em

she/they 22

[princessdiaries]

congratulations if you have somehow found my page. i use it to browse and reblog posts but also very rarely to write really stupid fics.

don't linger too long cause it'll freak me out but feel free to suggest a fic for me to write as long as it's not gross :D

crack fics:

man in the yellow hat

snivelhart

[daxisyzz]

Matt finds you on the verge of death, he always comes to check on you after patrol, and he brings you to a trusted healer but lots of angst needed and maybe confession? Reader also being a vigilnte but fish send someone to kill you

Treat You Better

pairings: Matt Murdock x Reader

warnings: violence, mentions of blood and injury, hopeless romantic matt, hurt/comfort, fluff, lil angst, love confessions, reader is a fellow vigilante, idiots in love, dropping the 'l' word, my queen Claire temple saves the day, matt's Catholic guilt.

wc: 4.2k

matt murdock masterlist main masterlist

The rooftop had been slick with rain for hours before the man found you, and by the time you realized he wasn't one of Fisk's usual muscle, his knife was already buried an inch deep beneath your ribs. He didn't move like the street-level thugs you were used to fighting off; he moved like someone who had studied you first, who had been given a name and a pattern and told exactly where to wait. "Fisk sends his regards," he said, low and almost bored, as he wrenched the blade free and came at you again.

"He figured killing the partner would hurt the Devil worse than killing him outright. Guess we'll find out."

The words landed harder than the knife had, because they confirmed something you'd feared for weeks without ever saying it out loud to Matt: that the two of you being seen together, patrolling the same six blocks, trading off wounded nights at Claire's, had not gone unnoticed by the one man in this city who noticed everything. You had stopped being just another vigilante the moment Fisk decided you were something Daredevil could lose.

He was fast in a way that felt trained rather than desperate, his movements economical and precise, and when you finally got a boot into his knee and sent him staggering back toward the ledge, you already knew you were bleeding too much to chase him further. You pressed a gloved hand to your side and felt the warmth pooling between your fingers, and you told yourself, the way you always told yourself, that it looked worse than it was.

You made it four more rooftops before your legs stopped listening to you. The gravel came up to meet your knees first, then your shoulder, and the impact knocked whatever air you had left clean out of your lungs. Somewhere above the ringing in your ears you heard the specific, unmistakable sound of a grappling line snapping taut, and you thought, with the strange clarity that sometimes arrives right before you lose consciousness, that of course he would be the one to find you like this. He always found you.

Some nights you suspected he made a habit of trailing a block behind you on patrol just to make sure you made it home in one piece, though he had never once admitted it and you had never once asked.

"Hey. Hey, stay with me." Matt's voice reached you before his hands did, low and urgent, stripped of the wry calm he usually wore like a second mask. His fingers found your jaw first, tilting your face up, and you registered the small, involuntary hitch in his breathing the moment his hand slid down and met the blood soaking through your jacket. "Okay. Okay, I've got you, I've got you, just don't move."

"I've had worse," you managed, and even to your own ears the words sounded thinner than you meant them to. "Just need a minute."

"You don't get a minute." There was an edge in his voice now, sharp enough to cut through the fog settling over you. He was already working the zipper of your jacket down with hands that, despite the tremor you could feel in them, moved with practiced efficiency. "You're going to Claire's. Don't argue with me."

You wanted to argue anyway, out of pure reflex, because arguing with Matt Murdock had become something like a second language between the two of you over the past year. But the rooftop was tilting in a way that rooftops weren't supposed to tilt, and the last thing you remembered before the world folded in on itself was the feeling of being lifted, and the sound of his heartbeat hammering against your ear as he pulled you against his chest and told you, in a voice that cracked right down the middle, that you were going to be fine, that he wasn't going to let anything happen to you, that you just had to breathe.

Claire Temple's apartment smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee and the particular staleness of a building with old radiators, and that smell was the first thing that told you where you were when you finally surfaced. The second thing was the pain, which arrived all at once and without any mercy, radiating out from your side in waves that made you groan before you had even fully opened your eyes. A hand found your shoulder immediately, steady and careful, and you didn't need your vision to clear to know whose hand it was.

"Easy. Easy, don't try to sit up yet." Matt's voice came from close by, close enough that you could hear the exhaustion threaded through it, the kind that came from more than just one bad night. "Claire had to go in deep to stop the bleeding. She said you were lucky the blade missed anything that would've killed you outright, but you lost a lot of blood before I got you here."

"How long was I out?"

"Six hours." He said it like the number itself was an accusation, and maybe, in his own way, it was. "Six hours, and you're already trying to sit up."

You blinked the room into focus and found him sitting in a hard wooden chair he'd dragged close to the couch you were lying on, his elbows braced on his knees, his head angled toward you in that way he had that always made it seem like he was looking directly at you even without his eyes working the way other people's did. He still had his suit on beneath an open jacket, and even in the dim light of Claire's living room you could see the dark stain along his ribs that he clearly hadn't bothered mentioning to anyone, least of all himself.

"You're bleeding," you said, and you tried to push yourself up onto your elbows despite the sharp protest from your side, because if he was going to lecture you about not moving then the least you could do was return the favor. "Matt. Your side."

"It's fine." He shook his head once, sharply, like he was trying to shake the image of you on that rooftop out of it. "What happened up there? Claire said the wound pattern didn't match anything opportunistic. That guy knew what he was doing."

You hesitated, because you'd been turning the words over in your head since before you passed out and you hadn't figured out yet how to say them without watching something in Matt break. But he was already leaning forward, jaw tight, waiting, and you owed him the truth more than you owed either of you the comfort of avoiding it.

"He said Fisk sent him," you admitted quietly. "He said killing the partner would hurt the Devil worse than killing him outright. Matt, they know. They know it's you and me. This wasn't random, he was waiting for me specifically."

For a long moment Matt didn't say anything at all. His hands, which had been resting loosely on his knees, curled slowly into fists, and you watched the muscle in his jaw tighten until it looked almost painful. When he finally spoke, his voice had gone flat in a way that frightened you more than shouting would have.

"Of course they do." He dragged his hand down over his mouth, the motion of a man trying to physically hold something in. "Of course this is where it ends up."

"Matt, your side—you're soaked through your shirt, you need to let Claire look at that—"

"I said it's fine." The words came out harder than either of you expected, and you watched something flicker across his jaw, a tightness that had nothing to do with physical pain. He dragged a hand back through his hair, and when he spoke again his voice had dropped, quieter now, more careful. "I'm not the one who almost got killed tonight because of who I choose to spend time with. Can we not do this right now?"

Claire chose that exact moment to walk back into the room carrying a fresh roll of gauze, and she took one look at the two of you, at the tension crackling between the couch and the chair, and let out a long breath through her nose that suggested this was not the first time she'd walked into the middle of something like this.

"You two are actually going to be the death of me before this city ever gets the chance," she said, setting the gauze down on the coffee table with more force than it strictly required. "Matt, sit still, I need to look at those ribs whether you like it or not. And you," she added, turning to you, "if you try to get up off that couch again before I say you can, I will personally make sure you regret it."

You sank back against the cushions, partly because your body genuinely didn't have the strength to argue and partly because Claire's tone left very little room for negotiation. She peeled Matt's jacket off his shoulders with the brisk efficiency of someone who had done this more times than any of you liked to count, and when she lifted the hem of his shirt you saw the bruising had already bloomed dark and ugly across his ribs, mottled purple shading into black along one particular stretch that made her mutter something under her breath about cracked bone. Matt didn't so much as flinch, his jaw set in a hard line, his attention still angled toward you even as Claire's fingers pressed and probed along the injury.

"You didn't tell me you were hurt," you said, and you hated how small your voice sounded, how much it gave away.

"You were unconscious." He said it simply, like that explained everything, like the order of operations had never once been in question for him. "I wasn't going to make a production out of a couple of bruised ribs while you were bleeding out in my arms."

"A couple of bruised ribs," Claire repeated flatly, taping a support wrap around his torso with more force than was strictly gentle, "is generous. You've got at least one that's fractured, maybe two, and if you'd let me get you to an actual hospital instead of insisting on doing this in my living room at three in the morning, I could tell you for certain." She straightened up, peeling off her gloves, and looked between the two of you with the particular exhaustion of a woman who had signed up to patch up one vigilante and somehow ended up with a rotating cast of them. "You're both staying here tonight. I mean it. Neither of you is fit to go anywhere, and frankly I don't trust either of you not to do something stupid the second you're out of my sight."

She left the room to go fetch blankets, and for a moment the apartment was quiet except for the hum of the old radiator and the rain still ticking softly against the window glass. Matt shifted in his chair, the movement drawing a small, sharp breath out of him that he tried and failed to hide, and you felt something twist uncomfortably in your chest at the sight of it, guilt braided together with something warmer and harder to name.

"You should let her take you to a hospital," you said finally.

"So should you."

"I don't have insurance that covers stab wounds from a knife-wielding assassin, Matt."

That, at least, pulled the ghost of a smile out of him, brief and tired, there and gone in the space of a breath. "Neither do I. Occupational hazard, I guess." The smile faded as quickly as it had come, and he leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, his voice dropping into something rawer. "You could've died tonight. Do you understand that? I found you on that rooftop and for about ten seconds I genuinely didn't know if you were going to make it, and I don't—" He stopped himself, jaw working, and pressed the heel of his hand briefly against his eyes before continuing. "I don't know what I would've done."

"I've survived worse than one guy with a knife."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point, Matt?" You pushed yourself up despite the protest from your ribs, needing to be at least somewhat level with him even if your body was screaming at you for it. "Because from where I'm sitting, the point seems to be that you think I can't take care of myself out there, and I've been doing this a long time, I don't need you following two blocks behind me every single night like I'm some kind of liability."

"The point is that Fisk sent someone to gut you because of me." His voice cracked on the last word, and he pushed himself up out of the chair despite the wrap Claire had just finished taping around his ribs, needing the movement the way he sometimes needed it when standing still became unbearable. "That man didn't find you by accident. He was told where to look and who to look for, and the only reason you had a target on your back tonight is because you know me, because you patrol with me, because somewhere along the way you stopped being just another vigilante to Fisk and started being a way to hurt me. I did that. Me. I made you a target just by letting you get close, and you almost paid for it with your life."

"That's not how this works and you know it." You held his gaze even though he couldn't see it, willing him to hear the certainty in your voice instead. "I chose this. I chose you. Nobody made that decision for me, and I'm not going to let you stand there and take responsibility for a knife that wasn't yours."

"I don't think you're a liability." His voice rose to match yours now, sharper than you'd heard it in months, maybe longer. "I think you get hurt and you don't tell anyone, I think you walk away from fights you should be running from, I think you'd rather bleed out alone on a rooftop than admit you need help, and I am so tired of finding you like that, do you understand? I am so tired of it. And now I have to live with knowing that the man who put you there did it because of me, because Fisk looked at the two of us and decided you were the softest place to put a knife."

"So what, you want me to quit? Is that it?"

"No." The word came out fast, immediate, almost startled, like the suggestion itself had physically hurt him. "God, no, that's not—that's not what I want."

"Then what do you want?" The question came out sharper than you intended, frustration and fear and something else entirely all tangled together in your chest until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. "Because you keep showing up, Matt, every single patrol, checking on me like I'm something fragile that's going to shatter the second you look away, and I don't understand what you want from me. You've never once told me. You just show up, and you patch me up, and you disappear before I can even say thank you, and I am so tired of trying to figure out what any of it means."

He went very still, the kind of stillness that from Matt Murdock always meant something enormous was happening just beneath the surface, some internal war being waged behind a face that had spent years learning how to give nothing away. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost all of its earlier sharpness, and what was left underneath sounded almost frightened, an emotion you had rarely, if ever, heard from him.

"I show up," he said slowly, like each word cost him something, "because I can't stand the idea of you out there without me knowing you're safe. I show up because the sound of your heartbeat is the only thing that tells me you're still breathing when I can't see you, and some nights that's the only thing keeping me from losing my mind. I show up because—" He stopped, dragged in an unsteady breath, and when he continued his voice had dropped so low you had to lean in to catch it.

"Because I love you. I have for a long time. And that's exactly why tonight scared me the way it did. Loving you is what put a target on you in the first place, and I don't know how to reconcile wanting you this much with knowing that wanting you is the reason a man came to that rooftop looking for you specifically. I don't know how to say that without it sounding like I'm trying to own you, or control you, or turn you into something you're not, because that has never been what this was about. I just can't watch you almost die because of me and pretend it doesn't mean what it means."

"It means Fisk is a coward who goes after the people closest to the men he can't beat," you said, and you said it firmly, because you needed him to hear it as fact and not comfort. "It doesn't mean you did this to me. You didn't put that knife in my side, Matt. He did. And if you disappear on me now to try to keep me safe by keeping me away from you, all that does is let him win twice."

The room went very quiet after that, quiet enough that you could hear Claire moving around in the kitchen down the hall, deliberately giving the two of you space, and quiet enough that you could hear the unsteady rhythm of Matt's breathing as he waited for you to say something more, his hands clasped so tightly together between his knees that his knuckles had gone pale.

"Matt." His name came out of you softer than you meant it to, all the fight draining out of your voice at once. "Why didn't you say anything before now?"

"Because I didn't think I had the right to." He tilted his head, and even without his eyes tracking yours the way sighted eyes would, you could feel the full weight of his attention settling on you. "You're out there every night doing exactly what I'm doing, taking exactly the same risks, and I didn't think it was fair to ask you to carry my fear on top of your own. I didn't want to be one more thing you had to manage. And then tonight I found you on that rooftop, and I realized that not saying it wasn't protecting either of us. It was just going to get one of us killed while the other one stood there wondering what might have happened if I'd just told you the truth."

You reached for his hand before you had fully decided to, your fingers finding his where they were still clasped tight between his knees, and the small, sharp breath he drew in at the contact told you everything you needed to know about how long he'd been waiting for exactly this, some small permission to let go of whatever he'd been holding onto. His fingers closed around yours carefully, like he was afraid you might disappear if he held on too hard, and for a long moment neither of you said anything at all.

"I dismiss my wounds," you said eventually, "because if I stop and actually feel how bad they are, I'm afraid I won't get back up. It's easier to just keep moving. I didn't realize how much that scared you until right now."

"It scares me every single time." His thumb moved slowly across your knuckles, an absent, grounding motion that seemed to steady something in both of you at once. "I need you to understand that letting someone help you isn't the same thing as being weak. I learned that the hard way, more than once, and I still forget it more often than I'd like to admit. But I don't want you to learn it the way I did. I don't want to have to keep finding you half dead on rooftops before you let yourself believe you're allowed to ask for help."

"You could ask for help too, you know," you said, glancing pointedly at the wrap Claire had taped around his ribs. "You're just as bad as I am."

A quiet, exhausted laugh escaped him, and some of the tension finally eased out of his shoulders, his forehead tipping forward until it rested lightly against yours, careful of the bruising along your temple that neither of you had mentioned yet. "Yeah," he admitted. "I know. Maybe we work on that together."

"Together," you repeated, testing the shape of the word, and found that you liked how it sounded far more than you expected to.

"Together," he echoed, and then, slower, quieter, like he was giving himself permission for the first time, he tilted his head down and pressed his lips to yours, gentle in a way that contrasted sharply with the desperation that had colored every word between you only minutes earlier. It wasn't a kiss born of relief alone, though relief was certainly woven through it; it was something steadier than that, something that felt like an answer to a question you hadn't even realized you'd been asking him for months. When he finally pulled back, just far enough to speak, his voice had softened into something you'd never heard from him before, unguarded in a way that felt like a gift.

"I meant what I said," he murmured. "I love you. I should have told you a long time ago."

"I love you too." The words came easier than you expected, like they'd been sitting just beneath your ribs for longer than you'd let yourself admit. "Which means you don't get to keep hiding fractured ribs from me either. That's the deal now."

"Deal," he agreed, and the smile that spread across his face was the first one all night that reached all the way to his eyes.

Claire reappeared in the doorway a few minutes later carrying two extra blankets and stopped short at the sight of the two of you, your hand still folded into his, your heads bent close together on the couch. She didn't say anything at first, just set the blankets down on the arm of the chair and crossed her arms, surveying the scene with an expression that hovered somewhere between exasperation and genuine relief.

"Well," she said finally, "it only took the two of you nearly dying to have this conversation, but I suppose I should be grateful you finally had it under my roof instead of screaming it at each other from opposite ends of a rooftop." She tossed a blanket toward Matt, who caught it without hesitation, his enhanced senses tracking its trajectory even now, even exhausted and battered and lighter somehow than he'd looked in months. "Get some rest, both of you. And Matt, if I catch you trying to sneak out of here before sunrise to go finish whatever you think you still need to finish tonight, I will break the other rib myself."

"Understood," Matt said, and there was something almost boyish in the way he said it, a rare softness that made you ache in an entirely different way than your wound did.

He settled back into the chair beside the couch, not quite willing to leave your side even for the space of another room, and reached over to take your hand again once Claire had disappeared down the hallway toward her bedroom, murmuring something under her breath about needing a stiffer drink and a different line of work. The apartment settled into a quiet that felt different from the tense silence of earlier, warmer now, and outside the window the rain had finally begun to ease, tapering into something softer against the glass.

"Get some sleep," Matt said quietly, his thumb still tracing slow, absent circles over the back of your hand. "I'll be right here."

"You'd better be," you murmured, already feeling exhaustion pulling you back under, though this time it came gently instead of like a fall. "No disappearing before I wake up."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, and for the first time since you'd known him, you believed that promise carried a weight far beyond the usual reassurance he offered after a hard night. It sounded, instead, like the beginning of something neither of you intended to let go of again.

[lalalovelyly]

The Heir Within

Valarr targaryen x reader

Synopsys: Two years of rumors, one cryptic pregnancy, and a very shocked Valarr Targaryen.

TW: pregnancy, childbirth, cryptic pregnancy, infertility rumors, misogyny, medical distress, labor pain

Wordcount:4k

Author's note: completely forgot i wrote this lmao

The bath was warm, steam curling through the air and clinging to the stone walls of your private chambers.

Outside, the last light of dusk painted King's Landing in shades of amber and rose, but here there was only the gentle lap of water and the steady beat of your husband's heart beneath your ear.

Valarr's arms wrapped around you from behind, his chest pressed against your back as you both soaked in the heated water. His lips found the curve of your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses against your skin.

The tension of the day, of every day, seemed to melt away in these quiet moments, when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world could not intrude.

"You're quiet tonight, ābrazȳrys," he murmured against you, using the Valyrian endearment he favored when you were alone. Wife. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and you felt him smile as you shivered slightly.

You turned in his arms, water sloshing gently, until you faced him. His dark hair was wet and plastered to his forehead, and that striking streak of silver-gold caught the candlelight like spun moonlight.

You traced your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight roughness where his beard had begun to grow by evening's end, then down to where his pulse beat steady and strong beneath your touch.

"Just tired," you whispered. "I've felt... strange today. Queasy."

His brow furrowed immediately, the lazy contentment in his blue eyes replaced by sharp concern. His hand came up to cup your face, thumb stroking gently across your cheekbone. "Strange how? Should I call for a maester? Is it your stomach? A headache?"

You laughed softly, the sound muffled against his chest as you leaned into him. The warmth of him, the solid reality of his love, it was the only anchor you needed. "Valarr, I feel a bit ill, not dying. Besides, you know what the maesters will say." You pulled back, offering him a wry smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "That my courses are late again, perhaps? They've said that a hundred times."

Something flickered in his expression, pain, quickly masked, but you knew him too well to miss it. He pulled you closer, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your wet hair with infinite gentleness.

"One day," he promised, his voice rough with emotion. "One day, yndys—"

"I know." You kissed his chest, just above his heart. "I know you believe that."

Two years. Two years you had been married to Valarr Targaryen, and your belly remained empty, your courses as regular as the turning of the moon. Two years without even a hint of a pregnancy, not even a miscarriage to prove that you could conceive. Two years of hope and heartbreak, of seeing the pity in kind eyes and the cruelty in cruel ones.

Two years of rumors.

---

The first time you heard them, you had been walking through the gardens, seeking respite from the stuffy confines of the Keep and the weight of courtly expectations. The roses were in bloom, their scent heavy and sweet, and you had thought to steal a moment of peace before the evening's duties called you back.

You rounded a hedge and caught the tail end of a conversation between two of your ladies-in-waiting. You recognized their voices—Lady Celia, young and pretty and recently wed herself, and Lady Jeyne, older and sharper-tongued, who had served in court since before you arrived.

"...two years is telling, isn't it?" Jeyne was saying, her voice carrying clearly through the afternoon air. "Not even a miscarriage. My sister miscarried twice before she birthed her first, and even that was considered unusual. But nothing? For two years? There has to be something wrong with her."

Celia's voice was softer, hesitant. "Perhaps the prince... perhaps he does not... I mean, if he cannot—"

"No, no, there's nothing wrong with him." Jeyne laughed, the sound ugly. "I've heard the serving girls talk. He's perfectly capable. It's her. Some women just aren't made for bearing children. It happens."

"But what will happen?" Celia asked. "To their marriage, I mean? The prince needs an heir—the realm needs an heir. If she's barren..."

You had frozen mid-step, your heart plummeting into your stomach. The words barren, annulment, new wife echoed in your mind, each one a knife. Before you could retreat, before you could compose yourself into the mask of a princess, a voice like winter cut through the air.

"Enough."

Valarr stood behind you, you realized. He must have followed you from the chambers, must have heard everything. His face was cold, controlled—the face of a prince, not the warm, loving husband you knew. But his eyes... his eyes burned with a fury you had never seen.

The two women went white as milk when they saw him. Celia dropped into a curtsy so low she nearly fell. Jeyne's face lost all its color, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

"You will return to your families," Valarr said, his voice leaving no room for argument. There was no heat in it, no emotion, and that was somehow more terrifying than if he had screamed. "By morning. You will pack your things tonight, and you will be gone before the sun rises. If I hear so much as a whisper of such slander again—from anyone, about my wife—it will not be banishment they face. Am I understood?"

They fled. And then Valarr's arms were around you, his cold prince's mask crumbling as he held you close, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your hair.

"Pay them no mind," he begged you, his lips pressed to your hair, your temple, anywhere he could reach. "They are fools. They know nothing. They are nothing. You are everything—"

"But what if they're right?" The words tore from you, raw and bleeding, before you could stop them. You pulled back just enough to look at him, to let him see the tears streaming down your face. "What if I am barren? What if I can never give you children, never give you an heir, never—"

He kissed you then, fierce and desperate, swallowing your fears with his lips and his love. When he finally pulled back, his own eyes were wet.

"Then we will have no children," he said, his voice steady despite the tears. "And I will love you just the same. I will love you until my last breath and beyond. I will love you in this life and the next and every life after that. You are mine, Y/N. Not for your womb. Not for your ability to give me heirs. For you. For your laugh. For the way you crinkle your nose when you're annoyed. For the way you hum in your sleep. For you."

---

The rumors never stopped, of course. They simply grew quieter, more insidious. You saw the looks at feasts, the whispers behind fans and goblets, the pity in some eyes and the smug satisfaction in others. You heard the murmurs of annulment and new wife and barren floating through the halls like poisoned butterflies.

But you also saw the way Valarr shut them down. A cold stare here, a sharp word there. Once, a lord who spoke too loudly at a feast about the "prince's unfortunate marriage situation" found himself assigned to the farthest, most miserable post in the Seven Kingdoms within the week. His wife wept. His children wailed. And Valarr watched it all with an expression of stone.

He never told you about that. You heard it from a servant who thought you should know how fiercely your husband protected you.

He protected you. He cherished you. And every month, when your courses came, he held you while you cried and then he held you while you made love, as if he could pour all his love into you and make the pain disappear.

"Next month," he would whisper against your skin, his voice thick with his own unshed tears. "Next month, my love. We'll try again next month. And the month after. And the month after that. For as long as it takes. For forever, if that's what it takes."

And you would believe him, because believing him was easier than believing the whispers. Because loving him was the easiest thing you had ever done, and being loved by him was the greatest gift you had ever received.

---

In the bath, with the warm water soothing your aching body, you tried to push away the queasiness that had plagued you all day. Probably something you ate. Perhaps the fish at supper had been off. Perhaps the heat was too much. There were a hundred explanations, and none of them were the one you had stopped allowing yourself to hope for.

Valarr's hands moved gently along your back, soothing, loving, tracing patterns on your skin that he had memorized long ago. His touch was reverent, as it always was, as if you were something precious and fragile and infinitely worthy of worship.

"You work too hard," he murmured against your shoulder. "You exhaust yourself with duties. You're up before dawn, you don't rest during the day, you attend every function, you smile at every lord and lady who looks down on you." His arms tightened around you.

"Perhaps we should retreat to Dragonstone for a moon. Just the two of us. No court, no duties, no whispers. Just us."

"That would only give the gossips more fuel," you sighed, leaning your head back against his chest. "The prince hiding away his barren wife. She must be even more defective than we thought, if he can't bear to be seen with her."

"Stop." His voice was gentle but firm, and he turned you in his arms so he could look into your eyes. "Do not let them live in your head, my love. They are not worth a single one of your tears. They are not worth a single moment of your peace. You are more than their words. You are more than their cruelty. You are mine, and I will not let them hurt you."

You opened your mouth to respond, to tell him that his love was enough, that you were trying so hard to believe him, that some days you even succeeded—

But the words never came.

Instead, a pain ripped through you—sharp, sudden, agonizing. It seized your lower belly, your womb, with such ferocity that a scream tore from your throat before you could stop it. Your body curled inward, hands flying to your stomach as if you could somehow contain the agony.

"Y/N?" Valarr's hands caught you as you doubled over, the water splashing wildly around you both. His voice was sharp with terror. "Y/N, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Pain—" You gasped, another wave crashing over you, deeper and more intense than the first. "Valarr, it hurts—something's wrong—"

He was already moving, lifting you from the bath with strength you forgot he possessed. Water streamed from both of you as he carried you to the bed, his face ashen with terror, his arms shaking but steady. He laid you down as gently as if you were made of glass, but even that small movement sent another spike of agony through you.

"Did I hurt you?" he was asking, his voice breaking as he knelt beside the bed, his hands hovering over you, afraid to touch, afraid not to. "Sweetheart, did I—was it something I did—in the bath, did I—"

You couldn't answer. Another pain, deeper than before, had you curling in on yourself, a keening cry escaping your lips. It felt like something was tearing inside you, something vital and essential, and you clutched at Valarr's hand with desperate strength.

He wrapped a vest around you, his hands trembling so badly he could barely manage the ties, and then he was on his feet and shouting—screaming—for servants, for guards, for a maester.

"NOW!" he roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "GET THE MAESTER NOW! RUN!"

---

The hours that followed were a blur of agony and confusion.

Maester Edric came, his face grave as he examined you. You lay in the bed, sweat soaking your hair, the linens beneath you, pains ripping through you at irregular intervals that made no sense to anyone. Valarr never left your side. He held your hand through every wave of pain, pressed cool cloths to your forehead, whispered words of love and terror in between calling for answers no one could give.

"I can find nothing wrong," the maester said finally, his brow furrowed deep with confusion and frustration. He had examined you twice, three times, each time with the same result. "No fever, no swelling, no sign of injury or illness. Her stomach is soft, not rigid. Her pulse is strong. I... I do not understand."

"Then look again!" Valarr demanded, his voice cracking. He had not slept, had not eaten, had not left your side for a moment. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair a wild mess, his tunic stained with your sweat where he had held you. "She is in agony—look again! There must be something! There has to be something!"

They gave you milk of the poppy. It dulled the edges of the pain but did not stop it entirely. You drifted in and out of consciousness, aware of Valarr's voice, of his hand gripping yours, of the whispered fears of servants who thought you were dying.

Dying. The thought floated through your poppy-fogged mind. Was this death? This endless, ripping pain that came in waves like the sea? Was this how it ended—not with a grand tragedy, but with some mysterious illness that even the maesters could not name?

"The Seven are taking her," you heard someone whisper—one of the servants, a woman who had served your household for years. Her voice was thick with tears. "It's a punishment. It must be. For something."

"Hold your tongue!" another voice hissed, but the damage was done.

You saw Valarr's face harden, saw the fury flash through his terror, but he didn't leave your side. He couldn't. He was trapped between his need to protect you and his need to protect your honor, and in the end, you were more important.

"Leave," he said quietly to the room at large. "Everyone except the maester. Now."

They fled. And then it was just you, and Valarr, and the maester who could do nothing but watch you suffer.

"There's something," you gasped during a lucid moment, when the pain had receded enough to allow thought. Your voice was barely a whisper, cracked and broken. "There's something—I can feel it—inside me—trying to come out—"

Valarr was instantly alert, leaning close. "What? What do you feel?"

"I don't know—" Another wave of pain crashed over you, and you screamed, your back arching off the bed. "Something—there's something there—I can feel it—please—"

A servant girl—who had been allowed to stay to fetch water and linens—hurried to look when Valarr gestured frantically. She lifted the sheets, peered between your legs, and then stumbled backward with a sharp intake of breath.

"Gods," she whispered, her face going white as bone. "Gods above—"

"What?" Valarr was on his feet, his heart in his throat. "What is it? What's wrong?"

The girl's face was white as bone, her eyes wide as saucers. She pointed with a trembling hand. "It's—my prince, it's a head—the princess is giving birth—"

The next hour was chaos and wonder in equal measure.

Maester Edric rushed back in, his composure completely shattered. More servants were called, women who had experience with birth, who knew what to do. Linens, hot water, cloths, all the preparations for a birth that no one had known was coming.

Through it all, Valarr stayed at your side, his face a mask of shock and awe and desperate fear. He held your hand through every contraction, wiped the sweat from your brow, pressed kisses to your temple and whispered words of love and encouragement.

"How?" he kept asking, his voice wondering and terrified all at once. "How did we not know? How did no one know?"

But you knew. You knew, even through the pain, even through the haze of milk of the poppy. Your courses had come—light, yes, irregular, but present enough that you had never thought to question. Your belly had remained flat, your weight unchanged, your body showing no signs of the life growing within. You had never felt the quickening, never felt the child move, never experienced any of the symptoms that every book and every woman said you should have felt. A hidden heir. A secret kept so perfectly that even the mother hadn't known.

"The babe is coming," the head midwife announced, her voice calm and professional despite the extraordinary circumstances. "My prince, you may want to—"

"I'm not leaving." Valarr's voice was steel. "I'm not leaving her. Not for a moment."

And then, with one final, agonizing push that tore a scream from your throat, a new cry filled the room.

Not your cry, a new voice, small and fierce and alive, cutting through the chaos like a ray of sunlight through storm clouds.

Silence fell. Everyone in the room seemed to stop breathing, to stop moving, as the midwife lifted the tiny, squalling bundle.

"A boy," she said, her voice awed. "My prince, my princess... you have a son."

Valarr didn't look at the babe at first. He looked at you, his eyes streaming tears, his face pressed to your sweat-damp hair, his whole body shaking with relief and joy and a love so overwhelming it seemed to fill the entire room.

"You did it," he whispered, his voice broken and beautiful. "You beautiful, perfect, impossible woman—you did it. You gave me a son. You gave us a son."

The midwife approached, the babe wrapped in clean linen, still crying with the fierce determination of new life. "Would you like to hold him, my princess?"

You nodded, unable to speak, and they placed him in your arms.

He was small—smaller than you had expected, though you had no basis for comparison—and wet-faced from crying, with a tuft of in his tiny head. His eyes were squeezed shut, his little fists clenched, his cries slowly subsiding as he settled against your chest.

Valarr leaned down, one trembling finger reaching out to gently touch that tiny head. His face crumpled, and for the first time since you had known him, your strong, fierce husband wept openly.

"He's perfect," he managed. "He's absolutely perfect. Just like his mother."

You looked up at him, at your husband who had defended you against a kingdom, who had loved you when the world called you barren, who had held you through every disappointment and every fear and never once wavered in his devotion.

"I told you," you whispered, your voice broken but triumphant, a smile spreading across your exhausted face. "I told you there was something wrong with me."

Valarr laughed—a sound of pure, overwhelming joy, bright and free and wonderful—and kissed you with all the love in his heart. He kissed your lips, your cheeks, your forehead, your hair, each kiss a promise and a prayer and a celebration.

"Nothing wrong with you," he agreed against your lips. "Nothing but perfection. Nothing but miracle. My wife. My love. The mother of my son."

The news spread through the Red Keep like wildfire.

By dawn, the entire castle knew. The princess who was whispered to be barren had given birth in the night, to a healthy son, without anyone even knowing she was with child. The servants who had thought she was dying now spoke of miracles and blessings. The ladies who had whispered behind her back now hurried to offer congratulations, their faces flushed with embarrassment.

And in your chambers, as the first light of dawn crept over King's Landing, you held your son and watched your husband pace the room like a man possessed.

"A son," Valarr kept saying, as if he couldn't quite believe it. "We have a son. I have a son. We have a son."

"You've said that seventeen times now," you teased gently, though your own smile hadn't faded since the babe was placed in your arms.

"And I'll say it seventeen hundred more." He came to sit beside you on the bed, his hand reaching out to stroke the babe's cheek with infinite gentleness. "Have you thought of a name?"

You looked down at the tiny face, peaceful now in sleep, and felt your heart swell with a love so fierce it almost hurt.

"Aurion," you said.

Valarr's eyes glistened. "Aurion Targaryen. It's perfect."

"He'll need a cradle," you murmured, suddenly realizing all the things that would need to be done. "And clothes—we have no clothes for him. And a wet nurse—I don't know if I can—"

"Shh." Valarr pressed a kiss to your forehead. "All of that will be handled. Right now, you rest. You've done enough for one night." His voice cracked with emotion. "You've done everything."

---

The days that followed were a blur of visitors and well-wishers, of lords and ladies coming to pay their respects to the prince and princess and their miraculous son.

King Daeron II came himself, his aged face bright with joy as he held his first great-grandson. "Auriom," he said, testing the name. "A fine choice. First of his name"

Prince Baelor, Valarr's father, stood tall and proud, his nose wrinkling as he smiled "The boy looks the same as valarr did as a babe," he observed. "And he his mother's strength. He'll go far."

Even the rumors changed. No longer was there talk of annulment and barrenness. Now the whispers were of miracles and blessings, of the Seven's favor shining upon the young prince and his devoted wife. The same ladies who had once pitied you now sought your favor. The lords who had whispered of setting you aside now bowed low and offered congratulations.

You didn't care about any of them. You cared about the tiny life in your arms, and the husband who looked at you as if you had hung the moon and stars.

One night, a week after the birth, you woke to find the cradle empty and your husband standing by the window, holding Aurion in his arms.

You watched them for a long moment—Valarr, his dark hair messy, that silver streak catching the moonlight, swaying gently as he hummed a soft Valyrian lullaby to the babe in his arms. His voice was low and sweet, the ancient words wrapping around the quiet room like a blessing.

"Ōños iā hūrenkon qrinuntys," he sang. "Jemī iksis zālagon." Light and shadow, my little prince. Forever there is fire.

You must have made a sound, because he turned, his face softening when he saw you awake.

"Couldn't sleep?" you asked softly.

"He was fussing," Valarr said, crossing to sit beside you on the bed. "I didn't want him to wake you. You need your rest."

You reached out, touching his face, feeling the slight stubble on his jaw. "So do you."

He turned his head, kissing your palm. "I can't stop looking at him," he admitted quietly. "I keep thinking... what if we had listened to them? What if I had let the whispers sway me? What if I had let them convince me that you weren't enough?" His voice broke. "I would have missed this. I would have missed him. I would have missed everything that matters."

You moved closer, resting your head against his shoulder, looking down at your son together.

Aurion slept peacefully, his tiny chest rising and falling, one small fist pressed against his cheek.

"You never wavered," you reminded him. "Not once. Even when I doubted myself, you never doubted me."

"Because I know you," Valarr said simply. "I know your heart. I know your soul. I know that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I will spend the rest of my life making sure you know it too."

[obsessedromancereader]

[sergwaynez]

dancing! even if one's partner is barely tolerable.

you're drunk and in the fuzzy warmth of the hall, gwayne hightower is all you can see. its just a shame that in all your attempts of courting him, he has been nothing but respectful. maybe, its the tension between your families or maybe, just tonight with the liquid courage pulsing through your veins, you'll finally get him to crack.

ser gwayne x targ! fem! reader (daemon's younger sister), fluff!, alcohol, terrible attempts at dancing, kind of one sided enemies to lovers but also kind of not? suggestive! no timeline or canon wars, just good vibes

you're pretty sure gwayne hightower secretly despises you.

the pretty auburn- haired noble is so pleasant, its actually suspicious. you've heard the odd quip and snark but gwayne hightower is all easy grins and a charmful demeanour. and unfortunately for you, in a gathering such as tonight, it makes him all the more popular with the ladies.

"that is your fourth cup," your brother daemon speaks from your side and you hardly take your eyes off the knight. you watch him roam around the room, floating between guests and his low laughter bounces off the corners of your brain, the vibration buzzing and echoing and its either that or the wine but you're sure it'll leave you with a dangerous headache soon.

"really," you mumble off-handedly, swatting his chest to create some distance between the two of you.

"really," he nods and pays you no mind, he tries to take the goblet from your hand but your grip is tightened around it, the bone of your knuckles threatening to break through your skin. "give it here, stupid girl." he moans and you swing the rest of it down, thrusting the empty cup in his direction with an insane grin plastered on your face.

"what is so special about that boy anyways?" he huffs, eyes darting across the room to where your vision has frozen in place. "he's most likely still hung up when i unseated him from that horse of his long ago."

"it could also be our damn brother marrying his sister," you sigh, "that itself is," you pause, sickness filling your stomach, "loaded." there's silence between the two of you as you stand in the shadows, the beat of music looming over you and the party continues. daemon replaces your cup with one filled with water but you make no move to consume it; how could you when every cell in your body has stretched and expanded beyond normal to fit in thoughts of gwayne hightower.

"daemon," you whisper, "he's just so pretty." your slurred confession is almost pathetic and your brother breaks the intense staring competition to place a hand on your shoulder in awkward reassurance. "like a deer," and your eyes shine an alarming amount, streaks of moonlight glittering across your iris. god, you are a goner.

"not that pretty," he scoffs, "you are prettier."

"you say that because we share the same mother," you roll your eyes and nudge his shoulder. the compliment from him is born from his distaste of the hightowers and maybe a twinge of fondness for you as he ruffles your hair in return.

"true, but you do have such foul taste in men. of all possible sorts, a hightower?" his brows raise incredulously, "really, is there no other man in this realm?"

"no, not for me," you shake your head in a daze, everythings starting to appear fuzzier, softer but you can still make out the small smile painted across his pink lips so clearly. you wonder what itd be like to touch them up close, to feel them against your own, on your bare skin, on your sheets, just anywhere for you.

"oh no," he groans in desperation, "i beg you to find some sanity, even just a shred of it. no, in fact, find some dignity and if you truly must then bed him and be done with it," its mortifying in a sense for him to say this to you, his younger sister but you are in dire need of saving yourself before ypu melt entirely defenseless to this one-sided love.

"you cannot just bed a man like gwayne hightower!" you hiss quietly in annoyance, "look at him," your eyes dart to his direction once more, "no, it will not do. i must marry him," you declare and daemon snorts out, the cackle leaving his lips in a proud twist and he turns to you.

"you have gone mad, dear sister, truly mad," maybe not mad, but definitely drunk, he gathers. but you can't focus on him. not when you've caught the eye of the pretty red-head and you have never been so grateful to have such an annoying brother. you wave, fingers dancing in a slight tease and you watch as his brows knit together in a small scrunch. he then turns his attention back to the kingsguard as if it had never happened. as if he hadn't just knocked on your heart, entered and laid to rest before slicing you inside out.

oh.

"he definitely hates me," your lip wobbles with each word, eyes glassy with dejection and pure heartbreak. daemon looks at you horrified, unsure of what to do with you in this emotional and heightened state.

"come sister," he tries to usher you away from the table and in the direction of the hallway, "we can always let caraxes have her fun, hmm?"

"you'd hurt him?" your eyes widen comically and daemon can make out the heavy breaths heaving from your chest with great concern. oh god, he's just making things worse for himself.

"send me to the seven hells, no! no, of course not," he drawls, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and trying to keep you moving, "maybe just a little," he murmurs but you catch it and push off of him instantly.

"but i love him," you gasp, and daemon sighs. its like having a child, truly.

"love who?" comes the voice of alicent hightower and the two of you turn. daemon shakes his head at the sight of her brother making his way over and landing inches away from the two of you.

"you," you whisper to him and its a moment too soon before daemon can smother your lips with the heavy weight of his palm.

"me?" gwayne speaks with great confusion, he has no recollection of whats been said before thankfully but his sister sends you a knowing look, a mischievious glint in her eyes as she smiles. you've always thought of alicent as oddly sisterly. she's been kind to you when others have not, she's given you chances when others have paired you with your chaotic brother and some part of her wishes that the two of you couldve been greater friends despite the fate that had been forced upon her.

gwayne looks to his sister, hoping for some explanation and almost misses how you bite down on daemon's palm. the elder pulling back with a curse and a wince as you shoot him your most dazzling smile. its earth bending, soul shattering downright gorgeous the way you look in your black beaded gown; a princess of the night and defender of the realm that gwayne allows himself the mercy of letting his gaze linger longer than it needs to.

"hello, you," the excitement is gathered in your voice and gwayne's eyes narrow in. theres a softness in your shoulders, the relaxed state of your posture, the wind in your hair and the wildness in your features.

"are you drunk?" alicent beats him to the question and he inhales slowly, exhaling slower trying to gather restraint and patience. sober you he has been able to handle. he approaches you with nothing more than polite kindness. he knows the way your soul seeks him out in every room he walks, he knows you ask after him, how you wait at the gates anytime he is planned to return to kingslanding and hes very fond of you.

he also knows the family you come from. the cruelty, the power, the damn dragons that give you the ego boost to demand what you have and take what you must no matter the expense. he despises your brothers particularly and though he tries to be fair to you, he knows its easier to create the distance. to be noble gwayne and play his part in this deathly game.

but drunk you? the adrenaline rushing through your body and mind, no gwayne doesn't know how to handle drunk you when he just about keeps hold of his facade of barely tolerating sober you.

"unwell," daemon corrects her without a second glance, "she is unwell and i was just escorting the princess to her chambers, she is rather tired," daemon stresses, keenly aware of how you're minutes away from embarassing yourself and him by extension silly.

you hold up four fingers cheekily and scrunch your nose in delight, "four cups!" you cheer and alicent lets out a laugh.

"is that all?" she grins, taking in your amusement.

"is that all?" daemon scoffs, "anymore and you will find her at the bottom of the barrell," that instantly has you shaking your head in defiance.

"you will find me on the dance floor!" your eyes widen with pure joy and childish excitement, buzzing through each of your veins and you break free from daemon's hold in the direction of the main party again.

you probably make it two steps ahead before a certain knight blocks your path, "princess," his hand is held up, palm outwards, a silent request for yours to join him and you do. he brings your hand to his lips and the second he presses a soft fleeting kiss you are airborn. its only a greeting but you float, rising and lifting and lord can nothing bring you down. its a manifestation of your earlier thoughts and you are purely giddy.

"ser gwayne," you swoon and its the first of a teasing smile you're met with. youre sure hes reserved this just for you.

"oh fuck me," you brother moans, palms smacking against his face in pure embarrassment but gwayne ignores him entirely, his gaze fixed on solely you.

"are you well?" he murmurs just for your eyes, pure honesty and earnest and you somehow melt even more.

the air softens around you and you're not sure your knees are working, everything feels so light and like heaven. "i dunno," you are stunned, your response incomprehensible as you focus on the invisible print of where his lips have scorched your skin. he lets go of your hand and yours drops to your side. no force or willpower to hold it open, no you are molten.

"might i escort you back to your chambers? perhaps for some rest?" he's hopeful. he catches daemon's deathly stare from behind your back, boring holes straight into him and for a second he's nervous. however, he can sense the hesitation of daemon and the need to get you to safety in this state. youre unguarded and though gwayne would never let anything happen to you now or never, it seems wiser to let you sleep this state off. roaming drunk is not ladylike and he doubts you care too much of what the other noblefolk think, he for sure knows that you are out of control with your actions as you usually like to be and that? that unnerves him incredibly.

"i am perfectly able to do so," daemon cuts in but you pat your brother's chest, cutting off his sentence halfway with a mischievous grin.

"no, ser gwayne will," you order, you clap your hands in delight and press a lazy kiss to your brothers cheek and then one to alicent. "goodnight brother, goodnight alicent, i shall see you both in the morrow," you throw out your arm for gwayne to take and he chuckles at how overly confident you appear before him now. how miliseconds have hardly passed and you stand with great eagerness before him. its a downright straight ego boost and soar to his chest.

sober you is usually more refined, more subtle and reserved for only the right people. gwayne's not spent much time in kingslanding to meet your close aquaintance but theres some things he can gather from afar. like the way you hold yourself with a rare gentleness from a targaryen he's sure its because of you that halaena has grown to be so fond. you take pride in the way you dress and carry yourself, you are friendly with the animals. you tend to the gardens and so often he finds you in the company of the cooks. yet you are still strategic when helping stage coups and plan attacks, you listen attentively to the working folk and despite what you come from, gwayne is intrigued by who you've become.

you hold yourself looser now, slightly leaning into his side as he carries most of your weight. its evident in the slower steps he takes, the silence he finds himself in in an attempt to catch the slow rise and fall of your breaths. he wishes the two of you were so much more than your last names because all he can see is how perfect you fit at his side. he must do a terrible job at conveying it because you stop so abruptly that his body moves in great whiplash, attending to you immediately.

"is something the matter, your grace?" unlike you, he hasn't drank the slightest drop and is so acutely aware of his environment his senses have heightened. your stance surprises him as he takes you, your fists have balled at your sides with an impatience and theres hurt scrunched across all over your face. a sudden flush of dread works it way into his throat.

"yes, i think you detest me, ser gwayne hightower," and his stomach does somersaults with the way his name slips from your lips. he stutters, trying to catch his breath and mind from moving at a million miles per hour.

"detest? my, oh my, that is a strong accusation," he tries to land it in light-heartedness, the chances are you'll most likely not even remember this tomorrow but the betrayal lingering in the lines of your face has him inhaling slowly, choosing his next words carefully. he opts for a simple truth, "i do not hate you," he speaks plainly, brows jumping with each word.

"no?" you question, the bottom of your lip rests into a little pout and gwayne's eyes move like a laser, narrowing in on it.

"no," he confirms with a steadfast heart, "come," and he holds out his arm again, "let us continue."

"no," you refuse and gwayne wonders which of his sins must be in need of divine punishment right now for this to be happening. his hand drags across his face and tries to think of his next course of plans.

"okay," he shrugs, "what would you like to do?" and he watches how you light up with pure ecstasy. your arms raise in the air and he watches how you hurl your body in a poor attempt at a twirl. the drunken spin has your left foot landing wrong, catching onto the seams of your gown and you feel the world falling back.

the scream dies in your throat when youre surrounded by such intense heat. gwayne hightower is warm all over, his arms have caught you just in time, your head neatly tucked against his chest as his arms span the length of your back and waist. its almost intimate the way you can hear his heartbeat, it bounces and jumps and you'll play it as a soundtrack to your life if you could. you bring your own hands to rest onto his chest, the crisp velvet sliding against your skin as you look up.

it must be the biggest mistake of your life to look up because as soon as you do you're sucked straight in. its like the ocean has swallowed you whole, and in the midst of its vastness you can hear the quiet, you can feel the serenity and calmness hit you so gently.

"princess," his voice tries to pull you from its trance, and the throated rasp cuts you free.

"gwayne?" you whisper, and the rest of his features appear back into focus. the small freckles dancing along his skin almost disappear the way the moonlight streaks before him. the bridge of his nose, the way it slopes so perfectly, gwayne hightower must have been made and born of pure precision and patience.

you're not thinking and he's momentarily distracted by the way you've dropped his title, saving the way you've said his name into pure permanent memory. so you reach out, your cold index finger touch his nose and he freezes beneath your touch. your finger then drags, following the path of his nose and down to his lips, they pause on his bottom lip momentarily before continuing its course down to his chin and then the length of his neck. you can feel his adam's apple tense as he swallows under such intensity and then they rest teasingly on the junction where his two clavicles could meet. the small amount of skin escaped from his tunic and burned into memory.

"princess," he murmurs, trying to gather his footing and he's still holding you so tightly he's realised. "this is not proper," he manages to get out and a slow smile reaches your lips. you've done it, you've broken gwayne hightower and it has only took four cups of wine to do so.

"i wonder what five would get me," you want to touch his hair next, feel the copper strands beneath your fingers and tug on them, feel how they would be burrowed against your skin or what noises he would make if you pulled them right. you don't reach out though however, your hands travel lower to his abdomen, pushing yourself more upright and steady on your feet but gwayne tenses at the contact.

"sweetheart?" he breathes in confusion, he has no idea what you're on about or whats even happening but youre set alight. this is new. you love the way this one sounds, you want to brand it to your forehead and let the term of endearment be the only thing he's ever allowed to call you by. you stand on your own, centimetres from him and try to dust the nonexistenr fluff off your gown and even just moving has you slightly dizzy. you try to reach for a railing but gwayne's hands move quicker and he's steadying your weight once more.

"i don't think you should move so suddenly," he warns, "you need to rest, sleep this haze off."

"i'd like to dance," he watches as your face morphs into something so fierecly determined and for a second, he's almost scared. it doesn't last very long however because a boyish laugh quietly escapes his lips at the sight of you.

youve taken a step back and your eyes are closed, your swaying so slowly and way off beat for this to be considered a dance. you imagine your partner to be there, leaving the gap empty for a body as your hands play with the air, mumbling along to the faint tune you can hear but its all so unrhythmic that gwayne almost feels sorry for you. you're going to make yourself dizzy and sick, you'll probably fall into a bush soon and gwayne decides to put his title as protector into action.

"you are," he breathes, and he steps into the gaps, his hand at your waist and the other taking charge of your outstretched one. your palms are interlocked as he moves you to a more practised rhythm. gwayne may be a knight and soldier but hes a man of nobility, a member of the court and he'd be damned if he didn't how to dance.

"mad?" you offer, opening your eyes to steal a peek at him. its so natural how your bodies align together, fit and move as one. its fluid and light, you can hardly feel your feet on the ground.

but gwayne certainly can, you've stepped on his toes twice, lopsided and lazy footing that he finds endearing, "wonderful," he corrects you with a unguarded softness, "you are wonderful," and you swoon once more.

"keep your eyes open," he whispers and you obey, and when he spins you he does it at such an incredibly slow pace in fear of you falling and your nausea rising. you're having so much fun with him right now that you don't realise you've been dancing with the knight for the length of minutes; so long that he has walked or rather cleverly danced the two of you back to your chamber.

truth be told he doesn't actually know which is yours. he ends the dance with a final spin, before holding onto the two of your hands and kneeling into a bow. he presses a kiss to each of them, so gentle that when you shoot him another smile it goes straight to his head. hes unsure of how hes still alive right now, he swells with pride at having earned so many of them tonight they ought to declare him a champion.

"thank you ser gwayne," you mumble, your hand ready at the knob of your door.

"just gwayne," he smiles and the world tilts its axis. "and if you ever find yourself in need of a dance partner then i am at your service," he drawls and a giggle escapes your lips as you open the door then lean your head against the frame tiredly. you are exhausted and want nothing more to go to bed, you also just want to stare at gwayne all night long.

"even if your partner is barely tolerable," your voice is slurred not from the wine but the fatigue now and gwayne steps forward by an inch. but an inch is all you need to feel the sheer heat radiating from his body and heart again.

"i told you," he uses a finger to trace your cheek now so tenderly it shatters all the walls youve ever built in your heart and laid entry for gwayne and gwayne only, "you are wonderful."

"wonderful," you whisper and there's moons in your eyes again.

"goodnight, sweetheart," he pulls back, clearing his throat. he sees the gears in your head turning and a faint furrow in your brow but before he can even ask what is the matter, youve stepped forward in an ambush, wrapped your arms around him in a bone crushing hug.

and to finally finish him off and send him to heaven, you aim to kiss his cheek. its lazy, off target and lands in the corner of his mouth. before he can register whats happened youre off him in an instant and the door closes.

"w-what?" he whispers to the dead of the night, his fingers come find the place where your lips met his if you can even call it that and its slightly wet. he has half a mind to knock the door down, break it with his bare hands and steal a proper one. however, you are drunk. beyond so and you need to rest.

he could bring this up tomorrow to you but theres a strong possibility that youd either not remember or would be mortified at the memory and avoid him entirely. the latter would devastate him for centeries.

hes still standing at your door, burning holes inside of it that he doesn't know how much time passes. a young jaecarys passes by and stops.

"ser gwayne?" he calls out and the elder is undeterred, his gaze still stuck on where you had once been before him that he doesnt register the onyx curls before theyre completely blocking his view.

"yes?" the trance is broken.

"what are you doing here?" jace speaks, suspicion laced in his tone.

"dancing," he mumbles, "i was dancing," he nods to himself and then lets out one last longing exhale before making a move to the opposite direction. the distance between the two of you burns as it grows but gwayne forces himself to keep moving. and despite the man not having a single drop of alcohol tonight, gwayne feels the buzz in his blood.

"drunk," jace mutters and continues his footsteps.

yeah, he is.

except he's drunk on you.

[vividxpages]

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ "in the dead of night"･ﾟ✧*: ･ﾟ✧*

pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!Reader

words: 7000

summary: when Jace is attending a late council meeting, two hired assassins take their chance to sneak into your chambers and hold you captive. Taken to the dragon caves below and meant to be slain by your own betrothed’s dragon, you have to trust the bond between Vermax and you is strong enough to escape your captor’s murderous plans.

warnings: soft!reader, fluffy start but HEAVY angst (reader being held captive by two assassins similar to Blood and Cheese), physical violence (slapping, hair pulling), verbal abuse, threats of rape and violence, Vermax being Vermax and also protective of reader, hurt/comfort, shock and crying, Jacaerys being a caring betrothed, Rhaenyra being the best mother in law, aftermath of trauma, healing, hopeful ending

a/n: please mind the warnings for this story, it’s my angstiest so far!

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You smiled to yourself as you held two small wooden figures in your hands, a princess and a prince, their hands linked together and small attires made of cotton and wool. When you were younger, you remembered playing with them for hours, creating little scenarios of the prince who might sweep you off your feet someday.

Now, many years later, you had found the love of your life in Prince Jacaerys.

Ever since your own parents had died too young, Jace’s family had welcomed you as if you were one of them by blood, making you a home at Dragonstone and accepting you with open arms as theirs. Perhaps, a huge part of it was because Rhaenyra’s oldest son had been in love with you ever since he had first laid eyes on you, but there was more to it. His mother adored you and you got alone with his siblings and cousins and brought a joy into their house that was much needed in those dark times of war.

This afternoon, you were sitting on the soft fur carpet in one of the big living rooms of the castle, Rhaenyra’s twins peacefully playing with their wooden toys all around you. Earlier, Baela and Rhaena had joined you for a chat and the newest gossip, but you didn’t mind being alone with the kids as well, your own inner child always coming down around their soft souls.

You let out a playful gasp as little Viserys assembled a row of knights on their horses along the imaginary street you had built together. “Are your noble knights going to a tournament, Vis?”

The boy nodded timidly at you, letting one of the horses gallop forward and making you laugh.

Your betrothed Jacaerys leaned against the doorframe and smiled softly as he watched you. Little Aegon had snuggled close to you and you helped Viserys move the toy carriage around the carpet.

You looked up as he pushed himself off the frame, walking towards you with pure adoration in his eyes. “Oh hello. I didn’t hear you enter.” You said, letting your hand be lifted by him so he could press a soft kiss against your knuckles.

Moving to stand and placing Aegon on the ground, he laid a hand on your shoulder, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to interrupt your play. What adventures is my princess going on today? Have my brothers been behaving?”

“They are the sweetest.” You told him in all honesty, your heart melting at the two little blond boys in front of you. Whenever you spent time with Jace’s smaller siblings, you could not help but notice how your heart expanded and spoke to a deep part in you that wished for children of your own someday. “We were playing a carriage ride to a tournament, I believe, but then a dragon escaped and now we have to look for him.”

Jace squatted down for a moment and handed Aegon a rattle shaped like the bell of a sept, which he immediately took with a toothless grin and tried out. You watched your betrothed with a soft heart and thought what a wonderful father he’d make…

“I dream of the day this will be our life someday.” He confessed to you, the corner of his plump lips lifting sadly. “When there is peace in the realm and we have time to take care of our future children together.”

“I wish for nothing else.” You replied softly, your heart blooming with love for him.

For a moment, Jacaerys looked as if he wanted to sit down and join you and his little brothers, but as you knew your hard-working betrothed all too well, he sighed and stood up again, careful not to step on the big skirts draped around you like a blooming flower.

“There will be a late council meeting this evening.” Jacaerys announced to you, his displeased expression betraying him. “Everyone of the council and the dragon keepers will sit together to discuss. I wouldn’t ask you to join us, it will be very boring and entirely unnecessary.”

You chuckled, knowing all too well how different Jace would do many things if his say in the matters of his mother would be of more weight. But at the same time, you were glad, Rhaenyra kept him sheltered and protected with you for now, at Dragonstone where it was the safest place for the future king and his queen.

“Will you come to bed later?” You asked shyly, although it was not uncommon for the prince and you to share a bed before your marriage had even been consummated.

A small and narrow passage connected your room to Jacaerys’ and you had often made use of it, whether you wanted someone to talk to before heading to bed or were in need of his warm embrace before you eventually drifted off into an innocent sleep together. When he was gone or bound to duties, you usually made yourself comfortable in his bed, but perhaps you’d return to your own tonight if the meeting was going to take a while before he’d be released.

Jacaerys smiled softly at you and nodded before he raised your hand towards his lips. “I will. Don’t stay up too late, I’ll be with you as soon as I can, I promise.”

You hummed pleased and let him kiss your knuckles. “I hope it won’t be too long. And don’t take their words to heart too much, Jace. You’re the prince and they’re lucky to have you.”

“It is me who is lucky to have you, my beloved.” He said and watched in delight as you blushed at his appreciation. “My safe haven, my light.”

Jacaerys leaned down, softly cupping your cheek before he gently kissed your lips, your back arching a little to reach him better. Your lips brushed tenderly against one another and you sighed in bliss at his open affections for you.

You smiled at him when you separated, squeezing his hand in yours. “I love you. I’ll see you later.”

“I love you.I’ll do my best to hurry.” He promised, hugging his little toddler brothers as well and softly stroking their hair before he departed. You sighed to yourself, eager to have the hours pass and let the two of you be reunited again as little Aegon presented you a wood dragon, silently asking you to rejoin their play..

“Alright, where were we, my princes?”

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Being alone in your private chambers had become a rarity since you had been promised to Jacaerys.

You listened to the quietness of the room, the fire cackling in the pit as you sat on your bed and combed out your hair. You had taken a bath after bringing the princes to their nurseries and changed into something comfortable for the night.

The small evidence of Jace’s frequent visits to your room were visible all over the place. A cloak of his was thrown over one of your chairs by the fire and one of his books laid open by your desk. Even his smell still faintly clung to your pillows, a little gift from the last time he had fallen asleep here, not bothering to retreat back to his own chamber under your soft and lingering touches to his hair.

You could not even remember the last time the connecting door between your rooms had been closed.

You let out a small sigh as you sunk into bed, watching the dark outside of your window for a while. The council meeting must’ve been going on for a while now and you tried to read a few pages to keep you awake, not wanting to miss the moment Jace would come to you.

The time went by and your eyelids kept dropping.

But after a while, the door to your chamber opened and a wide smile split your face as you sat up in your bed, ready to welcome Jace back. Your hair fell over your shoulders, the blanket slipping down your body a little, but just a second later, everything in you froze to a stop.

Two men entered your room, their clothes dirty and faces dark as they took you in. These weren’t your guards and as one of them unsheathed a blade from his belt, you opened your mouth to scream.

They were on you in a heartbeat.

One of them drew the blankets off the bed while the other grabbed your hair, dragging you from the mattress and onto the floor, every sound in your throat seizing up and choked off by their sudden display of violence.

You were not a fighter, never had been. You stood no chance as they manhandled you in their middle, the taller one quickly looking over his shoulder as you struggled to no use against their tight grip.

“Look at that.” You heard close to your ear, the deep raspy voice sending shivers down your spine. “The bastard prince’s little bird, right between us. What would your man say now if he could see you like this, huh?”

You whimpered when your head was tugged back, the other gripping your wrists and making quick work of a tight rope around them, scratching over your soft skin and successfully binding you.

“Who are you?” You demanded to know, your voice barely louder than a whisper. You were shaking from head to toe, your body and mind gone into overdrive when they had first laid hands on you.

They shared a grin with each other. “Does it matter? All you have to know is we’re not your fucking maids. And that you will die tonight, princess. Now be a good girl and shut the fuck up.”

You tried to press your heels into the floor, to keep them from stirring you towards the door, but after a moment the tall one simply picked you up and carried you towards the door. Your nails scratched over the man’s back, but it was like he didn’t even feel it, his grip around your legs too tight for you to struggle and free yourself.

“Behave.”

You were set on your feet again, crowded by them against the door. You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat, your eyes flickering between the two of them. “Whoever paid you, their reward is not nearly enough for the misery my family will bring down on you when they find you. I am a princess of Dragonstone and you have no right to-“

They pushed you out of the door, not bothering to listen.

A horrified gasp escaped your lips as you stepped outside your chamber and nearly stumbled over the dead bodies of your two guards, bleeding out and cold on the floor. The sound echoed through the hall and before you knew what was happening, your head was pulled back by your hair and a hard hand slapped you across the face.

Pain exploded in your mind, blinding you for a moment before the sting ebbed away and was replaced with a dull throb in your cheek.

You held the palm of your trembling hand to your throbbing cheek, breathing hard as you recovered from the blow. “You will die for this.” You said oddly calm and collected. It had to be the shock, you could not think clearly, but you knew one thing for sure: “The prince will cut your hands off for laying hand on me.”

The tall one grinned as if it was an empty threat. “We will be long gone once your prince finds you, stupid cunt. And in what state that will be, I still have to decide.” His disgusting hungry gaze crept over your body, barely hidden underneath your thin sleeping gown. You wanted to throw up.

“You will lead us to the place where the dragons are.” The shorter one said. “We know the keepers are all at the meeting and you know ways where no guards keep patrol. And if you dare to scream or run to wake anyone, I’ll cut out your tongue and heart and throw it in front of the bastard prince’s feet.”

You swallowed down bitter tears, your head screaming at you to do something, anything. But your hands were painfully tied and you did not find your voice as you slowly began to walk with them through the castle.

In the past, you have had nightmares like this, terrible visions of you being powerless as hands held you down in the dark, doing horrible things to you. You sometimes had woken up screaming, but Jacaerys had been there for you every time, holding you until the worst of it was over and you slowly were able to calm down in his safe and warm embrace. Now, there was no one, all people living and working at Dragonstone either asleep or summoned by Rhaenyra and Jacaerys for the council meeting. By the time someone had discovered the corpses of your guards in front of your chambers, you’d likely be dead or taken to who knew where.

You walked through your home, shivering against the cool air with only the thin nightdress you wore on you, the dangerous presence of your captors behind your back. You knew Jacaerys would blame himself for leaving you alone and suddenly, a sorrow so consuming filled your chest, you choked on a quiet whimper. You had not even said goodbye…

“Shut the fuck up.” They hissed at you and one of them slung his arm around your waist, your fingers digging into his flesh in protest as cool metal suddenly rested against your ribcage. A dagger. “Be fucking quiet and keep walking.”

Soon, the air began to smell of salt and sea and you heard the distant crashing of the waves against the island. The entrance to the dragon caves came into sight and you turned around to face them.

“Now tell us, girl, where is your precious dragon?”

Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach, but before you could open your mouth for a reply, the other one of them shook his head. “No. Don’t be stupid. The beast will kill us right away if it sees their rider in our clutches. But…the bastard’s dragon. It’s a foul ill-tempered beast, isn’t it? Where is it?”

Vermax.

A protective wave washed through you and for a moment, you regained the little confidence you had before the man had laid his hand on you. “What do you want with the dragon? You are in no state to have a chance at killing him.”

They shared a look, both grinning viciously. One of them stepped up to you and touched your chin with his dirty hand, right where a fresh bruise from his violence bloomed. You tried to flinch away, but he held you close.

“We don’t mean to kill it, flower.” He told you, bloodthirst flickering over his features and making you sick. His knuckles brushed over the cut on your lip and you wanted to gag from disgust. “We’re going to watch as it kills you.”

Your mind was swimming as you led them through the darkness, watching their big shadows looming over your small own. The taller one still held his dagger against your waist and you knew he’d make use of it if he noticed you playing any games. There were wild beasts slumbering in the depths of these caves, but would they be faster at attacking your captors than the knife against your skin?

The hope in your chest thinned the further away you walked with them from where you knew your own dragon slept, but one last shimmer of it remained in you. You knew Vermax and he knew you just as Jacaerys did. You had to hold on to that.

“It’s here.” You announced quietly, your whisper echoing across the cave near the ocean. It was quiet here and you had to squint your eyes to make out the big nest at the end of the cave where a green-scaled dragon slept fitfully.

“Call it.” The smaller one muttered, his eyes fixed on the beast. You winced as the tip of the dagger pressed into your skin, a warning. “We will stand behind you and when it has come out, you will command it to kill you, you hear me? No tricks or I’ll gladly be the one to end your suffering, right after my friend here has had his fun with you, princess.”

You took a deep breath as they retreated into a safe distance.

„Naejot Māzīs, Vermax.“ You commanded shakingly and the sound of your familiar voice, the big pile of green and red in the corner of the cage moved, uncurling himself from his light slumber.

Jacaerys’ dragon blinked at you sleepily, a shudder going through his beautiful scales as he tilted his head to the side questioningly. When he spotted the two men in your company, he tensed, stepping forward and showing himself in his full height.

“Lykirī…“ You lifted your hands, trying to catch Vermax’ eyes again so he’d look at you instead of them.

With a low growl in his throat, he settled, stepping closer to you until his snout almost touched your outstretched hand.

“Say it, girl!” You heard the commanding voice behind you, in a safe distance of the beast that slowly blinked at you, considering. “We’re not going to wait much longer!”

You took a deep breath and looked Vermax in the snake-like eyes.

He met you with a calm stare, tilting his head to the side again, a deep rumble in his chest.

You had to trust in him now. You had to trust in the love Jacaerys and you were sharing and the bond between you and the dragons.

Out of the sudden, a heavy thrown stone hit you in the back and you gasped in pain, stumbling forward and almost slipping in a dirty puddle.

“DO IT!”

Trust in Vermax, just as you trust in your Jace.

“Dracarys.” You whispered finally and closed your eyes.

Vermax surged forward with a furious roar, one sharp claw in the ground, his wing shielding you from the scenery. Nearly pushing you out of the way, he advanced on the men who had threatened you with a snarl and warmth filled the large cave, fire burning low in his green-scaled stomach.

A horrible realization flickered over their faces as the green beast drew closer, their backs hitting the wall behind them as they looked at you one last time. “You fucking cunt-“

Vermax wiped out their miserable existence with one single breath of fire. Heat tore through the cave and you stumbled backwards as the dragon fire burned them and the scent of roasted human flesh reached your nose.

You squeezed your eyes shut and buried your face in your hands as you listened to their screams. Their agony bounced off the stone walls and heat crept down your spine, but Vermax kept you close, the leathery feel of his wing a small comfort against your skin.

Suddenly, silence rang in your ears.

You dared to peek up over the protective curl of Vermax’ wings.

Where your captors had stood, only ashes and bones remained.

Vermax let out a self-satisfied growl, clearly pleased with what he had unleashed on the terrors. He bent down, blinking at you with his sharp eyes as if to make sure you were alright. Tears, both from the shock and gratitude, filled your eyes and you leaned your forehead against his snout, trying to take deep breaths to steady yourself.

You shrunk back as you heard footsteps in the caves, hurried steps running over gravel and through the water puddles, a flame throwing a long shadow over the walls. You felt Vermax tense, his wing drawing itself tighter around you. Any other threat advancing, he’d burn to the ground.

In the next moment, Jacaerys stormed into the chamber, his sword drawn as his other hand held a lit torch. His chest was heaving, sweat gathering at his hairline as he quickly took in the state of the room. He looked like he had run the length of the castle and you knew it likely had been the case.

Vermax snarled without threat, greeting his rider and lifting his wing to present you to your love.

Your eyes met and you let out a shuddering breath.

The sight of you was a thousand daggers to his heart.

Your face was smeared with soot and the blood from your split lip coated your chin, your hair unruly and disheveled from the way they had grabbed and dragged you along. Your silk dress was dirty and you shivered against the cold of the cave as you slung your bruised arms around yourself.

Behind you, Vermax hovered like a protective shadow and waited, willing to serve with Jacaerys now here with you.

As he took a step towards you, his boot made contact with the skulls of the assassins. Two of them, he realized and the rage surging through his veins was all-consuming. He looked down at their bones and wished to go back in time to kill them himself, over and over again until not even these mortal remains stayed behind.

But his own bloodlust vanished as he raced towards you, your own legs unsteady and finally giving out under you just as he reached you.

He fell to the ground with you in his arms, holding you tightly as you clawed your hand in his clothes, his heart breaking for you right underneath your tight grip. It was like any last strength in you had left, leaving you a broken and sobbing mess in his embrace.

“You’re safe, you’re safe…” Jace murmured into your ear, softly swaying you back and forth as you wept, the adrenaline and shock from the situation finally crashing down on you with full force. “Nothing is going to happen to you, I’m here…”

The Queen and the dragon keepers found the prince and his princess just like this.

Jacaerys was kneeling on the ground, the princess dissolved in tears in his arms and the ill-tempered beast that had saved his love curled around them, chortling comfortingly as the prince stroked her hair and whispered sweet nothings in her ear.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

You had been escorted back to the castle, but you couldn’t say you remembered much from the journey. Your mind had gone into an odd state of survival, the girl from before the attack having retreated into a far corner of your mind.

The guards, now dead because of you, had been carried away in front of your door and you had stopped in the middle of the hallway, not able to go another step as you stared at the spot where maids were now scrubbing the blood from the floor.

“Come on, my dear.” Rhaenyra had gently told you and you tore your eyes away from the scene as your Queen and Jacaerys led you into his chambers instead. The warmth and unique scent of Jace’s quarters – the smell of old parchment and books, mingled with the wax of the candles and the smell of his sheets – enveloped you and you drew the cloak Jace had draped over your shivering form tightly around you.

Now, a little later, you were seated at Jace’s work table and blankly stared at your scraped hands in your lap.

Jacaerys had instantly expressed his dislike for an interrogation at this hour of the night, but you had shaken your head, willing to recount the situation to Rhaenyra as if words could wash away the poison they had brought onto you. Your skin felt coated with it and you feared the stain might never go away again.

Yet, you had told her and Jace what happened, slowly and quietly, and when you were done, Rhaenyra was holding your hand and Jacaerys looked as if he wanted to break something.

“My brave girl.” Rhaenyra murmured and softly cupped your cheek as she looked at the bruises on your face and neck. “You’ve fought enough for tonight, darling. I’ll call the maids and healers and-“

“No.” You cut her off, shivering at the prospect of unfamiliar hands on you, seeing the evidence of what had happened on your naked skin. You swallowed hard, your eyes filling with unshed tears again. “No one else. It’s- it’s alright, I can do it myself, I really can-“

Rhaenyra smiled sadly at you. “You are hurt, my dear.”

“I’m not broken.” You insisted, although you felt like it. You were shattered pieces on the ground.

“And no one says so, dear.”

Jacaerys, sensing you were on the verge of breaking down, knelt down next to your chair and caught your gaze with his. “I can help, if you want.” He offered quietly.

You looked back at him, conflicted. If Jace stayed, there’d come the point where he’d see the damage you had taken and you did not know what troubled you more; him seeing you like this or seeing him as his heart shattered for you.

“Jace.” Rhaenyra looked at him. “Perhaps a woman’s presence at this time is better suited for her. I’ll fetch you later, I promise, but she needs a moment for herself now, alright?”

He was tense, your beloved prince, but after a moment he nodded with a set jaw before he stood and looked at you one more time. “I’ll wait outside.”

You didn’t want to meet his sad expression, so you kept your gaze down as mother and son went to the door, talking in quick and hushed voices before Jace stepped outside and Rhaenyra returned to you.

She leaned down and brushed a little bit of soot from your cheeks, careful not to touch your split lip. “Vermax surely knows how to rain down fire on our enemies, hm?”

A weak smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “He saved me. He knew exactly what was going on the moment I entered and he was intelligent enough to play along until the right moment had come.”

Rhaenyra hummed, offering you a hand to stand up. “And still, they only call my son’s dragon ill-tempered. How does a bath sound? I’m sure you’d like to step into more comfortable clothes, wouldn’t you?”

You nodded, longing for a simple cotton shirt, preferably one of Jace’s that smelled like home and warmth and safety.

Your future mother-in-law went to the big bath next to Jace’s bedroom with you, a steaming bath already having been drawn for you.

When you saw her drawing a stool close to the tub, your eyes widened and you were quick to interject: “I-I can do it myself, Your Grace, there is no need for you to-“

“Please let me help you just as I would help any other child of mine.” She interrupted you kindly and soon after, you gratefully sunk into the bath, your sore muscles relaxing in its warmth.

Rhaenyra helped you tilt your head back and you closed your eyes as warm water flowed over your hair and down your neck, tears of your own silently running down your damp cheeks. Your throat bobbed painfully as you let her work, the Queen’s gentle hands a mother’s comfort as they helped to get rid of the dirt from the caves and a root clinging to your skin.

“I have sent Jace to fetch an ointment for your bruises and cuts.” She told you quietly and you nodded silently, cupping some of your water to rinse off your face, careful not to touch your throbbing lip. “I want you to tell me if I should send him away for the night. You can be honest with me, dear.”

You sniffled, gladly accepting the towel she lent you after helping you out of the bathtub. After a moment, you rasped: “It is not him I am scared of. It’s just…I know it pains him to see me hurt.”

“He hurts because he hasn’t been there for you, my dear.” Rhaenyra explained softly and you sighed to yourself as you slipped into a silken robe, the fabric easy on the big bruise on your back and arms. Underneath, you already wore one of Jace’s long shirts, the fabric more of a dress on you. “If it is one thing I have learned, as someone who loves and is lucky enough to be loved, it’s that healing means accepting the help of others. No one will fault you if you want to be for yourself tonight, but I know Jace will do anything he can to help you recover from this, no matter what that might look like.”

You did not want to be alone.

You feared it, laying down in bed once again when the door could open at any moment and reveal the terrors, although Jacaerys had doubled the amount of guards outside his door, simply so you’d feel safe.

You wanted to feel sheltered and able to move past this with the one you loved more than anything else, the one who had first thought about when your life had been in grave danger.

You needed Jacaerys.

“Jace may come in again.” You said quietly, suppressing the urge to groan with every step. You had not seen it yet, but the pain the stone thrown to your back caused felt like a flare and you were sure the spot was already turning a deep shade of purple.

Rhaenyra led you towards Jace’s bed, seemingly pleased with your decision. “I’ll make my leave then. Sleep in tomorrow, the both of you. You need all the rest you can get.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” You squeezed her hand in yours, bowing your head in gratitude. “And thank you for helping me.”

She smiled at you one last time, although there was a strain to it, her worry over a sneak attack like this consuming her mind. Tomorrow they’d speak about this in council, but tonight she’d let her son do the rest, his wide eyes meeting hers when she opened the door and let him in.

You turned around to look at him, your damp hair falling over your shoulder and his clothes, a princess despite the cuts and bruises on your skin. Jacaerys slowly walked to you and your heart stung when you noticed his blood-shot eyes and how pale he still was. He was tense all over, yet he softened as he came to a stop in front of you.

“Where does it hurt?” He asked quietly, looking for your honesty and not a false promise towards him.

You let out a shaky breath and leaned into him.

For a moment, you simply stood in front of each other, forehead against forehead and breathing each other in. Hot tears welled up in your shut eyes, his closeness rescuing and suffocating you at once. Jace’s nose touched yours and his soft curls tickled your cheeks and for a second, you thought that everything might be alright again when the morning came.

“My back. My cheek and wrists…” You whispered, your breath tickling his lips. “I know I’ve bathed and changed and I’m safe in your rooms, but…it feels like they’ve put me apart and I’ve been assembled back together wrongly.”

He shook his head, swallowing against his own lump in his throat. “You could never be wrong, my love.”

Your bottom lip wobbled dangerously, only doubling the pain in the cut grazing it. “I’ve been so scared, Jace. When they entered my room- Anything could’ve happened, they could’ve done anything to me-“

You gasped both in relief and sorrow as his arms pulled you against him, the hug both grounding and warm, something you thought you’d lost forever mere hours ago. You were too exhausted to cry once more, but the horror over what else could’ve been done to you shook you to your very core.

“I’m never going to let something like this happen again.” Jace promised you darkly as he tightened his arms around you, soothingly brushing his hand through your hair as you rested the unwounded side of your face against his heart. “You will never have to be afraid again, I promise. I should’ve been there, I should’ve stopped them-“

“You didn’t know they were here.” You reminded him, but you could feel the fury radiating off his body, an all-consuming rage deeply rooted in him. “No one did. No one is to blame except for the ones who sent them, Jace.”

“And they will pay.” You could practically feel the daggers he was glaring at the wall behind you. But just after a moment, you felt his anger deflate as he softly kissed the top of your head and gently lifted your chin so he could look at you. “You’ve been fighting all alone tonight, but I am here now and I want to be of use, beloved. Will you let me help?”

“I don’t want to upset you.” You almost bit your lip before you remembered the pain.

His gaze softened endlessly and he tucked a damp strand of your hair behind your ear. There were lots of tangled emotions inside of him still, but he saw you, this sweet delicate girl he had fallen for ever since the beginning and knew he had to take care of you now. “You could never upset me, my beautiful strong princess.”

The words were mending on your shaken soul and you closed your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before you let him to his work.

“The maester said the salve might be a little cool on the skin.” Jace murmured and you nodded in understanding. “And he gave me ice, scratched from the old side of the island’s cliffs, for your cheek.”

You took the dripping bundle from his hand, sighing as the cold cloth touched your cheek, the swelling subtle so far yet inevitable to strengthen throughout the night. But every bruise and cut on your body was better than not living to see the sun rise in the morning. “I could apply the salve on my own?”

Jace shook his head. “Let me do this for you.”

He walked with you to his bed, helping you sit down as he knelt before you, devotion shimmering in his eyes. You realized that he needed this just as much as you did, to prove himself he was able to take care of you now, even if he had not been there for you then.

He cupped your healthy cheek as you covered the other one with your ice. “Should we start with your back?”

Jace helped you lift the fabric, only so much so he could see where the stone had struck you, a dull bruise blossoming right next to your spine. It was nothing he had not yet seen so far, still you felt self-conscious under his attentive eyes.

You held very still as Jacaerys began to carefully apply the ointment to the bruise, his finger drawing soft and soothing circles over the blue spot. His other hand touched your waist, just barely underneath the fabric of his shirt on you and you closed your eyes as the cooling sensation drew a little pain from you and let it vanish.

“Good?”

“Feels good…” You murmured and tried to crawl into the feeling, the tiny relief washing away a little of the darkness from before. With a small kiss to your nape, he let the shirt fall and cover you again.

Next came your sore wrists. He lifted both of them, seeing the red marks where the tight rope had cut into your skin and swallowing hard. He wanted to unleash Vermax on the dusty bones of your captors again until their remains were annihilated from this earth. Jace softly kissed both of them before he dipped his fingers into the small jar again and repeated his careful motions.

You made a small sound in your throat and he stopped instantly.

“Too hard?”

You shook your head. “My lip…”

He sat down beside you, the mattress dipping underneath his weight and bringing you closer to him. The cut wasn’t pretty, but no cut was and you did not shy away from him as he took in the damage, one of his hands still rubbing circles into your wrist.

You held your breath as his coated thumb touched your bottom lip, his touch light as a feather as the cooling salve instantly mended the throbbing. Your hand reached up to hold his wrist, not ready yet to let him go when his touch felt infinitely good for your aching body. There was nothing sexual about the way you breathed against the pad of his thumb, relishing his care and simply letting it wash over you, and for a while you were simply content like this, Jacaerys remaining close to you as you breathed through the slowly ebbing pain.

“Do you want me to braid your hair for the night?” He asked quietly like he had so many times before.

Your wonderful beloved Jace. You nodded gratefully as he shuffled once more on the bed and sat behind you. Kissing the back of your head and brushing your hair over your shoulders for you, he got to work.

Your body was lulled into relaxation as his fingers combed through your hair, loosely braiding it so you wouldn’t have to wake up with tangles and knots in the morning. His warmth was a comfort against your back and if the vicious bruise hadn’t been there, you would’ve leaned back against him, ready to melt into his tenderness.

“Vermax saw right through them.” You spoke up after a while, your eyelids drooping from time to time from exhaustion as Jace finished up his braid for you. “He didn’t let them see at first, but there was a moment where I knew he was going to protect me, that he knew what was happening.”

“He loves you as if you were his own rider.” Jace mumbled, affection for you and his dragon in his voice. “I am glad he had been there for you when I wasn’t.”

“I want the finest sheep the shepherds can organize for tomorrow.” You looked over your shoulder with determination and Jacaerys frowned at you, a question in his eyes. You welcomed the small sting your lip caused you when its corner lifted up into a weak smile: “I want Vermax to be rewarded for defending his rider’s princess so honorably.”

“And I’d be honored to be the one to select it for you, my princess.” Jace’s face darkened, fury swirling in his brown orbs. “I still wish they would’ve suffered more. They deserved much more than a quick death of fire.”

His revengeful words were nothing against the soft touch with which he doted on you and when he was done and brushed his fingers once more over your hair, your body wanted to sink into his pillows and melt into them.

Jace laid down with you, carefully adjusting his position beside you so he wouldn’t accidently bump into your sore body. You exhaled deeply when your head touched his pillow, smelling so comfortingly of him. You could not bear to lie on your back, so you snuggled into Jace’s bed on your stomach, hugging his pillow and turning your head so you could look at your love.

He was resting on his side, his brown eyes searching for any discomfort you might have. Your eyes flickered over his shoulder, towards the door of his chambers.

“You are safe now, I promise.” Jace whispered and leaned forward, pressing a small kiss to your nose. “There are five guards outside and my sword leans against the bed. I’m here. Nothing bad will ever befall you again, my love, I swear it with my life.”

You gave him a tiny nod and tried to relax, although it was hard to keep the shadows lingering in the corners of the room at bay. You wiggled one of your hands out from under the pillow and found his, tugging him closer until his lean body warmed your side, one of his hands resting securely on your lower back.

“Tomorrow, I want to take a walk to the cliffs.” You whispered, longing for the fresh air and its cleansing effect.

Jacaerys smiled. “Then it will be arranged. Does my princess wish for any company?”

You nodded timidly, his playful undertone distracting you from the dull throb underneath the ointments. “And I want to have a picnic if the sun is out, with all my favorite things.”

“I’ll tell the kitchens then, first thing in the morning. They’ll be happy to please their future queen.”

“And when I’m healed, I want you to kiss me…” Your eyes drooped, the exhaustion from the night overpowering the little anxiety that remained in you.

“Your wish is my command...” Jacaerys mumbled back, his eyes on you as you slowly drifted off into a well-deserved sleep. He had not been entirely honest with you, there were many things he wanted to do.

He watched you sleep beside him, the most innocent sweet being he knew, covered with his warm clothes and bruises on your skin. Jace still held your hand and was not willing to let it go for the rest of the night.

At the soonest time, he’d convene a council meeting and strengthen the security around Dragonstone. He already had caught word of Daemon wreaking havoc on the guard unions patrolling around the castle for not being more attentive, for the princess was one of his favorite people in this family and Jace knew he’d have an ally for his cause.

He’d take his revenge for you.

But for now, he knew you needed him more than ever, and tomorrow he’d do his best to make you happy again. 

He could almost see it in the dark of the room, your eyes closed blissfully against the sunbeams, your hair dancing with the wind as you walked hand in hand as you had done so many times as children. You’d eat ripe peaches and cake and slowly, this incident would move past you until it was only what it was; a shadow in the corner, in the dead of night…

my taglist (open): @princesschimchim1325 @cecestea @jacesvelaryons @diannnnsss

[fandomgummi]

Carry our bodies safe to shore

☾︎ Summary - Jacaerys and reader go to battle in the Gullet. But when reader finds Jace, barely hanging onto the threads of life, she feels the looming dread that even the strongest can suffer and fall the hardest.

☾︎ Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen!fem!reader

☾︎ Authors notes - ahhh!! This is my first ever fic 😭 I'm scared but so excited bc I really like this one! Hopefully more to come, please be kind :) Reblogs and comments are appreciated! Maybe a part 2???

☾︎ Word count - 3,023

☾︎ Warnings - Targaryen!fem!reader, reader has white hair, reader rides vermithor, no specified relation to Jacaerys, Jace and reader are betrothed, injures, blood, ANGST, hurt/comfort, Jace does NOT die in this, slight fluff at the end, reader panicking almost the entire time 😭, guilt (reader), self blame (reader), I...think that's it.

Translations: Nuhys qēlos - My star. Ñuha jorāelā - My love. I'm too lazy to do the other ones 😭

❥・・┈┈┈༚༅༚˳.୨୧.˳༚༅༚┈┈・・❥

I'm not sure how long we've been out here. Time is but an illusion. Maybe it's been days. It feels Like it must have been. I feel like I'm looking through a warped glass window. Everything is blurry and it makes me dizzy, yet I can't look away. No matter how much I want to.

Smoke fills the air, obscuring my view and burning my eyes as the wind rushes through my ears. My hands tighten around the reins. Vermithor rumbles loudly. He senses my growing unease as I whip my head around. My gaze searches for Jace and Baela among the smoke. I swallow thickly as I rest a calming hand against his bronze scales.

"Lykirī, Vermithor." I say loud enough for him to hear. He grumbles lowly. "We'll find them soon. We just got split up." My voice trails off towards the end of my words.

The fumes make my throat tighten. A prickly sensation skitters up my spine. I yelp, yanking the reins to the side as one of the giant bolt arrows slices through the air toward Vermithor's side. He shrieks as he dives higher in the sky, narrowly missing the arrow. I'm thrown back into my seat as I grasp the saddle to stay upright.

"Rȳbās!"

More bolt arrows fly towards us. He flies towards the danger, turning left and right swiftly as shouts and screams become clearer the closer we get. I hold back a shriek when he slams his body through a ship, destroying the wood as it slices my cheek open. I feel warmth start to trickle down my skin. The cut stings.

Panic holds my chest in a vice, squeezing until I can't breathe as I look back at the damage. He breathes fire across more ships, more enemies. I can't hear anything except the blood rushing in my ears.

"Dohaerās! We have to find—"

A shriek fills the air, making a harsh wave of fear cover me like a cloak. I know that sound, that's Vermax, sweet, gentle, Vermax. He's in pain, such a great deal of pain that it makes tears prick my eyes. I yank the reins to turn my dragon around as we fly toward the sound.

Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay.

I feel bile rise in my throat. My trembling hand finds its way to my stomach, as if that action alone can keep me from losing my composure.

"Jace?" I shout. Fuck. I feel like I'm going to be sick when my eyes catch a head of brown curls.

Sinking in the water. The bolt arrows are lodged in his scales, his wails go quieter and more hoarse as his limbs grow more sluggish.

"Go, go now, Vermithor!" I urge him on as the wind slaps me in the face. He sails downward towards them, but it's too slow. Too fucking slow. Vermithor dodges the arrows as we get closer. Closer.

"I'm here, I'm here! I'm—"

When you love someone, you would be willing to die for them. Kill for them. With no regard for anything other than knowing that they are safe. I have never known the feeling of a loved one's blood on my skin. The thought makes my skin feel uncomfortably tight. So when that first arrow pierced his skin, I could do nothing but watch. I wanted to scream. I wanted to lay waste to those who hurt him because he doesn't deserve it. He deserves to be at home, safe and warm with his family until he grows old. He doesn't fucking deserve it. Not... not here.

"Jace!" I'm not sure if that was the scream I let out or not. I can't tell.

Calm down. Fucking focus! Get him. Go get him.

Then the second arrow hits.

Then the third.

I cry out. It feels like someone ripped out my lungs and shredded them apart then stuck them back in and expected me to breathe easily.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

The ancient beast slams into the water. The salty water sprays my face, the contact freezing against my skin. I unclasp the hooks on my saddle as I slide down his scales. I don't care about safety. All I can think about is him. I reach out, my fingers extending farther as I grab at his vest. My hand slips. Vermithor growls lowly, catching my attention. I have to hurry, or we'll both be dead.

I try not to cry. The tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I choke on the sobs that threaten to fall past my lips.

I give a determined shout as I grab him by the shoulders, yanking him up with all my strength. I feel like my arms are tearing as I clench my jaw. I hold him closely once I manage to get him up. I pant harshly as I rest my cheek against his soaked curls. I squeeze my eyes shut. My body is shaking so violently that I feel my teeth chatter. My stomach rolls at the sight of him. I gag at the scent of his blood. Vermithor assists in helping both of us back into the saddle, sinking himself lower into the ocean.

"Sōvēs." I let out. My voice is hoarse.

Vermithor launches off the water. The force makes a wave that crashes over a few ships around us. I hold onto Jace tightly to keep him from falling before I'm jerked to the side. The ancient beast lets out a pain-filled wail as the bolt arrow sticks out of his side.

"No, no! Sōvēs! Vēzot Sōves!" My voice cracks. He tries to obey, flapping his wings as he travels higher. A flash of shadow zips right past us, ripping the rope from the arrow. Baela looks back. A mixture of panic and despair paints her warm features when her eyes land on Jacaerys.

"We have to go back to Dragonstone!" I shout over the wind. She nods, leading the way on Moondancer. I look back down. Brown eyes meet mine as I swallow harshly. They're half-lidded, tracing over my face like he's committing it to memory.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

"You're okay now." I grit out, my hands tightening around his shoulders. "I'm here now. You're safe."

I brush back his wet hair that is sticking to his forehead with shaking fingers.

I'll keep him safe. I think. I'll shield him from the pain and sorrow that comes with war. I will take every arrow, every sword blow, even if I die by dragon fire. I would for him, because he isn't just a prince or the heir to the throne. He's Jace. Kind and gentle and good. I feel tears slip down my cheeks, creating a pathway through the dirt and blood.

Because I love him.

I feel the pad of his fingers brush against the tears staining my cheeks. The color is draining from his face, growing paler. The sight makes me nauseous.

"Don't cry, Ñuha jorāelā," he whispers, his tone weak and breathy. His chest is rising and falling too quickly. His breathing is shallow. I shake my head repeatedly.

"Don't speak. Save your strength." I stammer. I ignore the blood that's soaking through his vest. I ignore the way his skin is too cold against mine. It may be selfish of me. It is.

"You're bleeding."

"I'm okay. Hey, hey, hey. Don't close your eyes, okay? Just look at me." I guide his head toward mine. I press my forehead against his as I run a soothing hand through his damp curls. I press a trembling kiss to the side of his head. He murmurs my name. I pull back to meet his eyes.

I expect to see pain, anger, anything. But all I see is love. He's looking at me like I hung the moon and stars just for him, and I can't handle it. I feel sick. I feel like it's my fault.

"Don't... don't blame yourself." My eyes flick back up to meet his. Dragonstone is just coming into view.

"Don't say that like you're dying. You're not." I say forcefully. My hands are trembling as I press a hand to one of his wounds. He grunts roughly. I whisper soft apologies into his hair as I hold him close.

"Please don't take him." I whisper. I don't know who I'm speaking to. The gods, the ocean, the fucking sky. "We have already lost too much. Don't take him too. He doesn't deserve it."

I plead and plead until my voice grows hoarse and my words get stolen in the wind. I beg the gods, or whoever is listening, to not take him from me because it wouldn't be fair. Because he's still young, and he deserves to see a realm that is peaceful and safe. I beg until the tears have crusted on my cheeks and my heart has been stomped on. I beg until his heart grows more faint and slow. I beg once we land in Dragonstone and the maesters pry him from my arms.

I even began to pray to the old and new gods like a child, pleading with them, cursing them, making deals, anything.

I feel like I brought a corpse to his mother's feet.

The dragonkeepers lead away Vermithor to tend to his wounds.

I sit there for what feels like hours. My back is against a stone wall. I sit there waiting across the hall. My knees are up to my chest, my riding leathers still slightly damp. My head starts to lean forward, my eyes fluttering closed before I snap them open.

I can't sleep until I know he's alive.

The maesters tried to clean my wounds, but I refused each time. After the sixth attempt, I caved. Rhaenyra told me she would stay with Jacaerys. She urged me to go eat, or at least take a bath. I said nothing. Baela understood, in a way. She sat with me for the first hour, but then she jokingly remarked about how much she stunk of dragon as she rose to go take a bath. A maid passed by, offering sweet cakes. I declined, knowing that if I ate something, it would just come right back up.

And then I was alone.

Alone with my thoughts, which is worse when the thoughts could become true this time.

I repeat his name like a mantra out loud. Quietly. Oh so quietly, but the guards still glance my way. As if, by keeping repeating it, I'll somehow keep his heart beating by speaking his name over and over. Seeing the arrows strike his body is something that will never leave my sight. It will haunt me for the rest of eternity. Every time I close my eyes, I see the image behind my eyelids. I'm sure it will be in my nightmares tonight and every night after, but I would bear the burden if it meant his pain would ease and that his dreams would be peaceful.

Some time ago, I dozed off. I knock my head against the wall with a wince. Baela appears at my side, a tired smile plastered across her lips.

"He's alright. They did the most they could."

I attempt to spring up onto my feet. My legs feel fuzzy as I lose my balance, but Baela grips my forearms to stabilize me. I smile weakly as I hurry past her as quickly as I can. I walk into his bedchambers. The room smells of frankincense and salt.

My breathing hitches once my gaze lands on Jace. The arrows that were protruding from his body when I held him are gone. His riding leathers are gone, replaced with bandages around his chest. His lower half is covered in a soft, silk red blanket. His skin is still pale, but he's breathing more slowly now. My heart pounds relentlessly against my ribcage as I slowly make my way toward him.

"He's strong." I turn my head to the side to see Rhaenyra. She looks exhausted but less tense than before. Her violet eyes are soft as she goes to sit on the foot of the bed. She's still in her riding leathers from before, before we left to fight in the Gullet. I wince. She smiles slightly.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace." I whisper, I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for. Leaving her here, disobeying her, bringing back her half-dead son—

"You brought him back," she murmurs. I look back at him, he looks like he's still in pain. His brows are pinched together, but otherwise he looks peaceful. At least I hope he's peaceful. I scoff bitterly.

"Not fast enough." Her hand grasps mine, gentle.

"Do not speak like that. You brought him back and that is enough." It's quiet for a few aching moments. The guilt gnaws at me.

"Leaving was wrong. Keeping me in my bedchambers was wrong," she says. I purse my lips. "What you did could be seen as treason."

I look away from her, shame filling my gut.

"But," she starts. "You fought fearlessly, and you brought back my son." She pauses, pursing her lips. Her voice grows quiet. "I've already lost a son. I didn't need to lose another." My frown softens as I squeeze her hand gently. She stands up from the bed. She squeezes my shoulder before walking past.

"I'll give you both privacy."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

It's silent. I let out a deep sigh as I sit on the ground near the bed. I hesitate as my hand hovers over his. I gently interlock our fingers as I press them against my lips. Tears prick my eyes as my throat tightens.

"I'm sorry I didn't get there fast enough." I whisper against his skin. I rest my forehead against his leg as I let out a shaky breath. "I... I tried."

I feel a hand fall on top of my head, weak but still there. I practically deflate against him as tears collect on my eyelashes. My breathing hitches as he rubs soothingly down my back. this is ridiculous. I'm supposed to be comforting him.

"Oh, Jace. I thought—fuck—I thought—" He shushes me gently. I choke on a sob, my voice brittle. My body begins to tremble uncontrollably as he weakly tugs on my hand.

"Lay with me, Nuhys qēlos." His voice is gentle, not possessive, but so soft it makes me want to curl up in his arms.

"I can't," I breathe out, albeit sharply. "I don't want to hurt you further—"

He murmurs my name again, and I shake my head vigorously. But I let him guide me. I let him tug me into the bed and into his uninjured side. And when I feel the warmth and the solidity of him, my tears turn into sobs.

He grabs my hand gently—so gently—and holds it against his chest, right against his heart. I pull back, not wanting to hurt him, but he holds firmly.

Tears still slip down my face at a rapid pace, but I calm slightly once I feel the gentle thump, thump of his heart. It's consistent and strong, and fuck, it makes me fall apart all over again. because I felt his heart fading in my hands, and if I was even a second too late, he wouldn't be alive. My breathing stutters as his thumb rubs back and forth across my skin.

"I'm here." He says it with so much conviction that I want to believe him. So I let myself breathe in his calming scent. I let myself sniffle and hiccup as I focus on his heartbeat. "I'm here now, and I am not going to leave you."

I rest my head gently in the crook of his neck, careful of the bandage around his shoulder, as he wraps a tender arm around my waist.

"Are you okay?"

He smiles weakly. "I'm better. I'm alright now."

"Thank you for saving me." He whispers, pressing a sweet kiss to my forehead. I say nothing. I can't say anything as a lump forms in my throat.

He's my lungs, my heart, the very air I breathe. He's the wind through the trees, the waves crashing against the shore, the warmth of the sun. He's the wildflowers growing in the fields. His smile alone could bring light to the darkness.

Because if I had to burn the realm down, I would do it gladly if it meant he would be warm.

"Stay?"

I raise my head from the safety of his neck. I meet his soft brown eyes — dark and inviting, and oh so warm. When the light hits them just right, they're a pool of soft honey.

"I'm here," I whisper. I brush my thumb across his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed. "I'll stay."

He nods, and I go back to burying my face into his skin. It's quiet for a few moments. I draw gentle patterns on his bandaged chest. I hear him laugh quietly. I raise a brow as I hum in question.

"You smell of dragon. And blood."

I let out a small laugh at that.

"I suppose I do."

But I don't make any moves to get up, and neither does he. We stay like that until the sky darkens and our breathing slows. My eyes are half-lidded as I exhale quietly.

"Jace?" I mumble.

"Hm?" I feel his thumb tracing soft patterns back and forth on my hip.

"I love you."

He looks down at me, and I meet his gaze. He presses a kiss against my forehead, letting his lips linger for a few moments.

"I love you too." His voice raw as he whispers the words against my skin.

We fall asleep, me dirtying the sheets in the bed that I'm sure the handmaids will gossip and complain about. But I let the sound of his heartbeat lull me to sleep, knowing he is safe. And I will keep it that way, even if I have to fight the gods themselves.

But for now, we will rest.

(please do NOT steal my writing in any way or rewrite it. don't post it on other sites or feed it through ai, I WILL find you if you do.)

[jacefiles]

YOUR PROMISE | J.V

Synopsis: The third arrow strikes, sealing the fate of Jacaerys Velaryon… except he wakes up in a world without dragons, convinced it was only a dream. Or was it? Because there is one promise his soul never forgot, and somehow… yours remembers it too.

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!Reader

Genre: reincarnation au, modern!jacaerys, established relationship

Warning: None tbh its just fluff (coping mechanism🥹), there is no specific description of reader so enjoy, no aegon or viserys, Rhaenyra is married to Laenor but its platonic, inaccurate description of battle of the gullet? (I tried-).

A/N: I recently got into HOTD and then I lost my favourite character aka Jace. I made this blog so I can be delulu about him 😭. Also half of this is me word vomiting🥴.

Word Count: 10.1k

- English is not my first language so / apologise in advance for any mistakes or typos!

The sea did not merely roll that day, it burned.

Fire danced with a horrific, erratic grace across the blackened waters of the Gullet, transforming the vital shipping lane into a sprawling, floating graveyard. Flames leapt from ship to ship in hungry arcs, feeding on timber and pitch and the desperate prayers of drowning men. Beneath the merciless onslaught of Team Black’s dragons, mighty Triarchy war-galleys splintered like kindling, their hulls cracking open to swallow their crews whole. Great masts toppled into the waves with the slow, theatrical finality of falling monuments. And yet, this was no easy victory. No clean triumph etched into the history books with golden ink. Below, Lord Corlys Velaryon’s fleet fought with everything it had, attempting to trap the armada in the narrow, choking passage, buying time in blood and smoke and screaming iron.

The atmosphere was a living thing, a suffocating shroud woven from the sharp salt tang of brine, the acrid bite of billowing smoke, the unmistakable iron-sweetness of fresh blood, and the sickening, almost honeyed stench of burning pitch. It coated the throat and burned the eyes.

High above the carnage, roaring through the roiling tempest of fire and ash, rode Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.

He sat astride Vermax like a man born to the sky because he was. The great emerald dragon cut through the smoke-choked air like a gleaming blade, his scales catching the hellish firelight below, wings spread wide. Jace’s riding leathers were already dark with spray and soot. His dark curls whipped against his face. He did not notice. His eyes were fixed on the battle, calculating and measuring, feeling the terrible weight of command settle across his shoulders with the intimacy of something he had worn all his life.

He had locked his mother in her chambers at Dragonstone before leaving. Had stood outside the door and listened to her pound against it, her voice cracking on his name. The sound had nearly unmade him entirely. But she was the queen. She was the cause. She could not be lost, and Jacaerys Velaryon had long since made peace with the arithmetic of that.

She lives. Therefore, I go.

Beside him, Baela streaked across the smoke on Moondancer fierce and brilliant, her silver hair streaming behind her like a war banner. And then, piercing through the mist like something half-imagined, a new silhouette emerged. Jace’s eyes snapped to it. His stomach lurched with shock before his heart swelled with a pride so fierce it nearly hurt.

Rhaena. Flying the wild dragon Sheepstealer.

Of course she was.

Together they were three dragons raining hell from the heavens, and for one blazing, exhilarating moment, Jace believed they might actually win this despite Sheepstealer almost knocking him out. He watched their collective fire devastate Admiral Lohar’s vanguard below, great tongues of flame consuming the armada’s leading ships, sending men screaming into the sea. He felt the savage triumph of it. The rightness.

Then the heavy, rhythmic thrum of scorpions began.

Massive iron bolts tore through the clouds around them. The Triarchy fleet was enormous, he had known this, had known it academically the way one knows a thing from maps and reports but knowing it and watching it materialize below him in all its terrible scale were entirely different experiences.

He pressed Vermax into a steep, dangerously low dive.

Below, through the roiling chaos, Jace had spotted Lord Corlys’s flagship being violently rammed by Lohar’s vessel. The silver-haired sea snake, his grandfather by every measure that mattered, surrounded and struggling. Jace made his decision in the space of half a breath. He would break the enemy lines. He would fly low. He would end this.

He flew too close to the water.

His focus had narrowed to a single burning point, the ships, the threat, the duty and so he did not hear the volley until it was already too late.

A heavy iron shaft sliced violently through the membrane of Vermax’s right wing with a sound like tearing cloth and screaming metal fused together. Another slammed directly into the dragon’s chest with a concussive, world-shaking force that Jace felt through every bone in his body.

Vermax screamed.

The sound ripped through Jace like a physical blade. Not a roar, not the magnificent, terrible declaration of a dragon in battle. A scream. Raw and agonizing and so deeply personal that Jace felt his own lungs seize in sympathy, as though the bolt had pierced him too. The great emerald body shuddered beneath him. The massive wings faltered, losing the steady rhythm that held them aloft. The world tilted.

They were falling.

“No-”

Jace yanked desperately on the reins, his boots straining hard against the stirrups, body thrown forward as the sea rushed upward to meet them with terrifying speed. Wind screamed past his ears. The fire and the smoke and the battle became a chaotic blur of sensation.

“Vermax, fly!”

The dragon fought. Even now, even broken and burning, Vermax fought. A beast born of fire, refusing absolutely to yield to the water. One wing beat heavily, then another. The torn membrane fluttered uselessly, a tattered rag of what it had been, but still Vermax tried, and something in Jace’s chest shattered at the sight of it.

“Soves!” His voice broke on the word, all royal dignity stripped away, reduced to something raw and helpless and very young. “Soves, Vermax! Please-”

One final, agonizing beat of the wings.

It was not enough.

Freezing, brine-heavy water swallowed Jacaerys Velaryon whole. It was not like diving, it was like being struck by the earth itself, like the sea had become solid in the last instant before collision, and he felt the shock travel up through his ankles, his knees, his spine, rattling his teeth in his skull. The sheer velocity of the crash tore his fingers from the saddle. The weight of his armor dragged at him immediately, a slow, patient, lethal pull downward into the dark.

Primal instinct flared.

He unhooked himself and practically clawed upward. His lungs burned. The cold was absolute, the kind that doesn’t feel cold at all but rather feels like being unmade, like the sea was simply erasing him a layer at a time. He could see nothing, only dark water and distant fire and the enormous bulk of Vermax somewhere below him, a shadow become a nightmare. He burst through the surface with a gasp so violent it tore his throat.

“Vermax!”

He spun in the churning water, hair plastered to his face, salt burning his eyes. The battle raged on around him, ships groaning and splitting, men screaming, iron raining from all directions. The world had not paused for him.

“Vermax!”

Through the haze of cresting waves, he found him. His dragon, his Vermax, who had carried him since boyhood, who had grown as he had grown, who had been as much a part of him as his own heartbeat was desperately trying to swim. The damaged wings beat uselessly to try to swim up. His great neck was straining upward. His eyes, when they met Jace’s from below the water, held something that a person with less grief in them might have dismissed as imagination. They did not look like the eyes of an animal.

They looked like the eyes of someone saying goodbye. A massive anchor, or debris, Jace could not tell which, tangled around Vermax’s exhausted body. The sea accepted its offering. With a final, sorrowful look that Jacaerys Velaryon would carry with him for the rest of his life.

He never resurfaced.

Something inside Jace broke. Not cracked. Not bent. Broke, the way an old bone breaks, the kind that doesn’t ever quite knit back the same way. He hauled his upper body onto a large piece of floating wreckage with the determination of a body that had not yet received the message from his mind that none of this mattered anymore. His chest heaved in ragged, desperate gasps. He was shaking. He was exhausted in a way that reached all the way down into whatever part of him had believed, until this moment, that he might survive this.

He had not brought enough of that belief. He saw that now.

He thought of his mother.

The image of her face, proud and terrified and trying not to show either rose unbidden. He had done this for her. Had done all of it for her. He hoped she would understand, someday, that locking her in her chambers had been the most love he had ever offered anyone.

He thought of Baela. Of Rhaena.

He thought of-

A sharp, dull impact struck his upper back.

Jace lurched forward with a sound that was almost nothing, barely a breath. Confused, of all things, not yet understanding, he glanced over his shoulder. A heavy crossbow bolt protruded from his shoulder blade at an angle that his mind catalogued with strange, distant calm, the way one notices a detail in a painting.

Slowly, numbly, he turned his head toward the source. A Triarchy war-galley drifted just yards away. Lined along the wooden railing stood a row of Admiral Lohar’s soldiers, unhurried, methodical, their crossbows leveled at the figure in the water.

They knew exactly who he was. There was no urgency in their posture, no battlefield fever. This was an execution.

The heir to the Iron Throne, stranded and defenseless. A second bolt flew. It slammed into his chest. He heard it before he felt it.

Then a third...straight to the neck.

A strange, sudden calm washed over him.

The deafening roar of the battle receded, becoming muffled, distant, the way sounds narrow when one goes underwater. The sea rocked him gently now, almost tenderly, as if it had been waiting all along to offer this small mercy at the end. He had not expected kindness. He was grateful for it.

He thought of his mother, safe on Dragonstone.

He thought of Baela’s laughter.

He thought of his brothers.

And he thought with a softness that surprised him, with something that might have been the very last warmth his body could generate, of you. Of a future that would not be built. Of a promise he was not sure, now, that he had ever been given the chance to make.

The last image to imprint itself on the fading mind of Jacaerys Velaryon was that reflection.

A burning sky, mirrored in the water.

Beautiful.

Tragic.

Then everything went black.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Jacaerys bolted upright with a gasp that felt like surfacing.

His eyes flew open. His hand flew to his chest and then to his neck, pressing hard against his sternum, feeling for something, a wound, an absence, a bolt buried in bone and found nothing but the soft cotton of his t-shirt and the solid, living rhythm of his own heart. He sat there for a long moment, chest heaving, and simply stared at the ceiling.

White plaster. Crown moulding. A small water stain shaped vaguely like a continent.

No smoke.

No dragon.

No sea.

No battle.

Just a bedroom. His bedroom.

Morning sunlight filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows in long, clean shafts, illuminating the warm disorder of his life: the desk buried under business textbooks and notebooks with pages dog-eared and margins crowded with his handwriting, his laptop open from the night before with a lecture slide still visible on the screen, a hoodie slung over the back of his desk chair. Outside the windows, King’s Landing stretched endlessly in the early light, the city already stirring, glass towers catching the sun.

His alarm clock flashed 7:00 AM.

No swords or the banners of House Targaryen. Jace pressed the heels of both palms against his eyes and breathed.

The memories were still there. That was the wrong word for them, memories. They did not feel like the soft, dissolving stuff of ordinary dreams that faded on the edges as soon as you tried to examine them. They felt like the other kind of remembering, the kind that lives in the body rather than the mind. He could still feel the cold of the Gullet in his fingers. He could still smell the smoke. He could still feel the weight of dragon-riding leathers across his shoulders, the particular pull of Vermax’s movement through the air, the way the saddle had sat against the backs of his thighs.

He could still feel the bolts.

Just a dream, he told himself. The words felt inadequate in his own mouth, like trying to describe a storm with the word weather. He muttered them anyway, pressing his face harder into his palms.

“Just a dream.”

A dream where he had been a prince.

A prince who had died.

His stomach dropped with a physical lurch. The alarm was still beeping. He silenced it with a slap and sat on the edge of the bed for one more moment, just one, breathing in the ordinary scent of his ordinary room.. Then his brain supplied the information he had been avoiding.

Classes.

Shit.

He was already late.

He moved through his morning routine with the efficiency of someone running on instinct rather than thought, shower, clothes, a cursory battle with his curls that ended, as it always did, in a draw. He emerged from the bathroom in jeans and sneakers and his favorite dark hoodie, his hair doing exactly what it wanted. There wasn’t time to argue with it. There was rarely ever time.

The smell of coffee reached him in the hallway. It pulled at something in his chest and he followed it through the penthouse to the kitchen.

His steps halted in the doorway.

Rhaenyra stood at the island counter, reading something on her tablet with the focused, slightly stern expression she wore when she was processing information she found annoying. A coffee mug steamed beside her elbow, forgotten. She was already dressed soft grey, elegant, effortlessly so in the way that had always seemed to come naturally to her and she looked exactly as she always looked in the morning, tired by all the corporate bullshit.

CEO of Targaryen Corporation. One of the most influential women in King’s Landing. The most formidable person he had ever known.

His mother.

The word hit him somewhere unsteady. Something twisted painfully in his chest, relief so acute it nearly hurt, threaded through with the dreaming grief of a boy who had watched her face in his mind as the water closed over him, who had spent his last conscious moment believing she was safe, needing her to be safe, and had been right without ever knowing he was right. He crossed the room before he had consciously decided to.

He wrapped his arms around her.

Rhaenyra nearly dropped her coffee.

“Jacaerys-”

She caught herself, setting the mug down with a firm clink on the marble countertop, and then without hesitation, because she had always been this, whatever else she was, she wrapped her arms around him and held him back.

“Sweet boy.” Her voice was softer now. Her fingers found their way into his curls the way they had when he was very small. “What’s the matter?”

Jace swallowed against the tightness in his throat. The dream came rushing back through him like a tide, the war, the weight of a crown his mother should have inherited without blood, the desperate, bone-deep need to protect her. The image of her face as he had walked away from Dragonstone, toward the dragon, toward the battle, toward the Gullet. The way he had looked back.

He shook his head against her shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

“You are clearly not fine.”

Her hand moved in slow, soothing circles against his back. Despite himself, despite everything, Jace felt something in him begin to loosen.

He laughed. A weak, slightly broken sound, but genuine. “I just…” His voice cracked on the nothing he was trying to say.

Rhaenyra pulled back slightly to look at him. Not the way she looked at her board of directors, or at rivals across conference tables, or at the city from thirty floors up. The other way. The private way, that only he and his brothers ever saw.

“What happened?”

He wiped his eyes quickly, hoping she wouldn’t comment on it and took a breath.

“I had the most vivid dream.”

“What kind of dream?”

He hesitated. There was something strange about saying it. As though speaking about it aloud would make it either more real or less, and he wasn’t sure which outcome he wanted.

“I was a prince,” he said.

Rhaenyra blinked. Whatever she had been expecting, it was not that.

“A prince?”

“Yeah.” A small smile found its way onto his face, unwilling, almost involuntary. “You were a queen.” Something passed across her expression something soft, something she would never have allowed in a meeting room. “Oh?”

“I died fighting a battle for you.”

Silence.

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she reached up and brushed a curl from his forehead with the gentleness that had no performance in it, something she reserved for the three of them and no one else.

“Well,” she said finally, her smile warming to something that was almost, almost teasing. “That sounds exhausting.”

Jace stared. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“You are standing in my kitchen wearing yesterday’s hoodie and telling me about dragon wars, Jacaerys.”

He opened his mouth to protest then closed it. “Fair.” She squeezed his shoulder. “It was only a dream.”

“You know,” said a new voice from the doorway, “some families start their mornings with good morning.”

Luke wandered in carrying a cereal box like a trophy, nineteen years old and permanently, professionally smug. He surveyed the scene with the cheerful heartlessness of a younger brother who had found ammunition and intended to use it.

“Did Jace finally lose his mind?”

Behind him, Joffrey, fourteen and grinning with the particular delight of someone who had been waiting for this squeezed past into the kitchen. “About time.” Jace rolled his eyes so hard it was almost an athletic achievement. “There he is.”

“Dreaming about being a prince?” Luke plucked a bowl from the cupboard with casual ease. “That’s because you’re already treated like one.”

The napkin Jace threw hit him square in the face. Luke threw it back. Rhaenyra sighed with the air of a woman who had calculated exactly how many more years of this lay before her and found the number disheartening.

“My sons,” she said, picking up her coffee. “Truly intellectual giants.”

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

Breakfast passed with the comfortable velocity of mornings that had been rehearsed through repetition until they ran themselves. Luke complaining about something, Joffrey eating cereal in quantities that defied his size, Rhaenyra reading from her tablet while simultaneously tracking all three of them with the peripheral attention of someone who had never once been entirely off duty.

Jace was reaching for his coffee when Rhaenyra glanced up.

“Are you still picking up your girlfriend?”

He froze.

The coffee cup remained halfway to his face, arrested in mid-air.

“…My what?”

Luke’s head snapped up. The expression that crossed his face was one of pure, unalloyed joy. He looked like he had been handed a gift.

Rhaenyra stared at her eldest with the patient, faintly incredulous expression of a woman who had not expected to be performing this particular reality check on a Tuesday morning.

“Your girlfriend.”

“Oh.” Jace set the cup down carefully. “Right.”

You.

He had a girlfriend.

A beautiful girlfriend, and she was his girlfriend, and she had been his girlfriend for- he was briefly lost in the arithmetic of it, which was itself a kind of answer and she was wonderful, she was brilliant, she made him laugh, and somehow in the space between waking up with the sea in his lungs and standing in his mother’s kitchen in yesterday’s hoodie, he had momentarily forgotten she existed.

And then, because his brain was apparently in full catastrophic mode this morning: betrothed. Not yet. Not technically. But the word had been sitting in the back of his mind ever since he woke up from his dream.

Heat flooded his face with spectacular completeness. Luke nearly choked on his cereal.

“Oh my God.”

“Shut up.”

“You forgot your girlfriend.”

“Only briefly.”

“Only” Luke dissolved entirely, shoulders shaking. Across the table, Joffrey watched with the dignified appreciation of a connoisseur.

Rhaenyra shook her head slowly. “Honestly, Jace.” “It was a very intense dream,” he said, with as much dignity as one can muster while slowly turning the color of a sunset.

“You forgot your girlfriend.”

“The dream had dragons, Mum.”

She gave him the look. The specific look, the one that had been making him feel twelve years old since he was actually twelve years old. “She’s a lovely girl. I wish you’d bring her home more often.”

Jace stood from the table with the decisive energy of a man drawing a conversation to a close. “I was planning to.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Today?”

“…Possibly.”

“Good.” Rhaenyra returned to her tablet, the slight smile at the corner of her mouth saying everything she was too dignified to say aloud.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

The underground parking garage was cool and dim, smelling of concrete and oil and the expensive quiet of a building where people took the lift rather than the stairs. Jace’s Porsche sat in its usual spot, Oak Green Metallic, catching the fluorescent light.

Vermax.

He had named the car Vermax which now sounded so ionic to him.

He stood beside the driver’s door for a moment, hand on the handle, the thought arriving fully formed and then sitting there in his chest with an odd weight. He had named his car Vermax years ago. He had thought it was because he liked the sound of it, or because it was the name of a character in a book he’d read, or because of some half-remembered reason that had never quite solidified into anything coherent.

He looked at the car. The deep green of it. The long, low lines of it, built for speed, built for the sky-

Built for the sky.

A strange feeling settled over him, the kind of not-quite-vertigo that comes with recognizing something without being able to name what it is you’re recognizing. Like seeing an old friend across a crowd before you’ve registered their face.

He shook it off. Got in and drove.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

The street outside your house was quiet in the way that Tuesday mornings in King’s Landing occasionally managed to be, with the morning light that made ordinary things seem briefly considered. Jace pulled to the curb and sat for a moment with the engine idling, window down.

Then the front door opened and you stepped out. He got out of the car.

The morning light caught your hair the way it always did, making you look almost angelic in Jace’s eyes in that moment. You were still in the act of adjusting the strap of your bag when you spotted him, and the smile that crossed your face. Happy just to see him.

And for one strange, suspended moment, another image overlapped the morning like a transparency laid over a photograph. A figure standing on the cliffs of Dragonstone. The sea grey below and the wind pulling at dark fabric. Watching him leave. The expression on her face, your face, heartbroken and resolute and trying to be neither.

Waiting for him to come back.

The image dissolved as quickly as it had arrived. The morning reasserted itself. You were walking toward the car, your bag settled on your shoulder now, your smile still in place, and Jace found himself already stepping forward already moving toward with certainty that was less decision than gravity.

Before you could say a word, he took your hand and raised it, and pressed a kiss against your knuckles. Deliberatea and unhurried. Like he’d done it a thousand times before, in other rooms, in other centuries.

“How are you, my beloved?”

You stopped.

Looked at the hand.

Looked at him.

And then, because you were you, you laughed, the bright, surprised sound of someone caught genuinely off guard. “What has gotten into you this morning?” you questioned him.

Jace grinned, and the grin felt more like him than anything else had all morning. “I genuinely have no idea.”

“You’re being sooo weird.” You studied him with the narrowed eyes trying to grasp his words and actions. “How weird is this going to get?”

“I had the wildest dream.”

“Oh?” Already your expression was shifting into the one you wore when you were preparing to be entertained. He leaned forward and kissed you softly quick, warm and certain.

“In it,” he said against your smile, “you were my princess too.”

Your cheeks went pink with entirely gratifying speed. “Oh my God.”

“You asked.”

“I asked what was wrong with you, not-”

“Details.”

“Jacaerys Velaryon, I am going to need you to be normal for the next five minutes-”

“I make no promises.”

He opened the passenger door for you, still grinning, and the morning felt lighter than it had when he’d left the penthouse.

The dream wasn’t entirely terrible, he thought, settling behind the wheel. If nothing else, it had done this, sharpened his vision, made ordinary things brilliant again. Made you more vivid than you’d already been, which was saying something considerable. He found himself smiling the entire drive to university.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

University should have felt normal.

Instead, Jace spent the entire morning convinced he was losing his mind by degrees as new details of his dream would hit him.

The dream lingered with a persistence that ordinary dreams did not have, the kind he usually forgot by the time he reached the kitchen. This one clung. Every corridor he walked reminded him of castle hallways, the echo of footsteps on stone, and the smell of torch smoke. Every crowded lecture hall conjured the geometry of noble courts; the subtle theatre of power performed through proximity. His Strategic Management lecture had an entire section on resource allocation that kept pulling his thoughts sideways, toward councils and war rooms and Dragonstone. He stared at his notebook.

He had written, in the margin: Corlys was right about the Gullet.

He had no idea when.

“You’re disassociating again.”

Jace blinked.

Across the seminar table sat Cregan Stark, regarding him with the expression he used on everything: tall, dark-haired, slow-blinking, fundamentally and constitutionally unimpressed by the world and all its events. He was from Winterfell like genuinely, actually from Winterfell, which Jace had always found slightly funny without ever quite being able to explain why.

They’d been best friends since secondary school, the friendship that had calcified into something so much more. They were like brothers in every sense. Also, he looked almost exactly like the Cregan from the dream.

Same jaw. Same eyes. Same expression, the one that said I am listening to you and I find you exhausting. Same, in other words, as he always looked well except his had slightly shorter hair.

“What?” Jace managed.

Cregan raised one eyebrow. “You’ve been staring at me for ten seconds with an expressionless face.”

“Sorry.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I had a strange dream. I feel like I keep repeating these words over and over again.”

“You texted me at four in the morning.”

Jace went very still.

“I did?”

Cregan reached for his phone with the patience of a man who had long since resigned himself to the chaos of being Jace Velaryon’s closest friend. He scrolled briefly, then began reading aloud in the flat, informational tone of a news anchor delivering a weather report.

“‘Brother, imagine if we were medieval nobles.’”

“Oh, God.”

“‘You would have loved Winterfell.’”

“Cregan-”

“‘You were Lord of the North.’” He glanced up briefly. “I’m from Winterfell, Jace. I grew up in Winterfell. I know what Winterfell is.”

“Please stop-”

‘I miss Vermax.’

Cregan lowered the phone.

“I don’t know what Vermax is, if its not talking about your car.” he said.

Jace buried his face in both hands and made a sound that was less a word than a comprehensive statement. “You were never meant to read those.”

“You sent them to me.”

“I was apparently not fully conscious at four in the morning. I don’t remember doing this at all.”

“That’s concerning.”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

The question arrived without ceremony, Cregan always asked things he actually wanted to know, dropped into a conversation like a stone dropped into water, watching to see what it displaced. Jace hesitated for long enough that the silence became its own answer.

“Yeah,” he said. Then, quietly: “Not entirely.”

Cregan nodded. He didn’t push. This was something Jace had always valued about him, the Stark capacity to hold space without filling it.

“Tell me later,” Cregan said, and turned back to his laptop.

Mostly, Jace thought. He was mostly okay. ┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

You found him outside the business building at noon, materializing from the flow of students and your smile arrived before you did.

Jace felt the thing in his chest that had been clenched since 7 AM ease, slowly, like a hand opening. There was something about you that operated on him this way, had always operated on him this way, since the beginning. A quality of presence that grounded him, that made the world’s coordinates make sense again. He’d never found quite the right words for it. He’d stopped trying.

You slipped your hand into his without ceremony.

“Better than this morning?”

“A little.”

“Still thinking about your prince dream?”

He laughed, the sound freer than he expected. “Unfortunately.”

“You are such a nerd.”

“I was literally fighting a war.”

“You were dreaming about fighting a war.”

“Details.”

“Jacaerys Velaryon, if this dream becomes your entire personality, I want it on the record that I tried to prevent it-”

“Noted and rejected.”

You rolled your eyes with magnificent feeling. “I make no promises about what I tell your mother.”

Together you walked toward the café nearby. A small, overcrowded place called something Jace could never quite remember but it had had excellent coffee and terrible lighting and was perpetually full of students and professors who had clearly rather be somewhere else. The place that existed to absorb the ambient anxiety of a university and convert it, through caffeine, into something marginally more functional.

You had barely settled into your seats when a familiar voice arrived from approximately two tables away, belonging to someone who had apparently been watching for them.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite nephew.”

Aegon Targaryen dropped into the empty chair beside Jace with the comfortable confidence of a man who owned, and this was literally true, approximately half the building they were sitting in. Twenty-six, blond, expensive, reliably catastrophic. His jacket probably cost more than Jace’s car maintenance for the year, and he wore it with the carelessness never once considering the cost of anything.

He was nothing like the monster from the dream. The dream-Aegon had been something Jace couldn’t fully bring himself to examine yet. Jealous and bitter and capable of terrible things. This Aegon was mostly known for throwing parties that became local legend and mysteriously managing to avoid all professional consequences for anything he did, ever. Jacaerys supposed that has something to do with his mother and his uncle Aemond keeping these things contained.

“To what do we owe the honor?” Jace asked.

Aegon’s attention had already moved to you.

“And how are you?”

“Good,” you said politely.

“Still putting up with him?”

You smiled. “Barely.”

“Excellent answer.”

Jace groaned. Aegon looked absolutely delighted. “You’re blushing,” Aegon observed, with the tone of someone reporting a natural phenomenon.

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

You leaned over the table, and Jace recognized the look on your face immediately. The collaborative look. The look that meant you had identified an ally.

“He was calling me his beloved this morning.”

Aegon’s chair nearly lost him. He grabbed the table.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“In what context?”

“He kissed my hand. In the street. Before nine in the morning.”

Aegon looked at Jace the way someone looks at an archaeological discovery with facination, slightly appalled, deeply pleased. “This is the greatest thing that has ever happened.”

Jace contemplated his options. Leaving. Changing his name and moving to Braavos. Committing entirely to the persona of someone who had never been caught calling his girlfriend my beloved at eight forty-five on a Tuesday.

None of these were practical.

He reached for his coffee and said nothing, which Aegon correctly interpreted as total defeat.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

After Aegon eventually wandered off, ostensibly to a meeting, credibly to cause chaos somewhere else and so the café settled back into its ordinary rhythms. Students came and went. Espresso machines hissed. The ambient noise absorbed itself.

You and Jace remained at your table, and the laughter faded naturally, the way good laughter does, not dying but simply becoming something quieter.

He was staring into his coffee again.

You watched him for a moment.

“You never told me the whole dream, since it has you in a weird mindset today.” you said quietly.

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the cup. He was aware of you looking at him, with your full attention, which had always been more like listening than looking, patient and genuine and without agenda.

“To put it simply, there was a war,” he said.

You didn’t ask him to explain. You waited.

“A civil war.” He looked up briefly, then back at the table. “A war over who would rule over Westeros. My mother was supposed to inherit as was the rightful heir to the throne but there were those who didn’t accept it. Didn’t accept her.”

“And you fought for her.”

“Of course.”

The images came without invitation, Dragonstone’s grey halls, the council table, the maps spreading the whole kingdom out before them like a wound. The feeling of duty that had lived in his chest since childhood, not as a burden but as a definition. This is who you are. This is what you do.

You reached across the table and took his hand. He continued.

“I flew a dragon. I know this sounds no so scary but-” Despite everything, he heard the ghost of wonder in his own voice. “Vermax. He was- he was mine. Since I was a boy. He knew me.” The wonder curdled, softened into something heavier. “He died with me.”

Your thumb moved in a slow arc across his knuckles. “The last thing I remember,” he said quietly, “was dying. Floating in the sea, after everything.” He paused.

“It was strange. It wasn’t- it wasn’t the way I would have imagined. It wasn’t terrifying.”

“What was it?”

He thought about it honestly.

“It was sad,” he said. “But calm.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then you reached up, and the gesture was so unexpected that he went still, your hand cupping his cheek, steady and warm, thumb tracing a line beneath his eye.

He leaned into it without thinking.

“I’m glad it was only a dream,” you said softly trying to calm his anxieties that he didn’t want to confess out loud.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

The tightness in his chest released, not all at once but in stages, like a knot worked loose over time. He turned his head slightly, pressing his lips briefly to your palm, and you let him, and neither of you made anything of it. She’s right, he thought. Whatever that was. Whatever it meant.

He was here. Alive. With his family, with his best friend, with his girl.

Maybe that was enough. Maybe that was, actually, everything.

The afternoon passed.

Classes ended. The university slowly emptied like it did every day at dusk, students and professors releasing themselves back into the city like a pressure valve opening. The parking lot filled briefly with the usual chaos and then thinned.

“My mother wants you over more often,” Jace mentioned, as they walked toward the Porsche.

“Apparently she likes you.”

You brightened immediately. “Really?”

“She said so unprompted. First thing this morning.”

“Good.” You smiled with satisfaction. “I’m charming.”

Jace looked at you sideways. “You are deeply smug about this.”

“I’m charming,” you repeated, pleasantly. He laughed. “Come over tonight?”

You looked at him, with that look you had, the one he’d never found a word for, the one that made him feel simultaneously seen and unsteady in the best possible way. Made him feel a bit giddy.

“I’d love to,” you said.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

The penthouse was unusually quiet when they arrived. Rhaenyra was visible through the glass of her home office, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, reading from a document with the focused intensity and it was clear that the woman needed a break from everything. Luke had evaporated somewhere. Joffrey was reportedly studying, a claim no one in the household had ever been successfully able to verify.

You and Jace settled at the dining table with laptops and scattered notes and the collective fiction of productivity.

For forty minutes, it was remarkably functional. Jace had his economics module open. You were working through something, he didn’t ask, didn’t need to and the sound of quiet typing and the occasional turn of a page created a kind of companionable silence that he had always thought of as the specific luxury of being comfortable with someone. presence. You could simply be in it.

He was reading about capital allocation.

“Jace.”

He looked up.

“You’re getting lost in your mind again.”

“I’m not what are you talking about?” he said automatically. Then, because honesty was something he’d apparently committed to today: “I was thinking about- uhhh. Economics?”

“That is not better.”

“You look pretty,” he said simply.

The silence that followed had a distinct texture. You looked at him for a long moment. Then you slowly, deliberately, closed your laptop.

“No,” you said.

“What?”

“You don’t get to say things like that when I’m trying to study.”

“I was simply making an observation.”

“You are impossible.”

He was very pleased with himself. He did not bother hiding it.

An hour later, the economics module had not progressed. The textbooks had been consolidated into a single pile and pushed to the far end of the table, a gesture that meant these exist and will eventually be addressed, which was as much as either of you were willing to commit to. A film had been agreed upon via negotiation.

Blankets appeared.

The overhead lights went off.

And somehow, as these things always somehow managed, you ended up curled against his chest on the enormous sectional, his arm around your waist, the film playing distantly while neither of you particularly watched it. Your breathing slowed first. His heartbeat was steady and familiar beneath your ear.

The city moved quietly outside the windows.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

The prince stood before you.

The wind came off the sea like a cold hand, whipping through his dark, curling hair, pressing his black riding coat against his frame. Behind him, Dragonstone rose in its glory against a steel-grey sky, all sharp towers and dark stone, magnificent and terrible, built by people who had never believed in half measures. The sea crashed against the rocks far below. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon with the patient, deliberate advance of something inevitable.

“No.”

Your voice came out broken.

“No, please.”

He looked at you the way he always looked at you as if you were the clearest thing in a world that had lately become very unclear, like looking at you was the one thing he could do without effort in a life that had demanded extraordinary effort from him since the moment he was old enough to understand what he was.

“I have to go.”

“You don’t,” you said, even though you knew it wasn’t true. Even though somewhere beneath the desperate present tense of the argument, the truer, older part of you already knew exactly what was coming. Already knew the shape of this farewell.

His hands found yours.

They were warm. Strong and real, so real that makes their loss so much more brutal than the loss of things you never fully believed in.

“You can stay,” you said. Your voice was steadier than you felt. “You can let someone else-”

“I cannot.” His voice was gentle but stern. He was stubborn and so if he made peace with this decisions, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tears burned behind your eyes. The fear inside you was almost unbearable and burning, it was twisted and layered, because you knew. You already knew. This was not a premonition, not a vague presentiment. It was knowledge, carried somewhere beneath language, beneath memory, in whatever part of you had been this person before.

You knew what awaited him at the Gullet.

Fire.

Water.

“You promised.” The words escaped before you could decide to say them.

His expression shifted. Something moved across it, grief, tenderness, the ache of a man who loves something too well to pretend it isn’t breaking. “And I will keep that promise but this is a battle I must fight for both myself and my mother.”

He stepped closer, and you let him, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead so gently it barely qualified as a touch at all.

Then he rested his brow against yours. His eyes never left yours.

“If I do not return- which I intend to,”

The world seemed to hold its breath.

“I will find you.”

A tear escaped. Traced the line of your cheek. He watched it with eyes that were very dark and very steady.

“In every lifetime if not this one. I promise.”

The words landed somewhere deep in you, somewhere wordless, somewhere older than the language you used to think with. A promise that had the weight of truth rather than intention.

You memorized his face. The curls. The strong jaw. The eyes, brown and earnest and alive, so alive.

He smiled.

Then he stepped away.

He turned toward the waiting dragon.

Toward the dark water below.

Toward a destiny that was also a death.

And all you could do was watch him leave. ┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

You woke with a gasp that tore itself from somewhere past your chest.

For several seconds, you could not find the room. Could not find yourself in it. There was only the dream...the cliffs, the wind, his forehead against yours, the sound of his footsteps retreating and the grief of it, which was specific and devastating and nothing at all like the vague emotional residue of ordinary sleep.

Tears burned behind your eyes. Your heart was pounding.

You pushed yourself upright. A blanket tangled around your legs. The room was dim, the film long since ended, the television showing a menu screen. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, King’s Landing glittered in the full dark of night, the city’s lights reflected upward in a warm wash against the low clouds. Jace must have moved you to his room when you fell asleep.

The bedroom door opened.

Jace stepped in carrying two mugs, steam rising from both. He had apparently, at some point during your sleep, been productive.

The moment he saw your face, he froze.

“Hey.”

The concern in his voice was immediate, the shift from normal to careful happening in the space of a single syllable.

“What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer. The words were somewhere on the way, but in the meantime your body had already decided what it needed, and what it needed was to close the distance between you and him as quickly as possible.

You stood.

Crossed the room.

The mugs barely survived. He caught them against the edge of the side table with an impressive reflex, setting them down quickly before his arms came around your waist, and you buried your face against the side of his neck, and breathed him in.

“Sweetheart?” Low and careful. His chin came to rest on top of your head.

You stayed there for a moment just letting the reality of him replace the dream of him. The warmth of him. The solidness.

Then you pulled back. Not far. Your forehead came to rest against his, which put you close enough to feel his breath and see the small crease of worry between his brows.

“I had a dream,” you said. It seems it was your turn to utter those words.

Something moved across his face. He went very still in the way that meant he was paying every variety of attention he had.

“What kind of dream?”

“I saw a prince.”

His breath caught. You felt it.

“I saw him leaving for a battle. He was going to fight-”

Your voice faltered, then steadied. “He knew he might not come back. And he said-” You stopped.

Jace’s arms tightened around you, almost involuntarily. “He said he would find me,” you continued. “That if he didn’t return-” Your eyes met his, and something in your chest recognized something in his. “He would find me in every lifetime.”

Silence.

Complete, absolute silence.

Jace stared at you.

Because those were the exact words. Not a version of them, not a paraphrase but the exact promise, the exact phrasing, the exact scene, the stone of Dragonstone under grey skies and wind coming off the sea. He had lived it from one side and you had lived it from the other, and here you both were, in a penthouse above a city that did not have dragons, with the memory of them living in your bones.

His throat moved.

You smiled softly with tears still bright at the corners of your eyes. Your hand lifted, your fingers moving gently through his curls, the same gesture that felt simultaneously new and ancient.

“I don’t know what any of that means,” you said.

“Neither do I.”

“But if it was real-”

His forehead pressed more firmly against yours.

“You kept your promise,” you whispered.

He felt his throat close.

And for the first time since he had woken to the sound of an alarm clock and a bedroom that wasn’t the sea, he stopped wondering whether the dream had been real. He stopped wondering whether he was grieving something imagined or something true. He stopped needing to know.

Because you knew.

You had been there.

You rose onto your toes.

Your lips met his.

It was slow and gentle. He kissed you back like someone returning to something, like a navigator finding a landmark in familiar water.

Like he had been waiting centuries and perhaps his soul had waited for this moment. The moment to return to her. ┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

The knock was soft.

They both startled apart with the excellent reflexes of guilty consciences, then immediately demonstrated the dignity of two people pretending they hadn’t. Jace cleared his throat. Rested his forehead against yours for one final second. His breath was unsteady in the best way.

Another knock.

“Jacaerys?”

Rhaenyra’s voice, measured, carrying through the door with the easy authority of a woman who managed board rooms and board members and the shenanigans of three sons as a single uninterrupted professional skill.

“Dinner is ready.” They heard the muffled voice of his mother.

Jace answered at a volume calibrated for normalcy “We’ll be there in a minute!”

A pause that had weight.

“Five minutes,” his mother’s voice returned, drier than a desert, and entirely aware of everything and perhaps making a wrong assumption of you two being alone in his room.

You laughed, pressing your face briefly against his shoulder to muffle it. He was already smiling.

“Your mother doesn’t trust you.”

“She absolutely does not.”

“And honestly?” You poked his chest. “I don’t blame her.”

“You wound me.”

“Good.” You pulled your hand back, but he caught it, quick and easy, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles again. The same gesture as that morning. The echo of it traveled through both of you clearly.

Your cheeks went pink.

He watched it happen with a feeling in his chest that was too large and too simple to require any examination at all.

There she is, he thought. My girl.

My princess.

He took your hand properly, fingers laced and led you toward the dining room.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈ They heard the argument before they reached the dinner table.

Luke and Joffrey, seated across from each other in the arrangement that the family had collectively accepted as a flaw, were conducting a debate with the commitment of two people who had come to win.

“No, because you’re objectively wrong-”

“I’m objectively right-”

“You don’t even know what objectively means.”

“I literally do.”

“You used it wrong.”

Joffrey groaned with his whole body. “I hate this family.”

“You are this family,” Luke pointed out.

Joffrey considered this. “Exactly.”

Rhaenyra, at the head of the table, was pinching the bridge of her nose with annoyance. This was her normal and yet it was tiring.

The moment she saw you, her face entirely changed.

“There she is.”

You smiled. “Hi.”

She stood and pulled you into a hug with a warmth that was, Jace thought privately, rather more enthusiastic than his own homecoming greeting most mornings. “I was beginning to think my son had invented you.”

“Mum.”

“What? He never brings you over.”

“That’s his fault,” you said.

“Traitor,” Jace said.

“You’re literally my boyfriend.”

“Exactly.”

You smiled sweetly. “I’m allowed.”

Rhaenyra looked delighted in the specific way she allowed herself to look delighted when she was genuinely pleased, a rarity outside this apartment. Luke immediately leaned toward you.

“See? This is why she’s my favorite.”

“I’m sitting right here.”

“Unfortunately.”

Jace threw a bread roll at him.

Luke threw one back.

The war began immediately, and lasted approximately five seconds before Rhaenyra’s single sharp look ended it. She had a look for this. It was very effective.

“Sometimes I wonder,” she said, settling back into her chair and accepting a bread roll from the basket with the serenity of someone who had already mentally exited the building, “if I raised wolves.”

“That’s insulting,” Joffrey said.

Everyone looked at him.

The fourteen-year-old shrugged with the composure of someone who had thought this through. “Wolves are smarter.”

The silence held for two seconds before Luke’s expression cracked. Jace looked at the ceiling. Rhaenyra’s attempt at severity collapsed at its foundations.

You sat beside Jace with your hand warm against his under the table, and you were already laughing, and the sound of it filled the room the way laughter does when a room is already full of people who are glad to be there.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

Dinner found its rhythm.

Conversation moved in the easy, overlapping way it does with people who have logged enough hours together that they no longer need to manage it consciously. Luke complained about a group project with the vivid resentment of having decided the problem was everyone else.

Joffrey explained something about a game or a film or a historical period but the audience could not quite keep up, but that seemed to be part of the experience. Rhaenyra complained, with great economy, about company politics, and then told a story about a colleague that had everyone at the table paying full attention (It was Aemond who everytone is afraid of in their company).

You listened to all of it.

Jace, mostly, watched.

He had not expected this. Had woken this morning in the sea, or the memory of it. Had spent the drive to university with the dream still active in his body, had sat through lectures half-present, had carried the weight of Vermax’s last look in his chest all day like a stone.

And now.

He watched his mother smile at something you said. He watched Luke do the thing he did when he was actually amused, which was different from when he is pretending. Watched Joffrey explain something to you directly, having apparently determined that you were worth the effort, and watched your face do the thing it did when you were genuinely interested in something, slightly forward, slightly bright, entirely present.

You fit here. Not as a guest, not as someone being accommodated. As someone who belonged. He thought of the dream again.

Remembered standing at the dragonpit of Dragonstone with his armor on and the dragon saddled and the sea grey behind him, and looking back at everything he was leaving, his mother, his brothers, you, the stone halls and the cold salt wind and the ordinary miracle of a morning that didn’t require a king’s son to die for it.

He had wondered, in those last seconds at Dragonstone, if he would ever see any of them again. He had his answer now.

The realization settled in his chest quietly, without drama. Not a revelation, something more like a confirmation. A peace he hadn’t known he was looking for, finding him here, at a dinner table with a bread roll dent in the tablecloth and Joffrey currently holding forth on something no one else understood.

No war. No dragons. No succession. No battles. Just family. Just love.

Just this.

Halfway through dessert, Joffrey’s phone lit up. “Oh!” He reached for it with the speed of receiving news they’d been waiting for. “Dad’s calling.”

Jace felt himself smile before the screen even showed Laenor’s face.

It appeared a moment later, that face, familiar and warm and slightly tanned by whatever sun was currently shining on whatever harbor on whatever coast he was sailing toward. Behind him, a bright blue sky suggested somewhere in Essos, probably. The man was perpetually in motion, perpetually somewhere else and yet found time for them. He was not their real father, but he might as well have been. After Harwin passed away, Rhaenyra had remarried Laenor as more of a deal since Laenor wasn’t interested in anything but he cared for Rhaenyra platonically and it seemed to have worked out great and that’s all that mattered.

“There are my favorite children.”

Luke snorted. “We’re your only children.”

“And yet somehow still my favorites.” Laenor’s gaze found you across the table, and his face smiled “There she is.”

You laughed. “Hello.”

“Good. Finally, someone sensible has arrived.”

“Hey!” Three voices, simultaneous.

Laenor continued as though he hadn’t heard. “How are you, darling?”

“I’m well, thank you.”

Jace groaned. “Why does everyone in my family like her more than me?”

“Because,” Laenor said, and the timing was beautiful, “she has manners.”

The table erupted. Even Rhaenyra, which was a significant achievement.

Laenor spent twenty minutes on the call, chatting about his route, trading insults with. He heard both Luke and Joffery’s rambling. He asked Rhaenyra about the board meeting she’d complained about, and listened to her answer. He asked you about your studies, and remembered something you’d mentioned three calls ago, and asked a follow-up question about it.

The man had walked into their lives years ago and simply decided, without announcement or conditions, that these were his sons. No performance of it. No documentation. Just- love, extended to fill the available space.

Dream Laenor had disappeared. The thought arrived gently, without bitterness. The dream-Laenor, who had been present mostly in his absence, who Jace had barely known, who had been lost before Jace could understand what losing someone meant. This version was here. This version showed up.

And Jace was, quietly and completely, grateful for that. The call ended. The dessert finished. The evening moved toward its natural conclusion with the comfortable inevitability of all good evenings. Luke vanished in the direction of his room. Joffrey disappeared with a quantity of snacks that could feed a whole army. Rhaenyra retreated to finish what she’d started, she always had something she was finishing, this was simply who she was and the penthouse settled into quiet

Which left you and Jace, alone on the balcony.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

King’s Landing stretched below them without end. The city was all light from up here, not the individual lights, not streets and windows and the moving points of cars, but the collective glow of it, the warmth of a few million people living their lives in proximity, translated upward into something that looked, from this height, almost like its own kind of fire.

A cool breeze moved through the dark, carrying the city’s particular nighttime mixture of warm pavement and distant food and the faint, improbable ghost of something floral from a rooftop garden somewhere below. It found its way into Jace’s curls and did what it wanted with them.

You stood beside him. Close enough that your shoulders touched.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to. The city was enough, for a while.

Then you broke the silence the way you often did when a thought entered your head.

“Do you think it was real?”

He didn’t ask what you meant.

The dreams. The prince and the princess. The battle. The promise made at the edge of the world on the morning of an ending. The specific weight of standing on Dragonstone and knowing.

“I don’t know,” he said.

You slipped your hand into his. Your fingers were cool from the night air. He closed his hand around yours.

“But it felt real,” you said.

“It did.”

Another silence, this one richer. Weighted, but not heavily, weighted the way a good book is heavy, in a way you want.

“If it was real…”

Jace looked toward you. The city’s light caught you from below, softening the angles, turning you luminous in the warm way of a portrait painted with care. The same thing he’d thought this morning returned, effortlessly, as though it had simply been waiting for the right lighting.

Radiant.

The same as the princess from the dream. The same, and also entirely herself.

“If it was real,” you continued, a smile finding the corner of your mouth, “I think she’d be happy.”

“Who?”

“The princess.”

Your fingers squeezed his.

“Because she got her prince back.”

Something moved in his chest and he felt a giddy sensation.

“And he got his princess,” he said quietly.

The smile you gave him in return was the specific, undone kind that he privately thought was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He doubted this would change.

“You know,” he said, after a moment, “I’ve spent all day thinking about the battle.”

“The Gullet?”

“Yeah.” He looked down at the city. “The part where I died.”

You were quiet beside him.

“And?” you said, finally.

He looked back through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse.

His mother, visible in her office, signing something. The small movement of her hand showing her actions. Luke in the hallway beyond, typing away at his phone aggressively with determinations of someone looking to win an argument even if he may be wrong.

Joffrey somewhere in his room planning a prank on his mother.

And all of it, all of this life, this ordinary, extraordinary life, glowing warm behind glass thirty floors above a city that had never known a dragon. His family.

“I think that prince would’ve liked this,” he said.

You followed his gaze.

You understood immediately. He could see it in the way your face softened, not with sadness but with tenderness that recognizes grief and holds it carefully.

A life without war. Without the weight of a crown.

Without sacrifice, the kind that swaps one beloved thing for another in an endless, devastating ledger.

Just family.

Just love.

Just peace.

You rested your head on his shoulder.

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to your hair, slow and quiet.

Neither of you saw it.

But just for a moment, a breath, almost a blink, the glass of the balcony door held a reflection that was not quite yours.

Two figures. Side by side. Dressed in black and red, the colours of a house that had once held the world.

Standing exactly as you were standing. Looking out at exactly what you were looking at.

Smiling.

At each other, and at this, and at everything that had managed, against all odds, to survive.

Then the image dissolved.

The glass held only the room behind it, warm and lit and full of the sound of Luke losing the argument.

And Jace, and you.

Exactly where you were always meant to be.

© jacefiles - all rights reserved, please refrain from copying, reposting, modifying or translating my work on any platform.

[pucksandpower]

Nasal Fractures (and Other Love Languages)

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: you meet Oscar exactly once when he breaks your nose with a football in the paddock. You meet him exactly twice when he breaks it again with his elbow in a hotel room. Some love stories start with a meet-cute. Yours starts with a medical bill and the world’s most apologetic future World Champion who keeps turning your face into a crime scene. (He’s really, really sorry about it.)

The air in the paddock is thick with a nervous energy you can almost taste, a metallic tang of anticipation mixed with the sweet, acrid scent of high-octane fuel and burning rubber. It’s a symphony of controlled chaos. The low, guttural growl of an engine being tested somewhere down the pit lane rumbles through the soles of your shoes. Team personnel, clad in vibrant, logo-splashed uniforms, move with a crisp, clipped purpose that makes you and your friend, Beth, feel like you’re wading through a current.

“I can’t believe this is real,” Beth whispers, her voice tight with awe. She clutches her phone like a holy relic, trying to discreetly film everything without looking like a complete tourist. Which, of course, is exactly what you both are.

“Try to act like we belong here,” you murmur back, though your own eyes are as wide as dinner plates. You’re scanning the river of people for a familiar face, a flash of papaya, a shock of blond hair. Winning these paddock passes felt like a one-in-a-billion lottery ticket, a glitch in the universe that accidentally spat you out into the heart of the circus.

And then you see them.

Just ahead, in the wide expanse of asphalt between the impossibly sleek, futuristic structures of the McLaren and Red Bull motorhomes, are Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris. The tension of the impending qualifying session seems to have bypassed them entirely. They’re in their full race kits, minus the helmets, their hair damp with a pre-race sweat. A simple black and white football bounces between them.

It's a lazy, fluid rhythm. The ball arcs from Lando’s knee to Oscar’s chest, where he cushions it dead before volleying it back with the inside of his foot. They aren't speaking, just moving in the easy, comfortable silence of longtime teammates and friends. It's so disarmingly normal, so achingly human, that it makes your breath catch in your throat. This isn’t something you see on a broadcast. This is a stolen moment, and you’re a thief for watching it.

“Oh my god,” Beth breathes, fumbling with her phone. “Get a picture.”

“No, don’t,” you hiss, grabbing her arm. “Let them have their space. We’re not supposed to …”

Your words are swallowed by the scene. Lando laughs, a bright, familiar sound that makes your stomach flutter, as he attempts an overly ambitious flick. The ball spins wide, and Oscar jogs a few steps to intercept it, his movements economical and precise. He stops it with his right foot, a picture of calm concentration.

He looks up, just for a second, and his eyes — cool and impossibly focused — sweep over the area. They don't linger on you. You're just part of the scenery, another face in the blur. He gives Lando a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Getting sloppy, mate,” Oscar calls out, his voice a low, calm murmur that barely carries over the ambient noise. The Australian lilt is subtle, but it’s there.

Lando grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Just lulling you into a false sense of security. Show me what you’ve got, then.”

Oscar juggles the ball once, twice, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips. It’s the smile you’ve seen in a hundred post-race interviews — reserved, a little shy, but genuine. He shifts his weight, positioning himself for a clean pass back to Lando, who’s now standing a good twenty feet away, near the entrance to the Red Bull hospitality suite.

This is the moment the universe decides to stop glitching and start actively conspiring against you.

From Oscar’s point of view, it’s a simple calculation. A routine he’s performed thousands of times. He sees Lando, sees the space, gauges the power. His mind is already halfway to the garage, running through the qualifying plan, sector by sector. This is just muscle memory. A final, mindless release of nervous energy before being strapped into a carbon fibre rocket ship.

He draws his right foot back. The motion is clean, fluid, athletic. It should be a perfect, low chip that lands right at Lando’s feet.

But a mechanic from another team, his arms laden with a stack of tires, cuts directly through Oscar’s intended flight path. A sudden, unexpected obstacle. Oscar’s brain registers it a millisecond too late. He tries to adjust, to pull back, but the command is already halfway to his foot. He overcompensates. Instead of a soft chip, he connects with the ball with the full force of his instep. The connection is too clean, too powerful.

The ball doesn't arc. It shoots. A black and white missile.

It rockets past the mechanic, past a startled-looking influencer who ducks instinctively, past the spot where Lando was standing.

And it flies directly towards the two girls who had stopped to watch, the ones who were trying to look like they belonged. The ones with the wide, starstruck eyes.

From your perspective, time slows to a thick, syrupy crawl. One second, you’re admiring the effortless grace of a world-class athlete. The next, a sphere of stitched leather is expanding in your vision at an impossible, terrifying speed.

There is no time to react. No time to raise your hands, to turn your head, to even flinch.

There is only the ball.

And then, a concussive, explosive thump.

A universe of white-hot, blinding pain erupts from the bridge of your nose, radiating outwards through your sinuses, your teeth, your skull. The sound is less of a crack and more of a wet, sickening crunch that you feel deep in your bones. Stars, genuine and cartoonishly bright, burst behind your eyelids. The world tilts on its axis, the vibrant colours of the paddock smearing into a nauseating blur.

Your hands fly to your face, a useless, reflexive gesture. You feel a gush of warmth spill over your fingers, slick and hot.

“Oh, God!” Beth shrieks beside you.

Your knees give out. The meticulously clean asphalt of the paddock rushes up to meet you, and you land hard, the impact jarring your already screaming head. You’re on all fours, head bowed, the world a dizzying, spinning mess. A low moan escapes your throat, a sound you don’t even recognize as your own.

The world outside your personal bubble of agony is a sudden explosion of chaos.

“Oh, bloody hell!”

The voice is Oscar’s, sharp with a kind of strangled panic that is utterly alien to his public persona. The calm is gone. The focus is shattered.

Footsteps pound against the pavement, frantic and fast.

“Oscar! Mate, what did you—Oh my God.” That’s Lando, his voice an octave higher than usual.

Two pairs of race-booted feet skid to a halt in front of you. You can’t look up. Your entire consciousness has shrunk to the throbbing, shattered epicentre of your face. You can feel the blood dripping from your chin now, spattering onto the pristine ground.

“Are you alright? Oh God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” Oscar is kneeling in front of you, his voice urgent, laced with pure, undiluted horror. He’s reaching out, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch you.

You try to answer, to say “I’m fine” out of some deeply ingrained, polite instinct, but the only thing that comes out is a choked, wet sob. The taste of salt and iron floods your mouth.

“Is she okay?” Lando asks, his voice tight with alarm. He’s addressing Beth, who is now kneeling beside you, her own face pale with shock.

“I-I don’t know! You hit her in the face! With the ball!” Beth’s voice is shaky, accusatory.

“I know! I know, I didn’t mean to!” Oscar sounds desperate. “It was … I was aiming for Lando. Someone walked in the way. I’m so, so sorry.”

He shifts his weight, getting closer. You can smell the faint, clean scent of his fireproofs, a strange counterpoint to the coppery smell of your own blood.

“Can you look at me?” He asks, his voice softer now, but no less panicked. “Please? We need to see how bad it is.”

You shake your head, which is a colossal mistake. A fresh wave of agony and nausea washes over you. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hold the world together.

“Don’t move your head,” he says quickly. “Okay, okay, don’t move.”

“Her nose,” Beth says, her voice trembling. “I think … I think it’s broken.”

A heavy silence hangs in the air for a beat, thick with the unsaid. Oscar lets out a low curse under his breath.

“Right. Okay. Medic. We need a medic,” he says, his voice taking on a new urgency. He turns his head. “Zak! Arthur! Can we get a medic over here? Now!”

His voice, usually so measured, cracks with the strain. He’s yelling now, and you can feel the vibrations of it in your chest. You’re dimly aware of more people approaching, of the circle around you tightening. The low murmur of the paddock has been replaced by a focused, localized clamor. Your personal, humiliating clamor.

“What’s going on here?” A new voice, this one with an American accent. Sharp, authoritative.

“I hit her with the ball, Zak,” Oscar says, his voice strained. “It was an accident. I think her nose is broken. We need a doctor.”

“Jesus Christ, Oscar.”

You risk a glance, cracking one eye open. Through a watery, blood-tinged haze, you see the concerned face of Zak Brown looking down at you. Behind him, more McLaren personnel are gathering, their faces a mixture of alarm and professional concern.

This is a nightmare. This is a fever dream. You’re bleeding all over the ground in front of the McLaren motorhome, with half the team, including both drivers, staring at you like you’re a car crash. Which, you suppose, you sort of are.

“It’s okay, we’re getting someone,” Lando says, trying to be reassuring, but he just sounds as freaked out as everyone else. “They’re coming. Just stay still.”

“I am so, so sorry,” Oscar repeats. It seems to be the only thing he can say. He’s still kneeling there, a few feet away, looking utterly helpless. His face, usually a mask of calm composure, is etched with guilt and raw panic. He looks younger than he does on TV. He just looks like a kid who has made a terrible mistake and has no idea how to fix it.

“You’re bleeding a lot,” Beth says quietly, her hand resting gently on your back. “Can you try to tilt your head forward a little? Not back.”

You follow her instructions numbly, letting your head hang as more blood drips onto the asphalt. Each drop feels like a confession of your own mortification.

A woman in a McLaren polo shirt with a radio pressed to her ear arrives. “Medical team is on their way. They’ll take her to the care centre.”

“Oscar, Lando, we need you in the garage,” Zak says, his voice firm but not unkind. “Qualifying starts in twelve minutes.”

“No,” Oscar says immediately, shaking his head. “No, I’m not leaving. I did this.”

“You are,” Zak insists. “There’s nothing you can do here now. The medics will handle it. We have a session to prepare for. Let’s go.”

“Zak, I just broke a girl’s nose,” Oscar argues, his voice rising in disbelief. He gestures wildly at you, a crumpled, bleeding heap on the ground. “I can’t just walk away and go drive a race car.”

“You absolutely can, and you absolutely will,” another voice cuts in, this one belonging to a man with a clipboard and a stern expression. Your brain vaguely supplies the name Andrea Stella. “Let the medical professionals do their job. Your job is in that car. Now.”

He puts a firm hand on Oscar’s shoulder. Lando is already being herded away by another team member, casting a worried look back over his shoulder.

“Go on, Lando. Get your head in the game.”

“Is she gonna be okay?” Lando asks, his eyes wide.

“She’ll be fine. Go.”

Oscar doesn’t move. He’s still looking at you, his expression a chaotic storm of regret and frustration. “I can’t just go.”

“Oscar.” Stella’s voice is iron. “Now.”

He gives Oscar’s shoulder a gentle but insistent tug. The finality in the gesture is clear. Oscar knows he’s lost the argument. His shoulders slump in defeat. He looks utterly wrecked.

As Stella begins to pull him to his feet, Oscar leans forward, his eyes locking with yours for the first time. You’re still looking at him through a curtain of pain and tears, but you see the raw apology in his gaze. It’s so intense it almost hurts as much as your nose.

“Wait,” he says, resisting the pull for one last second. He addresses you directly, his voice low and rushed. “Please, don’t leave. After qualifying, I’ll … I’ll find you. The medical tent, okay? I’ll find you there. I promise.”

He searches your face, desperate for some kind of acknowledgement, some sign of forgiveness you are in no condition to give.

“I am so unbelievably sorry,” he says again, his voice cracking on the last word. “I’ll make this up to you. I promise.”

And then he’s gone. Pulled away into the current of the team, swallowed by the urgency of the sport, leaving you on the cold, hard ground with the smell of his fireproofs, the echo of his panicked promise, and a face full of shattered bone and blood.

Two uniformed medics arrive, their movements calm and efficient in the wake of the storm. They begin asking you questions, their voices a soothing drone that you can’t quite process. Beth is answering for you, her voice still shaky but getting stronger, more assertive.

They help you sit up, pressing a wad of gauze to your nose that you immediately soak through. The world is still spinning, but the sharp edges of the pain are beginning to dull into a deep, throbbing ache that seems to have taken up residence in your entire skull.

As they gently help you to your feet, preparing to walk you to the medical centre, your gaze drifts towards the McLaren garage. For a fleeting second, you think you see him, a flash of papaya orange standing by the entrance, looking back towards you before being pushed inside.

Then the garage door rolls down, a final, definitive curtain on the most surreal and painful ten minutes of your life. And you’re left with only one thought, circling endlessly in your concussed, throbbing head.

Oscar Piastri broke your nose. And he promised he would find you.

***

The world inside the McLaren garage is a pressure cooker of sound and motion. The moment Oscar’s MCL39 rolls into its bay, it’s swarmed. Fans whir, laptops are flipped open, and a dozen sets of hands descend on the car. He kills the engine, the sudden silence in his ears a deafening roar. For the last hour, his universe has been nothing but the scream of the engine, the voice of his race engineer, and the laser-focused task of wrestling two-tenths of a second from a strip of asphalt.

But the bubble has burst. And the first thought that crashes into his brain, more potent than the G-force he just endured, is your face. Crumpled. Bleeding.

He unbuckles his harness with frantic, clumsy fingers and rips his helmet off. The cool air of the garage hits his sweat-soaked hair. His trainer, Kim, is there instantly, holding a water bottle and a towel. Oscar ignores them both. His eyes find Lando, who is already clambering out of his car a few feet away, being mobbed by ecstatic engineers. P1. Lando got pole. The garage is electric with it.

“YES, LANDO! GET IN!”

“MEGA JOB, MATE! MEGA!”

Lando is grinning, a wide, euphoric smile as he’s pulled into a series of back-slapping hugs. He’s earned it. He was flawless.

Oscar feels a pang of something that isn’t jealousy. It’s a hollow, churning guilt. He finished P2. It feels like ash in his mouth. He knows, with a certainty that settles deep in his gut, that the pole position was lost in the twenty feet between his foot and your face. He was distracted. He drove angry. Angry at himself, at the stupid football, at the entire godforsaken situation. He’d left a girl bleeding on the ground. How could he possibly find the last few thousandths of a second after that?

“Good job, Oscar! P2, fantastic result for the team,” his engineer, Tom, says, clapping him on the shoulder.

Oscar just nods, his eyes still fixed on Lando, who is now being handed the black P1 cap for the post-qualifying interviews. An idea — a terrible, frantic, brilliant idea — sparks in Oscar’s mind.

“I need that hat,” he mutters.

“What?” Tom asks, leaning in closer over the din. “Need a what?”

But Oscar is already moving. He pushes past Kim, past Tom, and stalks towards the celebratory huddle around Lando. He’s a man possessed. Lando sees him coming, his grin faltering slightly at the wild, haunted look in Oscar’s eyes.

“Osc, mate, we did it! Front row!” Lando shouts, ready for a hug.

Oscar doesn’t hug him. He reaches out and snatches the P1 cap right off Lando’s head.

“Hey!” Lando yelps, his hand flying to his now-bare head. “What the hell?”

“I need this,” Oscar says, his voice tight. He turns, his eyes scanning the garage like a hawk. He spots a PR officer, a young woman named Annie, who is holding a clipboard and a black Sharpie. He strides over to her.

“Annie, give me your marker.” It’s not a request.

She blinks, startled. “Uh … Oscar, the media pen is waiting for …”

“The marker,” he repeats, holding out his hand, his expression bordering on unhinged. She wordlessly hands him the Sharpie. He clicks it open and shoves it, along with the cap, back into Lando’s chest.

“Sign it,” he commands.

Lando stares at him, utterly bewildered. He’s surrounded by cheering mechanics, Zak is beaming, and his teammate looks like he’s in the middle of a nervous breakdown. “Sign … my own hat?”

“Yes. Sign it. Now.”

“Why?” Lando asks, his voice a mix of amusement and genuine concern. “Are you okay? You look a bit … traumatized.”

“I am traumatized!” Oscar hisses, his voice low and intense. “I am responsible for a traumatic event that has caused trauma. For which I need to atone. Sign the hat, Lando.”

Lando, deciding it’s easier to just go along with whatever strange ritual this is, takes the pen and scribbles his signature across the brim of the cap. “There. Happy?”

Oscar snatches the signed cap back. “No.”

He looks down at his own feet, at the custom-fit, fire-retardant race boots. Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place in his frantic mind. It’s weird. It’s definitely weird. But he’s committed now. He leans against the workbench, unzips the boots, and pulls them off, his sweaty socks steaming in the cool garage air.

“What are you doing?” Tom asks, his face a perfect mask of professional confusion. “Oscar, we have debrief in twenty.”

“I can’t.” Oscar is holding the signed cap in one hand and his race boots, which smell faintly of rubber and foot, in the other. He looks around, his eyes landing on the head of hospitality, a perpetually unflappable man named Bradley. Oscar makes a beeline for him, his socks sliding on the smooth concrete floor.

“Bradley!”

Bradley turns, one eyebrow raised at the sight of his driver in his socks, clutching a bizarre assortment of items. “Oscar. Congratulations. Shall we arrange the usual for your family?”

“No. Yes. I mean, later. I need something else,” Oscar says, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I need two VIP passes. The full experience. Paddock Club, garage tour, the works.”

“Of course. For which race?” Bradley asks, pulling out his tablet.

“I don’t know yet,” Oscar says, shaking his head. “She gets to pick. The girl. The one I hit with the ball. She gets to pick any race on the calendar, and she and a friend get the best tickets you can possibly imagine. Money is no object. Bill it to me, I don’t care. Can you do that? Just have the vouchers or whatever ready. I’ll let you know the names and the race later.”

Bradley looks from Oscar’s wild eyes to the boots in his hand and seems to make a swift calculation that arguing is futile. “Consider it done, Oscar. I’ll have a confirmation packet drawn up.”

“Thank you,” Oscar breathes, a fraction of the tension leaving his shoulders. He turns to leave.

“Oscar!” It’s Zak, his arm outstretched to stop him. “Media pen. Let’s go. Great day for the team.”

Oscar sidesteps him. “Can’t. Sorry, Zak.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? It’s mandatory.”

“I have to go find her,” Oscar says, as if this is the most logical explanation in the world. He waves the boots and cap. “I have to apologize.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He pushes through the throng of people at the back of the garage, ignoring the calls of his name from his engineers, his PR team, his trainer.

“Oscar, your cool-down!”

“Oscar, Sky Sports is waiting!”

“Oscar, for God’s sake, put some shoes on!”

He’s a blur of papaya and white, a man on a holy mission, sock-footing his way through the most exclusive square kilometer in sports. He strides past the other motorhomes, earning more than a few strange looks. He doesn’t care. He has a singular destination. The medical tent.

***

The medical tent is an oasis of calm, antiseptic silence. The contrast to the paddock is so jarring it makes your head ache, or maybe that’s just the broken nose. You’re sitting on the edge of a narrow bed covered in crinkly paper, a large, intimidatingly white bandage taped across your face. Underneath it, your nose is packed with what feels like a metric ton of cotton. You can’t breathe through it, so you’re forced to take shallow, open-mouthed breaths that make your throat feel dry and scratchy.

The doctor, a kind woman with gentle hands and a calm voice, has just finished explaining that yes, it’s definitely broken. A clean break, she’d called it, as if that were some sort of consolation. She’d given you a dose of a powerful painkiller that has wrapped your brain in a thick, soupy fog, dulling the sharp, stabbing pain into a distant throb. Two magnificent black eyes are beginning to bloom across your cheekbones, a colorful testament to your terrible luck.

“Well,” Beth says, trying for a light tone and failing miserably. She’s perched on a plastic chair beside you, scrolling nervously through her phone. “On the bright side, you met Oscar Piastri.”

You shoot her a glare that you hope conveys your deep and profound unimpressedness. “He tried to decapitate me with a soccer ball, Beth. That’s not ‘meeting’. That’s an assault.”

“A very apologetic assault,” she counters. “He seemed genuinely horrified. And, you have to admit, it’s a way better story than just getting a selfie.”

“I’d rather have the selfie and an intact nasal cavity,” you mumble, your voice nasally and thick.

You look down at your shirt. It’s spattered with blood. Your favourite shirt. You feel a fresh wave of misery wash over you. You just want to go back to your hotel room, order a disgusting amount of room service, and sleep for a week.

The flap of the medical tent is thrust open so violently it makes you jump. And there he is.

Oscar Piastri, in the flesh. He’s still in his race suit, though it’s unzipped to the waist, revealing the sweat-damp base layer underneath. His hair is a mess, his face is flushed with exertion and something else — anxiety. His eyes, clear and startlingly intense, immediately find yours. He’s holding a hat, a pair of racing boots, and he isn’t wearing any shoes.

He just stands there for a second, panting slightly, taking in the scene: you, looking like you just went ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer; the sterile white walls, Beth, whose jaw has dropped.

“Hi,” he says, his voice breathy. He takes a hesitant step inside. “They said you were in here. I am … God, I am so sorry.”

He walks towards you, his socked feet silent on the linoleum floor. He stops a few feet from the bed, looking utterly lost.

“Your face,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. He winces, as if looking at you is causing him physical pain. “It’s … is it broken?”

You nod slowly, the motion sending a dull throb through your skull. “Clean break,” you manage to say, the words thick and foreign in your mouth.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes, running a hand through his already chaotic hair. “I knew it. I am so, so, so sorry. There is nothing I can say to tell you how sorry I am. This is entirely my fault. I’m an idiot. I was just messing around and I wasn’t paying attention and … I’m so sorry.”

He’s rambling, his usual calm, measured speech pattern completely gone, replaced by a torrent of panicked apology. He seems to remember the items in his hands, thrusting them forward like a bizarre peace offering.

“Here,” he says. “This is for you.”

He holds out the cap. You stare at it. It’s the P1 hat. Lando Norris’s signature is scrawled across the brim.

“Lando got pole,” he explains, as if this makes perfect sense. “So this is his hat. I made him sign it for you.”

You take the hat from him, your fingers brushing his. His hand is warm and slightly calloused. The gesture is so surreal, so utterly insane, that a small, hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat. It hurts your nose, so you cut it off with a wince.

“And these,” he says, crouching down and placing his race boots carefully on the floor beside the bed. They look impossibly light, crafted from some space-age material, and are caked with dust and grime from the track. “They’re my boots. From today. I finished P2 in them.” He pauses, looking at the boots, then back up at you. A flicker of self-awareness dawns in his eyes. “That’s … that’s a bit weird, isn’t it? Giving you my sweaty shoes. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just felt like I had to give you something. Something from today. As an apology. It was a stupid idea. You can throw them away if you want. Or sell them. I don’t know.”

You and Beth just stare at him. Oscar Piastri is on the floor of the medical tent, having a minor existential crisis over the appropriateness of giving you his shoes. The painkillers, the broken nose, the sheer strangeness of the last hour — it all combines into a feeling of complete and utter detachment from reality.

Beth finds her voice first. “You … you ran here in your socks?”

Oscar looks down at his feet as if just noticing them. “Oh. Yeah. I guess I did. I was in a bit of a hurry.”

He stands up, looking deeply uncomfortable and out of place. He’s a finely tuned athlete, a man who operates with millimeter precision at 200 miles per hour, and right now he looks like a teenage boy who just accidentally crashed his dad’s car.

“That’s not the real apology,” he says quickly, trying to recover. “The real apology is … I spoke to our hospitality manager. And I have arranged for you and your friend,” he glances at Beth, “to be my personal guests at any race for the rest of the season. Or next season. Whichever you want.”

You blink. The fog in your brain parts for a moment. “What?”

“Any race,” he repeats, his earnestness radiating off him in waves. “Monza, Singapore, Vegas, Abu Dhabi … your choice. We’ll fly you out, put you up in a hotel, give you the full VIP Paddock Club experience. Garage tours, pit lane walks, everything. The best tickets money can buy. Which is good, because I’m buying them.” He swallows, his gaze fixed on you. “I know it doesn’t fix … this,” he gestures vaguely at your bandaged face. “But it’s the only thing I could think of to even begin to make up for it. For ruining your day. Your face.”

He trails off, looking miserable.

The silence in the tent stretches. Beth looks at you, her eyes wider than you’ve ever seen them. This is a grand gesture of epic, romcom-finale proportions. It’s ludicrous. It’s insane. It’s also … incredibly, unbelievably sweet.

“You’d really do that?” You ask, your voice small.

“Of course,” he says without a moment’s hesitation. “You can pick tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever you’re feeling up to it. Just let my team know. They’ll handle everything.”

You look down at the P1 cap in your hands, then at the race-worn boots on the floor. He broke your nose, and in a fit of panicked guilt, he’s offering you the world on a silver platter. He blew off his media duties, ran across the paddock in his socks, and is offering an apology so extravagant it’s almost comical. And all you can see is the genuine, gut-wrenching remorse in his eyes.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say.

A visible wave of relief washes over him. His shoulders, which had been tensed up to his ears, drop an inch. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, a little firmer this time. You’re still in pain, you’re still miserable, and you have a long, painful week of recovery ahead of you. But in this strange, quiet, antiseptic-smelling tent, something has shifted.

The story of the day you went to the Grand Prix is no longer just about how you got your nose broken by a stray football. It’s suddenly about something else entirely.

***

The Abu Dhabi air is a thick, humid blanket, clinging to Oscar’s skin as he walks from the driver’s room to the garage. The sun has begun its slow, spectacular descent, painting the sky in fiery strokes of orange and purple that reflect off the glass facades of the Yas Marina circuit. It’s beautiful. He doesn’t notice.

His world has shrunk to the size of a pinhead. All that exists is the next few hours. The start sequence, the tire strategy, the delicate, brutal dance of managing a Formula 1 car on the absolute ragged edge for fifty-eight laps. The weight of the World Drivers’ Championship presses down on his shoulders, a physical, tangible thing. It’s all come down to this. Him and Lando. Teammates. Friends. And for the next two hours, his only rival.

“Hydration good?” Arthur, his trainer, asks, falling into step beside him. “Energy levels?”

“Fine, Arthur. I’m fine,” Oscar says, his voice flat. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, a deliberate tunnel vision designed to block out the swarm of media, the sea of faces, the sheer, overwhelming scale of the moment.

He’s been in this bubble all weekend. He’s barely spoken to anyone outside his core engineering team. He eats, sleeps, and breathes data, telemetry, and strategy. He’s built a fortress in his mind, and the walls are a thousand feet thick. Nothing gets in.

But as they round the corner, cutting past the sprawling McLaren hospitality suite, a crack appears in the wall.

It’s just a flash. A flicker of movement on the terrace, a woman turning her head, her laughter catching the light. For a single, crystal-clear moment that seems to exist outside of time, his eyes lock on her. She’s wearing a simple black dress, her hair is down, and she’s smiling a smile so bright it seems to generate its own light. There’s a faint, silvery scar on the bridge of her nose, almost invisible unless you were the one who put it there.

His heart stutters. A jolt, sharp and electric, shoots through him.

It’s you. The girl with the broken nose. The girl from that qualifying session months ago, the one whose face has been a recurring, guilt-ridden image in the back of his mind. He hasn’t heard a word since his team’s legal department confirmed you had accepted the VIP package. He’d asked Bradley a few times which race she’d chosen, but Bradley had been evasively professional. “We’re handling it, Oscar. All sorted.” He’d eventually dropped it, figuring you’d chosen a race earlier in the season and he’d simply missed you.

But there you are. Here. Now. On the most important day of his professional life. And you look … whole. Healthy. The bruises are gone, the swelling is a distant memory. He’d only ever seen your face contorted in pain, and now, seeing it relaxed and happy, is a revelation. You’re beautiful. The thought is so clear and intrusive it knocks the breath out of him.

“Oscar, let’s go. Andrea’s waiting.” Arthur’s hand is on his arm, gently but firmly steering him forward.

Oscar tries to look back, to get a second glance, to confirm that his pressure-addled brain isn’t just conjuring ghosts. But the angle is wrong, and a throng of guests blocks his view. You’re gone.

“Did you see …” He starts, but trails off.

“See what?” Arthur asks, his eyes scanning the area for a potential threat or distraction.

Oscar shakes his head. “Nothing. Thought I saw someone I knew.”

It couldn’t have been her. It’s too much of a coincidence. His mind is playing tricks on him, manifesting his lingering guilt at the worst possible moment. He dismisses it, shoves the image down, and rebuilds the wall in his mind, brick by painstaking brick. He can’t afford the distraction. Not today.

By the time he straps into the car, the ghost is gone. All that remains is the pinhead. The start lights. The engine. The championship.

***

The race is a fever dream. A relentless, high-speed chess match where every move is made at 200 miles per hour. Lando gets a better start, nosing ahead into Turn 1. Oscar’s heart is in his throat, but he holds his nerve, slotting in behind him. The gap between them for the next forty laps is never more than two seconds. They are perfectly, brutally matched.

He lives through the radio, Tom’s voice a calm, steady anchor in the screaming chaos.

“Okay, Oscar, Lando is pitting. It’s go-time. We need everything you’ve got.”

He pushes. He drives with a controlled fury, his hands a blur on the wheel, his inputs impossibly smooth. The tires scream, the car slides, but he holds it, wringing every last millisecond out of the machine. The pit stop is a symphony of motion, over and out in 2.1 seconds. He emerges from the pit lane just as Lando’s papaya car flashes past. Still P2.

The laps wind down. Ten to go. Five. Three. The gap is 0.8 seconds. Lando’s tires are beginning to fade. Oscar’s are, too, but he can feel he has more left. He can see Lando sliding in the low-speed corners, fighting the car. The opportunity is coming.

Two laps to go. He gets a massive exit out of the chicane, the DRS on his rear wing snaps open, and he’s a rocket ship down the back straight. He pulls alongside Lando, wheels inches apart. For a moment, they are perfectly level, two friends, two teammates, fighting for the ultimate prize. Oscar brakes later, deeper, forcing his car up the inside into the hairpin. He makes it stick. He’s in the lead.

The final lap is the longest of his life. He doesn’t breathe. He just drives, his focus absolute. He crosses the finish line, and the world explodes.

“YES! YES, OSCAR! YOU’VE DONE IT! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION!” Tom’s voice is raw, shredded with emotion.

A sound rips from Oscar’s throat, a strangled, guttural sob of pure relief. He’s screaming, crying, laughing all at once. The weight that has been sitting on him for months, for years, for his entire life, simply evaporates. He is floating.

“Thank you, guys,” he chokes out, his voice thick. “Thank you, everyone. Unbelievable. Just … unbelievable.”

The cool-down lap is a blur of waving flags and cheering fans. He pulls into parc fermé, right under the P1 sign. He sits in the car for a long moment, head bowed, hands still gripping the wheel, trying to absorb the impossible reality of what he has just achieved. 2025 Formula 1 World Drivers' Champion.

The hours that follow are a chaotic whirlwind of joy. He’s mobbed by his team, lifted onto their shoulders. He hugs his parents until his ribs ache. The podium ceremony is a champagne-soaked dream. He stands on the top step, the Australian anthem playing, and searches the crowd, a sea of celebrating faces. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

He finds Lando in the hallway before the media pen. There are no cameras, just the two of them. Lando is sitting on a bench, staring at the floor, the P2 cap in his hands. The fierce joy of Oscar’s victory is immediately tempered by the quiet pain of his friend’s defeat.

“Mate,” Oscar says softly, sitting down next to him.

Lando looks up. The disappointment in his eyes is vast, but there’s no anger. Just a deep, weary sadness. He manages a small smile.

“World Champion, huh?” He says, his voice quiet. “Sounds good.”

“I’m sorry,” Oscar says, and he means it.

Lando shakes his head. “Don’t be. You drove a mega race. A mega season. You earned it.” He bumps his shoulder against Oscar’s. “Just … do me a favour and get slower now you’ve won one.”

Oscar laughs, a real, genuine laugh. “No promises.”

The team celebration in the garage is pure pandemonium. Music blasts, corks fly, and Oscar is passed from one champagne-drenched hug to another. He celebrates with every mechanic, every engineer, every member of the hospitality staff who helped get him here. It’s a roaring, joyous, exhausting blur.

Hours later, the official team party at a beachside hotel is in full swing. The adrenaline has long since worn off, leaving Oscar with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion and a strange, floating sense of peace. He’s done it. The goal that has consumed his entire life has been achieved. He feels a quiet sense of what now?

He’s nursing a beer, having switched from champagne hours ago, leaning against a pillar and just watching his team celebrate. Zak is telling a story, gesticulating wildly. Andrea is smiling, a rare and genuine sight. Lando is in the middle of a dance circle, looking like he’s put the day’s disappointment behind him for the night.

“You’re not celebrating,” a voice says beside him. It’s Tom.

“I am,” Oscar says with a smile. “Just quietly. Soaking it in.”

“Well, soak faster. A few of us are heading to W. Some of the other teams are there. It’s the unofficial end-of-season party. You should come.”

Oscar hesitates. All he wants is his bed. But he’s the World Champion. He can’t very well go to sleep before midnight.

“Yeah, alright,” he says. “For a bit.”

***

The club is a different world. It’s dark, sleek, and cavernous, the bass of the music a physical vibration in his chest. The air is cool and smells of expensive perfume and cocktails. It’s packed with the familiar faces of the F1 paddock, all letting their hair down now that the season is finally over. He gets a fresh drink — just a sparkling water, he’s had enough alcohol to last a month — and finds a quieter corner, a leather booth overlooking the chaos of the dance floor.

He watches the pulsing lights, the shifting bodies. He feels strangely detached from it all, an observer in his own victory party. He’s happy. He’s ecstatic. But he’s also just … tired.

And then he sees you.

It’s not a fleeting glimpse this time. You’re standing near the bar with your friend, Beth. You’re talking to one of the Williams mechanics, your head tilted back as you laugh at something he’s said. The strobe lights catch the silver of the scar on your nose. It was you. He wasn’t hallucinating.

His breath catches in his throat. The exhaustion, the detachment, the quiet haze in his mind — it all vanishes, replaced by a sharp, sudden focus. It’s you. You’re here.

He watches you for a long moment, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way it didn't on the final lap. You look incredible. The simple black dress clings to you in all the right ways, and your smile is just as dazzling as it was from a distance. The memory of you, crumpled and bleeding on the asphalt, feels like a scene from another lifetime, a different reality. It’s hard to reconcile that girl with the confident, radiant woman across the room.

He has to go over there. He has to say something. But what? Hi, thanks for coming. Sorry again about the horrific facial injury I inflicted upon you.

He takes a deep breath, pushing himself out of the booth. He feels more nervous now than he did on the starting grid. He weaves his way through the crowd, his eyes never leaving you. As he gets closer, you turn your head, your gaze sweeping across the room.

Your eyes meet his.

The recognition is instant. Your smile falters for a fraction of a second, your eyes widening slightly. The world seems to slow down, the thumping music fading to a dull, distant hum. There is only the crowded space between you and the sudden, undeniable charge in the air.

He stops a few feet away from you. The mechanic you were talking to says something, but you don’t seem to hear him. Beth notices his approach and her jaw drops for the second time in your shared F1 experience.

“Hi,” he says, his voice coming out a little hoarser than he intended.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice a low murmur that he has to strain to hear over the music.

A small, hesitant smile touches your lips. “Congratulations, World Champion.”

The two words hang in the air between you, a fragile bridge across the noisy chasm of the club. Your voice is calm, a little wry, and it cuts through the fog of victory and exhaustion in his head like a searchlight.

“Thanks,” Oscar manages to say, his own voice sounding distant to his ears. He takes a step closer, a magnetic pull he has no intention of fighting. “I, uh … I didn't know you were here. I thought I saw you earlier, before the race, but I figured I was just …”

“Hallucinating?” You finish for him, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Under the circumstances, I wouldn't have blamed you.”

“Something like that,” he admits, a faint blush rising on his neck. “I asked my team which race you’d picked. They never told me. I guess they didn't want the man responsible for your facial reconstruction getting distracted on the biggest day of his life.”

The joke is clumsy, landing with a thud, and he immediately regrets it. He winces, waiting for your reaction. But you just laugh, a genuine, warm sound that makes the knot in his stomach loosen just a little.

“Probably a smart move on their part,” you say. “Though you should know, my nose was reconstructed with titanium. It’s stronger than ever. You could probably hit it with another football and it would be fine.” You pause, your eyes twinkling. “Please don’t test that theory.”

“I will never, ever go near a football again,” he says, his voice so serious it’s almost a vow. “I swear. I’ve been having nightmares about it.”

“Really?”

“Not really,” he confesses. “But the guilt has been … significant.” He looks at you, properly looks at you, taking in the reality of you standing in front of him. “How is it? Your nose, I mean. Honestly.”

You reach up and touch the bridge of your nose, a light, unconscious gesture. “It’s fine. It aches when it’s about to rain, which makes me feel like I’m eighty years old. And I have this scar.” You lean in a little, tilting your head into the light. “See? The doctor called it a ‘character-building imperfection’.”

He leans in too, his gaze dropping to the faint, silvery line. It’s barely visible, delicate and fine. To him, it looks less like an imperfection and more like a brand, a permanent reminder of his own catastrophic clumsiness.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “For that. For all of it.”

“You gave me a VIP tour of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix and Lando Norris’s sweaty P1 hat,” you counter, your tone light. “I’d say we’re almost even.” You glance down at his feet, then back up at him with a mischievous glint in your eye. “I did end up selling the boots, by the way. Paid my rent for five months with a tidy profit left over. So, really, thank you.”

A surprised laugh escapes him. It’s the first time he’s laughed freely all night, a real, unburdened sound. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” you say with a perfectly straight face, which then breaks into a wide grin. “Of course I’m kidding. They’re sitting in a box in my closet. Beth wants me to build a shrine.”

The easy back-and-forth feels shockingly natural, as if you’ve known each other for years, not just two bizarre, traumatic encounters. The noise of the club, the press of the crowd, the weight of his new title — it all fades into the background. There is only this bubble of space around the two of you.

“So,” he says, searching for a way to keep the conversation going, to keep you here. “Did you enjoy the race? Apart from the constant, looming threat of airborne sporting equipment.”

“It was incredible,” you say, your eyes lighting up. “Watching it from the garage, hearing the comms … it’s a completely different world. And that last-lap overtake was …” You shake your head, at a loss for words. “I think my heart stopped.”

“Mine too,” he admits.

An electric silence falls between you. The music swells, a wave of bass washing over the room. He sees Beth make eye contact with you, raising her eyebrows in a silent, questioning gesture. You give her a subtle shake of the head, a silent command to stay put. You don’t want to leave. He doesn’t want you to leave.

Maybe it’s the six glasses of champagne he had since the podium. Maybe it’s the dizzying, surreal euphoria of achieving his life’s dream. Or maybe it’s just the simple, undeniable fact that he feels more drawn to you than anyone he has ever met. But the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Your eyebrows shoot up. The playful smile on your face is instantly replaced by a look of amused surprise. “Get out of here? Mr. World Champion, are you asking me back to your room?”

His face flames. Hearing it said so bluntly makes it sound impossibly forward, ridiculously arrogant. “I … yes?” He stammers. “Is that too much? I’m sorry. I’m not usually … I mean, I’m not good at this. The talking. The … this.”

You watch him, a slow, appraising smile returning to your face. You see the confident, untouchable athlete dissolve into a flustered, awkward guy who looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. It’s surprisingly, disarmingly endearing.

“You win the biggest prize in motorsport,” you say, tilting your head. “And the first thing you want to do is go home with the girl whose nose you broke. That’s either incredibly romantic or you have a very specific fetish.”

He chokes on air. “It is absolutely not a fetish.”

“Good to know,” you say, your smile widening. You take a small step closer, closing the remaining space between you. The scent of your perfume, something light and floral, cuts through the stale air of the club. “My hotel is on the other side of the island.” You pause, letting the statement hang in the air. “I assume yours is closer.”

Relief, potent and dizzying, floods his system. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Much closer.”

“Alright then, champion,” you say, your voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. “Lead the way.”

***

The walk back to his hotel is a blur. You slip out a side door, escaping the party unnoticed. The night air is warm and still. You don’t talk much. You don’t need to. The space between you crackles with a nervous, excited energy. His hand keeps brushing yours, sending little jolts up his arm. In the elevator, he finally gives in and takes it, his fingers lacing through yours. Your hand is warm and fits perfectly in his.

His suite is vast and impersonal, a generic landscape of beige furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering marina. The remnants of his race day are scattered around — his helmet on the coffee table, his champagne-soaked race suit slung over a chair.

He closes the door behind you, and the silence is suddenly immense. He feels that same awkwardness creeping back in. He’s a world champion in his own territory, and yet he feels like a teenager on a first date.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence. “This is … the room.”

You turn to face him, a soft smile on your face. You slowly walk towards him, your eyes never leaving his. “It’s a very nice room, Oscar.”

You stop directly in front of him, so close he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin. You reach up, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. His breath hitches.

“For the record,” you whisper. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

And that’s all it takes. The last of his reservations dissolves. He closes the distance, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that is both hesitant and hungry. It’s a kiss that tastes of champagne and victory and a strange, shared history of accidental violence. It’s messy and desperate and absolutely perfect.

His hands go to your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your arms snake around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss deepens, a silent communication of all the things left unsaid. It’s a release of months of tension — his guilt, your pain, the bizarre, undeniable pull that has existed between you from the moment a football left his foot at the wrong velocity.

Clothes become an inconvenience. The zipper of your dress is cool against his fingertips. The buttons on his shirt give way under your impatient hands. A trail of discarded fabric marks your path from the door to the bedroom. You tumble onto the enormous bed, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.

The world outside, the championship, the parties, the press — it all ceases to exist. There is only the soft light from the window, the cool cotton of the sheets, and the intoxicating feeling of your skin against his. His confidence returns, not the arrogance of an athlete, but the quiet certainty of a man who knows he is exactly where he is supposed to be.

Every touch is electric, every kiss a discovery. He feels the delicate, raised line of the scar on your nose under his thumb and a fresh wave of tenderness washes over him. He wants to erase the memory of the pain, to replace it with nothing but this.

Things escalate, the pace quickening. The soft, tender exploration gives way to a deeper, more urgent need. He’s on top of you, propped up on his elbows, his body caging yours. You look up at him, your eyes dark with desire, a small, trusting smile on your lips. The sight of it, of you looking at him like that, makes his head spin.

He leans down to kiss you again, wanting to devour you, to pour every ounce of his victory, his relief, his sheer, overwhelming joy into that single point of contact. He’s lost in the moment, a universe of sensation.

He shifts his weight, wanting to pull you closer, to deepen the kiss, to feel every inch of you against him. It’s a sudden movement, fueled by passion and adrenaline. A clumsy, uncoordinated shift.

His right elbow, moving faster than he intended, slips.

There is a sound. A wet, sickening crunch.

It’s a sound he knows. A sound that is seared into his memory. It’s the sound of bone breaking. It’s the sound of your nose.

For a split second, neither of you moves. The world freezes. The passionate, heavy breathing in the room is replaced by a stunned, absolute silence.

Then, a sharp, ragged gasp escapes your lips. Your hands fly to your face, just as they did that day in the paddock.

Oscar’s blood runs cold. A wave of ice-water horror crashes over him, extinguishing the fire of passion in an instant. He scrambles back, his limbs trembling.

“No,” he whispers, the word a strangled, pathetic sound. “No, no, no, no, no.”

You’re sitting up now, hunched over, your hands cupped over your face. You’re completely still.

“Are you …” He can’t even finish the sentence. The question is too horrifying, too absurd. His mind is short-circuiting. This isn’t happening. This is a stress dream. A nightmare brought on by too much champagne and not enough sleep. It cannot be real.

Then you lower your hands.

A single, perfect drop of crimson blood falls from your nostril, landing starkly against the pristine white of the hotel bedsheet. Another follows, and then another.

You stare down at the spreading red stain on the sheets, your expression not one of pain or anger, but of something far stranger. It’s a look of cosmic disbelief.

You slowly lift your gaze to meet his. He looks absolutely shattered, his face pale with a terror so consuming it seems to have aged him ten years in ten seconds.

A long, heavy moment passes. You take a slow, shaky breath.

And then you speak, your voice eerily calm, laced with a thread of galactic-level exasperation.

“Oscar,” you say, looking from the blood on the sheets to his horrified face. “You really need to stop making a habit out of this.”

Oscar’s brain ceases to function. The words you speak — so calm, so absurd, so utterly unexpected — are a foreign language he cannot process. He just stares at you, at your face, at the blood on the sheets, and his entire world, which just moments ago had been a triumphant, glittering pinnacle, collapses into a black hole of pure, unadulterated horror.

“I … what?” He says, his voice a choked whisper.

“A habit,” you repeat, your voice still unnervingly steady. You press the corner of the duvet to your nose, wincing as the fabric makes contact. “You know, something you do regularly. Like brushing your teeth. Or, in your case, shattering my nasal cartilage.”

The clinical, detached way you say it finally snaps him out of his paralysis. He lurches into motion, a frantic, chaotic scramble.

“Oh my God,” he says, stumbling out of the bed and frantically looking around the room as if the solution to this nightmare is hiding behind a lamp. “Oh my God, not again. I can’t—this isn’t—I am the worst person on Earth.”

“You’re not the worst person on Earth, Oscar,” you say, your voice muffled by the duvet. “But your spatial awareness in moments of passion could use some work.”

“Ice!” He exclaims, a single, brilliant thought piercing the fog of his panic. “We need ice.” He runs to the minibar, yanks it open, and starts pulling out tiny bottles of vodka and overpriced chocolate bars, searching for the microscopic ice tray. “And a doctor. I’m calling Dr. Hughes. He’s the team physician. He’ll know what to do.”

He finds his phone on the nightstand, his fingers shaking so badly it takes him three tries to unlock it.

“Oscar,” you say, your voice firm, cutting through his rising tide of panic. He freezes, phone halfway to his ear, and looks at you. You’ve lowered the duvet. The bleeding is worse now, a steady drip. But your eyes are clear and focused. “Do not call the McLaren team doctor at three o’clock in the morning on the night you won the World Championship to tell him you broke my nose. Again. During …” You wave a hand, searching for the right word. “… an intimate moment.”

He stares at you, the logic of your words slowly penetrating his thick skull. You’re right. The PR fallout from that phone call would be apocalyptic.

“Right,” he says, lowering the phone. “No team doctor. Okay. Right. So, a hospital. We’ll go to a hospital. I’ll get the car.” He starts pulling on his trousers, which are inside out. He doesn’t notice.

“Okay,” you agree.

“I am so sorry,” he says, the words a desperate, repeating mantra. He finally gets his trousers on the right way and shoves his feet into his shoes without socks. “I don’t know how this happened. My elbow just … slipped. I wasn’t—I would never—I swear to God, I’m not normally this … hazardous.”

“I believe you,” you say, and the strange thing is, you do. This wasn’t malice. It was just a freak accident of physics and passion. A one-in-a-billion recurrence.

He finds one of his McLaren hoodies, still smelling faintly of champagne and sweat, and gently helps you put it on over your head. The gesture is so tender, so careful, it’s a stark contrast to the accidental violence of moments before. He helps you off the bed, his arm securely around your waist, treating you as if you’re made of spun glass.

The journey through the silent, opulent hotel and down to the underground car park is a surreal pantomime of stealth and urgency. He has you tucked under his arm, your face hidden in the hood, while he scans every corridor for potential witnesses. They make it to his McLaren, and he settles you into the passenger seat with the care of a bomb disposal expert.

The drive to the hospital is silent for the first five minutes, the only sound the hum of the tires on the immaculate Abu Dhabi asphalt and Oscar’s frantic, shallow breathing. He’s gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white.

“This is, without a doubt, the weirdest night of my life,” you say, finally breaking the silence. Your voice is thick and nasally. You’re holding a wad of tissues he grabbed from the hotel room to your face.

He flinches as if you’d slapped him. “I am so, so, so sorry, Y/N.” He uses your first name, and the sound of it in his mouth, so earnest and broken, makes something in your chest ache.

“I know,” you say softly. “You keep saying that.”

“It’s all I can say,” he replies, his voice cracking. “What else is there? ‘Oops’?”

A small, painful laugh escapes you. “Probably not ‘oops’.”

“I just,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I win the World Championship. My lifelong dream. And hours later, I’m in a rental car, driving the beautiful girl I was in bed with to the emergency room for the second face-breaking incident I have personally caused her. How is this my life?”

“Maybe you’re cursed,” you suggest. “Maybe you made a deal with the devil. He gives you a world title, but you’re doomed to be a menace to my specific nose for all eternity.”

He glances at you, a flicker of a smile touching his lips before being immediately extinguished by a fresh wave of guilt. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little bit funny,” you insist. “The universe has a strange sense of humor.”

The emergency room at 3:41 AM is the same in Abu Dhabi as it is anywhere else in the world. The lighting is a harsh, unforgiving fluorescent. The air smells of disinfectant and quiet desperation. A handful of other people are scattered around the waiting room, nursing their own late-night maladies.

The check-in process is a masterpiece of awkwardness. Oscar tries to handle it, but he’s so flustered he can barely remember his own name, let alone yours. You end up taking over, calmly explaining to the triage nurse that you had a … fall. And that yes, you think your nose is broken again.

You sit in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, a strange island of high drama in a sea of mundane misery. Oscar doesn’t sit. He paces. He walks back and forth in a three-foot space in front of you, a caged, miserable animal. Every few laps, he stops, looks at you, and opens his mouth as if to apologize again, but you just give him a look, and he resumes his pacing.

A man with a dislocated shoulder, his arm in a makeshift sling, squints at Oscar. “Hey, are you …”

Oscar freezes, his face paling. “No,” he says quickly. “I’m not.”

The man shrugs and goes back to staring at the wall.

After what feels like an eternity, a nurse calls your name. Oscar is on his feet instantly, his hand on the small of your back as he guides you into the examination area.

The doctor is a young, efficient man with tired eyes. He listens patiently to your story about “falling” and then gently probes your face. Oscar hovers by the door, radiating an aura of guilt so powerful it feels like it’s sucking the oxygen out of the room.

“Well,” the doctor says, shining a light up your nostrils. “It seems you have a talent for this. It’s broken. Again. Same place.”

“A talent is one word for it,” you mumble.

“We’ll need to set it,” the doctor says calmly. “It will be unpleasant, but it’s better to do it now. A local anesthetic to numb the area, and then a quick, firm … reset.”

Oscar makes a small, strangled sound from the doorway.

“Would your … friend like to wait outside?” The doctor asks, glancing at the pale, sweating World Champion.

“No,” Oscar says immediately, his voice stronger than you expected. “I’m staying.”

He walks over and stands beside you, taking your hand. His palm is clammy, but his grip is firm and steady.

The anesthetic shots are sharp and stinging, but soon a welcome numbness spreads across your face. The doctor picks up a tool that looks like something from a medieval torture chamber.

“Okay,” he says. “A deep breath. This will be quick.”

Oscar’s grip on your hand tightens. The doctor places the tool inside your nostril, and with a swift, brutal movement, there is a deep, resonant CRACK that you feel all the way down to your teeth.

Your entire body convulses, a strangled cry escaping your throat. But it’s Oscar who flinches harder. His eyes are screwed shut, his face a mask of pure, empathetic agony, as if he felt the bone grate back into place himself.

And then it’s over. The doctor is taping a fresh, clean bandage across your nose. The sharp, blinding pain is already receding, replaced by the familiar, deep, throbbing ache.

They leave you in the room to wait for discharge papers. Oscar pulls a stool over and sits in front of you, still holding your hand. He looks utterly defeated. The euphoria of his championship victory is a distant memory, replaced by this quiet, sterile, self-inflicted nightmare.

“I felt that,” he says, his voice a raw whisper. “When he … set it. I felt it. And seeing you … the look on your face …” He shakes his head, unable to finish. “This is all my fault.”

“We’ve established that,” you say, your voice gentle. You squeeze his hand. “Oscar. It was an accident. A ridiculous, statistically impossible, cosmically stupid accident. But it was an accident.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, looking up at you, his eyes swimming with a vulnerability you’ve never seen. “It happened. Twice. I hurt you. Twice. The first time was bad luck. The second time is a pattern. I am officially a health hazard.”

He lets go of your hand and stands up, resuming his pacing in the small room.

“I shouldn’t be around you. Clearly. I’m dangerous. I’m like a walking cartoon anvil.” He stops and faces you, a look of grim resolution on his face. “After I take you back to your hotel, I’ll arrange a flight for you and your friend. First class, anywhere you want to go. A vacation to make up for the ruined vacation. And I’ll cover every medical bill, now and forever. And then … I’ll stay away from you. For your own safety.”

He says it with such finality, such certainty, that it feels like a punch to the gut. An ache, far deeper than the one in your nose, spreads through your chest. The thought of him just disappearing from your life, of this bizarre, chaotic, and strangely wonderful connection just ending here, in this sterile room, is unbearable.

He thinks he’s doing the noble thing. The right thing. And it’s the last thing in the world you want.

He’s waiting for you to agree, to accept his terms of surrender. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.

He looks so lost, so convinced that he’s poison. All the confidence of the champion has been stripped away, leaving only the awkward, earnest, and catastrophically clumsy man underneath. He turns to look out the small window at the slowly lightening Abu Dhabi sky. He’s given up.

It’s your turn to be brave. Or stupid.

“Oscar,” you say. He turns back to you, his expression guarded. “Before you banish yourself to a remote island for my protection, can I ask you a question?”

“Anything,” he says.

“That night at the club … before all this,” you gesture to your face, the room. “When you asked me to come back to your room. Why did you?”

He looks confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what was the reason? Was it because you felt guilty and you were just trying to complete the apology tour? Was it because you’d just won the biggest race of your life and you were drunk on champagne and adrenaline and I was just … there?”

He stares at you, processing the question. He walks back to the stool and sits down, his eyes locked on yours.

“No,” he says, his voice low and firm. “No. It wasn’t guilt. The guilt was there, it’s always going to be there. And it wasn’t the win. That was … that was all just noise.” He leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “From the moment I first saw you — I mean, really saw you, at the club, smiling — I couldn’t think about anything else. I haven’t been able to. I felt … I don’t know. I’m not good with words. It was just a feeling. That I had to talk to you. That I wanted to be near you. It had nothing to do with your nose or the championship. It was just … you.”

The sincerity in his voice is a palpable thing. It fills the small room, pushing back against the smell of antiseptic and the hum of the hospital.

He takes a deep breath, like a driver on the grid waiting for the lights to go out. It’s a moment of bravery. Or stupidity.

“Y/N,” he says, your name a quiet prayer. “When we get out of here, and after you’ve had time to heal, and after you’re sure you don’t want to file a restraining order … will you go on a date with me? A real date. In public. During the daytime. With no beds or footballs anywhere in the vicinity.”

The question hangs in the air, audacious and hopeful and completely insane.

You look at him — this brilliant, talented, disastrous man who has twice broken your face and is now, against all logic, asking to see you again. A slow smile spreads across your lips, pulling at the tender skin around your mouth.

You tilt your head, your expression a perfect mix of amusement and affection.

“Is that because you’re trying to break my nose for a third time?” You ask. “Going for the hat-trick?”

The anxiety on his face vanishes, replaced by a sudden, startled laugh. It’s a beautiful sound. He shakes his head, a look of relief washing over him.

“God, no,” he says, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time in hours. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure nothing ever touches that nose again. I’ll wrap you in bubble wrap if I have to.”

“Okay then, champion,” you say softly, reaching out and taking his hand again. “It’s a date.”

***

The late afternoon sun is low and golden, filtering through the sprawling branches of the oak trees in Melbourne Park. A gentle breeze, a welcome respite from the Australian heat, rustles the leaves. It’s quiet, peaceful. You’re walking along a gravel path, your hand loosely held in Oscar’s. The familiar, comfortable weight of it is an anchor in your world.

A year has passed since the Abu Dhabi emergency room. A year of tentative first dates — each one meticulously planned by Oscar to be as low-risk and hazard-free as possible — followed by a second date, and a third, until neither of you were counting anymore. A year of falling in love, a slow and steady process that felt as inevitable as it was unlikely.

His life is still a whirlwind of carbon fiber and continents, of qualifying laps and sponsor commitments. But your life is the quiet space he returns to. Your small apartment, which is now cluttered with his belongings, has become his home. The man who was once a face on a television screen now leaves his slippers by your front door and argues with you about who has to unload the dishwasher.

“I’m just saying,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze, “that for a man who can calculate braking points to the millimeter while traveling at the speed of sound, your ability to judge the correct amount of pasta to cook is shockingly poor.”

He feigns a look of deep offense. “It’s called being prepared. What if we have unexpected guests? What if there’s a pasta-related apocalypse? We’re set for a week. You should be thanking me.”

“My thank you is not having to cook for three days,” you concede. “But my Tupperware collection is filing a formal grievance.”

He laughs, a deep, easy sound that you feel more than you hear. He stops walking and turns to face you, pulling you in by your hand. The sun catches the flecks of gold in his eyes. The shy, awkward boy from the medical tent is gone, replaced by a man who looks at you with a quiet certainty that still makes your breath catch.

“Is my subpar pasta-cooking a deal-breaker, then?” He asks, a playful smirk on his lips.

“I’m considering my options,” you say, rising on your toes to kiss him. “But for now, you’re safe.”

He leans in to kiss you back, his other hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. And in that moment, in that split-second of blissful, mundane peace, the universe decides to test you one last time.

From the corner of your eye, you see a flash of neon green.

A frisbee, thrown with more enthusiasm than skill by a teenager on the nearby lawn, wobbles violently through the air. It arcs, dips, and then makes a sharp, unnatural turn, as if guided by the hand of some mischievous god of chaos.

It is heading directly for your face.

Time slows. It’s happening again. The world narrows to a single, incoming projectile. You see the ridges on the plastic, the way it spins, the inexorable physics of its trajectory. You brace for the impact, a phantom ache already blooming in your nose.

But Oscar’s world speeds up.

His kiss hasn’t even ended when his senses scream DANGER. His racer’s reflexes, honed by a thousand start-lights and a million micro-corrections, take over his body. There is no thought. There is only action.

His hand drops from your cheek. In a single, fluid motion that is impossibly fast, he moves. He doesn't just block it. He doesn't just bat it away. His arm extends, his fingers splay, and with the pinpoint precision of a man who lives in a world of milliseconds, he plucks the neon green disc out of the air.

It comes to a dead stop, hovering silently, less than an inch from the bridge of your nose.

A stunned silence hangs between you. The teenagers on the lawn have frozen, their hands over their mouths. The breeze rustles the leaves.

Oscar is panting slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looks from the frisbee in his hand to your wide, shocked eyes. He’s holding the plastic disc like it’s a venomous snake he’s just subdued.

You slowly reach up and touch your nose. It’s there. It’s intact. It’s not bleeding.

A slow, bubbling laugh escapes your lips. It starts as a giggle and grows into a full, breathless peal of laughter. You lean your forehead against his chest, shaking with the sheer, cosmic absurdity of it all.

“Oh my god,” you manage to get out between gasps.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice tight with a familiar, post-traumatic panic.

You look up at him, your eyes shining with tears of laughter. “Better than okay. My hero.” You tap the frisbee still clutched in his hand. “Look at you. Finally putting those ridiculously fast hands to good use.”

A slow grin spreads across his face, a wave of relief washing over him. He looks down at the frisbee, then back at you, a look of mock-seriousness in his eyes.

“All of it,” he says, his voice a low, dramatic vow. “The go-karting since I was a kid, the years in the junior formulas, the hours in the simulator, winning the World Championship … it has all been a training montage for this exact moment.” He tosses the frisbee dismissively onto the grass. “My life’s purpose is complete. I have saved your nose.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you. “My nose and I are eternally grateful,” you whisper against his lips.

“Good,” he murmurs, his smile softening into something tender and real. “Because I plan on keeping it safe for a very, very long time.”

He kisses you then, a kiss that isn’t born of frantic passion or champagne-fueled victory, but of quiet certainty and a shared, ridiculous history. It’s a kiss that tastes like home. And you know, with a clarity that settles deep in your bones, that while your story started with a bang and two clean breaks, it will end with a lifetime of very, very quiet saves.

[fleurspun]

The Art of Pretension

summary: You strike a deal with Nikolai to save yourself from a disastrous arranged marriage.

note: fake dating nikolai lol english is not my first language u might see some errors and also you can find this on ao3 

word count: 5.8k

When my tutor asked me where I saw myself in ten years, my twelve-year-old self answered something along the lines of pursuing higher education in Ketterdam University and occasionally taking trips to The Grand Palace to annoy Nikolai, a prince of my age whom I was often forced to study with to promote ‘friendly competition’— whatever that meant, about being forever his older brother, Vassily’s shadow.

Ten years later and I don’t think I’ll be fulfilling the latter any time soon for very unfortunate reasons, including Vassily’s untimely death.

Instead, I’m sitting on a velvet blue chair on the other end of the King’s newly-polished marble table, which felt comically long, by the way. Instead, I abandon my shame and face the boy who I was now obligated to call the Tsar. Instead, I was here in Os Alta to make a proposal. Literally. Because in the next few seconds, I would be asking Nikolai Lantsov, the Tsar of Ravka and the reason for the many wrinkles in my forehead, to…

“Marry me." 

I say it with my whole chest as if I was simply barking out orders at a palace servant, "Or, at the very least, pretend like you want to marry me.”

Keep reading

[fleurspun]

Healer’s Duties

summary: Being Nikolai’s healer isn’t the easiest job in the world, and it only gets more complicated when he decides to kiss you.

note: If you see a Kaeya reference here just shh. Dunno if I like this, but hopefully you like this work more than I do. Lots of banter and self-indulgent wall-pinning.

word count: 4.4k

Nikolai Lantsov liked to get himself in trouble. It didn’t matter if he was in court, or if he was stirring up disturbance in the waters of the True Sea. Nikolai liked to get himself in trouble, and all these years I was always there to save his head and patch him up for his next stupid ideas.

It was my job, after all. Nikolai comes to see me when he’s in need of dire fixing— when his body is sore and his limbs are covered in deep purple bruises, and when his charm doesn’t come out to be as persuasive and as flowery as he’d like it to be. Pathetic would be an understatement to how I felt every single time my heart skips a beat when he stumbles into my room at the most ungodly hours of the night, mumbling about how much he needed to be under my care. He needed me because I was a healer, I was of benefit to his well-being. He didn’t need me because I provided tranquility, and he certainly didn’t need me because he felt something towards me.

“I take it as you didn’t miss me?” 

I hear Nikolai’s unmistakable, feathery voice by the door, and I turn to see him leaning on my cedar door frame, tapping his foot like a ticking clock. He’s a mess, that’s what. Traces of dried blood on his broken nose, a few cuts and gashes on his pretty little face, a bruised lip, and knowing him, there’s most likely a wound or two behind his black poet’s blouse.

“You’re lovely company, Nikolai. How could anybody not miss you?” I cross my arms at him, nodding to the bed.

Keep reading

[samijen]

Minor Spoilers for Project Hail Mary book (kinda??)

Some characters/moments from the book that weren't in the movie

[lalalovelyly]

The Crown's Fool

Valarr Targaryen x reader

synopsys: In which you're oblivious and try to set him up.

wordcount: 4.1k

requested by @verouys

The gardens of the Red Keep had always been your sanctuary, though today they felt more like a cage of blooms and buzzing insects. You sat on the stone bench beneath the weirwood sapling—the one that would never grow properly in this southern soil—and pretended to read a book about Dornish poetry.

You weren't reading. You were watching.

Across the garden, Valarr Targaryen stood with a cluster of courtiers, his black doublet immaculate despite the afternoon heat. That ridiculous streak of silver-gold in his brown hair caught the sunlight like a promise, and when he laughed at something one of the lords said, you felt your stomach do something entirely inappropriate.

Not that you'd ever admit it.

You'd known Valarr since you were both children, stumbling through dance lessons and falling asleep during Maester's lectures. He was your best friend. Your only real friend, if you were being honest with yourself, which you tried not to be about certain things.

He caught you staring and grinned, excusing himself from the courtiers to cross the garden toward you.

"You've been on that same page for twenty minutes," he said, dropping onto the bench beside you. Close enough that his knee brushed yours. Close enough that you could smell the faint sandalwood of his soap. "Is Dornish poetry that captivating, or are you just avoiding Lady Elisweth again?"

"Both," you admitted, snapping the book shut. "She wants to discuss her daughter's upcoming marriage to some Reach lord, and I've heard the details fourteen times. I counted."

Valarr's mismatched eyes softened with amusement. "Fourteen? You're certain it wasn't fifteen?"

"I'm an excellent counter."

"You're excellent at everything." He bumped his shoulder against yours, and warmth bloomed through your chest like spilled wine. "Walk with me? The Small Council is meeting, and I'm meant to be observing 'the duties of a future king' or some such nonsense. Father won't notice if I'm late."

You should have said no. You should have remembered that every time you spent alone with Valarr, you ended up feeling confused and fluttery and generally nonsensical. But you never did.

"Fine," you said, standing. "But if your father asks, I was lecturing you on Dornish poetry."

"Tyrannically, I'm sure."

The walk through the godswood was comfortable, familiar. Valarr talked about his younger brother Matarys's latest mischief—something involving a cat, a pie, and the Master of Coin—and you listened, laughing in all the right places. This was easy. This was how it had always been.

Which was why you felt safe enough to bring up the topic that had been nagging at you for weeks.

"Valarr?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I ask you something? Something... personal?"

He stopped walking, turning to face you with an expression of genuine concern. "Of course. You can ask me anything."

You bit your lip, suddenly uncertain. But the question had been burning in your mind ever since Lady Florent's dinner party, when Valarr had spent the entire evening speaking to exactly three people: you, his father, and the wine steward.

"Why don't you ever... talk to women?"

His face did something complicated. "I talk to you."

"That's different. I'm me." You waved a hand dismissively. "I mean other women. Ladies at court. Eligible ones."

Valarr's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I talk to them when necessary."

"Necessary." You stared at him. "Valarr, you're the heir to the heir. You're eight and teen, unmarried, and I've watched you literally walk around Lady Cassana rather than pass her on the stairwell."

"I was going the other direction anyway."

"You turned around mid-step and walked into a tapestry."

He had the grace to look embarrassed. "It was a very nice tapestry."

You grabbed his arm, pulling him toward a stone bench beneath an ancient oak. "Sit. We're having a proper conversation about this."

"I don't want to have a proper conversation about this."

"Sit."

He sat.

You settled beside him, tucking your feet up on the bench and turning to face him fully. "Valarr, be serious with me. Your parents have been trying to arrange matches for you since you were fifteen. Your mother sends you to speak with eligible ladies at every feast. And you... what? Grunt at them and leave?"

"I do not grunt."

"You absolutely grunt. I've heard it. It's a very distinctive grunt."

He crossed his arms, looking remarkably like a sulking child despite being nearly six feet of Targaryen prince. "I simply haven't found anyone suitable."

"No one? In three years of introductions? There have been dozens of women, Valarr. Beautiful ones. Clever ones. One of them could recite the entire lineage of House Targaryen from memory."

"That one tried to correct my Valyrian pronunciation."

"So?"

"So, my Valyrian pronunciation is perfect."

You threw your hands up. "You're impossible."

"I'm selective."

"You're turning down every match your parents suggest. Lady Roslin? Rejected. Lady Alysanne? You hid in the stables for three hours. Lady Jeyne? You told her you preferred horses to people, which I suppose is honest, but—"

"She asked if I thought she was prettier than my horse."

"Was she?"

Valarr paused, considering. "My horse has very kind eyes."

You burst out laughing, and after a moment, he joined you. This was why you loved— liked. This was why you liked spending time with him. He could always make you laugh, even when you were trying to be serious.

"Valarr," you said, once you'd composed yourself. "You have to marry eventually. You're the heir."

His expression shifted, something flickering in those mismatched eyes. "I know."

"So why not at least try? Give someone a chance? You might be surprised."

He was quiet for a long moment, studying your face with an intensity that made your skin warm. "And what about you?" he asked softly. "You're unmarried as well. I've noticed you turn down your share of suitors too."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes." You looked away, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "I just haven't found anyone who... who makes me feel..."

The way you make me feel, your traitorous mind supplied. Who looks at me the way you do. Who makes my heart race without even trying.

"Who makes you feel what?" Valarr prompted, his voice unusually gentle.

"Safe," you said finally. "Comfortable. Like I can be myself without pretending."

He reached out, tucking a nonexistent strand of hair behind your ear with such casual intimacy that you forgot to breathe. "You deserve that," he said. "Someone who loves you. All of you. Not just the lady at court, but the girl who feeds bacon to the castle cats and argues with maesters about Dornish poetry."

Your heart was doing something alarming in your chest. "You remember the cats?"

"I remember everything about you."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning you couldn't quite grasp. Valarr's hand lingered near your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, and for one wild, impossible moment, you thought—

"Your Grace!"

You both jerked apart as a page came running down the path, red-faced and breathless. "Your Grace, the Small Council—your father sent me to find you—he's very insistent—"

Valarr closed his eyes briefly, exhaling slowly. "Of course he did." He stood, smoothing his doublet, and for just a moment, his gaze caught yours. "We'll finish this conversation later."

It sounded like a promise.

Except you didn't let him finish it.

Because the more you thought about that moment in the godswood—the way he'd looked at you, touched you, spoken to you—the more confused you became. Valarr was your friend. Your best friend. He'd never given any indication of wanting more than that.

Had he?

No. No, certainly not. He was just... affectionate. That was all. He'd known you forever, so of course he was comfortable with you. It didn't mean anything.

He remembers everything about you.

You shook the thought away. It meant nothing. Valarr was simply a good friend. A very close, very handsome, very attentive friend who happened to make your heart race and your thoughts scatter.

Stop it, you told yourself firmly. He's your friend. Nothing more.

The problem, you decided, was that Valarr needed to find someone. Someone who wasn't you. Someone he could actually marry and love and—

Your stomach clenched painfully at the thought.

But it was the logical solution. If Valarr found a wife, he'd stop looking at you like that. Touching you like that. Making you feel things you had no business feeling. He'd be happy, and you'd be happy for him, and everything would go back to normal.

Normal. Yes.

You just had to find him the perfect match.

Lady Emilia Massey was beautiful, accomplished, and had a laugh like chiming bells. You'd positioned yourself strategically near the lemon cakes at the afternoon gathering, watching as Valarr approached her with the expression of a man walking to his own execution.

"Lady Emilia," he said, bowing stiffly. "Would you care to walk with me in the gardens?"

She dimpled prettily. "I would be honored, my prince."

You watched them disappear down the path, feeling oddly hollow. This was good. This was what you wanted. Valarr deserved someone lovely and appropriate, someone who wouldn't make him grunt and flee.

Twenty minutes later, Valarr reappeared—alone.

"That was quick," you said brightly, perhaps too brightly. "Did you enjoy your walk?"

"There was a bee."

"A bee."

"A very aggressive bee." He sat down heavily beside you, reaching for a lemon cake. "It kept circling us. She was quite distressed. I escorted her back inside."

"You escorted her back inside because of a bee?"

"Would you prefer I let her be stung?"

You stared at him. "Valarr, there are bees in the gardens constantly. You've never once escorted me inside because of a bee."

"That's different."

"How?"

He took a bite of cake, avoiding your gaze. "You're not afraid of bees."

"I'm terrified of bees."

"You've never mentioned it."

"You've never given me a reason to."

He had no response to that, just looked at you with an expression you couldn't read.

Lady Marcella Crane was next. You engineered an introduction at the library, knowing Valarr spent his mornings there. She was clever, well-read, and shared his interest in dragon lore.

You watched them from behind a shelf of histories, pretending to be absorbed in a book about the Dornish Marches. They talked for nearly an hour. An hour. You'd never seen Valarr talk to anyone for that long except you.

When they emerged, Lady Marcella was smiling. Valarr was... Valarr.

"The library was pleasant," he reported later, when you found him in the training yard. "She knows quite a bit about dragons."

"That's wonderful!"

"Yes." He parried a practice blow from a knight, then turned back to you. "She suggested I grow a beard."

"A beard?"

"To look more 'kingly,' she said. More 'distinguished.'" He paused, lowering his sword. "Do I need to look more distinguished?"

You studied him—sweaty, flushed from exertion, that ridiculous silver streak and his brown hair plastered all over his forehead. "No," you said honestly. "You look like you."

Something warm flickered in his eyes. "Good. That's what I prefer to look like."

By the fourth rejection, you were beginning to suspect a pattern.

Lady Celine Hightower was too tall. Lady Arwen Oakheart talked too much about her horses. Lady Jenna Marbrand laughed too loudly. Lady Sara Westerling had an unfortunate preference for boiled eggs.

"She boiled them," Valarr said, as if this explained everything. "At the breakfast table. In front of everyone."

"People eat boiled eggs, Valarr."

"Not at my breakfast table they don't."

You pressed your fingers to your temples. "You're impossible. You're genuinely impossible. What do you want in a wife? Tell me. Give me something to work with."

He considered this, tilting his head in that way that made your heart flutter traitorously. "I want someone who doesn't try to be someone they're not. Someone who's comfortable with silence. Someone who laughs at my jokes even when they're not funny."

"Everyone laughs at your jokes. You're a prince."

"You don't."

You blinked. "What?"

"You don't laugh at my jokes just because I'm a prince. Sometimes you don't laugh at all. You just look at me like I'm an idiot and change the subject."

"You are an idiot sometimes."

"Yes." He smiled, that real smile, the one he saved for you. "That's what I mean."

You didn't understand. You never understood, not really. But something in his words made your chest ache.

Lady Rosa's Frey's cousin was the final straw.

You'd watched Valarr spend exactly four minutes with her before excusing himself to check on his horse, a horse that was, as far as you knew, perfectly healthy and didn't require checking. He didn't speak to another woman for the rest of the evening.

You were brooding about it in the library the next morning when Matarys Targaryen—Valarr's younger brother, all of fourteen and insufferably pleased with himself—slid into the chair across from you.

"You're doing that thing again," he said.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you stare at my brother like he's a puzzle you can't solve and your face does that crinkly thing."

"My face does not do a crinkly thing."

"It absolutely does. It's very sad to watch." He helped himself to an apple from the bowl on the table, biting into it with a loud crunch. "Still trying to marry him off?"

"I'm trying to help him find happiness."

"By forcing him to talk to women he clearly doesn't want to talk to?"

You frowned. "He has to marry eventually. He's the heir."

"Does he, though?" Matarys leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I mean, have you considered why he doesn't want to talk to them?"

"Because he's difficult and picky and once rejected someone because she ate boiled eggs?"

Matarys snorted. "No. Well, yes, that's also true. But there's another reason." He glanced around dramatically, as if checking for spies. "A secret reason. A family secret."

You leaned in despite yourself. "What kind of secret?"

"The kind that explains why my brother has turned down every eligible lady in the Seven Kingdoms." Matarys bit into his apple again, chewing with infuriating slowness. "Think about it. He's handsome, charming when he wants to be, heir to the Iron Throne. Any woman would be thrilled to marry him. And yet—"

"And yet nothing," you said. "He's just... particular."

"He's particular about women because he's not interested in women." Matarys raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "At all."

The words took a moment to land. And then another moment. And then they crashed into your brain like a runaway cart.

"You're saying—"

"I'm saying nothing." He held up his hands innocently. "I'm merely suggesting that if my brother has shown zero interest in every eligible lady you've thrown at him, perhaps the problem isn't the ladies. Perhaps the problem is that they're ladies."

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"But he—we've been friends forever—he's never—"

"Never what? Shown interest in anyone? Talked about wanting to marry? Glanced twice at any woman at court?" Matarys shrugged. "Strange, isn't it? Almost like he's waiting for someone who isn't a woman."

He stood, brushing apple crumbs from his tunic. "Anyway, just a thought. I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually. You seem clever." He paused at the door. "Well. Clever enough."

And then he was gone, leaving you alone with the most horrifying realization of your life.

Valarr Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne, your dearest friend in all the world—

Preferred men.

It made so much sense. The discomfort around eligible ladies, the avoidance, the way he seemed utterly uninterested in every woman presented to him. He wasn't being picky. He wasn't being difficult. He simply... wasn't attracted to them.

And you, his closest friend, had been torturing him by forcing introductions to woman after woman.

Guilt crashed over you like a wave. How could you have been so blind? So stupid? He'd trusted you with his friendship, and you'd spent weeks trying to marry him off to people he could never love.

Well. You'd fix this. You'd make it right.

You just had to find him a man instead.

Ser Davon Fossoway was handsome, chivalrous, and currently unattached. You cornered him after the midday meal, explaining that the prince had expressed interest in discussing—something. You hadn't quite worked out the details.

"He wants to discuss... swordplay?" Ser Davon looked confused but hopeful. "With me specifically?"

"You're an excellent swordsman, aren't you?"

"I like to think so, my lady."

"Perfect. He specifically mentioned wanting to speak with an excellent swordsman. In private. In the gardens. By the rose arbor."

The rose arbor was romantic. Everyone knew that. You were very clever.

Ser Davon arrived promptly. You watched from behind a hedge as Valarr approached, looking baffled.

"Ser Davon? My... my friend said you wished to speak with me about something?"

"I understood it was you who wished to speak with me, my prince."

"Oh. Well. I suppose we can... speak?"

They stood there awkwardly for a long moment.

"Lovely weather," Ser Davon offered.

"Yes. Very... weather."

"Good for swordplay."

"Is it?"

"Generally, yes. Dry ground, you know. Less mud."

"I... see."

Another long pause.

"Well," Ser Davon said finally, "if that's all, my prince, I should return to my duties."

"Yes. Duties. Of course."

Ser Davon bowed and fled. Valarr stood alone in the rose arbor, looking like a man who'd just survived a battle he hadn't known he was fighting.

You needed a different approach.

Ser Addam Rowan was older, more confident, and reportedly very charming. You arranged for him to encounter Valarr in the library, where the prince spent his mornings. Surely a shared interest in books would—

"Are you... following me?" Valarr asked, when you appeared behind a shelf for the third time that week.

"What? No. I'm researching. For a thing. A research thing."

He raised an eyebrow—the one above his blue eye, which always made him look particularly skeptical. "You're researching in the military history section? You once told me you'd rather clean the dragonpit than read about battles."

"This is... different research."

"What kind of research?"

"The kind I don't need to explain to you."

He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell sandalwood and parchment. "You've been acting strange for weeks. Setting me up with ladies, then suddenly with knights. What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on. I just want you to be happy."

"I'm happy."

"You're lonely."

His expression shifted, something vulnerable flickering across his features. "I'm not lonely. I have you."

"That's different. That's—I'm your friend. You need more than a friend. You need someone who can be... who can give you..."

"I have everything I need."

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. "Valarr, you don't have to pretend with me. I understand. I figured it out."

"Figured what out?"

"That you're not... that you don't..." You lowered your voice, glancing around the empty library. "That you prefer the company of men."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Valarr stared at you. His mismatched eyes went wide, then narrower, then wide again. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened.

"You think," he said slowly, "that I prefer men."

"I understand if you can't say it openly. With your position, it must be—"

"I don't prefer men."

"But you never—all those ladies—you never showed any interest—"

"I showed interest in exactly one person." His voice was strange, tight with something you couldn't identify. "For years. Constantly. Relentlessly. To the point where my parents have a bet about it."

You blinked. "A bet?"

"Mother thinks I'll confess by my nineteenth nameday. Father thinks I'll wait until I'm twenty. They've been wagering for three years."

"I don't understand."

"I know you don't." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's the problem. That's always been the problem. You don't see it. You've never seen it."

"See what?"

He stepped closer, and closer still, until you were backed against a shelf of musty histories with nowhere to go. His hands came up to frame your face, gentle but insistent, and his eyes—one blue, one brown—burned into yours.

"You," he said softly. "Only you. Always you."

And then he kissed you.

The world stopped.

No—the world started, for the first time in your life. Colors brightened. Sounds sharpened. Everything you'd never understood, never let yourself feel, came crashing down in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

Valarr's lips were soft against yours, tentative at first, then firmer when you didn't pull away. His hands slid into your hair, tangling in the strands, and you made a sound you didn't recognize—somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.

When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, breath coming fast.

"Now do you understand?" he whispered.

You couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Could only stare at him—this boy you'd known your whole life, your dearest friend, the one who remembered everything about you.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you finally managed.

"I tried. Constantly. You never noticed."

"I'm stupid."

"You're not stupid. You're..." He laughed softly, warm breath ghosting across your lips. "You're you. And I love you. I've always loved you."

Something cracked open in your chest, flooding warmth through every part of you. "I love you too. I think I have for years. I just didn't—I couldn't—"

"I know." He kissed you again, quick and sweet. "I know."

"What do we do now?"

"Now?" He smiled—that real smile, the one you'd always thought was just for you. It was. It had always been. "Now we tell my father he owes my mother a foot massage."

You pulled back, confused. "What?"

He took your hand, pulling you toward the library door. "Come on. I want to see the look on my father's face."

The walk through the Red Keep was a blur. Valarr's hand stayed wrapped around yours, warm and solid, and you couldn't stop staring at the way your fingers intertwined. His thumb traced patterns on your skin, soothing and electric all at once.

Prince Baelor Breakspear and his wife Princess Jena were in the hand's tower, enjoying the afternoon sun on their private terrace. When you appeared in the doorway, hand in hand with their son, Baelor's eyebrows shot upward.

"Valarr?" Jena set down her wine glass, a smile already curving her lips. "And... oh. Oh."

"Mother. Father." Valarr squeezed your hand. "I believe you know the Lady Y/N."

Baelor's gaze dropped to your joined hands, then rose to meet his son's eyes. Something passed between them, a look of understanding, of recognition, of finally.

"Son," Baelor said slowly, "is there something you wish to tell us?"

"I wished to introduce you to my future wife."

The words hit you like a physical blow. You turned to stare at Valarr, who was watching you with an expression of such warm certainty that your knees went weak.

"Future—Valarr, we haven't even—"

"I've been waiting years," he said simply. "I'm not waiting any longer."

Jena clapped her hands together, beaming. "I knew it. Baelor, pay up."

Baelor sighed, reaching for his coin purse. "You said by his nineteenth nameday. His nameday is still three moons away."

"The spirit of the bet, husband. The spirit."

"I don't believe in the spirit of bets. I believe in strict interpretation."

"You owe me a foot massage, and you know it."

While his parents bickered good-naturedly, Valarr tugged you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. "They've been doing this since I was fifteen," he murmured. "Every time I looked at you too long, Mother would nudge Father and whisper 'there it is.'"

"You looked at me?"

"Constantly. Relentlessly. To the point of embarrassment."

You thought back over the years—every lingering glance, every casual touch, every time he'd appeared at your side without being called. How had you missed it? How had you been so blind?

"I really am stupid," you murmured.

"No." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "You're perfect."

"Now you're just being romantic."

"Is it working?"

You smiled up at him—this boy, this prince, this man who'd loved you for years without you ever knowing. "Yes," you said softly. "It's working."

On the terrace, Baelor handed over a small pouch of coins with exaggerated reluctance. Jena accepted it with a triumphant grin, then raised her wine glass in your direction.

"To the future," she called. "And to my son finally having the sense to act on what's been obvious to everyone except the two of you."

Valarr groaned. You laughed.

And when he kissed you again, right there in front of his parents and half the court, you finally understood what you'd been missing all along.

Nothing at all.

Because he'd been there the whole time. Waiting. Hoping. Loving you.

And you'd finally, finally caught up.

[beentainted-deactivated20260723]

f1 driver valarr... are you fucking kidding me.

art by islafigs on tiktok

[alicewiththreefingers]

Get up! New memes are in

[lalalovelyly]

Were you SILENT or were you SILENCED

Valarr x reader

The reader is a foreigner, i made sure not to describe where she's from

Synopsys: In which your betrothed is always silent or silenced

Word count: 4k

Warnings: None

The letter had been written on parchment so fine it felt like silk, sealed with wax the color of dried blood and stamped with a three-headed dragon. You had read it seventeen times.

My dear Yn,

I am told we are to be married. I hope this news does not displease you. The gardens of the Red Keep are said to be beautiful in spring. Perhaps you would like to see them when you arrive. I should like to show them to you.

Yours, Valarr Targaryen

It was not a love letter, precisely. It was too brief, too formal for that. But there was something in the turn of phrase—I should like to show them to you—that had made your cheeks warm the first time you read it, and the seventeenth time as well.

Your mother had noticed. Your mother noticed everything.

"You're smiling at that scrap of paper again," your mother had said, not unkindly. "Shall I have it framed?"

You folded the letter quickly and tucked it into your sleeve. "I am merely attempting to decipher his handwriting. Some of these letters are quite peculiar."

"Mm. And that explains the blush, does it?"

That had been nine moons ago. He wrote about the weather, mostly. About a white horse he'd had as a boy. About a tournament he'd once attended where a knight broke his lance so spectacularly that everyone laughed. He wrote about his little brother Matarys, who apparently collected beetles and kept them in tiny boxes under his bed. He wrote about his father, Prince Baelor, with such obvious affection that your heart squeezed reading it.

He never wrote about himself, his looks specifically.

What does he look like? you had asked in your third letter, as delicately as you could manage.

His response had taken six weeks to arrive. I am told I resemble my father, but slighter. My hair is brown, mostly. There is a streak of silver in it that my brother says looks like someone spilled milk on my head. I have not decided whether this is an insult or mere observation.

That was all.

When you pressed further—surely there are portraits?—his next letter had been almost apologetic.

Portraits are not so common here as I understand they are in the Free Cities. The artists we have tend to paint kings and queens, not second sons who are second sons only until their father becomes king. I could commission one, but it would take months and you would be here before it was finished. Perhaps it is better that you meet me in person. I am told first meetings are more honest than paintings.

You stared at that paragraph for a very long time.

It was the kind of thing a person wrote when they had something to hide.

"He's ugly," you announced to your empty chamber one evening, three weeks before your departure. "He's definitely ugly. That's why there are no portraits. That's why he won't describe himself. He's probably covered in warts. He probably has three eyes."

But then you would read the part about the white horse again, and the bit about his brother's beetles, and you would think: even if he has three eyes, at least he's kind.

By the time the ship departed from the harbor of your home city—wherever that city might have been, some prosperous mercantile power with excellent banking institutions and very good pastries—you had worked yourself into a state of resigned acceptance.

You were sixteen years old. You were an only child, which meant you would inherit everything: the banking houses, the trade routes, the warehouses full of spices and silks and dyes. The marriage alliance with House Targaryen would make your family untouchable. It was a good match. A brilliant match.

Your future husband could have three eyes and warts on his warts, and you would still marry him with a smile on your face.

(Though you did pack an extra vial of rosewater facial tonic, just in case.)

---

The voyage took nineteen days.

Nineteen days of watching the horizon, of practicing your High Valyrian with your tutors, of having your mother remind you constantly to sit up straight and not fidget with your sleeves. Nineteen days of your father reviewing the terms of the marriage contract for the four hundredth time, muttering about dowries and inheritance rights and the precise legal status of any potential children should the worst befall the Targaryen line.

By the time the ship passed through the Gullet and into Blackwater Bay, you were so thoroughly sick of maritime travel that you would have kissed solid ground even if it were made of broken glass.

You were not prepared for King's Landing.

The city rose from the shore like a fever dream, sprawling, chaotic, and impossibly loud even from the water. The Red Keep perched on its hill like a dragon settling onto a carcass, all crimson walls and towers that caught the afternoon light.

And the smell. "Oh," you said faintly, pressing a handkerchief to your nose. "Oh, dear."

Your mother, who had visited Westeros once before as a girl, looked entirely too smug. "I did warn you."

"You said it was 'quite aromatic.' You did not say it smelled like someone died in a fishery and then the fishery caught fire."

"That's Flea Bottom on a good day. You'll get used to it."

"I will never get used to it. I will live in the Red Keep with my windows sealed forever. I will commission a glass garden and only breathe air that has been filtered through roses."

Your father patted your shoulder absently, still reading his contract. "That's the spirit."

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was exactly as overwhelming as you had feared.

Dragon tapestries lined the walls, their eyes following you as you walked the length of the hall. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end, a monstrous thing of melted swords that looked nothing like the elegant seat you'd imagined. Torches flickered. The floor was stone worn smooth by centuries of feet.

At the foot of the dais stood the royal family.

You recognized King Daeron II immediately—an older man, dignified, with a kind face and the violet eyes that marked his bloodline. Beside him stood a woman you assumed was the queen.

But it was the younger man who caught your attention.

He stood slightly apart from the others, as if he wasn't entirely certain he belonged in the family portrait. He was slim, fine-boned, with dark brown hair. And running through it, catching the torchlight like a thread of moonlight, was a streak of pure silver.

He was not ugly.

He was not covered in warts.

He was, in fact, quite possibly the most beautiful man you had ever seen.

Oh no, you thought, as your stomach performed a complicated maneuver that felt rather like a dragon taking flight. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

Your eyes met across the hall.

He smiled. It was a small smile, a little uncertain, a little hopeful. It was exactly the smile you had imagined when you read his letters about white horses and beetle collections.

You smiled back. You couldn't help it.

And then your father was propelling you forward, and there were introductions to be made—endless, tedious introductions, with King Daeron greeting you in passable Valyrian and Queen Someone-or-other complimenting your dress and a prince named Aerys (cousin? uncle? you couldn't keep them straight) asking about the interest rates in the Free Cities as if that were an appropriate topic for a first meeting.

Through it all, you kept trying to catch Valarr's eye.

He kept trying to catch yours.

You never quite managed it.

---

"You must be exhausted from your journey," Queen Myriah was saying. "We've prepared chambers in Maegor's Holdfast—"

"Your Grace, if I might—" Valarr stepped forward, but his grandmother was still speaking.

"—with windows facing the gardens, as I understand you're fond of—"

"Grandmother, I only wanted to—"

"—and we've arranged for a bath to be drawn, of course, after such a long voyage—"

"Grandmother."

Queen Myriah paused, turning to look at her grandson with the particular expression of a woman who was not accustomed to being interrupted. "Yes, Valarr?"

Valarr opened his mouth.

"I'm sure the prince was merely expressing his thanks for your hospitality," your mother cut in smoothly, with the practiced ease of a woman who had spent her entire life navigating diplomatic situations. "We are all most grateful."

Valarr closed his mouth.

You stared at him.

He looked at you, helpless, and shrugged very slightly.

That's odd, you thought. Why didn't he just say what he was going to say?

--

The welcome feast lasted four hours.

You sat at the high table, surrounded by Targaryens and Martells and various other noble houses whose names you couldn't possibly remember, and you watched your betrothed attempt to speak to you approximately seven times.

The first time: he leaned toward you, opened his mouth, and was immediately drowned out by Prince Maekar (another uncle? brother? you were losing track) banging his cup on the table and demanding more wine.

The second time: he got as far as "I hope the journey wasn't too—" before a servant dropped an entire platter of roasted peacock directly behind you, creating a crash that made you jump and Valarr wince.

The third time: someone—his brother Matarys, you thought, a gangly boy with the reddish hair grabbed his arm and began whispering urgently about a beetle he'd found in his pocket.

The fourth time: Queen Myriah asked you a question about Essosi fashions, and by the time you'd finished answering, Valarr was being pulled into conversation with one of the Dornish cousins.

The fifth time: he actually managed to complete a sentence—"I wanted to ask if you'd like to see the gardens tomorrow, perhaps after—" but at that exact moment, a dog ran through the hall chased by three small children and a very angry-looking septa, and everyone turned to watch, and when you looked back at Valarr he had given up and was staring at his wine cup with an expression of profound resignation.

The sixth time: you tried to initiate the conversation yourself. "Prince Valarr, I was wondering—" but Prince Baelor chose that exact moment to stand and propose a toast to the happy couple, and by the time everyone had drunk and cheered and drunk again, the moment was lost.

The seventh time: the feast was ending. Guests were rising, stretching, preparing to retire. Valarr stood, took a breath, and turned to you with obvious determination.

"Lady Yn, I—"

"Valarr." King Daeron appeared at his grandson's elbow, looking fond and apologetic. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but your father wishes to speak with you before he retires. Something about the seating arrangements for tomorrow's council meeting."

Valarr looked at his grandfather. He looked at you.

He looked at the ceiling, as if asking the gods why they had abandoned him.

Then he bowed to you—a proper bow, graceful despite his obvious frustration—and followed his grandfather away without having spoken a single word to you all evening.

You watched him go. Huh, you thought. That's strange.

---

The next day, there was a tourney.

Not a proper tourney, apparently—just a small exhibition, some knights practicing for an upcoming event, but the royal family attended anyway because that was what royal families did. You found yourself seated in a shaded stand between your mother and a princess whose name you kept forgetting (Rhaenys? Rhae? Something with an R), watching men in armor crash into each other with enthusiasm and very little grace.

Valarr was down in the lists, mounted on a black horse that you recognized from his letters as the descendant of that white horse he'd loved as a boy. He rode well, you noticed. His armor was black, and he moved like someone who'd been training since he could walk.

Between jousts, he looked up at the stands.

Your eyes met.

He started riding toward your section.

"Oh, look," your mother said brightly. "Here comes your intended. How lovely."

Valarr reached the edge of the stands, dismounted, and removed his helm. His hair was damp with sweat, the silver streak standing out brightly against his forehead. He smiled up at you—that same uncertain, hopeful smile—and opened his mouth.

"PRINCE VALARR!"

A knight came galloping up, armor clanking, horse lathered with sweat. "My prince, you're needed! The hand—"

Valarr closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked at you with an expression of such profound suffering that you nearly laughed.

He bowed. He remounted. He rode away.

You stared after him.

That's seven times, you thought. Eight if you count the feast last night.

The princess beside you—Rhaegar? No, that wasn't right—leaned over. "He's usually more talkative. I'm not sure what's got into him."

"He's usually talkative?"

"Oh, yes. Chatty, even. Drove his tutors mad as a boy, always asking questions." The princess shrugged. "Perhaps he's nervous. First betrothed and all that."

Chatty, you thought. He's supposed to be chatty.

---

That evening, there was a smaller dinner. Just family, supposedly, though your family counted, so it was still nearly twenty people gathered in a solar that was somehow even more opulent than the great hall.

You had dressed carefully. Your best silk, your mother's pearls, a touch of the good perfume. You were determined to speak to your betrothed if it killed you.

Valarr, for his part, looked equally determined.

You were seated across from each other. Close enough to talk, if you leaned in. Far enough that you'd have to raise your voices slightly over the general dinner conversation.

Valarr leaned forward.

You leaned forward.

"I wanted to apologize for—" Valarr began.

"DID YOU SEE THE JOUSTING TODAY?" Prince Matarys had apparently inherited his brother's poor timing. He was leaning around his father, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "SER ARLAN UNHORSED THREE KNIGHTS! THREE! I've never seen anything like it!"

"That's wonderful, Matarys," Valarr said, with the strained patience of an older brother. "I was just—"

"And then Ser Gerold's lance broke, and everyone gasped, and—"

"Matarys." Baelor's voice was gentle but firm. "Let your brother speak."

Matarys subsided, looking abashed.

Valarr took a breath. "Thank you, Father. Lady Yn, I only wanted to say that I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to—"

"Valarr, dear." Queen Myriah smiled at him from the head of the table. "Would you be a love and pass the salt?"

Valarr passed the salt.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

Nine, you thought. This is actually impressive in its own way.

---

Three more days passed.

Three more days of near-misses and interruptions. Three more days of Valarr opening his mouth at precisely the wrong moment. Three more days of you watching him be pulled away by relatives, servants, urgent messages, unexpected visitors, and once—memorably—a cat that ran across the path just as he was approaching you, causing him to trip and spend several minutes apologizing to both the cat and a nearby septa who had nothing to do with anything.

By the fourth day, you had developed a theory.

It was a ridiculous theory. An impossible theory. A theory that made absolutely no sense.

But you couldn't shake it.

"He's mute," you whispered to your mother that night, after yet another dinner during which Valarr had been interrupted approximately fourteen times.

Your mother, brushing her hair at the dressing table, paused mid-stroke. "What?"

"The prince. Valarr. He's mute."

"He is not mute. I heard him speak at least three times today."

"No, you didn't. You heard him start to speak. You never heard him finish. Did anyone hear him finish? I certainly didn't. He starts sentences and then something happens and he never gets to complete them. It's been four days, Mother. Four days, and I have never heard his voice."

Your mother resumed brushing. "That's because you're both being constantly interrupted by his enormous, overbearing family. It's not because he's mute."

"How do you know? Have you heard him complete a sentence?"

Your mother's hand paused again.

"That's what I thought." You flopped back on your bed, staring at the canopy. "He's mute. He's been mute this whole time. That's why there were no portraits, not because he's ugly, but because he can't speak and they didn't want me to find out until I was already here."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Why would they hide that he's mute? It's not exactly something you can conceal forever."

"Maybe they thought I wouldn't notice. Maybe they thought I'd be too dazzled by the dragons and the castle to realize my betrothed never actually says anything."

"Yn."

"Maybe he's not just mute. Maybe he's also illiterate, and someone else wrote those beautiful letters about white horses and beetle collections. Maybe I've been deceived. Maybe this whole marriage is a lie."

"Yn."

"Maybe—"

"Yn." Your mother turned on the bench, fixing you with a look. "He is not mute. You are being dramatic. Go to sleep."

You went to sleep.

You dreamed of a brown-haired prince who opened his mouth and produced only silence.

---

The next morning, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

If you couldn't speak to Valarr in the presence of his family—which seemed physically impossible, given that they materialized out of thin air every time he tried to form a sentence—you would speak to him away from his family.

The gardens. He'd mentioned them often in his letters, telling her how he would have taken her to walks every day. He'd tried to mention them again at the feast, before the dog incident. The gardens were clearly significant to him. If you went to the gardens, surely he would eventually appear.

It was, you admitted, not the most sophisticated plan. But it was a plan, and after four days of frustration, you'd take what you could get.

You found the gardens easily enough, they were exactly where the servant said they'd be, through a covered walkway and down a set of stone steps. They were beautiful, too, full of roses and fountains and carefully trimmed hedges. Not as elaborate as the gardens back home, perhaps, but lovely in their own way.

And there, standing by a fountain in the shape of a dragon, was Valarr.

He was alone. He was looking at the water, one hand resting on the dragon's stone snout. He hadn't heard you approach—the fountain was too loud—so you had a moment to simply look at him.

He was even more beautiful up close. The silver streak in his hair caught the sunlight. His profile was sharp, elegant, exactly the sort of profile that belonged on a coin or a portrait. His shoulders were tense, though. He looked tired.

You cleared your throat.

He spun around.

For a moment, you simply stared at each other.

Then Valarr smiled—that same uncertain, hopeful smile—and opened his mouth.

"Lady Yn. I—"

"Before you say anything," you said quickly, holding up a hand. "I just want you to know that I don't need you to speak. I mean, I'd like to hear your voice eventually, but if you can't—if there's a reason you haven't been able to—it's fine. Really. We can communicate other ways. Writing. Gestures. I'm very good at charades. My cousins used to say I was the best charades player in the family, and we had some very competitive games during the—"

Valarr was staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

"—festivals," you finished lamely. "So. Yes. Whatever you need to tell me, you can tell me however you need to tell me."

There was a pause.

"I'm not mute," Valarr said.

You blinked.

"You're not?"

"I'm not."

"But you never—every time you try to speak, something—and I've been here four days, and I've never heard your voice, and I thought—"

Valarr's lips twitched. "You thought I was mute."

"I thought you might be mute. Yes."

"Because my family keeps interrupting me every time I try to speak to you."

"Because your family keeps interrupting you every time you try to speak to me."

You looked at each other.

Valarr's lips twitched again.

You felt heat rising to your cheeks. "This is embarrassing."

"It's not embarrassing. It's—" He stopped, and then he laughed. It was a warm sound, genuine and unguarded. "It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, and also completely understandable. I've been trying to speak to you for four days. Four days, and I haven't managed a single complete sentence."

"Seventeen attempts," you said. "I've been counting."

"Seventeen?"

"Eighteen if you count the time with the cat."

Valarr groaned, but he was smiling. "The cat. I tripped over a cat."

"It was very graceful. You apologized to the cat. I've never seen anyone apologize to a cat before."

"The cat looked offended."

"The cat was definitely offended."

You stood there for a moment, grinning at each other like idiots. The fountain burbled. Somewhere, a bird sang.

"I'm glad you're not mute," you said finally"

Valarr stepped closer. "I'm glad that you came looking for me. Despite thinking I might be mute. Despite seventeen interrupted attempts. Despite the cat."

"I almost didn't. I thought about just accepting that I'd never hear your voice and we'd communicate exclusively through written notes for the rest of our lives."

"A romantic tragedy."

"A comedy, really. Two people in love, separated by an overbearing family and a surprising number of cats."

"In love?" Valarr's voice was soft.

You felt your face go warm again. "Well. Potentially. I mean—" You gestured vaguely. "The letters. The horse. The beetle collection. I might have developed a small fondness for the person who wrote those letters. Even if that person turned out to be mute and covered in warts."

"I don't have warts."

"I can see that."

"And I'm not mute."

"I can hear that."

Valarr took your hand.

It was a small thing. Just his fingers curling around yours, warm and gentle. But it felt enormous, standing there in the garden with the roses blooming and the sun warming your faces.

"Yn," he said quietly.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to kiss you now. If that's all right."

"It's more than all right."

He leaned in.

"BROTHER!"

You jumped apart.

Matarys burst through the hedge like a small, enthusiastic cannonball, face flushed with excitement and—yes—a beetle cupped carefully in his hands.

"You have to see this one! It's iridescent! It shines in the sun! I've never seen anything like it! Where have you been? I've been looking everywhere! Grandmother wants you for dinner, she says you're not to be late again, and also there's a message from the Master of Coin about something, and—"

Valarr closed his eyes. You started laughing.

Matarys was still talking.

"—and it's not just any iridescent beetle, it's the rarest kind, the kind that only comes out after rain, and I had to follow it for ages because it kept flying away, and then it landed on a rose bush, and I thought, this is it, this is my moment, and—"

Valarr stood there, eyes closed, hand still loosely holding yours. You could feel the tension in his fingers, the battle between brotherly affection and profound frustration.

You squeezed his hand.

He opened his eyes and looked at you. There was something new in his expression now, a determination that hadn't been there before.

"Matarys," he said.

"—and the way the light catches its wings is like nothing you've ever—"

"Matarys."

His brother finally paused, beetle cupped carefully in both hands, looking up with the innocent confusion of a puppy who doesn't understand why no one is throwing the ball.

"Yes?"

"That's a remarkable beetle."

Matarys beamed.

"And I would very much like to hear all about it. But first—" Valarr turned to you, and there was a glint in his mismatched eyes that made your breath catch. "First, I need to finish something."

He let go of your hand.

For a terrible moment, you thought he was leaving. That Matarys had won again, that the interruption had done its work, that you would be left standing in the garden with nothing but the memory of almost being kissed.

But Valarr didn't walk away.

He stepped closer.

And then his hands were cupping your face, gentle and warm, and his lips were on yours, and the world narrowed to nothing but this: the softness of his mouth, the faint scent of something clean and pleasant, the way your heart stopped and then raced to make up for lost time.

It was a brief kiss. A handful of heartbeats, no more.

But when he pulled back, you were quite certain you would never be the same.

"Finally," you breathed.

Valarr's smile was incandescent. "Seventeen interruptions. I refuse to let it become eighteen."

Behind him, Matarys made a small sound of realization. "Oh. OH. I—should I—do you want me to—" He looked down at his beetle, then back at the two of you, then down at his beetle again. "I'm going to go. With my beetle. Somewhere else."

"That's probably wise," Valarr said, not taking his eyes off you.

Matarys fled. For a moment, you simply looked at each other. The garden was quiet again, save for the fountain and the birds. Your lips were still tingling.

"So," you said. "That happened."

"That happened." Valarr's thumb traced a slow path along your cheekbone. "I've been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you walk into the Great Hall."

"Since then?"

"Since then." His smile turned slightly rueful. "I had a whole speech prepared. About how beautiful you were. About how your letters had been the best part of my days for the past year. About how I hoped you wouldn't be disappointed when you met me in person."

"I was not disappointed."

"Good." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture so tender it made your chest ache. "I was terrified, you know. That you'd take one look at me and—"

"And what? Run screaming from your warts?"

He laughed, that warm unguarded sound you were already coming to love. "I don't have warts."

"I know. I checked. Very thoroughly, just now."

"You checked for warts while I was kissing you?"

"A lady has her priorities."

He was still smiling, but something softer had crept into his expression. "Yn. I'm sorry it took four days. I'm sorry for every interruption, every near-miss, every time I opened my mouth and someone—" He glanced in the direction Matarys had fled. "Someone appeared."

"You can't control your family."

"No. But I can control what I do now." He took your hand again, lacing his fingers through yours. "I'm going to take you on a walk. Tonight. Before dinner."

"Are you?"

"I am. We'll go through the gardens—the real gardens, not just this little corner—and I'll show you all the places I wrote about. The rose arbor where the bees get drunk on nectar and stagger around. The fountain with the fish that my brother tried to catch when he was five. The bench where I sat and read your letters, over and over, until I'd memorized every word."

Your throat felt tight. "You did that?"

"I did that." He squeezed your hand. "And then, if you're willing, I'll take you to dinner. And I'll sit beside you, not across from you, so that when I want to speak to you, I can simply lean over and do so. And if anyone tries to interrupt—"

"Yes?"

"I'll kiss you again. Right there at the table. In front of everyone."

You laughed. "You would not."

"Try me."

The look in his eyes suggested he was absolutely serious.

"I'll hold you to that," you said.

"Please do." He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. "I should go. Matarys is probably waiting with his beetle, and if I don't admire it properly, he'll be hurt. But I'll come for you at sunset. We'll walk. We'll talk. No interruptions."

"Sunset," you agreed.

He smiled, that hopeful, uncertain smile that had made your heart turn over in the Great Hall, and turned to go.

He took three steps.

Turned.

And kissed you again.

This one was longer. Deeper. His hand slid into your hair, and yours found the front of his tunic, and when you finally broke apart, you were both breathing a little faster.

"Just in case," he murmured against your lips.

"In case of what?"

"In case something happens between now and sunset. A falling chandelier. A sudden invasion. Another cat."

"Another cat?"

"The Red Keep has many cats."

You laughed, breathless. "Go. Admire your brother's beetle. I'll be here at sunset."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He kissed your forehead—a soft, reverent thing—and then he was gone, striding through the garden with a new lightness in his step.

You touched your fingers to your lips.

They were still warm.

Sunset, you thought. Sunset couldn't come soon enough.

[raven-dor]

i wanna be yours

in which gwayne hightower is entranced by his sister’s best friend

PAIRING: gwayne hightower x fem!reader, alicent hightower x PLATONIC!reader, rhaenyra targaryen x PLATONIC!reader

WARNINGS: fluff, young love, obliviousness, denial, delusion, low self esteem (slight angst), FLUFF ENDING

WORD COUNT: 6.4k

🎶 : i wanna be yours - arctic monkeys

AN: 🩵💗 - so sorry for how long this is (also here is the unofficial part two to this fic - fall back into place)!!

“Come along, Y/N!” Rhaenyra yelled. “The flowers will still be there when we return.” 

“Very well, Your Highness.” She sighed, hooking her arm through the princesses. “They only bloom once a year. I am simply taking in their beauty before they wilt.” 

“I understand. Unfortunately for you, I now need a chaperone to walk my own halls, as every lord in the land vies for my hand.” 

“Oh, poor poor Rhaenyra.” Y/N teased. “I can only imagine.” 

“Rhaenyra, Y/N!” The girls turned around, Alicent running toward them with a young man in tow. 

Y/N leaned over, whispering in Rhaenyra’s ear. “It seems even your own friends are playing matchmaker.” 

Rhaenyra laughed, coughing to cover it up. Alicent looked suspiciously at Y/N. “What have you done?” 

“Nothing, Alicent, nothing at all.” 

“Oh, never mind.” She pulled the man forward. “May I introduce my brother, Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown. He’s just arrived for the tourney.” 

Alicent’s brother was handsome: tall, with auburn hair and deep blue eyes. One could tell from a single glance he and Alicent were related. Freckles adorned his face, and Y/N could only assume it was from his ample time outdoors. She curtsied quickly, staring at the ground. 

Rhaenyra smiled politely. “Ser Hightower.”  

Gwayne bowed, kissing Rhaenyra’s hand. “Princess.” 

Protocol regarding courting was odd and often confusing. With different social statuses came different rules. The Princess was the highest ranking of the two girls before him; thus, he would kiss Rhaenyra’s hand last. It was an honest mistake, a lapse in judgment, Y/N was sure. Odd, she’d thought to herself, she assumed that Gwayne was taught these sorts of things. 

Her eyes drifted back to his, holding back a gasp as he extended his hand to her, after Rhaenyra. She placed hers in his palm hesitantly. He bowed once more, his hold gentle, like he was scared to break her. His lips were soft, and her cheeks turned bright red from the touch, eyes wide with shock. 

She realized, amid her thinking, that Alicent and Rhaenyra had been taunting her, much too entertained by this simple encounter. Y/N ripped her hand away; any passerby would have thought it was on fire. 

“My lady.” 

She’d almost frowned. “I am no lady, Ser.” Entertaining the thought of him would only come back to haunt her, she told herself. The entire point of the tourney was to field potential suitors for the Princess, none were here for the ward of the crown, an orphaned bastard in her own right. He was attractive, there was no denying it. The way his eyes twinkled, or the way his hair fell over his eyes, or when his smile- 

“Oh?” The young man frowned, his voice snapping her back to life. Her cheeks were still flushed. This avoiding business would prove to be harder than she previously thought. “My mistake. You are the very picture of a lady, I must say.” 

Their spectators gasped. Y/N scoffed. “Do not think you can mock me, Ser.” She tightened her hold on Rhaenyra’s arm. “If you will excuse us…” 

Not bothering to wait for a response, she turned around, dragging the princess along with her. Rhaenyra whispered, nudging her friend. “I believe he was smitten.” 

Y/N shook her head. “And I believe it was all a game, most likely a way to make you jealous.” Her heart clenched at the thought. “Just a game.” 

Rhaenyra’s room was a disaster, but when had it not been? 

For as long as either of the Princess’s companions could remember, her suite had been covered with gowns and riding suits thrown haphazardly on the floor. 

Not that either of the other girls cared, they were happy to lay on the Princess’s plush cushions, taking in the sun as it filled the room. Y/N’s head hung off the sofa, laughing as her friend ran through her closet. “If it were any larger, you would get lost inside.” 

Rhaenyra stuck her tongue out. “I would be content with just my riding suit, thank you very much.” 

Alicent laughed. “You know you’d rather die than look simple. You live for fine silks and designs-” 

Y/N nodded, doing her best to imitate the Princess. “Oh Y/N fetch the purple dress, will you? Fetch the red dress! No, not that one. The one with the jewels. No not that one, the other-” A pillow slammed against her face, and she giggled, holding her hands up defensively. “Mercy, I beg of you!” 

“You could have had all this.” Rhaenyra sat beside the girl, whispering. “If my father simply acknowledged-” 

“That my mother gave birth to me out of wedlock? No amount of Targaryen blood can excuse that dishonor.” Y/N sat up, frowning. “It does no good to dwell, Rhaenyra. Besides, I am content with the life I lead, spending time with my favorite cousin.” 

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. “I am your only cousin.” 

“Not true.” She laughed. “There is Daemon and-” 

“My brother seems rather taken with you, I must say.” Y/N’s heart broke at the thought of Gwayne being smitten with Rhaenyra. 

Why, she could not quite place. “Hear that ‘Nyra? I told you I was-” 

“I was talking to you, Y/N,” Alicent smirked.

Her cheeks grew hot, her hands itching to cover her face. “You must be mistaken.” 

“Do you truly think so little of him?” The auburn-haired girl reached out, grabbing Y/N’s hand comfortingly. “I assure you, he is honorable and loyal to a fault.” 

“I am sure he is.” Y/N smiled. “He must be leaving soon, now that the tournament is nearly over.”

Rhaenyra smirked. “I must say, it was not as extensive as I would have liked.” 

“Really?” Y/N laughed. “It has already been a fortnight since its beginning.” 

“And if the Princess feels it is not finished…” Rhaenyra wiggled her eyebrows. “The Princess will announce an extension.” 

Alicent giggled. “Or rather your father.” 

“My lady.” 

She’d almost escaped. Y/N sighed, turning around. “My lord.”

She had seen the man following her for quite a while, hoping that he was merely visiting the library. She bowed quickly. “How may I be of service?” Lord Frey’s scent could make a man grown faint. She felt the bile rise as he took a step closer, whispering.

“I was wondering if you could put in a word with your Princess.” 

She nodded. “What would you like me to relay?” 

“Well-” His ‘kind’ facade was cracking. If he could barely handle a simple question, she doubted Rhaenyra would enjoy him. “If you could-” 

“My lady.” Her heart fluttered at the sight of Gwyane Hightower, his hair bouncing as he walked toward her. “I’ve been waiting. We agreed to meet in the gardens.” 

“I am sorry.” She smiled, genuinely smiled. “I was simply talking to Lord Frey.” She looked back to the older man, urging him to continue. “You were saying, my lord?” 

He gritted his teeth. “It is of no consequence. I shall take my leave.” He bowed. “My lady. Ser Hightower.” 

“Lord Frey,” Gwayne replied, waiting until he had rounded the corner. “Always a pleasure.” 

Y/N fought the urge to laugh. She walked past the young knight, her heart beating faster as he diligently followed after her. “Do you not have somewhere to be, my lord?” 

“As I said, I have been waiting for you.”

She scoffed. “I must say, you are the very picture of a knight. Saving a damsel in distress? How chivalrous.” 

He smiled, bowing sarcastically. “Thank you, my lady.” 

“I am not a-”

“A lady. You have said.” He grabbed a book from the shelf, pretending to read it before throwing it over his shoulder. She rolled her eyes, walking around him to pick up the book he’d discarded. The maester would have her head if he found it lying there. “I must say, a lady has never been so-” He laughed as she opened her mouth to correct him. “So unmoved by my advances.” 

“I’m sorry to disappoint. If you’ll excuse me-” 

“What are you doing with the remainder of your day, I wonder.”

“Why?”

“I would like a proper tour of the castle, and my sister has been too busy as of late.” He looked too eager, too eager to spend time with a mere lady in waiting. “Would you care to show me?”  

“I would not.” 

“Wonderful. I will-” He stopped. “I beg your pardon?” 

“I said, I would not.” She put the last book away, climbing up the ladder. “It is quite cruel, this game you are playing.”

“I am sorry?” He tilted his head. 

“I know this is a ploy to gain Rhaenyra’s favor, to win the tourney, and possibly win your father’s approval.” She scoffed, eyes watery at the thought of yet another man using her to gain advantage. “This is by far the cruelest way, I must tell you.” 

He laughed, actually laughed at her, which only angered her further, tears falling as a result. He stopped his laughing, reaching out to comfort her, frowning when she stepped back. “Do you really think I am using you for your lady’s hand?” 

“I do.” She climbed back down from the ladder, ignoring the way he held it from wavering beneath her. “There is no reason for you to be interested in me.” 

He shook his head as if he’d misheard her. “Are you aware you are beautiful?” 

Y/N ignored that comment, facing him with pleading eyes. “Please spare me from your taunts. I understand that you may- you may find it amusing-” 

Gwayne was confused, extremely, and utterly confused. He had just complimented her, why was she asking him to spare her? “I must make this clear and simple, as you seem to get the wrong impression from me. I am not interested in your lady. I am interested in-”

“Every suitor I have encountered has gone through either myself or Alicent to gain Rhaenyra’s favor. By the gods-” She flailed her arms. “Some even go to me inquiring about your sister!”  

He practically growled, her heart leaping from the sound. “Then they are cowards.”

“Yes, well…” She had to leave before her resolve broke. “My lord.” 

“Do you let anyone other than yourself speak?” 

Y/N gasped, whipping around. “Excuse me?” 

“I have been trying to explain myself to you, to tell you that-” He stopped himself. “So far every attempt has been overpowered by you.” He crossed his arms, a smirk gracing his lips. “Now…” His voice was practically a whisper. “May I speak?” 

“I-” She swallowed, nodding. She did not trust her voice when he looked at her so… so longingly?

“The outing I suggested earlier, would simply be a tour, nothing more.” He took her hand in his. “Nothing untoward will come of it, I swear to you.” 

He looked sincere. So sincere that she began to consider it. “We will need a chaperone. The king would not allow me to go off alone, even with a knight.” 

“The king?” Gwayne was intrigued. “Exactly why would the king care?” 

“Because I am a ward of the crown. I have been since I was born. My mother was a-” She stopped herself. “She was a close friend of King Jaehaerys, and he took me in. King Viserys has been gracious enough to let me stay.” 

“Well, then I shall have to thank him.” 

“For?” 

“If it had not been for him…” He reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “We would have never met.” 

She rolled her eyes, pulling herself out of his hold. “I shall see you tomorrow, my lord.” 

He grinned, calling after her. “I look forward to it!” 

Gwayne smiled as he watched the woman in front of him. She was glowing in this light and practically skipping through the gardens with joy. It was funny, seeing a woman he had often seen as melancholy at best so energetic. “Do you often find yourself at peace here?” 

“I do.” Y/N nodded. “I was told my mother loved the gardens, I suppose I feel she is still with me when I am here.” 

“Did you know her?” Gwayne inquired. “Your mother, that is.” 

“She died when I was a babe.” She leaned forward, taking in the scent of the roses in front of her. “I have glimpses of her. She had bright eyes, bright hair. Her laugh was the most beautiful melody you could ever hear. At least…” She drifted off, staring at the ground. “From what I can remember.”  

“I have the same.” His voice was quiet. “Although, my mother died when I was eight years of age.” 

“That’s awful.” She frowned. “Alicent told me she had died, but not how old you’d been. That must have been worse, I suppose. Having known her, and then in a moment, gone.” 

He shrugged. “My mother was… less than maternal. She had always been one for court and fashion rather than her children.” 

“Ah.”

“Still, it hurt. Me more than Alicent, I suppose. She’d only been four years old.” 

She ached to reach out and hold him. “I am sorry.” 

“For?” 

“Reliving the past.” 

“If I remember correctly…” He plucked a nearby daisy, placing it behind her ear ever so delicately. “I found this topic of conversation.” 

“Yes well…” She smiled, leaning into his touch ever so slightly. “Still…” 

He leaned forward, his breath hitting her nose. “I am sure your mother would be proud.” 

To that, Y/N laughed. “She was always the adventurous sort, at least, that is what I’ve gathered from the stories. She was highly admired too, beautiful…” She looked down, picking at the skin around her thumb. “I hope to be half the woman she was.” 

“You are.” He whispered, holding her hand. He had noticed, much to his dismay, that she’d adopted the habit of picking at her skin. It hurt him, to see her do that to herself. 

His sister did the same.

Her heart stopped, looking up to meet his gaze. He was beautiful. Staring into his eyes, she began to realize how inappropriate of a position they were in. 

Where was their chaperone? She took a step back, forgetting the rose bush behind her. Yelping, she jumped forward, falling into his arms. 

Gwayne laughed, throwing his head back. “Have I startled you?” 

She scoffed, pushing him away. “Not at all. I simply remembered we have much more of the tour to get through.” She darted around him, leading the way out of the garden. “Now, come along.” 

“Yes sir,” Gwayne muttered, mockingly saluting. 

She looked behind her, a smile gracing her lips. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” His pace quickened until they were side by side. “Simply admiring your hospitality.” 

She shoved his arm, rolling her eyes. “Ever the jester.” 

The remainder of their day passed quickly, much quicker than Y/N would have liked. By the end, she came to realize that the noble knight was a near-perfect companion. Serious when required, a jester when the moment called for it, he was kind, and a good man. 

Their last moments had been silent, soaking in the dull roar around them. Every so often, their hands grazed, neither daring to reach out. The sunset with the perfect blend of orange and pink, the waves crashing against King Landing’s rocky cliffs. It made Y/N smile, the way it brought out the red in Gwayne’s hair. She whispered, the words barely leaving her. “You’re hair is the most perfect shade. Have you noticed?” His cheeks turned red, and she smirked, taking his silence as a no. “If only it were transferable.” 

That had made him laugh. “Have you just given me a compliment?” 

She laughed. “We are friends, are we not?” The night was coming to an end, her door just a few paces away. “Friends compliment each other.” 

His shoulders visibly deflated, but he smiled nonetheless. “Yes. Friends compliment each other.” Silence fell over them again, neither daring to speak until she’d reached for her door. His hand grabbed her wrist, holding her just so. 

His voice was raspy, quiet enough the breeze itself could have carried it away. “You are perfection itself.” Her cheeks were bright red, and she grew grateful he could not see her, knowing that she would surely become the subject of his jests if he saw her blush. “As your friend…” 

She nodded, smiling to herself as she pushed the door open, his hold releasing her wrist. “Goodnight, my lord.” 

“My friends do not call me my lord.” 

She turned around, curtsying ever so lightly. “Then goodnight, Gwayne.” 

He bowed, kissing the back of her hand. “Goodnight, Y/N.” 

“Are you not terribly tired of reading?”

“If I was tired of it, I would not still be doing it, now would I?” 

Gwayne groaned, rolling over on their shared blanket, staring at the sky. “One should not confine themselves to a book when the whole world is sitting in front of them.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes, setting the book down in her lap. “I will have you know I am not confining myself.” 

“Oh?” He laughed, his eyes closing. “Then what exactly are you doing?” “I was trying to relax.” She murmured. “Something I can never seem to do when you are present.” 

“What was that?” His smirk was growing increasingly mischievous, and she knew that he had heard her. 

“I will not repeat myself. You heard me.” Grabbing her book out of her lap, she opened its pages once more. “Now hush. This is the best part.” 

“Read it to me then.” He closed his eyes, laying beside her. “I would like to hear what is so interesting it has taken you away from me.” 

“It was you who suggested the picnic, Gwayne, not I.” She laughed. “They are supposed to be tranquil.” 

“Maybe in King’s Landing.” He muttered. “In Oldtown, they are supposed to be fun.” 

“Well, I am not from Oldtown, nor are we there, which could imply why I was unaware of your customs. Which could also explain how we have reached this argument.” 

His eyebrows raised. “Is this an argument?” 

She ignored him, mumbling to herself. “This is fun.” 

“Well, it would be.” He teased. “If you read to me.” 

“You jest.” She mumbled. “Now let me sit in peace.” 

He stood up, walking behind her just to sit down once more. “May I?” 

“May you what, exactly?” Her cheeks felt hot, he had this effect on her. 

“Alicent once taught me to plait hair, when she was young.” He smiled to himself. “I assume it was a self-serving act, but still.” He leaned forward, his voice causing goosebumps to run up her spine. “At least let me pass the time this way.” 

“Fine.” Y/N could never say no to him, no matter how hard she tried. “Do not make me look hideous.” 

“That…” He pulled out the pins that held her hair elegantly. “Is not possible.” Her cheeks flushed, ignoring that compliment. “Are you attending the tourney tomorrow?” 

Y/N nodded. “I must. Rhaenyra has insisted I attend as her lady-in-waiting.” She laughed. “It is quite odd.” 

“How so?” 

“She has never required that of me before.” 

Gwayne grinned. “Well, I shall enjoy knowing you are watching.” 

“Really?” She laughed again. “I thought you would enjoy it more if I had not attended. Then you could recount the story as outlandishly as you pleased.” 

“Y/N…” His voice sounded desperate, and her heart skipped. “If you do not wish to attend, I’m sure the Princess will understand.” 

“No!” She practically yelped. “I want to.”

He smiled, his blush growing darker. “Then I shall do my very best.” His fingers grazed her neck, a gasp leaving her lips before she could silence herself. Gwayne made no comment of it, simply finishing the braid and standing up, extending his hand. 

She glared playfully, standing up of her own accord. She knelt, picking up the blanket and folding it haphazardly. 

“Let me.” Gwayne took the blanket and basket from her arms, carrying them back up to the castle. “A lady should never carry such things.” 

“A basket and blanket?” She raised an eyebrow. “I am not weak.” 

“I know.” He smiled, enjoying the fire in her eyes. “You are decidedly, not weak.” 

She nodded, puffing her chest. “If we walk any slower, you shall be late.” 

He groaned. “Why must I attend this soiree?” 

“Because it is meant for you. For knights participating in the tourney, that is. Rhaenyra will be there, as will her father-” 

“And will you?” Gwayne interrupted. “Be in attendance?” 

“I shall.” She smiled brightly. “Now come along and follow after me closely.” 

He tilted his head. “Where are you taking me, exactly?” 

“Maegor’s tunnels.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “They were made as an escape plan. Now the servants use them to move around the castle unseen.” The corridor was dark, the lanterns doing little to illuminate the path. 

Gwayne felt a chill run down his spine, and he reached out, grabbing her hand. “Are you quite sure this is safe?” 

“I have used them my whole life.” She placed a hand on his cheek. “Trust me.” 

He smiled, all fears of imminent doom leaving him as her skin touched his. “Lead the way.”

“You are going to break my hand.” Rhaenyra hissed. 

Y/N smiled guiltily, releasing the Princess's hand. “My apologies, Princess.” She straightened the fabric of her dress, sitting tall. “I am simply excited. I love tourneys.” 

“You do not. You have not been to a tourney since we were ten years of age.” 

“Untrue,” Y/N muttered, looking over the edge of the box for her knight. “I am simply busy.” 

“With what?” Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow. “Who are you looking for anyhow?” 

Alicent sat on the other side of the Princess, leaning forward and wiggling her eyebrows. “I believe she is looking for my brother.” 

Rhaenyra grinned. “Has that-” Alicent elbowed the Princess, widening her eyes. 

Y/N tilted her head. “What was that?” 

“Nothing,” Rhaenyra muttered, holding her side. “Nothing.” 

A knight approached the royal box, and Y/N grinned, waiting for Rhaenyra to stand first, as was customary. Rhaenyra smirked, looking at Alicent quickly before approaching the ledge. “Ser Hightower.” Alicent and Y/N approached second, arm in arm. Curstying quickly, she smiled at Gwayne brightly. The knight nodded his head. “Your Highness.” He turned to Y/N, his eyes softening. “My lady.” 

“Ser Hightower.” Y/N greeted. “This is quite the tourney. I’m impressed.” 

He grinned. “May I-” He swallowed. “May I have the honor of wearing your favor?” 

Her cheeks grew bright red. “You-” She looked at Rhaenyra. “Do you not-” 

He laughed. “I believe it is quite obvious I do not.” 

Rhaenyra laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. She leaned over, whispering in her cousin’s ear. “This is when you give the man your favor, Y/N.” 

“But, I-” She turned back to Gwayne once more. “Are you quite sure?” 

He nodded, cheeks slightly flushed. “Yes, my lady.” 

She turned around, pulling her arm out of Alicent’s. As she was a bastard, her house colors were unknown, opting to simply decorate the ring with her favorite flowers. 

Of course, Rhaneyra and Y/N had known, but to blatantly defy the order of the king… she locked eyes with King Viserys, who was gazing at her curiously. Her eyes darted to the floor, turning back around.  “May your luck bring you to victory, Ser Hightower.” 

“As long as I have you to think of…” He looked positively giddy. “I shall never lose.” 

Y/N was sure her cheeks were bright red. She rolled her eyes, ignoring his compliment. 

Her heart twisted, knowing that they could never marry, as who would allow their firstborn son, their heir, to wed a bastard? She pushed his lance playfully, pulling herself out of her thoughts. “Go on, then.” 

“You look stunning.” Alicent smiled, placing her hands on Y/N’s shoulders. “The very picture of a lady.” 

Y/N’s cheeks flushed. “I cannot name a time I have dressed so…” She smiled. “So elegantly.” 

“It is a ball,” Rhaenyra interjected. “I will not have my dear friend in something drab.” 

Alicent glared, and Rhaenyra stuck her tongue out. “She knows I do not mean that she is drab. I was simply-” 

“It is alright, Rhaenyra.” Y/N laughed. “I was not offended in the slightest.” 

“Red is most definitely your color.” Alicent grinned, spinning her friend around.

Rhaenyra smirked. “Your knight shall not know what to do with himself.” Alicent gasped, smacking Rhaenyra’s arm. The Princess winced, glaring at her friend. “You cannot keep hitting me whenever you are disappointed.” 

Y/N tilted her head. “My knight?” 

“It is no matter.” Alicent stopped the Princess from blabbing anymore. “Shall we?” 

The ballroom was filled to the brim with nobility from all over the Seven Kingdoms, the Hightowers, the Tullys, even the Starks had come to participate in the tourney and celebrate its results. 

Y/N stepped back, watching as her friends entered. The squire stomped his cane, effectively silencing the ballroom. “The Princess of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, accompanied by the Lady Alicent Hightower.” 

They looked elegant, lighting up the room as they walked. Y/N walked up to the squire, smiling lightly. “No need to introduce me, Orvyn.” 

He nodded, smiling kindly. “As you wish, my lady.” 

The ballroom had not paid attention as she walked, not that she minded. It was better that way, she convinced herself as she glanced around the room. She smiled, waving at Gwayne, who was already staring back at her, rather intensely. His eyes… she shivered, ripping herself away from his gaze as she curtsied before the King. “Your Majesty.” 

Viserys smiled, eyeing her royal red dress with curiosity. “Y/N.” 

She rose; she could still feel Gwayne’s eyes fixed on her. Sitting beside Rhaenyra, she took a large gulp of her wine. “Is Gwayne still-” 

Rhaenyra nodded, laughing to herself. “He is walking over.” 

“What?” Y/N’s eyes widened, her heart pounding. “Why?” 

“I assume…” She whispered, Gwayne now mere inches away. “He is going to ask you to dance.” 

“He-” 

“Your Highness.” The knight bowed. “My lady.” 

Y/N avoided eye contact and took another large sip. Rhaenyra smirked. “Ser Gwayne, congratulations on your victory.” 

“Thank you, Princess.” He smiled. “Would you mind terribly if I stole your lady for a dance?” 

Rhaenyra shook her head. “Not at all, my lord.” She looked at Y/N, enjoying this situation too much. “Y/N?” 

“What?” Y/N whispered. 

“He is asking you to dance.” Rhaenyra hissed. “Now get up.” 

“I-” Y/N looked at Gwayne for the second time that night, feeling as if she could faint at any moment. “I would be delighted.” 

His hand waited for hers, as it had so many times before. He whispered, placing his arm around her waist as they stood on the dance floor, his touch shocking her to her very core. “Is something the matter?” 

She shook her head. 

“Then why, pray tell…” His voice sounded desperate. “Have you refused to meet my eyes? I have missed your company.” 

She raised her gaze, falling for the trap he’d set. “I saw you but two days ago, Gwayne.” 

“There you are.” He grinned, pulling her closer as the dance began. “Now tell me, what is the matter?” 

“You are leaving soon.” 

“I am.” He replied as if this were any normal conversation. And perhaps it was, but Y/N would not say so. No normal conversation made her heart beat as fast as this. 

“And I-” She sighed. “I did not want to bother you while you prepared for your journey back.” 

“Back?” He tilted his head. “And where am I journeying to?” 

“To Oldtown, of course.” His eyebrows scrunched, and Y/N fought the urge to burst into laughter. “I assumed-” 

“Well, there’s no good in that, is there?” He whispered. “Assuming is a dangerous business.” 

“But why would you stay?” She felt entirely confused. He had won the tourney and now would go home to tend to his duties. “There is no-” His eyes sparkled as she spoke, halting her momentarily. “No reason.” 

Gwayne leaned down, his breath hitting her cheeks. “There is one reason. A very compelling one, in truth.” 

Her heart stopped. “Is there?” 

He nodded, eyes fluttering down to her lips. 

Oh. 

She was the reason. 

Before she could fall for his spell, she pulled back, disrupting the dance. His eyes widened, reaching out to hold her hand. “Y/N?” 

She ripped her hand back, staring wide-eyed. “I am not feeling well.” 

His tone was gentle, it made her stomach flip. Gods, he had to stop being so- so perfect. “Would you like me to-” 

“No!” She yelped, slapping a hand over her mouth. Nobles from around the room curiously gazed at the couple. “No, I shall go alone.” 

“Y/N-” 

She whipped around, stalking out of the ballroom. It broke her, to walk away from his hold. She knew she could no longer be around him; she was fighting her very soul to leap up and attach her lips to his. 

There was only one solution to this problem, this vexing complication - she would have to avoid him entirely. No more traipsing around the halls waiting for him to see her, no more walking by the stables or the training yard.

No, she would have to stay confined to her and Rhaenyra’s rooms. 

That was the best course of action, for both her and Gwayne. 

Little did she know, Gwayne would not stand for it. 

“They say-” Rhaenyra spoke carefully as she addressed her cousin. “That your knight is leaving today.” 

“Ah.” Y/N nodded, staring off into the distance.

“Y/N…” The Princess sat beside her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Punishing yourself because of your birth… You must stop refusing any sign of affection or love simply on the-” 

“Who said it was love?” Y/N scoffed, walking out to the balcony. “Certainly not I.” 

“Anyone with eyes can see it. He is mad for you, as you are for him.” Rhaenyra muttered under her breath. “Even if you refuse to admit it.”

“I cannot admit something false, Rhaenyra.” Her lips curled into a twisted sort of smile. “I am content with my life, serving you.” 

“All perfectly fine with me,” Rhaenyra reassured. “But you have a chance with Gwayne. Swear to me you will not waste it.” 

“I-” She sighed. “I must retrieve your dinner, my lady.” Y/N curtsied before racing out of the room. By the gods, she couldn’t breathe when Rhaenyra lectured her. It was horrible enough that Alicent had begun to look upon her as if she was a kicked puppy, now Rhaenyra had began to do the same. 

She pushed open the servant's door, twisting through Maegor’s tunnels with ease. It was odd, she told herself, at the lack of maids in its halls. Normally, she was dodging servants left and right. This felt strange, unnerving in a way. 

Footsteps echoed behind her, and her heart leapt when a hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling her into a dark corner. She gasped, flailing her arms around, doing anything that could beat this intruder off her. Gwayne’s familiar voice ripped her from her panicked cries. “It’s me! It’s me.” 

She rolled her eyes, pulling her arm out of his grasp. “What possessed you to drag me-” 

“You will not talk to me.” He crossed his arms, staring at her intensely. “I am sorry if I scared you.” She turned around, walking back to the hallway. Gwayne followed diligently. “My party is set to leave today.” 

Y/N nodded, ignoring the way her heart clenched. “So I’ve heard.” 

“I wanted to say goodbye before I left.” His voice wavered. “I will miss-” 

“You’ve said goodbye.” She cut him off, whipping around. “Now you may leave.” 

He closed the space between them, eyes running wild with confusion. “Why must you be like this? Have I truly upset you?” 

“Will you not respect a lady’s wishes?” She took a step back, scoffing. “I thought you were a knight, Lord Hightower.” 

“Don’t.” 

“I must attend to my lady. Her dinner is past due.” She continued her walk through the tunnels, ignoring his overwhelming presence. 

“Damn her dinner.” He hissed, walking a pace behind her as he whispered. “I have been trying, for weeks, to court you, and you’ve denied me every step of the way. Just as soon as I-” 

She scoffed. “Court me? Did Lord Tyland put you up to this?” 

He shook his head, laughing. “Is it so hard to believe that I am interested in you? That the very thought of you consumes me?” 

“Yes, it is.” 

“Why?” 

She could only imagine his expression, his beautiful face creased with shock. Her cheeks flushed at the thought. “I am a bastard, you a lord’s son. By the gods, your father is hand to the King, and I am merely a lady in waiting.” She frowned, eyes watering. “It is not proper-” 

“Then damn propriety!” He yelled, grabbing her wrist and halting her in her tracks. Her back was pressed against his chest. “I- I am mad for you, you must see that.” 

Her shoulders shook, tears falling down her face. “Gwayne, it is for the best.” 

“No!” He twirled her around, his hand gently caressing her cheek. “You- you make me think, and feel, and act as none have. Your laughter- it brightens my day. Your wit makes me proud. I am-” He sighed, smiling brightly at the mere sight of her. “How?” 

She tilted her head. “How?” 

“How can I show you?” Her back collided with the wall, her breath leaving her, her heart thumping at their proximity. “How can I make you believe?” 

“Gwayne…” 

“Damn it to hell…” He leaned down, colliding his lips to hers. She gasped, eyes fluttering shut as she instantly pulled him closer. “I am not deterred by your status, nor do I care. I will have you, regardless of what the court thinks is proper.” His forehead leaned against hers, his hand resting at the bottom of her neck. 

“We cannot-” Tears continued to fall down her face. “Gwayne, it cannot happen-” 

“Do you want it to?” He remained steadfast. “Is this what you truly feel, or merely what the lords and ladies of Kings Landing shall say?”

“Gwayne, your father will never approve.” 

“By the gods woman…” He laughed. “Do you love me?” 

“Love?” She choked on a sob. Her body felt as if it could burst into flames at any moment. He was standing close, closer than what was deemed appropriate. “Do I-” 

“I do.” He whispered, nudging her nose with his, lips barely touching. “I love you.” 

“Gwayne, just listen to me.” She was fighting every bone in her body not to kiss him senselessly. “I am not good enough for you. There are hundreds of ladies-” 

“You are, you are good enough. Perhaps too good. Besides…” He whispered. “I want you. Only you.” His eyes were intense, his thumb caressing her collarbone. By the gods, he was trying to make her burst into flames. “Only you.” His lips collided against hers, her eyes fluttering shut once more. 

Her hands found their way to his chest, slowly pushing him away. “We cannot.” 

“Oh?” He looked around the hallway. “I do not see anyone.” 

“You know what I meant, Gwayne Hightower.”  

“Would you like to stop?” 

“No!” Her eyes widened, and she slapped a hand over her mouth.

His eyebrows rose, laughing to himself. “So eager.” He nudged his nose against hers. “Whatever shall I do with you?” 

“Why have you stopped?” Gwayne’s voice was but a murmur.

“I did not know you were listening.” She smiled. “You appeared to be sleeping.” 

“Merely basking in your presence, my love.” His eyes fluttered open. “I must say, you look radiant in this light.” 

She laughed. “As opposed to?” 

“You know that I find you impossibly perfect.” His eyes shut again. “How long has it been since you began this book?” 

“Hard to say. Possibly half an hour?” She squinted suspiciously. “Why?” 

“No reason.” He smirked, finding comfort in her lap once more. 

“Well, there must be.” Her laughter filled his heart, his soul. “You never ask for the time.” 

“May I not ask the beautiful woman, whom I love, what the time is? I simply want to know how long I have been lying in the garden.” His eyes peeked open once more, her eyebrows raising in amusement. “If you must know, I  have an appointment at half past three.”

“An appointment?” She shut her book, running her hand through his hair. “Whatever for?” 

“It is a secret.” 

“Really?” She pulled her hand away from his hair, laughing as he sat up, obviously disappointed by the sudden lack of touch.

“Really.” He stood, extending his hand. She smiled, placing hers in his gladly. “It is with the King.” 

She laid her head on his shoulder, smiling as they walked. “Has something happened?” 

“Yes.” 

Her heart dropped. “Is it serious?” 

He nodded. “Deadly.” 

She groaned. “Now you must tell me.” 

He sighed, stopping by the fountain. “Fine, fine. But you must not tell.” 

She nodded, interlocking their pinkies. “I swear.” 

He leaned forward, whispering in her ear. “I am asking the King for your hand.” 

Her eyebrows crinkled. “My hand?” 

“In marriage, my love.” She stood there speechless. He laughed, kissing the back of her hand gently. “I cannot be late.” 

He had been halfway down the trail when she’d been brought back to life. 

“Gwayne!” 

He turned around, laughing at the sight before him. Y/N was racing toward him, skirts in hand and book discarded, grinning wildly. “Gwayne, you come back here this instant!” 

He shook his head, running away. “This is highly unladylike, I must say!” She glared, almost tripping over a tree root, his laughter cascading through the garden. “Almost makes me rethink my question!”

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