it comes down below the two of your hands as if to hold it steady. The other covers the chick to prevent it from jumping out of your hold.
The hand that is under yours touches it, and urges it to close. “Gently,” he murmurs, and you’re holding the chick on your own now, gently and effortlessly, just like he was.
His hands withdraw from yours. He watches as your lips curl up, a pure joy that he had yet to ever witness fill your face, do exactly that. His own mouth mirrors something similar.
You shudder nervously as the chick twitches around in your grip. It comes out half in the form of small chuckles and half in struggled exhales.
Your brows draw together. It seems impossible to relax them, and you feel a panic settle in at nothing in particular. Perhaps it be that your brothers are dead, maybe because you are with a man that you have such complicated and mind-boggling feelings for, or that you were just held as a prisoner for the Greens, and that man is a Green, he is the Green, the Hightower Green you have been conditioned to hate—
Gwayne has stopped smiling. You feel tears running down your face. The chick flies out of your grip once you try to see it closer, and you try your hardest to catch onto your breath, to catch it as it runs from you, but you cannot. You are sobbing before you get any sense to stop it.
“My princess?” he leans closer to you, a wavering hand inching dangerously close, and you push yourself from off the ground. He follows.
“I’m sorry,” you manage through heaving breaths, smoothing down your now wrinkled dress. Why are you apologizing? You do not know why you are apologizing. He is a Green. He should be apologizing to you, for being on the side of the war that killed your brothers—oh, gods, your sweet brothers. Your sweet, young, desperate, dead brothers.
“It’s all right,” he mumbles. His hands, still, are reaching toward your arms, yet not touching. Never touching. Just hovering near yours, always, like he wants to touch you, but he doesn’t.
You wipe your eyes, but the tears keep falling. You mutter something again. Sorry, you hear yourself say again, and then your body moves for you. You wrap your arms around his neck in an embrace so tight you might be strangling him.
He stumbles back slightly, arms still hesitating beside you, and then finally you feel it. He folds them gently around your waist. As gentle as he held the chick.
“Don’t cry,” he comforts.
You do not obey. You would if you could, but for now, you remain in his hold. You, regrettably, enjoy it.
day five
Gwayne did not like to see you cry.
He had first seen it the moment you realized you were captured by the Hightowers. You hadn’t been conscious enough when they found you to care about where you were being taken. He hadn’t enjoyed the sight then, not as his belligerents did, and he does not like to see it now.
He was the one to convince his fellow commanders to spare your life and to instead take you as a hostage. He was the one to have you held in a tent next to his own in the encampments with his two most upstanding soldiers posted outside, and not in those grimy cages fit for animals. He was the one to have you ride your horse directly next to his when on the road with the rest of the army—much to your dismay—as to prevent any dishonorable conduct from occurring. He would never tell you these things, of course, but they live with him.
Gwayne would tell himself that he did all of these things because it was right, that he would do it to any other female prisoner-of-war, given the shocking lack of honor among his knights who vowed to defend it. He had done a good job separating the wheat from the chaff when he became a commander, but there were only few he truly trusted to never harm the young, an innocent—and those who cannot protect themselves. Like you.
You liked to put on a front. And it somewhat worked with others, but not with him. He wishes it would, for some odd reason. Maybe he would not see you the way he does, if it did. He would still treat you with mercy, but it would not be to the level it is. He would never have accepted your hug. He thinks he would have pushed you away.
He wouldn’t have, but he believes he would have.
Since he had finally felt your touch the afternoon previous, the road to the Red Keep had been as quiet as the first day of your journey together. He suspected you had been embarrassed after letting him see your emotions, as you had been combative toward him every day since you had woken up from your comatose state.
He had expected it to come at some point, the unveiling of your feelings, but not in that way. He had expected to hear you sniffle from beside him while on your horses. He would have stayed silent, and he would have let you cry. He believes he would have let you cry on your own if you hadn’t come to him for comfort first.
The fact that you did had brought him joy. It made him hopeful, in some strange way he did not feel himself familiar with.
“You are betrothed to Lord Samwell Blackwood, are you not?”
You look at him, puzzled. “He has been with the Stranger since the war begun.”
Gwayne nods curtly. “So I’ve heard.”
“Then why have you asked?”
He inhales a heavy breath. “I feel it my duty to tell you of this.” He clears his throat. “Before your mother took the throne, there was word among our commanders to betroth you to your cousin, Prince Aemond.”
“You jest.”
“I do not.”
You cock your head to the side, wetting your lips. “And what did you have to say in the matter?”
“That is unneeded for you to know.”
“Why? Because you encouraged them to?”
His voice picks up immediately where you left off. “No, because I fought against it.” He scoffs a laugh. “The One-Eyed Prince is… he is mad.” At your gawking laugh, he turns his head to you. “You must know it too. He is simply and utterly mad.”
“You are his uncle.” You would never tell of his treasonous words to any other, but you feel you must remind him.
“Are you going to betray me and inform my army of the fact?”
“I do not have loyalty to you, though I will not speak of the words to another.”
“Good. Now you tell me something in confidence,” he presses.
You shake your head at the sheer audacity of him. “Why would I do that, ser?”
“What else will we converse about? It is a long and arduous road ahead of us.” His eyes peer into yours, and you feel a sudden urge to tell him everything you have ever kept from him.
“Alright then,” you look to the sky in mock ponder. “When I was young, I would pray to the gods each and every night for a gallant and true knight to take me away from the Red Keep and off to some distant land. There was this one knight, he had belonged to our Kingsguard, who I absolutely adored.” You sigh on the memory, oblivious to the fact that a true and gallant knight was riding right alongside you. “I was just a girl then. It was a silly dream. And the gods do not always play in my favor.”
Were you jesting? Or were you truly so oblivious?
“Do you remember his name?” he asks.
“It has lost me. But I remember his face. He was gorgeous, that one, and very gentle, too. Back then he was the same age as my brother is now.”
He does not let you sit with the fact that you mentioned your brother as if he were alive. “That’s quite young, isn’t it?”
You nod. “Indeed. He was the youngest of every knight in the Keep. Perhaps the youngest in history.”
“What happened to him?”
You exhale a breath, and look down to your horse’s head. “He was in the fire that killed Ser Harwin. I do not know why he had been called to Harrenhal, and I suppose I shall never know. Are you yourself betrothed, or married, ser?”
He huffs. “Gods, no. I was, and remain, of little use as a political pawn for House Hightower, my father being the second son.”
“Therefore if you were to wed, you would do so for love,” you state.
“I suppose so.”
day six
The hood of your cloak was pulled tightly over the upper half of your face, seemingly ritual for whenever you made it to inns, and you felt a tap on your shoulder.
You turn, expecting to see Gwayne, but in his place stood a knight in armor, donning a Hightower sigil on his gambeson.
It is your luck to see Gwayne rushing up from behind him to fetch you.
“Squire, let us retire to our room, yes?” he says, and you nod eagerly, pulling the hood further over your face. The two of you attempt to move forward, and you make it past the knight—
“That is no squire,” the man interjects, grabbing onto your wrist, stopping you. “That is a girl.”
Gwayne steps in between you and the knight, forcing him to release your joint from his hold. His gaze flicks down to the man’s gambeson.
He takes a step closer to him and lowers his voice. “If it pleases you, she’s my distraction for the night, ser. Not worth your notice.”
The knight clears his throat, and Gwayne steps back.
“Blessings upon King Aegon.” He smiles, turning back to the inn entrance.
His hand guides you forward, lingering on the small of your back, surely for the sight of the knight behind you. And then it trails down, over the curve of your back end, and you feel the slightest grip onto it before the door behind you closes, and his hand immediately falls away.
The walk to your room is silent.
Gwayne swallows painfully once you make it to your room.
“I’m sorry—” he begins.
“How may I distract you tonight, ser?” you interrupt, smiling stupidly at his lie, and he sighs one of relief at your lack of offense.
He breathes out a laugh, and swiftly moves to shed himself of his armor. He has been struggling on his own each time he has done so. You only noticed it the last night, and offered help, but had been rejected.
You would not ask this time, you would simply do. Your fingers were desperate and untrained in their efforts, but they did the trick in time for him not to deny you, and he was rid of the metal captivity.
You turn as he does, ridding yourself of your heavy cloak and pushing your hair out of the way of the laces of your dress. He pulls them loose without a word, and the warmth of his body behind yours would surely prove the most effective thing of the night, you decide as you gaze at the thin quilt on your bed.
As your gown slides down your body, you can hear the shuffling of Gwayne removing all but his linens behind you. If you took just a step backward, you would be touching him.
“It is a terrible coincidence, the Hightower army resting here,” you mumble, your hands fiddling with the light cloth around the your wrists.
“It is,” he agrees solemnly.
You retreat from his warmth and sit on the edge of your bed, your back up straight and your fingers clasped together in your lap. You weren’t particularly tired this night. Maybe it be from the surge of adrenaline at the knight outside, and it had already raged through your limbs, rendering them restless the moment the door to the inn had shut behind you.
Gwayne’s hand was close to you then, to an area you regarded as most private among you, a maiden. The memory of it twinged deep in your stomach. It was an unfamiliar feeling.
He had joined you in sitting on the edge of a bed, albeit his own. His own stature had mirrored yours. All tense and surged with the possibility of a fight.
“It is rather cold this night,” you mutter.
Gwayne nods curtly. “It is.”
Your gaze lowers to watch your fingers be relentlessly picked on by those of the other hand. “I fear one of those knights will bust through the doorway, and take me away with little fight, you being so far from me,” you whisper. The night was silent enough for him to hear it.
“I fear the same.”
You look up at him. “If he were to do so, it would certainly raise suspicion if your whore was sleeping in a bed adjacent to yours.”
He takes a turn to meet your eyes. “If you wish to sleep in the same bed as I, you need only ask.”
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “May I sleep in your bed tonight, Gwayne?” you muster.
“As you wish, my princess.”
day seven
Your horse stops before you instruct it to.
In the distance lies a field of flowers, pink and purple, some yellow, and all illuminated by sunlight. It was nearly time for it to set.
You cannot still be in the Reach, you think. It has been much too long, but thank the gods if you are. What a sight to see.
You want to see it closer. Gwayne will be okay with it, you declare, and you hop off of your horse and begin walking in the direction of the field.
“No, princess,” he says, exasperated. “We cannot go off trail again.”
“The flowers,” you breathe. “It is beautiful.”
The scent in the air is intoxicating. It is rather pungent, the closer you get to it, and the air seems more sultry than just moments before.
You remove your cloak from your shoulders, letting it drop behind you as you continue forward. It is the slightest bit relieving from the heat, but your body quickly acclimates to it again, and the sweat begins beading. It is no wonder. The sleeves under your dress are long. It makes you question why you decided to wear such a stupid thing, in this climate.
Once you make it to the field, it envelopes you. The fever. It starts in your lower abdomen in a heavy thrum and travels up the rest of your body.
Where is Gwayne?
You turn around. He is just a few steps behind. He has been trailing behind you the entire time. It was hard to notice, with the pull of the meadow, but now that you are here, he is all you can think about. All you can focus on. You do not like that.
His hair illuminates in the sunlight, much like the flowers. Your skin tingles.
He froze in his movements the moment you did. You continue further into the field. His feet fall in step with yours, and you think you can hear his breathing, all shaky and uncertain.
You make it to an empty patch of the meadow, and stop once again.
“Ser?” you turn back to face him. The scorch of the sun worsens with each passing second. Sweat gathers on your brow. “My dress... please… help me get it off.” You raise a timid arm to your back, accepting defeat once you find yourself unable to reach the laces.
Gwayne’s thumb twitches toward you. His forehead glistens. He must be burning too.
You spot the clench of his jaw, and take a wary step toward him.
“Stop—” he holds a hand out, body turning away from you. “Do not move. Please. Just stay there.” He avoids your gaze.
“What is it?” you ask. You know what it is.
You know what he is feeling, because you feel it too. It presses hard and deep in your abdomen, and it just wants to be relieved. You want to be relieved. And Ser Gwayne Hightower looks rather handsome in this light, surrounded by the pink and purple—and was it red?—flowers. He seems close to pouncing on you like a wild dog. Gods, may he?
He had always been alluring. May it be your frustration that you could never have him in the way you wanted that made you so combative, or the fact that he is a Green—it is probably both, but neither seem so important now. Not when you feel the heat of a thousand suns burn through you, all the way to your core, and then all over again.
The man himself looks close to releasing in his braies just by looking at your face. It brings you some ease, yet also further discomfort, to know that he feels the same as you. You had blocked out the idea, seeing yourself as delusional and unrealistic for thinking he would ever show any form of attraction toward you.
“Gwayne—” you exhale, though it releases itself in the form of a groan. “It is sweltering.” You bend over to clutch the end of your dress, and you are close to pulling it off yourself, if fate was willing. Something halts you.
“Please, don’t.” His voice sounds pitiful. It is all low and whiny. “I do not know if I can handle that. Not now. Not when… fuck.”
You want to keel over and die.
You release the cloth from your grip and let the dress fall back down. You rise back up, slowly, and flatten down the wrinkled fabric of your middle with your hands.
Your lips tremble. “What do you want to do?”
“I am unsure.” He still cannot look you in the eye. “It is impure, and unchivalrous for me to be thinking of you this way.”
“I am all right with it.” It is then that you realize how you sound. Desperate for a Green, as if you were a common whore, which is probably what he thinks of you as. At least he tries to fight it. You should fight it too. You are fierce enough to fight whatever it is that is welling up inside of you.
Your eyes are squeezed shut, and the shame tries to conquer the hunger—but the hunger wins in the blink of an eye. The blink of your eye, in fact, as you look back at Gwayne.
“We cannot,” you mumble. “We should not. I am a maiden. You are the opposition. We cannot.” You repeat the words to yourself, over and over, like a mantra. If the shame did not prevail, perhaps distraction will. Your eyes shut tight again, and you repeat the words. We cannot. We should not. You are a maiden. He is the opposition.
We cannot, we should not, you are a maiden, Ser Gwayne Hightower is hard by simply standing in your presence—
Your eyes snap open, and you find that you are standing directly in front of him. You must have been inching closer to him with each sentence you repeated.
Your gaze flicks down to his crotch. Sure enough, your thoughts did not lie to you. Perhaps your dragon blood has given you the gift of prophecy.
He finds it appropriate to look at you, finally, and you realize how close you are to one another.
In specific—how close your lips are to one another. So, so close, yet so far. You almost want to give in, and you lean just a little closer. He stays still, though when you stop moving, his head moves closer too, close enough that you can almost feel his breath fanning into your own mouth.
Your noses are touching, that is how close you are. You could just slot your lips right onto his. It would be so easy, so incredibly simple, if you would just move forward, just a little—
His hands reach up to cradle your face in his hands, thumbs on either side grazing your cheekbones. They move down your face, down to your lips, and one of the thumbs strokes over the bottom lip. And he closes the gap.
You feel his lips envelope yours first, and then you feel his tongue inch into your mouth. Your lips close over one another’s, and he moans. Ser Gwayne Hightower is moaning into your mouth, and it feels like you have been sent to each of the seven heavens and back again. Your head is pushed backwards with the force of his kiss.
Your hand reaches around to brush over his nape. His hands travel further down your body, one finding itself wrapped around your waist, the other petting your breast over your dress. It seems that the true touch of it pacifies him, as it allows you to push deeper into the kiss, letting your tongue slide into his mouth.
You only break away to lower yourself to the ground. He follows, as though the answers to every challenge in his life were held on your lips. He hikes your dress up your legs, your smallclothes with it, until they both pool at your waist.
He lifts two fingers to his mouth, coating them in spit before reaching down to your bare cunt and thrusting them inside. You let out a shrieking moan, letting your head press into the dirt below you and thrashing back and forth in pleasure.
“Look at me,” Gwayne instructs. You let your eyes lock onto his, you try, but the deep press of his fingers inside of you makes it hard to focus. His lips, hanging open, hover just above yours, and he moves forward to bring you and he together again.
It is breathing moans into each other’s mouths and pathetic, desperate mashing before you finally get the hold onto his lips, or perhaps him onto yours. His fingers cease, and slip out swift enough for it to go unnoticed for a single moment.
He breaks apart from your mouth, and wastes no time in sliding himself down your body. The disappointment at the loss of his fingers does not last long, as his lips lock onto your cunt.
Gwayne snakes his arms under your legs and he yanks your body closer to him. Your fingers curl in his hair, and he only laps harder at you.
“Y—yes, ser—” you cry, your thighs squeezing his head, clit pulsating under the assault of his tongue.
He breaks away for just a moment, big blue eyes locking onto your weak ones. “Not ser. Gwayne. My name is Gwayne.”
And he dives back into you, gathering your wetness on his tongue in a torturous swipe from bottom to top, one that earns a sweet little whine from the depths of your throat. It reminds him, in that moment, of the sounds you would make when you did not get your way back in Oldtown—the sounds he would shamefully think of as he fucked his fist late at night, the sounds that he would repent about for thinking and acting on with such humiliating vitality, and more importantly, for not regretting any of it in the slightest.
The sheer relief you get from his mouth onto yours is unlike anything you have felt before, because you have not felt it before. You had heard word of the act in song, and in gossip spread around by your ladies-in-waiting, but to experience it was the greatest decision you ever made. A true, gallant knight between your legs, satiating the hunger that spread in your loins and his alike, yet he is only focused on your release now, latching his tongue on your clit and sucking hard.
His fingers graze your folds and glide around the edges, already slick with your wet. One finger probes, just the slightest bit, and you shudder at the contact.
You let out a loud cry as it presses itself fully inside, without warning. Perfection, you think you hear him say. The words vibrate on your clit, agonizingly so.
His finger pumps in and out of you, and his mouth works on your cunt all the same. The fire in your veins only grows stronger as your climax approaches.
Your fingers tug and pull on his hair, and somewhere in the middle of your gratification a second slim finger of his joins the first, pressing deep into your cunt as they allow him.
The sounds coming from your mouth you do not think you have ever made before. They approach from deep in your lungs and are hoarsely ripped from your throat.
It creeps closer, that unfamiliar thing called release, and your walls tighten around his fingers. Gwayne only sucks harder, and pushes his fingers further into your cunt, his knuckles pressing into your folds.
The feeling floods your body in an instant. It feels prickly, for some odd reason, and it nips your limbs, but blissfully so. Your brain feels fuzzy, and you cannot think of anything but him. It is a way that makes you crave for it immediately once it ebbs.
You let out a little sob once his fingers slip out from inside you. You didn’t know you were crying, and a few stray tears fall from your eyes before you realize.
Gwayne licks a stripe up your cunt, collecting whatever fluids he procured down there into his mouth and swallowing them with the gulp of a man who might just be dying of thirst.
He is up your body and has his wet lips on yours by the time you tear yourself away from the sight. It is then that you feel how truly hard he is under his linens. His cock presses against your spent core, and he nearly jerks back at the contact.
“Gwayne,” you breathe, and his head shoots up to look at you.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he mumbles, suddenly winded by the sweet sound of his name on your tongue.
“I want you to fuck me.”
He is frozen solid at your ask. Your arousal on his mouth glistens with each slight twitch upward. “You’re sure of it?”
You nod, but it is not enough.
“Tell me,” he commands.
“I want you to fuck me, Gwayne, how else must I tell you?” you reply impatiently, and grind your hips up to feel his hardened cock brush against you once more.
Both of your hands come up and intertwine themselves behind his neck, preventing him from straying any further—pulling him down to you, in fact, so you can grind up on him some more.
You lift your head from the ground to try and capture his lips into a somewhat calculating kiss, but his strength prevails, and his head softly twitches back before your mouth can get hold on his.
You fall back, defeated, but his hand comes to hold your wrist, and he comes down to close the gap. He chuckles into your mouth at your desperation, and you only kiss him harder, as if you were trying to become one with him.
His hand rubs up and down your wrist for a moment, before he reaches down to release his lower half from his linens.
You take a hand from off his neck and reach down to meet his own, searching around for his cock. You get a firm grip on it, stroking it up once. He lets out a shuddery moan, and his hand finds your wrist once again—not stopping you, but guiding you, perhaps.
He pumps himself with your hand, and you let him for only a moment, before overpowering his gentleness and guiding his length to your cunt. The tip of it glides on your folds. You could die right here, and it would be okay.
Gwayne pushes into you with a wounded groan, his jaw hanging wide open. You, on the other hand, nearly shriek.
He rocks himself out of you slowly, then back into you almost sluggishly.
“Is this all right?” he manages through strangled breaths, and you nod fervently, using the hand still on his neck to push his head closer to yours.
You mean to kiss him, but his forehead lies on yours instead. You’ll take what you can get.
He presses swift pecks on your cheeks, on your nose, and on your lips as he gains momentum. Your eyes flutter shut, but his hand comes up to press a few light smacks to your cheek.
“I said to look at me,” he grunts. “I want to see your eyes—“
You open them back up at that. They’re glossed over again, with tears, and you’re glad that Gwayne does not take it as pain. There was pain, but it is long gone. He kisses the droplets as they fall from the corners of your eyes.
It is utterly intoxicating, the drag of his hips. He seems to lose himself in the feeling too. Wave after wave of constant pleasure washes over you with the somehow gentle slam of him into you.
You babble incomprehensible speech, just as lost as he is as he, slack-jawed as he fucks you. His eyes are focused on your face, your face saturated with sweat, for a single twitch of anything at all, yet he finds nothing. Nothing but rapture, as he believes it should be. He brings his hand back down to your clit and strokes it so delicately, but it brings you sweet relief all the more.
You feel it cresting again. Up your spine, down your legs, dumbing your brain into mush, prickling at the back of your neck. “Gods, Gwayne—Oh, gods, I’m gonna—“
You don’t finish the sentence. It hits you, you cum again, so hard around his cock, and it isn’t long into your perfect bliss before he is pulls out, spilling his seed onto the bunched-up cotton of your dress.
You feel as though you are one with him. It is like your flesh melts into his. Your sweat certainly does, especially as he joins his forehead with yours again, all sticky and damp.
“I am deeply sorry—” he says in between quick kisses, “to have taken your maidenhood.”
You shake your head softly. “If it shames you so, I can raise a proposition of marriage to my mother once we get back to the Keep.” He laughs at that, unknowing you were not telling a joke.
Still, you breathe out a chuckle.
day nine
The communal bath that you had found yourself in was satisfyingly empty. Since Gwayne had taken your maidenhood two moons previous, you had been desperate for it to happen again, and again, and perhaps a thousand times more, though you resisted the urge to ask outright while in the inns.
Now, though, seemed like the perfect moment to do so. You could clean yourself properly for the first time in weeks, and then dirty yourself all over again with the satisfaction of your mutual sin.
He had already undone the laces of your dress for you, and you stepped out of the gown that dropped to your feet, eager to feel the warmth of the water envelop your skin. And for him to join you. So that you could see—and feel—his bare body, properly. You had already shed your linens by the time you made it to the water.
You had retreated to the further side of the bath, so that you could watch as Gwayne undressed himself. It was nicer like this, being able to take in his body for the first time, as he stripped off his gambeson, then his chausses, and then, finally, his smallclothes.
His figure was very unsurprisingly robust. The light of the countless candles surrounding the baths set for quite the intimate atmosphere.
You bit back a smile as he inched closer to the bath, stepping inside with a heavy sigh of relief. The Hightowers did seem to prioritize cleanliness. Perhaps they place it next to godliness. Gwayne certainly does not seem to mind, given how keen he was to eat your cunt until you came undone on his tongue.
He threw his head back with a shuddering sigh once he finally sunk into the water. You watch as the grime expels from the surface of his body in one fell swoop, becoming one with the rest of the stream.
“Have you something to say?” he questions, a brow darted upward at your uncharacteristically blissful expression.
Your cheeks flushed, a harder, content smile crossing over your face. “Just observing.”
“Must you observe so far?” he mutters.
“I must,” you sneer, giving a firm nod.
His eyes flick down to your bare breasts, sat warped on your chest under the soft wave of the water.
He quickly averts his gaze to the center of the bath once you perk them forward with your arms.
“I am truly apologetic,” he starts. “For taking your maidenhood. ‘specially in such an unclean place, where anyone could have seen us if they had simply come to probe into the noise.”
You scoff. “Would you have preferred it happen inside the walls of some dull inn?”
“I’d have preferred you comfortable.”
“I was comfortable. I am comfortable.”
At his silence, you push yourself off of the wall and glide over to him. He sits frozen as your chest brushes against his arm.
“Are you a maid, ser? Well—were you a maid?” you question, feigning a look of innocence.
“I haven’t been a maid for a long time, princess.” His head hangs low.
He lets you grip his arm and guide it between your legs. “Are you ashamed of the fact?”
“I am ashamed that I am not,” he mutters, seemingly unfazed as you grind your cunt against his wrist. You let out a low moan, your breath wavering before you realize his lament.
So you release his arm from your hold and straddle his hips, placing your hands on each of his shoulders. Your chest is eye level with his face. It seems to be the only thing that can bring his head back up.
You can feel his cock hardening below you as you rock back and forth against him. He watches your face that stares down back at him—both of your jaws are slack, and you breathe heavy pants into each others mouths, gaining some semblance of pleasure from the act.
But it is not enough, no. It is never enough.
You take a hand from his shoulder and reach down to grip his length, guiding it into your walls at once. You push down unto him with a sweet little cry, one quickly silenced by his lips on your own.
His kiss is just as tender as you remember it being, amorous flowers aside, and you hum into him. A hand cups your cheek and he tilts his head, his tongue breaching the plush of your lips, just exploring.
Your fingers curl around his nape as you thrust, up and down, up and down, and he concurrently rolls his hips back and forth.
“Fuck—sweet princess—” he moans once he breaks apart from your mouth.
You gasp and shudder, and he reaches his head up to kiss all over your face. Your eye, the brow bone above it, down to the highest point of your cheek on the side of your face, then to the corner of your lip, and then he cranes his head down to kiss you on your neck. You throw your head back to allow him access.
Once he reaches your sternum, he darts his tongue out first when attaching his lips to it. “Oh, gods,” you whimper into his hair.
“Ser? Gwayne—” you can't quite speak, the words near dying on your tongue. “Are you mine, Gwayne? Tell me—” your hips slow, and his only speed up. He begins fucking up into you, and another moan rips through your throat.
He nods fervently against your neck, lifting his head back up to see you. “I am yours, princess. Fuck—” his hips stutter, though he relents.
It does not give you solace. If he is yours, how long shall he remain so? Until the gods rip him from your grasp—which would be soon now, with each tread of your horses closer to the Red Keep.
His hand slides up to your ribs as if to stabilize you, and he wraps it around your middle. His forehead drops to your shoulder, raising with each jolt of your body upward, the constant slam of his cock up into your cunt and then out again.
You know few things now, except for him. Your walls clench around him, and he nearly ceases at that. You continue in his ministrations, rocking back and forth onto him, savoring in the way his length hits you in the spot that makes you feel near the brink of climax.
“I love you.” You think you hear yourself say. And he just watches you, as you chase your peak, so blissfully unaware of the words that just came from your mouth. Your sweet mouth.
Gwayne reaches a hand to cradle your head, and push it closer to his, so that he can take your sweet mouth into his. It is less of a kiss and more of two mouths pressing against each other, but you accept it either way. The two of you pant raggedly against each other, and you feel your core tighten with each deep press of his cock inside of you.
He can feel it too. It is more of threat than satisfying, the idea of spilling his seed inside of you, but you seem to not care. You might just not know. If you were true to your word of your maidenhood—he does not care if you were or not—you must be pitifully unknowledgeable on the subject.
He remembers word of you being betrothed to some high lord widow who had died on the frontlines of battle when the war first broke out, fighting for the side of your mother. Then, once you were captured, there was word of you marrying one of his two younger Targaryen nephews. The thought of you being kept as a prisoner for Aemond sends a shudder through his body, and he rids himself free of the idea as his orgasm approaches closer.
“My princess—” he tries. You do not notice. You persist in your pursuit of release, and he grips your jaw gently, catching your attention. “Look at me.”
You nod at nothing in particular, mouth hanging open and mewling needy whimpers as you oscillate on his cock.
“I cannot—I cannot cum inside.” He lets out a strangled moan as you begin grinding faster than just moments before, as if encouraging him to do so.
“Why not?” you breathe.
His head nearly lulls back as he staves off his own release. “You could get with child.”
You grip his hand and lead it to your breast, and he lets himself fall for your entrancement, kneading it between his fingers. Your nipple is caught between two of them, and he presses them together just the slightest bit too hard, earning a wince from above him. It makes him realize he has been regrettably neglecting them this entire time.
“My breasts are sore.” You inhale sharply. “I shall bleed soon.”
Ah. In that case—
Gwayne dips his hands back into the water, finding your hips to guide them, delighting in the way your moans grow more and more fervent as his cock drags against your walls.
It approaches swift, and you do not have any time nor stamina to warn him of it. You wonder if he can sense it.
Just as quick as it came, it washes over you in an instant. Your muscles clamp down around him, and he moans loud into your shoulder—you soon feel a warmth deep in your womb, the warmth of his seed. A minuscule part of you hopes it will take.
Shortly afterward, he lifts your bodies from the water, carrying you with your legs wrapped around him. His cock has slipped out of you, but the kiss he places on your lips distracts you from the loss.
You push his chest, separating your mouths, and wrap your arms around his neck. “Let us leave together, Gwayne. Silverwing is large enough to saddle two. You could be a sellsword, and I a scribe—I your wife. I shall give you children, if it is what you desire. We can spend our days in rest and tranquility, like this.” Your breath still hasn’t caught.
It is a moment of silence before Gwayne finds the words. The dubious words, though the ones that provide enough hope to settle you. “Perhaps, my princess. Do not worry yourself with eventuality.” And he sets you down on the marble just above the bath. Your calves dip back into the water, and it is then you realize that they are aching.
He kneels down into the water and takes your legs over his shoulders. You feel the stretch in your thighs, equal parts from their growing soreness and the length of his shoulders. His release begins seeping out of your cunt from the pressure of it all.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then to the inside of your thigh, and then finally to your clit. His head dips down to your opening, and he sucks.
It becomes more like he is kissing, or eating you, at some point. You cannot tell. The pleasure has already gotten to be too much, and you are writhing under him.
His arms wrap around your thighs and he pulls you closer to his mouth, and you loudly and embarrassingly moan, your fingers rake through his hair, gripping it tight when his nose brushes against your clit.
You haven’t discovered his objective, but thank the gods for him. It is somewhat relaxing and simultaneously frustrating for him to be lapping away mindlessly at your cunt.
“Please, Gwayne, let me cum—” you beg, all breathless and crestfallen, and his eyes flick up to you. He finds you are the most spoiled thing he has ever met, yet also the most beautiful. He thinks, in that moment, that he truly should consider being taken as your husband.
He nods once. “As you wish.”
And his mouth is replaced by his fingers. He pumps them into you, a relentless pace, and his lips find themselves back onto you, but now on your clit.
He laps at you and rocks his fingers further inside, getting your folds all slick and glossy with both your own and his own arousal, as well as his own saliva.
He curls his fingers deep in your cunt, in that spongy spot that once sheathed his cock, and it is enough to bring you to climax before you realize it.
You swear your vision goes black for a moment as you cum, and the bliss fills your body over the irritation. It was embarrassingly fast how quickly he brought you to absolution, but you did not have enough might to let it wash over you the way your orgasm had.
Gwayne looks up at you with those big blue eyes of his, now glossed over. The lower half of his face is sheen with your cum—his cum—and he pants and lifts himself up to join you on the marble, his strong body glistening with the damp of the bath.
You think you might faint.
day fourteen
Tonight’s inn had been the nicest of all fourteen. You and Gwayne had jointly decided for it to be the last of your stops, and that you would make the journey the rest of the way there without sleeping.
It was not long to King’s Landing. As much as you had longed to see your mother, and to be home again, the thought of what would happen to Gwayne in the coming days was a thought too harrowing to bear.
But it had lingered in your mind since the field. Certainly he could not leave you, having taken your maidenhood. Your mother would find a way. She knows what it is like to be infatuated with someone you should not be infatuated with. She knows Gwayne. As a soldier for the opposition, yes, but she knows him all the more.
If she has held mercy for his sister, she would certainly hold mercy for him, especially given the situation at hand. The situation of you being in love with a Hightower, and him having bedded you—well, fucked you in a field, then in a bath, a few scattered moments along the road of him lapping at your cunt, or sticking his fingers there to cull your nerves the nights you were too tense to sleep. Your mother coddled you enough before you were taken hostage, and she would certainly do more once you are back with her.
Gwayne seems to sense your restlessness. You have resorted to single bed rooms in the inns, given the underestimated lack of coin he decided to bring with him. He has been able to pick up on your behavior for the last few days—noting to himself how much you lack sleep the closer you get to King’s Landing—and he has always been able to get you to talk about it. Tonight, you seem not wanting of his perception.
He turns over to face you. “Are you feeling well?” he asks.
You look to him for a moment. “I feel fine.”
Propping himself up on one arm, he maneuvers himself closer until he is hovering above you, as he stares down at where you lie. “You mustn’t need to lie.” His voice is soft.
Your lungs expand with a heavy breath of air. “I do not wish for you to leave when we return to the Red Keep. You told me that we would talk about it, and we never have.”
He brushes your hair behind your ear with his free hand. “What would you like to talk about?”
“I want us to wed.”
Gwayne stares into you. And then hangs his head low with laughter.
“I am serious, Gwayne. If you swore fealty to my mother, the rightful queen, she would show you mercy. I have no doubt she has shown it to your sister, and to your niece and her daughter too.” His smile was wiped from his face sometime as you spoke.
“You cannot be certain of that, though, can you princess?” he mumbles, raising his head back up to cock it to the side.
“I cannot.” You begin picking at the skin around your fingernails.
Gwayne places a hand over them, stopping you. “The agreement was for me to bring you, unharmed, to the Red Keep. And then I would leave, or they would have my head.” His hand envelops one of yours.
“My mother would not let them have it, if I simply tell her.”
“You speak lightly of a heavy thing, my princess.” He squeezes your hand a bit tighter. “If you so much as suggest that the Hightowers are anything less than treasonous vipers, your mother’s council will smell a captive who has learned to love her cage. You are her only daughter, yes, and she adores you. Therefore, if she discovers how thoroughly I have failed to keep my distance, amnesty will be the last thing she grants my house. It will be fire and blood, starting with my head on a pike.”
“She knows what it is like to love someone forbidden to her.”
Gwayne grins at your words. “She also knows she must satisfy her council,” he says softly.
As much as it pains you, you realize he is right. Yet he still remains as handsome as ever in the dark, and his lips are glossed over, looking so plump and lonely.
“Will you kiss me?” you mutter, and kiss you he does. His mouth is just as soft as you had imagined, and he is still so tender and hesitant in his ministrations you almost feel a want to take over.
Your lips are pliable, though, and part for him almost instantly. The hand that held yours comes up to cradle your cheek, and your legs open up a spot for him to slot himself into.
You are grateful for the loss of layers in spite of the outdoor elements—which have been terribly cold nearly the entire journey—as they give you easy access to the growing length in Gwayne’s linens.
He breathes a low groan into your mouth when you reach a hand under the fabric cuff of his waist to grip his cock. You pump him in a slow rhythm, and he nearly falters completely, the arm propping him up above you buckling and lowering him to his elbow.
The hand cradling your face moves to your own core, and he hastily hikes your shift up your thighs. His fingers find your cunt, pressing his thumb to your clit and stroking it.
The two of you breath and pant into one another’s mouth, the speed of both of your caresses increasing as your moans do.
“Would you—” Gwayne pants, “like me inside?”
You nod eagerly, and pull your hand from his cock. His own hand ceases motion on you, and he uses both arms to gather your body and flip you onto your stomach. The featherbed mattress bounces with the movement, and you reach your hands behind you to pull your shift up entirely to your middle, perking your ass up toward him.
Gwayne has already rid himself of his smallclothes in the meantime. He places a hand right above your backend, stabilizing both you and himself, and lines himself up with your cunt.
He leans his body over yours and presses soft kisses along your spine, pushing himself inside of you with a long groan. You let out a needy one all the same.
“Keep moving—” you beg, letting the top of your head fall to the pillow below you. He hums in response, and begins thrusting slowly, still hesitant.
It is a stretch, but a welcome one nonetheless. It is easy to lose trail of your thoughts with the drag of his cock in and out and the press of his chest to your back, the song of his pretty little grunts and groans singing in your ear.
He wraps his arms around your middle, one hand gripping a breast through the soft cotton of your shift. You flick your hair away from your neck, and his lips quickly find the spot, tipping you into absolute bliss.
One of his arms, the one not clutching your chest, sneaks down to your core, and he begins rubbing your clit with a seemingly endless vitality.
The other pushes the two of you up so that you are both standing on your knees. Your hands extend to his head behind you, pushing it closer as you awkwardly crane your neck so that you can join your lips with his in what may be the sloppiest way they have ever met each other.
His fingers continue their assault on your pearl, and his hips rock into you, and it all feels so much. So good, yet so much. Your chest rises and falls rapidly with each slam of his cock into your cunt, the strength of which also makes his head bob slightly into your kiss, coating the area above and below and beside your lips with his own spit.
There is little surprisingly little build-up to your release. It comes quick, like the tide coming in to take away a shell from the shore. It seems to tear through you, lighting up every nerve in your body, pulled straight from your breathless lungs and your racing heart and illuminating your frenzied brain with nothing other than euphoria.
He is still pumping in and out of you, seemingly chasing his own release. You feel a warmth deep in your overwhelmed cunt, and you know he has come, his body slowing entirely. He breaks away from your lips with a soft little cry, and you simply look at each other for a moment as your breath returns to the both of you.
In this moment, you think Ser Gwayne Hightower is the most beautiful creature in the world.
“You are more than a beauty,” he says in turn. You grin at him, still breathless, and join your lips together once more.
day sixteen
When you arrive at the gates of the Red Keep, Syrax and Caraxes are posted on the battlements.
You look over, and Gwayne seems as if he might just curl up and die. You scoff out a laugh at the sight, and he immediately straightens his back.
Open the gates, yells some guard from behind the wall, and the gate begins to part, grinding against the gravel below.
You will see your mother today. For the first time in months, you will see your mother. Will she be different? Is she a different person now that she is on the throne? More importantly, will she be a different person now that her eldest son is dead? You wonder if they have burned the body yet, or perhaps even set it out to sea. He could not become a Targaryen, as he would never become King—the gods would not allow it, so history will remember him as a Velaryon. It would only be fitting for his body to be released into the water.
You should tell her about this. She must be so overwhelmed with all of her recent duties, she may have forgotten about the fact. Is little Joffrey still in the Vale? Surely, mother must have sent for his return by now. He is too vulnerable there on his own, no matter who he is with.
When you blink hard in an attempt to settle yourself, you realize your horse has been guided inside the walls of the Keep, and Gwayne is helping you off of your horse. His hands are on your waist, and you jump down with a grip on his wrists to stabilize you. Yet your eyes are not on him—they are on any entrance, every door where your mother could come out of.
He sighs, and you finally glance at him. His hands hesitate to leave their spot on your middle. “You are home, and you are safe, my princess.” And then his arms drop back to his side, as if ashamed he let them linger for a moment too long.
“Must you go?” you breathe out a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood that seems to deepen with each passing moment.
His hand reaches for yours, and his voice is lower now. “It is the deal.”
For some reason, your heart seems to shatter. It feels odd and disheartening, knowing that he in this moment has a harsher effect on you than anything before.
Your expression has dropped, and Gwayne must be able to see it. His hand grips yours tighter, and he sucks in a breath, his head dropping to avoid your gaze. Your gaze, which quickly wells with tears. You are confused as to how this would have been the outcome of your journey together—and you are unsure if you are glad of it, or instead disappointed in yourself for not realizing that this is what would always happen.
You lower your voice too. “I do not want you to go,” you say, and your hand finally reciprocates Gwayne’s affection. You clutch it, tight, hoping it may get through to him.
It does not. His head does not lift, not even a single bit. You think you can see his brows furrow.
“I have done my duty, my princess,” he mumbles.
Hundreds of solutions flow through your mind in an instant. He could stay, swear fealty to your mother, and he could be yours. He could be your sworn shield and protector. He could be yours, if he would only say yes.
You open your mouth to say it, but nothing comes out. The words die on your tongue.
“Stay,” is what you can manage. “Please, Gwayne.”
His head tilts up, but he still averts his gaze from yours. Something else, something in the distance, catches his attention. It catches yours too. Two heads of familiar lengthy silver hair—your mother and her husband—inch closer to you and Gwayne.
The hand that held onto his was already back at your side. You must have done it without thought.
“Mummy,” you mumble. And she smiles.
She inches closer to you, seemingly dumbfounded that the sight before her is real. “Sweet girl,” she says, and you feel close to crumbling.
You want to step closer, to close the gap between the two of you, but you cannot bring yourself to leave his side.
But Gwayne is by your side one moment, and gone the next. He is pulled away by the gold cloaks, and it is with little struggle. He lets himself be pulled away. He lets himself be pushed out of the walls of the Keep, and he watches as you stand and stammer all bewildered and reaching to plead his forgiveness to the queen.
The gate closes on him once his horse is by his side.
day thirty five
You have not found much use for yourself since you have returned to the Red Keep. Neither has anyone else.
The war still rages on. It reminds you of the promise you had made to yourself, to leave if it did not end, to leave with Gwayne to Essos. He would be a sellsword, and you a scribe, under the protection of Silverwing.
It seemed a better life, a freer life, you and he on the road together. Being locked away in your chambers of your own volition, anything seemed better.
But Gwayne had abandoned you that day. He had let himself be carried away, and your mother had ignored your pleas of his fealty. It seemed nobody was on your side.
You had only wished for peace. Whatever had grown in place of it had taken your brothers away from you, and Gwayne, too, in some way.
If the war had not gone on, perhaps you could have met him another way. Perhaps he would have been your betrothed. And you could love him the way you wanted to, the way you should have since you woke up in the encampment with him by your side.
He had protected you all those months ago, you had come to realize. The violence of the men who fought under his command would have harmed you more than the words that came from his mouth when defending himself in your stupid fights, the ones you would feed into when he forced you to ride alongside him as the soldiers would march further into the Reach. The words that you replied with when he would anger you, when he would attempt to get close to you.
You should have let him get close to you when he tried. Your need for survival had prevailed then and you took every attempt as some sort of tactic to manipulate you to his side.
But Gwayne had no side, as you swiftly figured out. He wanted out of his cage seemingly as badly as you did, but he did the intelligent thing—the thing he warned you he would always do—and returned to his people, to those he swore loyalty to.
These days, it feels you have no people. Your mother is always off attending to her royal duties, your stepfather and cousins assisting her. And you have no brothers left to bond to. Joffrey is still too little, and too shy, to converse with. The others, your half-siblings, are just a few years young.
If the Hightowers had left you for dead that day, you think you would be more comfortable in the arms of the Stranger than you do in this seemingly haunted home. Your maidenhood would be untainted, and your memory would live on as tragic and loyal. You had left to fight for your mother’s cause after all and you would have died for it then, gods willing.
A piece of you wants to hurl yourself from a window for the treasonous thoughts you have had, but you just want peace. You want peace and freedom. Most of all, though, you want Gwayne.
You can only hope he wants you too, wherever he is. You will wait, and you will bide your time until the war is over—if you live until then. And you will take Silverwing and fly to him, and you will be with him, and you will exile yourselves to Essos. You will dream of that outcome until it happens.
⤿ warnings: smut (mdni), loss of virginity, bath sex, fingering (fem!rec), biting, multiple positions (cowgirl, from behind), heavy kissing, scratching, sexual ending implied, heavy breeding kink, creampie, mutual orgasm, rough(er) sex, both cregan & reader are horny
⤿ note: first kinktober request under my belt! Loved writing this one and it was a nice return to Cregan (love him with my whole being)
Even a smoldering fire wilted in the midst of the Northern chill, a biting ice that consumed all traces of warmth, swallowing it whole.
Winds from beyond The Wall whistled down from desolate lands, bringing with it its bitterness and sting, seeking to envelop all within it.
Glacial are the wreaths of snow-furled gales that blanket Winterfell in their pale harshness — it even seeps into your bones, bones forged of fire and blood.
It was difficult to take comfort in such foreign surroundings, from the dusting of ice forming on window panes to the bristling chill that rakes across your spine. The North was not Dragonstone — it was not home.
Unconventional was the singular word that plagued your mind when it came to your sudden marriage to Cregan Stark, a union made in a frenzied haste to gain allies in a brewing war.
It was as if you were merely a pawn to be moved across a board by your kin — your Mother, in particular. She was the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, yet you couldn’t help but feel hopelessly abandoned here in the North, under the supposed guise of safety.
Jacaerys had departed shortly after your wedding in the Godswood, bidding his strenuous farewell before leaving you in the company of your stoic husband.
Your brother was not thrilled with the prospect, cautioning against it, but duty demanded it of you, and you dared not defy your mother. Admittedly, it could’ve been worse, this unusual match.
Cregan Stark was not a foul man — he was rough, like the uneven surface of leather or the cracks of a cliffside, a mountain so stalwart that you wondered if he ever smiled. A sliver of you pondered if his dour visage was because of you.
Stoicism seemed interwoven into his demeanor, tempestuous hues glistening with a stern wisdom that stretched far beyond his years. Cregan was only two namedays your senior, yet he behaved as if he were a grizzled veteran.
He did not consummate the night of your wedding, much to your bewilderment. You could only muster up a series of kisses and an untied gown before nervousness tore you asunder, anxiousness gnawing away at your belly.
Cregan did not press you any further, citing that he wished to give you a berth, a space to yourself as you processed your new environment. It was a sentiment that you vastly appreciated, yet you felt so completely alone.
The autumnal canopy of the Wolfswood had become your constant companion in the weeks that had passed since your union to Cregan. At dusk, you would converse with your Northern husband, who’s exterior seemed to melt slightly with each passing day.
Duty did not always permit the two of you to spend time together — oftentimes, it kept you separated, tethered to two differing realities.
After supper, you retired to your marital chambers, prepared to end your evening with a hot bath and a bit of light reading to preoccupy your time. Cregan did not appear, which was commonplace, strategizing alongside his advisors.
Chambermaids prepared your steaming bath, hot enough to singe those without dragon’s blood coursing through their veins. Wisps of heated vapor drifted toward the ceiling of the cozy washroom, a humid warmth permeating stone.
Deliberately, you untied each strand of lace, deftly unraveling yourself from your evening gown. Fingertips graced the thick fur that lined the trim as you draped it over a chair, flicking strands of your hair aside.
Footsteps resonated outside of the mahogany door, their shadow falling across you. You hadn’t expected Cregan to return so soon, prompting you to step into the water before sinking beneath, reclining against one edge.
Gentle sloshing of water caught his attention once he abandoned Ice and his cloak, retracing his steps to the door of the washroom. “My Lady.” He greeted you, lingering just outside in hopes to converse, even if it were fleeting.
A strange lump formed within your throat as you gingerly scrubbed at your arm with floral-laden soap, throat becoming thick. “Ah — my Lord,” You did not sound confident. “I wasn’t expecting your return so swiftly.”
Cregan found it increasingly difficult to act gallant around you, resolve hanging by a thread, honor crumbling away. Instinct and desire festered within his heart, lust where he knew it shouldn’t be — but he was a man who wanted his wife.
If this weren’t so rushed in an attempt to forge allegiances, he would have courted you properly, taken the time to learn your heart before devolving to carnality.
He learned some, but he knew that you were nervous, and he could not blame you for it. Tossed to the wolves, a lone dragon — Cregan did not want to frighten you any further.
“One can only play tactician for so long before it becomes an uphill battle,” Cregan uttered, chestnut brows furrowing together. “Are you well?” He inquired, tone one of a gentler resonance, laced with sympathy.
“Well enough,” Biting at your cheek, you considered your next words carefully, gaze boring a hole through the door. “Did you … Were you wanting to join me?” As much as it turned your stomach with butterflies, you did not want to continue being so shy.
In the sight of the Old Gods, he was your husband — Cregan had treated you with the greatest care and decency, and continuing to hide from him would only worsen things. You knew that it needn’t be so disconcerting.
Cregan’s jaw tensed, a sly heat blooming throughout his chest as he considered your stiff proposal. It sounded uncertain, and he did not dare act on uncertainty alone. Yet, the thought was tantalizing — he thought of you often.
Some part of him felt reduced to a boy, a coil of sudden nerves that he promptly abandoned, steeling himself for you. “I would only join you if you wanted it, my lady. Do not force yourself to be uncomfortable.” He rumbled.
The more you sat, alone in the herb-speckled waters, the more you yearned. There was nothing to fear from Cregan Stark, an honorable man whose patience was as unyielding as the mountains.
To grow was to rid yourself of girlish fright, and you did just that, steadying your erratic breathing as you sat up a little straighter. You reminded yourself that he was your husband, that he would not touch you unless you asked it of him.
“I want you to,” Your saccharine voice fluttered between the iron-etched wood, now a thin degree of separation between yourself and your husband. “Please, come in.”
Silently, Cregan prayed to the Gods to let him behave, to curb his animalistic appetite and to allow himself a gentler touch. Having already shed most of his leathers, he turned to knob, stepping inside to a homely nook of humid air and warmth.
Storm-colored hues fixed themselves to you, demure and sitting so soundly in the bathtub, yet you were the very image of perfection. His hand clenched in a desperate attempt to relieve some of his own tension.
You nearly shrank beneath the penetrating stare of your husband, whose coiled posture reminded you of a wolf preparing to strike. It made your heart hammer beneath your breast, hand gripping the edge of the tub just a little tighter.
His gaze screamed of affection, of desire, of ardor — Cregan was not as intimidating as you thought him to be, visage softening at the sight of you.
Tension clouded the washroom, thick enough to be sundered into two with a broadsword. Cregan wordlessly tugged his rugged tunic aside, exposing a thick wall of corded muscle, an impenetrable force that made your breath hitch.
To you, he seemed sculpted from a cliffside — rustic and hardened, the form of a warrior made, not chiseled, his own incarnation of godlike. Your stare shamelessly traversed the bulky plane of his musculature.
You were quick to glance away when he removed his trousers, causing you to shift beneath the water, skin glistening with a damp sheen. Again, you staved off your nerves as he lowered himself into the bath, taking up plenty of space.
In his solace, he drank you in again as if you were the finest stout, the very essence of beauty. Cregan felt the tension, the way it curled around the both of you, hesitation brewing in place of action.
It was you who shattered the silence, first with a tender smile, second with your words. “I must confess, I am glad that you are here,” A warm stirring began to unfurl across your chest. “I’ve been quite lonely.”
Cregan admonished himself for your feelings in silence, visage etched with a calm empathy. “Forgive me, then,” He murmured. “I did not know that my absence had become so cumbersome. I thought it best to let you adjust — alone.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” You assured, countenance as warm as the first sigh of springtime, melting away at his icy exterior. “You have been so understanding and kind, and I do not know how to thank you for it.”
“I would gladly make time for you, wife,” His utterance of the word wife made you shiver in delight. “I know now that this is something we will brave together, and not apart.” Cregan nodded, hoping that conversation would distract him.
He was unbearably hard, cock throbbing with such an incessant ache that he nearly abandoned the bath altogether. It was then that you reached for his hand, digits tracing along his forearm.
Cregan gripped the tub like a vice with his hand, so tense that his muscle threatened to tear apart. Your embrace was like silk, a shroud that he wished to wrap himself within. His gaze intensified, stuck to you with a fervor.
“I did not invite you inside just to converse,” Your whisper was hoarse, shrewd — you were finding your voice, and Cregan thoroughly enjoyed it. “I wish to try.”
“You cannot try from that distance.” Cregan’s tone was akin to the trembling of thunder from the skies, dripping with a thinly-veiled desire. There was affection present, yet lust seemed to win out as he coaxed you closer.
Once you waded into arm’s reach, your husband brusquely tugged you into his lap, causing you to gasp as he caressed your hip. His kiss was akin to a tide of fire, washing over you with an unyielding burn, heat crawling across your flesh.
You reciprocated without hesitation, palms finding their purchase atop his chest, nails digging into muscle when you felt his cock prod into your stomach. Gods, he was intimidating — you feared your physical state on the morrow.
It was unmistakable, his passion — the desire he’d built for you came crashing down, entangled with your budding desire.
A thick, calloused palm cupped your hip, kneading into the curves there, the other finding the soft flesh of your breast. He gingerly groped your chest, fingers gracing across your nipple, evoking an excitable whine from you.
“Gods, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes upon,” Cregan’s husked tone was akin to a growl, reverberating against your mouth. “My wife.” He uttered, reveling in your flustered expression.
Lips clamored as if it would be their last dance, and he found himself kissing your jaw, your neck — wherever he could reach. It was a near-frenzy, acted upon with passion and a wolfish appetite, a desire that scorched his bones.
“Cregan,” A labored moan ripped through your throat, crackling with excitement as you tilted your head backward. He thoroughly reveled at the sound of you singing his name, a rumble reverberating throughout his chest. “Please, I need you.”
Slotted firmly within his lap, Cregan let the hand upon your hip drift elsewhere, dipping beneath the water as he sought the heat between your legs. His kisses were relentless, etched against your neck like a hot brand.
He needed you just as terribly, a want so powerful that it nearly obliterated him, scorching his heart with your own desire. His thick digits found your flower, thumb circling the pearl of your cunt.
A sharp gasp escaped you, lips agape as another wine emerged from your mouth. You hadn’t been touched like this before, not from a man so learned as Cregan, who studied your body with his hawkish gaze.
Your hips possessed a mind of their own, desperately chasing after any shred of friction from his hand, nails clamping into his broad shoulders. A soft chuckle shook his body, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine.
“Easy, princess,” Cregan murmured, teeth gently scraping over your jugular before he pressed a kiss there. “Do not tire yourself so quickly.” He cautioned, toying with your clit in slow, deliberate motions.
His cock prodded against your cunt, filling you with a sudden wave of anticipation. His stature seemed to confirm what you already knew, prompting you to swallow the lump within your throat.
Cregan would never tire of you, and he knew that this would not be enough to satiate his hunger for you, an appetite as ravenous as that of a starving wolf. He wanted to taste you, occupy the space between heart and ribcage, never part from you — duty be damned.
Pressing another string of greedy kisses against the column of your throat, Cregan continued to slowly circle your clit, savoring the twitches and reactions that flickered across your face. You made your pleasure known, vocalizing your delight to the heavens.
Part of you knew what to expect with the act of consummation — pain, and then pleasure, if you were fortunate enough. You trusted Cregan to handle you with care, rocking your hips atop him.
A low grunt elicited from him, one that clearly seemed pent-up. The sensation of your nethers pressing against his length drove him to madness, palm gripping hard at the small of your back. “I fear you may be the death of me.” He growled.
A shudder iced your spine, one tinged with anticipation as you sought his mouth, kissing him in your own flurry of bliss. He enjoyed your initiative, large hand tracing up and down along your back, goosebumps trailing in the wake of his caress.
“I — I want you inside of me,” Stammering over your words, your hands found the nape of his neck, clinging to his damp, chestnut tresses. “Will you be gentle?” You feared being split in half if his pace became hastened.
Cregan grit his teeth together, knowing that taking your maidenhead in such a rough way was not fair to you, nor was it kind. “Of course,” He assured, pressing a kiss against your jaw. “I wouldn’t dream of harming you.”
Restraint would likely test his resolve, but Cregan was up for the challenge, hand snaking away from between your thighs. Even within his grasp, you still seemed a touch uneasy, likely due to the bundle of nerves coiled within your stomach.
“On your own time, wife,” Cregan rumbled, content to caress along your supple frame, handling your curves as if you were molded from obsidian. You possessed the strength of a dragon — perhaps you didn’t realize it yet. “I am enjoying myself.”
With a nod, you exhaled, looking to him for instruction as he reached between the both of you, guiding his cock to your entrance. The thick head pressed along your cunt, causing you to shift again.
A kiss made its residence along your jaw. “I have you,” Cregan murmured, letting you sink down onto his length. Your countenance bristled with the sting of agony, and you nearly hurried it along until his hand seized your hip. “Easy.”
Seven Hells, he filled you completely, stretching you in a way that molded you to him. It was discomforting, a pain you seldom experienced, but Cregan was soothing.
It was the sweetest torment for Cregan, cock sluggishly feeding into you, inch by inch, your cunt tight around his length. A sonorous groan bubbled within his throat as he continued to guide you, ensuring that you were not suffering.
“Cregan!” A hiss escaped you, one intermingled with pleasure and pain, brow creased in concentration. It was nearly too much for you, but you persisted, enduring the newfound stretch and foreign sensations.
The tip of his length very nearly kissed your cervix, and that was his sign to cease. He let you sit, labored breathing bearing inklings of ecstasy, lips slack as you began to roll your hips.
He was strong enough to maneuver you along his cock as he saw fit, but he let you gather your bearings, find your own pace. Your soft, sweet lips sought his own, mouths clashing in a spirited kiss, one charged with a growing adoration.
Chest-to-chest, the intimacy grew tenfold, hearts beating in-tandem, making way for the wave of ardor that consumed you both. Water gently sloshed around the both of you, flesh damp, yet you had never been warmer.
Firm, steady hands kept their grasp upon the swell of your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles into your silken flesh. Cregan appraised you with starving eyes, hues as gray as swirling clouds before a winter’s storm.
“Move me,” A wanton sigh floated from your lips, evoking a sense of primal desire that he knew to shackle down. Your husband obliged, setting the pace at a slower speed for your sake. “Gods, just like that.” You huffed.
Cregan fought against baser instincts, against tearing you asunder like that of a snarling beast. He guided you up and down upon his length, mouth seeking the dip between your neck and shoulder.
Teeth found their rooting there, gingerly scraping your flesh as he marked you, eliciting a throaty moan from your mouth. It was a sting that you did not expect to enjoy — but you wanted it again and again.
Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled the washroom with your lewd activities.
He took your maidenhead with such tenderness, never once resorting to a harsher pace unless you were the one to initiate. “You are perfect.” Cregan uttered, letting you rock up and down along his length.
The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your flesh. He gripped you hard enough to leave bruises, peppering kisses against your neck.
Finding your rhythm, it became easier to impale yourself upon him, gasping when his cock sheathed itself deep within you. Your cunt clenched pathetically around him, nails raking crimson trails across his shoulders.
Molten heat churned within the pit of your stomach, arousal honey-thick between your thighs. The more you succumbed to desire, the more carnal his pace became, losing all inhibitions of restraint.
Soap-laden water steamed around the both of you, sloshing with the movement of two bodies, locked within the throes of passion. A soft cry escaped you as he brought you down again, invigorated by the spirited rolls of your hips.
It only became messier — two souls clawing for affection, for entanglement, for a release. As you grasped his biceps for support, you changed the rhythm, letting yourself drown within desire.
A breathy, snarled curse tore past his mouth, brows furrowing together in concentration as he maneuvered you toward the tub’s thick rim. His chest was hot, slick as he pressed himself to your back.
Smoothing a calloused palm along your thigh, his thrusts became a touch erratic, cock hitting into you like the jab of a spear. “Cregan!” You moaned, savoring the sensation of his mouth against your shoulder, crooked nose ghosting along your throat.
The newfound position was somewhat awkward given his stature, contorted in the smaller space of the tub, but he cared little for it. Passion drove him, the desire to breed, make you round and lovely with his children.
His hands did not leave you, caressing wherever he could, an anchor to keep you safe even in the midst of such crass acts. “Gods help me,” Cregan growled, hot breath fanning across your shoulder. “I need you.” He hissed.
It was unexpected, his confession that rattled you so, sending tremors along your spine. You did not expect him to feel that way for you, yet it only furthered your arousal.
Lewd entanglements of flesh resonated throughout the washroom, accompanied by a myriad of moans and animalistic growls. Cregan became more beast than man when placed under pleasure, not that you minded.
Even if he lacked the stamina to continue, carnality willed him to devour. Your husband kissed you, touched you wherever he could, thick digits snaking between your thighs as he sought the aching pearl of your cunt.
“Do not stop,” A breathy mewl erupted from your throat as you pleaded with Cregan to continue. Once deft digits began to toy with your clit, your knees buckled, hand grasping at his forearm. “Please, please do not stop!”
Between the feverish kisses he placed along the nape of your neck and the hand circling your clit, you felt the ecstasy mounting. The coil within your stomach began to unfurl, visage screwed up in a look of bliss.
Cregan’s grunts sent shivers throughout your body, warming your insides with their fervor. His cock continued to pound in and out at a steady pace, body snug against yours.
He dared not harm you, executing caution even still, indomitable musculature hunched in over you, enveloping you on every front. As his calloused fingers flicked across your pearl, you shuddered, thighs twitching in response.
You experienced a euphoria like never before, the sensation foreign yet overwhelming, setting every fiber of your being ablaze. Water splashed over the rim of the bathtub, falling onto the stone below.
Each snap of his hips sent you reeling, cock filling you to the brim, stretching you in ways that you never thought possible. You moaned, nails digging into his arm; Cregan’s pace did not deviate.
Tantalizing fantasies of putting a babe in you drove him mad, his hand drawing away from your cunt as he placed his palm over your stomach. Gods, you could feel everything — it made you buckle, release swift and white-hot.
Stars floated across your vision in the wake of your release, a choked sob of ecstasy rippling through your chest. Cregan’s name rolled from your tongue like an incantation that you had committed to memory.
It was then that your husband spilled himself inside of you, aided by the wet clenching of your cunt around him. Ropes of hot, virile seed painted your womb, and you felt him press his forehead against the back of your shoulder.
Tangled, labored breaths filled the space between you both, thin as ever. Cregan did not want to stop — the night was agonizingly young, and his cock stirred within you. “Are you well, wife?” He murmured, stroking along your hip.
“I am perfect,” He could taste your smile, a bright and palpable thing. You felt him move away, momentarily sinking back beneath the water. “I — I was not expecting it to feel so pleasurable.”
“There is plenty more beyond that,” Cregan assured, drawing you back into the wide expanse of his lap, cock nestled against the plane of your stomach. He cupped your jaw, the pad of his thumb tracing your cheek. “Do you require rest?”
A coy expression flickered across your countenance as you let your fingertips playfully ghost across the tip of his length. The sudden blaze within Cregan’s storm-cloud hues had made your heart leap into your throat, excitement replacing exhaustion.
A growl stirred within his chest at your wordless insinuation, and he did not seem to waste a moment of time, hooking an arm around your hips. “Clearly not.” He grunted.
“Do you object?” You murmured, dragging one finger over the plane of his visage, so youthful and unblemished, a contrast to his rugged demeanor. Provoking your husband was a bold choice, one that Cregan respected.
“I do not,” Cregan’s tone was little more than a grumbling of thunder, brows furrowing together as he steeled himself for what would become a lengthy evening. He adjusted your position, the head of his cock kissing your entrance once more. “You will wish for rest when we are finished.”
He did not consummate the night of your wedding, much to your bewilderment.
ALWAYS a gentleman, we stan him so much!!
Tossed to the wolves, a lone dragon — Cregan did not want to frighten you any further.
this line has me dead and buried 😩😩😩
“I know now that this is something we will brave together, and not apart.”
awww, that's strangely romantic 🥹🥹🥹
“You cannot try from that distance.”
THIS MF- 😭
I don't know how you successfully write masterpieces every time, darling, I'm always in awe of your talent!! obsessed with the fact that Cregan's and reader's dynamic was so sweet and respectful, but they were secretly horny for each other, so fucking real of them lmaoo
jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader
words: 3.1k
synopsis: jacaerys falls for a woman in aegon's garden.
notes: happy haunting season! here's part one (more of an introduction or prologue) to my october mini-series! a little horror love-letter from me to youse <3 so many thanks to my beautiful sweet brains @useralba & @dipperscavern ... dippy fetched my header for me & they basically co-wrote this whole concept.
chapter warnings: this is The Most Normal™️ part out of the whole series so not much. canon-typical mentions of death/grief, but jace is thugging it out. morally gray jacaerys (& reader) throughout the story, though hes p normal in this.
series masterlist.
main masterlist.
A SHARP ACHE PIERCES JACAERYS’S MIND.
It has lingered, ebbing and flowing in the corner of his vision since the news came by raven this afternoon; whispers of fury, nostrils flared around the Painted Table as gasps of shuddered grief echoed in the dusting quiet. A gust of sharp wind blows his curls from his temple, his lips wettened and chilled by the cold of eve.
Soil turns soft underfoot as Jacaerys stalks down a trail less frequented; the Outer Bailey of Dragonstone Castle is thick with land, and yet rather sparse in people - most of whom are within tubs. Or, more likely, tending to those within the tubs - though tonight, as much as it can be afforded, he wishes not to not remain within those suffocating walls.
Walls which still echo, in the slumbering quiet when candles are all snuffed and guards repose drearily against stone, with laughter and footsteps of his kin; walls which whisper of doves, wings clipped and soiled by blood of innocent, by hatred stale and harbored.
Walls which used to hold his family - which now cage the fragmented remainder of such a thing; of tense jaws and eyes that cannot help but glaze over each other in pursuit of some long predetermined destiny.
He sniffs against the chill of the evening, rather disturbed by the beauty, raw and wild, of the island - steep cliffs clumped by wildgrass and staggering up into sharp black slates, which yawn high into the sky; the Mont, steeping with heat and nesting ancient beasts within its belly.
And the garden, just ahead - a primordial thing, once shining and primed by the glory of a beautiful empire. When he'd stormed from the council room, he'd been rather dead-set upon the garden - if only in a bout of frustration lingering in the denial of his mother, yet projected as a sharp mind ache that laid somewhere in the bowels of Aegon's Garden. Searching for a figure, one that likely exists in only his imagination - the one he's seen through bleary eyes of his chamber window, dancing through leaves and past faces of stone; their presence a low hum in the back of his mind that pierces and grates against his resolve.
The castle’s hearths burn low now after supper, and the eve falls dreary upon quiet ocean-misted moors. His footsteps drag untenanted, burdened by the weight of some distant crown as he clenches tight to his pommel.
Those empty feet had indeed carried him all the way down from the tower; past guards and faces familiar, as though his mind was tethered to a memory, a shadow flickered in the distance of his chamber window.
The cliffs are black in the fall of night, the walls of the keep warm but crumbling in the lower Baileys. The Sept - a rather forgotten relic these days - has a soft glow from within; though through the thickening fog, Jacaerys wonders if the figures he sees within are truly there.
Silent Sisters, his mind whispers, though there is no body reclaimed for them to prepare. She lies with the Red Queen still; a war without bodies, though he fights the thought from festering - no bones to wrap, no flesh to burn. Only names, which will die on the tongues of those who are too agonized, too vengeful to mourn.
The trail is unkempt; it is not often the inhabitants of the island come to the Garden, less so now that looming war plagues the realms. Death grasps Dragonstone Castle in its implacable grip these days; and anger, that hungry beast that bites at the tail of revenge - it ravages his house.
He has known since the very first moon they came to Dragonstone, all that time ago - in the earlier years; Luke, Joff, and himself - stumbling over hilts longer than their legs, watching the spiraling towers of Dragonstone become swallowed by thick clouds. And there had been Maester Gerardys, in the first of many lessons to come round the table, tone imbued with something rather distant, gaze fixed upon the window.
Even now, years later, Jacaerys knows that the ground he walks is tainted - the Dragonmont looms, its acidic breaths falling in years over toppling years, watching Dragon Kings rise and leave for their birthright; and yet still it remains, sprinkling its volcanic acids to leech into the earth below.
The soil the castle was built upon is imbued with the very acid that grows beneath the island’s crust - and from it, the plants in Aegon’s Garden now grow unruly, unbidden; No longer tended to by hands familiarized with their needs.
The soil is rich, Maester Gerardys had looked out the sharp window in the drum, eyes weathered as the skies. But even when the Conqueror landed, it was unfit for nurturing life. We eat not from the fruit which grows from this side of the island. The blooms stay within their home, and return with each cycle of life back into the ground.
Evening fog swallows the burst of trees on the other side of the Thorned Dragon; it twists into the sky high enough that Jacaerys can see the horns through the iron gates to the garden. Fresh sprouts crawl out of the earth from under the wall, curled with the kiss of frost which visits each evening and thawed by the island's sun come each morning. Life into death.
The circle turns.
The gates to the garden are marred with the same rust that crawls up the chains lining the Western Docks; Jacaerys grasps the cold metal and pushes through with surprising ease.
A creak of groaning metal. Trees are gnarled; they twist and wind down the path that he walks, his mind lingering up in the thick clouds - a faint gust sends the scent of smoke through his nose.
Dragonfire.
A clench within his chest; the falling of the Queen Who Never Was echoes in his mind, the fluttering of raven’s wings, the whisper in a chamber much too empty for all the people who occupied it - and a suppression of the stab of loss which threatens to crawl out his throat.
The garden is bright, despite the falling daylight. It bursts with untamed indigenous flora, thick with the air of blossoms - roses, red and thorned; bark, dampened upon twisted trees older than his mother’s mother, rough under his palms. Stoned statues loom with twisted grins in the half-light, some relic of his ancestors which turn now to mock him in his solitary march.
Jacaerys’s breath comes out in a puff of fogged chill - the evening brings a cool seabreeze, although his heart has always beat rather warm.
A gentle caress seems to bring forth a curling smile from a bushel of red anemone blossoms as he passes - a twitch of a grin upon his own lips though the lingering feeling of walking deeper into a shadow looms within his mind.
Any semblance of peace is disrupted at the slither of fabric around a lingering statue of a melancholy ancestor, a rustled noise - his heart stops.
Though his mind is muddled with tumult, there is some life breathed back into him when he catches a glimpse of shining tresses around a tall thorny hedge, and the snaking curl of dress skirts around the bottom; and so he begins to stalk after the scent of earth, of some deep turn of late summerfruit.
Another flicker of movement, a rustle in the vines; and still he follows, heart slamming as the clouds roll over the sunlight.
In the deeper part of the garden lies the Thorned Dragon - a once-wonderful iron statue which now crawls with thick vines and time-bitten rusted holes; though below sits stoned benches for respite.
And there Jacaerys halts his footsteps, deadening at the sight before him.
Concealed, only the whisper of skirts near hidden feet, strands of glowing hair, the peek of one timid eye thickened by long wisps - of a brow that arches, peeking only just so from beside the iron Dragon.
A young woman.
“Hello.” His voice is schooled with confidence - this is his island, after all.
The sun glints in a sharp fight against the rolling clouds; the foggy cloud around his feet swirl as he carries himself with curiosity - it is unusual for Housestaff to venture into such a place. At his voice, there is a flicker, a twitch - slither of skirts until his gaze meets the pair of wide eyes.
You stand on legs doelike and unsure, bent slightly at the hips as if prepared to skitter away at the slightest of movement; and he, with a skip in his heart at the glow of your skin, the flutter of lashes upon sweet cheeks.
“Hello,” you echo his very essence, voice a mirror of his own tone though syrupy and curling with the warmth of summerfall.
He is struck at once by your beauty.
A breeze picks up; the scent of rich earth beneath his boots, the thick blooms even in so chill a climate. Skirts blown back gently, your hair rustles against the wind and he finds the soft beauty upon your visage arresting.
Your feet are bare. His brows drawn, he moves just slightly, cloak fluttering in the wind; and you, watching with owlish eyes as he nods cordially, struck with the natural compulsion to greet you with proper manners.
“I am Jacaerys,” he is rather unsure why he omits Prince from his introduction - though with a pang of storm clouds looming in his mind, he dwells not.
Indeed it matters little, for you offer some sudden beaming smile - a bright thing, a leap from his heart at such a blessing from the Gods as you have been given; and you nod gently, lips glistened and pale.
A sharp smile, something that would seem coy, unpropitious if not for the small flash of kindness that lingers in your stare.
“-Jacaerys Velaryon,” you finish, dropping into a curtsey that brings about a slight glide of interest over your form; he chastises himself sharply in his head, bowing back.
A Houseworker, then, though he’s never seen you in the halls; nor has he seen a maid or cook wear such material of their gowns. He reclines upon a stone bench; you follow after he invites you kindly, your eyes skittering over the fine folds of his tailored clothing, lingering on the line of his jaw, then hooking rather intently on the dragon upon his chest. Your own dress seems to shift with the light - it is white, then gray, then a near muted purple; it fits with the glow of your chest, with the glint in your eyes.
You tell him your name then and it lodges itself warm and wanting into the cavity of his chest. It drips with the glazed sweetness of blooms left in the care of the sun and preserved in the chill of shade.
Pines linger tall around you; a sea of green, though the true thing lies far in the distance, its tidal breath a slow roll in the evening air. Your fingers are lithe as they trace over a spiny vine hanging off the Thorned Dragon; and yet, peculiarly, you give no hiss as you press your thumb down against a thorn - in fact, your lips curl into a quick grin, eyes dark in interest when the thorn nearly pierces your flesh.
“-Why are you here?” His question is one rather improper, though he finds himself perturbed and cannot bring himself to feel remarkably bad. Indeed, your dreamy hum silences any doubt that may linger in the back of his mind, “It was my assumption not many come to Aegon's Garden anymore.” He admits.
And something about his words must be amusing to you; a grin that you hide with a tilt of your head, your hand leaving the thorn on the vine. He can smell the scent of your hair; a honeyed thing, a gentle thing. A sweet thing.
“I tend to it,” you murmur, voice gentle as a psalm, though your eyes flicker off towards the peak of a twisted treeline upon the far end of the garden, past the murky bog. “-Though sometimes I feel as though it tends to me.”
Dreamlike, your eyes glaze over - and Jacaerys is left rather uncomfortable against the cooling stone. A foreboding prickles at the edge of his mind; and as fog creeps towards the shore each morning, he has a sudden urge to back away from your curling chill - there is something familiar within your lilt, in the way your eyes shift under dappled sunlight. His aunt had much similar a tone when they were young; with fingers that slid between bars of small cages, prodding creatures which nuzzled back against her, musing words that never quite strung together right.
“And you?” You add now, fingers cupped within your lap. His brows draw as you murmur again, “What brings you here, my Prince?”
Behind your shoulder is the long path narrowed by closing hedges, by twisted trees and creeping vines untamed and wild with life; with life, a part of him rejoices silently, life, though so much death looms over Dragonstone these days.
His hesitation lingers in the quiet thick fog that creeps through the grass. “I’m…” His brows furrow, a sudden cloud of amnesia confusing weighing his tongue. He feels almost blank, save for the sweet scent of you beside him.
“...I don’t know.”
A flicker of your visage in his peripheral, as if you’ve moved - though when he turns to your countenance once more, he wonders if the sharp, darkly unnerving smile that had flashed onto your face was only in his mind. It unsettles him deeply within his stomach as your eyes remain upon his, muscles lax, as though the smile you’d given earlier was the first in years.
His mind is too clouded - Rooks Rest has weighed heavy on the tongues of the council today, though it seems it weighs even heavier so on the mind. He must be rather exhausted.
“I…” He struggles once more, unsettled by the false image of that hungry grin, gaze focused upon the soil, fresh and puffy below his boots. “I thought I was…looking for something.” It is said absently, straining to recall his initial intentions - and it feels only slightly incorrect.
You do not say anything to this, and for the sake of his nerves, he pretends to ignore the growing smile slow over your countenance in the corner of his vision.
In a breeze cooler than expected, his unnerved eyes rise to the Castle - up, to the window of his own chambers high within the spire of the Stone Drum with such direct view of the garden, of this very statue.
Gulls cry in the distance; the blooms overgrown above your head seem to droop, as if bowing towards your companionship. A beauty Jacaerys has never once fathomed; though he is momentarily distracted by the movement of your hands, once so still within your lap.
It is with surprise when he finds your fingers delicately peeling away at some foreign fruit, revealing the glistening flesh within - and your lips, wettened with your tongue as you pluck at the tissue of its skin.
A heaviness in his throat, muddled bewilderment leaking through the cracks of his mind; though any true alarm melts away as you slowly bring the fruit to your gentle, awaiting lips, its crimson juice staining your fingers.
Slow bites, teeth sinking into tender flesh in the stillness of the bright garden; and Jacaerys, transfixed upon the glow of your skin, the gentle sigh from your chest at the taste. It is bizarre he has never once seen you here - perhaps you are new to the island; with the influx of residents within the castle, it has provided ample new jobs for the smallfolk around. He is certain he’d have remembered such arresting eyes.
It is a sight so innocent, yet so incredibly salacious in its sudden intensity - he finds it a battle to cast away his gaze; his toes drag through the dirt upon the earth, watching the sprouts bounce back upwards once the pressure of his presence is relieved.
“Have you ever had one?” Your voice curls through fog, some sweet melody that startles him. His cheeks are flushing red, though you are much too enraptured with the fruit, lips stained dark as wine. “-A fig,” you mend, an afterthought as your eyes rise once more to the larger of the trees deep in the gardens; and a buzzing haze that creeps through Jace’s mind as the empty shell falls from your fingers onto the ripe dirt below.
He watches it lie to rest, bespeckled with the damp dark of soil.
The circle turns.
His mouth is dry, and he struggles to swallow; “No,” he admits, clouded by déjà vu and a sudden, mild perplexity. “I haven’t.”
Your lips curve into that slow, knowing smile once more - less unsettling when it is fixed upon his gaze this time. Your fingers trace the smooth skin of another fig before your palm extends, offering it with a slight tilt of your head. “They are divine,” your words lilt, syllables sung out into the garden’s thick air. Divine.
And gods, you are divine - an arresting thought, one that jolts him out of the trance he’d so unwittingly tumbled into - and with a blink, he hesitates.
A half-remembered tale told in the dim light of hearths drawn moons, years ago - and he shakes his head, the thought of food at a time like this rather sickening. “Where did you get them?” he wonders instead of accepting, though your palm remains outstretched, enticing. There is a thrumming in his ears, though he realizes with a start that his headache has ceased.
“They come from me,” you reply coyishly; though there is some glint in your eyes, some shift of the breath you take - and he looks away just before that smile reclaims your face.
A strange girl, he decides. A strange girl, yet quite endearing.
He cannot help the smile he returns to you, a short chuckle, mostly out of nerves from him which is echoed rather enthusiastically, nearly unsettling in its fervor, by you.
His heart beats faster, though he cannot say why - his lips are wettened by the prod of his tongue, and he pretends not to notice the flush upon your hollowed cheeks, nor the way your head seems to dip lower to observe his countenance.
“No, thank you,” he declines, voice barely a whisper; and his eyes search yours, your name echoing heavy in his mind - so familiar a name.
Your smile returns, though this time it is sharper; and with darkened eyes, the corners of your lips twitching as if you already knew what his answer would be. When you respond, it is not what he expects. “As you wish, my Prince.”
And then you bring the last fig to your chest, fingers delicate even when they tear at the little flesh as though you've been starved; his stomach rolls, entranced as a drip of juice rolls down your chin, crimson against your muted skin.
Night falls. Council will be called soon, he knows - and the bells will be rung though they are barely heard from outside the inner bailey. Jacaerys is hesitant to leave, yet there is a chill that has begun to seep through his bones; a pit that grows within his stomach. Each pulse of his blood through his heart, a bite of your teeth into the fruit of the fig - but he waits until you’ve finished your repast to clear his throat.
“I must return,” he decides, a strike of hesitance at your look, that kind stare that flickers in the death of sunlight.
You hesitate as he rises, just for a moment - and then, leaning forward as crimson fingers grasp the stone bench, your smile drops. A fleeting thing, a sparrow upon a windowsill, a hummingbird through the morning air.
“Thank you, Prince Jacaerys.”
His brows furrow; and you, staring up at him with a gaze so unalloyed, so pure - a lingering darkness in his chest that grows each day of unrest cooped up in his coddled little nest within the island.
Though he smiles only gently back at you - a twist of soft pity that bleeds into an odd affection for such a sweet stranger; a much needed respite from the faces much too familiar and suffocating in the choking smoke of war and duty.
“I suppose I find myself rather lonely,” you confess, eyes dropping to stare at the figs that now rest in your lap - a blink from Jacaerys at the sight of them, once more bewildered at their presence. “Not many come to the garden anymore. I worry I tend to it only for myself these days.”
Jacaerys finds himself rather uneasy - there is that guilt that coils familiar, a serpent squeezing his stomach. The circle turns, he thinks.
“I will have to return then, my lady.” He feels rather uneven on his feet, “This garden is quite beautiful.”
And if you bristle at his assumption of your title, you do not show it; an absent look has plagued your seraphic features, leaving you with shallow breaths and a plumped lower lip. “I would hope so, Jacaerys.”
For a dreadful moment, he fears you might begin to cry; a stoke of regret and pity through him. Though it is quelled rather abruptly as you snap up, eyes staring down the row of hedges behind him before returning to his own, much more warm than before.
You hold his gaze for a horrible few breaths - and he knows not what to do, as you sit faraway and dreamlike, your hair moving in a breeze he cannot feel.
“Are you turning in soon?” He wonders, unable to quell his curiosity - he cannot imagine your duties much require you to extend your services into the dark of night, though he admittedly has paid less than staunch attention to the Housestaff as of late.
Your eyes remain distant, though a soft wisp of a smile grows as you rise to your height, standing oddly against the vines which creep down towards you.
You look back beyond his shoulder, a glint of firelight in your eyes though the sun still whispers its last stretches of breath across the indigo sky.
“Not so soon, I'm afraid. The roses need pruning,” you sigh. “I detest thorns.”
darling, this was sublime!! 🧎🏻 your descriptions are always so gorgeous and vivid, reader has me curious 'cause she's hella mysterious, I'm flustered like Jace fr
I'm literally already hooked on this story, and I can't wait to see where you take it!!! 🔥🔥🔥
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, “Worshiping 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.
Summary: being stood up on his wedding day, Aemond’s life takes a turn for the worse. Heartbroken and humiliated, he finds unexpected help in Helaena’s childhood friend, who helps him move back into his family mansion. Summer cocktail parties and a long stay at the Targaryen residency, Aemond might let the girl who’s always been in his life make a home in his heart.
Tangerines, in general, symbolize prosperity, good luck and happiness. So if these delicious fruits appear in your dreams - whole or in the form of juice - it is usually very positive. A dream with tangerines expresses the desire and the possibility of progress and prosperity
Warnings: none! Fluff, angst, tension! English isn’t my first language<3
Word count: 5.4k+
A/n: so so sorry for the delay… unfortunately I’m gonna be awfully busy this week so the next chapter might be also delayed😭 buttttttt hopefully this chapter will make up for it! Reblogs & comments are always appreciated <3
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“I’m hungry!”
“Shh!” You put your finger on Helaena’s lips to keep her quiet, “you ate all of our snacks! How are you still hungry?”
“I don’t knowwww,” she whines, dropping her head back on your lap as you resume the movie, “I need sweets!”
“It’s three in the morning, I doubt you want to wake up the entire house just to find a chocolate bar,” you thread your fingers through her soft and freshly showered silver hair.
“Babe,” she turns around, reaching for the control to pause the movie before she looks up at you, “why do you think we live in a mansion in the first place?”
“Because you have billions of money and have no idea what to do with it?” You ask, chuckling and rolling your eyes affectionately when she slaps your arm, “as if there is another reason behind it.”
“Of course there is!” She sits up, plopping a pillow next to yours as she sits shoulder to shoulder with you, “Aemond is an awfully light sleeper, so is Mum! Aegon would even sleep through… I don’t know, imagine Michael Jackson screaming in a mic and putting the amplifier next to his ear. Daeron is the best, heavy sleeper but his survival instinct would save him from anything. Me—“
“You don’t sleep at all,” she gawks at you before laughing, “What? You think I don’t know my best friend like the back of my hand? Or why we’re watching The Dance of Dragons trilogy at this god-awful hour? I’m offended!”
She pushes you playfully, “That’s not what I meant! You’re right, I don’t sleep much, but that’s not the point. I’m saying living in a mansion is quite cool because we put Mum and Aemond at the back of the building and chose our rooms afterward. So if you sneak into the kitchen…”
“I’m not gonna sneak there and shuffle around your cabinets like a fucking thief, Hel!”
“It’s literally your home too! You’ve been here a thousand times, no one would bat an eye if they catch you going through Aegon’s snacks!” She says, pouting a bit as she gives you her best puppy eyes, “One bag of his gummy bears, just one!”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No,” you glare at her, scoffing immediately when she gives you her most precious smile.
“Yes, please?”
“Absolutely fucking not,” you hiss, “Besides, I have no clue which cabinet I should search for.”
“The one next to the stove—“
“Helaena!”
“Please please please, I will take a walk with you in the morning—“
“I’m not dumb, why should going on a walk with you be anywhere near interesting?” You ask, crossing your arms on your chest as you give her a pointing look.
“Because… because I can take you shopping! You know, Aegon will probably give a theme for his party so what better reason than to go on a girl’s date and buy some clothes?!”
“No, and no—“
“One bag, that’s all I’m asking!”
“Fine!” She squeals in joy, “but you will make it up to me, you giant twenty-seven-year-old kid. And shopping is the least you can do.”
“Okay, babe, whatever you want! I can even set you up with one of Aegon’s friends—“
“I'll take the walk, please! Keep those boys away from me,” You stand up from the bed, shaking your head before you slowly turn the doorknob, and before you step out, you look at her and shake your head when you see her lying on the bed with her hands under her chin.
You look at the empty hallway, checking to see if anyone is around or not before walking downstairs, tiptoeing to make sure you wake up no one. Gripping the stair bars, you relax a bit when the wooden stairs don’t make a loud cracking sound.
The path to the kitchen is quiet and empty, but with the numerous vases and other home decor Alicent has put around the house, it’s hard to move around without breaking something or making a loud noise. You have been here many times, but the paintings and various pieces they have will always surprise you; they are so beautiful, and you expect nothing less from the Targaryens.
You finally reach the kitchen, slowly making your way towards the stove to find the cabinet or a drawer — because only those are next to the stove — Helaena told you about. Pulling the first drawer out, you find nothing but forks and spoons, nothing near a good snack, unfortunately. The next one contains spices and herbs, arranged neatly in jars with labels.
“What are you doing here?”
“Fucking hell!” You scream and turn around, hand on your chest as you look at Aemond who is equally surprised to see you here at such an hour, “you scared the shit out of me!”
“Shh…” he approaches you slowly, reaching to take your hand in his to calm you down, “I’m sorry, I thought you heard me, or even saw me.”
“How could I see you? My back was to you!” You exhale shakily, letting him take your hands in his larger ones, slowly caressing your skin, “what are you doing here? Creeping on me like that?”
“I was in the kitchen when you walked in,” he says, his lips twisting in a small smirk as he sees your lips part in shock.
“How did I not see you?” You gawk at him, laughing breathlessly, “You’re a giraffe, tall as fuck and your hair shines like a flashlight! Were you hiding?”
“No, no,” he steps closer, chuckling lowly to not make so much sound, your hands still in his, “I was searching for a cutting board.”
“What?” You smile a bit, looking up at him as he towers over you, “I’m really curious now.”
“No, you’re just nosy,” he smirks when he sees you open your mouth to disagree, but you catch on his teasing tone quickly and bat his hands away.
“Asshole.”
“I’m kidding,” with a kiss on the back of your hand, he moves past you to put the cutting board on the kitchen island, “I missed dinner and couldn’t sleep either so…”
“You wanna cook dinner? Now?” you ask him, rounding the island to stand close to him, “You are crazy!”
“I’m hungry,” he groans, shaking his head as he moves to another cabinet and pulls out a pot to fill it with water.
“What is up with you Targaryens being hungry at such an hour?” You lean on the counter, watching him put the full pot on the stove, taking your time to look at him from head to toe.
He is wearing a loose black T-shirt, with gray sweatpants that stay low on his hip bones. His silver hair is clipped and his glasses are on the bridge of his nose — he looks so cozy and welcoming, and he most certainly glides across the room so effortlessly, pulling out different ingredients to chop.
“What did Hel want anyway?” He asks, pulling out an onion and placing it on the cutting board next to you, leaning just like you with his hips on the counter.
“How did you know she wanted something?” You ask, crossing your arms.
“I doubt you’d come and snoop around for Aegon.”
“Why not?” You raise an eyebrow at him, taking a step closer to him, “Maybe I was in his room, what then—“
“No,” he whispers, putting the knife down before he puts one hand on each side of your hips, the heel of his palm on the dip between where your thighs meet your hips and his fingers against the kitchen island — not gripping you fully, but enough to make you tremble slightly, especially with the way he looks at you, so raw and playful, “you wouldn’t allow him to make a single flirty comment, and you want me to believe that you just left his room?”
“What if I have changed my mind?” You look up at him through your lashes, voice barely above whispering, “Maybe I have fallen for his Targaryen charm?”
“The only Targaryen charm you’ll fall for is—”
“Babeee!” suddenly Helaena’s hushed whisper echoes in the kitchen
Your eyes widen and in the blink of an eye, you push Aemond away and move to the cabinet Helaena told you about earlier, trying to make yourself look busy while Aemond puts his palms on top of the island, leaning down a bit as he sighs, his face forming into a deep scowl as he watches his sister tiptoe into the kitchen.
“Oh, hey, Aemy,” she waves at him, finally finding you crouched down next to the cabinet, “What’s taking you so long?”
“I couldn’t find the cabinet—”
“It’s the one you are sitting in front of,” she says, smiling as she looks at her brother reaching for the knife, “and what are you doing here?”
“I was hungry,” he mutters, slicing the onion in half, “What do you want?”
“My promised gummy bears and a glass of water,” she shrugs and walks to grab her glass and you take the chance to stand up with her snack, standing side by side with Aemond, both of you following Helaena’s movements as she hums happily and fills her glass with water.
You glance at Aemond, catching him already looking at you with an unreadable expression that makes the hair on the back of your neck rise. Averting your eyes quickly, you watch Hel making her way to you before she gives you a quick hug.
“I’m going to bed, we will finish them another day.”
“Sure, love,” you smile, “I’ll go to bed in a few minutes too, goodnight!”
“Goodnight,” Aemond says quietly, moving towards the boiling water on the stove before he drops uncooked spaghetti in it and walks back to the cutting board.
“What are you cooking?”
“Penne alla vodka,” he replies, smirking when you roll your eyes at him.
“Of course, typical classy Aemond,” you say, groaning a bit because of how tired you are, “your sister is a menace for keeping me up so long. I can’t even stand on my feet!”
“Then you don’t have to stand,” he says casually, wiping his hands with the cloth hanging from the waistband of his sweats. He moves closer to you, backing you up against the kitchen island with a teasing look in his good eye, his hands coming up to grip your waist and before you know it, he picks you up effortlessly and sits you on the island, his fingers digging into your flesh.
You swallow, bracing yourself by your hands on his chest as you look at Aemond, finding him standing closer to you between your legs, his eye focusing solely on your face — how your lips part with a quiet gasp falling from them, how your pupils are blown with something he can’t read quite well.
You are a vision to behold.
He leans closer, his face mere inches away from yours, his hot breath fanning against your face. You inhale sharply when he cranes his neck and his nose bumps into yours, his hooded eye hazy as he stares at you.
His grip tightens on your waist, and you feel his fingers caressing your back and the side of your tummy slowly, almost shyly, but with his lips only one breath, you know there is no shyness left within him, only determination.
As soon as he wants to lean down and capture your lips in a breathtaking kiss, the pasta in the oven is long overcooked and the boiling water pours out, making a loud hissing sound that makes Aemond break apart from you.
“Shit,” he groans, the warmth of his hand gone from your waist as he jogs to the stove and lifts the pot to empty the remaining water of the pasta, cursing himself in his head with how careless he acted — not only he nearly ruined your friendship but also his late dinner will taste like an uncooked dough.
“I-I think I should go to bed,” you stutter, jumping down from the island, smiling awkwardly at him, “goodnight.”
“Yeah, goodnight,” he watches you leave in a hurry, running a hand down his face — mindful of his glasses — he sighs loudly, “What the fuck was I thinking?”
If only he knew the answer to this.
“Okay kids, listen up!” Aegon claps his hands, stepping on top of the huge table in the guest wing’s living room, trying his best to give the four of you — six if you count Criston and Alicent — a very very pointed, dramatic and serious look, “tonight, we will drink!”
He points at Daeron and Aemond who are each holding two bottles of whatever drinks, or poison to put it better, Aegon has chosen to feed you tonight.
“Tonight, we will dance!” He points at Helaena who rolls her eyes and presses play on her phone so the music blasts through the amplifiers around the house but quickly pauses it so Aegon can talk.
“Annnnndddd!” He jumps down, striding towards you with a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. He grabs you by your waist, twirls you around suddenly, and dips you down on his arm before he leans down, “We will have fun!” He leans to kiss you, but you put your palm on his face and push him away roughly, laughing out loud with him when you make a gagging sound.
“Get away from me you moron!”
“I’m sure my kisses would make you feel much better—”
“I rather die than have your tongue down my throat,” you stand behind Aemond, and when Aegon sees how hard his brother is glaring at him, he whistles and wiggles his eyebrows at the two of you — Aemond blushes horribly and you only give a tight-lipped awkward smile.
“Alright!” Alicent says, walking towards the table Aegon was standing up to fix the tablecloth, “I know you’ll take care of everything, but—” she looks at Aegon, “no drugs,” she then turns to Daeron and Helaena, “No sneaking out of the house,” then she looks at Aemond, “no goddamn books!”
“I don’t even read that much,” Aemond sighs, putting the vanilla vodka bottles on the table before he crosses his arms, “I haven’t had the time to read even one book.”
“I don’t care, Aemond. No books, no workshop, no merging with the darkness and sulking in a corner of this house. Okay?”
“Yes, Mum, I get it,” he agrees, turning around to glance at you, only for you to give him an encouraging smile.
“Now that we’re all settled,” Aegon reaches and throws his arm around Alicent’s shoulder, “take out dinner, obviously—”
“What do you mean ‘take out’? I didn’t hire a chef for you to say you’ll get our guests nasty food,” Alicent frees herself from Aegon, giving him one last look before she moves with Cole on toe towards the exit, “Also, the catering will be here soon, if you wanna help, you’ll need to wait a bit for them.”
“Did you hear that?” Aegon asks, eyes wide and a very large grin finds its way on his face.
“Billionaires have such a hard life, I pity you guys,” You say sarcastically, “what’s up with these faces? You don’t like having a private chef?”
“Babe,” Helaena comes and grabs your hand, “This means Mum really wants us to party! She only gets this generous when she wants us to have fun.”
“A private chef is a pretty great thing,” Aemond shrugs, grabbing yet another two bottles of vanilla vodka with a grimace on his face and putting them down next to the other two.
“No shit Sherlock! Of course, it’s amazing! Who wouldn’t want a fresh plate of ribs in the middle of a partially illegal party?” he chuckles at you, nodding at the catering that finally arrived, putting his warm palm on your waist.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I am always in charge of dinner because these three,” he points at his siblings, “get absolutely hammered and won’t be able to order takeout.”
“I knew Helaena would get drunk if she set her mind to it but Daeron?” you ask leaning closer to his side, looking up at him, and occasionally glancing at the other three siblings who are helping the catering staff with the food and drinks.
“He is a mixed… combination of all of us,” he chuckles, his nails digging into your waist as he scratches your skin under your shirt gently, lit the fire of the memory of a few hours ago you shared, “He doesn’t drink much but when he does… well, rest assured he gets as bad and loud as Aegon.”
“I’ve been here countless times but never seen him acting like an idiot,” you laugh, walking to grab the closest tray to help with the setting. Aemond does the same and follows you around the room quietly, making small talk with you until everything is set and ready for the party.
You and him walk forward, and for the first time he doesn’t guide you with his hand on your back, and you see how he is pondering hard about something.
“He wanted to really kiss you,” he whispers for only you to hear. You stop and a soft yet confused expression overtakes your face as you look at him, waiting for him to continue.
“What?”
“Aegon,” he says, “he likes you, maybe he would have gotten away with it if you let him kiss you.”
“Aemond, don’t be ridiculous,” you grab his wrist gently, forcing him to stop, “I said it once, I’ll say it again; I don’t like Aegon romantically, and I would rather die than let him get close to my face.”
He doesn’t look too convinced, so with one glance at your back to see where your best friend and the rest of her siblings are, you hold his other hand in yours as well, “Besides, I would rather kiss another Targ—”
“Go find some clothes, kids! It’s a white party!” Aegon announces, and Helaena suddenly appears out of nowhere and wraps her arms around you, making you let go of Aemond’s hands immediately.
“Come on, babe! Let’s go get ready!” you don’t have time to finish your sentence so with one last look at Aemond, you leave with Hel towards your rooms to get ready.
Aemond pulls shirt after shirt out of his closet, all of them are either black or dark green and those who are colorful are blue. Nothing. He can’t find anything to wear and it has started to annoy him.
He sits on the edge of his bed, his hair unruly and in need of a good brush but that can wait. His outfit on the other hand can’t, and the fact that Aegon’s guests will arrive in a few minutes is driving him crazy.
With a loud annoyed groan, he stands up and moves toward his hung clothes, searching through them, but again, all he can find is a pair of white sneakers that thankfully will go with any outfit he chooses.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he tries to think of any Shirts or pants he can find, but he is interrupted by a knock on his door.
“Hey,” you open the door a bit, smiling at him before slipping inside, but before you can stop yourself, your eyes roam over his topless figure leaning over the closet with his sweat hanging low on his hips.
Aemond is even worse than you; seeing you in a white sundress with sheer sleeves that hung low on your shoulders and the dress reaching your mid-thighs… he is speechless. His eye roams over your figure slowly, taking in the sight of you.
He can see how you get shy all of a sudden, caressing your arm as he literally looks you up and down.
“How do I look?” you ask, twirling to show the back of the dress as well.
“Wow,” breathtaking, gorgeous, mindblowing, earth-shattering, “Beautiful,” you make his heart nearly leap out of his chest, his cheeks turning pink as he gazes at you like a teen boy experiencing his first high school crush.
“Thank you!” you smile, rocking on your feet, “Why aren’t you dressed?”
“Well,” he clears his throat, “I couldn’t find anything.”
“Bullshit!”
“Excuse me?” he asks hesitantly, watching you curiously as you make your way to his wardrobe, standing in front of him to search within his clothes yourself.
“You wore those white shorts to the winery, hmmm, let me see—” You pull out a white shirt with baggy pants, both enough to make him much taller than he is, but he has to agree that the simplicity might actually look great, “here you go! But let me brush your hair first!”
You sit him down on the bed, crawling behind him with a brush and a hair tie you found on his vanity desk before you start slowly combing through his soft hair, detangling and making it look more presentable.
He relaxes under your touch and lets you pull the front of his hair back and tie it so his face is shown more. He sighs and thanks you when you’re done, and to his surprise, you grab the shirt from him, forcing him to stand up to help him put it on, leaving the first few buttons undone before you do the rest slowly.
“Were you jealous?” You ask, letting your fingers brush over his pale chest, “When you saw Aegon wanted to kiss me?”
He swallows but as soon as you are done he pulls away and holds the pants up, signaling for you to leave so he can change, and you do but wait for him outside until he is ready.
“Maybe,” he says as you loop your arm through his, both of you walking toward the guest wing. You can already hear the blasting hip hop song Aegon is playing, the sounds of screaming and singing already filling the entire mansion.
“Really?” You ask quietly, letting go of his hand as soon as you reach the door, finding a few of Aegon’s friends around.
“I don’t know, I said maybe,” he moves away from you with one last smirk and enters the party. The smell of alcohol, cigarette, and smoke fills his lungs, and soon spots Daeron and Aegon mixing cocktails and handing them to the guests. Helaena is busy talking to an old friend of his, Cregan Stark, and she is all blushy and giggly while she sips on her drink — he makes a mental note to check up on her regularly.
“Here is our boyyyy!” One of Aegon’s friends screams and throws his arm around Aemond’s shoulders, shaking him as everyone erupts in joy and laughter, a shot of whiskey is thrusted into his hands and everyone is suddenly encouraging him to drown the drink in one go.
“Come on, Aemy! Don’t be a fucking pussy!” Aegon screams over the music, and with one final sigh, he brings the glass to his lips and empties the drink down his throat, making everyone around him scream and clap him on the back before they start shouting for another shot, which Daeron pours for him and as the first one, he drowns it again.
“That’s my fucking brother!” Aegon suddenly jumps onto an empty table, completely topless with two bottles of vodka in his hands as he screams and cheers for Aemond while holding the bottles up.
“He is so fucking insane!” Daeron shakes his head when Aegon starts rolling his hips to the music, his silver hair covered in sweat and possibly alcohol as he flexes his abs and chest for the girls.
“He is disgusting,” Aemond sighs, watching amusedly as Aegon jumps down and wraps his arms around two girls, moving to dance with them while their hands wander all over his body.
Aemond looks around and finds you and Helaena on the dance floor, clearly drunk out of your mind with how you are laughing and moving around. He drowns the rest of his drink before he sneaks out of the party, moving outside toward his workshop to clear his head, but before that, he goes back to the main building and grabs a bottle of water to sober up.
He finds Vhagar already waiting for him at the entrance, wiggling her tail when she notices Aemond. He crouches down to pet her softly, scratching behind her ears and kissing her furs before he stands up and moves to the backyard, his old lady following him quickly.
On their way to the workshop, they find Aegon and the two girls sneaking upstairs, making out with one while the other caresses his skin. Aemond rolls his eye in disgust as he moves past them, finding a pair of heels on the ground as she enters the small wood attached to their yard after where the Weirwood tree is.
He walks further inside the woods, following the path he once walked with you which leads to his workshop, Vhagar happily accompanies him there, even jogging and running past him numerous times to show her enthusiasm — she just loves being around him.
He notices a shadow in the workshop, moving around clumsily as it touches and picks different things up. He thinks it might be one of Aegon’s dumbass friends, wandering around their house drunk and exhausted. But how did someone, anyone find the key to unlock the door?
He opens the door, catching you of all the people snooping around his stuff, smiling when you find a pretty seven-pointed star keychain with Alicent’s name carved under it — he remembers when he made that. He was only seventeen, and he had moved past that amateur phase and got a grip on the woodwork and different types of it. What better way to celebrate his Mum’s birthday than gifting her something he made from scratch?
“Hey you,” he says slowly, not wanting to frighten you like he did this morning, “And what are you exactly doing here?”
“Look who’s here,” you turn around opening your arms, burping as you talk, showing how good Aegon’s cocktail must have been to get you this giddy, “sorry, Little nerd! I saw this really really pretty place and couldn’t help myself! Isn’t it strange that no one uses here? Urgh, what I would do to stay here.”
“Alright, darling, don’t pout,” he slowly reaches to grab your arm so you don’t trip over anything and fall down, “How did you get in here?”
“Did you just—” you gasp, letting him pull you to his side, “did you just call me darling?”
“Yes, I did,” he nods, keeping you secure on your feet before he offers you the water bottle, urging you to drink from it, “have this, clearly you need it more than I do.”
“What a gentleman! Thank you,” you say, taking a large sip after he helps you open the bottle, the cold water makes you feel slightly better so you drink the rest too, not sobering up completely but enough to remember where you are and who you are with and more importantly remember what you are doing.
“So, how did you get in here?” Aemond asks again, taking the empty bottle from you before tossing it for Vhagar, who happily claws at the plastic, jumping on it before she takes it outside to bury it somewhere — which Aemond would need to find later.
“Found a spare key under that vase,” you pointed at the vase outside his door on the floor, “You are not as slick as you think, Aemond, calling me darling and everything.”
“Do you want me to stop calling you that?” he asks playfully, watching you bite your lips in response, shaking your head slightly, “then I guess I won’t.”
You look around the workshop and find a wooden pallet with half a portrait carved on it. The lines are oddly familiar, a woman perhaps because of the details put in the jaw, and the hair looks so delicate and soft.
“Wow, Aemond…” You free yourself from his arms and move to take a closer look at the half-done wooden portrait, “Did you make this?”
“Yes…” he answers, rubbing the back of his neck in shame or perhaps anxiousness, because what if you recognize who the person is? All of his efforts will be in vain. What will you think of him? A boy with nothing better than observing women? A pervert?
“This is fascinating!” you keep looking at the wooden pallet but something catches your eye; a printed black and white picture of the person’s portrait, but before you can reach for it, Aemond grabs your forearm and pulls you away roughly.
You gasp as he pulls you between him and the desk the portrait and all of his stuff are on. His breathing is frantic, and his long fingers hold your forearm tight enough not to hurt you.
You look up at him, lips parted, a scene too familiar — this morning, so close to each other, one mingling breath away yet too far — but there is a fire burning within him, a newfound determination that makes his heart beat faster and his hands shake.
He is not a weak mean, quite the contrary, but when he looks down at you, catching how your gaze falls on his lips… he is no better than any other man.
He leans down a little, the sounds of the outside world fading away as he moves his face closer, and he notices how you slowly twist your arm out of his grasp, only to move them toward his chest, and he takes the sign and reaches to hold you by your waist, his nose bumping into yours as the distance between you decreases
You smell so sweet, like strawberry on a whipped cream once Aegon fed him when he was feeling down. It’s sweet but not too much to have him run away, to shy away from such a delicious taste. Will your lips taste the same if he musters the courage to just move down a bit and finds it by himself?
“Aemond…”
One whisper of his name is all it takes for his restraint to shatter into a million pieces, and finally, finally, he leans down enough to capture your lips in a quick kiss. Both of you waiting for waited breath to see who will lean in, give in, and take what they want
Both, you both lean in, meeting each other halfway as your lips meet in a chaste messy kiss.
You taste so sweet just as he thought, but not just a strawberry tooth rooting sweet, no. you taste like a fresh cold morning breeze on a summer day, you feel like a cold shower after an exhausting day — so refreshing, so… so much like home. As if he has only found the solace he has been seeking with Alys for so long but something has always been amiss, but with you… oh, one kiss is enough for him to know how wrong he was.
You tangle your fingers through his hair, and he takes the chance to sit you on the desk, but by doing so, he knocks a little vase on the ground, and you freeze.
You pull away from the kiss, muttering his name but he doesn’t let you say anything before he seals his lips to yours in an endearing kiss. But you push him away by putting your hands on his chest, making enough room for you to talk.
“Aemond, we can’t—”
“What do you mean we can’t?” He asks, panicking a little but you manage to ease his mind with a quick kiss, “What do you mean, darling?” He asks again, voice barely above whispering.
“I don’t want to be your rebound…” you pull him down enough so his forehead rests on yours, “I don’t want to be the person who you fuck just after you’ve been dumped.”
“You’re… you’re not that, you will never be that! Alys—“
“Alys… you’re still not over her, Little nerd,” you caress his cheek lovingly, pressing a gentle kiss on the apple of his cheek before you push him away and put a great distance between the two of you, and with teasr in your eyes you say one last sentence and leave.
Or why we’re watching The Dance of Dragons trilogy at this god-awful hour?
Dance of the Dragons mention!! in different form lmao
“Okay, babe, whatever you want! I can even set you up with one of Aegon’s friends—“
oh, she already has her eyes on someone, alright
“What is up with you Targaryens being hungry at such an hour?”
I was just about to ask that
“I doubt you’d come and snoop around for Aegon.”
REAL
As soon as he wants to lean down and capture your lips in a breathtaking kiss, the pasta in the oven is long overcooked and the boiling water pours out, making a loud hissing sound that makes Aemond break apart from you.
cockblocked by pasta, unbelievable!!
“I don’t care, Aemond. No books, no workshop, no merging with the darkness and sulking in a corner of this house. Okay?”
merging with the darkness sounds so cool, though
“Billionaires have such a hard life, I pity you guys,” You say sarcastically, “what’s up with these faces? You don’t like having a private chef?”
EAT THE RICH
Aemond pulls shirt after shirt out of his closet, all of them are either black or dark green [...]
Helaena is busy talking to an old friend of his, Cregan Stark, and she is all blushy and giggly while she sips on her drink
CREGAN STARK CAMEO! my man!!
What better way to celebrate his Mum’s birthday than gifting her something he made from scratch?
aaawww
“This is fascinating!” you keep looking at the wooden pallet but something catches your eye; a printed black and white picture of the person’s portrait, but before you can reach for it, Aemond grabs your forearm and pulls you away roughly.
You gasp as he pulls you between him and the desk the portrait and all of his stuff are on.
good diversion, Aemond, 10/10
Both , you both lean in, meeting each other halfway as your lips meet in a chaste messy kiss.
Tags: SMUT (a lil self-indulgence, shall we say), male x male, house of the dragon/dance of the dragons, slightly aged-up Jace, some canon divergence (no, listen. take my hand. walk with me. let's talk.), fix-it ending, Cregan has a kickass direwolf, just two boys in love who are trying to save the seven kingdoms, period-typical misogyny (sigh)
Rating: Explicit (MDNI)
Read Chapter One Here
CHAPTER TWO: Gaerwyn
Synopsis: Cregan takes Jace out on a hunt with a group of northmen, and the prince and the lord both learn a little more about each other.
Jacaerys Velaryon
Jace can see the room lighten from beneath his eyelids and knows the sun is rising. He flips over on the bed, away from the sunlight, exhausted from a fitful night sleep. How could he be so stupid? How could he have messed up an important detail like the height of the tallest wall in the Seven Kingdoms, and insult Lord Stark with his carelessness? He squeezes his eyes tighter, the same thoughts resurfacing that have been beating him up all night for making such a fool of himself. His mother is depending on him, and he’s stumbling at every turn.
He squashes his head into the pillow for a moment, and then sighs and pushes himself to sit up with his back against the headboard. He hisses as the fur covers slip down torso, cold air licking at his exposed skin, for the fire in the hearth has died down to embers. He steels himself, knowing he needs to brave the cold biting at all of his skin in order to place more wood in the fireplace. He counts to three and flings back the covers, making a mad dash for the hearth. He grabs a few logs and places them on the embers, wiggling them around. Satisfaction blooms in his chest when small flames lick up around the wood, but he curses himself for sleeping in the nude, as he’s always done at home. The North truly is freezing, and he still can’t believe it’s not even winter yet. He hurries back to the bed, tucking his icy toes under the covers and leaning against the headboard once more.
He must do better today, he thinks. Ask questions, be gracious, and let the Lord of Winterfell take the lead. And not make a fool of himself on the hunt. He takes a deep breath, and then releases it slowly, closing his eyes and tucking his chin to his chest.
A knock comes from the door, and Jace snaps his head up.
“Good morrow, my prince,” comes the muffled, deep voice of Lord Stark from behind the door.
Jace keeps silent for a moment, panic rising in his chest, but then tells himself to get a grip. “You may enter,” he replies, annoyed with himself for sounding nervous as he tugs the covers further up his chest.
Lord Stark opens the door, clearly dressed for the day, the same cloak with silver fur he wore yesterday covering his shoulders. He’s holding what appears to be a second cloak in his arms, lined with dark brown fur. A servant follows in behind the lord with a tray of food, and she gives Jace a small curtsy before placing it on top of a desk on the other side of the hearth. The servant scurries out behind Lord Stark, and Jace gulps before finding the nerve to meet the lord’s eyes.
“Good morrow, Prince Jacaerys,” Lord Stark repeats quietly. “I’ve brought you a fur cloak and gloves in case you would like to wear them when we ride out today. Maester Selmond believes the snow will begin to fall before we return from the woods, and I think he’s right. ” He lifts the items in his arms a little higher for Jace to see, and Jace notices he does so a little nervously.
“Thank you, Lord Stark, I’m most grateful,” Jace breathes out, trying a smile despite his own nerves.
“‘Cregan’ will do, if it pleases you, my prince,” the lord says, stepping forward to set the items down on the end of the bed, and glancing at Jace. Try as he might, Jace can’t ignore the way his heart starts to hammer even faster in his chest as Lord Stark looms over him. He can’t look away, for the man is nothing short of breathtaking – soft, wavy brown hair, stubble that rushes over his chiseled face, and those storm-gray eyes. “Breakfast as well,”the lord adds, finally meeting Jace’s eye again, and gesturing over to the tray the servant left.
Jace takes a deep breath, and wills his voice to be steady. “If I’m to call you ‘Cregan,’ it’d please me if you called me ‘Jace.’” He sees a flicker of surprise cross the lord’s face, but it’s quickly replaced by the tiniest tug of a smile at the corner of his lips. It makes the butterflies fluttering in Jace’s stomach beat their wings harder.
“Alright then… Jace.” He finds he likes the way his name sounds in the lord’s deep baritone. “Would you like to try on the fur cloak? I can find a more suitable size if it’s not to your liking.” He asks quietly, his tone kind.
Jace freezes and swallows, his brain coming up blank for how to respond. He’s naked underneath the fur covers of the bed, and he shifts uncomfortably, breaking eye contact with Cregan and looking down at his lap. But it becomes clear very quickly that he doesn’t need to say anything, for Jace sees Cregan drop his chin to his chest and a true smile spreads across his face.
Jace is mortified. “I– thank you, Cregan. I can– yes,” Jace stammers out, gathering the fur covers around him, brain frantically trying to figure out how to rip the covers off of the bed and wrap them around his body in one fell swoop. “If you just give me a moment.”
Cregan lets out a soft laugh, and holds up a hand to stop Jace from getting up. “I’ll see myself out, and ask that you meet me in the Great Hall when you’re ready. Follow the staircase down to the bottom, and take the long hallway to find me. I’d have you meet some of my men before we ride out,” he instructs gently, still smiling, and were Jace not so embarrassed he might have found something clever to say about meeting Cregan’s men. All he can do is nod and clear his throat, sure that his cheeks are bright red.
“Thank you… I’ll be down shortly,” he finally stutters out, looking up to see Cregan blink softly and his lips part, as if he’s about to say something. He lingers for a moment, eyes still fixed on Jace’s face and he swears the lord leans in closer. Jace feels a shiver run up his spine and heat spread across his chest, as he himself leans in closer to Cregan. But then the man turns around swiftly and is gone, the door shutting behind him with a gentle click, before Jace can even blink.
Jace stares at the door for a moment before sliding back down the bed, a soft groan escaping his lips, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. He closes his eyes for a moment, and the lord’s handsome face grins back at him from beneath his lids. He takes a deep breath, but his cock betrays him, giving a twitch against his stomach. He sits bolt right up in bed.
—
Cregan Stark
Cregan gets to the stairs in just a few strides, and hurries down to the floor below the family bedrooms, finally finding the door to the room they supped in last night. He wrenches the door open, spins inside, and shuts it again, leaning heavily against the wood as his breath comes quickly.
Gods be good. Here he is, trying to be a gracious host as Sara demanded he be, but how is he supposed to handle his guest in bed, naked, flushed, and stammering out his name? Cregan thumps his head back against the door. Jace, he’d asked Cregan to call him. “Jace,” he breathes out quietly into the empty room. His heart’s thumping so loudly that he barely hears the younger man’s name escape his lips. Still, saying the prince’s name aloud sends a shiver up his spine. When has he ever allowed himself to get this flustered?
He pushes off from the door and strides over to the table, leaning both hands against it, hating himself for knowing exactly why the prince has him so worked up. He hangs his head and tries to steady his breaths. What had he planned to do just now when he leaned in closer to the younger man? Touch his knee beneath the furs? Sit down on the edge of the bed? Close the gap between them with a ki–
Cregan pushes off from the table and starts pacing the length of the table. Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip.
No. No, absolutely not. This can’t happen. He can’t – won’t – have lewd thoughts about the heir to the Iron Throne; a man who needs to understand that the North is worth the sacrifices he’ll surely ask of Cregan. A man who Cregan needs to gain respect and trust from, not disgust or lust. If Jace were any other man, maybe Cregan would let his impulses run wild, as he has in the past with other men. But Jace isn’t a normal man. He’s a prince.
Cregan sighs, running his hands over his face as his feet take him to one of the windows that overlooks the courtyard where he first met the prince. A flash of green and red grabs his attention, and he realizes he’s watching Jace’s dragon flying away from Winterfell, towards the Wolf’s Wood.
He takes a few more slow breaths, and straightens his back, watching the dragon grow smaller in the distance. He’ll do his duty today and demonstrate how honorable northerners are, and begin teaching the prince what should be known about the North. Nothing else can happen, he decides – the blood of the dragon and the blood of the wolf can’t mix.
He leaves the window and his feet carry him to the Great Hall, where he finds four of his men gathered, speaking with Maester Selmond.
“Cregan!” Alec greets him jovially, closing the distance between them in a few strides and then clasping his hands over Cregan’s shoulders. Alec leans in and whispers, “You look flushed. Is everything alright?” Take his best friend to immediately notice something’s off about him.
“I’m well, Alec, thanks. I’ve just been…walking,” Cregan lies, looking past Alec’s shoulder at the others, but he sees his friend’s eyes narrow, not taking the bait. As the men approach, Alec drops his hands from Cregan’s shoulders, and Cregan is grateful for the chance to take another deep breath.
A chorus of “good marrows” greets him as Tobin, Benjen, Marwyn, and the maester stop in front of him. “Good morrow,” he repeats, his eyes flicking over each of them. Maester Selmond turns to him. “The horses have been readied, my lord, and if you leave soon, you should make it back before the snows fall too heavy.”
“Thank you, Maester Selmond,” Cregan says, looking at the older man with gratitude. “We’re just waiting for–”
“The prince that was promised!” Alec shouts cheerfully, looking behind Cregan, and then bending into a bow. Cregan spins around to see the said prince standing in the doorway of the Great Hall, draped in the fur cloak that Cregan gave him. His stomach does a somersault.
The rest of the group bow as well, following Alec’s lead, as Jace walks over to them, his cheeks pink.
“Good morrow, and please there is no need,” he rushes out, and gestures for them to cease their courtesies.
“Prince Jacaerys,” Cregan starts softly, catching Jace’s attention, “these are the men I was referring to, as well as Maester Selmond, who I don’t believe you’ve been formally introduced to yet.” Jace greets the maester, who dutifully informs the prince that if he needs anything during his stay, to please call on him.
Cregan turns to the other men, trying to ignore the way Jace runs a hand through his curls. “My prince, may I introduce you to Lord Alec of House Cerwyn,” he gestures to his friend, “and his younger brother, Lord Tobin Cerwyn.” He motions to the man standing to Alec’s left.
Jace turns to them with a polite smile. “It’s an honor to meet you, my lords.”
“The honor is ours, my prince,” Alec says happily. “It’s not every day that we get to hunt with royalty.” This makes Jace laugh – a sound that warms Cregan, but he pushes that thought down and moves on to introduce the other two men.
“And this, my prince, is Benjen and Marwyn,” he nods to the men to the left of Tobin, “who are sworn swords of House Stark and some of the bravest men you’ll ever meet.”
“I’ve no doubt, my lord” the prince says, and it sounds sincere. He tilts his head in respect to the men, and then adds, “It’ll be a pleasure to learn the hunting skills of the North from the best of the northerners.” Benjen and Marwyn stumble over their gratitude for the prince’s words, but Jace insists he has much to learn. All of the men end up with smiles on their faces.
“Well, then,” Cregan nods, “we should make haste to get ahead of the snow,” and the northmen agree, turning away to gather their saddlebags and other necessities for a day’s hunt. He sees Tobin grab an extra loaf of bread to take with them. “My lord, my prince,” Maester Selmond says, and he bids them farewell before striding out of the Great Hall, leaving Cregan standing alone with Jace.
“The cloak suits you, Jace,” Cregan murmurs, before he can stop himself, and he steals a quick glance at the younger man.
“I’m glad you think so, Cregan,” Jace whispers back, turning his head to look at the lord. “I take it that it’s yours?” the prince asks, a smile tugging at his lips as he lifts his shoulders to shift the fur cloak.
Cregan swallows, and nods his head, and then falters a bit when he sees Jace’s smile spread and touch his eyes. “Then I’m most pleased,” the prince breathes, and then he walks away from Cregan to follow the men, before another word can be said. With a smile on his lips, Cregan finds even more warmth spreading through his veins before following the prince to step out into the cold.
–
Jacaerys Velaryon
Jace’s heart is pounding in his chest as his exchange with Cregan settles over him. The lord complimented him, and it almost seemed flirtatious. And had Jace flirted back? Was that what that was? He can’t deny that the look on Cregan’s ruggedly handsome face when Jace said how pleased he was to be wearing the man’s cloak is what’s making Jace’s heart hammer against his ribcage. How on earth had he just managed to walk away from Cregan?
He takes a deep breath as he finds himself outside of the keep, trailing the northmen towards the stable, grateful for the fresh air even though the chill stings his lungs. He must get a grip. He’s meant to prove that he is a worthy student of northern ways of life, and to show these men that his mother’s cause is worth fighting for. He’s not meant to flirt with the most important lord in the North.
His feet carry him into the stable, and a man who Jace assumes in the Stable Master gives him a bow and gestures to a gray horse that has been chosen as Jace’s mount. “He’s called Ghost, my prince, and he’s a gentle soul,” the man says warmly, handing the reins to Jace and giving the horse a pat before shuffling back down the aisle. Jace reaches out a hand to let the horse sniff him, but jerks his hand back as something large and silver moves in the corner of his eye.
He spins around and his breath catches in his throat. Looming before him is the largest wolf Jace thinks has ever lived. Silvery fur and golden eyes that are boring into his own as the animal takes a few steps closer, easily closing the distance between it and Jace. None of the other men moving about the stable have seemed to notice this creature. Ghost too seems unphased.
The wolf stops a few feet away from him, and it’s so tall that its head is level with Jace’s chest. The ginormous animal tilts its head and sniffs the air.
“Gaerwyn,” comes a low voice near the stable doors. Jace reluctantly breaks eye contact with the wolf to see Cregan walking up to him and the creature. When he reaches the wolf, Cregan extends a hand out to skim his fingers through the animal’s fur before stopping in front of Jace, so close that their cloaks brush against each other. Jace finally takes a breath, but his heart is pounding even harder now.
“I see you’ve met the direwolf of House Stark,” Cregan notes casually, a small smirk on his face.
“This…this is your wolf?” Jace asks breathlessly, eyes flicking to the creature and then back to his lord.
“Aye, Gaerwyn. Have had him since he was a pup. We found him abandoned in the Wolf’s Wood about six years ago,” he explains, scratching the fur behind the wolf’s ear. An appreciative sound rumbles from the animal. “He seems interested in you,” Cregan comments, giving Jace a more genuine smile. “He must smell your dragon.”
“But I’ve bathed,” Jace rushes out, and immediately feels like an idiot.
Cregan’s smile slips back into a smirk, and Jace ducks his head as his cheeks redden in front of the lord, for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Aye, but he can smell better than we can,” Cregan murmurs and Jace sneaks a glance back up at the man. His smirk has been replaced by a kinder smile now, likely not wishing to embarrass Jace too much. “He’s useful on a hunt… Hold out your hand so he can get the real scent of you.”
Jace freezes, suddenly wary of the wolf again, but Cregan is a quick study. “Don’t worry, Prince Jacaerys, he won’t bite you any more than your dragon wouldn’t bite me,” he teases gently, ruffling the top of the wolf’s head.
Jace gives Cregan a grim look, but removes his glove and holds out his hand to the wolf, willing his digits not to shake too much.
The wolf gives him a sniff, and then a little lick, which tickles and makes Jace let out a light laugh. Gaerwyn then pushes his head into Jace’s hand, clearly seeking more scratches behind his ears. Jace obliges the creature, albeit gingerly. “It’s nice to meet you too, Gaerwyn,” he murmurs, and he feels himself smile as the wolf leans into his touch.
He looks up at Cregan, and sees a soft smile on his face. Their eyes meet, and then he feels the man’s fingers brush against his as he too scratches the wolf’s head. It sends a tingle up Jace’s spine. He swallows and his heart skips a beat when Cregan parts his lips, and again Jace waits for him to say something like he did earlier in his borrowed chambers.
“Oye, we best get a move on,” says a voice behind Cregan, and they both snatch their hands away from the wolf, turning to see Alec holding his own horse, looking impatient.
“Aye, of course,” Cregan rushes out, and he turns away from Jace to walk to the stall where his own mount is waiting.
Gaerwyn gives Jace one last look as well, his golden eyes studying the prince, but then turns on his heel to trot out of the stable, following Alec and the rest of the men.
—
Cregan Stark
He puts his foot in the stirrup and hoists himself up to mount Juniper, eyeing Jace as the prince does the same with Ghost. It’s odd to see someone else climb into the saddle that his late wife used to sit in, but it doesn’t make Cregan as sad as he thought it would. Jace is a different person from Arra, and Ghost enjoys long rides out into the woods with just about anyone on his back. It comforts him to know that Jace is as safe as can be atop the mount that Cregan chose for him, and the younger man will be able to appreciate the North better while not having to wrangle some other hot horse.
Benjen leads them out of the stable yard, Gaerwyn a few steps ahead of them all, eager to get into his natural habitat. He too loves the woods.
Before Cregan can steer Juniper to walk next to Jace and Ghost, Alec pulls up alongside him, leaving Tobin to ride next to the prince. It prickles Cregan a little bit, for he was looking forward to seeing what else he can say to make the younger man blush.
“Alright, are you going to tell me now why you looked so agitated in the Great Hall, or must I guess?” Alec asks, eyeing Cregan and urging his mount forward.
Cregan takes a deep breath, and then looks over at his closest friend. “I already told you. I’d been on a walk,” he repeats his white lie from earlier. It’s true, somewhat – he’d been walking as quickly away from the prince and his own strong impulses as he could before he entered the Great Hall.
“You know, you’ve never been good at lying,” Alec muses quietly, and he glances behind him at his brother and Jace, and must realize they are just out of ear shot, for he says, “I know the look on your face when you’ve spotted easy prey.”
Cregan huffs out a laugh. “You do realize that he’s brought his dragon to the North, right?”
Alec rolls his eyes and turns to look off to his right, but Cregan can see him smile anyway.
“Aye, the beast is hard to miss,” Alec replies, turning his head back to his friend. Cregan raises his eyebrows with a smirk.
“I think we’re the easy prey, Alec,” Cregan states, shifting a bit in his saddle and glancing ahead of them to see the more narrow path that Benjen has decided to take them down – likely following whatever scent trail Gaerwyn’s picked up on. “Single file now,” he states at Alec, and motions ahead of them as Marwyn reins in his horse to follow behind Benjen.
“This conversation isn’t over,” Alec threatens lightly, but loud enough for the others to hear as he pulls up his own horse to trail Cregan.
Cregan swivels in his saddle to give the man a wry look, but he also uses it as an excuse to catch a glimpse of Jace. Tobin, ever the respectful lad, has allowed Jace to go in front of him. Cregan and Jace make eye contact for a brief moment before Cregan turns to face forward once more, not wishing to make a fool of himself lest he be whacked in the head by a low-hanging branch that he doesn’t see coming.
“My prince,” Alec starts, and Cregan grits his teeth, praying to the gods that his friend doesn’t say something crass. “Are you enjoying your trip to the North?”
“Yes, Lord Cerwyn,” Jace replies, his princely voice coming out again. “Lord Stark is a gracious host, and most obliging to my desire to see and learn about the real North,” Jace finishes, and Cregan is glad Jace and Alec can’t see his face, for his cheeks have surely reddened.
“Are you taking the prince above the Wall then, my lord?” Alec asks Cregan – a joke that Jace will undoubtedly miss, for the “real North” is what northerners typically refer to the wildness above the Wall as.
“Aye, I might,” Cregan says, trying to divert Alec away from accidentally insulting Jace.
“Ah,” Alec says animatedly, “Lord Stark must like you, my prince. He rarely ventures above the Wall.” He hears Alec turn in his saddle to give Jace what Cregan assumes is a devious grin.
Jace lets out a light laugh. “As I said, my lord, Lord Stark’s a most gracious host.” Cregan picks up something in Jace’s voice – almost as if he is sharing a private quip with Cregan – something about their agreement last night. It makes a smile tug at his lips.
“Mmm, my prince. Indeed, you’re right,” Alec agrees, and Cregan rolls his eyes again. But before Cregan can say anything, he sees Marwyn round a corner and he realizes they’re walking into a clearing in the trees that they often pass through on their hunting trips. Have they really ridden this far already? He mustn’t get so distracted – these woods can be dangerous, even for himself and his seasoned men. And he must take care to make sure that Jace isn’t put in harm’s way. But he’s brought out of his thoughts by something that he smells before he sees – the scent of burnt flesh and bone. This is where Gaerwyn must have decided to lead them from a long distance back. The wolf really does have an extraordinary sense of smell.
As he pulls Juniper up to stop next to Benjen and Marwyn, he sees the source of the smell towards the edge of the clearing, not far from them, and he notices that Gaerwyn is already circling the area, sniffing the ground. He urges his horse on as Alec, Jace, and Tobin catch up as well, and all six of them ride across the field towards the carcass. When they’re mere feet away, Cregan halts his horse and the rest of the men do the same. It’s the remnants of a deer, still recognizable despite being as blackened as it is. And so is the earth around it – scorched grass and twigs.
He looks over at Jace, who managed to slot Ghost in between Cregan’s and Alec’s mounts. He sees the prince swallow, and then turn to look at him. His expression appears apologetic.
“Prince Jacaerys,” Tobin says gently. “Wouldn’t your dragon prefer to hunt a stag? They’re much bigger than the does found in these woods, like her,” the young man asks the prince, gesturing to the deer. He sounds genuinely interested in what Jace has to say.
Jace clears his throat and shifts in his saddle, glancing around at the men who’ve turned their attention to him.
“Oh, I’m sure Vermax picked this doe on purpose, Lord Tobin. He’s…particular about his meals,” Jace replies lightly, and Cregan can tell he’s not quite sure how to handle the situation.
“Aye, that makes sense,” Tobin agrees, nodding his head. “I wouldn’t want to be stabbed in the face by antlers, even if I was a dragon.” They all turn to look at Tobin now, and Cregan has to try hard to keep a straight face.
“Aye,” Alec says to his younger brother, and Cregan can tell he’s trying to hold back a laugh. “And what do you know of the mind of a dragon?”
“Can Vermax tell us, my prince?” Tobin asks quickly, ignoring his brother. “Can…can dragons speak?”
The field is silent for a moment, and then all of them — except for Jace — burst into laughter in unison. Tobin’s cheeks turn pink, but he joins in on the laughter too. Cregan sees a smile spread across Jace’s face as he shifts again in his saddle.
“No, dragons can’t speak like you and I,” Jace replies to Tobin after their laughter dies down, and his voice is patient alongside his smile, as if he’s received this question many times. “And I’m grateful for that. I’ve no doubt that he would tell everyone he met about the one time that I drank too much wine with dinner, attempted to climb on his back, and then promptly fell off his other side, landing on my ass,” Jace admits, and the men all exclaim in disbelief, their laughter starting up again.
Cregan is impressed that Jace is able to laugh at himself too along with the men, assuring them that the story is true, for Cregan had assumed that a man with the status of a prince would never be able to poke fun at himself. Cregan realizes that Sara’s right – he’s misjudged Jace. He feels his stomach do a little flip as he also realizes how eager he is to learn more about the man who is glancing over at him now, brown eyes dancing with amusement.
—
Jacaerys Velaryon
“We ought to keep moving,” Cregan says to the men when they’ve regained their composure, turning his horse to lead them back across the field. “My prince, please come ride alongside me.”
Jace squirms in his saddle a bit at the way Cregan’s is both making him an offer and commanding him in his deep baritone, but he obliges Cregan and pushes Ghost into a trot so they can catch up to the lord.
“My lord,” Jace murmurs when Ghost falls into step beside Cregan’s mount, and he’s pleased to see a smile tug at Cregan’s lips.
“What do you know of hunting in the North, my prince?” The man asks, voice more gentle now.
Jace feels embarrassment creep up his neck again. “Very little, but I would think that there’s not much that’s different from hunts in other parts of the realm,” he replies, feeling a little more confident then he thinks he ought to be.
“In other parts of the realm, it’s known that men hunt for sport. For pleasure,” Cregan replies, turning his head to meet Jace’s eyes on the last word. “Do you agree?”
“Yes, I’ve been on hunts that were for the thrill of the chase,” Jace concedes, his stomach still flipping a little from the way Cregan had uttered pleasure and locked eyes with him.
“This isn’t the case in the North.” Cregan’s eyes flick back out to between his horse’s ears, choosing to veer them back into the woods via a path that Jace can’t see. Now, he must walk around trees and shrubs if he wants to continue to walk at Cregan’s side. He nudges Ghost to keep up.
“Here,” Cregan continues, easing his mount around a tree stump, “we hunt for survival. Winter is very harsh, and so we hunt strategically and never waste anything we bring down, no matter how big or small,” Cregan murmurs, looking off to his left. “The fur cloak that you’re wearing is made from a bear that was killed a few years ago.”
Jace shifts his shoulders underneath the cloak, realizing now the importance of the material keeping his body warm.
“Have you seen starvation, my lord?” Jace asks quietly, and he’s not sure where the question comes from exactly. He steers Ghost between two trees, before looking back over at Cregan.
“Yes,” Cregan says in a low voice. “It’s why we must take our responsibilities so seriously, especially Lord Alec and I. Winter is coming, and we must always be ready.” The lord gives his horse some more rein to step over a fallen sapling.
“I understand,” Jace states gently, his brain racing with what to say next. “If there’s anything that I can ask of my mother to provide for the North, you need only say so. She’s a good and diligent Queen, and is most concerned for the safety of her subjects above all else.” He prays that Cregan doesn’t take his offer as an insult.
Cregan looks over at Jace, giving him a kind smile. “I’ve no doubt, my prince, that King Viserys wouldn’t have chosen your mother as his heir if he didn’t think she would continue his legacy of caring deeply for all of his people. I thank you for your offer, but the North has stood guardian against the cold and the dark for thousands of years. We’ll continue to do so as we always have, with careful preparation.”
Jace nods, and releases a breath, watching the steam swirl around Ghost’s ears. He’s grateful for the lord’s kind words about his mother and grandsire, but another thought nags at him as well. “Will you teach me about your preparation? Will you show me?”
“Aye, I will,” Cregan agrees faintly, and Jace sees the man’s eyes and head swivel, as if he’s watching something that Jace can’t see.
“Thank you, my lo–” Jace starts, but Cregan holds up a hand, asking him for silence. Jace swallows and obeys, but looks around as well to try to spot what the lord has seen.
Cregan slowly raises his fist to the sky, catching the attention of the other men, who halt their horses behind them. Gaerwyn silently obeys as well, stopping next to Cregan’s horse, with golden eyes fixed on something. Cregan drops his reins, and raises his other hand slowly. Jaces sees him splay his ten fingers for a moment, and then he drops his other hand, and holds up only two fingers in the remaining hand. Ten and two? What signal is this? Jace scans the thick forest again, leaning off to the right in his saddle, and then he spots it. A great stag is stripping bark from a tree, about fifty yards in front of them, and it miraculously hasn’t noticed the men, their horses, or the wolf. He assumes it must be because they are downwind – something his fathers taught him to be mindful of. As the animal stretches its great head higher for more bark, Jace counts two and ten points on the animal’s antlers.
Jace and Cregan look at each other, and he sees Cregan swallow hard, as if he’s trying to decide something. Jace cocks his head to the side, silently trying to ask the lord what they should do.
Cregan looks down at the right side of his saddle, and carefully unhooks a bow that’s strapped there alongside a quiver of arrows. The lord gathers the bow and an arrow slowly, and then looks up at Jace. Their eyes meet again, and Jace knows what he’s going to ask him before he does.
“Do you know how to shoot?” Cregan breathes into the space between them. Jace nods slowly.
Cregan lifts his right arm steadily, handing the bow and arrow to him, and he takes it carefully. Jace can’t help but look over his shoulder at the other men, who are watching but also exchanging concerned glances with each other. He turns to face forward again, knowing how important this shot is. Not just to prove himself to the men, but also to ensure that this stag – this resource – can be used in full by the northerners. Cregan gives Jace a gentle nod of encouragement, as if he can read the prince’s thoughts.
Jace nocks the arrow expertly, now immensely grateful to both of his fathers for all of the long, grueling hours that they made him practice the bow and the sword in the yard of the Red Keep and in the King’s Wood. He draws, closing his left eye as he aims the bow carefully. When he lets the arrow loose, the gentle swish of air seems to whisper winter is coming.
The arrow hits the stag just above and behind its shoulder, and its cry of pain rips through the air, making Ghost jerk his head in surprise and Gaerwyn let out a whine. The stag stumbles and falls, and Jace releases the breath he’d been holding. He looks over to Cregan, whose eyes seem to be wide with wonder. Jace realizes he’s been watching him, rather than the stag, this whole time. His heart races even faster in his chest.
—
Cregan Stark
How on earth did the prince learn to shoot like that? The question tumbles from his mouth, before he can stop himself. He’s surprised Jace has heard him over the congratulations coming from the men who’ve moved their horses up and all begin walking towards the stag. Gaerwyn has already trotted over to the felled animal, sitting a few yards from it, waiting patiently for Cregan’s commands.
“My father taught me,” Jace confesses, and though he gives Cregan a smile, he can see what appears to be sadness touch the prince’s eyes.
“I’m sorry that you lost Ser Laenor… It’s not easy to lose one’s father, but we should be grateful for the knowledge that they passed on to us,” Cregan says gently, studying Jace’s face.
Jace looks to the side for a moment, clearly trying to master his emotions. Cregan looks away as well, towards the stag, to give Jace a moment alone.
He dismounts Juniper, and leaves the horse to stand alone – he’s well trained, and always extraordinarily patient. He walks up to the stag, squats down, and sees that the arrow Jace loosed went clean through the animal, and spots it lodged in moss a few yards away. He feels Gaerwyn approach and lay down next to him, eyeing the stag. He reaches over to scratch the wolf’s head.
He looks around, and sees a spot where they might drag the stag to in order to prepare the meat, hide, and bones for use. He knows there’s a small stream nearby, where they can gather water for the work and for the horses to drink.
“I think we can move the stag over there,” he points to the spot where the trees are less dense, and turns to look at the men behind him, who nod and begin dismounting their horses.
He looks back to his right, and sees Jace is standing on the ground now, holding Ghost and stroking his neck. Cregan can see from his low vantage point how tall and lean the prince is, and how he’s resting his weight gracefully on one leg. No one could deny how handsome he is, and he wonders how many young ladies must place themselves in his path to try and catch his attention. The thought sends a prickle of jealousy up his spine, but at that moment Jace turns his attention to him. Cregan looks down at the ground and takes a steadying breath, lest his thoughts betray him.
“I’m sorry that you lost your father as well. My mother and grandsire always said how honorable Lord Rickon Stark was,” Jace says gently, still stroking Ghost.
Cregan keeps his gaze fixed on the ground for a moment, and then finally looks up to meet Jace’s eye. “Thank you, my prince,” he replies quietly, and he’s sure Jace can see the same sadness that fills him now at the memory of his own father.
Jace holds out his hand to help Cregan up, and he takes the younger man’s hand gratefully. Though their hands are gloved, their grip sends sparks through his veins, and he has an urge to pull the prince close and kiss him. The thought comes so quickly that it surprises him, and he drops Jace’s hand before he can act on his desires. But he gives the prince a thankful smile, and Jace returns it.
“I’d like to learn about processing the stag. Will you explain to me what you and the men are doing?” Jace asks, but his tone is tentative. Cregan hopes that yanking his hand away hasn’t caused offense.
“Aye, my prince. And I’ll ask that you help, if you’ll allow me,” he says, hoping the prince will say yes.
“Yes, I’d like that.” Another smile spreads across Jace’s face, and this time he sees what appears to be relief touch his eyes, rather than sadness. It eases a constriction around Cregan’s heart.
—
Jacaerys Velaryon
True to his word, Cregan and the men show Jace all of the steps they must make to process each part of the stag to minimize waste, and they hand over knives of various sizes to let Jace do some of the work. “You brought down the creature after all, my prince,” Benjen states with quiet encouragement, helping to instruct him on a particular cut. Jace grins at him, and he finds he appreciates not only being able to make his hands useful, but also the camaraderie that comes with a hunt in the North.
Jace also doesn’t miss how Cregan removes one of the hind legs, and brings it over to Gaerwyn, who has been laying off to the side, silently and diligently watching the men work. The stag leg must be a reward for the wolf’s patience and good behavior. As soon as Cregan places the leg down, Gaerwyn leaps to his feet to begin ripping it apart. It’s a savage thing to watch, but no more than the many times he’s seen Vermax devour a meal… Two creatures who are truly wild at heart.
After most of the work is done, and they’ve all visited the nearby stream to wash their hands and collect water for the horses, they gather around a campfire that Marwyn has been busy preparing. He’s even moved some logs to give them places to sit off the frozen ground.
Jace unties a roll of fur hooked to the back of his saddle, and places it on the ground in front of a log, preferring to stretch out his legs and allow his toes to thaw next to the fire. As he leans back against the log, he sees the swish of Cregan’s cloak as he steps over Jace’s log to sit on top of it. The prince looks up at him, and sees a small smile tugging at Cregan’s lips as he meets his gaze.
“Comfortable?” he murmurs in his velvety baritone, which makes Jace squirm a bit. He nods, smiling like a fool, but looks away before he says something he might regret. As he looks over the fire, he catches Alec’s eye, who seems to have observed the exchange based on the small smirk on the lord’s face. Jace feels heat prickle up the back of his neck.
Before he can think too much of it, Marywn is in front of him, offering Jace a small tin plate and a selection of cured meats, cheeses, and bread. He takes some gratefully, only now realizing how hungry he’s become. As he lifts a piece of cheese to his mouth, he sees Gaerwyn move out of the corner of his eye, coming into view from around Cregan. The wolf eyes Jace for a moment, his maw tinged pink, and then lays down again, settling his back to press into Jace’s side and leg. The warmth radiating from the animal is welcome, though he still feels a little wary. He glances up at Cregan again, who gives him a reassuring nod.
“My prince,” Benjen starts tentatively, in his quiet voice, pulling Jace’s attention to him. He sees the man is also eyeing Cregan, as if he’s making sure it’s okay to address the prince. “What’s it like to ride a dragon?”
Jace swallows the hunk of cheese he’s shoved in his mouth. “It’s…exhilarating,” Jace admits, his mind flitting to Vermax with fondness. “Though, I’ll admit, it was terrifying at first, being up that high and going so fast.” The men smile at him.
“I’m sure Vermax made your first ride easy though, my prince,” Tobin states with a smile before tucking into a hunk of bread.
“Ah…” Jace says, thinking of his first ride now. He crosses his legs, and leans a little more into the log and Gaerwyn. “My first flight was actually with my mother on her dragon, Syrax. Syrax is Vermax’s mother, so I think she has a special fondness for both of us. She wouldn’t fly very fast, no matter how much I begged.” He finishes, smiling at the memory, and the men let out light laughs around the fire.
“Tell me…” Jace begins, “what’re your favorite memories of growing up in the North?” He looks around at each of the men, and he can see that they seem pleased he’s asked this of them.
“Oh, my prince, that would have to be learning to fish on the frozen lakes of the North. Nothing tastes so good as fresh fish in the middle of winter,” Benjen says gently, running a hand through his short, black hair. The men all murmur in agreement.
“Now, I think it has to be hunting white hares,” Tobin counters, a piece of dried meat flopping in his hand as he thinks aloud. Jace turns to look at him. “White hares?” he asks, taking another bite of his cheese.
“Aye, my prince,” Tobin says, cheerfully. “In winter, the brown hares turn white to blend in with the snow. And when you get one…it’s very satisfying because they’re hard to see and damn near impossible to catch.” The young man smiles, clearly reminiscing about his own fond memories.
“I had no idea they turned white,” Jace admits. “We don’t get much snow where I’m from.”
“Aye, my prince, but if you stay here long enough, we can show you,” Tobin replies, looking hopeful.
“I’d like that.” Jace feels warmth spread through his chest at Tobin’s eagerness.
He turns to look at Marwyn next. The man, who seems to be somewhere around his lord’s age, considers for a moment, running a hand through his thick, reddish-brown beard. “I think brewing a northern ale,” he replies with a nod. The men all audibly agree, noting that Marwyn makes a fine ale.
“Perhaps I could taste some of your ale? I’ve taken a liking to what I’ve tried so far.” Jace asks, shifting a little more to rest his back comfortably against the log. He can feel Cregan’s knee lean a little closer to him, and it makes his heart race.
“Aye, my prince, it would be an honor,” Marwyn says warmly as he swirls a pot over the fire, heating up mead for the men.
They all turn their attention to Alec now, who has a small smirk on his face as he meets Jace’s eye. “I think fucking northern women is my favorite,” he says casually, and Jace hears Cregan murmur gods be good next to him as the men laugh. “Northern women are very much worth your time, my prince…” Alec continues, leaning his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together while gazing at Jace over the fire. “Except for Sara, of course,” the lord finishes quickly, glancing at Cregan. Cregan lets out an exasperated huff, but Jace can see he’s smiling too.
“I think Lady Sara could never be compelled to do anything she didn’t want to do,” Jace states, gratefully taking the warm cup of mead that Marwyn offers him. As he takes a sip, he sees all of the men visibly stiffen. He glances up at Cregan, prepared for the confession of Sara’s birth, of which he’s already aware.
“My prince,” Cregan starts, looking down at the hunk of bread he’s picking at. “My sister–”
“Is a bastard,” Jace finishes for him, trying to keep his tone light before taking another sip of mead. He glances around at the men before looking back up at Cregan.
Cregan expression is one of utter surprise.
“She told me when I arrived at Winterfell,” he states casually, but he sees Cregan shift uncomfortably.
“Well, then you will know that, by the law of the Seven Kingdoms, my sister is not a lady,” Cregan murmurs, and then he breaks his gaze with Jace to sip his own mead. The men continue to shift in their seats, clearly not knowing what to do or say.
“Well, as a prince of the realm, I should state that I think that law’s ridiculous. Lady Sara has been nothing but kind to me, and she’s clearly a formidable woman. Why should her birth determine the respect she ought to be given?” He hopes his confidence hits right, for he truly isn’t sure where these men fall on the issue.
“I agree,” Alec states quietly, glancing at Cregan. “Sara is as much a lady as any other.”
“Aye,” Tobin agrees, following his brother’s lead. “She’s always so kind to me as well.”
Marwyn lets out a light laugh. “Aye, she’s kind to you because she’s hoping you’ll shut your yap every now and again,” he teases the boy with fondness, as an older brother would. Tobin rolls his eyes, but laughs too and throws a piece of bread at Marwyn, hitting him in the shoulder. Benjen and Alec chuckle at the exchange.
Jace glances back up at Cregan, and sees the man’s face has softened. His eyes, if Jace can read them right, seem to be thanking him. He smiles at Cregan, hoping the lord understands that he meant what he said.
Before the silent exchange can be noticed, he tugs his eyes away from Cregan and turns back to Alec. But as he does, he leans his arm up against the log, letting it brush the hem of Cregan’s cloak. “Do you have a favorite northern woman, my lord? Are you betrothed?”
Alec lets out a laugh. “Aye, my prince. Carissa. But I’m very much not betrothed to her, as she’s the favorite of many men around these parts,” he says, grabbing another piece of meat from the plate at Marwyn’s side. Benjen lets out an appreciative whistle at the thought of the woman, and he sees Tobin grin.
Jace feels his cheeks redden, picking up on Alec’s meaning. This famed woman must be a lady of the night. Jace has heard about these women many times, especially growing up around the knights in King’s Landing, but feels his neck prickle with embarrassment when his brain reminds him that he doesn’t have the same first hand experience as these men do, even young Tobin.
“I think we’ve all met her, isn’t that right, lads?” Alec asks casually, stretching his legs out to put his feet closer to the fire. “Even Lord Stark.”
Jace looks up at Cregan, who is giving his friend a slightly menacing look, but Alec just smirks at him before saying, “I think you’re one of her favorites.” Jace feels a sudden pang of jealousy at this detail; that Cregan has been with this woman, or that this woman has had Cregan…he’s not quite sure which bristles him more.
“Aye, she’s a kind woman,” Cregan grunts, but he stands and moves to grab a sack of water from near the horses, and douses the fire, extinguishing the flames. Jace misses the warmth immediately, the wind starting to bite at his nose again though he knows his face must still be flushed anyway. He hopes he can play it off as wind burn or the chill in the air. “We should pack up,” the lord huffs out, “before the snow starts.” The men all grumble in agreement, standing as well to start packing up their camp and the stag. Gaerwyn heaves his body to stand as well, towering over Jace as the wolf gives his body a shake.
As Jace stands and makes his way over to help Marwyn pack up their temporary camp, he notices that Alec doesn’t appear to be the least bit guilty for poking at his friend. He assumes the topic of Carissa has come up before, and that Cregan must be used to it. He wonders briefly about how honest the honorable Lord Stark would be with him if he asked.
—
Cregan Stark
He’s glad he cut the conversation short – not just to save his own embarrassment at the mention of the prostitute, but because the snow has indeed begun to fall. When they are all packed up, he mounts Juniper, who has been tethered next to Ghost. As he settles into the saddle, he looks over to the prince, and feels his heart melt a bit despite the dropping temperature. Jace is gazing up at the sky with a contented look, snowflakes gently caressing his cheeks.
The prince must feel Cregan’s eyes upon him, for he turns to look at the lord with a sheepish grin. “I’ve never seen snow like this. It’s so beautiful and peaceful,” Jace murmurs, gesturing to the flakes falling softly around them.
A warmth spreads through him from the prince’s words. It reminds him of the first time that Rickon saw snow, gazing around with wonder.
“Aye,” he murmurs, holding the prince’s gaze, “it can be harsh, but it’s always beautiful.” He gathers Juniper’s reins and urges the horse into a walk, and Jace does the same. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he adds, stealing another glance at the happy prince.
“Thank you for today…for everything,” Jace replies, adjusting his cloak over Ghost’s hind end to cover the horse more thoroughly against the weather. “It means a great deal to me.” His murmur is filled with a sincerity that can’t be doubted, and Cregan feels warmth flow even further through his veins.
“As it does to me, Jace,” he breathes back, though he knows they’re out of earshot of the other men, who are leading the group back in the direction of Winterfell.
Jace sends a grin his way, and weaves Ghost around a few trees. The pair walk in silence for a bit, which leaves Cregan to his thoughts. The prince riding alongside him, still taking in the sites of the Wolf’s Wood, did well today. He seems to fit in with the men Cregan trusts the most in this world – better than he thought he would, for they appear to like the prince, and he them. Though he’s royalty, and was raised by what Cregan assumes are fickle southern lords, Jace appears to be a humble man and he seems eager to do good in this world. To listen, to learn, and to appreciate those who have different experiences from him. The way he attentively observed Benjen’s instructions on cutting the stag, and then tried himself, all the while turning to the men for their guidance, demonstrated what Cregan thinks is Jace’s true nature. It comforts him, for this, he thinks, is what should be at the core of a good king. And though his ancestor, Torrhen Stark, bent the knee to Jace’s ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, the northman did so only to save his people, not out of love for the Targaryens. But Cregan is beginning to see himself bending the knee to Jace in the future, and feeling different from his ancestor about this time, this king. It soothes a bit the inherited wound that the Starks have felt for generations to have had their right to rule as the Kings of Winter forcibly taken by Jace’s family.
He hears Jace clear his throat, suddenly pulling him from his thoughts. They shift to face each other, and Jace wears an expression of curiosity.
“So,” he starts lightly, “is it true that you’re a favorite of this Carissa?” Jace adjusts his position in his saddle, leg muscles flexing beneath his trousers, which makes Cregan’s breath hitch in his throat.
Cregan tries to ignore the flip flop in his stomach, and lets out a soft chuckle. “Lord Alec is generous to say so,” he murmurs, looking down at his hands for a moment, and then back up to Jace, deciding that somewhere near the truth might not be so bad.
“I’ve only met her once, and it…didn’t really go to plan,” he admits, and Jace cocks his head at Cregan’s meaning. Cregan takes a slow breath before continuing, scanning the woods on his other side for something to do besides drown in his own shame. “It was a number of years ago… I was young and green,” he feels his neck redden with embarrassment, “but she was kind. I guess she asks about me from time to time, and Alec never lets me live it down.” He huffs out a nervous laugh, but when he meets Jace’s gaze again, there’s nothing but a soft kindness to his face, something like understanding.
“Young ladies must throw themselves in your path,” Cregan states into the space between them, wishing a little desperately to move the topic off of his sex life to something slightly different. “What with your curls and the ferocious beast at your side.” Cregan gives him a sly smile, and he finds he enjoys the way it makes Jace shift in his saddle again.
“It might surprise you, then, to learn that not many have,” Jace murmurs with a laugh, reaching down to brush away some of the snow that has stuck to Ghost’s mane.
“Oh, I find that hard to believe, Jace,” Cregan replies lightly, but his insides are dancing again.
“You seem to have made it work, in the end,” Jace replies, shifting the focus back on Cregan. The prince is humble, yes, but he’s also clever. “Young Rickon is proof of that.” He sits up a little straighter in his saddle, eyeing Cregan.
“Aye,” Cregan agrees with a chuckle, “but my late wife was nothing like Carissa.” He sees the prince’s composure falter.
“I’m sorry, Cregan, I didn’t mean to suggest–”
“No, no, I understand your meaning,” Cregan assures him with a nervous laugh. “I just meant that… Well, Arra and I were married, yes, but we were closer to close friends than anything else. I loved her,” he’s not sure why he’s telling the prince all of this, for it’s dangerous waters for a lord to wade into, “but… Aye, I suppose you’re right. It worked, once. Rickon is testimony to that. But it was more duty than anything else, though I’m eternally grateful that I have him,” he finishes in a rush. Jace’s face is, for once, hard to read. He seems to be thinking over what to say next, and the anticipation eats at Cregan. He’s so close to the truth – that he loved his wife, yes, but had little sexual interest in her or Carissa because he–.
“I understand,” Jace says, cutting through his thoughts. “I too know a thing or two about duty,” he laughs a little as well, glancing off just as Cregan did before, and then turns back to him. “I’m betrothed to my cousin, the Lady Baela Targaryen, and though she’s a wonderful person, and we get on well, she’s not… Not really my type.” The prince emphasizes the last bit, still looking at Cregan intently.
The admission steals Cregan’s breath for a moment. Can he be… Are they in the same position?
But before he can reply, he realizes that they’ve crested the knoll just behind Winterfell and the Hunter’s Gate is in sight. Alec is reining in his horse to wait for Cregan and Jace to catch up, and Marwyn blows two short blasts on a horn hanging from his saddle to signal that they’ve returned.
“What do you hope that Sara has had the cooks prepare for supper, my prince?” Alec asks, pulling Jace’s attention away from Cregan. The lord is still at a loss for words, and he’s becoming irrationally frustrated by that.
“Oh,” Jace replies distractedly. “I’m sure whatever Lady Sara has prepared, it will be delicious.”
“Aye, I’m hoping for some of the venison from a hunt last week,” Alec comments, and then launches into an explanation of how the stag they brought down today will need to cure for a time before they feast on it. Jace nods, and politely asks questions as Alec chatters away. Cregan tows behind them, feeling restless for not getting an answer – any answer – to if he has understood the prince’s meaning correctly. Juniper jogs a bit underneath him, clearly feeling the sudden frustration coursing through his rider.
—
Jacaerys Velaryon
The men gather around the table in the Great Hall, Sara and Rickon joining them, to tuck into a preparation of trout from a small lake on the grounds of Winterfell. Alec looks politely delighted, though Jace knows he really was hoping for venison. Marwyn, Jace notes with pleasure, has brought down some ale he thought Jace might like. “It’s much better than that horse piss Lord Stark likes to drink,” the man murmurs over Jace’s shoulder so Cregan can’t hear from where he sits at the head of the table on Jace’s right, and the two men share a short laugh. He sees Cregan shoot a glance Marwyn’s way, and he notices the frustration again that has been seeping out of Cregan since they sighted Winterfell. Jace hopes he hasn’t caused offense by saying something foolish, though he’s replayed the conversation he’d had with Cregan on their return over and over in his head and can’t land on anything. It’s only when Rickon scrambles down from his seat before Sara can stop him, and bounds over to his father and climbs into his lap, that he sees Cregan visibly relax a little.
“Papa,” Rickon says, running his little hands over the stubble on Cregan’s cheeks, and then he babbles something so quickly that Jace can’t make out the rest. Whatever the boy says, it pulls a smile across Cregan’s face and he says, “Oh really?” The boy nods vigorously, and Cregan laughs and starts to tickle his son’s sides. Rickon lets out a little shriek, and hurries down, running over to hide behind Alec’s chair, who is seated directly across from Jace. With the betrayal of something akin to a mischievous uncle, Alec swivels in his chair and scoops Rickon up, only to resume the tickles Cregan had started. Rickon’s laughs are infectious, pulling chuckles from the men before Sara tugs the boy from the lord’s arms with a threat that the food he just ate will surely end up in Alec’s lap. She settles the boy back down, gently but firmly, and encourages him to eat a few more mouthfuls.
Jace glances over at Cregan, a smile still on his face from the boy's antics, and he sees Cregan looking at the child with fondness. He is indeed lucky to have his son, Jace thinks. The boy is delightful, and is Cregan’s trueborn heir to boot. The thought pulls at the back of his mind – for though it’s not his fault, his own mother has not been lucky enough to have a trueborn son for an heir. Just a bastard with dark curls and a short fuse to match his true father’s temper. He takes another sip of his ale, lest his thoughts give him away to anyone around the table.
They all continue feasting, and the men regale the day’s events to Sara, who patiently listens and congratulates Jace on bringing down the stag. He sends a warm smile her way, and finds he’s grateful for her presence here. She seems to keep the men more tame, and thus they can’t quite rile Cregan up the way it seems Alec enjoys to.
The ale that Marwyn has poured for him, and keeps insisting on refilling his cup with, is indeed delicious. It is dark, nearly black, and sweet and thick. It’s almost a meal in and of itself. It warms Jace, making him feel tingly and light as the night wears on. Before he knows it, he’s jovially participating in the conversation, much less retrained than he probably ought to be. But the ale has loosened him up a bit. And he finds that he likes the feeling of Cregan watching him intently as he explains something about their foray into the Wolf’s Wood.
“Isn’t that right, my lord?” Jace finds himself asking, turning to Cregan for support. They lock eyes, and Cregan shifts in his chair. Had he heard Jace?
“Of course, my prince,” Cregan replies easily, but the way he runs his hand over his stubble distracts Jace from whatever he was asking. What was he saying?
He sees Cregan glace at Sara, and they seem to exchange a silent look. Then she stands and announces that it’s high past Rickon’s bedtime, and the hour grows late. She has prepared rooms for the Cerwyns, and bids them all goodnight.
“Thank you, Lady Sara. Goodnight!” Tobin says cheerfully, though a little wobbly, like Jace feels. The rest of the men let out a chorus of “Goodnight, Lady Sara!” and Jace sees her freeze next to Cregan where she is leaning Rickon down so his father can give his son’s head a kiss. Jace sees them exchange another glance, and then Cregan squeezes her arm gently. Though the prince can’t see her face, the exchange pleases him. It worked – she is being treated how Jace thinks she ought to be.
And then Cregan stands, agreeing that the hour has grown late and bids the men goodnight as well. They all follow and stand, chairs scraping against the stone floor before making their ways to their respective rooms, wishing Cregan and Jace a restful sleep as they pass by.
He finds himself walking down the hallway with Cregan, and is pleased to finally be alone with him, his heart thumping in his chest in agreement. He stumbles a little, Marwyn’s ale showing its strength properly now, but Cregan steadies him as they climb the stairs, gripping his elbow lightly. Heat surges through Jace at the man’s touch, and he has to hold himself back from doing anything reckless, though he desperately wants to.
Before he knows it, they’re outside of the prince’s room, and Cregan opens the door, helping Jace over the threshold. The lord is so close, so tantalizingly close. “You smell of woodsmoke,” Jace rushes out, not knowing where the words come from. He feels himself lean into Cregan a little, as if the scent is drawing him closer. Cregan’s face is inches from his own, and he can see the man’s stubble up close now, suddenly wishing desperately that he could run his hands over the lord’s face, or feel the stubble rub across his thighs. The thought makes him stumble a little, but Cregan steadies him again.
“Aye,” Cregan murmurs, and his low voice is like woodsmoke, sliding around Jace and drawing him in. “So do you.”
“Do I?” Jace asks, his brain too sluggish and too distracted to think of anything else.
“Mhm,” Cregan confirms, and Jace can almost feel the rumble coming from the man’s chest with how close they are. “Would you ride out again on the morrow? Just the two of us?” the lord breathes into the small space between them. He’s still holding Jace’s arms lightly, keeping him steady. Jace’s breath hitches, for Cregan’s eyes really are the most beautiful shade of gray. Like two storms swirling, dangerously close.
“Yes,” Jace murmurs, surprised he’s even heard Cregan’s question.
“Good,” Cregan husks. And Jace swears he can feel a tension coursing through Cregan’s hands, as if he’s trying to decide something. Jace feels himself lean in a little more.
“On the morrow then. Sleep well, my Jace,” he breathes, tempestuous eyes boring into his for a few heartbeats, and then he drops his hands from Jace’s arms and is out of the room before the prince can blink, the door gently clicking shut behind him. Though his thoughts are forming slowly, it’s not lost on Jace that their exchange just now is similar to how their day started. And just like it did this morning, his cock stirs of its own accord, as if all the blood is draining from his brain to his groin. His breath hitches too when his mind suddenly registers that Cregan had said “my Jace.”
—
Cregan Stark
Cregan strides across the hallway, as quick and quiet as he can, to his own chambers and slips inside. As soon as the door is shut, he’s tugging his clothes off, cursing the cold outside for making him have to wear so many layers when it feels like his skin is on fire. The fire crackling away in the fireplace, filling the room with heat, doesn’t help his situation. He’s yanking off his boots and dropping everything to the floor as he makes his way to the bed. When he finally hits the soft surface, face down and fully naked, he lets out a groan into a pillow to muffle his frustration. He can’t make noise, lest he wake up his family whose chambers are on either side of his, and he desperately needs to be alone and find release. His cock drags across the sheets as he rolls himself over onto his back, pulling a hiss from his mouth and a shiver up his spine.
He feels he should’ve locked the door, but he can’t find the strength to get back off the bed – not when he’s already wrapped a hand around his cock, and his other hand is dragging a pillow to his face to smother his moans.
The fact that he walked away from Jace just now is a miracle. They were so close, and he is so sure that he’s right about the prince, but he knows that Jace needs to be sober to make up his mind clearly about Cregan. About whatever is happening between them. About all the things crowding into Cregan’s thoughts right now – his cock rapidly swelling as each illicit thing flits through his mind. Gods, Jace’s plush lips, swollen from being bitten and licked all day against the harsh weather, are seared into Cregan’s mind. He wants to kiss them so badly. And the younger man’s mess of dark curls that he wants to tug on to pull the prince closer while he claims his mouth.
He tugs on his cock instead, making his back arch a bit off the bed with how good it feels. His thoughts flit to Jace’s delicate frame too, basically swimming in the cloak that Cregan gave him – his cloak – and the way that the prince kept stealing glances at him all day from beneath those pretty eyelashes. He wonders with a shiver of pleasure at what Jace would look like taking him into his throat and gazing up at him from behind those lashes.
He twists his fist over the tip of his cock, and tugs back down, exposing the head as his foreskin slides down with his hand. The cold air in the room rushes over it, making him shiver and let out another groan into the pillow squashed against his face. He picks up the pace and squeezes his hand harder around his length, realizing he hasn’t felt this frenzied in a long time.
Gods be good, he’s not sure if he’s ever felt this frustrated and this turned on in his life. He has a wild urge to leap off the bed, sprint across the hall, and rush through Jace’s door to finish what he’s started. He feels heat flush across his chest and up his neck at the thought – of surprising the younger man, and then making a mess of each other. His cock throbs in his hand as he moves in quick, practiced strokes, not even bothering to savor the feeling for he needs to get this out of his system. Fast. He bites down on the pillow as he feels waves of satisfaction rising, building to his peak – up his spine, down to his groin. His breath hitches beneath the pillow.
He wonders if Jace is feeling the same way right now; desperate, wanting, and losing his self-control to not find his way into Cregan’s room. The thought sends another wave of pleasure through his body to think of the prince just as unraveled as he is – so close, but so far away. It’s maddening, and Cregan looks at the door, as if he can will Jace to burst through it and wrap his pretty little mouth around his co–
His release hits him with a force that makes his vision go blurry and he has to clench his jaw shut to not cry out, even with the pillow quashing his moans. White hot pleasure courses through his veins as he squeezes his eyes shut, and Jace’s sultry little gaze swims behind his lids. Cregan is making a mess of himself right now, but he can’t even care, choosing to savor this moment instead.
When his pleasure finally ebbs away, he has to dig deep to find the strength to get off the bed and grab a cloth that he hopes is by the wash basin to clean himself off, lest his cum dry and crust into the hair on his stomach. He’s still trying to settle his breathing as he counts backwards from ten and forces himself to get up. When he finally does, he realizes his legs are a little wobbly, which is unlike him. For fuck’s sake, the dragon prince is wrecking him – and they haven’t even touched each other.
He gets to the washstand, and locates a cloth, dipping it into the cold water. He braces himself as the chill drips down his sensitive skin, and hisses as he quickly works to clean himself off. He leans against the washstand too as his legs regain their strength. He lets out a quiet laugh at how giddy but ridiculous he feels. Maybe he’ll tell Jace about this someday, and hopefully be delighted to hear that the younger man was suffering just as thoroughly across the hall.
Satisfied that he’s clean enough for sleep, he pads back over to the bed, crawling under the furs and turning over on his back once more. He stares up at the ceiling, eyes lazily following the shadows that dance from the firelight. He swallows thickly, trying how best to work out this situation he’s found himself in. How to make sure – make absolutely sure – that Jace feels the same way that he does. For if the prince doesn’t, the consequences could be dire. He decides he’ll just have to see where their conversations take them on the morrow, as they travel alone. He knows he’ll find out what kind of restraint they do or don’t possess when no one is around to hear them – or stop them. The thought sends another shiver up his spine, and his cock gives a half-hearted twitch.
How could he be so stupid? How could he have messed up an important detail like the height of the tallest wall in the Seven Kingdoms, and insult Lord Stark with his carelessness?
it's not that deep, baby boy. relax :')
What had he planned to do just now when he leaned in closer to the younger man? Touch his knee beneath the furs? Sit down on the edge of the bed? Close the gap between them with a ki–
oop-
the blood of the dragon and the blood of the wolf can’t mix.
why not? 😩😩😩
He’s not meant to flirt with the most important lord in the North.
why not? 😩😩😩
“He’s called Ghost, my prince, and he’s a gentle soul,” the man says warmly, handing the reins to Jace and giving the horse a pat before shuffling back down the aisle.
awwww, I already love Ghost, protect him at all costs!!
“He must smell your dragon.”
“But I’ve bathed,” Jace rushes out, and immediately feels like an idiot.
LMAO he's so funny
Cregan gave Jace Arra's horse?? I don't know about that one, king...
“Yes, I’ve been on hunts that were for the thrill of the chase,” Jace concedes, his stomach still flipping a little from the way Cregan had uttered pleasure and locked eyes with him.
Cregan's so subtle lmaooo
“The fur cloak that you’re wearing is made from a bear that was killed a few years ago.”
Cregan is a Romanian incognito: confirmed
“Do you know how to shoot?” Cregan breathes into the space between them. Jace nods slowly.
oh no, the PRESSURE
Jace holds out his hand to help Cregan up, and he takes the younger man’s hand gratefully. Though their hands are gloved, their grip sends sparks through his veins, and he has an urge to pull the prince close and kiss him.
👁️👄👁️
“I had no idea they turned white,” Jace admits. “We don’t get much snow where I’m from.”
climate change!!
look at Jace bonding with Cregan's friends!! so proud of him 😌😌😌
“Well, as a prince of the realm, I should state that I think that law’s ridiculous. Lady Sara has been nothing but kind to me, and she’s clearly a formidable woman. Why should her birth determine the respect she ought to be given?”
he's so right!! feminist icon!!
“Thank you for today…for everything,” Jace replies, adjusting his cloak over Ghost’s hind end to cover the horse more thoroughly against the weather.
awww, that's so considerate 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺
It’s only when Rickon scrambles down from his seat before Sara can stop him, and bounds over to his father and climbs into his lap, that he sees Cregan visibly relax a little.
SYNOPSIS: in the wake of his burning, aegon’s recovery is marked by rage and insecurities. he pushes you away, but it is your comforting embrace that he desires above all else.
anonymous request.
{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anon.
{ WORD COUNT: 7.4K.
{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), hurt/comfort, post rook’s rest aegon, aegon isn’t a good person but he’s tormented, unstable marriage, talk of insecurities, wound/scar descriptions, p in v sex, unprotected sex, gentle sex, body worship (m & f receiving), lots of kissing & comfort/reassurance, very desperate aegon, begging, sub-ish aegon, reader is on top, riding/cowgirl, mutual orgasm, fingering (fem!rec), soft ending + aftercare
{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is my first time writing for Aegon, so please be gentle + any feedback/critique on his character is appreciated! He’s quite difficult to write for. Either way, I absolutely loved writing this, and I hope that you all enjoy it, too! As always, thank you for your continued love & support. ❤️
𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 — 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝, 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞. It spread its blazing roots to those cast within it, leaving them hideously scarred or deformed, or perhaps leaving them with nothing left at all.
Grand Maester Orwyle had said that your husband may never walk again — that he may never draw breath again.
The harrowing memory of soot-stained knights hauling your husband in on nothing more than a swath of linen tied to sticks, placing him gently onto your marital bed had haunted you for several weeks since its occurrence. You could recall the pungent scent of charred flesh, the ragged rasps of Aegon’s breathing, the labor and sweat of Maesters working tirelessly to save him.
It was the labored wheeze of his breathing that continued to linger within the recesses of your mind, a sound so hoarse and weak that you wondered if he would survive. Watching your husband become a shell of his former self was never pleasant — you wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, even your worst enemy.
Aegon showed a resilience that few thought him capable of — the will to survive, to endure and spite his brother served him well. Even if each breath made him ache and each step had rattled his bones, he continued to progress, showing an astounding level of improvement in a short amount of time.
Fire was the end of all things, but not for him.
The observant gazes of those denizens dwelling within the Red Keep often looked upon Aegon with despair, and perhaps pity — it was a pity that he despised, one that made him quiver with rage. He had been made a cripple by his brother, an undesirable.
No one would want him now — not even you, his resplendent wife, a dutiful creature who had solemnly stood by his side, even after his numerous sins he committed against you. He was burnt and ugly, half of his face marred by a web of scars, ear twisted, silvery hair missing on part of his skull.
It was contempt that fueled him now, and he continued to play the part of a wounded, forgetful dog whenever Aemond was near, but in the sanctity of his chambers, he cursed his brother to whatever Gods would hear him.
If they heard him at all.
With each passing day, Aegon regained strength, yet he used a cane to aid in his unsteady gait. He rarely emerged from his chambers, not wanting to be looked upon as if he were some wounded animal in-need of coddling. Wallowing within his own misfortune became commonplace.
You visited him each day when he was still unconscious, sitting by his bedside, holding his hand within yours, yet Aegon had convinced himself that you no longer loved him. What woman would sensibly love him, after everything he’d done? If you were intelligent, you would dissolve your marriage and find a new lover, cast him into the shadows where he belonged.
Aegon had forbidden you to see him for weeks now, likely out of his own fear of rejection, or seeing the horrified look on your face with his own eyes. Orwyle spoke of your tenderness, how you never left his side when he lay bedridden — he could scarcely fathom it, if he were honest with himself.
The evening was a dour one in King’s Landing, marked by the encroaching threat of war, and supposed riots that had broken out across the city. Aegon sometimes laughed to himself — Aemond never cared about the smallfolk nor their desires, and his former hand had discouraged him from catering to those less fortunate.
It gave him some twinge of satisfaction, knowing that he wasn’t that stupid — not as dull and thick-headed as so many believed him to be. The burden of being King had been forced upon him, even when he never wanted it, and so he had no choice but to simply adapt.
He molded himself to a role that never belonged to him anyway, attempting to fit himself into a puzzle that he was never in to begin with.
Acceptance — he had come to realize that perhaps, unseen forces had tarried and toiled to put him on a Throne that wasn’t his birthright. Even then, Aegon was still the King — but a broken one. Who would ever look to a shattered King for guidance, or to lead them?
Dusk blanketed the city, casting its shadow over the Red Keep, a starless sky — it was instead marked by the black haze of clouds that concealed all, even the moonlight. The Keep itself seemed wrought with tension, one that threatened to snap at any moment.
With Aemond on some warpath, the smallfolk calling for blood, and his own mother dismissed from the Small Council, part of him simply thrived within the chaos, the mess made by his younger brother. It was satisfying to know that even he was not fit to rule — not like he imagined himself to be.
His walk around the corridors had been cut short when he caught a glimpse of Aemond, with Orwyle taking him back to his chambers. Aegon could walk without assistance, yet the distance was never one of any merit.
Much of his unoccupied moments were spent drowning in Dornish Red, or perhaps the most surprising thing of all, reading. He was never the studious child — he preferred merriment and whoremongering over the study of High Valyrian and the histories. Being gnarled like this had forced his hand — perhaps he could still become a learned man.
The Kingsguard he had appointed were gone, sent to join the Night’s Watch or beheaded for insubordination — he had no friends here, nothing left except himself and his mind, still perfectly intact. Now, Aegon intended to sharpen what was left of it, if he could in such a short amount of time.
He spent many of his days in fear — fear of Aemond poisoning his drink or slithering into his chambers like the fanged viper that he was to torment him, or perhaps stick Aegon’s Dagger into his chest. There was time left still for his mad cunt of a brother to finish what he’d started.
As the doors to his chambers rattled, Aegon immediately grabbed the shortsword he kept alongside his cane, breathing becoming strained and heavy. “Who is it?” He barked, palm planted against the sturdy mahogany of his large table.
“The Queen, your Grace.” Ser Belgrave, one of the last decent Kingsguard left in the Red Keep, opened the door just enough for you to see your husband, alive and conscious. He stood watch for a beat, and then closed the doors behind him, leaving you alone with Aegon.
Aegon didn’t know what to say — he was rageful and bitter, and having you here to gawk at him did nothing to quell those feelings. He did admire you from across the room, taking in the plane of cerulean silk you wore, shrouded by a pale robe. Your eyes were indiscernible — he could not tell how you felt from where he sat.
You were, perhaps, the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon — and he had seen so many. He recalled when he first saw you in the Grand Sept in your wedding gowns, so shy and saccharine, like the first warmth of springtime. It wasn’t a union he cared for or desired, but duty demanded that he wed you, and you would give him heirs.
So much of his time was wasted in the arms of whores who cared for nothing save the size of his coin purse, when it all should’ve been dedicated to you — the last person who truly cared for him.
“Aegon,” There was not an ounce of reproach within your voice, and instead, it was all a breathy sigh of relief. You had only seen him in-passing, walking alongside Grand Maester Orwyle or Lord Larys Strong. He had not allowed you to see him fully, until now. “I …”
“Save your pity,” Aegon quipped, turning away from you as he turned inward upon his books, instead. Gods, he felt wretched for constantly causing you such agony, but he could not endure the sight of you seeing him. “Have you come to see the withered King?” He mumbled, voice riddled with disdain.
Aegon was not an easy husband — and your union had been fraught with strife, hallmarked by his love of whores and wine, his absence felt by you each and every moment. You had passed this off as reality — this was what marriage was, and you had no choice but to accept it or crack beneath the pressure.
Even now, you were willing to forgive him.
Instead, you gathered your skirts and inched closer, longing to look upon him again with your own eyes. He had always been a beautiful man, so handsome with those regal Targaryen features that it often stole your breath away — and that hadn’t changed.
“I missed you,” You confessed, and it made Aegon’s throat become unbearably thick. Tears stung his eyes, tears born of frustration, an inner hatred and disgust, a disbelief that you truly meant any of this. “I thought that I could stay with you this evening.”
“No,” Aegon retorted, voice trembling at the bottom of his throat as he shook his head. “I do not want you here. I forbid you from seeing me. What part of that do you not understand?” His rage swelled — but not at you. He was so angry with himself that it began to manifest in uncouth ways.
It stung you, but not as much as you thought. Aegon kept you away, pushed you out to arm’s length because he feared what you might think of him. Being beloved and liked by those around him, the desire for attention and adoration, was perhaps one of his greatest flaws. When he could not find validation, it was easy to find it with a whore instead, or in the simpleminded lickspittles.
If Dornish Red could talk, perhaps he would find whatever comfort he sought there, too.
He reached for his goblet of wine, hand unsteady as he held it to his lips, and even then, he looked absolutely pathetic when taking a swig. “I cannot even drink without looking fucking pathetic,” Aegon snarled, letting out a bark of humorless laughter. “I cannot walk without being gazed upon like a wounded animal.”
At last, you began to understand where this anguish came from, where it all manifested. As much as you pitied your husband for the tragedy that had befallen him, you admired his resilience, his desire to endure and push on, even if it was most unpleasant.
“Aegon …” As your soft palm reached to rest against his shoulder, he violently jerked away, recoiling as if it were you that had burned him. “I am here for you. We are still married — allow me to continue to be your wife.” You whispered, flinching when he let out a sardonic laugh.
The scars were everywhere, enveloping half of his body, still aching with a dull pain that he muddied with poultices and Orwyle’s draughts. Aegon refused to take Milk of the Poppy, enduring his agony in different ways, ones that many would consider to be harder.
“Gods, how cunning you are — you play the role of naivety so well,” Aegon hissed, attempting to pull himself up from his table, hand reaching for his cane. “I am burnt, I am disgusting, and I am a cripple. You are not here for me — I do not want your pity!” He growled, voice raising to a tempestuous level.
You did not press him further, but you could see the tears glistening within his lilac hues, spilling down his cheeks as he began to laugh. The sound was grating and hollow, devoid of any amusement — just emptiness. He used what momentum he had to stand, grip ironclad and white-knuckled around his wooden beam of support.
“Why must you continue to push me away, Aegon? Have you not done it enough?” You questioned, voice sharp and wrought with emotion, sentiments that you had been repressing for so long, for the entirety of your marriage. “Must I always justify why I want to be your wife? We are married — I love you.”
Aegon froze, tears spilling over his face, countenance one of complete and utter bewilderment. He could not discern if you were genuine or simply conniving, or if you were being true. You had told him that you loved him before, and he always cast it aside — maybe you had truly meant it all this time, and he was too indifferent to realize it.
His back was partially turned to you, as if warding you away from seeing him. Aegon had been made to think that he was a failure all his life, that he was insignificant, made to do nothing instead of act. Whenever he did act, it was impulsive and reckless, branded acts of stupidity.
Maybe the one thing he could do right was you — mend the divide, mend the bridge that had kept you distanced for so long.
That cold, bitter laughter soon dissipated into what were choked sobs, ones of despair — he had been holding himself together for so long, for the sake of the realm, for the sake of a family that cared so little for him. His body ached and trembled, and as much as he attempted to move away from you, he couldn’t.
The nearest settee happened to be where he fell, landing against the velveteen cushions, head hung in despair, body wracked with sobs. He was undesirable, undeserving of you and your love. He was some withered husk, a shell, a monster still dressing in the clothing of a King — he was nothing.
Yet, you made him feel like something.
Silently, you crossed the cold stone to join him on the settee, sitting at his side as you gingerly let your palm settle against his back. “You underestimate how much I still care for you, husband.” You whispered, caressing along his spine with a feather-light touch.
Aegon felt drawn to you, pulled into the warmth of your comforting fire, knowing that if there was still one person left in this world who cared enough, it was you. Tears stained his visage, leaving behind streaks of red, eyes wet with many left unshed.
“Why should you?” Aegon questioned, his voice beginning to lose the fury and rage it held before, and it was melancholy. Anyone would’ve asked themselves such a question, but you didn’t — you remained steadfast. “I have brought nothing but misery upon you.”
It was complex, his statement — you had been miserable for some time, but this tragedy that afflicted you both was something worth overcoming. You were beginning to see the true Aegon, the one buried beneath the weight of the crown, the weight of inferiority.
“There is still time for forgiveness.” Your words were poignant and soft, and they were enough to move Aegon to tears again. He sat there beside you, crying to himself, breaking down completely. You had never seen him like this before — and perhaps, it was long overdue.
The comfort you provided was one he so desperately sought, even if he felt so guilty. He hadn’t done anything to deserve this, to deserve you — and yet he welcomed the grace of your palm, the sound of your songbird’s voice, soothing him with your gentle smile.
He was ashamed for you to see him this way, a man lacking the strength of physicality, the strength to hold a shortsword. It often wavered within his grasp — he would never be able to protect you. His beloved dragon was left in ruins, recovering in the Dragonpit — everything he had that made him strong had been taken.
Aegon was terrified to look upon you in such close quarters, afraid to feel the bitter jab of rejection, the horror and abhorrence within your gaze as you found his scars. He dared not turn, only keeping the intact side bared to you, still perfectly handsome.
Orwyle had harkened this to some miraculous recovery, a sign that the Gods favored him — Aegon did not feel favored, nor did he feel that he deserved it. Whatever he used to think, that his father wheezed his last breath desiring him on the Iron Throne, was nothing more than a twist of words.
There was nothing miraculous or prophetic about him — he was a sad, drunken cripple left to rot.
As much as he commiserated over his woes and the foul hand dealt to him by his brother, Larys had convinced him to live out of spite — and you convinced him that being alive, even in this wretched state, was a reality that was worth seeking.
He nearly crawled away at the sensation of your fingertips brushing along his jaw, unmarred and unscathed by the garish tangle of scars. Aegon shivered at your embrace — he had gone so terribly long without it, wondering if he would ever feel it again.
“I remember when I saw you for the first time, in the Grand Sept — I thought that you were the most resplendent man that I had ever seen,” You crooned, feeling him nudge his cheek into your palm. You gently swiped away a stray tear beneath his eye. “You still are.”
Aegon scoffed — a bitter, vitriolic sound that made his breath turn hoarse for a moment. He found it incredibly difficult to believe you, to find any merit in what you said given the circumstances. Even if you still loved him, that did not include his horrific appearance.
Tears trickled down his face, ones that you collected with your thumb before he shook his head. “Do not patronize me,” He murmured, visage furrowing together. “You cannot mean any of that. Look at me,” Aegon hissed, only slightly turning towards you. “I am a loathsome creature.”
His misery was an understatement when it came to his appearance — he looked like some monster, gnarled and withered beyond recognition. Whenever he looked into the mirror, he screamed and raged until he fell, or perhaps lost his voice.
Any Targaryen was often regarded as beautiful — pale, platinum tresses and lilac hues, a countenance as regal and as beautiful as a god. He was nothing more than a cockroach, now. He couldn’t fathom that you still desired him in a conventional way.
With a soft, tender touch, your hand then moved to rest against his shoulder. “If there is a loathsome creature here, I do not see it,” You murmured, head canting to one side. “What must I do to convince you, Aegon? Do you not believe me?”
Aegon’s trust had worn so thin that it threatened to snap, threadbare and nonexistent. He could only allow himself to trust so much — everyone he thought he could confide in or rely on had now turned against him, or attempted to slaughter him.
“It is hard to believe anyone anymore.” He murmured, staring down at his hands — one trembled, wreathed in burn scars, and the other clenched into a tight first.
He was made to believe that he was the rightful heir over Rhaenyra, when that was never the case. He was made to believe that he was a good ruler, when his Small Council plotted behind his back without his knowledge. He believed that Aemond was loyal to him, that he loved him as a brother would.
Lilac hues flickered from the void of his chambers to you, peering at you from beneath the curtain of pale tresses that still clung to his head. Despite the accusations of disloyalty he had hurled at you, his mistrust and doubt of your true intentions, you still maintained an amiable gaze.
You stared at him as if he had moved mountains, pulled the stars from the heavens for you — and he realized that no one, besides you, had looked at him in such a way before. It was profound and affectionate, wrought with a palpable adoration that came from a deep-rooted place of good.
Aegon’s throat grew tight, thick with emotion as he drank you in, tracing over the delicate plane of your features, the spark of warmth that brightened your eyes. Such divine beauty that he had robbed himself of for so long — he only felt like a fool, the greatest fool there was.
With an unsteady, quivering hand, he hesitantly reached out to you, unburnt fingertips tracing the curve of your jaw. He sucked in a sharp breath whenever you shuddered, face turning inward to press a kiss against his palm.
“I want to see you, husband.” You whispered, grasping his hand with both of yours, digits oozing with the radiance of heat that blossomed from you. The burn scars were carefully concealed behind silken garments, hidden from sight. Aegon grit his teeth together, not wanting you to see how disfigured he’d become.
“No,” Aegon quipped, shifting away from you with a scornful, wary expression. Whatever handsomeness he possessed before, it had all been burned away, turned to ash — and it left him, this husk of himself, with a physique that was repulsing to behold. “There is nothing pleasant about it — it is rotten.”
Rotten was perhaps a vast exaggeration for his wounds and scars, something that you found to be perplexing. Scars did not bother you, and you wouldn’t let your husband’s insecurities dissuade him from your comfort and care. Still holding his hand, you moved closer, pressing a kiss against his knuckles.
Aegon shivered beneath the chaste kiss, wanting nothing more than to collect you into his arms. The gnawing fear of your potential repulsion made him hesitate, and the bitter stab of rejection seemed to dig into him more than anything else.
“What woman would want this?”
Aegon’s forlorn, despondent inquiry hung above the both of you like some dour cloud. His grim outlook was something that you could sympathize with, given that his appearance had been torn apart within an instant. He swallowed the sob building within his chest, violet hues glistening with wet tears.
At last, he looked at you fully, exposing the marred, scarred side of his visage, tangled with a web of textured burns. His eye was sunken in, vessels having broken the white around his iris, ear nearly missing entirely, countenance partially mottled.
It was the same with his body, nearly half of it covered in the same fleshy web, scars spreading out like the roots of a tree. Aegon looked to you with a shattered expression, one that possessed a vehement swell of rage and frustration, yet still retained a sense of desperation. He was desperate to have your approval, for you to tell him that he was still perfect, regardless of his disfigurement.
Without a word, you moved your hand toward the maimed side of his face, expecting him to rip away or recoil entirely. Instead, he stayed there, rooted in-place, shuddering when the softness of your palm cupped his jaw. The pad of your thumb gingerly raked over his cheek, feeling along every scar and rough surface.
“I want you, Aegon,” The soft, silky resonance of your voice had brought him to heel, gaining his subservience, despite his inner battle with his insecurities. He feared being ugly in your eyes, as if his heart weren’t black and decayed enough. “I want you still.” Your lips twitched into an amiable smile.
For a moment, his eyes had fluttered shut, and he soaked in the sensation of your touch, warm and real against his cheek. It felt incredible, something he had craved for so long — it had left a gaping hole within his chest. Any tears that fell, you collected them with your fingertips, swiping them away.
Again, you inched closer, leg-to-leg with him, gaze drifting towards his lips. Aegon did not dissuade you from it, breathing becoming somewhat laborious as you pressed forward, mouth molding against his. It had been a long time since you had kissed him — truly kissed him.
A low, stirring groan reverberated within the depths of his throat, and at last, he reciprocated. Aegon’s kiss was done in a flurry of passion, realizing what he hadn’t had for so long. You tasted saccharine, warm and soft against him, mouth pliant and willing.
Gods, how blind he was — foolish, fragile, moronic.
He had abandoned you for unattainable things, for insignificant people that cared little about his wellbeing. Aegon had you — you, so devoted and loyal and forgiving, even when he deserved none of it. He very nearly sobbed again, knowing what error and sin he’d committed against you, but he shoved it down.
His insecurities seemed so small, as if they were wiped away by the curve of your mouth that so desperately kissed him. Aegon moved his good arm, bringing it to the swell of your hips, feeling your supple physique through the thin silk of your nightgown.
A sweet, simpering moan bubbled within your throat, a sound that so clearly vocalized your desperation for him, your repression and longstanding suffering. “Aegon,” You whispered, sending tremors down his spine as he kissed your jaw. “We don’t have to, we — you’re in pain.” You didn’t want to subject your husband to such agony.
Aegon shook his head, willing to push through the dull aching if it meant that he could have you again. Despite his fractured confidence, you made him feel so strong again, as if he still looked as he had before the burning. “Fuck agony,” He panted, hot breath fanning across your flesh. “I need you.”
That was enough to send a surge of molten heat throughout your belly, thighs rubbing together to alleviate some of your mounting arousal. “To bed, then.” You whispered, and Aegon swore that he moved quicker than normal, as if you had rejuvenated in some mystical way through words alone.
Using his cane to support most of his weight, he sluggishly walked toward your marital bed, feeling you hover around his side. You did not help him, and he didn’t want it, anyway. He was growing stronger by the day, capable of making it to his bed without support.
Fresh linens, silks, and feathered pillows had replaced ones used yesterday. It was all clean, smelling of lavender and honey. As he sat along the edge of the bed, he nearly chuckled at all of this — finally laying with you out of desire, and not duty, looking positively abhorrent.
If only it hadn’t taken him so long to get here.
“Are you certain, Aegon? I do not wish to hurt you, I —” Before you could prattle on about your concerns, Aegon silenced you with a kiss, coaxing you down by his side. His lips remained unblemished and unburnt, the taste of Dornish Red and sugar permeating his tongue.
“You won’t,” Aegon uttered, lilac hues raking over you, hungry and rapturous. “And if you do, you will not stop until I tell you to.” His tone retained a sternness to it, one that pleaded with you to allow him to drown in your affections, just like he always wanted.
With a gentle nod of your head, Aegon pushed your tresses away from your neck, thumb caressing along the column of your throat before he pressed a kiss there. You scarcely recalled the last time he’d done something like this, but you weren’t about to protest.
He wanted to hear your sighs and sweet whimpers, the sound of his name, breathy from your tongue. Aegon did not have the stamina he used to, but he would rather damn himself instead of stopping so quickly. He kissed and bit at your neck, soothing each mark with the languid lap of his tongue.
Gods, that sound — Aegon delighted in listening to your soft, wanton moan, pearlescent teeth nipping at your sensitive skin, kissing wherever he could reach. His burnt hand trembled, the flesh tender and still pulsating with a dull ache, but he elected to ignore it as best as he could.
Your hand pressed against his unmarred thigh, gripping into the flesh there as he groaned against you. He had finally gotten rid of that horrid, lengthy nightshirt, back to linen trousers and a silken, emerald tunic. His growing erection wasn’t subtle in the slightest.
“Let me see you.” Aegon murmured, wanting to look upon you with renewed eyes. You had always been beautiful to him, but now, you were captivating — a goddess incarnate, come to grace him with your presence. He watched as you stood, unraveling your robe as you draped it across the foot of the bed.
His mouth became dry, desire swelling within him like the urgent crash of a tidal wave. Aegon’s violet gaze remained transfixed, unable to tear themselves away from you and your perfection.
You stood in between his legs, shedding the thin, sheer gossamer of your nightgown, allowing it to pool around your feet before you nudged it aside. The last time you had undressed for Aegon, he was drunk and needy, several months ago.
His intoxication was of a different sort now, drunk upon your resplendence, your beauty, living and breathing before him. Aegon gripped your hip with his good hand, learning forward to press kisses all along your abdomen and stomach.
The sensation of your hand, so gentle and sweet, slipped against his marred cheek, gingerly caressing over his uneven web of scars, encapsulating over half of his skull. Aegon nearly groaned at your heavenly touch, the touch of a wife who loved her husband, scars and all.
He did not feel so monstrous anymore.
Aegon turned to press a kiss against the inside of your wrist, savoring the feeling of your fingertips roving across his scars. It was only when you moved to kiss the top of his head that he nearly faltered, breath warbled and wavering, surprise settling into his features.
He moved back, countenance twitching with pain for a fleeting moment, finding comfort within the silken duvet and soft sheets of your shared bed. You nearly moved to sit beside him again, but he stopped you, swallowing the growing lump within his throat.
“No,” Aegon whispered, tone a low, husky resonance, strung out with desire as he coaxed you into his lap with certainty. “Come here.” Those lilac hues were blown-out with lust and bewilderment, enthralled by you as he felt you settle down against him, thighs firmly caging him in on either side.
A grunt stirred within his chest, a dull throbbing pulsating throughout his body, but he persisted, feeling your plush form sit right in his lap. His good arm stroked along your spine and hip, faces mere breaths apart, and he kissed you with a blinding fervor.
Aegon never kissed you like this — not until now.
Whatever sentiments you felt for him, the ones that drove you to complete devotion, began to resurface — you still loved him fiercely, despite everything. “Will you allow me to see you, too?” You whispered against his mouth, digits dancing toward the hem of his tunic.
A beat of hesitation passed through your husband, who almost seemed to revert to his reclusive state. His jaw became tense, an inner war raging within him as he contemplated letting you disrobe him. Aegon looked at you, torn yet wanting, tugging you closer.
You gave him time to deliberate, not wanting to push him into something that he wasn’t prepared for. As if to soothe him, your fingertips traced along his brow line, and into the tangle of scars. “If you do not, I will understand, husband. It will not make me love you any less.”
That alone made him want to remove his tunic.
Aegon tilted forward, burying his face against your collarbone, mottled flesh textured against your own skin. He felt your palm glide against the nape of his neck, carding your digits through his wisps of pale hair. “It is hideous,” He uttered, insecurities bubbling to the surface. “I wouldn’t dare subject you to it.”
“Aegon,” The tenderness of your tone seemed to grab his attention rather swiftly, lilac hues drifting up toward your visage, perfect and comely. “It is all you — every scar and every imperfection, and I will love it all the same. My desires haven’t changed.”
His breath hitched within his throat, eyes swimming with an amalgamation of emotions, some of them too overwhelming to fully comprehend. He had sorely missed your embrace, and to further deprive himself of it seemed like an unimaginable torture.
You wanted him to take his time, neck craning as you peppered your lips against his throat — the burnt side, flesh marred and uneven, the sensation akin to a leathery surface. Aegon exhaled, gripping you tighter as he reveled in the feeling of your mouth.
It was he who initiated the removal of his tunic, attempting to pry it away and over his head, but he struggled, a low groan escaping him. Aegon wanted to feel independent, to do something himself, but he relented, accepting your assistance.
Removing the garment felt like an eternity, born out of his own nervousness and crippling insecurity of you seeing him this way, marred and mottled. Only half of him was covered in that tangled, leathery web of scars, spiraling down his entire physique.
Hovering your palm above his chest, Aegon’s lilac gaze silently pleaded with you to touch him, grace him with the touch of your resplendence. The scars were rough and uneven, innumerable and etched into his flesh like a blanket of leather.
Yet, you did not recoil or shy away, tracing patterns over his skin, pressing your sweet kisses wherever you could reach. Aegon felt his cock twitch and throb with desperation, longing to be inside of you. The tender care you showed him meant more to him than any crass or lewd act did.
You kissed his scarred shoulder, a gesture so comforting and kind that Aegon shuddered from exhilaration. That pattern of soft worship continued, as you kissed his scars again and again, reverence seeping into each grace of your mouth.
“Gods, how divine you are,” Aegon exhaled, quivering hand finally extending just enough to knead against your thigh. The palm that held your hip traced towards the warmth between your legs, and he shivered at the slick arousal there. “What a pleasant surprise.”
You squirmed, cunt aching for him in every way imaginable, hips jolting into the sensation of his practiced digits. Aegon was swift to reward your kindness with quick strokes of his fingers, tracing along your slit before caressing your clit, toying with the sensitive pearl.
The game of waiting was an agonizing one, as he longed to be inside of you, let you feel him again with renewed vigor, drown himself within your love. Aegon groaned when your lips met his, connecting with a thinly-veiled ardor, passionate yet tender.
Agony and pain became a thing of the past — even if his body ached and contorted with a continuous sting, he didn’t care. He wanted to endure for you, savoring each moment, digits greedily stroking away at your cunt in order to warm you up.
Desire made him dizzy, head beginning to spin in a delirium, induced by the growing haze of lust. He couldn’t recall the last time he laid with a woman and truly enjoyed it — but he was enjoying this — he loved your body, and above all else, he loved you.
“I want you inside of me,” You panted, hot breath fanning across the shell of his ear. A shiver cascaded along his spine, prompting him to slow the steady strokes of his digits. “Aegon, please.” With a pleading tone that brought Aegon to heel, he nodded, letting out a grunt of discomfort.
He gently removed you from his lap, but only to readjust, moving himself back against the mound of feathered pillows and cushions. Those violet hues silently observed you, rapturous and starving, like a hound preparing to devour its meal as you clamored forward again.
Your hands moved to the leather ties of his breeches, loosening them up enough to free his cock from its confines, flushed head oozing with tendrils of precum. Aegon wasn’t shy about how aroused he was, how desperately he needed you.
“Sit,” Aegon groaned, hand kneading against your hip, attempting to coax you onto his hardened length. “Please, I — I need you.” You hadn’t heard him beg before, but the sound was husky, timbre strung-out with desire as you crawled back into his lap.
As you gently lowered yourself onto his cock, Aegon nearly moaned at the sensation, head rolling back against the pillows as you sank down completely. He couldn’t move like he used to, guide you along or assist, but he did squeeze your hip, caressing all along your side.
Depriving himself of you for so long was perhaps one of the greatest faults he’d ever made, filling him with a wave of guilt. He could not make up for it anymore, properly ravage you in the way that you deserved, but he hoped that this was a start.
Everything began to ache with more of an intensity, a dull throbbing sinking into his bones, but he relented. Aegon would not deny himself, and he would not deny you, above all else. A myriad of throaty groans escaped him as you began to move, hips rocking forward, disarmingly gentle and sluggish.
You did not go quickly at all, each movement slow and steady, thighs stinging from exertion. Slowly, you reached for his hand, the one that had stayed closer to his chest, longing to hold it, if he was able. Aegon’s breath hitched when you did, gently twining his fingers with your own as you rode him.
His cock filled you perfectly, filling a void within you that had been left half-empty for so long. At last, you had your husband again — the one that you yearned for since your wedding day. With gentle gyrations, you moved yourself up and down along his length, continuing your sluggish rhythm.
The palm that cupped your hip and thigh soon slithered toward the apex of between your legs, hoping to stimulate you just as you did him. Your moans, breathy and high-pitched, filled your chambers, noises that he had been longing to hear.
The full, lovely swell of your breasts bounced gently atop your chest as you continued your ministrations, repeating the monotonous motion of rocking along his cock. Your stomach sloshed with molten heat, and it quickly spread to your loins when Aegon’s thumb caressed the pearl of your cunt.
He wasn’t going to last much longer in this state, cock throbbing with tendrils of precum that released themselves inside of you. The way in which you milked him, moved agonizingly slow, allowing him to feel your cunt tighten around him — it was nearly overwhelming.
Your cunt clenched pathetically, snug around his length as you continued to ride him, his cock bottoming out within you. It was a perfect storm of sensations, between the fervent circles he traced into your clit coupled with the feeling of him inside of you, you knew that your release was near and inevitable.
A breathy sigh of ‘fuck’ emerged from Aegon’s mouth, countenance contorted into a look of complete and utter ecstasy. “Gods, do not stop,” Aegon commanded through wanton groans, hips desperately wanting to buck up inside of you, but the pain was becoming too great. “Please.” He pleaded.
Everything felt so raw and sensitive, nerves set ablaze, arousal gripping him tightly as you continued to ride his cock, ensuring that you were still incredibly gentle. He thoroughly enjoyed watching you move, cautious and mindful of him, lips agape and visage one of sheer bliss.
The delight you felt was immense, holding onto Aegon’s hand, wanting to grind yourself into his thumb. “Aegon,” You moaned, looking down upon him with reverence and awe, no inkling of disgust to be found — it was ardor and want, all tangled into one. “I—I’m close!” Your whine made him want to tear you apart.
It only took one more roll of your hips for him to fall apart, in shambles beneath you, hot ropes of virile seed filling your womb with desperation. Aegon saw stars from the intensity of his release, nearly collapsing in the aftermath of it all.
His breathing quickened, hoarse and labored as you tilted your hips forward, finding a much-needed friction as he caressed your clit even still. Watching you reach your release with his own eyes was a captivating sight, mesmerizing to behold as you shuddered, trembling and aching with relief.
He huffed, attempting to recuperate as you stayed in his lap for a moment longer, slick with your nectar and his own spent, its sheen coating the inside of your thighs. You removed yourself from him to give him some reprieve, stepping away to clean yourself up and retrieve your nightgown.
Aegon’s visage became one of immediate concern as he watched you move away, worried that he had offended you. “Where — Are you not staying?” He questioned, hastily maneuvering his breeches up around his hips again, doing his best to lace up the leather ties.
Surprised, you stopped near the basin of water sitting along the vanity, head canting to one side. “I intended on staying with you, unless you do not want me to.” You replied, sliding the silken garment back on after having taken a swatch of cloth to the warmth between your thighs.
“I want you,” Aegon’s tone had become a rather desperate resonance, as if imploring you to stay even when there wasn’t a need for him to do so. “I want you to stay.” He uttered, lilac hues somewhat shrewd as you approached, helping him put his tunic back on.
“Of course.” With a soothing voice, you pressed a kiss against the scarred side of his scalp, and then to his forehead, helping to ease him back down into bed. The draught left behind by Maester Orwyle assisted with the pain — not nearly as strong as Milk of the Poppy, but it was the best choice.
Taking a swig, Aegon sighed, feeling you climb into bed, curled against the good side of his body. He immediately collected you into his arm, feeling your cheek press into his shoulder. It was the most satisfying feeling in the world, having you by his side again.
“If you are agreeable to it,” Aegon began, tracing patterns into the small of your back, “I wish for you to stay here again, and share my bed.” He didn’t demand anything, nor did he use his title and power to force you into sharing your chambers again.
He would’ve understood if you declined, given everything that had happened between the both of you.
Aegon loathed the thought of being alone again, to return to his reclusive existence of self-deprecation and endless misery when you were still here, living perfection — his beloved wife. He turned his head just enough to kiss your crown, briefly inhaling your floral scent, one that he sorely missed.
“I would like that,” You hummed, comfortable by his side. It was the first time in many moons that Aegon felt almost entirely comfortable again, scars and all. “Know that I love you, Aegon — until my last days.” With a gentle touch, you reached for his marred hand, holding it delicately within your own.
Tears swam within his lilac hues, and he had to squeeze them shut just to alleviate that feeling of sobbing. To hear you say with certainty that you loved him — he knew that he no longer needed to fear the idea of living, not when he had you.
“I love you.” Aegon whispered, barely above a whisper. He held you tightly, cradling you close, grasp innately protective even when danger didn’t hang over your heads.
Perhaps, for the first time in his life, he was finally being transparent with himself — with his inner turmoil, with his very existence, and that he loved you too.
copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not copy/steal my work and claim it as your own. please do not translate my work onto other platforms.
this is your first time writing for Aegon II and my first time reading for Aegon II, how fitting!! 😋😋😋
With Aemond on some warpath, the smallfolk calling for blood, and his own mother dismissed from the Small Council, part of him simply thrived within the chaos, the mess made by his younger brother.
he's so real, just living for the drama lmao
“I missed you,” You confessed, and it made Aegon’s throat become unbearably thick.
I usually struggle with long fics 'cause I get distracted all the damn time, but I fucking DEVOURED this in one sitting, I was genuinely surprised when I reached the end 😭 it's the only Aegon II fic I've read (so far?), but I'm still gonna go ahead and call it a masterpiece 'cause that's what it is, holy shit!! Aegon's self-hatred was so raw and profound, the angst was delicious, the smut was top-tier, the entire thing was literally... FLAWLESS. I need to sit in the dark and marinate and think about it, thank you for writing it and blessing us, ok bye
⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ jacaerys velaryon x female betrothed reader.
SYNOPSIS: jacaerys is reminded of his betrothed’s unwavering loyalty, and her affections. he is more than desperate to indulge.
note: jacaerys is nineteen, reader is eighteen.
format: one-shot — not requested.
word count: 5.8K.
warnings: SMUTTY SMUT (mdni), porn with little plot, risk of getting caught (dragonstone library), talk of insecurities, jacaerys is needy and sweet in this, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, handjob, lots of jace moans in this fic, brief dry humping, wet/rain jacaerys, table sex, making out, hair-pulling kink, unprotected sex, p in v sex, jace & reader have only been with one another, soft ending + aftercare
author’s note: I know that this isn’t What Honor Demands (please don’t be mad) but I did want to put a sprinkle of Jace content out there for you all! please be kind to one another, and thank you for reading & supporting my work! I love you all dearly! :))
One often felt so insignificant in the halls of dragons, whose masters forged countless strongholds made of flame and obsidian. Torchlight danced in darkened corridors, producing tendrils of shadow that made the walls move, come alive during the hour of the bat.
Dragonstone’s hallowed hallways and winding corridors were scattered with the occasional Kingsguard, watchful gaze hovering about as you went on your way. Sleep eluded you, reclusive as ever, leaving you with nothing but a mind full of ceaseless thoughts.
Groggy footfalls fell across ancient stone as you carried yourself toward the library within the labyrinth of Dragonstone, in-search of your betrothed.
Pensive and frustrated as of-late, Jacaerys spent much of his evenings surrounded by endless piles of literature to preoccupy his mind, or nights spent on the back of Vermax beneath the open air. You did not begrudge him of his desire for space, but you sorely missed his presence — your bed felt exceedingly empty.
A silent yawn wrought your lips as you slipped between massive slabs of dark wood, the groaning of the doors reverberating throughout the cavernous alcove. Thunder shook the skies around Dragonstone, and with it, a torrent of rainfall that smacked against the dark stone surrounding the island.
It was there in the library that you saw Jacaerys, tousled curls slicked by the deluge, framing his face in such a princely manner that it stole your breath away. Your humble beginnings as a mere young maiden sworn to wed the heir to the Iron Throne had blossomed, flourishing into a loving relationship between yourself and the Prince.
All men that you had glanced upon paled in comparison to Jacaerys Velaryon, whose features were framed in such a regal light. The illumination of the hearth set his flesh ablaze with a burnished gold, brows creased in concentration as he leaned over a thick, dilapidated volume.
Prying his gaze away from dust-laden parchment, his eyes found you, his betrothed, captivating in your silken slip and woolen robe. His throat bobbed as he swallowed the sudden onslaught of nerves in your presence, an involuntary yet consistent response.
You treated him to a kindly smile, warm enough to soothe his shivering bones, doublet soaked from riding in the deluge. Part of him was stung with guilt for abandoning you each night to sulk in sullen silence, but he did not want to burden you with his feelings of inferiority.
Amber hues seemed transfixed upon you, taking in your ethereal sight, silks the color of Lady’s Lace, robe embossed with cerulean stitching. Your tresses were somewhat disheveled from rest, disagreeing with the pillows.
Abandoning his mindless studies, he sat straighter, shoulders squared as if to fill in the fullness of his height. You approached, aura gentle and thoughtful, as if you could pinpoint the source of his misfortune. “Is everything alright?” Jacaerys inquired, perplexed as to why you were out of bed so dreadfully late.
“It is,” A dismal yawn slipped through your teeth as you came to stand near him, circling around the stone table, noticeably lower in stature. “I fear that the raging weather has left me unable to find sleep.” You were from a place where such furious storms were uncommon.
As if he were to blame for this happenstance, Jacaerys appeared apologetic, fingers clenching together. “You have my apologies, my Lady. I hadn’t expected this deluge to carry on this late into the night.” With a begrudging sigh, he peered toward the stained glass windows littered throughout the library.
An amiable burst of laughter tore forth from your lips, head canting to one side as you rounded the table, gaze picking apart the various texts and heaps of parchment that lined the stone. “You’ve nothing to apologize for, Jacaerys. It seems you’ve taken advantage of the opportunity.” You gestured to his state of dishevel.
“Like yourself, sleep evaded me. I needed to find some reprieve; a thunderstorm seemed better than nothing.” His reply seemed strained with underlying frustration, as if the chord would snap within him at any given moment.
Your velveteen digits graced his shoulder, caressing circles into the muscle there, even if it were concealed by the thick wool of his doublet. Even if he did not speak it into existence, your comforting embrace brought him a semblance of warmth that little else could provide.
Drowning himself in reading now seemed incomprehensible, paling in comparison to the mere grace of your presence. “You seem very hard at work,” You chimed, lowering yourself into the high-backed chair to his left. “The subject of your studies?”
Jacaerys didn’t smile, yet the tension in his shoulders began to unfurl, as if your very presence willed him to do so. Nimble digits flipped through a page or two, the parchment worn and thin from many decades of dormancy and little use. “Targaryen bloodlines.”
There was some discomforting twinge within his tone, as if the very notion brought about complex feelings. It was his idea to invite Dragonseeds into their home, yet he hadn’t fully realized what harm it had caused to his claim. This vexation had developed into a thorn in his side, tearing open a wound that he thought he’d healed from.
He had dealt with the uncomfortable truth of his bastard heritage all his life — and now, he was made to confront it, see it in its unpleasantness. Even the unconditional love of his mother could not shield him from the vile insults, from the crass tongues of those who saw him for what he was — the bastard.
Your countenance wavered, empathy sinking into your gaze, brows softening as you folded your hands within your lap. Jacaerys had never fully confided in you the plain truth of his bloodline, but you had an inkling of his heritage — that hadn’t changed how you felt.
Wordlessly, you reached for his hand, and it was Jacaerys that brought your interwoven fingers to rest atop your knee. He did not need to vocalize it — he knew that you knew. Part of him was grateful that you never questioned it, or him.
“Understand that I will fight with you — fight for you. No amount of blood or worthiness shall change that.” You assured, collected and tender as you traced your thumb across his knuckles. They were disarmingly soft, pad of your finger brushing over the veins in his hand.
Jacaerys exhaled, sinking backward into the bite of the wooden chair, dark brows furrowing together. “It seems as if you are the only one that will.” His confession was a heavy-handed one, filled with an immeasurable melancholy that you wished you could rip away.
It was all that consumed him as of-late — his claim to the Iron Throne, the lack of reassurance from his mother, who seemed to drown herself in prophecy and history instead of his defense. Jacaerys felt as if he were adrift, alone in the black sea, threatened to be pulled beneath the tempestuous tides.
The touch of your hand was what kept him anchored, still bound to this reality, to the inevitability of war. Soon, he would face the Greens in the battlefield — and what then, if the war was won? His mother would sit the Iron Throne, and who would succeed her?
His half-brothers had all the hallmarks of a true Targaryen — violet irises, pale tresses, dragon eggs placed in their cradles. Who would follow him? Plain-featured, dark hair, amber-flecked hues that bore a striking resemblance to the former Commander of the City Watch.
With a sullen heart, Jacaerys glanced at you, his beloved, your countenance bathed in the waning glow of the firelight. An ardent fondness reached your stare, keeping his hand rooted against your knee. He idly plucked at the ivory silk of your shift, chest blossoming with a trembling exhale.
“You must forgive me for my absence as of-late,” Jacaerys felt as if he owed you an apology. For nearly a fortnight, he had kept you at arm’s length, for fear that he would tarnish your bond with his intrepid mind and distressed musings. “I haven’t intended to distance myself from you.”
“Jacaerys,” With a gentle hum, you brought your other palm beneath his, cradling his hand between your own, his flesh icy compared to your magnetizing warmth. “I know what burden you bear, and I know how distraught you’ve been. I cannot fault you for wanting space.” Even then, he felt as if that wouldn’t suffice.
“My misfortune is not an excuse to leave my betrothed unattended,” Resolute, he looked at you with such arduous devotion, one reserved only for a paramour. “Whatever burden I bear, I wish to endure it by your side, or not at all.” Whatever he did to deserve you, he was quite uncertain.
Betrothals were not easy to navigate — when he first found himself speaking to you, he feared the crushing weight of disappointment or a loveless match, something only formed from duty. He was pleasantly surprised by your willingness to discover the soul that rested beneath titles and propriety.
Another smile crossed your features, and it stayed this time, his heart galloping within his chest at your resplendent beauty.
There was a kindness that touched your gaze, one that he was unaccustomed to. He was often looked upon by strangers with indifference or contempt, and those who questioned his bloodline only glowered with vitriol and a thinly-veiled bitterness.
“Allow me to share in your sorrows with you,” At your insistence, Jacaerys did not make any attempt to protest the subject of your words — he knew that you wouldn’t allow it. “Whatever obstacles come hurling your way, know that we can brave it together, not apart.”
A lighter sentiment touched his features, then. He was no longer marred by frustration and helplessness, but newfound confidence. It was subtle, but you could see it reach his eyes, amber hues that danced with such an intense affection for you.
“As long as you permit me to assist in whatever tribulations you might face yourself,” It wouldn’t have been justified to make you wade through his obstacles without fighting your own hand-in-hand. “You are my betrothed. I should hope you will always rely upon me.” With a reassuring squeeze, you smiled at him.
“Rely upon one another, and let out hearts beat as one,” A tenderness gripped the tone of your resonance, as silky as the very gown you wore. “Until our last days or the end of our story.” The finality of your words filled him with an indescribable sense of optimism and hope.
Jacaerys adjusted his hand, but only to lift yours to his lips, gracing your velvet knuckles with his plush lips, eyelashes fluttering in your direction. Youthful eagerness and crackling ardor took over — he stared at you with a renewed compassion.
The sight of you in your evening slip made his heart pound against his ribcage, as if it had dropped right into his stomach. Sometimes he behaved as if he hadn’t touched you before — as if this were the first time all over again. “You continue to bewitch me,” Jacaerys murmured, canting his head to one side. “I love you for it.”
A smattering of heat blossomed across your features, the familiar warmth crawling down the length of your spine, resulting in a subtle shiver. “I wasn’t aware,” You mused, a certain flair within your voice that subtly invoked more than just romanticism and sweet words. “Is that a constant feeling?”
Swallowing the lump of boyish nerves that gathered within his throat, Jacaerys regarded you with a rather incendiary warmth, his gaze that of an unrestrained lover. “It is rather persistent,” Excitement began to stir within the pit of his stomach. “Especially now.”
Seven Hells, you deserved to be put to the lash for the lascivious thoughts you had.
It was as if the atmosphere had shifted entirely, from one of two youths navigating their troubles, to the first inklings of shared desire and appreciation. You hadn’t expected the suddenness of this shift, but you welcomed it regardless, belly stirring with butterflies.
Digits tightened into your silken skirts, in a valiant attempt to relieve some of the anticipation you were experiencing. Your intimate relationship with Jacaerys had always been in the sanctity of your bedchambers — achingly sweet and exploratory, but now, it had some element of thrill to it, especially if you opted to act.
Admittedly, the sight of him disheveled and dampened from the raging deluge had roused a familiar fire within your loins, producing a hint of slick between your thighs. Acting on impulse here, in the library of all places, broke all bonds of propriety — but neither of you paid it any mind.
Leaning forward within his seat, Jacaerys wordlessly beseeched you for a kiss, soft mouth inviting as ever, lips flushed and rosy. Without hesitation, you moved to meet him halfway, lost within the throes of your gentle entanglement. He was always gentle — that would never change, no matter his demeanor.
With all the tenderness of a gallant lover, Jacaerys ensured that he savored your kiss, eyelids fluttering shut as he reached to smooth his palm across your thigh. He shivered at the sensation, able to feel the outline of your pliant curves through the obscenely-thin silks.
He smelled of damp petrichor and old books, laden with dust, as if he’d spent all of his days rotting away within the depths of rain-soaked parchment. Your conjoined hands wove together, and you guided him until both of his palms planted themselves atop your thighs, sinking into their plushness.
Once the fire was stoked, it was difficult to smother it.
“Here?” Your shrewd voice interrupted his string of salacious fantasies, none of them pious enough to confess to. Jacaerys felt embarrassed for what he thought, for what he intended to do — perhaps he would seek absolution on the morrow.
“It is an ungodly hour,” Jacaerys reassured you, but in your defense, part of him feared the potentiality of being caught. “I don’t suspect anyone would come searching.” His suggestion was open-ended, but he did offer you an out, soothingly caressing along your legs. “Would you prefer if we retired to our chambers?”
Some sharp pang of exhilaration stoked the fire within your belly — coupling here filled you with the unfamiliar thrill of trying something daring. Instead of answering verbally, you resorted to action, rising from your rickety chair to toss one leg over his hips, sinking yourself down into the firmness of his lap.
Jacaerys’s expression was one of complete and utter bewilderment, but of the best sort — he was ensnared, simply put. A scarlet flush rose to his features, painting his visage with a bright-red shade. His breath audibly hitched within his throat, palms settling against the swell of your hips.
“It is the hour of the bat,” You agreed, heart hammering erratically beneath your breast, until you could bear it no longer. “Let that be our shield.” Once the words had escaped you in a breathy exhale, Jacaerys captured your mouth in an explosive kiss.
His passion would never be mistaken for roughness — your betrothed was as kindly and spirited as they came; you collapsed beneath his tender hand. Those dexterous fingers of his kneaded into your waist, traveling along your curves, longing to feel your naked flesh without obstruction.
A low groan blossomed within his chest when your digits flew to the nape of his neck, threading themselves into his soaked tresses. He was painfully handsome like this, damp from the rain, gaze full of ardor and silently pleading for your touch, hands wandering anywhere and everywhere.
Gathering your skirts as politely as he could, Jacaerys inched the fabric up along your legs, shivering in delight at the sight of your exposed skin. One would think he’d never glimpsed a woman before, the way he reacted whenever he saw you.
The soft pads of his fingertips glided along your bare thigh, allowing the silk of your shift to gather around your hips. His growing erection helplessly strained at the front of his breeches, and the desperate ache was only furthered when you ground yourself into him.
A gasp was shared between you both, skin becoming unbearably warm as you rocked your hips into him, finding your unholy friction. It only became increasingly heated, knowing that you wore nothing beneath your nightgown, and Jacaerys let out a wanton groan when you moved against him.
“Jacaerys,” Breathless and drunk upon desire, you felt his mouth seek yours again, coaxing you in for another kiss. There was desperation laced within his actions, finding his solace in the endless map of your lips, committing every detail to memory. “Touch me.”
Bringing his palm to your chest, Jacaerys needed no instruction when it came to caressing your breast, thumb rolling over your peaking nipple through thin silk. You were the first girl he’d laid with — if the Gods were kind, you would be the last.
Unexpectedly, your satiny lips found the column of his throat, pressing a string of appreciative kisses there as he kneaded your chest. A sweet, keening groan escaped him, abashed at your embrace. Between the ministrations of your fingers in his tresses and mouth on his neck, he feared oblivion.
A sharp clap of thunder shook the skies, yet it did not perturb either of you, ceaselessly carrying on in your needy coupling. One of your palms drifted to his chest, gripping at the embroidered velvet, pushing his collar aside to kiss his neck.
His digits tightened at the material bunched around your hips, eyes fluttering shut in a state of bliss, toying with your nipple as it pebbled beneath his touch. Jacaerys’s mouth watered involuntarily at the thought of tasting you, which he hoped would come soon, if you permitted him to do so.
You enjoyed his softness, his throat quivering beneath your lips, offering his subservience to you freely. A breathy grunt of your name cascaded from his mouth, prompting you to shiver within his embrace. Gods, that sound — it would be emblazoned in your mind for days to come.
With a gentle shrug of your shoulders, you let the woolen robe glide from your body, pooling on the cool stone below. Another downward brush of your hips sent the both of you reeling, clothed bulge grinding against your needy core, prompting you to shudder.
Jacaerys turned, bringing his soft lips back to yours, seizing your mouth in a blazing kiss. He continued to palm at your breast, cupping the pliant mound within his hand, evoking another whimper from you. Neediness took root, firmly planting itself within his stomach.
“Might I taste you?” He breathed against your lips, giving you pause as you regarded him with a simmering adoration. Jacaerys had done it once before, and he often thought of it in private moments, or sometimes recklessly at supper or during small council meetings.
Sheepishly, your head bobbed up and down in a lackadaisical nod, unable to mask your excitement at such a proposal. Wordlessly, he coaxed you up from his lap, nearly groaning at the loss of friction, though he suspected there would be ample opportunities for more later that night.
Using the table as a brace, you watched as your betrothed knelt before you, like a sinner coming to confess within the boughs of a sept; his confession whispered between your legs. Your woolen robe served as a suitable cushion beneath his knees, and he happened to unclasp his own cloak.
Peering at you through thick eyelashes, Jacaerys gingerly guided the silken slip up along your legs, watching with rapturous interest as you let it gather at your hips. He kissed his way up the length of your leg, letting them drape on either side of his shoulders.
Your hand came to rest against his crown of dampened curls, a shudder rolling down his spine at the sensation of your fingers gripping his tresses. Inhaling a gust of your saccharine scent, Jacaerys kissed his way to the gathering slick between your thighs, palms smoothing themselves against your legs.
A heat so feverish that it nearly destroyed you, his tongue raked hot embers over your cunt, tracing along the length of your slit before dipping between your folds. A gasp tore past your mouth; ecstasy beyond comprehension, gnawing away at your bones.
Jacaerys dutifully lapped at your core, nose brushing against your mound, tongue dancing from the pearl of your cunt to your entrance, his movements repetitive. A sigh of delight floated into the air, your pleasure made known as you lightly tugged on his tresses.
Soft, pleading moans reverberated throughout the library, and you were lost within the labyrinth of his affections. Your hips involuntarily jerked and jolted forward, rocking down into his mouth, evoking a throaty groan from your betrothed.
His name floated from your mouth like a prayer, reverent and gasping, as if it were the only word you knew. Your mind was foggy with the haze of desire, one that you found yourself caught within. A string of crass sounds emanated from below; soft, needy lips hungrily kissing along your cunt.
Steeped within your slit, the taste of you ambrosial, Jacaerys continued his ministrations, tongue flicking along your core, making a sluggish ascent toward your clit. Soft palms caressed your thighs, thumbs drawing patterns into your satiny flesh.
Even the finest of stouts could not contest your sweetness, arousal thick upon his tongue, like the nectar of an unfurling flower. Jacaerys’s mouth lapped along your cunt, until he found the clutch of nerves at the hood of your slit.
His eagerness was palpable through each flick of his tongue, lost within the oasis between your legs. A myriad of soft whimpers and whines escaped you, hand gingerly tugging on Jace’s hair as he showered your cunt in an alternation of steady licks to lingering ones.
Deliberately, he stoked the fire churning within your belly, teasing your pearl with feather-light kisses and circles of his tongue. A strained moan escaped you, prompting you to fist at his tresses, burying your digits within rain-slicked curls, involuntarily bringing him closer into the warm apex of your thighs.
Bathed in the sienna embers that crackled from the hearth, Jace appeared more handsome than ever, completely and utterly captivating. If it were up to him, he would’ve been content to stay here forever, pleasure you over and over again until you collapsed.
The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit. The continued sensation of your digits carding through his curls made him sigh with elation.
Again, he traveled to your pearl again, gently suckling upon the bundle of fiery nerves. Your poor thighs rattled on either side of his head, twitching with throes of ecstasy as he toyed with your clit.
“Jace,” Seven Hells, you sounded so divine. Through parted lips and wanton moans, you sighed his name, wanting him to continue exactly as he was. He could feel the pleading resonance within your sweet tone, bringing him to heel. “Gods, don’t stop!”
Jacaerys felt another groan stir within his chest, one that seemed caught within the bottom of his throat. He allowed himself a brief respite to catch his breath, peering at you from between your legs. “There?” He’d asked, watching your head ecstatically bob up and down.
A short, sporadic huff left you, followed by a string of incoherent pleas. “Y—Yes!” Your whine was somewhat shy, the vibrato of it quieting down, as if you suddenly feared becoming caught in the act. “Jacaerys, please!” You begged, and who was he to deny you?
Pursing his lips around your pearl, he gingerly suckled on the sensitive bud, drawing forth an unholy myriad of moans and whines from your mouth. Such sounds left their brand upon him, a shiver cascading down his spine as he pleasured you.
The incessant throbbing of his cock within his breeches made his yearning grow tenfold, feeling it strain against the woolen cloth. He continued to suck at your clit with a palpable gentleness, noticing the way in which your body quivered and writhed from pleasure.
Jacaerys alternated between the greedy suckling of your pearl and broad laps of his tongue, lulled into submission by the crescendo of your moans. You brazenly tugged at his damp curls, other hand snug against the wet fabric of his doublet.
Bliss and pleasure wracked themselves across your body, bringing with it a fire so great that it demanded to be extinguished. Jacaerys’s mouth was wonderful in every way imaginable, his pouty lips dancing wherever they pleased across your aching cunt.
Your hand skirted backwards, accidentally knocking over a stack of books, rolls of parchment fluttering to the stone floor below. With a needy desire to chase after your release, you rocked your hips forward, evoking a strangled groan from your betrothed.
He could feel the arousal mounting within his own body, and the constant quivering of your legs as he brought you closer to your release. Jacaerys continued to caress along your legs, from thigh to calf, mouth happily buried within the warm apex between your legs.
That sensation of your digits brushing across his scalp made him shiver, tongue delicately flicking from your entrance to swollen pearl before he began to suck on it again. Such noises would make a septa flush from their crassness, causing his belly to swirl with fire.
“Jace — Oh! Jace, Jace!” Abandoning the use of his true name, you sang his moniker to the high Heavens, feeling your release come swiftly, an incendiary wave of heat that threatened to consume you completely. You moaned, hips stuttering as you let bliss take over you.
Jacaerys caught the onslaught of your nectar, consuming every drop that you gave him with a neediness, cock twitching within his trousers. He cleaned you up with soft, short laps of his tongue, feeling you everywhere — burned into his mind, permeating his lips.
With a shaky exhale, you felt his head leave your legs, and your grip fell away, watching as he stood to find his place against you. “Such sweet torment,” Jacaerys murmured, nudging his forehead against yours. “You bring me to ruin.” He sighed, feeling your fingers move to the front of his doublet.
“I should be the one saying that,” Your laughter was brief and fleeting, a smitten smile tugging at either corner of your mouth. “Gods, you are so wonderful — so handsome, so perfect.” The sound of your resplendent praise made Jacaerys flush, wide-eyed and wanton.
His newfound closeness, standing in between your legs, allowed for your palms to cup his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones. “I need you,” Jacaerys confessed, his timbre husky, throaty with desire as he nearly pleaded with you. “If you’ll let me — please.”
Wordlessly, your hands flew to the front of his breeches, brushing against his clothed erection. Jacaerys groaned, countenance one of desperation as you untied the laces, freeing his cock from its confines.
You stroked along his length, causing him to shiver, cock warm and aching within your delicate grasp. Jace buried his face near your shoulder, brows furrowing together as you treated him to the soft embrace of your hand.
Dragging your palm along his cock, his hips involuntarily rocked forward, galloping after the friction. You felt his mouth plant strings of hasty kisses all along your shoulder, toward the dip of your neck, and then against your throat.
Gently guiding yourself backwards, various objects clattered against the stone table, a book being pushed off of the edge as Jacaerys moved forward. The tip of his flushed cock glided through your slick folds, prompting the both of you to sigh together.
“May I?” Jacaerys huffed, wide-eyed and completely and utterly flustered, so trapped within his own desire that it nearly rendered him speechless. With a quick bob of your head, he rocked forward, groaning in delight as your tight cunt throbbed around his aching member.
Using one palm to brace yourself against the table, your other arm flew to drape around his neck, mouths breathlessly clamoring together, seeking one another. You kissed him, doing little to mask your rapturous hunger as he sank forward, cock nearly kissing your womb.
A tempestuous clap of thunder made you jump, goosebumps cascading down your spine as an onslaught of rain ripped against the stone surrounding the library. The sight of his disheveled tresses and unbuttoned tunic made you unbearably hot, lips torn apart as soft, pleading whines escaped you.
One arm caged itself around you, his palm stroking at the curve near your ribcage, the other lifting your leg to hitch it around his hips. Jacaerys had not an ounce of desire to become rough with you — invigorated, perhaps, but he fully intended on savoring you.
His initial thrusts were somewhat sporadic and awkward, the follies of inexperienced youth, but he soon found his pace, cock gently gliding in and out of your cunt. Wanton sighs escaped his plump lips, brows creased in concentration as his head neared yours.
A soft groan resonated beside your ear as Jace adopted a sluggish rhythm, not wanting to intensify things too quickly. Your eyes fluttered shut, body content to bend to his thrusts, grow accustomed to his pace. He reciprocated your kiss, black curls falling in front of his temples.
There was something endearing about his slight clumsiness, the way in which his hand occasionally fumbled around your body. With time, he suspected that he would know you quite well — physique included. His digits kneaded into your leg, tracing from knee to haunch, holding you close.
The intermingled sounds of your desperate lovemaking soon floated into the air, a myriad of moans and sharp exhales; sighs of a deeply devoted passion. Your fingers raked across the nape of his neck, finding their purchase within his tousled curls.
He groaned your name, the sound only a lover could make, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. Gods, he wouldn’t last long like this. Jacaerys felt your knee squeeze his waist, your other leg draped off of the table, legs spread apart for him.
The silk of your nightgown pushed toward your stomach, loins exposed to the brush of cooler air. “Jace,” You moaned, pressing a string of quick, rushed kisses all along his jaw, evoking another groan from between his lips. Your cunt clenched around his cock, drowning in the pleasure. “Jace!”
His pace was leisurely, yet twinged with desperation, as if he were burning with a longing to be close to you. His cock pulsed inside of you, throat blossoming with another throaty groan. Before you could whimper, he involuntarily smothered it with a kiss.
Each rock of his hips was intended to be disarmingly gentle, ensuring that every inch of his length bottomed out inside of you. Your stomach swirled with molten heat, coagulating as slick arousal as you felt it collect between your legs.
Every worry that had permeated his careworn mind was pushed to the recesses, something to be abandoned in the wake of your presence. His need for you, his love — it outweighed everything else. Whenever you kissed him, he could feel your ardor seep into his bones, consuming him to his very core.
Jacaerys’s breath became labored, another groan threatening to burst from his chest as his cock throbbed with an incessant pleasure. His muscles tightened, feeling your other leg move up to wrap around his hips altogether, drawing him into the warmth of your embrace.
Your arm lowered, and your back finally flattered entirely against the stone table, amidst parchment and tomes, dust-laden volumes that framed your head. The lick of firelight bathed you in an ethereal glow, stealing away Jace’s resolve.
He rocked into you, thrusts becoming a touch quicker in-spite of his encroaching release. Jacaerys covered you with his body, dark curls framing his countenance; a curtain of concentration. He moved to grab your hands, fingers twining together as he kissed you.
Gods, you were perfect — it was all he could think about, your grace and poise, your captivating beauty as he thrust his cock in and out of you, visage rosy and flushed. With another rock of his hips, length buried deep within you like a sword within a sheath, he shuddered.
His release felt overwhelming, a hot tidal wave that caused the tension in his stomach to unfurl completely. Hot ropes of his spend found its place within your womb, causing you to groan. Jacaerys rocked forward, gentle as could be, filling you with his seed.
With his composure in dire need of repair, he took a moment to catch his breath, lips curling into a smile. He could not mask his happiness in the wake of your tryst, moving off of you with a brief exhale.
“Are you alright?” Jacaerys’s warm timbre blanketed you immediately, and he went about correcting his trousers before attending to you. He adjusted your slip, assisting you in tugging it back into place until you seemed somewhat less disheveled.
“Of course,” Your own smile was demure, sheepish as you smoothed your palms across your silken sleeves. “And you?” With a gentle hum, you stepped forward to fasten the many silvery clasps of his doublet, noticing the flush of scarlet that had settled into his cheeks.
“Perfect,” Through thick eyelashes, Jacaerys gazed down at you with such adoration that you could drown in it. He held your waist, thumb drawing circles into your ribcage. “I wanted to thank you for ensuring my wellbeing. It is I that should be attending to you.”
With a brief shake of your head, you brought your palms to his chest, brows knitting together. “We are betrothed, Jacaerys. We can attend to one another,” You insisted, leaning up upon your toes to plant a kiss against his jaw. “We will do plenty of that once we are wed.”
Jacaerys’s countenance softened, and his muscles still burned from the exhilaration of your coupling. He looked toward the state of the table — parchment on the floor, scrolls scattered everywhere. “I love you.” He said through a thin smile, gracing the crown of your head with a kiss.
“I love you,” You assured, following the line of his gaze towards the disarrayed table. “Though, we should clean all of this up. What will Maester Gerardys say if he finds the library in this state?” You mused, a twinkling of mirth settling within your gaze.
“We could say that we were hard at work,” Jacaerys crooned, playful as could be as he retrieved your robe, bringing it over your shoulders before he scooped you up within his arms. “Studying.”
“Oh,” A gasp of surprise left you, but joy and happiness were soon to follow as he held you, forehead pressing against yours. “Are you saying that we should study more often?” You mumbled, and that caused Jacaerys to blush again, features unbelievably heated.
Jace and reader are sooooo disgustingly cute and wholesome, I love their commitment and devotion to each other 🥺🥺🥺
Seven Hells, you deserved to be put to the lash for the lascivious thoughts you had.
no Catholic guilt in this household!!
Jacaerys felt embarrassed for what he thought, for what he intended to do — perhaps he would seek absolution on the morrow.
CHILE-
Instead of answering verbally, you resorted to action, rising from your rickety chair to toss one leg over his hips, sinking yourself down into the firmness of his lap.
that's the right answer
You were the first girl he’d laid with — if the Gods were kind, you would be the last.
aaaawwwww 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹
Jacaerys had done it once before, and he often thought of it in private moments, or sometimes recklessly at supper or during small council meetings.
living in his mind rent free fr
the smut was superb, 12/10, got me frothing at the mouth!! 😩😩😩 another great piece!! 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻
Tags: male x male, house of the dragon/dance of the dragons, slightly aged-up Jace, some canon divergence (no, listen. take my hand. walk with me. let's talk.), fix-it ending, Cregan has a kickass direwolf, just two boys in love who are trying to save the seven kingdoms
Rating: Explicit (MDNI)
Synopsis: We all know the story. Jacaerys Velaryon of House Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, is sent north to treat with the formidable Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Prince Jacaerys is to secure fealty from Lord Stark and his bannermen to support and fight for the prince’s mother, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name.
The prince does well. He renews the North’s support for his mother’s rightful claim to the Iron Throne, and swears an oath with Lord Stark, sealed in blood.
But by the time Cregan Stark himself marches south, Prince Jacaerys has already died. It’s then that the Hour of the Wolf begins…
But what if Jacaerys didn’t die? What if he lived to inherit the Iron Throne, crowned as King Jacaerys, First of His Name, with Lord Cregan Stark at his side throughout it all? What if, yes, these two men sealed an oath in blood to secure what both of them need for their families and their people, but also solidified their love too? A love as burning as the fire Jacaerys’ dragon breathes, and as deep as the snows that blanket the wild, wondrous North.
CHAPTER ONE: Fathers, Sons, and Brothers
Jacaerys Velaryon
Jace observes the group of men and women gathered in the courtyard of Winterfell — the largest keep above the Neck, and the seat of House Stark. The assemblage gazes back at him, undoubtedly waiting for him to dismount Vermax. The dragon shakes his great head, a low rumble leaving his chest. He’s impatient to find a meal after their afternoon flight, and Jace knows he doesn’t appreciate being gawked at.
“Lykirī, valonqar” he murmurs, running his gloved-hand across Vermax’s shoulder. Be calm, little brother. A puff of hot air releases from the dragon’s nostrils, and then he lowers his shoulder to allow his rider an easier climb down to the frozen ground. Jace’s feet find earth, toes tingling from the cold, and he unhooks his saddle bags from the dragon’s back with frozen fingers. But as he gives Vermax a pat, and steps back, the dragon lets out a deep growl and slowly bars his teeth at the onlookers.
“Vermax,” Jace hisses harshly, quickly putting himself between the dragon’s jaws and the northerners. He locks eyes with Vermax’s golden ones, and for a moment, he thinks his notoriously ill-tempered mount isn’t going to back down – but then he does, to Jace’s immense relief. Though Vermax’s expression softens as he gazes at his rider, the great dragon unfurls his green-red wings and launches into the sky with a dramatic force, making the people gathered in the yard shrink back from the rush of icy wind.
Jace clenches his jaw at his dragon’s behavior, for he doesn’t want to start this trip off on the wrong foot, but as he turns around and steps towards the group he notices that only one man hasn’t moved back from the dragon’s antics. A burly man, near enough to Jace’s own age of twenty, with wavy, chin-length brown hair and piercing gray eyes. The cloak draped over his shoulders is framed by a thick layer of silver fur, secured by leather straps across his chest. From the distance between them, Jace can only just make out the shape of the metal buckle holding the leather together: a direwolf, the sigil of House Stark. This must be the man he has come to treat with — Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
“My apologies,” Jace rushes out, but trying to keep his tone light. “He has never been well-behaved.” He gestures a hand to where his dragon is soaring over Winterfell, already searching for a meal.
The man stares at him for another moment, his expression hard to read. And then he speaks. “Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, welcome to Winterfell.” The lord bows his head respectively, and though his body language gives off the expected deference to a prince of the realm, his tone is clipped — seemingly impatient, and perhaps rather unimpressed. A stern reminder to Jace that he hasn’t been invited to Winterfell, but has come at the behest of his mother to demand the fealty of the Starks and their bannermen to support her rightful claim to the Iron Throne. And his dragon has just expressed a viciousness that Jace feels he failed to explain away with a wave of his hand and empty words. The others standing behind Lord Stark bow their heads as well, following his lead.
Jace takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Lord Stark, it is an honor to be received by your house and the North.” It’s the practiced words of a prince, but he wonders where he missteps when he sees the lord’s eyes narrow – the gray seeming to ice over. Lord Stark clenches his jaw and shifts his weight to his left foot, the greatsword slung across his back shifting with him.
A woman steps up to the side of the northern lord and flicks her eyes up at him, and then to Jace. “You must be tired after your long journey, my prince,” she says, her tone much kinder than her lord’s. “Please, come inside,” and the woman gestures for him to follow her into the inner keep. The other northerners turn to follow her as well. Jace notices the woman gives Lord Stark a particular look – one that could be understood as annoyance – before turning her back on both men. She can’t be the Lady of Winterfell, as Jace was reminded by his mother before he left Dragonstone that Lord Stark’s wife, Lady Arra, passed away several years ago. But before he can determine the woman’s identity, his mind is pulled back to the courtyard by the feeling of being scrutinized. Lord Stark hasn’t moved and hasn’t taken his narrowed eyes off of Jace. They lock eyes, but Jace has to fight an urge to look away again. It’s unnerving to be stared at in such a way. As a prince, he’s used to people lowering their gazes around him, but this feels like the lord is trying to see into his soul and expose all of his secrets. A shiver runs down his spine, and it’s not from the cold.
“Cregan,” the woman hisses quietly from behind the lord, as the others finish filing in through a door behind her and out of sight. Her reproach seems to break the man’s trance, but he still keeps his eyes fixed on Jace’s for another heartbeat before turning his back on him and passing the woman who is still waiting for both men. They exchange a glance as Lord Stark walks past, but her face is less readable now. Then she turns her eyes to Jace, with what appears to be sympathy. “Please, my prince, a warm bath has been drawn for you before we sup.” She gives him a kind smile. He nods, then lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and follows her.
—
The mysterious woman leads him down a long hallway, and then up a flight of winding stairs of what he assumes is one of the inner towers – an important one, he hopes, given his status as a prince, but now he’s not so sure, given Lord Stark’s cold greeting. “You’ll be staying in the tower shared by the Stark family, my prince,” she says over her shoulder, as if she can read his mind.
When they reach the landing, she leads him to a room immediately on the right. A few servants are bustling about the room working to fill a large metal wash basin, situated in front of a large fireplace. The fire crackling in it fills the room with a heat that instantly begins to thaw Jace’s frozen limbs. Winter hasn’t officially come to the North yet, but the icy wind outside and the snow squall he and Vermax flew through earlier would suggest otherwise. A servant approaches him, bows, and then reaches for the saddle bags slung over his shoulder.
“Please make yourself comfortable, my prince,” the woman says gently. “Maester Selmond will retrieve you in a bit to escort you to where we will have supper.” She curtsies, and turns to leave.
“My lady, have I said something to offend Lord Stark?” He rushes out before he can stop himself.
“Of course not, my prince. He’s just…” she pauses, and then says, “Well, he has a lot on his mind. Winter is coming, you see, and he’s in the midst of preparations… And my apologies, my prince, while I am Lord Stark’s sister, I’m not a lady. I’m Sara — Sara Snow.” She drops her eyes in deference before lifting them to meet his gaze once more, and he realizes that her eyes are the same shade of gray as her brother’s.
Jace feels his cheeks flush. Snow. The surname for bastard children in the North. So, she’s the bastard daughter of Lord Stark’s father, the late Rickon Stark. Jace’s mother had mentioned this woman, but he was unaware that he would meet her in this way, if at all. Perhaps northerners view bastards differently than they do in the rest of the realm. It’s a comforting thought, for he himself is a bastard, albeit a secret one.
He inclines his head at Sara Snow to acknowledge what she’s just confessed, but then decides propriety be damned. “I look forward to joining you for dinner, my lady.” Jace knows he can’t change the views of the realm, for most lords and ladies hold prejudices tightly in their grips. But he’s a prince, and he can offer this woman the same kindness that she’s shown him.
Sara smiles again, and her eyes flash with what Jace thinks is a hint of surprise. She curtsies once more, and the servants follow her out. But before she closes the door, she sends one last glance in his direction, undoubtedly unsure of what to make of him and their exchange. When the door clicks shut, he turns to the bath waiting for him, pleased with his choice of words, and hopes the hot water will relieve some more of the tension plaguing his shoulders. Now, if only he can find a way to break the ice with her brother.
—
Cregan Stark
Cregan leaves the courtyard and makes a beeline for the kennels to ‘check on the hounds,’ wishing to cool off from the irritation that has been surging through him since the moment the prince and his dragon landed on northern soil. The Kennel Master, Ardrick, is surprised to see him, and insists that all is well with the hounds, and that there’s no need for Cregan to dirty his hands. He sends Ardrick away – likely with an amount of gruffness that he’ll regret later – but he needs a quiet place to unload his frustrations.
The Targaryen Queen felt the need to send an envoy – her own son and heir – to Cregan’s lands and demand that he keep the oath that his father swore many years ago, when she was a child: that the North would one day bow to Rhaenyra Targaryen as the chosen heir of King Viserys I. Starks do not forget their oaths, and he had to bite his tongue back in the courtyard before he reminded the prince of this fact. To make matters worse, the Queen and her son expect northmen to fight alongside her sworn bannermen in the brewing war for the throne between her and her half-brother, Aegon, who Cregan has learned currently calls himself King. All of this bother and insult has now been thrust Cregan’s way when winter is nearly at the North’s doorstep, and he needs his men here. He feels his frustrations increase from a simmer to a boil, so he tries to keep his hands busy by changing the water in a wooden trough in one of the empty kennels, and takes a few steadying breaths.
He hears the kennel gate swing open, and hurried feet coming in his direction. He looks up, unsurprised to see his sister standing before him, looking exasperated.
“What’s gotten into you? What was that back there?” she demands.
He lowers his eyes back down to the water trough, not wishing to feel her wrath directly. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replies with ill-disguised defiance.
“Don’t know what I mean?” she repeats. “Cregan, you were incredibly rude to the prince; speaking to him so sharply and staring him down like he’s a hostile intruder. What were you thinking?” she whispers harshly.
“He is an intruder,” Cregan huffs, finally gaining the nerve to look back up at her. “He’s come to our home, uninvited, to demand things. And he brought his dragon to make his message clear,” he finishes, frustration seeping into his voice.
She lets out a long sigh, and looks at him knowingly for a moment before speaking. “I’m sure he brought his dragon because it’s the quickest means to get to the North to treat with you. You know the trip from King’s Landing to here takes nearly a moonturn on horseback,” she counters, and he notices she’s now using the same voice she does with his son, Rickon, when the boy is upset. Firm, but gentle.
Cregan scoffs, and though he’s still too worked up to admit it, he knows in the back of his mind that she’s right. Yet he straightens his spine, unwilling to back down from her so easily. “I don’t need that pup to remind me of the duty of House Stark and our bannermen who have already sworn an oath to his mother,” he states through gritted teeth, placing a bucket of water down with enough force that water sloshes over the sides, drenching his boots.
“Brother, you judge him too harshly. Father swore that oath. And yes, perhaps the Targaryens don’t understand what father’s word means to you and the North.” He lets out a shaky breath with the mention of their father, but she pushes on calmly. “But you would do well to remember that he’s here because of his duty to his mother and his house, just as it’s your duty to receive him, listen to him, and to negotiate with him on behalf of your house and the North.” Her voice has become even more patient and gentle, trying to coax him out of his perceived temper tantrum. It bristles him, how she can unwind him so expertly, but it does endear her more to him knowing that she learned her tactics from their father. She crosses her arms and leans against the kennel wall, her face giving away that she knows she’s won.
Their eyes are locked for a few moments, and then he lets out a sigh, admitting too that he’s been defeated. “Alright, alright. I’ll hear what he has to say over supper tonight,” he concedes, rubbing the back of his neck and breaking their shared gaze.
She gives him the same smile she wears when she finally convinces Rickon to eat the peas in his steak and kidney pie. A smile tugs at his lips, but he does roll his eyes at her for treating him like her three year old nephew. No wonder Rickon avoids her eyes when he doesn’t want to listen to her.
“And you’ll be a kind and gracious host to our royal guest,” she finishes for him, patting his arm.
“You’re insufferable,” he grumbles, but he lets out a chuckle too, and she appears delighted. “Aye,” he agrees, “we’ll give him a taste of northern hospitality.” Though her expression shows that she knows he’s teasing, she still gives him a pointed look.
“You’ll show him true northern hospitality, or you’ll not hear the end of it,” she threatens playfully, jabbing her finger into his bicep, making him wince. Cregan has known his sister for two and twenty years, and though her tone is light, he knows when she means what she says.
“You have my word,” he huffs, gently shoving her out of his way, as any older brother would, so he can exit the kennel. She returns a playful shove from behind him, as any younger sister would, and he grins at her over his shoulder as they make their way out of the kennels, and back inside to the warmth.
—
Jacaerys Velaryon
Jace sits down in a stiff armchair by the fire, finally cleaned and redressed, and waits for his wet curls to dry before Maester Selmond arrives to escort him to dinner. He’s rehearsing diplomatic lines and arguments in his head, having a feeling that Lord Stark won’t make his task easy. Oaths have been sworn, duty comes before all else, the realm needs to be united as one, he repeats in his mind. All of these arguments suddenly sound hollow and feeble. They’re true, but he imagines the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North will find it insulting that Jace feels the need to say these words aloud. He chews on his bottom lip, trying to think of more clever points to make.
He stands, hoping, a little desperately, that pacing about the room might help. He looks around with a sigh, and notices for the first time the tapestries hung on the far wall, framing the room’s singular window. The tapestries have scenes of mounted knights galloping in snow, and large wolves running ahead of them; undoubtedly the same direwolves that match the one holding Lord Stark’s cloak together. He walks over to have a closer look, and admires the tight weaving and blending of colorful thread. The tapestries are indeed expertly made, and likely practical for keeping in warmth for it’s noticeably colder on this side of the room. Bright red catches his eye from beyond the window. The room, he realizes, overlooks the keep’s godswood and a weirwood tree. The bright red leaves of the tree stand out against the gray castle walls and windswept landscape beyond. The weirwood tree is an important symbol to the families throughout the Seven Kingdoms that still worship the old gods, as House Stark has from time immemorial. Or so he had been taught in his formative years by a slew of maesters. Perhaps a visit to the godswood might do him good, for he needs all the help that he can get.
The door on the far side of the room suddenly opens, and Jace spins around to see a child bouncing into the room.
“Dragon outside!” a little boy shouts with delight.
“Rickon!” comes a booming voice, and then Lord Stark rushes into the room after the child. “My apologies, my prince, my son has been impatient to meet you and has forgotten his manners,” the lord says, scooping up the child into his arms while clearly trying to hide his embarrassment behind his son’s small frame. Jace realizes the boy is his father in miniature, for he has the same wavy brown hair and gray eyes.
Jace laughs lightly, trying to calm his pounding heart. “Please don’t apologize, my lord, I have four younger brothers. I’m quite used to the excitement of little ones,” he says, grinning at Rickon, who grins back for a moment before bashfully hiding his face in his father’s shoulder.
“Ah, four younger brothers is quite a handful,” Lord Stark comments, and he can see the man visibly relax his shoulders, seemingly grateful that Jace isn’t upset.
“Yes, I never have a moment’s rest,” he agrees warmly, hoping to put the lord at ease even more. The child has done no harm, and he would like to put whatever exchange he and Lord Stark had in the courtyard behind them.
“Aye, and with this one too – not much peace to be had,” the lord says with a wearisome look at his son, but then he playfully jostles the boy in his arms, making the child giggle out “Papa!”
“Would you like to meet my dragon?” Jace asks the little boy, before he can stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. His feet move him a step closer to the lord and his son, but this only makes his heart beat rapidly again.
Rickon’s head swivels around to look at him, and a grin spreads across his face. “Yes! Meet big dragon,” he exclaims with delight, clapping his little hands together.
“Alright then,” Jaces says, grinning back, “but only if your papa says yes and if you finish all of your supper.”
Rickon considers Jace’s offer for a moment with a little tilt of his head. “Okay!” he agrees, scrambling down out of his father’s arms and back out the way he came.
The Lord of Winterfell laughs as he watches his son go. The laugh is gentle, and Jace can tell that it’s full of affection. It reminds him of the way his father – his real father, Harwin Strong – used to laugh when his sons found themselves in some kind mischief. The memory of his late father brings forth a pang in his heart, but he tries to push the pain away and concentrate on the man in front of him. When he turns his attention back to Jace, they both seem to realize that they are now grinning at one another. A moment – a rapid heartbeat on Jace’s part – passes before Lord Stark breaks their gaze and looks off to his left at the fire crackling in the hearth. Jace bites at his lip again, trying to compose himself.
“The same argument my mother used to make when my brothers wanted to see their dragons. Worked every time,” he states quietly, and the lord looks back at him, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“A wise woman,” Cregan Stark says gently, and it warms him when he realizes the lord’s words appear kind and genuine. They look at each other for another moment – smoky eyes searching his face before the man speaks again.
“Thank you for your kindness towards my son, my prince.” And now it’s Jace who ducks his head, feeling almost as bashful as the young boy in question.
“Of course, my lord, he reminds me of my littlest brothers. They’re a bright spot in my life,” he confesses, and he’s not sure why he’s telling the lord this, but the words seem to rush out of him.
“You must miss them,” Lord Stark murmurs. Jace looks up again, and notices how the fire dances golden against the man’s eyes.
“I do… I don’t know what I'd do without my brothers. They mean a great deal to me,” he replies gently, and he feels another tug at his heart as he thinks of them, so far away.
Lord Stark nods, but Jace sees his expression fall a bit. He assumes he’s probably said something foolish again, but before he can apologize, the lord speaks again. “Supper is ready. If you’d follow me, my prince.” He opens the door wider and Jace gives him a smile before following him. Despite Jace’s perceived misstep, the lord gives him a small smile in return.
—
Cregan Stark
The exchange with the prince about brothers, and Rickon’s antics, have made him feel off-balanced, and Cregan tries to steel himself as he steps down the spiral staircase that leads to the floor below his family’s sleeping quarters, to their private dining room. He can feel Prince Jacaerys following closely behind. He must get a grip, for if the heir to the Iron Throne decides to make demands of Cregan and his men, he must be ready. He lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
When he walks through the doorway to the dining room, Cregan sees servants bustling around the long, wooden table, placing food and pouring ale and wine. They notice him and cease their activities at once to bow in his direction. He’s momentarily taken aback, for the servants don’t usually act this way. But then he remembers that their bows aren’t for him, but for the prince who’s stepped through the doorway behind him. Prince Jacaerys stops next to him, and out of the corner of his eye he sees the man’s cheeks redden.
“My prince, welcome,” Sara greets cheerfully, standing from where she sits next to Rickon, who’s fidgeting in his seat while playing with a wooden wolf. Cregan has never been more glad for his sister’s presence. “A place has been set for you just here,” she gestures to the seat across the table from her and Rickon.
“Thank you, my lady,” the prince says, inclining his head in her direction, and then he leaves Cregan’s side. Cregan freezes to his spot at hearing his sister referred to as ‘my lady’ by royalty. The prince mustn’t be aware of her birth, as southerners wouldn’t dare to show a bastard such respect. He’ll have to correct the prince’s mistake, but at another time. Not in front of Sara.
Cregan sees Sara smile at the prince as a servant assists him with his chair, and then she turns her eyes to Cregan, giving him a silent look that he knows all too well. She breaks through his thoughts to remind him that he once again looks ridiculous standing there, staring at them all.
He shifts uncomfortably, and looks at his feet before running his hand across the stubble on his cheeks. He releases a breath, and then lets his feet carry him around Sara and Rickon to sit at the head of the table, between his family and Prince Jacaerys. He makes a point not to meet the eyes of the prince who’s watching his every move. He must get a grip, and fast. What is it about this man that’s unnerved him so much?
A servant helps Cregan settle into his seat as well, which is unpracticed for both of them, and it shows as his calves bump against the chair. “Thank you, Bowdwyn” he mutters to the servant, who bows his head and then hurries to the other end of the table to tend to the food.
Cregan clears his throat. “May I offer you wine, Prince Jacaerys? Or ale?” He’s still not met the man’s eyes.
The prince pauses for a moment, and then decides on ale. Bowdwyn hurries back over to pour the amber liquid into a cup at the prince’s side. The prince takes a large first sip, and then instantly sputters and coughs, and Cregan is sure it’s because he’s used to drinking only wine grown in southern lands.
Rickon giggles, but Cregan gives his son a sharp look and the boy shrinks back into his chair a bit, suddenly interested in his toy again.
“My apologies,” the prince says, his voice rising a bit from embarrassment. Cregan finally looks at him only to see that the man’s cheeks have reddened again. “I’m not used to drinking such fine ale,” the prince admits, and he gives them a sheepish smile, before tucking his chin to chest. Cregan notices how delicate his eye lashes look as they brush against his cheeks. He feels his heart skip a beat and his own cheeks flush at the sudden thought, and he tries to ignore it by taking a sip of the ale that has already been poured for him. Bowdwyn knows he prefers ale over wine.
“Please don’t apologize, my prince,” Sara soothes. “In fact, dear brother, didn’t you have the same reaction the first time father let you drink a northern ale?” she muses, clearly trying to lighten the awkward moment.
“Aye, I believe you’re right, dear sister,” he agrees, but it comes out rushed and a little flustered, and he finds all he can do is look into his cup and tug at his tunic. He feels her eyes on him, and knows she’s wondering what’s gotten into him now. He takes a breath. “It takes practice, my prince,” and then turns to the man, “but don’t worry, we mayhaps make a northerner of you yet.”
Prince Jacaerys laughs at that, brown eyes twinkling and dark curls dancing as he shakes his head. He raises his cup to Cregan before taking another smaller, more careful sip. No coughs.
“Aye, there we are,” Cregan teases lightly with a nod of approval. When he lifts his own cup of ale again he catches the prince smiling in his direction. It makes him want to fidget in his chair, not unlike his son.
“I hope you’re finding your accommodations to your liking, Prince Jacaerys?” Sara asks, as the servants begin ladling venison stew into their bowls. Rickon pauses for a moment from playing with his toy to take a piece of bread and dip it into his stew. Sara doesn’t look away from the prince as she pushes Rickon’s bowl closer to the boy so he doesn’t drip food onto his lap.
“Yes, Lady Sara, thank you. They’re most agreeable. The tapestries on the walls are splendid to study up close,” the prince replies before reaching for a piece of bread too.
“Aye, our brother enjoyed those tapestries as well. Used to say he was going to grow up to be one of the warriors in his bedroom,” Cregan shares, but the memory of his late younger brother, Brandon, makes his heart clench as it had when he stood in the boy’s room, discussing missing brothers with the prince.
“That was your brother’s room?” Prince Jacaerys asks gently, looking at each sibling.
“Aye, my prince, Brandon. He passed away a number of years ago now,” Sara replies gently, but she’s eyeing Cregan whose emotions must’ve shown on his face. He takes a breath and tucks his spoon into his bowl of stew. What’s going on with him? Smiling like a fool one moment, feeling sad and nostalgic another. He’s the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. And a prince sits before him.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Prince Jacaerys says, and he sounds sincere. It makes Cregan’s heart flutter again, and he shifts in his chair uncomfortably.
Sara opens her mouth to reply, but Cregan quickly cuts her off, preferring to steer the conversation away from their brother. “You mentioned that you have younger brothers as well, my prince. Are they much younger than you?” he asks, quickly glancing at the prince before looking back down at his meal.
“Yes, my lord, the two littlest ones are. They are my half-brothers – Aegon is six and Viserys is four. My other two brothers are closer in age to me. Lucerys is three years younger than me, at seven and ten, and Joffrey is three and ten,” the prince explains, and then takes a bite of his stew. “This is quite delicious, my lady,” he comments, smiling at Sara. She returns a warm smile before turning to wipe Rickon’s face as stew dribbles down his chin.
So he’s twenty. Closer to his own age of six and twenty than he would have guessed. He looks up at the ceiling for a moment, wondering why on earth the prince’s age should matter to him. To fend off his intrusive thoughts, Cregan decides he should push the prince closer to the business of why he’s here, and what that business would mean for House Stark and his bannermen. “And what have the maesters in the South taught you and your brothers of the North?” He tries to keep his tone light, but he’s not sure he succeeds.
Prince Jacaerys pauses the spoon traveling to his mouth, and replaces it in his bowl, sitting even straighter in his chair. A prince, indeed.
“We’ve been taught a great deal about the North, my lord,” he replies quickly, but his tone is even. He thinks the younger man must’ve practiced a line similar to that many times. Cregan inclines his head to indicate for the prince to continue, and then rips a piece of bread to swipe through his stew.
“For instance, I know that the First Men inhabited these lands for many centuries, and the blood of the First Men still runs through the veins of many northern families. And that the old gods are still worshiped by those same families,” he looks at each sibling, and Sara nods her head politely, but Cregan can feel her eyes flick to him.
The prince continues. “And it’s said that the wall of ice above your lands–” he looks to Cregan “–is six hundred feet high and infused with magic.”
Cregan looks at the dragon prince again, brown eyes meeting his own with confidence, and feels himself bristle at the prince’s profession of knowledge. “Aye, our ancestors did build the Wall with some kind of magic – and I’m sure a bit of blood and sweat too – until it reached seven hundred feet high. Most formidable at that height, I think,” he corrects the prince, and he feels Sara’s eyes sending daggers his way. Still, he locks eyes with the prince, suddenly feeling much the way he did in the courtyard. The younger man’s jaw flexes, and he sits back in his chair, clearly a bit embarrassed, but surprisingly, not backing down from his sparring partner by keeping his eyes fixed on Cregan.
“Come now, brother, do you know how many rocks are on Dragonstone or how many bricks make up the Red Keep?” Sara interjects, trying to grab Cregan’s attention. Why must she never be on his side? He clenches his jaw now, but then the prince speaks again.
“Perhaps,” Jacareys says, slowly, “the maesters didn’t teach my brothers and I as much as they should have.”
Cregan sits back in his chair as well, and takes a sip of his ale, still not looking away from the younger man. Prince Jacaerys’ confession defuses some of the frustration that Cregan hasn’t been able to shake, not entirely, since they first came face to face.
“But I wish to learn more,” the prince admits, “and correctly.” He mirrors Cregan, and sips his ale, his dark curls falling forward around his face. Cregan can feel Sara’s eyes dart back and forth between the two of them. “And who better to instruct me than the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,” Prince Jacaerys finishes gently, and Cregan doesn’t miss the significance of the prince’s chose words. Like he’s offering both a white flag and a challenge to Cregan.
“Aye, I can teach you, my prince,” Cregan concedes, never one to back down from a challenge, but not wishing to escalate the conversation any further either. “Tomorrow, we’ll ride out for a hunt and begin your education anew.” He pushes the challenge and peace offering back across the table to the prince. In the back of his mind, a voice is begging the younger man to accept. He tries to ignore it.
“Thank you, my lord. A hunt and your knowledge would be most appreciated,” the prince replies graciously, inclining his head in Cregan’s direction.
Cregan nods, and tries to ignore the way his stomach flips as the dragon prince’s brown eyes find his own again, and he gives the older man a small smile.
He’s impatient to find a meal after their afternoon flight, and Jace knows he doesn’t appreciate being gawked at.
Vermax just like me fr
the tension between Jace and Cregan, goddamn 👀👀👀👀
“Of course not, my prince. He’s just…”
Like That
“I look forward to joining you for dinner, my lady.”
always a gentleman
Now, if only he can find a way to break the ice with her brother.
gay sex might do the trick, just saying...
“He is an intruder,” Cregan huffs, finally gaining the nerve to look back up at her. “He’s come to our home, uninvited, to demand things. And he brought his dragon to make his message clear,” he finishes, frustration seeping into his voice.
he makes several points!! sorry, Jace
Rickon mention!! I'm so glad you included him in the story!!
“Aye,” he agrees, “we’ll give him a taste of northern hospitality.”
is that what it's called nowadays?
I love love love Cregan's and Sara's dynamic!! the siblingism jumped out
RICKON IS SO FUCKING CUUUUUTE 😭😭😭 and Cregan being a grumpy dad.... screaming crying throwing up
also, major Rickon w for breaking the ice between Cregan and Jace, what an icon
The Lord of Winterfell laughs as he watches his son go. The laugh is gentle, and Jace can tell that it’s full of affection. It reminds him of the way his father – his real father, Harwin Strong – used to laugh when his sons found themselves in some kind mischief.
🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 I'm dead, thanks
A moment – a rapid heartbeat on Jace’s part – passes before Lord Stark breaks their gaze and looks off to his left at the fire crackling in the hearth. Jace bites at his lip again, trying to compose himself.
gaygaygaygaygaygay
omg Cregan and Jace bonding a bit, we love to see it!!
What is it about this man that’s unnerved him so much?
the twink energy that radiates off of him
Rickon giggles, but Cregan gives his son a sharp look and the boy shrinks back into his chair a bit, suddenly interested in his toy again.
RICKON IS FUCKING HILARIOUS, LEAVE HIM BE
What’s going on with him?
grief! which he's more than entitled to
He looks up at the ceiling for a moment, wondering why on earth the prince’s age should matter to him.
it's a secret tool we'll use later (for gay activities)
this first chapter already has me hooked!! I love your writing, your attention to detail, the characters' inner thoughts and emotions, you blend them together perfectly! can't wait to see where you take this story, darling! 😌🫶🏻
Visenya my beloved!! such a fitting starter for this series <33
Aenys regressing after Rhaenys' death is a brilliant idea, and it actually makes a lot of sense, so I'm glad you put it into words!
I love the idea that Visenya's perspectives and intentions changed because she deemed Aenys unfit to shoulder such burdens + because she believed Aenys himself wouldn't want to rule. time for blood witchcraft baby Maegor!!
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; 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
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.
lmao I love Luke and I love their relationship
“I’m just impressed she’s made it three sentences without bringing up dragons.”
literally about me
"I'm sure you would never have any unkind thoughts, my Prince."
weeeeeeeeeeelllll......
“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.
Do not kill your uncle in front of her.
DO IT
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."
ok fine. thank you, Aemond
the scene where Jace introduces Vermax to reader is sooo sweet and well-written, I love it sm 🥺🥺🥺
Blame it on the heat, your mind chides, not on anybody in particular.
copium copium copium
“He’s always talking about you.”
promise? 👉🏻👈🏻
Lucerys, looking slightly guilty, replies quickly - "Nothing! Just talking."
don't be suspicious, don't be suspicious, don't be suspicious
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."
UGH, THEY'RE SO CUTE, they can't keep getting away with it
This makes you laugh gently and he pretends not to feel it in his chest.
oh my god, how DARE you, I'm obsessed with this line
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.
not this guy!! who the fuck invited him
He could strike Aegon, he could knock him to the ground-
doooo it!! do it do it do it do it do it—
“Well, I suppose we are disturbing your peace, then, aren’t we?"
he's smart 🥴
Oh Gods, kill me. Please. Or, kill Luke.
careful what you wish for 😬😬😬
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.
kisskisskisskisskisskisskisskisskiss
"Would you kiss me?"
LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
His eyes flutter shut after yours do; with a slight lurch in your breath, his lips gently meet yours.
The stroll back towards the Keep is alight with whispers and gentle conversation; across the yard, Lucerys trains with Ser Harwin Strong.
HARWIN MY BOY 😭
this was soooo wholesome and refreshing, darling!! I loved every word, every phrase, every scene, thank you for writing it!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻
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.
"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 is not so 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.
“Why?” Your tone swims between warm and cold waters, “Do you think me unable to be successful in such a profession?”
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; 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; 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 smirks 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. 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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Twenty and still haven’t tasted the true pleasures of King’s Landing?
Aegon, when I catch you-
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.
this is soooo fucking real 😭
"Even in disguise, my prince, you’re hard to miss."
he's literally too pretty
"Many mourned your loss"
did reader fake her death???? if so, WHAT AN ICON
You tilt your head, crossing your arms. "Oh, and what kind of place is it for then? Someone like you, perhaps?”
GAGGED, she's so right
“Do you think me unable to be successful in such a profession?”
“You imagine I’d be great?”
plsssss have some mercy on the poor boy 💀💀💀
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.
“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.”
he's too sweet, protect him at all costs!! 😭😭😭
You might pass out.
INDEED
I'm losing my fucking mind!! the smut was exquisite, out of this world, how do you even do it!! 😤😤😤 and the aftercare!! Jace and reader were sooo soft and sweet 🥺🥺🥺 spare a crumb of talent for the rest of us mere mortals!!
Summary: being stood up on his wedding day, Aemond’s life takes a turn for the worse. Heartbroken and humiliated, he finds unexpected help in Helaena’s childhood friend, who helps him move back into his family mansion. Summer cocktail parties and a long stay at the Targaryen residency, Aemond might let the girl who’s always been in his life make a home in his heart.
Tangerines, in general, symbolize prosperity, good luck and happiness. So if these delicious fruits appear in your dreams - whole or in the form of juice - it is usually very positive. A dream with tangerines expresses the desire and the possibility of progress and prosperity
Word count: 5.1k+
Warnings: tensionnnnnn, alcohol consumption (just wine) & fluff! English isn’t my first language <3
A/n: ‘m not gonna say anything more than just that ITS THE BEGINNING OF SOMETHING NEW!! Reblog & comments are most appreciated🍊🧡
Taglist: if you’d like to be tagged in the future chapters, please fill this form with your username!
Updates: every Saturday!!
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Chapter 3: The beginning of something new
He leans back on the chair, his book abandoned next to him on the desk as he carves a line on the wooden pallet, his glasses on the bridge of his nose, the sound of wood getting cut echoing in the old workshop.
He’s been here since early morning, all of his thoughts are consumed by you and your talk a few days ago. There’s still a part of him that is immensely guilty for how he treated you, especially after you told him about that Lannister boy.
He is heard and understood, maybe not by someone he expected, but the sweetness and calmness in this revelation makes it more special. You’ve been in the background image of his life for so long, someone always present yet too far and out of reach. But now, you’ve turned into someone important, someone he can rely on and trust wholeheartedly.
He sighs, letting the chisels fall from his hand on the table as he stretches his arms, groaning as he cracks his back and slowly lumps in the chair, glancing at Vhagar who does the same and slowly walks towards him, jumping on him to cuddle — the chair is so little to have them both sitting on it together, so Aemond has to hold Vhagar to his chest with a hand under her belly while she rests her head on his forearm as the other hand rubs slowly circle on her back.
Vhagar barks suddenly, jumping down to go near the door, alerting Aemond that someone is coming. He also stands up, grabs his abandoned book from the table, and walks towards Vhagar who is clawing at the door before he opens it and lets her out, locking the door workshop’s door behind him.
He follows her, watching as she bolts through the bushes and trees to reach whoever is approaching them. He hears your voice, melodically and softly when you start talking to Vhagar, giggling and letting her probably lick your face.
“Morning!” You say as soon as you spot him, strengthening your back before you stand up, holding two cups of coffee in your hands, “I couldn’t find you in the library, so I thought you’re probably taking a walk with your old lady.”
“Yeah,” he chuckles, “we had an early morning, and she gets restless and impatient when she doesn’t set foot outside.”
“Here’s your coffee, little nerd,” you hand him his cup, stepping closer to him until you’re only mere inches away from him, looking up at him through your lashes.
Aemond’s break is stuck in his throat as he looks down at you, he gulps when he sees you reach for his face, pushing his glasses up so he sees better. Your touch is warm against his skin, but your smile is warmer, more welcoming than anything he’s ever seen.
Get a grip, he thinks to himself as he thanks you quietly, clearing his throat before he wraps his long fingers around the hot mug.
“Let’s take a walk, shall we?” He asks, glancing back at the workshop door quickly.
“What’s that?” You turn around and follow his gaze, pointing at the door hiding behind the trees.
“Oh, um, that…” he rubs the back of his neck nervously, “nothing, just an abandoned storeroom,” Aemond shrugs, the book in his hands falling to the ground as his palm grows clammy.
“Shit—“
“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” you crouch down to grab the book, smiling softly when you look up and find Aemond turning red with embarrassment, especially when you glance at the book in your hand, “No way.”
“Give me that, please—“ he tries to snatch it out of your hand, but you hold it behind your back, biting your lip to stop yourself from grinning, taking a sip from your coffee to hide your smile, “tell me why you are reading Maester Orwyle’s book of Philosophy!”
“To kill some time, now please—“ he sighs, gesturing to you to give him the book by his hand while the ghost of a smirk finds its way to his face, “Don’t be ridiculous and give me the book so we can both go back to the house.”
“Nope,” you take a step away from him and he matches your huge grin as he extends his hand again, “if you want it, you should come get it.”
“Come on,” Aemond groans, “I’m not the five-year-old kid who used to chase you around the house to steal one of your books!”
“I’m not saying you should chase me, but maybe say please a few more times then I’ll agree—no!” You squeal when he leans over and snatches the book out of your hands, his tall and lean frame making it impossible for you to hold it back anymore, “You’re no fun!”
“Someone has to be the adult of this friendship,” he says, securing the book under his arm as he walks ahead of you, turning around to look at you, pointing at the path in front of you with his head, “Come on.”
“Fine, fine!” You laugh, following him towards the path leading to the backyard and the Weirwood tree.
The sound of friendship left a bittersweet taste in his mouth, something he only felt when Alys would give him backhanded compliments, but he knows you, maybe even much better than he ever knew his ex-fiance, and with the talk you had a few days ago, he is left confused. Not by your actions no, but by your words; it is hard to find someone who’s had the same experience, especially with someone so understanding and willing to share them.
“Don’t sulk now, Little nerd,” you bump your shoulder to him, watching him take a long sip of his coffee, “tell me about the book, it mustn’t be the first time you’re reading it.”
“Of course not,” he sighs and continues, “he was a friend of my grandfather, no one knows what happened to their friendship after this book was written, but apparently all the answers are in this—“
“You can’t be reading this giant hard-to-swallow book just because you wanna know about your grandpa's failed friendship,” you wiggle your eyebrows at him, “come on, tell me the truth!”
“No,” he gives you a pointed look, “this is the truth.”
“Alright,” you smile at him, not wanting to pressure him if he truly doesn’t wish to explain it, walking side by side with him until the trees are behind you except the Weirwood tree that looks so beautiful under the morning sunlight.
“The coffee is perfect…” he hums in delight as he glances at you, holding the mug in one hand with his arm keeping the book rightly against his body while he puts his right hand on the small of your back, walking slowly to your right side to be able to look at you more comfortably.
“My goodness, Aemond, I’m so sorry I didn’t realize—“ you try to apologize but he cuts you off with a slow shake of his head.
“It’s okay, don’t fret about it,” he rubs circles on your waist as you walk towards the house, the sunshine casting a glow on your face, and he fights off a smile when he sees how your eyes shine, “how did you find out I like my coffee with three sugars?”
“You’re not too hard to read,” you chuckle a little leaning to his side as he keeps his palm secured on your waist, “I observe people, mostly my friends and I wanted to make sure you were alright after everything, so I kept a close eye on you. Turns out you have a horrible sweet tooth!”
“You haven’t seen the worst of it yet,” he teases you, finishing his coffee in a sip, “Hel and I used to bake together, a silly hobby she took when Viserys and Mum separated. It was only simple cakes and bread but you know me, I can’t settle for less than perfection.”
“So you started to get better and better.”
“Yeah, it turns out Hel & I would make an excellent team, many of the birthday cakes were on us,” he explains, handing you the book so you’d hold it for him so he can open the door for you when you reach the building, “if you’re lucky, you’ll get a special birthday cake from me one day.”
“Stop being so talented—oh, fuck—“ you yell in shock when Vhagar runs past the two of you, knocking to your legs, making you lose your grip on your coffee and having it spill on Aemond’s book.
“I’m so sorry, fuck, I should have finished it first…” your voice grows quieter as you open the drenched book, reading the first page’s note, “Is this…?”
“Yeah,” he nods, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully, “it’s yours.”
“No wonder I was looking for it when I got back home after another vacation spent here,” you laugh, tracing your finger over the blue note, “I caught you reading it in your old stable. Why would you go there to read?” It was full of horseshit, yet you seemed to like it.”
“Well, it was the only place no one seemed to want to spend any time there. Best place to read the book I stole from you,” he follows you inside the building to the kitchen to leave your cups there, “besides, you’d find me and discuss the book anyway, maybe I wanted you to find me.”
“You seem to enjoy that, don’t you? Me always finding you?” You ask him after you put the book on the kitchen island, turning around to look at him.
It seems like he has caged you with his body, he is standing close, probably closer than he should but not too much to deem it inappropriate for friends, and when you look up at him, he is sure the distance between the two of you has decreased considerably — physically and mentally.
“I like the idea,” he whispers, his good eye never leaving your face as you stare at each other before he clears his throat and pulls away a bit, giving you an awkward smile, “I think Hel and others are in the TV room.”
You nod hesitantly, moving past him towards the other room, leaving him alone in the kitchen. He sighs shakily, swallowing the lump in his throat before he decides to join you after he puts his cup away.
When he enters the room he finds you leaning on the back of the coach and Helaena is curled up on your side with Dreamfyre resting her head on Hel’s calves. His brothers are playing yet another round of Mortal Kombat — which he is sure Aegon insisted on. He looks around for Vhagar, and when he can’t find her, he assumes she must be in the library, taking her morning nap.
“Morning.”
“Hey, Aemy!” Aegon greets him, “We thought you were kidnapped when you didn’t join us for breakfast.”
“Fuck off, I don’t have the patience to deal with you today,” Aemond grumbles, throwing his head back, and closing his eye before he is hit by a cushion, followed by a loud snort and soft giggles from you and Helaena, “What the fuck was the for?”
“You need to have patience! This is our summer, we will be annoying you until you give up this crappy attitude and enjoy your time with us here! Who knows when we’ll gather together like this again! You live here now with Daeron and Mum, I live in Oldtown, She,” Helaena points at you, “lives in Rosby, and Aegon… well he floats around the country.”
“I have a home, you little bitch—”
“Doesn’t seem like it when you constantly show up at our places,” you say, earning a loud gasp from Aegon before he pouts and rolls his eyes at you, turning around towards Daeron with a glare when he laughs at him before he says ‘I’m gonna kick your ass’ and they start playing again.
“You know what we should do this week?” Helaena asks suddenly, sitting up with glee, “Aegon should throw one of his infamous parties! That way not only our dear brother will get better and forget about everything even for a few hours, but we get to have some fucking fun!”
“I thought you didn’t like parties,” Daeron pauses the game, turning around to give his sister a pointed look. Aemond does the same, but instead, he glances at you and finds you already looking at him, giving him a tight-lipped awkward smile before the two of you look away from each other and focus on Helaena.
“I do! But that doesn’t mean I loathe them, besides, Aegon’s parties are fun, they are not like Mum’s when we have to sit in awfully formal clothes, sipping on champagne like high-class ladies.”
“I hate to break it to you, babe, but you are a high-class lady,” you say, earning a nod from everyone in the room.
“That’s not my point,” she groans, chuckling when you side-eye her, “I just wanna have fun, and Aegon is fun—”
“Did you hear that, pirate?” Aegon points at Aemond, laughing when he is met with a glare from his younger brother, “She thinks I’m fun, not you, me!”
“Don’t make her change her mind,” Aemond sighs, sneering at his older brother.
“Aemond is fun, mind you,” you defend him, giving Aegon a pointed look which makes Daeron laugh out loud, “You are just too chaotic to understand him.”
“And you do?” Aegon scoffs, and Aemond senses something is going to happen, that his brother can’t simply keep his large mouth shut, “his fiance didn’t find him fun—”
“Jeez, Aegon!” Daeron yells, face twisted in disbelief.
“What is your fucking problem?” you ask him, scoffing at Aegon’s scared look, “You are always mean to him.”
“I am not!”
“Shut the fuck up I’m talking,” Aemond looks at you, surprised by your outburst, “he needs your support more than ever, his face and his life are now all over the fucking internet! Have you considered how hurt he must be? Of course, you haven’t because you don’t think. He doesn’t need to be reminded of what happened constantly when he is trying his best to move on!”
“I—” Aegon can’t say anything as he looks at you like you have grown another head.
Aemond is as equally shocked as others, he fights off a huge smile as he watches you defend him, his lips parted in surprise, jaw on the floor while you talk and put Aegon in his place.
“Morning my loves,” Alicent comes to the rescue, looking around the room to find Helaena and Aemond looking at you with a pleased smile while Aegon shrinks under your gaze and Daeron nearly falls on the floor with how hard he’s laughing, “What’s going on here?”
“I thought maybe I could throw a party!” Aegon speaks, avoiding your gaze as he looks at his mum, “A month has passed from summer and I have yet to throw one of my infamous spontaneous parties!”
“Alright, but you know—”
“I know, I know! In the guest wing, no drugs, no strippers—”
“You brought strippers to your parties?” Aemond asks, giving Aegon a disapproving look who in return only smirks and wiggles his eyebrows at him.
“Did you forget your insanely cool bachelor party? Did you think I brought random girls to give you a lap dance—”
“Okay enough!” Alicent laughs awkwardly, “There are better times to discuss these matters! I have more important things to tell you.”
“Like what?” Daeron asks.
“New Gossip Girls season dropped?” Aegon looks at you shrugging when you snort at his question.
“Be serious for a fucking second please,” Aemond warns his brother before he looks at Alicent softly, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing! In fact, I kind of have a surprise for all of you. Not a huge surprise but I wanted to take you somewhere,” she explains, stroking her neck in nervousness.
“Where do you wanna take us, Mum? Hopefully nowhere near Father,” Hel says, making everyone sigh in relief when Alicent shakes his head.
“No, of course not!” she scoffs as if even the idea of seeing her ex-husband disgusted her — and it did — she continued, “Do you remember when I told you I had put the winery under a reconstruction? And specifically told you to not go there?”
“No?” Daeron answers, confused as he tries to remember when Alicent told them to not go there, “I doubt you did, Mum.”
“You have a winery?” you ask, a joyful smile comes on your face when Hel nods excitedly.
“Not just a winery but a vineyard!”
“Oh, wow! I had no idea!”
“Well, it’s your lucky day because now it’s useable again!” Alicent matches your enthusiasm, “Also, this is not just to show you the vineyard, but…” she looks at Aemond, “It’s Aemond’s birthday too!”
“It’s not,” he replies, glancing at you quickly, “It’s in a few weeks.”
“Well it doesn’t matter because I am going to throw a party for you, and for that, we need to have a winetasting session and choose a few bottles for that occasion!”
“Mum, there is no need—”
“Do shut up, asshole,” Aegon teases him, “what do you mean there is no need? Those are gonna be for your birthday, and also, I don’t have to drink in secret!”
“I’m afraid I agree with Aegon,” Hel says, you and Daeron nod in encouragement, and Aemond has no choice but to also agree and surrounder, but it’ll be worth it, he thinks, because the way your eyes light up at the idea of visiting their vineyard makes his heart beat faster.
“Alright then” Alicent claps, shooing you all out of the TV room, “Wear something cool, I don’t want you to get sick under this god-awful heat.”
••••••••••
You and Hel put on your sundresses and you help her apply sunscreen on the back of her neck, covering her pale skin so she won’t burn under the awfully hot sun. The weather is exceptionally warm today and you regret agreeing to go to the vineyard without cars as soon as you step outside.
Aemond and Aegon are already there, smoking together as they wait for you and Hel to reach them. Aemond sends an endearing smile your way when he spots you, taking in the sight of you; you look beautiful, with your smile and the baby blue sundress you are wearing.
“Alright, ladies! Choose your gentleman— hey! At least let me finish,” Aegon whines when you loop your arm with Aemond, making a gagging sound when Aemond rests his palm on top of yours, “Ew, get a fucking room. Come on, Hel, we’re cooler than them.”
You chuckle when Aegon throws his arm around Helaena’s shoulders, taking the lead towards the vineyard not before he gives you a middle finger.
“Asshole,” you mutter, leaning your head on Aemond’s arm as you walk side by side, “since when did you guys have a vineyard? I’ve been Helaena’s friend for years and not once did she mention anything about it.”
“It was Viserys’ vineyard, everything belonged to him, but after Mum filed for divorce and the evidence she had against him, he gave it all away,” he explains, his thumb caressing your knuckles, “I’m glad though, Mum deserves this. I mean we weren’t in need of a huge house in King’s Landing, Old Town was enough for us anyway, but after what he put her through, she really deserved it.”
“Alicent is strong, I’m not sure if I could handle such a mind wrecking thing,” you sigh, squeezing his arm as you smile at the memories you wish to tell him, “I remember when your parents were getting divorced, Helaena would spend days with me at my Grandparents’ country house, she’d bring Dreamfyre too. It felt like an eternity when we were together.”
“Hel has that effect, time doesn’t pass with her,” He agrees, both of you waving when Helaena looks back and blows you a kiss, “I feel like that with you too, maybe because we have shared interests.”
“You’re lucky,” you reply softly, bumping your shoulder to his, “because I feel the same. Every talk we have had since we were kids till now is a core memory of mine. Yeah, Hel will always be my favorite, my best friend, but you are different from everyone I’ve met, you mean so much to me.”
“You’re a dear friend or at least a dear friend to my sister,” he laughs a little, “I remember those days though, it was just me and Daeron in this huge house. Aegon was somewhere probably fucking and drinking and doing drugs while I had to take care of Daeron. He was too young to understand anything.”
“I wish things were different…”
“I don’t,” you look at him, confused and intrigued, “Maybe my eye, yes, but… I’m glad he is no longer a part of our lives, I could care less if he drops dead tomorrow, I’m happy he is no longer here to pester us about Rhaenyra or anyone.”
As soon as you try to answer him, a huge truck goes past you at a fast pace, and in an instant, Aemond wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you to his side, keeping you close to his body as he steps between you and the road.
You pant, hands fisting the front of his shirt in terror as you try to regain your breathing. Aemond looks down at you, his fingers keeping you tightly against him as his other hand reaches to caress your cheek.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” you nod, resting your forehead on his chest as he embraces you, “Yeah, I think I am.”
“We’re here, come on,” he finds Aegon and Hel already waiting for you, and gestures for you to follow them inside, “are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, Little nerd, I’m fine,” you reach and squeeze his hand, holding it as you walk through the entrance of the winery, finding Alicent, Daeron, and Cole already there.
“We’ll start with the winery!” Alicent announces, walking ahead of everyone with Criston on her side, “I’ve asked Qoren Martell to send us a very professional wine taster from Dorne to help us choose, and… here he is!”
“A pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Hightower,” the old man nods at Alicent, shaking her hand gracefully, “I’ve been told you produce different wines here.”
You let go of Aemond and meet Helaena midway as she takes your hand and walks with you behind her Mum and Cole, pointing at different parts of the winery. At first, you see the huge Grape-filled bowls getting crushed, the noises are loud but the fruits look so juicy and sweet.
“This is incredible!” You tell Hel as the group walks toward the next room, watching in awe how huge these oak barrels are. There are probably hundreds of them, with one glass under each so if someone wants to taste the wine straight from the barrels would have easy access.
Helaena pulls you to the next room, not just you but the Targaryen siblings are shocked as well.
“You genius,” Aegon calls his mother, “This is insane!”
“I have to agree,” Aemond looks around with his hands in the pocket of his shorts as he walks toward you and Helaena, “Our previous wine cellar was so little it barely fit two people in it. This is…”
“Gorgeous,” you finish his sentence and take a good look at the wine cellar; the room is rounded, the walls are curved and the temperature is low to keep the bottles cold. The shelves start from the ground to the ceiling, all of them filled to the brim with different wines in each specific section,
“It’s amazing, right?” Alicent asks, looking at her handiwork excitedly.
“You’re amazing…” It came out as a really really hushed whisper, but you and Aemond heard it correctly, Cole did say that.
You press your lips to contain your laugh when your eyes meet Aemond’s, finding him shaking his head as he reaches to rub over the huge round dining table in the middle of the room, smoothing his palm over the surface of the wood.
“Shall we start?” Alicent asks, and when you all say yes, she tells the older man to bring the bottles one by one.
You take a seat with Hel and Aemond on your sides at the table, waiting for the old Dornish man to bring the bottles. You see two other men bring a few plates filled with different cheeses and bread rolls.
“When will we see the vineyard?” You ask the siblings, pouting when Aemond chuckles at you, “Hey! Not everyone grew up with tons of money.”
“I’m not making fun of you if that’s what you’re thinking,” he replies, reaching to play with the rim of his glass, his white shirt stretching against his biceps, “your eagerness is cute.”
“Oh, fuck off!” You hide your face in your hands, laughing when Hel reaches to stroke your back, “Fine, but you need to take me there as soon as we’re done here.”
“Whatever you want,” he says, and all of you watch as Cole and the old man bring four bottles; Cabernet Sauvignon, Dornish Red, Rosè, and Chardonnay.
“Bring it on, old man,” Aegon whistles, plopping down on the chair next to the head of the table, bowing his head dramatically when Alicent sits.
You start with the Dornish Red and observe all of the siblings closely; Helaena sips gently and takes a piece of cheese immediately, Daeron and Alicent go on the exact same pace while humming at the same time, Aegon chugs the entire liquid and doesn’t let interest even for a second but Aemond… well you have only seen this move in social media but to see his slim and elegant fingers wrapped around the thin glass as he first looks at the color of the wine then swirls the liquid around before taking a whiff of the smell and after that a sip that follows with a deep rumbling from his chest.
You look away as soon as you sense he might turn around and catch you red-handed, taking a long sip of your glass before coughing at the too-sour taste of it.
“Not your favorite, huh?” Hel asks, handing you a piece of bread.
“Absolutely not,” you clear your throat before shooting Aemond a glare when he chuckles at you, “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs, “Come on, let's taste the next one.”
The next one is the white wine, it tastes much better than the Dornish Red, less sour but the bitterness of it is intolerable — you are by no means new to drinking alcohol, but wine has always been a tricky drink for you. You go through the third bottle as well, but again, it doesn’t taste excellent, until Aemond opens the Rosè, his arm bulging as he pulls up the corkscrew, making a delicious sound of ‘pop’.
“Here you go!” Alicent says as she brings a huge plate of lime and Tangerines to the table to cleanse your pallets before you have the next drink.
“How did you find Tangerines in the summer?” You ask excitedly, side eyeing Aemond as he pours the wine in your glasses before he sits down and grabs the Tangerine from you.
“Not easy to find, but you can trust Criston with these things,” she looks at Cole who’s standing in the door frame with a glass of Dornish Red. How typical.
“What are you doing?” You ask Aemond before you take a sip from your drink, humming in joy as you finally taste the most delicious Rosè you could have ever had.
“What does it look like? I’m peeling it for you,” he answers as if you have asked the most stupid question ever.
“Oh, okay, thank you,” you smile at him, completely dumbfounded by the amount of consideration he’s shown towards you today. You must look so bashful as you avert your eyes from him and stare into your glass, trying to stop the thoughts from flowing in your mind.
“Here,” he hands you the peeled Tangerine before he rises up from his seat and extends his hand to you, “come on, I promised you a tour and the vineyard looks so beautiful now.”
“Alright,” you put your hand in his, letting him pull you on your feet effortlessly, keeping you straight when you wobble a bit. You thank him shyly, reaching to grab your glass as well and leave the wine cellar.
“Why did the previous cellar not have enough room for all of you?” You ask suddenly, eating a piece of the Tangerine and offering him one as he leads you towards the staircase that reaches the vineyard.
“It was Viserys’, not ours,” he shrugs, “besides, Daeron and I were underage, we couldn’t drink—“
“This is… beautiful,” you exclaim the moment you step on the grass-covered path, the rows of Grenache trees have made a breathtaking sight, “how can you visit here so little? This is out of this world!”
“I’m glad you like it here,” Aemond smiles softly at you, watching as you slowly walk through the path, finishing your fruit before you reach and take one of the leaves between your fingers, slowly caressing it before taking a sip of your wine.
“It’s so dreamy, why didn’t you hold your wedding here?” You facepalm yourself, giving him an apologetic smile, “Sorry…”
“Sometimes people just… forget, and I think that’s what I want too, but… the wound is still fresh, I think about her more than I should,” he steps next to you, one hand in his pocket while the other swirls the rose wine in his glass, “besides, this place is too beautiful to waste it on someone like Alys, yeah, I loved her but…I was blinded by her sweet words.”
“I know, it’ll take a little while to get there, you know. Sometimes you feel unworthy, so ugly and bruised by everything but… it’ll get better.”
“It will, this place helps a bit, and I’m sure Aegon’s massive parties will be very helpful as well,” he grins at you.
“Yeah? Well, it definitely feels like a new beginning, right?” You ask him, taking a step away from him, biting your lip while smiling, keeping your eyes on him as he scoffs, “Which one will you choose for your birthday party, sir?”
“Which one did you like?” He asks and takes a step forward, finishing his glass. He hears his Mum calling you to go for lunch, but before you go, you answer him.
“tell me why you are reading Maester Orwyle’s book of Philosophy!”
'cause he's a neeeeeeerd
“I hate to break it to you, babe, but you are a high-class lady,” you say, earning a nod from everyone in the room.
she's not wrong!! lmao
“And you do?” Aegon scoffs, and Aemond senses something is going to happen, that his brother can’t simply keep his large mouth shut, “his fiance didn’t find him fun—”
woahwoahwoahwoahwoah, CHILE. someone put Aegon in timeout!!
“You brought strippers to your parties?” Aemond asks, giving Aegon a disapproving look who in return only smirks and wiggles his eyebrows at him.
ok icon. man clearly knows how to have fun
“No, of course not!” she scoffs as if even the idea of seeing her ex-husband disgusted her — and it did [...]
lmao REAL
Alicent being a wine mom entrepreneur is so fitting, love that for her
“Here you go!” Alicent says as she brings a huge plate of lime and Tangerines to the table to cleanse your pallets before you have the next drink.
tangerines cameo!!
“It’s so dreamy, why didn’t you hold your wedding here?”
Series Summary: You made a promise to Aemond once, when you were young and naive, and the only friend he'd ever known; yet you abandoned him before you could fulfill it. Between broken bonds, a betrothal, and flames that still burn deep within you; this is the story of how you fell apart and found each other again.
A/N: This chapter is a little event-heavy at parts, so I hope it's not boring, but all is essential to the plot. <3
Word count: 4,9k
Masterlist | Read ch 1 here
There would be a supper.
The whole family united once again at the Red Keep, Viserys had said; had wished.
You, along with Helaena, Baela, and Rhaena decided to get ready together. Helaena had been a good friend to you during your stay at the Keep when you were younger, and she, unlike Aemond, had been overjoyed with your return; welcoming you with a tight hug and wide smile.
Now, you stood before the tall mirror in the princess' private quarters, slowly twirling in your heels as you held the fabric of the black and gold dress she'd given you.
"Oh, you look divine, it suits you brilliantly," Helaena exclaimed, softly clapping her hands together. She came to stand behind you, clasping a golden necklace around your neck. A finishing touch, as she'd said earlier.
"Are you sure?" You asked timidly, glancing between Helaena and your sisters who sat on her bed waiting for you.
Baela nodded, a smirk stretching her lips, "It's beautiful, sister, dare I say that perhaps you should indulge in gowns and dresses more often." Her tone was playful, she knew you better than that already.
You scoffed halfheartedly, looking down at yourself and the rich dress you wore—intricate golden details were sewn into the dark fabric, the skirt wasn't bulky but it was long enough to prompt you to take care of where you'd be stepping. "I can only imagine trying to ride with something like this."
"Maybe if you spent less time on dragonback and more time being a proper lady you wouldn't have to wonder," Baela teased, raising a brow at you and holding back a chuckle.
Your cheeks warmed up, it was true that more often than not you favored the company of your dragon over other people; finding an easeness to being yourself when her fiery gaze held nothing but devotion for you. Yet you narrowed your eyes at your sister, "And you set a fine example, do you, sister?"
Baela simply shrugged, falling into a fit of giggles shortly after. You, Helaena, and Rhaena couldn't help but join in, as the last rays of sunlight seeped through the thin curtains.
─── ⋄✧⋄ ───
The arrangements for the supper started being made as soon as the sun vanished on the horizon, a large table set with the finest of feasts, illuminated by several candlelights and torches as the maids brought forth tray after tray of fruits, meat, bread, and wine. A small group of musicians even stood at one corner of the room to provide entertainment.
As the King wished, the whole family was indeed present. You and the girls were the last to walk in before Viserys arrived. Baela and Rhaena kept on towards their seats beside Jace and Luke respectively, while you hung back when Helaena tugged at your hand.
You turned to the Princess then, taking hold of her other hand as well. From the corner of your eyes, past the table and the figure of Aegon, you caught a glance of Aemond; his brother spoke with him but he didn't appear to be listening as his eye met yours. He looked at you rather unabashedly, a barely there smile hinting at the corner of his lips as he gave you a curt nod in greeting.
"Tell me you'll be staying."
Halaena's voice captured your attention again before you could react to Aemond, and your gaze fell back onto her.
She squeezed your hands, "For a while, at least," she smiled, a little shy but genuine, "I could use the company."
"I-" You hesitated, unsure if it was even up to you to decide. You settled for giving her what you hoped was a reassuring smile in turn, "I can certainly try to."
It seemed to be enough to lift her spirits, as she let go of your hands to walk toward her seat at one side of the large table, while you headed for the other, closer to your father.
Viserys finally arrived, his chair being carried by four guards as it would be too much effort for him to walk. Everyone stood up, out of respect for their King, father, grandsire, and uncle. The silence was held in the warmly lit room until he was in place beside Queen Alicent.
One of the nearby guards pulled a chair out for you when everyone sat down again and you thanked him with a nod and a smile. You were sitting at one end of the table, just beside Rhaenyra and your father, and Aemond happened to sit at the opposite end, looking directly in your direction.
You refrained from meeting his stare again, part of you could feel the tension lying heavily in the air and, amidst so many other people, you found it best to ignore and avoid questioning and curious glances. Instead, you noticed Rhaenyra looking at you, one hand resting atop her pregnant belly and the other holding her chalice of wine, a gentle smile on her features. "You look lovely, darling."
Glancing down at your hands in timidness, you mimicked her smile; "Thank you, you do as well."
Much like Laena before her, Rhaenyra had always been kind to you. When Rhaenys had taken Baela to ward on Driftmark, Rhaenyra had subconsciously done the same to you, she'd treated and educated you as her own; While Daemon taught you how to handle a sword, she'd shown you everything she'd learned as a young princess at the royal court, as well as lessons in High Valyrian—which you caught on pretty quickly and had the time of your life rubbing on Jace's face, dropping random lines in the old language only to watch him roll his eyes halfheartedly.
Daemon would usually try to hide a smile whenever he caught you and Rhaenyra together, just as he is now.
"How good it is, to see you all tonight," Viserys spoke slowly, his voice tired and taking much effort off him, drawing everyone's attention, "Together."
Alicent suggested a prayer before eating, and so you drew your hands together atop the table and closed your eyes. While she spoke you felt the familiar weight of Aemond's gaze on you; the waters were still murky between you and him, and despite having already exchanged a few words, you still didn't have a single clue of where you stood with each other. Things still felt… strange and out of place, the invisible wall dividing you stood ever so high.
Viserys then proceeded to raise a toast to both Jace and Luke, and their betrothed Baela and Rhaena; with a special mention to Luke being the future Lord of the Tides.
You raised your cup along with everyone else, a small smile hanging on your lips as you inclined it towards Luke before taking a sip; stealing a smile from the young boy in return.
With a tap of his cane on the floor, the King stood up from his seat, albeit with slow and unsteady movements as his body barely supported his weight anymore. "It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow, to see these faces around the table," Viserys spoke, taking a steadying breath between each word as he looked around at every member of his family. "The faces most dear to me in all the world, yet grown so distant from each other in the years past."
At the other end of the table, Aemond's heart bled at the last of his father's words. He clenched his jaw, eye remaining downcast, and observed the gentle flickering of the candlelights atop the table. He refused to look up again as he knew he'd get trapped by how the golden light of the fires highlighted the outlines of your face, as you offered that kind smile of yours ever so freely to the very people who'd once hurt him.
The one-eyed prince wanted to be angry at you, to say he didn't care whether you now favored Rhaenyra's bastards over him. But a more stinging feeling decided to take hold of his heart, and he felt bitter and hurt with envy… and longing.
Viserys then removed his golden half-mask, exposing his decaying face. "My own face… is no longer a handsome one," he jested with a bittersweet grin, "If indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am." The King gestured at himself, his voice holding as much conviction as he could muster, "Not just a King, but your father. Your brother. Your husband. And your grandsire. Who may not, it seems, walk for much longer among you."
The room held the silence for a moment, everyone feeling the grim reality hang heavy in the air. Aemond chanced a glance up then, only to find your eyes already on him. The prince gulped, closing his hand into a fist as he held your gaze; gentle, welcoming, caring. For someone who had abandoned him, you still insisted on looking at him with unbridled sympathy.
"Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts," The King insisted, "The crown cannot stay strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. My firstborn, Rhaenyra, will assume the throne once I'm gone, and I wish her rule to be as peaceful as mine. With her family stood by her side." Viserys weakly hit the table to accentuate his point, looking around himself as everyone remained quiet yet with attention trained on him.
"So set aside your grievances." Around the table people from both sides of the family looked at each other, the unspoken tension still present, anyone would be able to see it. "If not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man... Who loves you all, so dearly." Viserys finished at last, falling back onto his chair as the exertion of speaking took its toll.
Rhaenyra was the first to raise her cup, in a toast to Queen Alicent, who in turn, raised her own cup to the Princess. Both seemingly rather committed to acquiescing to the King's wishes for peace and unison.
Their sons, however, had diverging ideas.
Aegon had been having quite the fun teasing Jace about his new betrothal, and you nearly choked on your wine when the Velaryon boy suddenly slammed his fists on the table, standing up. You glared at him as you set down your chalice, even if he wasn't looking at you.
At the other end of the table, Aemond slowly got up from his chair as well, keeping quiet yet with a narrowed, nearly taunting eye. You brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose, entirely fed up with the boys' antics.
With a tight smile and a voice bordering on sarcastic, Jace raised his cup; "To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond, we have not seen each other in years," he glanced in your direction for a moment, yet you couldn't read what his look meant, "But I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we can yet be friends and allies. To you and your families good health, dear uncles." Bringing his cup to his lips, Jace finished his toast with a teasing grin.
You played along, bringing your chalice back to your lips as well to hide a chuckle. Eyes ahead, you held Aemond's gaze while you took a slow sip, watching as he settled back in his chair. Candlelight burned within his pupil, there was a barely there sway to his lips as he took a sip of his drink as well.
"I would like to toast Baela and Rhaena," Helaena started, getting up and holding her cup as she turned to your corner of the table. "They'll be married soon. It isn't so bad, mostly he just ignores you," she spoke, tone soft despite the lamentable words, "Except sometimes when he's drunk."
You shot her a sympathetic smile when she finished, and when she saw you, Helaena quickly added; "And to my good friend," she spoke your name with fondness, "Whom I've missed dearly, and hope to share more days together, before she leaves again."
"I hope so too," you mouthed to her with an even bigger smile, raising your cup high before bringing it to your lips again. The wine burned down your throat in a mix of bitter and sweet, and you turned to Aemond out of instinct, only to find him pointedly avoiding your eyes this time around; his head angled away from you and towards the band at the corner, his blind side now turned to you, eyepatch over the scar that brought telltales of a tightness to your throat and made you gulp down another sip of wine.
A cheerful melody began as the musicians played their instruments. At last, supper proceeded without interruptions; Jace invited Helaena for a dance, many more food trays were brought forth, and your family was happy, laughing and talking and being together as if this had been your normal for the past several years.
Yet for you, there was a gaping wound that was Aemond's absence, a doleful sentiment in your heart at the clear distance that still lingered. He still refused to look in your direction, instead keeping his eye focused on Jace and Helaena as they swirled together. You watched his fingers tap the table rhythmically, posture ever so straight with his hair falling neatly over his shoulders. It felt wrong to be at the Keep and not have him by your side.
You were in the middle of pushing food around your plate with your fork when you heard Luke quietly chuckling beside you; once, twice, and a little louder. The boy had what seemed to be a rather mocking smile on his lips as you glanced at him, with your brows furrowed in mild confusion.
Aemond abruptly slammed his fist on the table, causing you to startle and snap your head forward. The music stopped, and the one-eyed Prince raised to his feet, holding his cup high. "Final tribute," he spoke rather calmly.
Silence lingered in the room, and you could feel tension and apprehension coming back into the air as everyone waited with bathed breath. You glanced around yourself, sitting straighter, but ultimately your attention landed back on Aemond.
He held your gaze for a moment, and he had a smug tilt to his lips but the glint in his eye you couldn't decipher. "To the health of my nephews," Aemond continued steadily, "Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…"
There was a pause. With trouble a wrong word away, you knew. You furrowed your brows, shaking your head to Aemond almost imperceptively. He looked away from you then, focusing instead on Luke, who sat beside you.
The one-eyed Prince hummed, and grinned. "… Strong."
"Fuck," you cursed under your breath, feeling the weight in the air pressing down on your chest.
"Come," Aemond chipped, his smile widening and cup still raised high. "Let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys."
"I dare you to say that again." Jace challenged in the same heartbeat, having stopped his dance with Helaena, his chin raised high and fists already clenched.
"Why?" Aemond turned to him, standing just as tall, "It was only a compliment." He walked towards the older Velaryon boy, a cocky stance and self-satisfied grin betraying his words. "Do you not think yourself strong?"
Aemond had barely said the rest of his words when Jace's fist collided with his cheek in a firm punch, forcing the Prince's head roughly to one side, his long hair flying with the motion yet none of his wine was spilled.
And so the brewing tension tipped over the edge.
Both you and Luke abruptly raised from your seats, chairs loudly scratching the floors. Luke barely managed to take a single step before Aegon unceremoniously pushed him face down onto the table, plates clattering with the disturbance.
Someone screamed; "That is enough!" Yet you couldn't really figure out who, as you hurriedly rounded the table. Why, you weren't exactly sure, but your heart was pounding.
Aemond easily shoved Jace to the ground, turning away with a chuckle falling past his lips as the guards proceeded to hold Jace from fighting back.
Everyone was standing up from their seats, some faster than others. Your father had a bored look on his features while Alicent and Rhaenyra seemed quite alarmed with the small fight unfolding amidst their family yet again, right after the King had begged for peace.
You stood frozen to the stone floor, breath hitching until there was a distant sting in your lungs. You couldn't help but think if both sides of the family were fated to be forever apart. And if you and Aemond were to share the same destiny.
"I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, mother," Aemond explained without an ounce of shame when Alicent grasped at his arm—as mothers do with misbehaving children, you couldn't help but think.
A low hum fell past Aemond's lips again and he pried his arm free from Alicent's hold, in favor of taking a few steps closer to Jace, bordering on provocative; "Though it seems my nephews aren't quite as proud of theirs."
Jace shook himself free from the guards who had been holding him back. He dashed for Aemond with reckless abandon, a furious expression on his features.
And you… suddenly all you saw was your best friend, blood on his lips and face held together by fresh stitches—doomed with a fate you'd die before allowing to happen again. There was a flame pulsing through your veins, it spurred your feet forward before you even had time to think.
You reached Aemond at the same time Jace did, and you came to a stop between them, one hand flat against Jace's chest, keeping him in place. You stood between them, unafraid, with a fury in your eyes—the same one people kept saying you'd taken after your father.
Seconds of silence trickled by ever so slowly, like drops of the thickest blood. Everyone's eyes were on you yet for the first time you paid no mind to it, narrowing your eyes and glaring through your lashes, you held your ground. Jace clenched his jaw and huffed through his nose, his eyes a mix of confusion and anger.
You could feel Aemond's stare on your back as well, yet you couldn't have a single clue what he was thinking, you only knew it was heavy and insistent. You couldn't know how the one-eyed Prince's heart started thundering inside his ribcage; or how any and all thoughts of striking up trouble had vanished like smoke in the wind when you stepped in front of him, when yours was the hand that stopped the Velaryon boy from attempting to harm him.
"That is enough, Jace," You spoke with a finality that left no room for argument or challenge, leveling Jace down with a step forward, which forced him to take one back and away from Aemond. "We are here to make amends, not make things worse." Lowering your voice, you tried reasoning.
Jace scoffed indignantly at you, he seemed to have other words on his tongue but decided to bite them back. Instead looking at you with a scowl on his face; "You tell him that", he nodded toward Aemond, who stood behind you with a small yet proud smile.
"Go to your quarters. All of you, go. Now," Rhaenyra finally intervened as she and Daemon approached you, shifting a warning glare between Jace and Luke.
The young Princes hesitated, the oldest still holding a staring contest with Aemond. Yet when you refused to move aside he relented to his mother's orders and followed his brother, as well as Baela and Rhaena, to their quarters.
A shaky exhale passed through your lips when, slowly, the adrenaline left your body. Your shoulders slumped and you closed your eyes briefly, hearing nothing but the crackling of the burning torches on the walls and a few distant steps as your family left the room—supper most certainly over now, even if half the meals on the table were barely touched.
Aemond's presence was warm and persistent behind you; you could feel how he had come closer, breath almost fanning over your neck, but you didn't dare turn around. Instead raising your eyes to meet your father's gaze.
Daemon had both hands resting on the hilt of his sword. He regarded you with amusement, if nothing else. One corner of his lips turned upwards. You watched as his gaze drifted up and behind you, his expression hardening the slightest bit in what looked a lot like a warning, before he too slowly turned around and left the room.
You couldn't know if your father's silence meant something good or bad, but right now you couldn't dwell on it. Aemond took a step around you at last, his eye remaining downcast, yet a shiver ran up and down your spine when, as he walked past you, his hand brushed yours.
You kept your eyes trained on him as he slowly walked away, turning right and taking the path to a secluded hallway. After a few seconds of debating, you followed.
─── ⋄✧⋄ ───
Aemond's steps were not hurried, moonlight coming through the tall windows of the lone hallway created a silhouette of his shadow as he wandered. Waiting for something, someone. With hands loosely held behind his back and silver hair almost shining under the soft light, he seemed… serene.
Yet the Prince was anything but, his eye was hazy and unfocused whilst his mind drifted. It had taken him off-guard, how you stood between him and Jacaerys, one hand firmly holding the bastard back; and if Aemond didn't know better, he'd dare say there had been a protective aura to your presence then, undeniable and unwavering, as you shielded him—the mere thought of it left Aemond lightheaded as his heart picked up pace, and he decided it'd perhaps be too dangerous to indulge.
But you had taken his side, nonetheless. Against his own volition, Aemond found himself smiling.
"Had you been looking for opportunities to ruin supper?"
The familiar sound of the one voice Aemond had missed so dearly, for so many years, made him halt his steps. He kept his back to you, only turning his head to glance over his shoulder. He hummed, keeping his voice steady and neutral. "I don't know what you speak of, my words were innocent and true."
The low sound of your chuckle graced Aemond's ears, and he held onto his breath as you came closer. His eye tracked your movements, you circled him with your gaze down and the light of the moon shaping your grin, until you reached the stone walls beside him and leaned back in front of the tall windows.
Caught in your orbit, Aemond was drawn to you, taking one and then two steps after you; he stood before the moonlight and before you. He kept his distance yet never strayed far, trapped between two halves of his heart; one naive and bleeding with longing, and the other broken and still abandoned.
"Oh," You breathed, a glimpse of your teeth showing with your grin, the apples of your cheeks highlighted by the silver haze of the moon. "As innocent as a maiden."
"The night had been much too dull for my tastes, my lady. Wouldn't you agree?" Aemond raised a brow at you, fighting a grin of his own.
"Perhaps I would, had you not taken away my chance of toasting you and your remarkable sense of decorum." The smile on your lips gets a little loose having Aemond so close again, "Or lack thereof," you teased; he seemed oblivious to the warmth you felt.
Aemond clicked his tongue, glancing away and then back at you, "Shall I grab us two cups of wine then? Aegon tells me I should drink more anyway." If the light of the moon weren't so silver and bright, you would've seen the pink dusting his cheeks ever so lightly.
Another chuckle escaped you and Aemond almost joined you. And for a small moment in time, it was easy. For a moment, you were both eleven again, young and carefree and laughing together. Always together.
But the cold wind of reality seeped through the open windows.
"Se dārys eptan syt lyks," You spoke, becoming quieter and more careful as your smile dropped a little and your gaze raised in hopes of finding his. ('The King wishes for peace.')
Aemond pursed his lips, blinking once, twice, and you wondered if he felt it too. He took you in with a guarded stare, hesitating, until; "iksis bona skoro syt ao iōrtan rȳ nyke se nādrēsy?" His voice was tight yet devoid of much sentiment. ('Is that why you stepped between me and the bastard?')
You lowered your head with a sigh, avoiding his eye again and focusing instead on the ends of his long hair and how the silver strands contrasted with his Targaryen blacks. "Don't call him that," you mumbled.
"Why?" Aemond inquired in the same heartbeat, a little louder and urgent, "Because you've grown so fond of them over the years you've-" He choked on his own words, unable to speak them out loud as he felt the heartache inside his chest and around his throat eat him alive.
"Aemond." And oh, the sound of his name in your voice could make him crumble. You spoke it all soft and tender, and Aemond didn't know his name could be uttered with such devotion. You spoke as if you cared, as if you had never left. It felt like a cruel kiss over his gaping wounds.
You pushed yourself off the wall you were leaning against, one hand slowly wanting to reach for him. "I could never forgive them for what they did to you, but they are… family now."
But Aemond took a step away, straightening his posture and clearing his throat. The one-eyed Prince strived to keep his face devoid of any emotion, even if it was nearly impossible as a sharp pain started from the depths of his skull and eventually surrounded his scar—he knew a pounding headache would soon follow too, as it always did.
"Why did you do it?" Aemond mumbled, voice stiff.
You regarded him with an unreadable look for several moments, and then; "I don't know." You spoke in an almost unheard breath.
It felt as if a dragon stood in the lone hallway with you, threatening to burn both you and him; the heat of its flames looming in the corners since the first time you saw each other again. With your heart in your mouth, you asked what perhaps both of you had been avoiding until now.
"You stopped sending me letters, why?"
It caught him off guard, you saw it in the way Aemond turned his head from you with a grimace, his jaw tight. "It became pointless... after such a long time. Did it not?" He looked at you again only after he spoke, there was something accusatory in his eye; or that's what he wanted you to see.
You mulled over the words, and something akin to boldness—or desperation—urged you to take a step closer to him. "Aemond, our time apart," your lips hung open and you fidgeted with the fabric of your dress, "I never meant for it. It was never my intention to stay away for so long." You promised, looking Aemond in the eye after seven years of only ever seeing him in your memories and dreams.
Aemond's face did something complicated, like he was sorting through how he should feel about this. His brows scrunched and you could hear his breath catching as he stood unmoving.
"My father… he thought it best that I didn't leave Dragonstone on my own." You ran your tongue over your dry lips, "And I… didn't fight him." The last of your words were spoken with a defeated sigh, loaded with regret.
"I could have gone to you," Aemond uttered, almost whimpered. The corner of his lips raised in a half smile that held nothing but pain as his eye pooled with unshed tears that blurred your silhouette. "Had you only asked."
Both of you hung by a thread under the weight of how much you'd missed each other, how much you wished for nothing more than to fall into a forever embrace; and yet, none of you felt entitled to it. You were finally within arm's length of each other again, yet it felt like you'd never been further apart.
"Perhaps I should have," you whispered to him, and it felt a lot like a loss, of something you'd only just found again.
For a moment you and Aemond held each other's gazes, both filled with tears of sorrow and longing; and even so, both reaching the mutual agreement that something had been lost.
Time.
The time lost couldn't be returned, the distance still lingered, and rebuilding would take time and care.
Aemond still believed you'd stopped caring for him, sometime during those seven years. An evil part of his heart sometimes whispered to him that you never did care, that you were like the others, and he feared that perhaps the only friend he knew wasn't even his to lose.
And you now believed that Aemond held only resentment toward you, that your connection had been forever stained; and you couldn't help but feel guilty for it, for not fighting harder to come back to him.
If only you and he knew the depth of the love you still felt for each other, things would be ever simpler.
⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ
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what anyone in a dysfunctional family wants to hear lmao
You were sitting at one end of the table, just beside Rhaenyra and your father, and Aemond happened to sit at the opposite end, looking directly in your direction.
oh, strategic placement, let's gooo
"They'll be married soon. It isn't so bad, mostly he just ignores you," she spoke, tone soft despite the lamentable words, "Except sometimes when he's drunk."
oooooof, poor Helaena, none of them deserve her!!
The one-eyed Prince hummed, and grinned. "… Strong."
lmaooo fuck it up, cunty boy
oop, reader defending Aemond 👀
"You stopped sending me letters, why?"
asking the real questions!!
goddamn, they wanna attempt reconciliation, but there's WAR coming!! we just can't have nice things!!
Series Summary: You made a promise to Aemond once, when you were young and naive, and the only friend he'd ever known; yet you abandoned him before you could fulfill it. Between broken bonds, a betrothal, and flames that still burn deep within you; this is the story of how you fell apart and found each other again.
A/N: Things will start to get interesting now, let me know your thoughts. <3
Word count: 4,9k
Masterlist | Read the prologue here
You breathed in deeply, closing your eyes and leaning your head back with both arms open lazily beside your body, wind flowing quickly in between your fingers. The skies were clear, morning sunlight reflecting against ashen blue scales as your dragon's wings stretched to their full size.
Dancing and gliding in between clouds, the sky was yours.
As you opened your eyes, you were greeted with a sight that would always leave you breathless, no matter how many times you'd be privileged to witness it. The lands below seemed small, castles, houses, and fields afar dwarfed by how far up you were flying. You could see beyond walls and mountains, as far as the horizon allowed. The back of your dragon's head stretched forward in a relaxed manner, seemingly taking in the view just as much as you; the patch of fur in between her long grey horns flew and flowed with the strong breeze.
You reached your arm past your saddle, the palm of your hand laying flat against her warm scales in a loving caress. She cooed, a low groan coming from the back of her throat as she turned her head slightly so her deep blue eyes met yours for only a moment. You smiled. Khamira had grown to be just as big as Meleys, she was all raw power and formidable wildness, and yet, ever so gentle in your hands.
It would never cease to amaze you, how a beast as strong and majestic as a dragon—wings and legs supported by pure muscle, teeth and horns as sharp as daggers, and fire as hot as the hells—could at the same time be this graceful, this agile, and elegant.
Her wings swished with precision, creating ripples in the clouds as if painting a canvas; her long tail kept her body straight and balanced; multiple shades of dark and pale blue shone under the sunlight with each movement of her body. She was poetry in motion, carrying you through the morning sky on her back.
The feeling, the pleasure, of riding on dragonback was incomparable; a mixture of being invincible, untouchable, and yet completely at peace.
You leaned forward at last, uttering a soft command for her to pick up speed and the adrenaline was quick to kiss your cheeks in the form of a heavy wind. Your dragon bomb-dived suddenly, bringing her wings close to her body and her muzzle downwards. An ecstatic laugh escaped your lips as you felt the power of her body moving beneath you, taking you through the air.
She only opened her wings again when you were short of hitting the roof of a tall church, returning to a steady height as you flew fast above King's Landing. The dragon addicted to the rush just as much as you.
If people looked up, they would see nothing but a flash of blue, the silhouette of massive wings and a long tail vanishing just as fast as it came.
For the first time in seven years, you were finally heading back to the Red Keep. Vaemond had called into question Luke's legitimacy of birth, as he was to be Driftmark's heir, prompting you and your family to meet him for the discussion in King's Landing. While the rest of your family came by ship, you chose to ride over on dragonback and meet them there. The swaying of a ship on the ocean's water could make you nauseous, but flying in between clouds always cleared your head and filled your lungs with the fresh air of unabashed freedom.
After bidding goodbye to your loyal dragon as she was guided into the Dragonpit to rest, a carriage took you to the main gates of the Keep. The guards welcomed you with salutes and curtsies, something you were yet to get used to, even with being born into the royal family.
You were headed to the doors of the castle when they were pushed open by an older, bald man. He walked up to you and bowed his head. "Welcome home, my lady. Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra are already inside, they've gone to speak with the King."
Greeting him back with a nod, you smiled softly; "Thank you..." You dragged the word, raking your head to remember who exactly this was.
"Caswell, my lady," he kindly finished for you.
"Thank you, Lord Caswell."
The castle itself was still as grand and majestic as you remembered it to be, in some ways it didn't even feel like the last time you were here was so many years ago. The torches flickered softly along the grand hallways, casting a warm, golden glow on the stone walls as you walked aimlessly. Although you already had a designed room for your stay here, you refrained from changing out of your riding clothes, choosing to stay in black breeches and a long overcoat rather than a silken dress.
You eventually got hold of Jace and Luke who were also wandering about the castle and reminiscing on their childhood here. Despite your differences and disagreements during early childhood, you'd grown closer with both boys during your time at Dragonstone. Quickly enough, between dragon rides at sunset and playing together day in and day out, they became almost like brothers to you.
"It's so cool to be back here," Luke spoke, excitedly walking ahead of you and Jace, "I wonder why we haven't visited more."
"You know why, Luke," Jace raised a brow, his voice holding a smidge of warning to it. "It's not like we parted on the best of terms."
Immediately you knew what he was talking about. You recalled it as if it had been yesterday. Laena's funeral, the commotion in the dead of night, the red of blood, stitches piercing the skin of the prince who'd lost an eye. Your heart sped up then, hands feeling clammy and cold at the same time.
Aemond. He'd be here too, surely. It's been far too long since you've seen him, yet not long enough for you to stop counting the years. Part of you wondered if he did so too.
Something like guilt started weighing down on your stomach, because there had been letters exchanged over the years, mostly holding empty promises that you'd see each other again soon. A young hope that was snuffed out as you got older and wiser; it never happened, it was out of your reach. And for many seasons now, there had been no letters at all. You weren't sure who stopped first, there just came a day when you knew not to send another letter his way, because you wouldn't be getting any back either.
"Why don't we check out the training yard?" You suggested with a grin, "To remember the times when I kicked your butts there." With a giggle, you pushed Jace's shoulder halfheartedly.
"Hey, hey, I don't remember any of that," Jace countered, holding back a smile of his own, whilst Luke was already chuckling with a hand over his mouth.
─── ⋄✧⋄ ───
The sound of swords clashing was already loud and sharp as you descended the stairs to the training yard; many people were there, some sparring with each other as others watched and clapped and gossiped.
"Looks smaller than I remembered," Luke commented as he glanced around.
"It looks exactly the same," Jace concluded, skipping the last few steps of the stairs and landing on the gravel grounds of the yard. "Come on, you two."
The older of the brothers ran forth to check a dent in the stone walls, a mark of their old training days here. You, on the other hand, stopped to check out the weapons displayed for choice on the tables; maces, morningstars, swords, and daggers.
A faint smile came to your lips. The smell of smoke and sweat, the clash of metal, the grunts and cheering of the soldiers—it all reminded you of cherished memories. Firstly, of the first lessons your father had ever given you, sword all too big and heavy in your small hands, you were only five, yet he insisted that regardless if you were a boy or girl, you should learn how to fight; you still remember the first time you were finally able to best him in combat, you were ten, it took you five years but you had done it; Daemon smiled the biggest on that day, telling everyone how his daughter was a born fighter. And secondly, came the memory of your sparring sessions with Aemond when you were young, he'd refused to put up a fight in the beginning, afraid he'd hurt you; but he started to give you a fair fight when you'd bested him the second time around; you still remember how he'd run around the castle, searching for you and then holding onto your hand to lead you to the training yard, "You're too slow," he used to say with a smile, "If I don't drag you around we won't be there on time."
Part of you wished those moments were infinite.
By the time your mind returned to the present, Luke and Jace had joined you. Jace began picking up the weapons on the table with an excited grin; yet Luke seemed on edge, glancing around himself and at the piercing gazes on your backs from the people here. You felt it too, the judgment and the whispers.
"What's wrong, Luke?" You asked, one hand reaching up to touch his arm comfortingly.
The boy furrowed his brows in discomfort, head hanging low. "Everyone's staring at us."
A soft grimace passed over your features as you tilted your head at him, eyes glinting with silent understanding. In part, you knew what he was feeling, you'd received your fair share of odd glances when at court as well; you were a royal prince's daughter yet had hair in the shade of the warmest grey that almost resembled brown in certain lights, and eyes as dark as the night sky, so of course, people would talk.
"No one would question me being heir to Driftmark," Luke spoke, his tone a mix of frustrated and defeated as he still avoided your gaze, "If... if I looked more like Ser Laenor Velaryon, than Ser Harwin Strong."
"It doesn't matter what they think," Jace at last spoke up, ducking his head to meet his brother's eyes.
"He's right, Luke," you reassured, "Don't mind them."
A sudden crash of something heavy hitting a wooden shield caught your attention then, and all three of you turned around to watch as a small crowd gathered around two people sparring. Luke and Jace ran toward it to watch, so you followed close behind, squeezing yourself past and between a few people so you didn't have to stand on your tiptoes to catch glimpses of the fight.
One of the two you recognized almost instantly, Ser Criston Cole, you had never particularly been too fond of him. The other, who still had his back to you, you hadn't recognized, even if there was something familiar about the way he moved. His long silver hair bounced over his shoulders as he dodged Cole's attacks quite expertly; his movements swift, calculated, and still somehow elegant. The shield held by the mysterious man broke and he threw it aside without a second thought, going in for another attack. The sword cut through the air, Cole's morningstar slammed into the ground, and finally, the silver-haired man turned in your direction.
A teasing grin and an eyepatch framed the sharp features of the young man, his single bright eye glinting under the hazy sunlight as he held the sword with a firm grip, ready for another attack.
You felt as if all air suddenly left your lungs and refused to come back, your lips hanging open as your gaze was all but locked onto him. Aemond. You'd recognize him anywhere, in any lifetime, you feared. He looked so different yet somehow still the same; his hair was much longer, features older and sharper as he'd grown over the years; his harsh scar, you noticed, was now fully healed, and yet still evident as a reminder of the fateful night he'd claimed Vhagar and lost his eye; but his smile seemed to be the same you were used to, that mischievous tilt of lips he'd wear against his opponents.
A smile of your own began to stretch your lips and you took half a step toward him before stopping yourself, your heart beat painfully against your ribs and in your ears, bringing a nearly nauseous twist to your guts. It felt as if your body had trouble picking an emotion upon seeing Aemond again after all these years.
You'd wished, prayed even, for the day you'd finally be able to meet one of your best friends again; the lonely, outcast boy you had grown so fond of over the course of mere months. The one you had shared most of your afternoons in the Red Keep with, the one who'd steal you away to the library to share tales of the old dragons. Yet seeing him now, after so many seasons of pure silence, you had no idea where you stood with him.
The fight ended with Aemond holding the sharp end of his sword against Cole's neck, staring him down as a dragon would with its prey.
"Well done, my prince," Ser Criston spoke, rather breathless from the exertion, "You'll be winning tourneys in no time."
"I don't give a shit about tourneys," Aemond answered back without pause, his tone filled with finality and eye holding a piercing stare. "My lady," he said then, voice just a tad softer, whether he meant for it or not. Twisting the hilt in his hand, Aemond lowered his sword, his gaze now landing on you. "Have you come to train?"
You were unable to hold back a small gasp as he addressed you so directly. Your whole body tensed up, part of you wanted to answer yet any and all words were completely tangled in your tongue. You could faintly feel Jace's hand on your shoulder yet you barely registered the touch, unable to tear your eyes away from Aemond. And he held your gaze with his unwavering one, almost challenging you to break the connection.
It felt all kinds of wrong, for this to be your reunion and first words to each other after so long, for Aemond's words and gaze to be this... cold. You weren't sure what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.
You were saved by the sudden opening of the heavy doors of the gate behind you. Soldiers marched through with proud strides as they escorted Vaemond Velaryon into the castle.
Even as you turned around to watch their entrance, you could feel how Aemond's gaze didn't leave you even for a moment.
─── ⋄✧⋄ ───
A storm raged outside during your first night back in the Keep, you didn't sleep much, tossing and turning in bed and pacing around the spacious room they'd given you. Part of you almost wanted to step outside into the dark hallways of the castle and head to Aemond's room. It would be improper of you, but that's not why you did not go.
When the morrow came at last with the sun rising on the horizon of King's Landing, it was time to head into the throne room to discuss what you had come here for, the succession of Driftmark.
A small crowd of lords and ladies had already gathered in the large room, with Otto Hightower standing before the grim Iron Throne. The image of the seat of swords, being highlighted by the sunlight coming through the tall windows, would always make a shiver run down your spine.
You walked in with steady steps, sensing a few eyes land on you as you smoothed the fabric of your dress—hardly your preferred choice of attire, but Rhaenyra might just have your head if you showed up in your riding clothes. She, her sons, and your father were already here as well.
Daemon spotted you from the corner of his eyes, he squeezed Rhaenyra's hand once before stepping away from her to walk toward you.
"Father," you spoke in a low voice when he met you halfway. Over his shoulder, you caught sight of Aemond, who stood near the Iron Throne with his family; for a small moment, you held his gaze, even if you couldn't possibly read it.
"I was starting to think you wouldn't show up," Daemon raised his brows at you, a rather amused grin playing on his lips.
"Oh, you know me," you chuckled quietly, shrugging your shoulders as you continued walking to where Rhaenyra waited, "I wouldn't miss court drama for anything."
Daemon snorted, uncaring if his laugh would attract the attention of the nearby lords, "Yeah, tell me about it." He brought a hand up to rest between your shoulder blades, guiding you through the remaining steps. "It's like they look for reasons to break any resemblance of peace we might have."
You hummed at his words, biting back a laugh of your own, "Se iēdrosa, Rhaenyra ivestretan nyke ao gaomagon naejot mōris se lyks aōla gō īlen āzma." ('And yet, Rhaenyra tells me you used to raise quite the trouble yourself before I was born.')
"Kessa, sȳrī, īlen drējī tolī kirimves skori paktot zirȳ, mērī." Daemon defended halfheartedly. ('Yes, well, I was admittedly more fun than these people, at least.')
"Hen rhinka," you mumbled, stopping beside Rhaenyra and greeting her with a warm smile. ('Of course')
From the other side of the room, the one-eyed prince watched. He'd kept his eye fixed on you as soon as you stepped through the throne room doors. His hands clasped behind his back tightened their grip with each step you took. And for each of your steps, his heart beat twice as hard, heavy and hurting for an escape.
It was true that you had grown into a stunning young woman over the years; enticing curves, soft hair falling over your shoulders, freckles still dusting your cheeks and nose, delicate hands holding onto the fabric of your dress. Many gazes turned your way whenever you walked into a room, it came as no surprise to Aemond, even if it bothered him.
And yet it wasn't just that, no; he could see so far beyond, that same spark in your eyes lingered, the one he'd see each time he'd ask you to tell him the story of how you found your dragon; that same smile that was so contagious still had the same sway to it; your mere presence still made his heart race and hands itch to touch you, as it always did.
Aemond thought, perhaps wished, he would have forgotten all about you over the years. You had abandoned him, after all. You had abandoned him, maybe at a time when he needed you the most. His only friend, and you never came back.
The prince had waited, for nights and days on end, he'd stare out the windows to the horizon and past the sea, hoping with all he had that one day he'd spot the blue hue of your dragon's scales in the distance. And he knew he'd cry, and run to you, and hold you close no matter who was watching. But it never happened, you never came. And the years kept on going by, years of which he kept a close count. By year three, he decided he wouldn't feel within the right to hug you anymore. By year four, he decided he wouldn't cry anymore. By year six, he decided it would be best you didn't come back anymore.
Alas, perhaps he could have gone to you. But he hesitated, he knew he wouldn't be welcomed in Dragonstone; and after a few years went by, as much as Aemond would never admit it, he lacked the courage to go after you. In the most fragile parts of his heart, he feared you'd react as all ladies of the court did when they looked at him; with wide-eyed gazes and poorly concealed whispers about his ugly scar and 'off-putting demeanor', as they'd say.
Yet he had missed you, oh he missed you. In a way that he'd walk into every room hoping to find you there. And now, it finally happened. You came back to King's Landing, but you didn't come back for him.
Aemond watched as you walked into the room, your father meeting you halfway and guiding you to your family. The prince felt a tightness build in his throat, he tried to gulp it back, squaring his shoulders. Even after all these years, all it took was one look at you, and Aemond's resolve crumbled. All his attempts at putting you behind him were suddenly futile, if the speed at which his heart was racing was any indication.
Yesterday, when Aemond spotted you in the small crowd of the training yard, he nearly lost his balance, nearly lost the fight. Seeing you again after so long brought an onslaught of confusing feelings to his chest—one of them being petty bitterness, perhaps even betrayal, despite not having the right to feel so, for seeing you stand beside Jace and Luke so amicably—he hardly knew what to think or do; all he knew was that he was angry that you'd abandoned him. Or perhaps just hurt, but broken things tend to have sharp edges.
─── ⋄✧⋄ ───
You held back a scream as the severed head of Vaemond Velaryon fell from his body, staining the floor of the throne room with deep crimson blood. Your father had unceremoniously beheaded the Velaryon knight after he accused Rhaenyra's sons of being bastards. You watched the gruesome scene with wide eyes, goosebumps on your skin, and a hand clasped over your mouth.
"Disarm him!" Otto Hightower screamed to the guards, who readily took to their weapons and surrounded Daemon.
"No need," the Rogue Prince uttered all too calmly, cleaning the blood off the blade of his sword with the hem of his clothing. He then extended said sword to you, without bothering to look in your direction.
You hesitated for only a second before taking Dark Sister from him, and once you did so, Daemon raised both hands in surrender; yet a smug smirk still played on his lips.
You held tight onto the hilt of his sword, until your knuckles turned white, watching as the room filled with fearful whispers and terrified gazes of everyone around you. All eyes were seemingly glued to the pool of blood on the floor that only got larger by the second.
"We are done here," Viserys spoke with finality to the best of his ability, before falling back on his throne as the pain of his wounds filled his decaying body.
Slowly and hesitantly, people began leaving the room, a certain eeriness lingered in the air. From afar, you met your father's gaze, and he simply gave you a curt nod, which meant you'd be giving him his sword back in private, later. He'd told you once; "People don't usually fear women with swords, even if they should. Therein lies your advantage."
Beside the Iron Throne, a few steps away from you, Alicent ran to help her husband, Aegon followed after the guards who began removing the lifeless body, Helaena skipped to the main doors with her hands covering her ears, and Aemond... Aemond had his eye burning a hole in the back of your head.
You would be able to feel the weight of his gaze on you from a mile away, you had been feeling it since you took the first step into this room. Part of you hoped he'd have come to you already, you weren't sure what you were expecting exactly, but so far the words he'd spoken to you in the training yard had been the only ones he'd spoken at all. And you were starting to think that, if you didn't go to him, you'd remain forever far apart.
You took a deep breath to steady yourself, and then another, and one more, tapping the hilt of Dark Sister with your pointer finger until you built up the courage or until your palms grew sweaty. A sorrowful feeling still lingered deep within your chest, because this was Aemond, the same Aemond you spent nearly entire days with during your childhood, be it training together, sharing stories, or hiding away in the library. You shouldn't be feeling hesitant to face him.
It felt almost as if he had been waiting for you, because as soon as you turned around to face him, Aemond raised his chin a tad, blinking slowly as he watched you walk over to him.
All you could hear was the beating of your heart as you came to stop in front of him, holding tight onto the sword in your hands, its end resting on the floor as you kept it between you and him. "Hello... Aemond." It was the best you could do, voice still too unsure for your liking.
For a moment, Aemond seemed to be hesitating just as much as you. His eye flicked with an emotion you couldn't name, but it was quick and gone as soon as it came. "My lady."
The formality felt wrong and unwanted, like taking a thousand steps backward from what you had once been to each other. Your lips parted but you didn't quite know what to say, so for a moment, you just looked at him, at the new him. The long hair fell over his shoulders, eyepatch covering the deep scar, his perfectly straight posture, and tense shoulders. You saw then, that there was an undeniable wall between you, that Aemond had his guard up and was keeping you at a safe, far distance. It hurt, more than you had the right to feel.
"I'm- It's good to see you again," you stumbled over the words, trying a smile.
Aemond hummed, giving you an almost imperceptible nod in return. For long beats, that was all. He refused to look you in the eyes. "It's been a long time," he chose to say eventually, voice devoid of too much emotion.
Distantly, you felt the back of your eyes burn. "Seven years," you said in nothing but a whisper, as if you could only admit the unfairness of it at a certain decibel level.
"And four months," Aemond finished, his voice just a tad tighter and strained, breath running shallow as he strived to keep his face impassive.
His words took you by surprise, you couldn't help the way your lips parted and the way your heartbeat quickened. He'd kept count, too.
Aemond pursed his lips with something resembling a small pout, he glanced at you briefly as he slowly started walking towards the doors of the throne room, silently beckoning you to follow, his hands still tightly clasped behind his back.
You kept at his side, choosing your words carefully; "I hope... you've been faring well, my prince?"
A low hum came from Aemond again, "As well as a half blind man can be, yes." He stole another glance at you, feeling his heart swell at the fact you'd kept in mind to stay on his good eye's side. "I assume your time at Dragonstone has been a most joyful one?"
You caught the bite at his words then, the concealed hurt. A sigh fell past your lips, the sound of Valyrian steel against stone each time you took a step and tapped Dark Sister on the floors now becoming sharp and loud, as the room was empty, save for you and Aemond. "It was, at times, yes. But I also missed the liveliness of the Keep... on most days." I missed you, you refrained from saying.
Another hum, another beat of silence, as you neared the doors. "I hear you came on dragonback." Aemond observed.
A small smile tugged at your lips; "I did. I've always favored the skies over the seas."
If you looked at Aemond, you'd see him mimicking your soft smile for once. "On that we agree."
Once you reached the main entrance, Aemond stopped, and you had a feeling that regardless of which way you were headed, he'd be going the opposite direction.
He held his stance, chin high, shoulders tensed, hands behind his back. His breath ran shallow and shaky, however, hanging on by a thread under the weight and warmth of your presence; so close.
And you looked up at him, with big and vulnerable eyes. Part of Aemond had always admired how you had a habit of wearing your heart on your sleeve. And he was well aware that if he held your gaze much longer, he wouldn't be able to hold himself together.
"I will see you again soon then, my prince." You spoke with a tight lipped smile.
Yet what were simple words to you, brought back the memories of the last time you'd promised to see him soon, and instead left him alone for seven years. Aemond's sight grew blurry at the edges, and before you could see the tears collecting in the bottom lid of his eye, he cleared his throat and made his way around you.
You watched, with a heavy heart, as he walked away from you, one hand reaching up to his face as his steps quickened.
Your stomach dropped with a mix of guilt and longing, wondering if the distance between you had become one too big to ever be mended.
⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ
Read ch 2 here
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"You know why, Luke," Jace raised a brow, his voice holding a smidge of warning to it. "It's not like we parted on the best of terms."
lmao Jace humbling his little brother 💀
It's been far too long since you've seen him, yet not long enough for you to stop counting the years. Part of you wondered if he did so too.
oh, the yearning....
Firstly, of the first lessons your father had ever given you, sword all too big and heavy in your small hands, you were only five, yet he insisted that regardless if you were a boy or girl, you should learn how to fight [...]
we stan Daemon for that!! girl father of all time
Ser Criston Cole, you had never particularly been too fond of him.
just like me fr
"I wouldn't miss court drama for anything."
JUST LIKE ME FR
'Yes, well, I was admittedly more fun than these people, at least.'
he's sooo right
You had abandoned him, after all. You had abandoned him, maybe at a time when he needed you the most.
that's not really fair!! it wasn't up to her 😡😡😡
He'd told you once; "People don't usually fear women with swords, even if they should. Therein lies your advantage."
ok, icon!! 😩
"And four months," Aemond finished [...]
but who's counting, am I right?
the yearning and tension were real in this chapter, goddamn!!
origamiaround
blakekathryn
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
gummygunk
jimmyeatworldofficial
