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.𖥔 ݁chapter two — the things we say

word count — 6553

pairing — Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!Targtower!Aemond’s Twin!Reader

warnings — vulgar language, mentions of death, self-deprecating jace inner monologue </33

notes — hey guysysys! first of all I wanna thank you so much for all the sweet words, likes, and reblogs on the first part!! it genuinely means so much to me to hear that so many people enjoyed it 😝💓!! (highkey so giddy rn) also quick note; I know I messed up the timeline of the dinner but I wanted a little more breathing room to flesh everything out before we delve into the real action, so I moved it to the day after. I already tagged it as so on the masterlist, but this won’t be canon compliant (otherwise there wouldn’t be a happy ending lol). that includes ages and timelines. however there will be things that happen in canon (book and/or show bc I’m mixing and matching) so don’t think too hard on the time in between canon scenes - I’m gonna try my best to make sure they flow smoothly in a way that still makes sense. ty for bearing with me lmao. xx <3

series masterlist — previous chapter

Alicent loved all her children. When they were younger she used to spend more time with them all. She used to run around after Aegon — not by choice, he was just quite a fussy and unruly child. She used to tell stories to Helaena, stroke her hair gently and sing her hymns. She used to be the one person, besides his twin sister, whom Aemond sought comfort in. She used to be able to comfort him. Daeron she misses most, she can hardly remember his stubby hands and white gold hair, but she was comforted in the fact that he would grow up a Hightower in Oldtown, like she did in her youth. Alicent loved all her children, but you were the easiest to love. Your hair, the same color as hers — your eyes, the same color as her mother’s. Her perfect angel, her second chance. She would make sure you would end up better than her, happier than her. And she could only thank the gods you were not born alone, but with Aemond to protect your legitimacy, when your egg did not hatch. Sometimes she wondered if it would have been better to send you along with Daeron, to Oldtown. To shield you from court and it’s dangers. But, alas, she could not part you from Aemond, who needed your comfort so, as you were the only other sibling without a dragon. She didn’t want to admit that a small part of her also needed you with her. Perhaps that’s why she never did send you away, even as Aemond claimed Vhagar, and grew more distant.

As you sit now across from her, the only child to break their fast with her after yesterday’s mess at court, she’s grateful she didn’t. Her only child that’s actually content. Not because of whores or wine, but because of simple joys, like books and embroidery. The only one of her children truly at peace when Alicent brings them to the sept to pray with her. You had never complained about not having a dragon, like Aemond did. You had accepted it with more grace than Alicent ever could have hoped. But she knows your heart was made softer than the world deserved, and she rues the day you will be crushed by a court who does not understand you. A family who does not understand you. She remembers what she felt like being thrust into the claws of all the court, truly, as their queen. And however true it may be that she sits, alive, at this table right now, it does not mean she did not die that day. She is not the same person who ran around old town as a tot, not the same girl who travelled with her father to the Capital, to King’s Landing, to the Red Keep, not the same girl who laid with Rhaenyra below the weirwood and spoke of her dreams. Dreams that would never come true. But she would not let you die. You are much too kind for court. And however much it pains her to admit it, much too weak for it as well. Too trusting. It is virtuous, but it is not advantageous in the climate you were born into.

She observes you as you pick at your food. Your fingers are torn, ‘from embroidery?’ she wonders. But as she looks down at her matching hands a small frown settles between her brows. It seems to settle there so much, it is almost perpetual. She lets her gaze drift over your face, your expression is neutral — not completely absent, like Helaena’s so often is — but your eyes sit deeper in their sockets than usual, sunken, accentuated by the darks under them. You must still be shaken from yesterday. She already had a bad feeling about having her children in that room while Daemon was there. A room that held Daemon Targaryen was never a safe room. Aemond and Aegon, sure, they would have been fine, but she should have never permitted for you and Helaena to go with them. Should have shielded your fragile minds from the gruesome sight.

Alicent pours you a cup of tea, pushes the honey your way so you can sweeten it, pushes a lock of hair behind your ear, tries to connect with you. She searches your eyes as her hand strokes a gentle path from your ear down your jaw, giving you a small, comforting smile. “Do not think of yesterday anymore, my sweet.” She says in a calm cadence, letting her thumb run over your sun-kissed cheek, just below your sunken-in eyes. You need more sleep, more rest, more reprieve from court and it’s harsh dealings. You nod slightly, smiling sweetly at her, still her little girl, still her perfect princess. “I will try, mother.” You reply, voice still a tad hoarse from sleep and she internally coos at your demeanor. She gives a firm nod and a proud smile as she retracts her hand from your face, resuming the cracking of an egg. She is grateful, she thinks, that her youngest daughter is so simple, when her oldest is so complicated, so perplexing. She thanks the Mother silently. Perhaps the worst of yesterday had already begun to fade.

A servant girl enters her quarters, some jams and fruits on a platter she places on the increasingly filling table, others take their leave after setting down more breads, and juices of all kinds. The servant girl steps into Alicent’s line of sight, not daring to make eye contact with her as she bows deeply before her Queen. “Shall I bring breakfast for Prince Aegon, Your Grace?” the girl says in a shaky voice. Is she new, Alicent wonders absentmindedly, already shifting her focus back over to you. “If he wishes to eat, he knows where to find it.” She replies, dismissing the serf with an inattentive wave of her bejeweled hand, moving with her other to put some more raspberries on your plate. “Have another bite. Hm?” she encourages with a smile. You return it, “Yes, Mother.” Pricking some on your fork and doing as your mother tells you. As you always have done.

Beyond the windows, the Red Keep was already waking. Servants hurried through its halls, maesters carried messages between towers, and somewhere in the yard below, steel rang against steel. The court would gather again before day's end. Alicent only prayed you would be spared the worst of it. “Y/N, dear,” She began, you looked up from the fruit and little cakes laid before you, still picking at your breakfast more than eating it. Alicent cleared her throat. “Your father has decided that before your half-sister leaves again, we must all dine together, as a family.” She paused for a moment, taking another bite herself as she let her words settle. “The dinner will be tonight.”

“Of course, Mother.”

For as long as he could remember, you were always reading. Always sitting somewhere out of the way with another ridiculous romance or fairytale tucked beneath your arm. Everyone said you were quiet because you were sweet.

They were wrong.

Sweet people laughed more.

Aegon had known you all your life, his little sister. The soft, sweet, content Princess that wandered around the keep, and Maegor’s Holfast, and the gardens, with her face turned to her shoes. Everyone thought you were so docile, so grounded. You were not. You had simply learned which smiles earned praise, and which silences kept questions away. It was exhausting watching everyone mistake that for happiness. Exhausting to see his mother praise you when you’d smile and tell her you had a good time at the sept, when he saw your eyes drift to the windows every ten minutes. All you’d have to do is smile and you’d please her. His mother never looked at him the way she looked at you. He could win a tourney and she’d ask if he’d been drinking. But he saw you for what you were. If anyone in this family understood you, it was him. You were just like him. He’d lost count of the amount of times he’d found you asleep over an open book. No lady’s maid, no septa, no companion, no dragon, just you. Alone. Mother saw a saint. Aemond saw a sister. The servants saw a Princess. But he knew better. Aegon saw you. If anyone in this family knew what it meant to pretend you were happier than you were, it was him.

He’d escape in his wine, you’d escape in your books. Both would let the responsibilities, the worries, the pains go away, he imagined, though books never seemed to do the trick for him. Maybe if they did, his mother wouldn’t have hit him so much as an adolescent. However, you also are sweeter than him, he thinks to himself, holding his goblet of Dornish Red close to his chest like his mother would a rosary. He stalks the halls until he is in front of her chamber door. He’d scoffed that morning in his bed, as the serf he had asked where his food was told him his mother wished him to fetch it himself from her chambers. He knows his mother didn’t phrase it that way. He chooses to ignore it. Slinging the door open with little care for being proper, he took another large swig of his wine, taking ungraceful steps into the room. His mother looks the pinnacle of royalty and devotion as the sun paints the room in an almost too-warm, too-bright hue, a halo of light surrounding her gracefully and neatly styled locks of auburn. An auburn almost identical of the hair of his little sister, sitting near his mother at the table and picking at her meal. He can’t recall the last time he’s seen you truly eat a meal, instead of merely poking it. “Mother,” He says, a brazen smile gracing his features as his mother grimaces up at him, a bite of food in her mouth. He turns to you, “Sister,” he begins, letting his eyes dramatically dart back and forth between the berries on your plate and your face, raising his brows as he points at the porcelain. “You know the berries needn’t be killed. You can stop poking them.” You huff a small laugh and roll your eyes playfully away at his jest, he smirks, showing his teeth. It was good to see you smile. “Good morrow to you too, Aegon. Tell me-” you began, pointing your fork playfully to his cup as he sits down across the table from you. “Is that Arbour Gold, or Dornish Red?” You were now the one to smirk at him, as he chuckled good-heartedly back at you. “Dornish Red.” He replies, grabbing breads and fruits from the plates around him as you hummed in response.

It’s quiet for a moment as his mother eats, you poke, and he grabs around himself like a madman, piling food onto his plate, before his mother speaks. “There is a dinner tonight with the whole family, including Princess Rhaenyra.” The words settle over him like lead. His shoulders sag. His head threatens to follow, lower and lower, until his face ends up buried in the jam-filled pastry on the center of his plate. He is already dreading it. “You will be in attendance.” Her voice is sharp, commanding. Aegon snorts, feigning relaxation, ease. “Will I? Wonderful. Shall I pretend to enjoy myself?” His mother glares his way, exhaustion seeping through the corners of her expression. “You shall be sober.” He can feel the bile rise in his throat, the sweet scent wafting off the pastries sitting all around the table transform from something pleasant into something rancid in the span of a single conversation. He does not reply, instead opting to refill his goblet with another dose of his favorite wine and sink into his chair, crumpled, uncaring for posture.

He does not say much for the rest of the meal, opting instead to stare out of the window, conveniently, right across from his mother. He doesn’t feel the need to torture himself with the look of disappointed disdain surely on her face this particular morning, he was already being tortured with a ‘family’ dinner later today. Occasionally his gaze drifts across the table to her. She is almost constantly looking at you, urging another piece of fruit onto your plate, pouring more tea, smoothing an errant strand of auburn hair behind your ear. She barely looks his way. Perhaps she had. Perhaps he simply hadn't noticed.

As he looked at the two of you, bathed in warm morning light like figures from a holy painting, he wondered where the branch had split, where his mother started treating him in a way that so differed to how she treated you. You earned smiles. He earned commands. He couldn't remember the last thing she'd said to him that wasn't an instruction. The thought brought him no comfort. Instead, he reached for another goblet of wine, abandoning the monstrous pile of food on his plate altogether, in favor of the bitter taste of escapism at the bottom of his drink.

Then, you left. “It is getting rather late,” you’d sung, saccharine smile on your lips, a manufactured twinkle in your — uncharacteristically sunken — eyes. “I should get started on my day.” You got up, primly swept your palms over the skirt of your gown before stepping closer to your mother and laying one of them over her shoulder in a comforting gesture. Her brown eyes found yours, and just like that, she smiled. A real smile. The sort she never seemed to have for him. He truly couldn’t even blame her. If he had to choose who his favorite sibling was, he would pick you in a heartbeat. He loved Helaena, but there were moments he could not look her in the eyes, could not look at her. All he'd see were the awful things his marriage — and the Faith — made him do to her. Forced him to do to her. Even if the act itself was pleasurable for him, the shame was not. Aemond thought him a fool, he knew. Aemond excelled at everything a firstborn son was meant to excel at. Aegon, he reckoned, had become rather proficient at the pursuits usually reserved for second sons. Aemond couldn’t appreciate it. Judged him for it. You, however, never judged him. Well... you did. But you always forgave him. Always showed him grace. Always tried to understand him. And he loved you for it. He knows you disapprove of his actions—you frown when he's too drunk, tell him to drink water, nag him to ‘go sleep it off, Egg’, sigh when he stumbles in at supper, covered in wine — but you never write him off as a lost cause.

“Thank you for the food, Mother. I enjoyed the berries very much.” His mother raised her hand to lay atop yours. Gods, you really were good at this. At saying the right thing. At making his mother feel needed. Of course you thanked her. You thanked cooks, guards, stable boys. Even him, whenever he managed to do something decent for once. “Of course, my angel. Enjoy your day.” His mother responded, squeezing your hand once, twice, then letting it go and turning her face back down to the table, fingers reaching for the teacup left steaming near her plate. You let your hand fall off his mother’s shoulder, and lifted your gaze to him. “Brother.” You nodded to him, smile tinged in a bit of worry as you cautiously, stealthily, eyed his goblet of wine. He must’ve refilled it near ten times already now. He answered with a tight grin, lifting his goblet in mock salute. "Sister.”

With that you leave the room, your steps near-silent as you glide across the floor, almost like a mirage. As the door closed behind you, it seemed you took the sun with you. The room settled back into shadow, and somehow even the wine tasted duller.

When you thought of the excuse to get out under your brother’s overly observant gaze and your mother’s overly kind hands you didn’t think of what starting your day would actually mean. Now you stand alone in an empty corridor with nowhere in particular to go.

As your feet carry you silently through the Holdfast’s halls you let yourself look at the people you pass by. Guards bowing their heads at you, Lords and Ladies greeting you with a soft “Princess.” You hope they don’t look too closely at you, at the obvious signs of exhaustion on your face, and instead at your dress. You dressed in a beautiful gown today, it was new. You hope no more blood will get on your dresses, it completely ruins them. Your sleeves are sheer, long, with a golden band spanning across your upper arm on both sides, matching with the golden belt you wear across your waist, it catches the light as you walk. The soft light green velvet of the gown itself seems to dance around you as you move. Your collarbones are on display with the low cut of the bust, golden thread woven into delicate patterns all around the collar. A dragon wrought in gold circles your throat, elegant enough to pass for ornament. Some mornings it felt more like a collar. Your hair is braided into an intricate style by hands far more skilled than your own. You suppose it looks lovely. You wouldn't know. One mirror only ever showed half of a person.

You walk into a hallway with less people, then pivot into one with brighter light, then dart down the stairs because you think you spot a rat in the alcove you wanted to take refuge in. The halls all blur together, every passageway the same. You find a stack of books on a windowsill in a narrow hall you think is close to the tower of the Hand. You can’t tell anymore. You let your fingers run along the spines, reading the titles of the ones big enough to have them displayed on the side, pulling out the smaller ones to rake your eyes over the front in half-feigned interest. You decide to take a chance on ‘Tales of Old Valyria’ taking the book off its perch, letting it rest in both your hands, pressed to your backside as you leisurely continue your stroll through the castle. You do not particularly care what the book is about. You simply want something else to think about. Anything other than the emotions yesterday had stirred awake inside you.

You shiver once more at the reminder, but it’s not Vaemond’s face that lingers longest, it’s your nephew’s. Jacaerys had stood so terribly still while grown men argued over whether he was allowed to call the father that raised him, the father that embraced him as his own, the father that loved him, his father. You wonder if he has grown used to it by now. You hope he has not. No one should. You remember his face much more clearly than his brother’s, for some reason.

He had changed. The last time you had truly seen him, the both of you had still been children. You remember how cruelly he used to tease your twin brother for not having a dragon, but never you. You wonder, now, if it had anything to do with Aegon never teasing you, only Aemond. You wonder now whether it had ever been cruelty at all. Perhaps it had simply been self-preservation. Yesterday, when he walked into the throne room behind his mother, something inside you had caught. Not because he was handsome — though he was — but because he had looked so painfully familiar. It wasn't simply that he'd grown older. It was the way grief and duty had settled into him, as though the years between had carved them both into his bones. Like someone who had spent years learning how to carry burdens that were never meant for them.

More than once, you had caught your gaze drifting back to him before you even realized you were looking. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to notice. You told yourself then, don’t look at him, and tried to keep your eyes on Vaemond. It unsettled you more than it should have. You could not remember the last time you'd looked at anyone twice.

You wonder whether he hated you. You would not blame him if he did. Perhaps, when he looked at you, he only saw the green of your dress. Perhaps he only saw the way you resembled your mother, like so many others seemed to.

Without quite realizing where your feet are taking you, you turn down another corridor, then another, until stone gives way to sunlight. The gardens had always offered you reprieve from the hustle and bustle of court. You can’t force flowers to bloom faster, you can’t rush them into an early grave brought on by the exhaustion of expectation. They take their time, they bloom when they want to, when they’re ready. Something you don’t find mirrored in the people you grew up around. The ones you spend most of your time with. Everything always seems like it needs to be done faster, neater, more efficient. Like everything in life is a race to be won.

You open the book as you let yourself fall back into a small field of clovers near a secluded part of the garden, shielded by hedges and bushes and trees surrounding you as if you were in a real forest, and not a meticulously planned piece of architecture on the grounds of a great castle. The smell of grass surrounds you and you inhale deeply, trying to burn the scent into your brain, trying to overwrite the taste of iron that yesterday had left behind, a souvenir you’d yet to rid yourself of.

You close your eyes, letting the cold breeze wash away your worries for a small moment, before you have to return to the world again.

If it were up to Jacaerys, he’d be back on Dragonstone already. King’s Landing positively reeks, and no matter how much he walks around the Red Keep, he can’t seem to escape the smell of feces and despair wafting faintly over from the streets just outside the castle’s perimeter walls. But, alas, it’s not up to him. He would blame his mother, his step-father too, if it were up to them. But it is not up to them either. His grandsire requested they stay one more night, and one more day — which really translated to two more nights, since Joffrey didn’t dare fly in the dark — so they could have a family dinner together, as a whole. And a King’s request is, almost always, not a request at all.

He’d slept terribly. Not just because of the smell, or because of the location, a Keep crawling with traitors and vipers, if it were because of those factors, the problems wouldn’t have started when he heard of Vaemond’s plans, days before he ever got to King’s Landing. But they had. And sleep deprivation wasn’t making him feel any better about his particular predicament. He wouldn’t even dare call it a predicament, really. It was more so a curse. A dark cloud that hung over his life, everything he is, everything he ever will be, all his achievements, ever since he was born with brown hair, and brown eyes. Anything anyone saw when they looked at him was ‘BASTARD’, in big letters across his forehead. They did not care that he rode a dragon, not truly, or that he was near-fluent in High Valyrian now. All they cared about was that he was not born with the Valyrian features needed to be a proper Valyrian Prince, much less a Valyrian Heir to the throne.

So he walks, irate from the stench, the lack of sleep, and the looks people keep giving him in the corridors. All the Lords and Ladies that greet him saying “My Prince,” while their eyes are silently shouting something much different. All through the Keep. He tries every hallway, every corridor, every balcony, every alcove, but all smell the same. Disgusting and filthy. And opening a window would only make the smells more pungent, he’d found out. That was the whole reason he was walking in the first place. He’d tossed and turned in his bed the whole night, and after he sat down to break his fast, alone, in his room, as he requested, he thought maybe opening a window would help get rid of the stale odor that hung around the chambers. He quickly realized that was the wrong move, and found he had no appetite left. He truly couldn’t remember the Red Keep ever smelling as bad as it had now, even when he lived there as a boy. Had it gotten worse in the years he spent away? Or had he merely grown used to the brisk and fresh air of Dragonstone? He missed the trace of sulfur that hung around the outskirts of the island, the way the rain made it more distinct.

After passing the same tapestry for the third time in half an hour, he gives up and decides to go outside. Surely it would be better somewhere. Perhaps the godswood? The gardens? He imagines the gardens will have more flowers, ergo, more pleasant smells, and so he makes way for one of the garden’s small side entrances. They truly are beautiful. Grand rose bushes frame both sides of the path, joining in a canopy above the crown of Jacaerys’ head and offering small patches of shade along the walkway. He hears birds chirping, a butterfly flies around his hand before disappearing into the foliage above, ducks in a fountain around the corner are quacking and jostling the water.

He follows the winding path through beds of flowers and creeping ivy, finally finding a semblance of peace among fragrances gathered, he is sure, from every corner of Westeros. He startles, however, when he hears a a slow, measured inhale from somewhere beyond the roses. He freezes, his relaxation ebbing away quickly as he realizes he is not alone. Should he go? No, he is a Prince. A Prince whose nose is in dire need of a small reprieve of the dizzying aroma of King’s Landing and the Red Keep respectively. But he would walk away, find his own spot in the garden to take deep, dramatic sighs in. He moves to walk back to the opposite end of the path, but a curiosity overtakes him. He is quite bored. Perhaps, someone interesting would be on the other side of the bush? Perhaps a merchant who could tell him great stories of his travels, maybe exchange stories of captaining a ship. Or a traveling crone who could look into his future, and assure him the gods had marvelous things planned for him, provided he handed over enough silver. It could do no harm to look, he reasons, stepping quietly back toward the rose bushes, cautiously peering around the dense leafage to finally reveal this great mystery he had just sold himself on.

Maybe a maid is stealing a moment’s rest, or it may be one of the castle’s children who got lost chasing a butterfly, or perchance- Jacaerys freezes mid-thought. A girl lies half-hidden amongst the clover, one arm folded beneath her head, the other lazily holding open a book whose pages stir with every passing breeze. Sunlight filters through the leaves of the tree above her, scattering patches of gold across the pale green velvet of her gown. She looks... asleep, almost. No. Not asleep. Resting. His eyes catch on the dragon of worked gold curled around her throat. His aunt. Princess Y/N.

You were reading, or trying to. The book resting open upon your chest, though your eyes were closed, your face turned toward the warmth filtering through the branches. Of all the people he expected to find hidden away in the gardens, Alicent Hightower's youngest daughter had ranked somewhere beneath a wandering bear. He does not speak as you shift onto your stomach, never easing your grip on your book as you turn, settling it into the grass beneath you. Your chin comes to rest in your hands as your eyes skim the page. Long auburn waves spill over your shoulders and dance with the breeze, the sunlight catching them until they burn almost copper, almost flame. Before he quite realizes what he is doing, he finds himself taking another step closer. What are you reading? He tries to make out the words, leaning in just enough to glimpse the page, when a gust of wind stirs the branches overhead. Sunlight shifts. His shadow falls across the parchment and you turn instantly. If he were not so mortified at being caught, he might have admired your reflexes.

Your bright eyes are open wide, every bit as striking and round as your mother's, and lock onto his. Well, if you didn’t hate him before, you certainly will now, Jace thinks to himself, clenching his fist so hard in shame his knuckles nearly burst at the seams. But his face remains a bit more impassive, at least he hopes it does. He waits for recognition to settle over your features. For surprise to harden into the careful sort of revulsion he had grown accustomed to. The sort hidden behind courtly smiles and polished manners. The sort that said bastard without ever speaking the word. And now, perhaps, creep besides. He could hardly blame you. He braces for your startled expression to turn into one of disgust as you take in his features and realize who — what — exactly you’re dealing with. But it doesn’t come. Instead you simply blink. “Oh-” The surprise remains, but it is not tainted with disgust. Your eyes search his face for only a heartbeat before you incline your head with perfect courtesy. “Good morrow, Prince Jacaerys.”

It is so simple, so ordinary, that, for a moment, he almost forgets how to answer. There is no mockery hidden beneath your words. No careful emphasis. No veiled slight waiting to reveal itself. His fist unclenches slightly, a small weight he didn’t even know was there sliding off his shoulders in an instant. He had not realized how tightly he had been holding himself together until something inside him finally gave way. Gathering what dignity his sleep-starved mind can muster, he straightens almost instinctively, slipping back into the role he has rehearsed since boyhood. “And to you, Princess Y/N.” He replies. Only then does he truly look at you. You look nothing like you had in the throne room. Yesterday you’d been standing straight near Alicent, mirroring her rigid posture, never looking away from Vaemond until his body was carried out of the chamber by a group of Gold Cloaks. Today you looked… more at ease, smaller, human.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. Jacaerys lets his eyes drift from your face for a second, catching your book still open in the grass behind your half-turned frame, and bristles, becoming, suddenly, acutely aware of the way he found himself having this conversation with you in the first place, if you could even call it a conversation at all. He clears his throat and inclines his head subtly, letting his eyes rave the ground. “I apologize.” As he looks back up to the soft curves of your face he sees a furrow forming in your brow, eyes holding the same confused peer as they used to when you were kids, when your brother Aegon would make thinly veiled comments on his bastardy, ones you evidently did not pick up on at the time. “For what?” you reply, the inquiry snapping him back to the present. He gestures vaguely toward the book, the grass — your personal space which he invaded so unceremoniously, trying to find the words appropriate to say in such a situation. “For… startling you. I did not mean to.” He returns, watching your face shift from confusion to an almost mischievous expression, eyes observant like a cat’s, as your eyes shift from him to the bushes behind him in rapid succession. “You were watching me.” It is not an accusation. Somehow, that makes it worse.

“I was not watching you.” He lets it out too quickly, almost a knee-jerk reaction, letting his eyes drop from yours in favor of the russet locks draped casually over your exposed collarbone. In the corner of his eye he can see your lips twitch. He realizes, belatedly, that this is a terrible defense. You cock your head, the curls falling from their perch over your shoulder as an amused but demure smirk etches itself onto your lips more visibly, “You were.”

He swallows, throat dry in a way he has not experienced in years, embarrassment exposed in a heat that spreads from the back of his neck to his ears. He knows he must have the color to match it. Finding the courage turn his gaze back to your face, instead of the ambiguous point somewhere between your book and your shoulder, he retorts, “I was merely attempting to decipher what you were reading.” That earns him a proper look. He discovers, the more that he observes it, that he finds your face quite pleasant to look at. He doesn’t let himself linger on the thought, and neither do you. “You could’ve just asked.” The simplicity of it renders him near speechless once again. “I could have.” You raise your eyebrows at him, “But you did not.” Your eyes, alight in the afternoon sunlight, almost seem to have specks of gold near the center of your pupil. “No.” He turns his face to his feet, letting his curls conceal his rapidly reddening blush as he lets a small silence linger between the two of you. He should’ve just turned the other way when he had the chance, when he first saw who lay behind the rose bush. No, he thinks, when he first heard sounds coming from the opposite side. Then, unexpectedly, you smile. It is not the polished smile he has seen you give the court. It is smaller, almost reluctant. Jacaerys finds his lips turn up in return before he can stop himself.

You glance swiftly back at the book before facing him once more, “It is called; Tales of Old Valyria.” He nods, finding the ease with which you interact with him liberating. You are quite different from your siblings. “Is it any good?” Offering a small smile of his own in return, on purpose this time, in appreciation. You consider this with surprising seriousness, the furrow between your brows making its return onto your gentle features. He decides it does not disrupt your beauty, the crinkle of your nose as you grimace at him from your seat in the grass. “I have no idea.” His brows lift. “I have only read three pages.” You add. Something about the admission catches him off guard. A laugh slips from him before he can stop it, quiet and genuine. You look at him, for a moment and he worries he may have upset you, then you laugh too. It is a small sound, barely more than a breath, but Jacaerys thinks he has not heard anything quite so pleasant since arriving in King's Landing.

“Are you particularly interested in Old Valyria?” He inquires. He finds he does not want the conversation to end, and he is confident now it counts as a proper conversation. You hum, your eyes leaving his face and instead roaming along your view of the gardens, “Not necessarily… I wanted something that happened a long time ago.” Your side profile is illuminated by the soft rays of the sun and Jacaerys wonders if the freckles that taint your skin have some kind of magnetic quality, for he longs to get closer to you. He does not question his own whims as you look back at him, inclining his head in a soft nod to the ground beside you in silent question, beaming internally when you nod at him in consent. He sits down in the cushy grass next to you, making sure to keep an appropriate distance between where your gown is splayed out on the soft green and where his legs rest. “In truth I don’t care much what the book is about,” You muse, a faraway look catching in your eye, it is almost gone too soon to notice. Jacaerys does so anyway. “I just needed something to occupy my mind.”

He takes a moment to look past the sparkling jewelry adorning your person, the done-up hair, the magnificent gown, its golden thread glistening in the sun. You look tired. The skin under your eyes dark, the same way his gets when he’s spent too many hours bent over books and scrolls, or with his sword in his hand in the tiltyard, practicing until perfection into the depths of the night, or when his mind gets too loud and grants him no reprieve of the endless taunts and accusations made against his identity during the daytime, even when he’s exhausted beyond belief and just wishes, more than anything, *to sleep.* Were you also trying to quell thoughts of yesterday? You did seem quite shaken by Vaemond’s beheading, stiff as a board, being tugged away by your twin brother in a manner much too harsh for a Princess — in his opinion. You shouldn’t have had to see that.

“I was seeking much the same.” His admission seems to bring you back to the world around you, your head turning his way once again, and he doesn’t know why he revels in the attention so, a flicker of something alight in his chest at your warm gaze. His hands settle in the grass behind him, splayed out much like you are, though laid back a bit more leisurely in an almost overly casual pose. “I’ve been having some troubles getting used to the… unique scent of of the Keep, I’m afraid.” He jests, letting his gaze linger on you. You’ve turned to sit on your side, facing his lounging figure as the fingers of the hand not used to prop yourself up trace figures in the grass near your dress. “Ah, I see how you found your way to the gardens, then. I find they are much kinder than the corridors.” He lets his gaze shift back to the high castle walls protruding garishly from over the various colorful hedges and trees that make up the gardens, it is silent for a moment as he lets it linger. “You do not like it here.” It startles him, your bluntness. He turns his head back towards you, “Do I make it so obvious?” He asks, letting some of his melancholy slip through the princely exterior. You make it almost too easy to let his guard down.

“Only to someone who doesn’t like it either.”

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