Pairing: Prince Jacaerys Velaryon x Martell Princess! Reader
Synopsys: Upon discovering Aemond Targaryen's alliance with the Triarchy, the Blacks are pushed to the point of desperation. With the war looming over the horizon, they have no choice but to turn to an unlikely ally: House Martell.
Content Warning: Smut (MDNI 18+), incest, canon-typical violence, blood and injury, alcohol consumption, slow burn, enemies to lovers, (more specific tags and TW on each individual chapter).
Chapters:
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 (TBC)
A/N: If you wish to be added to the taglist, please fill out this form for easier management.
Pairing: Prince Jacaerys Velaryon x Martell Princess! Reader
Synopsys: Upon discovering Aemond Targaryen's alliance with the Triarchy, the Blacks are pushed to the point of desperation. With the war looming over the horizon, they have no choice but to turn to an unlikely ally: House Martell.
Content Warning: Sexual content (but MDNI 18+ just to be safe), dry humping (-ish?), violence, alcohol consumption, toxic dynamics, swearing, themes of prejudice and misogynism, and a lot of 'fucking politicking,' as King Viserys said, (not proofread).
WC: 5.6k
Series Masterlist
(A/N and taglist at the end of the chapter)
As the winds guided Ser Tyland's ship to the Free Cities, the excitement regarding the wedding of the future Princess of Dorne and the Crown Prince buzzed in the air. No ravens had to be sent, for the whispers began within the palace walls, spread through the bustling streets of Sunspear, and were carried by the desert winds across the dunes, reaching the furthest Dornish houses.
Princess Y/n sat before her mirror, watching her handmaiden, Melynda, fasten the back of her dress. A sweet girl of one-and-twenty, Melynda had been brought from Pentos on a cramped boat, a former slave traded by her master for coin. Ever since she had served the Princess with quiet devotion, her nimble fingers always making a masterpiece out of her.
Despite being draped in the finest fabrics of deep sapphire, adorned with intricate golden swirls and beads of amber, Y/n stared blankly at her reflection. The celebrations leading to the wedding were set to last a fortnight, a long stretch filled with feasts, ceremonies, and endless politicking. In mere hours, she would be facing the guests, forced to smile and charm as she and the Velaryon boy persuaded them to align with Rhaenyra's cause. She didn't even know where to begin looking for the strength and willpower she had to gather to convince those lords to join a war she herself didn't fully believe in.
“Is it too tight, Princess?” Melynda asked meekly, noting how Y/n had remained quiet the whole time she had been preparing her. "Princess?"
Suddenly, Y/n's bottom lip began to quiver as she felt a knot forming in her throat.
“Gods be damned…” she muttered, feeling her tears pooling in her eyes. “How did it all come to this?”
“If it's too tight, mayhaps I could—”
“Of course, it’s bloody tight! It’s damn near crushing my guts!” the Princess burst out, causing her handmaiden to stumble backward, her hands trembling. “I apologise, Melynda,” she sniffed, feeling the guilt pool in her chest. It wasn’t the first time she had taken her anger and frustration out on the younger girl. Of all the people in the palace, she was the least deserving of such crude treatment. “It’s just—”
“I understand, Princess,” Melynda smiled sadly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Y/n held her hand softly, holding back her cries. “To be betrothed to someone who you don't truly love must be a punishment for the soul.”
“I’ve been trying to avoid this all these years. Gods forbid a woman who wants to live a life free from all this nonsense," she muttered bitterly.
“You are to be the Princess of Dorne. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“But not with a Targaryen… someone who sees us as nothing more than goatfuckers.”
“Once you get to acquainted with one another, I’m certain he’ll see past the veil of prejudice that blinds the rest of Westeros.”
“Oh, we’re well past the point of acquaintances, and I’m certain we’ve both made it clear that we’d rather kill each other than push forward with this betrothal.”
“And yet, you've hardly spent a moment alone together, away from prying eyes. Forgive me if I'm wrong, my Princess, but this hostility you feel towards one another... it feels more like the weight of your houses than your own. He’s not truly wronged you, nor have you wronged him... well, apart from the few wounds you’ve exchanged.”
“I wish it were as simple as you say, but the hatred between our houses runs deeper than that trial. We’re talking about years of bloodshed, of lives torn apart by their desire to conquer what was never theirs. How can we ever forget that? If anything, those Targaryens are only reaping what they've sown.”
“I understand, Princess, but is it truly fair to place the sins of the forefathers upon their children? Yes, the Targaryens once sought to conquer Dorne, but they failed. And since then, they’ve left us to rule our lands. Why should Prince Jacaerys suffer for the wrongdoings of his ancestors when he himself hasn't harmed you?”
“You speak the truth, Melynda. But do you truly think the rest of the Dorne will see it that way?” She stared at her handmaiden's reflection. “The pain the Targaryens have caused... it’s not just written in our histories, it’s engraved into the souls of our people.”
“I’m not saying that your betrothal to Prince Jacaerys will reconcile your houses overnight, Princess. In fact, it may take generations to heal these wounds. However, if Queen Rhaenyra proves to be the rightful and just ruler she claims to be, and honours your demands... and you and Prince Jacaerys unite the Seven Kingdoms as promised, then mayhaps it could be the beginning of something.”
Suddenly, both women were startled by a knock on the door.
“Yes?” Y/n cleared her throat.
“My Princess,” Ser Domeric said from the other side. “The guests have begun to arrive, and your presence is expected shortly.”
Princess Y/n quickly composed herself, ensuring that any trace of sorrow had vanished from her face, and replaced her semblance with a mask of indifference.
The late afternoon breeze crept through the palace windows, stirring the heavy air in the Hall but doing little to lift the mood. Spirits were low and the lingering music was drowned out by the quiet murmurs of the guests. Lords and ladies from House Yronwood to House Qorgyle had traversed across the arid deserts to Sunspear, not out of enthusiasm, but out of duty, their gazes shifting warily as they gathered to pay tribute to the Princess. Even Y/n herself, appeared as though she wished to be anywhere else.
At the high table, the Martells sat alongside the Targaryens, not able to look one another eye to eye. They faced the great houses, whose semblance didn’t hide their disdain for the dragonriders. They showed no efforts for forced pleasantries, bracing themselves for the next chapter of conflict rather than celebrating a wedding that would unite the Seven Kingdoms.
Before anything, Prince Qoren stood up, ready to speak before his people.
“It is truly an honour to welcome you all this evening, and I thank each and every one of you for making the long journey to Sunspear. Tonight, we gather not only to celebrate the betrothal of my beloved daughter, Princess Y/n Martell, to the Crown Prince Jacaerys Velaryon... but also, the union between House Martell and House Targaryen,” he spoke, the enthusiasm fading in his voice.
The crowd fell into an immediate hush, the lords and ladies exchanging uncertain glances, some full of resentment, and some full of disgust. Y/n felt each pressing gaze suffocating her and tried to hide her discomfort behind the rim of her cup, already expecting those pessimistic reactions. After all, who in their right mind would willingly wed a Targaryen?
“Out of all of the suitors that have lost their lives willing to serve you and our realm, you chose to spare the one whose ancestors sought to conquer our lands?” Lady Liara from House Briar’s voice trembled, barely able to hold back her anger. “Could you not have shown mercy to my sweet boy Eldritch instead?”
The Princess had always been taught to hold back in such moments, especially in front of such a large audience, but before she could stop herself, the words were already spilling out of her mouth.
“My Lady,” Y/n began, trying to push down the feeling of irritation rising up her chest. “Remind me… who sent your son, alone, to seek my hand? As far as I know, someone that young shouldn’t be burdened with ‘providing me a strong heir’ or ‘making Dorne more prosperous than it already is.’ Those aren’t words a boy of three-and-ten should be speaking.”
Lady Liara sank back to her seat with a scowl. The Princess’ gaze swept across the Hall, their faces etched with grief and bitterness, never forgetting the lives lost in pursuit of her hand.
Whilst the guests sat in silence, waiting for either Prince Qoren or Princess Y/n to justify such a decision, Rhaenyra seized the moment to capture the crowd’s attention. She cleared her throat and rose slowly, her lilac eyes lingering on each guest, meeting the same eyes that had carried pent-up hatred for generations.
“By coming here, we are not denying the sins of House Targaryen,” she paused, allowing her words to settle, her gaze never leaving the crowd. “I understand that to many of you, we are still the enemy. I am aware of the blood that was spilled and the pain that has lingered for generations. But the true enemies now are the Greens, who have usurped the Throne and seek to bring all of Westeros to its knees. And I know Dorne will not bend without a fight. Join us, and we will stand together. We can prevent the war that the Greens will bring to your lands.”
Despite Rhaenyra's words, the guests still mumbled with one another and her plea fell on indifferent ears. She clasped her hands together, holding her composure.
“So, the Greens are the enemies now, eh?" A voice echoing across the hall finally broke through the whispers. “To them, you are the usurper. And as far as we are concerned, they have yet to come to our lands to pester us with this petty war of yours.”
“Do not mistake their silence for mercy, my Lord. When they come, they will not ask. They will take. And by then, it may be too late to decide where your loyalties lie,” Daemon retorted.
“They have left us with no other choice,” Lord Lysander Dayne scowled. “Is this why you brought these beasts? So they can burn us if we refuse to join?”
Upon the mere mention of the dragons, the fear of the crowd became palpable. Prince Qoren’s face was flushed with anger, seeing that the celebration had somehow turned into a council meeting.
“Enough of this nonsense!” Prince Qoren bellowed, rising to his feet and jabbing his fist to the table. "We are here to celebrate the upcoming wedding of my daughter, not to squabble over this bloody war! If I hear more of it tonight, I’ll throw you in a pit of scorpions myself," his voice cut through the crowd, making the lords shrink back into their seats as he glared at Rhaenyra.
The music, which had momentarily ceased, began to play again. Princess Y/n exhaled deeply, gripping her cup as she swirled the crimson liquid. If she was going to endure the remainder of this night and persuade those thick-skulled lords to support Rhaenyra, she would need wine. A lot of it. She downed the first cup, the sweet taste lingering on her palate as her gaze shifted across the room, spotting the lords she had to sway.
Lord Lysander of House Dayne sat with his lady wife, his stern face etched with displeasure. He had made it clear where he stood, opposing any involvement in the war. Yet, he was infamously known for his ambition; he was the sort of man who would bend the knee for the right price, advancing his own house in exchange for his formidable army. Then there was Lord Thaddeus of House Yronwood, head of the second-most powerful house in Dorne, capable of providing enough supplies to sustain the armies at sea; a practical man, loyal to tradition, but always open to negotiation. On the other side of the Hall, she spotted Lord Ander of House Jordayne, who owned the largest fleet in Dorne.
Ser Domeric, being part of House Uller and their loyal informant, would provide whatever support was asked. And lastly, House Santagar, though not enthusiastic, had always been fiercely loyal to the Martells and would stand by their house regardless.
Despite the collective disappointment lingering in the air, as the feast came to an end, the guests stood up to salvage what remained of the evening. Jacaerys’ eyes followed Y/n as she rose from her seat, weaving through the multitude and making her way to Lord Lysander. The man bowed his head and extended his hand, offering the Princess a dance which she accepted with a smile that seemed far too charming than she would normally allow herself to be. Jacaerys couldn’t tear his gaze from Y/n, watching how she leaned towards Lord Lysander, her lips closely brushing his ear, as he nodded eagerly so as not to disappoint her.
“A celebration of our upcoming betrothal?” Jacaerys scoffed, already feeling his blood boil at the sight of the Princess with another man. Had they been at the Red Keep, the whispers would have already circled around, rumours of the Princess enjoying the company of other men, even while bound by a betrothal to him, that would call into question not only her honour but the legitimacy of their future children. He could already hear the council’s scandalous whispers behind closed doors–whispers that had been haunting him all his life.
“She’s quite gifted, isn’t she, my dear sister?” Elyas remarked, turning to Jacaerys. “She has a way of making men dance in the palm of her hand.”
“Only if one is foolish enough to fall for whatever games she is playing,” Jacaerys muttered.
Jacaerys and Elyas watched how Lord Lysander placed a kiss on top of her hand. With one final whisper, she slipped away from his arms and disappeared into the crowd, only to be seen again; that time with Lord Ander, who offered the Princess his hand without hesitation.
“There are a couple of things you should know about her,” Elyas said with a sneer, glancing at the Princess. “One of them is… you’ll never be her only one.”
“You need not tell me what I can already see. It seems your sister is not familiar with the notion of faithfulness.”
“Faithfulness? As far as I’m aware, neither of you are bound by vows just yet,” Elyas grinned, noting how Jacaerys clearly wasn’t enjoying the conversation. "But listen, this celebration isn’t meant for you to sulk in a corner, watching my sister dance with every lord in Dorne. It's for indulging. There’s a place not too far from the palace, where we know how to truly celebrate. Who knows? You might not even survive this war you’re throwing yourself into. You may as well enjoy the finest pleasures our land has to offer before it’s too late," Jacaerys’s knuckles whitened around his cup, his repulsion palpable, but Elyas only leaned in closer.
As much as Jacaerys despised watching Princess Y/n flit from lord to lord, he wasn’t about to lower himself to her games. What was she trying to prove? Was she testing him, daring him to show any signs of jealousy or anger? Or mayhaps she was simply making it clear, once again, how much she misliked him?
Jacaerys refused to give Elyas the satisfaction of a response and merely shook his head. Elyas smirked, amused by Jacaerys' restraint, and stood up, ensuring he ruined the evening even more before leaving.
“Oh, and just so you know… whatever illusions you have about loyalty and honour, you'd best cast them aside. If you think my sister will suddenly change her ways after this betrothal of yours, then you’re completely wrong. I’m telling you now, she won’t. She’s as Dornish as they come… untamable and always chasing trouble. The more you tighten the leash, the more she’ll struggle to break free. And she’ll keep playing her games, whether you like them or not... so you better learn how to play them if you don't wish to end up as another one of her playthings,” Elyas said, slapping Jacaerys’ shoulder playfully before walking away.
Jacaerys hadn’t even realised how tightly he was clenching his jaw until the sound of Elyas and his sworn protector’s fading footsteps pulled him back to reality. He let out a breath, trying to shake off the bitterness away, and downed a gulp of wine.
But what he hadn’t noticed was a pair of dark wide eyes watching him from the other end of the table. It was Farien, whose gaze had been flickering between him and Elyas the whole time. When Jacaerys caught the boy's gaze, his expression softened. He set down his cup, watching how the little boy stood up and made his way over to him.
“If you marry my sister, does that mean you’ll become my brother?” Farien asked.
“I suppose,” he forced a smile, though he wasn’t sure if the little boy was particularly glad about that.
Farien climbed on to the empty seat beside Jacaerys, glancing around the nearly deserted table and making sure none of his family members were nearby. All of the Martells were tending their own business, leaving the Targaryens seated in silence. The boy leaned in close, cupping his small hands around Jacaerys’s ear, scared that someone might hear what he had to say.
“So, does that mean I get to ride your dragon?” He whispered.
Jacaerys looked at him, his eyes widening in surprise.
“If your father allows you, then I suppose you could… but are you not afraid?” He asked.
“I’m really, really scared. But I wonder what it must feel like to see the world from up above. The closest I’ve ever gotten to flying is in my dreams, you know? It feels like I’m one of Father’s falcons, soaring high in the skies. Father says I have the gift to turn into one of them at night and watch over the desert,” he glanced up, his eyes gleaming in wonder.
Jacaerys looked at the boy and allowed himself to smile, as Farien somehow reminded him of his younger brother, Joffrey, whom he hadn't seen in a long time.
“Anyway,” Farien continued, “I think we could be brothers, you and I. We even look alike, see?” He pointed at Jacaerys’ curls. “It would be nice to have another brother... because, well, Elyas... he’s nice, sometimes. But not always.”
Jacaerys held back a scoff, figuring as much.
“And what about your sister?”
“We like sneaking sweets from the kitchens and feeding them to the horses,” Farien’s eyes suddenly lit up. “And she loves fighting, too. But not the angry, shouting kind, no. She says that sometimes, fighting feels like dancing, and that’s why she enjoys it. She’s really good at it. And I think you are too. But my sister is better.”
Just as he was about to ask Farien what other things his sister enjoyed, one of the little boy’s servants approached them.
“My Prince, your father has sent me to take you back to your chambers to rest,” she smiled at the little boy, who had no choice but to accept dejectedly.
As the servant took him in her arms, Farien waved at Jacaerys with a small smile. He nodded at the little boy, unable to stop himself from smiling back.
“At least the little one is not as irritating as the rest of his family,” Rhaenyra said as her gaze softened, noticing how the little boy never tore his eyes from them as he got further and further.
“Give him a couple of years. He will turn out exactly like his older brother,” Daemon muttered.
Then, Jacaerys' gaze trailed back to the Princess once again, who was still locked in a dance with Lord Ander. The exchange of whispers seemed to grow more intense, as his lips lingered on the shell of her ear, making her nod as her smile never left her lips.
“Jacaerys,” Daemon’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts. “Do you not have a duty to fulfil?”
“I have been fulfilling them since the moment we arrived,” he muttered, his voice laced with irritation. As Jacaerys had been doing everything he could to uphold his duties, Daemon merely sat back, watching the spectacle he had set in motion unravel before him.
“You have, but sitting and watching the Princess be courted by every lord in Dorne is not one of them. Listen to me, these men are doing everything in their power to pull her away from our alliance since they can see she does not favour you,” he paused leaning in closer. “You are no stranger to this. If you two are to rule the Seven Kingdoms, she needs to be seen by your side.”
Jacaerys rose from his seat as he exhaled, growing frustrated by the second. It was all in the name of duty, after all. He headed towards the Princess with steady steps, disappearing into the crowd and dodging every drunken lord and lady that stood in his way. Lord Ander, who seemed to have more intentions than just dancing with the Princess, held her close, too close, his hands lingering on her waist.
“My Lord,” Jacaerys cleared his throat, barely containing himself. Lord Ander snapped his head towards his direction. “I would hate to interrupt your conversation, but the hour is quite late, and Princess Y/n needs to rest.”
“Is that so?” He pulled Y/n even closer to him, making Jacaerys’ blood boil. “How come the Princess seems to be enjoying herself?”
Jacaerys’ eyes flicked to the cup in her hand, the liquid threatening to spill from the rim. He wasn’t a stranger to that dazed look and that loose smirk playing on her lips.
“The Princess seems to have indulged in one too many cups. You may continue whatever… conversation you were having on the morrow, my Lord,” Jacaerys forced his words through his teeth.
“Is that an order from the Crown Prince? Or from a boy who is still learning how to hold a woman’s interest?” Lord Ander raised a brow, sliding his hand even lower on her waist.
The Princess’ gaze flicked between the two men, unaware of the escalating tension. She took another sip from her cup, her eyes landing on Jacaerys, finally acknowledging how dashing he looked in a Dornish ensemble of deep blues and golds.
“Gods, spare me,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “You two sound like you’re ready to start another war.”
“If it means winning your favour, Princess,” Lord Ander said with a grin.
“Mayhaps that's a battle for another day. Besides, the Prince is right, the hour is quite late,” she said softly, growing tired at the show of bravado between the two men. She moved away from Lord Ander and took a step towards Jacaerys.
Jacaerys, whose heart was pounding with both anger and relief, offered her his arm. Y/n would’ve hesitated at first, but under the effects of wine, any qualms were long gone. She noted how he tensed his arm uncomfortably, unaware that she was putting pressure on the wound she had given him not too long ago.
Casymir leaned against one of the pillars with a hint of amusement on his face, watching the whole scene unfold before his eyes. Once Jacaerys and Y/n were away from the crowd, he finally pushed himself off the pillar, approaching Jacaerys, who was struggling to keep her in place.
“Allow me, my Prince. The Princess is in good hands with me,” he said, extending his arm.
Jacaerys glared at Casymir as he adjusted her weight in his arm, wondering what he was smiling for.
“You are the Princess’ sworn protector, are you not?” He raised his brow.
“Yes, my Prince,” he smiled proudly.
“Yet all you did was stand and watch how the Princess wandered into the clutches of men with less than noble intentions,” Jacaerys tried to keep his composure, though his anger simmered beneath the surface.
“Do you question my service to the Princess, my Prince?” He chuckled, brushing the Prince’s concerns aside. “The Princess was in no immediate danger. And as far as I’m aware, a dance with a lord hardly constitutes a threat.”
“If you think a man whose ulterior motives are clearly written in his face not to be dangerous, then mayhaps we have very different understandings of the word danger,” Jacaerys said.
“You greatly misunderstand the Princess. Lord Ander was eager, but he knew better than to cross the line. And besides, she would’ve ended his attempts long before you stepped in. As you might have already… experienced, the Princess knows how to handle herself and hardly needs to be coddled,” his blue eyes trailed at the way their arms were intertwined. “Though, it seems she doesn’t mind letting you try.”
“So, what are you here for, then? Just for decoration?”
“Is picking fights with other men a favourite pastime of yours, my Prince?” The Princess laughed, poking fun at Jacaerys as she unconsciously tightened her grip around his injured arm. “You do seem to have a talent for making enemies wherever you go.”
Jacaerys hesitated, unsure if replying to the Princess was even worth the efforts given her current state, so he merely scoffed, shaking his head in defeat. However, one thing he couldn’t ignore was the feeling of having her so close as she mindlessly ran her hand up and down the length of his arm. He tried to calm his heart, but he couldn’t keep his composure with each stroke of her fingers that made him lean into her touch ever so slightly.
Once they reached the Princess’ chambers, Casymir leaned on the door, his arms crossed with an infuriatingly calm expression on his face.
“If you wish to be escorted back to your chambers, my Prince, I can call for a servant,” Casymir offered, implying that Jacaerys had overstayed his welcome.
“No. I wish to stay. The Princess and I have a few words to exchange,” he said.
“I’ll be fine, Cas,” the Princess slurred, assuring her sworn protector with a slow nod.
“As you wish, my Princess. I'll be just outside, should you require any assistance.”
Jacaerys stood by the door, unsure of what to do now that he was inside the Princess’ chambers. It wasn’t improper of him, as her soon-to-be husband, to be seen there, so he found himself leaning against the wall, trying to regain the composure that he had repeatedly lost throughout the night. His eyes trailed around the intricately carved golden statues that adorned the corners and the colourful tapestries that swayed slightly, catching the faint breeze that slipped through the windows and bringing with it the distant murmurs of the ongoing celebration.
Only when he heard a soft clink and the steady stream of wine being poured into a cup, he snapped out of his thoughts. Before he could even think, he turned to Y/n, walking towards her and snatching the cup and jug from her hands, causing her mouth to hang open in disbelief and indignation.
“You will not drink any more tonight,” he ordered, pouring the liquid out of the window and slamming the cup aside.
“Well, isn’t this absolutely perfect?” She spat, throwing her arms in the air in defeat. “Not only will you take away my freedom, but now you wish to take away one of the few things that bring me joy?”
“You must live a very miserable life, Princess, if wine and men are the few things in life that bring you joy,” Jacaerys burst out, no longer able to contain the pent-up anger that had been brewing all night.
“Oh, believe me, I’ll have a miserable life once I marry you.”
“And what makes you think I want to marry you? That behaviour of yours… is unacceptable,” he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I do not wish to marry someone who is a slave to their desires.”
“A slave to my desires? Is that what you think of me?” Y/n shouted, unable to control the fury taking over her voice.
“What else am I supposed to think when you go from lord to lord like a marionette whose strings had been cut?” He paused, taking in her dishevelled appearance. “I was not aware how these Dornishmen could name someone so ruthless and so debauched as their Princess.”
“And I didn’t know you Targaryens go around crowning bastards just to keep your house on the Throne,” she spat, making sure to rest her gaze on his dark eyes and on his brown locks long enough.
“You whore–!”
Before Jacaerys could finish his sentence, Y/n's palm collided with his cheek in a stinging slap, his head snapping to the side. His eyes widened, more in shock than pain, as his hand instinctively rose to the reddening mark on his face.
“A whore? A savage? A goatfucker?” Y/n's voice trembled with fury. “Is that all you see me as?” She shoved him hard, sending him stumbling backward until his back hit the wall. Her finger jabbed into his chest with every word. “You,” she spat, “should be thanking me for getting my hands dirty, persuading those lords to join your petty war!”
Jacaerys was stunned into silence momentarily, feeling every ounce of her rage bleeding through her words.
“And who told you to do that on your own?” Jacaerys shot back. “You could have asked me, we could have gone together and spoken to them like it is expected of us!”
“You overestimate yourself,” she scoffed, narrowing her eyes at him. “Do you even know what those lords think of you? Of your family? If it weren’t for our betrothal, they would have driven a spear through your chests without a second thought. Because to them, you Targaryens are nothing but bloodthirsty murderers who’ve come to take our lands all over again.”
“Enough!” Jacaerys grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her, slamming her against the wall. “You think I do not know that? You think I do not feel it every time I step into a room? The way they look at me? At my family? You think I enjoy being the enemy?” He seethed, feeling his throat grow raw with each word. “Gods, you are infuriating,” he grunted, realising how close their faces were to one another.
The Princess’ lips curled into a smirk, a flicker of satisfaction lingering in her eyes. She had struck a nerve, realising how Jacaerys was always quick to react to whatever blasphemous speech she had to say about his family, and once again, she had managed to unleash the dormant wrath that blinded his actions.
As the Princess found herself cornered between his arms and the wall, she crouched low, slipping beneath his arms in a fluid motion and spinning around to pin Jacaerys against the wall, pressing her chest to his back. Jacaerys reacted instinctively, kicking off the wall to shove her back. The sudden force sent her stumbling as she crashed on the ground, and he followed, landing on top of her in a tangle of limbs.
Just as he was about to stand up, Y/n yanked him back down and rolled on top of him, keeping him in place by locking her thighs around his waist and pinning his arms on the floor with one swift movement. Truth be told, Jacaerys could have easily pushed her away as her usual strength was halved by the wine; yet he remained still, feeling the warmth of Y/n’s body pressed into his, and how their faces were inches apart yet again, her breath hot on his skin.
Once again, he found himself under her mercy.
She stared down at him with half-lidded eyes and lips slightly open as she breathed lightly, taking in the sight of Jacaerys’ flushed face and his gaze clouded by desire. Jacaerys looked up at her and gulped, feeling his erection stirring uncomfortably beneath his breeches.
His eyes locked onto her plump lips and trailed towards to the hollow of her neck, down to her chest. He stared hungrily as she leaned towards him, his fingertips itching to explore the skin hidden beneath the fabric of her dress. As she got closer and closer to his face, Jacaerys’ breath hitched, and without realising it, his lips parted slightly as his eyes fluttered shut in anticipation. His pulse quickened, waiting for the warmth of her lips pressing against his.
But instead of the kiss he craved, he felt the hot caress of her breath graze the shell of his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. Her voice, low and smooth, held him captive with each honeyed word.
“If you want to win this little war of yours, you better start by respecting me,” she whispered as she let go of one of his wrists and began tracing delicate patterns with her finger. “Just because I’ve chosen you as my betrothed doesn’t mean I won’t change my mind,” she bucked her hips against his hardened cock, causing Jacaerys to groan at the sudden spark of pleasure coursing in his veins.
In that very moment, Y/n had uncovered yet another emotion—the primal desire that, despite her infuriating attitude, she had managed to set ablaze. If Jacaerys had to ask himself how it happened, he wouldn’t know where to begin answering. Had it all started when they first met, when she held little regard for him? Was it in the arena, when she brazenly humiliated him in front of everyone? Or was it the fact that they always seemed to find themselves pointing a blade at each other’s throats? Behind all that anger and hatred, and the prejudice that blinded him from seeing the Princess as she truly was, lay a spark of curiosity. Something he knew that once he began to explore, that spark would turn into wildfire.
With each passing second, he fought against the temptation to place his hands on the curve of her hips and make her grind herself against his cock.
“Remember, my Prince,” she purred in his ear, bucking her hips once again. “The wedding has not taken place yet, and anything could happen.”
A/N: For some reason, i keep beating my wordcount record. istg my fanfic wc is way bigger than all of my uni papers combined, and bare in mind i was a humanities student lmfaooo.
anyway, i feel like this chapter was a mess. jace's patience continuously getting tested by everyone, and our reader making things even harder for him. i actually feel sorry for those two but the way they are handling things is not very demure, mindful or cutesy. we got the exact opposite.
Taglist: @happinessinthebeing @deltamoon666 @dark1paradise @elz-zalarrr @v0dka4a (continued in comments)
Pairing: Prince Jacaerys Velaryon x Martell Princess! Reader
Synopsys: Upon discovering Aemond Targaryen's alliance with the Triarchy, the Blacks are pushed to the point of desperation. With the war looming over the horizon, they have no choice but to turn to an unlikely ally: House Martell.
Content Warning: Violence, blood and injury, mentions of death, alcohol consumption, angst, and a lot of 'fucking politicking,' as King Viserys said, (not proofread).
Dialogue in italics is High Valyrian.
WC: 5.4k
Series Masterlist
(A/N and taglist at the end of the chapter)
Prince Jacaerys Velaryon had always prided himself on being a capable fighter. Although Jacaerys' strength primarily lay in politics, he never let his swordsmanship fall behind. In fact, Ser Harwin Strong, the captain of the City Watch, and as many whispered, his real father, had taught him everything about the art of yielding a sword. From the correct way of unsheathing the blade to keeping his knees slightly bent so he wouldn't stagger as easily. He still recalled how at the tender age of six, Ser Harwin kneeled to his level as he placed his heavy arm on his shoulder.
'A sword is but a tool. Its true power lies within the one who yields it. Visualise your desired outcome, and your blade will follow.'
Ser Criston Cole, however, had no patience for his idealised notions of battle. While Ser Harwin had taught Jacaerys the foundations of swordsmanship, it was Ser Criston who introduced him to the unforgiving truth of a real battle, proving that sparring with a straw dummy wasn't useful beyond the training grounds.
'When steel is drawn, a fair fight isn't something anyone should expect.'
He still bitterly remembered how Ser Criston had him spar against his uncle Aegon. Anyone who watched that scene would've thought it wasn't a fair battle. Aegon was already four-and-ten, much taller and stronger than he was. Jacaerys still remembered how Aegon's strikes had come faster and harder than anything he had faced before, especially the kick to his stomach that sent him flying to the ground with a thud, and yet, Aegon didn't cease delivering blow after blow with brute force.
'Is this what you teach, Cole? Cruelty to the weaker opponent?'
The sting of defeat, the bruises that lingered for days, and the humiliation of being bested in front of others, particularly his grandsire Viserys, were all part of Ser Criston's lesson. And in that moment, Jacaerys came to realise that cruelty might be something he didn't possess.
Now there was no excuse. It wasn't going to be an unfair battle since Prince Elyas Martell was but a year older than him, and couldn't have trained any differently. However, Jacaerys had never killed a man with his own hands. Yes, he had led men into battle, but taking someone's life with his sword was something he had yet to experience. There was no doubt that killing was nothing more than just a mundane task for Elyas. Those Dornishmen seemed to take pleasure in the most outlandish ways, which made him question how strong of a warrior Prince Elyas was to defeat such great lords.
Then he recalled the story Addam of Hull had told them in Dragonstone, how the reason why Princess Y/n remained unwed was because his suitors had met the common fate of death. As much as he didn't want to believe those rumours, he had bitterly grown to accept that all those tales about the Dornishmen were nothing but true.
The young prince frowned as he took in the arid, unforgiving weather. It would've been foolish to wear his full armour for the trial; the extreme heat would likely cause him to collapse before he even reached the arena. He sported nothing more than a Targaryen breastplate on top of a linen tunic, and his breeches. He considered sporting his gauntlets, but the sweat of his hands would affect the grip on his sword. Even with just the breastplate, he already felt how beads of sweat rolled down his back.
Jacaerys had been so fixated on winning the trial that he barely had any time to process his betrothal with Princess Y/n. He wondered if all of her suitors even wished for power, or mayhaps they were simply entranced by her beauty. Despite her attitude, there was something enticing about the Princess he couldn't bring himself to deny. But what was he going to do if behind that beauty lay nothing but different ideals and hostility? What would the rest of the houses think upon finding out about their alliance with House Martell? How would the two of them rule the whole realm if the Princess put Dorne's interests before the rest of Westeros?
Not to mention, even if he emerged victorious from the trial, he doubted Princess Y/n would be too pleased if her brother's life was the price. The thought gnawed at him as he fastened his boots. But what if he were the one to fall? He couldn't even begin to imagine the devastation it would bring to his mother, and the mere thought of her grief twisted his stomach. Daemon had offered to fight in his place, a suggestion his mother had eagerly supported. Yet, Jacaerys had refused, knowing that the Princess would never consider his proposal if he didn't prove his own worth in the arena. To win her hand without facing the trial himself would be dishonourable.
No matter what he did, all odds were against him.
"It's time," one of the guards spoke behind the door.
One guard led the way, as the other trailed behind him, with his spear in hand, ready to attack if the Prince even attempted to do anything. They walked through the labyrinthine halls of the Old Palace, adorned with pillars and chandeliers, lighting up the place as the blinding rays of sunshine met with the golden decorations.
They stepped into the flourishing gardens leading to the arena, where Rhaenyra and Daemon awaited his arrival. He could hear his mother's voice as they spoke in High Valyrian, unaware of his presence.
"I have lost too many children, Daemon. The thought of losing Jace—" Rhaenyra's voice faltered, her lip quivering as she fought to swallow the rising lump in her throat.
"Elyas would be a fool to slay the Crown Prince," Daemon mumbled.
"You, above all, should know what these people are capable of."
"But killing the future king of the realm is a line they would not dare cross."
"And yet, must the price we pay for this war be our children?" Rhaenyra's voice broke.
"I was not aware how my death would be such an interesting thing to discuss," Jacaerys muttered bitterly.
"Jace," Rhaenyra turned to face her son, cupping his cheek. "For the last time, you do not have to do this—"
Jacaerys swatted his mother's hand off, his eyes full of contempt.
"You have no right to act concerned, Mother. You pushed forward with this, knowing the risks, knowing that I might pay with my life. Whatever fate awaits me in this trial... if I die, my blood is in your hands. But at least I will have done my duty."
Before Rhaenyra could say anything else to her son, the guards urged him to move forward.
With a heavy heart, Jacaerys turned to face her mother one last time, but she was nowhere to be seen as they most likely had been taken to the gallery. Before the guards pushed the double doors they exchanged a look of pity, clearing a path for him. That didn't go unnoticed by the Prince, and it only added to the river of negative emotions he had been drowning in since they arrived.
As Jacaerys stepped through the double doors, the world around him was suddenly swallowed by darkness, with only a narrow beam of light from the distant end of the tunnel. The corridor stretched before him, its walls echoing with the muffled sounds of the world above. He could hear the creak of wooden beams straining under the weight of footsteps, making him wonder how many eyes might be waiting for him outside. The air was cool and heavy, carrying with it the scent of the arena's sands, yet the usual roar of a crowd was eerily absent.
Jacaerys took a deep breath before stepping into the arena. The sun was almost blinding, leaving him momentarily disoriented. Feeling like a caged animal, he scanned his surroundings, shielding his eyes with his hand. To his surprise, there weren't many spectators; he could only make out the members of the Martell council. Then, his eyes quickly found his mother, whose face was etched with deep concern and regret. Nearby, Daemon, unable to sit still, attempted to calm his nerves with a cup of wine. Not very far from where the council sat, there were three empty seats in the royal box, where Prince Qoren took his seat, with Farien on his lap. Jacaerys grew confused as he saw Prince Elyas take a seat next to his father, leaving one empty. Was he not going to fight for his sister? Mayhaps the Princess' champion was her sworn protector.
A few moments had passed, yet the Princess was nowhere to be seen. Jacaerys' mind raced with doubts. Was she not going to attend the trial she herself had proposed?
Suddenly, the double doors opposite him began to open and the Martells began to cheer. Prince Qoren wrapped his arm around Farien, who couldn't stop clapping as he bounced on his father's lap. Elyas signalled one of the servants to bring him a cup of wine, as he leaned back on his seat and looked at Jacaerys with a sneer.
His eyes widened in shock as the figure emerging from the other side of the arena wasn't one of the twins either.
It was Princess Y/n herself.
The Princess strode toward the centre of the arena, the sun-kissed amber fabric of her dress flowing like a whisper with each step. The high slits on either side of the skirt fluttered and snapped, revealing glimpses of her legs as she moved. With a fluid motion, Princess Y/n unsheathed the two golden daggers holstered on her thighs, playfully twirling them around her fingers.
"Princess Y/n Martell, the Dancing Serpent of Dorne, and Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, the Crown Prince. Let the trial commence," Ser Domeric Uller announced, earning another wave of applause from the Martells.
Dancing Serpent of Dorne?
Jacaerys took an instinctive step back, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Two guards blocked the door with their spears, leaving no chance of escape. In the glaring sunlight, Princess Y/n appeared like an oasis amid the dunes, her bronze skin glowing with an ethereal radiance, akin to that of a deity. She moved with the lethal agility of a serpent, her eyes locked onto him, calculating, and ready to strike. A storm of doubts began to cloud Jacaerys. What was he supposed to do? Kill her? Maim her?
He suddenly heard Ser Criston Cole's voice echoing in the back of his mind.
'Blades up. Engage.'
As if guided by pure instinct, the Prince unsheathed his sword, the sharp silver catching and reflecting a ray of sunlight. He quickly assumed a defensive stance, his eyes fixed onto the Princess. If he kept his distance, he should have the advantage over her. He lunged, aiming not for a lethal blow, but to knock the Princess off her feet, hard enough to force her to yield.
He was not there to shed blood.
The Princess easily dodged his attack as his blade slashed the air, and he quickly withdrew to his defensive stance. They began circling each other, eyes locked, neither daring to look away.
A bead of sweat trickled down Jacaerys' temple, his heart pounding as he watched Y/n assume a low, unfamiliar stance. She held both of her daggers up, poised like a serpent's fangs as she moved with languid grace, inching closer to him, almost hypnotically.
Before he could fully register the movement, a sharp pain sliced through his arm. Jacaerys hissed as Y/n's blade carved a deep gash, warm blood seeping through his white tunic and dripping onto the sand. He clenched his jaw, forcing the searing pain to the back of his mind, determined to ignore the Martells' cheers echoing around the arena. At least the arm wielding his sword was still intact.
The dance between the dragon and the serpent continued. Y/n darted forward, her twin daggers a blur as she unleashed a relentless flurry of slashes. Jacaerys struggled to block, each clash of steel sending vibrations up his injured arm. As she pressed her assault, he caught a glimpse of something feral in her eyes, a familiar look he knew all too well: bloodlust.
Growing weary of her relentless attacks, he sidestepped one of her strikes and delivered a swift, powerful kick to her side. The sheer force sent the Princess onto the sand with a grunt, one of her daggers slipping from her grasp.
Seizing the moment, Jacaerys lifted his blade to force her to surrender. But before he could strike, the Princess rolled to the side and kicked his shin, sending him stumbling backwards. In a heartbeat, Y/n was on him, knocking the sword from his grasp. She straddled him, raising her dagger high, ready to plunge it into his throat. Jacaerys reacted just in time, catching her wrist in a bone-crushing grip. Y/n cried out, the pain weakening her hold, and Jacaerys seized the opportunity. With a desperate reach, he grabbed the dagger she had previously dropped, which was just at arm's reach, and drove it straight into her side.
"Sister!" Elyas stood from his seat, ready to drive a spear into Jacaerys' heart.
The Princess wailed in agony, her body retracting as she recoiled from the blow. Jacaerys quickly rolled free and scrambled to his feet, retrieving his sword and pointing it at her, his chest heaving as he tried to keep her pinned under the threat of his blade.
"Princess, please, I do not wish to hurt you—"
Jacaerys' eyes widened in horror as he watched Y/n yank the dagger from her side with a wicked grin. Without hesitation, she drove it into his calf. He groaned in pain, nearly collapsing, and used his sword to regain balance, the blade trembling under his weight.
Princess Y/n stood up from the ground, twirling the dagger as she watched the Prince struggle to get back to a defensive stance. Blood trickled down her side, soaking into her dress and staining the sand beneath her a deep crimson colour.
Jacaerys clenched his jaw in humiliation, feeling how pathetic he must have appeared to his mother, Daemon, the Martells, and most of all, to Y/n herself.
Before he could fully recover, Y/n moved like a shadow, slipping behind him. He grunted as she wrapped her arm around his neck, pulling him close. The cold edge of her dagger was pressed firmly against his throat, and he dared not move.
He caught a glimpse of his mother, restrained by Daemon and the guards, her blood-curdling screams piercing through the air. It was the last sound he wanted to hear in his final moments. Jacaerys squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drown out the chaos and focus on memories that brought him comfort: the waves crashing against the cliffs of Dragonstone, the rhythmic beat of Vermax's wings cutting through the clouds, and Lucerys' carefree laughter.
As he opened his eyes and looked up at the sky, he smiled bitterly. The absurdity of it all nearly made him laugh. From the moment he had stepped into the arena, he knew he was doomed to fail. Yet, some foolish part of him had clung to the hope that he could make the Princess surrender.
He felt the Princess' laboured breaths in his ear, sending a chill down his spine. He waited, and waited, and waited for the dagger to slash his neck, but the excruciating pain he had anticipated never came.
Instead, a simple command reached his ears. One that, under any other circumstances, he would have defied without a second thought. But at that moment, his life was in the hands of Princess Y/n, and he dared not disobey her.
"Kneel before me," she whispered, making his blood run cold.
Jacaerys felt the Princess's grip loosen, allowing him to stumble forward. He turned back to face her, dropping to one knee, his gaze locked on hers. But in her eyes, he found no trace of mercy, nor cruelty. The bloodlust had drained away, replaced by a storm of emotions she herself couldn't fully comprehend.
That was the first time he had looked closely at the Princess. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, beads of sweat rolling down her temple as a few droplets of his own blood stained her face. There was something undeniably bewitching about her, a pull he couldn't fathom. As he gazed up at the woman before him, a creeping sense of fear began to coil in his chest as he came to realise the power she wielded over him. She was the kind of woman who could either plunge the Seven Kingdoms into chaos or unite them under her command.
"I choose Prince Jacaerys Velaryon as my betrothed," she declared, her voice echoing through the arena as her eyes locked onto Rhaenyra. "House Martell will stand with Queen Rhaenyra in the Targaryen Civil War. In return, we demand control of the Stepstones, the unwavering protection and loyalty of House Targaryen whenever called upon, and the unchallenged independence of Dorne once the war is won. And most importantly," she looked at her father, giving him a firm nod, "I expect an official acknowledgement of Dorne's sovereignty. Let this moment be written in history, for the generations to come."
The dining hall of the Old Palace was in full swing. Delicacies were served in abundance, and the servants scurried about, refilling cups left and right. The Princess was deep into her fifth cup, trying to numb the burning pain of her wound, which had been sewn and bandaged by Maester Kyce, and although her wrist was badly bruised, it wasn't dislocated.
Her gaze shifted to the erotic performance happening before them as they ate. A pair of men and women explored their bodies, trying the most peculiar positions that she never thought were possible. She could only chuckle, the wine painting the scene as the most amusing thing she had ever witnessed. She finished what she had left in her cup, before ushering the servant for more.
It was the only thing that could help her escape the suffocating atmosphere at the round table. Her father wasn't particularly pleased to be sharing the table with the Targaryens, and the feeling was mutual with the Martells. She couldn't bring herself to look at Elyas, whose eyes burned with the desire to start a war. Rhaenyra appeared torn between wanting to have her publicly executed for hurting her son and embracing her for sparing his life—yet even then, Y/n wasn't sure if what she had done was truly an act of mercy. Daemon leaned back, indulging in the finest Dornish wines, smirking as he silently celebrated the small victory of his successful plan. The only person who could have made the ordeal more bearable was Farien, but he was already fast asleep in his chambers.
Then there was Jacaerys. He sat stiffly, trying to focus on anything but her. Yet, there was something about her presence that commanded his attention, and his eyes betrayed him, drifting toward her against his will. Mayhaps her eyes lingered on him longer than she had realised, as their gazes suddenly met. He looked away, as though her eyes just scarred his soul.
"Well, isn't that pathetic..." she muttered under her breath.
That was the man who was to be her future betrothed, a prince who couldn't even meet her gaze without flinching. The thought of marrying someone like him left a sour taste in her mouth.
"Have you got something to say, Princess?" Jacaerys suddenly spat.
"Oh, I most certainly do," Y/n retorted, her lips curling in a mocking grin as she tried her best not to slur her words. Casymir helped her stand up. She took her cup and slowly raised it. "I wish to propose a toast," she began, trailing her eyes at Daemon and Rhaenyra before resting her gaze on Jacaerys. "After all, it's not every day that we witness such a... historic moment. The mighty Dragon, so fierce and proud, finally finds its place... on the ground, with one bent knee before the Serpent. To the ever-lasting and prosperous alliance of House Martell and House Targaryen."
The room fell into an uneasy silence. Prince Qoren hummed in approval, raising his cup with a satisfied smile, while Rhaenyra and Daemon's expressions tightened in shock and disbelief at the blatant disrespect. Daemon's eyes narrowed dangerously, lingering on the knife beside the roast piglet, his fingers inching towards it. But before he could act, Rhaenyra's sharp glare stopped him. Jacaerys, however, had enough of her insolent attitude.
"I wish to propose a toast as well," Jacaerys stood up, wincing at the pain in his leg. "I wish to thank House Martell for their... overwhelming hospitality in receiving the Crown," he paused, taking his time to look at the Martells and each guard. "Not only have we been looked after with the utmost care, every single moment accompanied by the comforting presence of a spear at our backs, but you have also shown us that the great tales they speak of the Dornishmen are nothing but the truth. Fighting against the Princess herself has truly been an honour, and I am forever grateful for the mercy she has shown me. Mayhaps the Princess has a soft spot after all."
"Oh, my Prince," her eyes narrowed, knowing all too well that the mercy Jacaerys had referred to was cowardice. "I would love to have another duel, but I'd much prefer you alive for our wedding."
Jacaerys' face twisted with fury, his anger momentarily blinding him. In a swift motion, he drew his sword. Y/n didn't flinch. Instead, she unsheathed her dagger instinctively, pointing it directly at his forehead.
"We should take this to the arena if the Prince dares, that is," Princess Y/n smirked. "Well?" She taunted, looking down on him.
Jacaerys' nostrils flared with rage, knuckles turning white as he tightly held the grip of his sword. His mother's comforting touch slowly calmed his inner storm, and with a sour look on his face, he put his sword away.
"That's what I thought," she muttered loud enough as she sat back down.
"Aren't they lovely, both of them? Already bickering like an old, married couple," Prince Qoren laughed. "Speaking of, they should marry as soon as possible. The wedding of my beloved daughter should be an event to remember," he turned to the Targaryens. "What do you want, Y/n, dear? We should get a pair of fine Braavosi tigers and make the prisoners fight them in the arena—"
"We are at war, Prince Qoren, we have no time for celebrations," Daemon interrupted him.
"It is only a matter of weeks before Ser Tyland reaches the Free Cities if the winds are in their favour," Rhaenyra echoed Lady Mysaria's words, not able to hide her concern. "Rest assured, once the war has been won, the celebrations will be held in the Red Keep."
"But who can assure me the Prince will not die during this war?" Prince Qoren asked, shrugging his shoulders. "When do you suppose we have the wedding? Once the Prince is dead?"
The Queen's face hardened, her eyes narrowing at him.
"I could have your tongue for that, Prince Qoren," she said coldly.
"I'm glad the formalities are off the table," he muttered bitterly. "Your war can wait. My daughter is of sun and sand and will be married here, in our lands, with our people."
Rhaenyra could barely contain her anger, too tired of hearing the Martells' unreasonable demands. The idea of postponing the war for a wedding felt like a mockery, a distraction from the battle that could determine the fate of her house.
Y/n fought the urge to roll her eyes, too exhausted by the entire ordeal, the weight of her choices, and the tangled mess she now found herself in. With a deep sigh, she drained her cup, forcing herself to adopt a more civil tone.
"As much as I'm enjoying everybody's lovely company, I'm not faring well with my wound. I shall go back to my chambers to rest," the Princess excused herself as Casymir helped her stand up, wrapping his arm around her for support.
By now, the once lavish feast had lost its appeal. The delicacies had grown cold, and the appetite of those present had long since vanished.
"I'll see to it that my sister returns to her chambers safely," Elyas excused himself, rising from his seat and trailing after the Princess.
"Elyas isn't happy about your decision," Casymir said softly as he cradled the Princess in his arms.
Casymir chose to take the long path through the gardens back to her chambers, where the light of the full moon bathed everything in a silvery glow, and the warm evening breeze carried the scent of blooming magnolias. The flickering torches along the way cast dancing shadows, soothing the Princess' spirits.
"I figured as much," she scoffed. "He'll come to understand in due time."
"I'm afraid he won't, Princess," Casymir teased, making her laugh.
"Not even if I explain?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"He'd understand even less," Casymir replied with a grin, his words drawing another burst of laughter from her.
At that moment, it was clear that Casymir was the only one who could truly reach her heart. She looked up at her half-brother, noting the familiar wild curls and thick brows they shared. Yet, unlike the brown eyes she and her other brothers had, his were a deep shade of blue, like the glittering Dornish waters on a sunny day.
"You should've been a jester instead, Cas," she murmured, her voice growing softer as the effects of the wine finally began to lull her into sleep. She nestled closer to his chest, allowing herself to relax completely in his arms.
"I'd rather be your shadow, Princess," his eyes softened, watching her doze off.
By the time they had arrived at her chambers, Y/n was already snoring lightly. Casymir raised his brow upon seeing his twin waiting outside.
"Leoran?" Casymir asked. "What are you doing here? Where's Elyas?"
"Inside. I'd hurry if I were you," Leoran said, opening the door for them.
Casymir stepped inside, only to find Elyas sitting on one of the seats. By the look on his face and the empty cup on the table, it seemed that he had been waiting for a while.
"What took you both so long?" He asked, looking at his half-brother in disdain.
"We were in the gardens, Y/n wanted to—"
"Leave us," he commanded.
"Very well," Casymir lowered his gaze and nodded.
He laid the Princess on her bed carefully, brushing a strand of hair off her face, but she already seemed to have been awoken by Elyas' voice. Y/n sat up, rubbing her eyes, only to be greeted by a pounding headache and a sharp pain on her side. Once she spotted her brother with his arms crossed, sitting down across from her, she groaned.
"Well?" He asked, expectantly.
"Not now, Elyas," she sighed.
"Then when?" He stood up and kicked the chair aside. "When? When were you going to tell me what you and Father were planning?"
Y/n rolled her eyes, feeling her headache worsen as Elyas' voice boomed in her ears.
"Planning?" She scoffed. "Father didn't have a say in my decision. He gave me two choices, and I merely chose the one that wouldn't lead to bloodshed."
"Oh, really? What were these two grand choices?" He pressed.
"Side with the Blacks and keep our independence, or refuse, and face the Triarchy and the Greens once this war is over," she paused, gathering all of the patience she had left to keep going. "Do you understand what that would mean, Elyas? It means another war, right on our doorstep. For us. For Dorne. For our people. And tell me, what should I have chosen? More bloodshed? More meaningless deaths? You think that's what Father would've wanted?"
"If you had told me, then I could've helped you decide!" Elyas' voice cracked with frustration, his fists clenching at his sides.
"Help me decide?" She retorted. "And by that, do you mean killing the Velaryon boy?"
"Why not?" Elyas shot back. "You had the chance! You could've slit his throat and ended it all, yet you chose to spare that bastard's life."
"And what would that have accomplished?" She shouted. "Had I killed him, you'd be nothing but a pile of ashes right now. Rhaenyra would've burned us all to the ground before I could even take his head."
"She wouldn't have dared!" Elyas shouted back, his face inches from hers, as though she was the most foolish person to live. "The last thing she needs is another war on her hands, especially against us. Her own house is already tearing itself apart!"
"Very well. If you're so smart, what would you have done?" She scoffed, crossing her arms.
"Face the Triarchy and the Greens. We were victors in the First Dornish War, Y/n. We fought then, and we could fight again. We could win."
"You? Fight?" She sneered. "Tell me, when their dragons' flames rain upon our cities, our people, what would you do? Hide behind the walls of our palace? The same walls that would be turned into ashes? Listen to me. We are not made for wars like this, Elyas. We are not prepared to face something as devastating as another Dornish war."
"And that's why we have those people fighting for us!" Elyas retorted, pointing furiously out the window.
"Those people?" she asked in disbelief. "It should be us fighting for them under those circumstances! Do you not care about the lives beyond the confines of this palace?" She turned away, already feeling her tears pooling in her eyes. "No wonder Father doesn't trust you."
"You both have no clue what you're doing. You're putting our house to shame by trusting the enemy," without warning, he grabbed her injured wrist, yanking her close. She gasped, a sharp pain shooting up her arm, but he didn't relent. "Tell me, sister," he hissed, his face inches from hers. "When this war is over, how will you know they'll keep their word? All those demands you made... you sounded so righteous, so powerful like you had the Targaryens wrapped around your finger. But you know exactly what they think of us. To them, we're nothing but foolish, power-hungry savages," he tightened his grip slightly, causing her to wince again. "And do you know what you've done, dear sister? You just proved them right."
"I'll have your whole arm if you dare lay your hands on me again," she tried to pry her wrist off of him, her voice quivering as her composure began to waver. "You're starting to forget your place, Elyas."
"And you're starting to forget what it truly means to be a Martell," he tightened his grip even more, watching as the Princess sucked a breath in through her teeth.
Elyas let go of her with a push, making the Princess stumble back on her bed. Y/n massaged her wrist with her other hand as she buried her face in her bed, heaving, and squeezing her eyes shut. She flinched upon hearing Elyas' heavy footsteps leave, the door slamming once he left her chambers.
The Princess slowly got up to pick up the jug of wine lying on the table. Upon finding out it was empty, she flung the jug across the room with a frustrated yell. Her strength gave out, and she collapsed to the ground, burying her face in her hands. Tears streamed down her cheeks as her sobs filled her chambers. The soft knocks on her door went unanswered; she knew it was Casymir, the one person who could bring her comfort, yet she couldn't bear to let him see her that way.
Her father's words echoed in her mind. She was destined to be the Princess of Dorne, a role she had fully embraced for as long as she could remember. Yet there she was, crumbling under the pressure, feeling as though every decision she made was beyond her control, burying her deeper into a grave she herself had dug.
A/N: Hello my lovelies! Thank you for being so patient with me. This chapter was a lot longer than I had expected, but here it is. Let's just take a moment and give our Princess Y/n a big hug, she needs it. I don't know why, but i'm having waaay too much fun making these extremely dramatic dialogues. and I live for their drama, tbh.
I also mentioned this before, but I'm having trouble tagging everyone. Some @'s would tag, but for some reason, some of the usernames just appear like normal text. I've double-checked every username and typed them over and over, but i still can't tag you all. Would be great if you guys could tell me how to fix this!
Pairing: Prince Jacaerys Velaryon x Martell Princess! Reader
Synopsys: Upon discovering Aemond Targaryen's alliance with the Triarchy, the Blacks are pushed to the point of desperation. With the war looming over the horizon, they have no choice but to turn to an unlikely ally: House Martell.
Content Warning: Swearing and a lot of 'fucking politicking,' as King Viserys said.
WC: 3.9k
Series Masterlist
(A/N at the end of the chapter)
The cold castle of Dragonstone stirred back to life in the early evening as the Black Council was hastily reunited after receiving news from an unknown sender, most likely one of Lady Mysaria's informants. The hall was silent as the members of the council cocked their brows in confusion.
"An alliance with the Triarchy?" Rhaenyra Targaryen shook her head in disbelief.
Daemon took the message from her, not believing what she had just said. He tossed the piece of parchment on the table, letting everyone have a look.
"An alliance with the Free Cities is a risk, but a necessary one nonetheless. Their hold on power currently hinges heavily on Vhagar. Aemond knows that the city will be defenceless once Vhagar leaves King's Landing and we could easily overtake it. That is when the Triarchy will come in, to break the blockade of the Gullet," Daemon said, adding a ship figurine to the Table Map.
"We should have enough ships—" Lord Corlys said.
"Forgive me, Lord Corlys, but I do not think they will be enough. The Triarchy can muster a much larger naval power than any house in Westeros, including House Velaryon."
"Are you underestimating my fleet, my King Consort?" Lord Corlys said through his teeth.
"I am just being realistic. It is not just the Triarchy we might end up encountering," Daemon countered, adding two more ship figurines to the Table Map. "The Greens know that we will solely be relying on the Velaryon fleet, and with enough luck, we would be able to defend ourselves against the Triarchy. Which is why they would also want to send Hightower and Lannister fleets."
"We would be outnumbered," Rhaenyra muttered.
Daemon shook his head as his eyes scanned the map, realising that the Greens had managed to amass a larger number of allies, from the Crownlands, all the way to the Westerlands. He raised a brow in a particular spot in the South, a place the Targaryens haven't been able to tame after centuries of their rule.
"Not if we make an alliance with the Dornishmen," he finally said.
After a brief moment of silence, everyone in the Black Council but Daemon erupted in laughter.
"I don't know which is worse, the Greens making an alliance with the Triarchy or us with those goatfuckers," Ulf laughed.
"Have we no other choice?" Rhaenyra muttered, staring at the map. "The Hightower and Lannister navies would need to sail around Dorne before reaching the blockade, after all."
"My Queen, you cannot possibly be considering this," Jacaerys stepped forward. "We cannot make a deal with those barbarians. Our houses have been at each other's throats for generations... What makes you think that they would want to help us? There is a reason why the Greens would rather turn to the Triarchy instead of House Martell."
"The Prince is right, my Queen," Lord Corlys said. "We do not know how those Dornishmen operate, where their loyalties lie. What if they withdraw their support after making a deal, or demand more than we agreed upon? I should not be reminding you of this, my Queen, but the Dornishmen... Well, they are known for being unpredictable. They might even end up switching sides and joining the Greens."
"That will not be happening, Lord Corlys. After all, the Greens are still Targaryens. At present, the Dornishmen have a neutral stance. They do not wish to partake in this war—"
"Because they're just watching everything from afar and placing bets on who's gonna win," Ulf sniggered, earning a glare from Rhaenyra.
"As I was saying, they do not wish to partake in this war," Rhaenyra paused, watching as Daemon picked up another ship figurine and placed it strategically in front of the Hightower and Lannister ships. "But if we manage to convince them to join us, then we could eliminate the Triarchy and block the Summer Sea, preventing the Lannister and Hightower fleets from crossing it."
"Convince them to join us? How are we going to do that?" Lord Corlys shook his head, growing irritated as Rhaenyra seemed to have decided to carry on with the plan. "This is another reason why Aemond has not even bothered negotiating with those barbarians in the first place. Those Dornishmen—House Martell... they would not easily accept any deal. They are too proud. And in this case, we need them more than they need us. We cannot show our desperation or else they will bleed us out—"
"But we are growing desperate, Lord Corlys, and we are running out of options," Rhaenyra raised her voice, causing everyone in the Council to flinch. "The Velaryon fleet alone does not stand a chance against all of them."
"This is absolutely—" Lord Corlys burst out, clenching his fists as he tried to hold his ire.
"Making a deal with them would be the hardest part, but I am certain they would be satisfied if we offered them a dragon," Daemon suggested. "Ulf, how do you feel about flying to Sunspear with Silverwing and spending the rest of your days with those... goatfuckers?"
"I don't really have a choice do I?" He grimaced. "But it wouldn't be all too bad, I s'ppose. I've yet to taste a beautiful Dornishwoman and—"
"Looks like it is sorted," Daemon waved his hand, cutting him off.
"Send a raven to Sunspear," Rhaenyra ordered Maester Gerardys.
"My Queen, please listen to me," Jacaerys raised his voice, catching everybody's attention. "This risk that we are taking is completely unnecessary. We do not even know whether the Greens would be sending the Hightower and Lannister fleets. If they do not, then we would have wasted our time in trying to reason with those savages. Besides, how would that make us look? To think that you are even considering trading Silverwing for a handful of ships..."
The Black Council grew quiet, letting Jacearys' words hang in the air, and they hummed in agreement.
"Listen, boy," Daemon cut him off. "Aemond just burned Sharp Point out of anger. Do you think he is the type to hold back? He is going to want to strike with everything he has, and House Lannister and Hightower would not want to miss a single chance to appease him."
"But House Martell—?" Jacaerys snapped.
"It will not just be House Martell, Jacaerys. If we somehow manage to convince them, then other Dornish houses will follow. Think about House Allyrion, Blackmont, Dayne..." Rhaenyra tried to reason with her son. "Maester Gerardys, send a raven to Sunspear. Now. We have no time to spare."
The room was filled with exasperation. Some were nodding their heads, murmuring and pointing at the map, whilst others shook their heads yet kept their mouths shut nonetheless. The maester himself began to hesitate as he began to write the message:
To the Honourable Prince Qoren Martell of Sunspear,
In these dire times, as the fleets of the Triarchy, Hightower, and Lannister press upon us, Her Grace, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, seeks the aid of House Martell to join forces with our Velaryon allies at sea. In return for your assistance, we offer the protection of our dragon, Silverwing, as a symbol of our alliance and mutual respect. We acknowledge the history between our houses, but now, unity is essential more than ever. We hope to set aside past tensions and forge a partnership that will benefit both our realms.
From Maester Gerardys, in service to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.
To Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen,
House Martell has long stood apart from the conflicts of the rest of the realm, and we see no benefit in entangling our house in this war. Our independence is our strength, and we will not risk it, even for the promise of a dragon. Dorne will continue to walk its own path.
Prince Qoren Martell of Sunspear.
Three weeks have already passed, only to receive a cold rejection from the Martells. Their enemies were already making their move, as according to one of Lady Mysaria's informants within the Red Keep, the Green Council had agreed to send Tyland Lannister as an envoy and were soon going to start preparing the ship for the lengthy journey to the Free Cities.
After reading the message, Rhaenyra scoffed and threw the note in the fireplace, watching as the paper shrivelled into ashes. The Council needn't ask what the Martells had replied since the indignation from the rejection was written all over her face.
"I told you they were too proud, my Queen. Making a deal with those savages... it was never going to work," Lord Corlys said.
"Do not give up so easily Lord Corlys. That just meant our deal was not good enough," Daemon said.
"You cannot be serious. They have already refused to help, even with the promise of a dragon," Jacaerys snapped. Baela placed her hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him down.
"What else could they possibly want?" Rhaenyra inhaled deeply as she closed her eyes.
Daemon paced back and forth as his eyes wandered on everyone present in the hall.
"Maester Gerardys, remind us again of the children Prince Qoren has sired," Daemon asked.
"Don't name the bastards, though. We'd be stuck 'ere forever," Ulf joked, only to be met by an awkward silence and glares from those in the council.
"His eldest is a daughter of two-and-twenty, Princess Y/n Martell; Prince Elyas Martell, of nine-and-ten; and Prince Farien Martell, of seven, my King Consort," Maester Gerardys said.
"And is Princess Y/n betrothed?" Daemon asked.
"Not that I am aware of, my King Consort."
"It seems that securing an heir is not her main priority," Rhaenyra muttered. "I wonder why she remains unwed..."
"Well, with the number of bastards Prince Qoren has sired, they would never run out of heirs," Lord Corlys muttered under his breath.
"I do not know, my Queen. I am not entirely familiar with Dornish customs, but I have heard that Prince Qoren has yet to find a suitable match for his daughter," Maester Gerardys said.
"If I may speak, my Queen," Addam bowed his head, waiting for Rhaenyra's nod of approval. "Some of the men who've sailed in Dornish waters have shared stories about why Princess Y/n Martell remains unwed. It's not that Prince Qoren hasn't found a suitable match for his daughter; rather, many of those suitors have met... untimely ends. Their bodies have been discovered in the desert, feasted upon by scorpions. Of course, I can't say how much of this is true and how much is mere sailor's tale."
"Fuckin' hell..." Ulf exclaimed in amusement at Addam's story. "Hopefully that princess was worth dying for."
The Council grimaced, their prejudice somehow convincing them that everything they'd just heard was true. Jacaerys was starting to grow uneasy, feeling Daemon's gaze piercing his as Addam of Hull told the story. He didn't like where the conversation was going, and even if he knew what Daemon was going to say, he still wasn't prepared to hear those words.
"We present Jacaerys as a suitor for Prince Qoren's daughter," Daemon declared, silencing the council.
"No. No. Absolutely not," Jacaerys clenched his fists, his voice trembling with anger as he shook his head furiously. "I am to wed Princess Baela," his gaze darted to Rhaenyra, desperation in his eyes. "The Queen would never agree to such a preposterous match," he said, searching his mother's face for reassurance. But Rhaenyra's gaze was cast downward, and fear gripped his heart. "Mother... you would not marry me off to a savage, would you?"
Rhaenyra felt her son's pressing gaze upon her, yet she refused to look him in the eye. She turned away from the table and stared at the fireplace illuminating the room, trying to find answers in the dancing embers. At first, she found Daemon's proposal outrageous, but his unconventional thinking often led to surprisingly effective strategies. The fire seemed to whisper to her, telling her it was the right thing to do. The Martells. Dorne. She slowly began to realise that if they managed to secure the support of House Martell, and most importantly, the hand of Princess Y/n, then the whole realm would be united.
However, as everyone in the Black Council had already warned her, it wouldn't be an easy feat. House Martell despised the Targaryens after the mass destruction Aegon the Conqueror had caused during the First Dornish War in his attempt to bring Dorne under Targaryen rule. Cities were burned to the ground, leaving much of Dorne a barren waste of sand and ashes. But even then, the Dornish resisted. Led by House Martell, Dorne fought fiercely for their independence at the cost of hundreds of thousands of lives. Yet it was all worth it in the end, as they remained free from the binds of Westeros.
Then she thought of her father, Viserys, and his dream of The Song of Ice and Fire, and how he urged her to unite the realm for what was to come. The alliance with Dorne was necessary, and though they were in dire times of war, there was no better time to unite the two realms.
With a heavy heart, she turned to face her son, Prince Jacaerys, whose eyes were full of desperation. As a mother, she had hoped she could've spared the heavy burden of her duties from her beloved son, but it couldn't be helped. He was going to be the Crown, and sooner or later, he was bound to carry the burden one way or another.
Rhaenyra exhaled and slowly nodded her head, mustering the courage to speak her final decision. If there was one thing she could handle, it was the hatred from her enemies and the smallfolk, but being despised by her own son was something she wasn't sure she could bear.
"Maester Gerardys," Rhaenyra spoke, trying to ignore how her son's eyes widened in disbelief at her words. "Send another raven to Sunspear for a marriage proposal between Prince Jacaerys and Princess Y/n."
Jacaerys stormed out of the room, and Baela looked at Rhaenyra for permission to go after him.
As Rhaenyra looked at the Table Map, she felt a hand momentarily ghost at the small of her back.
"You made the right call, my Queen," Daemon whispered, his lips lightly brushing against her ear, causing a chill to run down her spine.
To the Honourable Prince Qoren Martell of Sunspear,
I write to you once more on behalf of Her Grace, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, about the proposal concerning an alliance between our houses. While we understand and respect your initial decision, the urgency of our situation compels us to make another appeal. In light of the escalating threat posed by the combined forces of the Greens, we recognise that the need for strong allies has never been more critical. As such, we wish to renew our proposal.
Her Grace is prepared to betroth her son, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, who eagerly seeks the hand of your daughter, Princess Y/n Martell. We believe that this union will not only strengthen our positions but also signify an enduring alliance between House Targaryen and House Martell.
From Maester Gerardys, in service to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.
Rhaenyra's footsteps echoed in the stone hallways of the castle as she made her way to her son's chambers. The night was quiet, nothing but the flickering sounds of the torches and the distant waves crashing against the shore could be heard. A few days had passed since she ordered Maester Gerardys to send the raven to Sunspear, and she decided that it was best to give Jacaerys some space so he could come to terms with his future betrothal to Princess Y/n.
Jacaerys refused to speak to anyone, not even Baela, and Rhaenyra's concern for her son was beginning to keep her awake at night to the point she began to question her decisions. However, the raven had already been set, and there was no turning back.
Rhaenyra knocked on the door, only to get no answer. After the second and third try, she sighed, debating whether she should just give up and leave her son. But she knew how Jacaerys felt, and she couldn't bear to see him so distant, losing himself at the thought of marrying a foreign princess they all knew little to none of. Rhaenyra thought Jacaerys was justified to feel the way he did.
She was pleased the marriage proposal between Jacaerys and Baela was approved by her father Viserys. She thought she could give her son the gift of betrothing someone close to him, someone familiar, someone he could eventually grow to love, just as she had been lucky to have been married to Laenor first, and though they weren't each other's preferences, they managed to come to an agreement.
"Jace, let me in," she said one last time. "We need to talk."
Jacaerys still refused to reply, and she expected as much. Rhaenyra slowly opened the door, only to find her son looking through the windows, watching how the waves violently crashed against the cliffs. She couldn't believe how much her son had grown over those past few years, the babe she used to carry in her arms had turned into a man of eight-and-ten, with sharp, handsome features and dark brown curls framing his face. Her heart was full of pride knowing that the Crown would be in good hands with her son, as not only he excelled in politics and affairs of the realm, but he possessed the kindness and compassion her father Viserys did.
"Jace..." She slowly approached her son, placing a hand on his broad shoulder.
He flinched at her touch and stepped away, refusing to look at her.
"I wish to be alone, Mother."
Rhaenyra closed her eyes and sighed, leaning forward as she also gazed at how the ocean infinitely stretched before her eyes, not knowing how to address the situation.
"I cannot even imagine how you must feel, Jace. If your grandsire had put me in the same position as you, my feelings would not be any different from yours... Though I still recall how your grandsire had me sit down and meet a never-ending line of suitors," she smiled sadly, feeling the soft breeze of the sea blow gently on her face.
Although Jacaerys remained silent, she still listened to his mother. They rarely had the opportunity to talk so casually about matters he deemed trivial, but he always appreciated those few times they got to talk about anything but war and politics.
"My grandsire already approved of my betrothal with Baela," he mumbled. "I wonder what he would think if he found out you wanted to wed me to a savage."
The sound of the sea seemed to have carried the whispers of her father's wish, as she heard distant voices murmuring The Song of Ice and Fire.
"Your grandsire would be proud," she smiled.
Jacaerys turned to look at her with furrowed brows, wondering if what she had just said was nothing more than a jest. But when his gaze met hers, he could see the love her mother carried for his grandsire Viserys reflected in her eyes.
"Before your grandsire made me heir, he said that I must unite the realm, and this alliance with House Martell is the key to that. This is not just about the ships and this war, Jace. It is beyond that. There are things you will come to understand in time. If this betrothal between you Princess Y/n comes forth, the two of you would finally be uniting the Seven Kingdoms," Rhaenyra said, with a faint glimmer of hope in her eyes, something Jacaerys hadn't seen in a long time.
"I know my duty as the Crown Prince, Mother," Jacaerys said, his voice heavy with resignation. "I understand that there is no undoing the proposal," he sighed. "But it pains me deeply, how you all discussed it as if I were nothing more than a pawn in a game, moved around as you see fit. Baela and I have known each other since childhood; it feels only natural that we should marry. We were just talking about the ceremony we would have once the war is over, imagining weeks of feasting and celebration... only to have it all snatched away from us."
"I am not saying you should, but if worst comes to worst, you could always make an... arrangement with Princess Y/n," Rhaenyra said.
"An arrangement?" Jacaerys scoffed, shaking his head. "What for? So I can sire more bastards like me?"
Rhaenyra's features hardened as she glared at her son, a flare of anger igniting within her as he brought up those bitter rumours she had buried deeply in her memories.
"Do not speak of yourself that way," Rhaenyra snapped, her voice shaking as she spoke. "You are a true Targaryen, born of fire and blood, and of salt and sea. Let no one, not even yourself, suggest otherwise."
Jacaerys shook his head, growing tired of hearing the same words of denial coming from his mother.
"I will do what I must for the realm and I will do my best to win the hand of Princess Y/n," Jacaerys muttered in defeat with his gaze cast downwards. "But I will not repeat your mistakes, Mother. I swear I will not sire any bastards, for I will not condemn my future children to face the same humiliation and torment that has haunted me all these years."
To Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen,
How amusing it is, to send a mere bird in place of a prince, when seeking the hand of my beloved daughter. Mayhaps you are unaware of our customs, or mayhaps you believe a Targaryen name is worth more than the effort or courtesy. Here in Dorne, we value actions over titles. The hand of my daughter is not something to be bargained for in letters.
Prince Qoren Martell of Sunspear.
"My Queen, Ser Tyland Lannister has been reported to depart to the Free Cities on the morrow," Lady Mysaria spoke before the council.
Rhaenyra clenched her jaw in irritation, not taking House Martell's second rejection well. Daemon read the message over her shoulder, amused at the words of Prince Qoren. Jacaerys hoped that his mother would give up the negotiations, but after the discussion they had weeks ago, he knew that she was going to do everything in her power to secure the deal with House Martell.
"Calling us cravens for sending a raven..." Daemon sneered. "What, were they expecting us to march to Sunspear in person, just to deliver the message?"
"We are running out of time, my Queen. It's only a matter of weeks before Ser Tyland reaches the Free Cities if the winds are in their favour," Lady Mysaria said.
"That is not all, my Queen," Maester Gerardys intervened, concerned. "Just as the King Consort predicted, we have just received various ravens from our allies reporting that they have sighted an alarming number of fleets departing from Lannisport and Oldtown a fortnight ago."
The Queen breathed in, feeling the pressure to make a decision as the enemy took another step. Reading Qoren Martell's letter one final time, she crumpled the parchment in her fist and turned to her council.
"Value actions over titles..." Rhaenyra muttered at the boldness of his words. "If what he desires are actions, that is what he shall get. Daemon, Jacaerys and I shall depart for Sunspear on the morrow on dragonback."
A/N: Hello, my lovelies! I hope you enjoyed the first part of this series. This chapter was basically the Targaryens and the Martells sending emails at each other lol. I don't wanna spoil anything but this story will kinda go from 0-100 hehe. Chapter 2 is like 90% finished, but still needs a lot of editing. Anyway, would you guys prefer if I have a regular updating schedule (once a week), or if I just upload whenever a chapter is finished (obviously there will be times when I won't be able to update as much but I sometimes get random bursts of energy)? I would love to know what you think.
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Pairing: Prince Jacaerys Velaryon x Martell Princess! Reader
Synopsys: Upon discovering Aemond Targaryen's alliance with the Triarchy, the Blacks are pushed to the point of desperation. With the war looming over the horizon, they have no choice but to turn to an unlikely ally: House Martell.
Content Warning: Smut (MDNI 18+), incest, step-sibling incest, gangbang (-ish?), nipple stimulation, cunnilingus, fingering, getting caught, mentions of death, alcohol consumption, and a lot of 'fucking politicking,' as King Viserys said.
WC: 5.0k
Series Masterlist
(A/N and taglist at the end of the chapter)
As war brewed in Westeros, the land of Dorne basked in the golden sun and its sweeping dunes. The ravens from House Targaryen had been met with little favour, and House Martell found their desperation rather amusing.
In the Old Palace of Sunspear, Princess Y/n and Prince Elyas Martell lounged in the Solar, a secluded chamber reserved for their idle indulgence, always with a cup of wine in hand. The space, bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the thin organdy curtains, was filled with the scent of magnolias, a flower that so rarely thrived in the harsh conditions in the desert.
The siblings had been raised under a veil of extravagance, tasted the rarest delicacies, worn the most exquisite fabrics, and known pleasures that most could never fathom. Yet, they sat in the heart of Old Palace, gazing out at the unchanging arid scenery before them, left with a lingering sense of disillusionment. The world outside their palace walls offered little more than echoes of what they had already experienced, and each new day arrived with the inevitable savour of anti-climax.
The company of the siblings was never without their sworn protectors, the bastard sons of Prince Qoren, Casymir and Leoran Sand, whose presence was like the shadows of the Prince and Princess, mostly unnoticed, but part of them nonetheless. The twins were leaning on the double doors, their golden spears placed against the wall as they listened to the Prince and Princess' idle conversations with a hint of amusement on their faces.
"Can you believe them, sister?" Elyas licked the wine off his lower lip. He was slumped on the settee with Y/n’s legs resting on his lap. "Asking for your hand through a raven? That boy of three-and-ten from House Briar showed more courage than those Dragonlords," he chuckled, remembering how the young lord showed up by the gates of the Old Palace with nothing more than the promise of a life free from hardships and an heir that will make Dorne even more prosperous than it already was.
"That boy looked like he still fed on his mother's tit," Casymir, the older twin laughed.
Princess Y/n merely rolled her eyes, too tired to jest with them. She took another sip of wine as her eyes lazily stared at Elyas' hands gently massaging her legs.
"What bothers me is that Father is still taking his time to send ravens back to those Dragonlords," she muttered. "He usually wouldn't bother to respond to any plea for support involving other houses, so it's possible that he might be considering our alliance."
"You read both messages Father sent them, he clearly refused any deal they proposed," Elyas' hands crawled to her thighs, disappearing under the silken fabric of her dress and began kneading her lean muscles.
"Of course he did. He wouldn't want to make it seem like we yield so easily," Y/n traced the edge of her cup with her finger. "Father is many things, but he's not a fool. He knows that they're expecting him to refuse. The longer he plays this game, the more desperate they'll become, and... mayhaps he sees more value in keeping them on edge."
"And what about the Velaryon boy?" Leoran asked.
"What about him?" She sighed, growing irritated as the past few weeks' conversations seemed to circle back to the Targaryens.
"How does it feel to have the future king of the realm seeking your hand?" He asked.
"He's no different from the others. A man is still a man, no matter his title. And so far, they've all shown me nothing I haven't already seen," Y/n’s gaze drifted out the window, her expression indifferent.
"Be truthful now, sister," Elyas teased, moving his hands even closer to her womanhood as he continued to massage her thighs. "Don't tell me the idea of marrying a dragon rider doesn't excite you."
"Those dragon riders tried to conquer our lands before, why would I want to marry one of them?" She asked with a hint of annoyance, realising shortly how Elyas was just trying to provoke her. She took another sip of wine. Although it was typical for her brother to irritate her on purpose, she still enjoyed the touches that came along with it.
"So you wouldn't even consider marrying him?" He parted her legs slightly, snaking his hand between her thighs as began to tease her clothed slit.
"No," she frowned, growing frustrated as Elyas kept teasing her, knowing all too well how to pull her strings and make her surrender under his touch.
The twins' eyes were fixed on them, a smirk spreading across their faces as they watched her grind her hips against his palm. Y/n sat up and Elyas got on his knees, hiking up her dress and fully exposing her legs to them. Leoran began to palm his cock through his trousers at the sight of Elyas peeling away Y/n’s undergarments, his eyes never missing the thin string of her arousal that clung to the fabric. He pushed her legs further apart, making sure that the twins could see how her tight hole clenched and unclenched, welcoming even the slightest touch.
"Even if he's the Crown Prince?" Elyas purred. He felt his erect cock painfully straining against his trousers as his fingers sunk into the soft flesh of her ass, pulling her closer to him until her cunt was merely inches away from his face. He was tempted to delve his tongue into her needy hole, yet he resisted and began to nip and suckle on her inner thigh. "Answer me, sister," he demanded, his dark eyes looking up at the Princess.
Y/n huffed at his words, growing impatient as she knew that Elyas was going to keep up his sweet torment until he heard what he wanted to hear.
"Even if he's the Crown Prince," she echoed his words, her skin prickling as she felt his hot breath fanning on her entrance.
The Prince seemed to have been satisfied with her response as his tongue lapped at her wet folds without a warning, tearing a moan from her as his nose occasionally nuzzled against her clit, making her buckle her hips against his face.
She lazily tore her eyes from her brother and fixed her gaze on the twins, whose trousers and breastplates were already discarded on the floor, exposing their lean muscles akin to a bronze sculpture. They were pumping their cocks at the sight of her wet cunt being feasted on by Elyas, who was still fully dressed, as he was too lost in devouring the sweet taste of her juices. When the Princess made eye contact with them, they nodded and stood up, understanding her silent command. They sat on either side of Y/n, their cocks twitching as she placed her hands on their thighs. Then she turned to face Casymir, cupped his cheek and stared up at him with half-lidded eyes before leaning forward for an open-mouthed kiss, his tongue swirling around hers.
Leoran tucked the Princess' hair back, exposing her neck. He began to trail wet kisses from under her ear and stopped at the hollow of her neck as he fondled her breast, teasing her erect nipple with his fingers through the thin fabric of her dress. Still unsatisfied, he pulled the strap down, partly exposing her chest. Leoran pressed his face against the soft flesh, taking in her sweet scent before he brushed his lips against her nipple and began suckling on it like a hungry babe.
Casymir slipped the other strap off her shoulder, and her dress bunched around her waist, fully exposing her chest. The warm breeze caressed her skin, sending shivers down her spine. Imitating his younger twin, Casymir's lips latched on to the other nipple and pulled, almost painfully, and he released it with a loud pop before repeating his actions. When he was finished tormenting the sensitive bud, he took as much of her breast in his mouth, hungrily swirling his tongue around the soft flesh.
As the twins sucked on each of her tits and Elyas had his face buried in her cunt, Y/n reached down to grab the twins' cocks that jolted with her touch, already oozing with precum. She began stroking their lengths, feeling how the thick veins pulsated against her palms.
Y/n’s eyes rolled back in pleasure, unable to bear how they feasted on her flesh as if she were a lamb being devoured by wolves. No one in the room was holding back their moans, filling the space with obscene noises. The Solar, which had just been meticulously tidied by the servants, had now turned into a chaotic scene of disarray: cushions from the settee were scattered haphazardly, some thrown onto the ground, whilst their cups of wine had tipped over, leaving dark red stains that seeped into the rugs.
Feeling the fire pooling low in her abdomen, she knew that it was up to Elyas whether she got to cum or not.
"Swear it to me, sister," Elyas stopped sucking her clit, only to slide two fingers into her weeping cunt. "Swear to me that I'll be your betrothed. You and I shall rule Dorne together."
He alternated between curling his digits and pumping them in and out, hitting her sweet spot with ease and causing her to arch her back in delight. At that moment, the Princess only sought the pleasure of her own release. Enslaved with the rush that was coming, she parted her lips, ready to seal the promise.
"I—"
Just before she could finish speaking, the doors of the Solar flung open with a loud crash.
The four of them snapped out of their trance, their faces clouded with irritation that someone had dared to interrupt the high they were chasing. Ser Domeric Uller, the informant of House Martell, stood unimpressed at the wanton scene before him, already used to the siblings' shenanigans.
"My Princess, my Prince," Ser Domeric began, "Rhaenyra Targaryen is in the Hall of the Sun, and your presence has been requested immediately."
The unexpected arrival of the Targaryens on dragonback had been received as a threat of battle. When the Dornish sails spotted the winged beasts tearing the clouds apart, their hearts pounded with dread. The three dragons shattered the peaceful Dornish skies with their deafening roars, sending shockwaves of terror through the port city of Sunspear. The smallfolk, who had never seen such creatures so close, scattered back to their homes, their fear spreading like wildfire.
Princess Y/n muttered under her breath as she made her way to the Hall of the Sun, trying to compose herself as she had barely taken a moment to ensure she didn't appear dishevelled. Her previous dress had been crumpled, forcing her to hastily throw on another while urging her handmaiden to make her hair look presentable. With each step, she could still feel the uncomfortable cling of arousal on her thighs. She was closely followed by her brother and their sworn protectors, who weren't any less irritated than she was, as they fumbled with their trousers.
Their youngest brother, Prince Farien, was already waiting for them outside the hall with Ser Domeric, who couldn't stand still.
"Is everything alright, Farien?" Y/n asked the boy.
"D- dragons..." he whispered. "They brought dragons..."
Y/n and Elyas exchanged a look of concern, but her eyes widened, catching how Elyas' chin was still glistening with her arousal.
"Wipe your chin," she hissed.
Elyas complied, wiping his face with the sleeve of his tunic, staining it in the process. The siblings and the twins stared at each other, ensuring that there was no trace of what had just happened moments ago. With one final nod, Casymir and Leoran pushed the doors open, clearing a wide path for Prince Qoren's children.
The three Martells, adorned in their house's colours and draped in golden jewellery that chimed with each step they took, resembled the radiant rays of the sun. Y/n and Elyas sauntered across the hall with their heads held high, feeling the piercing gaze of the Targaryens they had yet refused to look in the eye. Elyas' eyes swept over the hall with a dismissive air, trying to mask the dread running down his spine as he heard the dragons' deafening screeches nearby for the first time, while Prince Farien ran across the hall and jumped onto his father's lap.
There was no way to read Prince Qoren's expression. How must he have felt at that moment? The Targaryens, their rivals, had arrived in Sunspear unannounced with three dragons, no less, inciting fear among his people and sparking rumours that they had come once again to conquer their lands.
"Father," Y/n greeted Prince Qoren with a quick peck on his cheek.
Prince Qoren hummed in response as he rubbed his youngest son's back to soothe him. Even at his advanced age of five-and-sixty, Prince Qoren's striking features weren't any less noticeable. If it weren't for the shadows in his eyes that had seen countless battles and tribulations, and his silvering curls that were once as black as ink, he would've been easily mistaken as his son Elyas in his youth.
Y/n perched herself on the armrest of her father's seat, while Elyas casually leaned on the other side. The four Martells stared at the Targaryens, their poised, disinterested stance akin to a nest of vipers, coiled and ready to strike at anyone who dared come too close.
"House Targaryen, you stand before the presence of Prince Qoren Martell of Sunspear, Prince of Dorne; Princess Y/n Martell of Sunspear; Prince Elyas Martell of Sunspear; and Prince Farien Martell of Sunspear," Ser Domeric announced, his deep voice reverberating through the hall.
Ser Domeric finished introducing the Martells, their faces refusing to betray their racing thoughts, showing nothing more but contempt in their dark eyes.
"House Martell, you have been graced by the presence of Queen Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men; the King Consort, Daemon Targaryen; and Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, the Crown Prince, who have travelled all the way from Dragonstone."
The Targaryens strode to the centre of the hall, followed by three guards who never stopped pointing their spears at them, though that didn't prevent them from exuding the same air of superiority that marked their bloodline. Rhaenyra took a step forward, and Daemon and Jacaerys dutifully bent their knees in reverence to their queen.
A suffocating silence fell over the hall as the Martells remained motionless.
"Bend the knee and show respect before your Queen," Daemon commanded, his gaze defiant against the Martells.
Y/n and Elyas shared a quick look before bursting into laughter, their father joining in until his face turned red.
"Have you forgotten where you are, my King Consort?" Prince Qoren asked with a deep, mocking chuckle, unbothered by the palpable tension brewing in the hall. "We Martells refuse to bend the knee for you, Dragonlords. Never have, and never will."
Daemon Targaryen's face twisted in indignation, not tolerating the blatant disrespect. Had they been in Dragonstone, their heads would no longer be attached to their bodies. His fingers tightly curled around the grip of his sword, but Rhaenyra's subtle gesture made him stop.
"Has your independence also prevented you from learning manners, Prince Qoren?" Daemon asked through his teeth.
"Mayhaps our independence has spared us from the Targaryen's arrogance that comes with sitting on the Iron Throne too long," he raised his cup at him.
"Unbowed, unbent, unbroken..." Rhaenyra recited House Martell's motto, trying to defuse the tension. "Prince Qoren, we are well aware that House Martell has proudly stood on its own. We have respected your sovereignty throughout the years, and we have no intention of disturbing that peace. We did not come here to conquer, but to forge an alliance."
"Yet you arrive in our lands with three dragons, ready to reduce Sunspear into ashes at your command?" Y/n raised her brow, her gaze locked with Rhaenyra's, each daring the other to look away.
"If we intended to burn Sunspear, Princess, we would have done so already," Daemon retorted.
"Oh, so now we're to be grateful we're still alive?" Elyas scoffed.
"Prince Qoren, let me ask you, you would not want history to repeat itself, would you?" Rhaenyra asked.
"Is that a threat?" Prince Qoren asked back, any trace of amusement in his face now gone.
"I am merely stating that once the Greens win this war, they will seek to bring the whole of Westeros to heel, and Dorne will not be spared."
"We have successfully stood our ground in the First Dornish War. What makes you think we can't do it again?" Prince Qoren asked.
"No house will be safe from Aemond's wicked hand, my Prince," Daemon stated. "That boy honours nothing but cruelty, and is seduced by the promise of his own ascent."
"Doesn't sound so different from the rest of you," Prince Qoren scoffed. He reached for another cup of wine, taking a swig before he continued speaking. "Greens, Blacks... What does it matter? Why would we want to get involved in this war in any way, if we could just sit back and watch you burn your own house to the ground?"
As they bickered back and forth, Y/n and Jacaerys shared a look. The Princess couldn't deny the Velaryon boy was rather pleasing to look at, but she already had her fair share of good-looking lords who met the same fate as the rest of her suitors.
"Prince Qoren," Prince Jacaerys spoke for the first time, "I know that with the history of our houses, it is easy to dwell in the past, but we did not travel all the way from Dragonstone to reopen old wounds. We came here to heal them. We intend to make amends for the past and to forge a new path forward, one that begins with my request for the hand of your daughter, Princess Y/n," he rose from the ground, his eyes defiant.
"And you couldn't come alone, boy? Did you need your mother to hold your hand while you do so?" Prince Qoren chuckled, his eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. "Prudent of you, I suppose. But Dorne has danced with dragons before, and I would sooner sleep with scorpions. However, if it's the hand of my daughter you seek, she will be the one to decide whether or not you are worthy."
Prince Jacaerys clenched his jaw, trying to ignore Prince Qoren's attempts at ridiculing him.
"I know the Princess must have faced countless suitors and is growing restless about their never-ending courtship, all promising her wealth, power, and lands she already possesses in abundance. But let me ask you, Princess, have any of them offered you the chance to become the Queen?"
"How bold of you to ask for my sister's hand without first proving yourself worthy," Elyas spoke in his sister's stead, seeing how she didn't seem completely opposed to the Velaryon boy's proposal. "The Princess wouldn't entertain any proposal without a trial by battle, as you may have noticed from the rotting corpses of her suitors in the desert," he taunted the Velaryon boy.
Y/n shot her brother a sharp glance and he merely shrugged back, as if to say that it was his duty to put the arrogance of the Crown Prince in place.
"It's a tempting offer, my Prince, but I don't care much for titles. I'm of sun and sand, and my duties lie here in Dorne," Y/n said, examining the young prince before her. He stood with confidence and poise, yet there was a naive glimmer in his eyes as if he believed his proposal would be accepted without question. "However, if you wish to seek my hand, I won't deny you the chance, but as my brother said, you must prove your courage in battle if you wish to be taken seriously. You've shown me what you're willing to offer, but what are you willing to sacrifice?" She smirked, challenging the young prince.
Jacaerys stiffened at Y/n’s words, feeling the weight of her challenge. He recalled the lifeless body of a boy from House Briar in the desert, just one among countless lords from other houses who were once known for their swordsmanship skills but had been reduced to nothing more than a feast for crows. His expression faltered for a moment, the confidence he had displayed wavering under the pressing gaze of the Princess. He glanced at his mother and Daemon, seeking reassurance, only to realise they also shared the same look of uncertainty.
"I came here to forge an alliance, not to shed blood," he replied, his voice steady despite his heartbeat thundering against his chest. "But if it is courage you seek, then I will show you that I am not one to shy away from a challenge," he said, forcing himself to meet Y/n’s gaze.
"Very well," the Princess replied, a satisfied smile curling on her lips. "The trial shall commence on the morrow. I trust the Prince is weary from his long journey, so let him rest well."
It was the hour of the wolf, and the unease in the Old Palace was palpable. The restlessness wasn't only confined to its walls as even the smallfolk were on edge, since word had spread that war was imminent. The distant screeches of winged beasts echoed through the night sky, stirring memories of the First Dornish War.
Prince Elyas kept glaring daggers at the back of his sister's head as he followed her to the Council Chamber, where their father awaited them.
"What was that?" Elyas grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to face him. "What happened to not considering his proposal, sister?"
Prince Farien, who walked hand in hand with his sister, cocked his head as he watched his older siblings exchange words heatedly.
"Are they going to feed us to their dragons if you say no to the Prince?" He asked, looking up at his older sister.
"You'll be the first one they'll be eating," Elyas muttered, causing the boy to shudder.
"Don't listen to him, Farien. I won't let that happen," she cupped the little boy's cheek and glared at Elyas.
"I could see it in your eyes, sister. You were tempted to agree," Elyas kept pressing her, trying to mask the pain in his voice with anger.
"Mayhaps your jealousy is clouding your judgement, brother," she said, continuing her stride and not giving him the satisfaction of engaging with the argument. "The Prince is merely another suitor, like the many lords who have previously sought my hand. It's only fair that I give him the same opportunity as the others."
"Then let me fight for you this time, and once I defeat him I shall finally take your hand like we've always planned. I've waited far too long, sister."
"This isn't your battle to fight, Elyas," she muttered, entering the Council Chamber as Casymir and Leoran remained outside, guarding the doors.
"Father," they said in unison, taking their seats around the golden table.
Prince Qoren rubbed his greying beard, lost in thought, with an empty cup in hand. Y/n caressed Farien's wild curls as he plopped himself on her lap, his legs barely able to reach the ground.
"I wish to speak with Y/n, alone," Prince Qoren said.
After a moment of silence, Elyas stood up begrudgingly, never tearing her gaze from his sister, who didn't shy away from glaring back.
"Very well, Father," Elyas replied, taking his younger brother in his arms, and trying to not let his father's dismissal affect him.
The doors closed behind them, leaving father and daughter alone in the Council Chamber.
"Is something the matter, Father?" She leaned back into her seat, taking the cup of wine that her father poured her.
"I must admit, I'm at a loss," he sighed, defeated. "Gods... how has everything come to this? These bloody Targaryens have nothing better to do than start wars they can't finish on their own," he sighed as he shook his head. "We always used to laugh at the Old King Viserys, but he would've never allowed this to happen. Twenty-six years! That old man has given us twenty-six years of peace, only to be disrupted by his children's tomfoolery!" he took another swig from his cup, wiping the droplets with his sleeve. "I truly had no intention of taking part in this war, but if the Triarchy is involved, then we are left in an extremely vulnerable position."
Y/n nodded her head, listening intently to her father, already knowing where his argument would take a turn.
"Tell me, daughter. What do you think the Greens offered the Triarchy in exchange for their support?" He asked.
"The Stepstones," she replied firmly. "Up until Daemon's conquest, the Stepstones haven't belonged to anyone. But if the Triarchy ends up getting a hold of it, then they would have the leverage to disrupt our trade routes and invade our territories."
Prince Qoren hummed with satisfaction at his daughter's words.
"What are you implying, Father?" Y/n asked.
"There is no way out for us in this war, Y/n," he said in resignation. "It only leaves us with two options. Join Rhaenyra, or face the Triarchy once their war is over."
The Princess pursed her lips, refusing to accept either of the choices they had.
"We'd be fools to wage war against the Triarchy," the Princess shook her head. "And if they have the Greens' support, whatever fate befell them in this war could easily become our own. As the Blacks have blockaded the Gullet, they could just as easily set a blockade in the Narrow Sea."
"So that leaves us with—"
"There must be another way. How could you even think of that, Father?" She cut him off, unable to control the anger that was bubbling in her chest. "You wish to aid the house that tried to burn ours to the ground?"
"And you think I haven't dwelled on that already?" Prince Qoren asked. "They're offering us to make an alliance, and we have the upper hand—"
"They want to make us think that. We don't have the upper hand if they're doing it on their own terms, Father. It should be us who set the conditions, since they need us more than we need them," Y/n slammed her fist against the table, standing up, not expecting her father to give up so easily.
The Princess took a few deep breaths, feeling guilty after raising her voice at her own father.
"Forgive me, Father. I overreacted," she looked down. "I appreciate your trust for only letting me hear your thoughts, but I don't think Elyas nor the rest of the council would take your stance well, either."
"Your brother needs to learn from you. He has a long way to go, but his unruly temper will be his demise."
"Truth be told, we aren't much different from one another," she smiled sadly. "But please, Father. We must tread carefully. I know these are dire times and we can't keep running away from conflict forever, but there must be a way around this."
"Listen to me, my dear daughter," Prince Qoren looked at the Princess with solemn eyes. "Your great-grandsire had told me about the First Dornish War when I was merely a boy of five. He still recalled how his father, Prince Nymor, told the events as though they were a tale of glory. But he saw things differently. He saw things as they truly were. Our people paid in blood, and the sands of Dorne were stained red with the lives lost during those dark years.
When Aegon Targaryen and his sisters came to our lands, they brought a storm of fire and death. Countless were burned alive in their homes as they ran for their lives. The dragons did not distinguish between soldiers and children, between the rich and the poor, and mothers watched their children burn as fathers tried to protect their families in vain.
And yet, despite all this, we endured. But at what cost, Y/n? At what cost did we keep our independence? Hundreds of thousands of lives were lost, families were destroyed, and our lands were left in ruins. The legacy of that war is not just our freedom, but the memory of the suffering our people endured. That is the burden we carry, the price that was paid.
And if what they say about that boy Aemond is true, if he plans to bring the whole of Westeros to heel, then I fear that'll be the beginning of the Second Dornish War... and as your father, that is something I don't want you, your brothers, and our people to ever live."
Once Prince Qoren stopped speaking, his eyes were filled with sorrow, and Y/n couldn't help but reach for his hand.
"Why are you telling me this, Father?"
"You are to become the Princess of Dorne once I pass," Prince Qoren smiled sadly. "I wish I could carry the burden of this choice, so you won't have to bear its consequences but..."
"Father, I—"
"Tomorrow's trial will determine more than just your marriage with the Velaryon boy. It will shape the future of Dorne. We may well find ourselves bound to a war that is not our own, or face the Greens and the Triarchy, marking the start of the Second Dornish War. I'm truly sorry that you have to bear this burden, but the decision rests with you."
A/N: Hello my lovelies! I want to thank you all for the overwhelming support on this fic. I already have a couple of ideas for Chapter 3, and we will be seeing even more action!
Some of the lines might sound a bit familiar, for example, 'each new day arrived with the inevitable savour of anti-climax,' which is inspired by TGG when Nick was talking about Tom Buchanan, and I thought it perfectly described the life the Martells siblings had been living.
Another one is 'Dorne has danced with dragons before, and I would sooner sleep with scorpions,' which is actually Prince Qoren's reply to Otto Hightower's letter when he was asking for support during the Dance of Dragons (according to the asoiaf wiki).
Also, idky but at first I was imagining Qoren Martell as Mario Cimarro (Pasión de Gavilanes, anyone?) because I can just totally see him playing the role of someone being a super sarcastic bossbitch ruler while having a soft spot for his daughter. I'm curious to hear your thoughts on which actors the rest of the OCs remind you of, especially the twins and Elyas! And if I have time, I might do one of those 'get to know your OC' posts hehe.
If you wish to be added to the taglist, please fill out this form for easier management.
Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Until next time ;)
Pairing: Prince Jacaerys Velaryon x Martell Princess! Reader
Synopsys: Upon discovering Aemond Targaryen's alliance with the Triarchy, the Blacks are pushed to the point of desperation. With the war looming over the horizon, they have no choice but to turn to an unlikely ally: House Martell.
Content Warning: Sexual content but no smut (MDNI 18+ just to be safe), angst, mild knifeplay, alcohol consumption, toxic dynamics, swearing, themes of prejudice and misogynism, and a lot of 'fucking politicking,' as King Viserys said, (not proofread).
WC: 5.1k
Series Masterlist
(A/N and taglist at the end of the chapter)
Days passed slowly as the Sun melted into the golden dunes, the once-lively festivities fading into hushed negotiations behind closed doors. In these meetings, father and daughter meticulously settled the terms with the rest of the Dornish Houses; the Princess made the decisions, and the Prince sealed them with his ink and his word.
Seated around the golden table were the heads of House Martell, House Dayne, House Yronwood, House Jordayne, House Uller, and House Santagar. Some faces remained impassive, while others betrayed unease, dread creeping into their eyes as Prince Qoren signed his name onto the last parchment, concluding the fateful meeting between the greatest Dornish Houses.
“It’s been quite the evening,” Prince Qoren announced, his voice cutting through the silence. A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. “My daughter and I are pleased that we have all come to an agreement.”
Chairs scraped against the marble floor as the lords began to rise, eager to take their leave. But just as the tension began to ease, Lord Ander cleared his throat.
“My Prince,” Lord Ander Jordayne began, his words measured yet tinged with hesitation. “I do not mean to question your judgment, nor the Princess’… but the Targaryens—”
“What of them?” Prince Qoren’s patience, already worn thin by restless nights and ceaseless negotiations, finally frayed. He crossed his arms, hoping the meeting could finally come to an end.
“I cannot deny that we stand to gain more than we ever dared bargain for… but what if the Blacks fail? What if the Velaryon boy falls in battle? Would the rest of Westeros still acknowledge Princess Y/n as their future Queen?”
A flicker of unease passed between Prince Qoren and his daughter. Y/n cleared her throat, her lips curling upward ever so slightly.
“It won’t come to that, Lord Ander.”
“With all due respect, my Princess. If the Blacks lose the war, my house will lose everything. We command the largest fleet in Dorne, but…”
A wave of apprehension spread among the gathered lords. Lord Lysander Dayne shifted in his seat, his fingers tapping against the table in quiet contemplation. He had carefully weighed the losses should the Greens win the war, but the fear of losing an entire army at sea troubled him. The Daynes were more than proud to have raised the finest army in Dorne, but the Dornish were strongest in the sand against men, and this fight involved dragons.
“Are you afraid of losing a handful of boats, my Lord?” Y/n asked, her nose twitching into a sneer.
“O- of course not, my Princess, but–”
“I’ve said it before, and I will repeat it again,” she spoke slowly, her gaze piercing through each man in the room. “This war is inevitable. If we don’t choose to fight alongside the Blacks now, we will have to face the Greens later. Alone. Now, tell me. What chance have we got against their dragons? Siding with the Blacks is not a concession, it will simply strengthen our position. It’s better to wage a war at sea than to let it unfold in our lands. No more people should suffer in the name of the Targaryens.”
“That is easy for you to say, my Princess,” Lord Lysander Dayne pushed himself to his feet, his fist crashing against the golden table with a force that sent the wine glasses rattling. “While my men and I risk our lives at sea, beneath the fire of those beasts, where will you be?”
“Do not mistake me for a craven, Lord Lysander,” she stood up as she grabbed the edges of the table. “I will be fighting alongside my people.”
“Your courage is admirable, my Princess, but a serpent is of little use at sea,” Lord Lysander said. “Should the Gods decide you die in this war, how will we be compensated for our losses?”
“Then you had best pray, my Lord. Pray that your men can withstand the fury of the Seven Seas and the fire that awaits them,” her dark eyes narrowed into slits, making the man shake his head. “You have all sworn yourselves to this war. Should any of you waver now, it will be deemed as treason.”
The head of House Dayne clenched his teeth as he stormed out of the Council Chamber, silently followed by the rest of the lords, who dared not voice their disapproval. Yet their slouched shoulders and lowered gazes betrayed their agreement with Lord Lysander’s sentiment.
Once the Council Chamber’s doors were carefully shut by Casymir, Y/n let out a heavy sigh before pouring herself whatever was left in the jug and swigging the wine in one swift motion. She took the rolls of parchment where her brothers' fates were sealed with her father’s signature. They felt heavy in her hands, guilt gnawing at the pit of her stomach.
“I should’ve killed the Velaryon boy,” Y/n muttered, her gaze fixed on the scrolls in her hands. “But I thought of Rhaenyra, of how she wouldn’t hesitate to burn us the moment I pressed my dagger to her son’s throat. I saw it in her eyes, Father. Her fury, her grief. Or mayhaps I only imagined it. Mayhaps I’m just making excuses to… to soothe my own conscience for making the wrong choice by siding with the Blacks.”
Prince Qoren studied his daughter in silence before reaching forward, gently prying the parchments from her grasp.
“Your mercy is what has kept us alive until now,” he said, setting them aside. “I know you have taken lives, my dear daughter. I won’t claim you were always justified. And I’m not one to judge… I have done the same,” he exhaled, his voice quieter now. “But not knowing when to show mercy is a weakness we Martells have always carried. The hatred for the Targaryens runs in our blood. It’s in your nature to have wanted to kill the Velaryon boy.”
“And yet, despite that hatred, here I stand, bound to him in duty,” she lowered her head. “I… I keep thinking of just killing him, Father,” she admitted, the words bitter in her tongue. “I keep thinking of ways to rid myself of this fate. So tell me, did I show mercy? Or did I just simply surrender?”
“You showed mercy,” Qoren said firmly, his dark eyes steady as they met his daughter’s. “I won’t pretend that those dragonlords deserve it, but killing the Velaryon boy would've been too... simple. Yes, it would free you, but not for long. There is always a time and a place for defiance, but we are in times of war. For the first time in centuries, the Targaryen have come to us with open hands. Never in a lifetime would I have imagined those dragonlords begging for our help.
“And now you’re plotting their war. A war that is not ours, yet one we will win. Not because of their dragons but because of our people. Our people, who stand with you.”
“It’s not as though they have much of a choice, Father.”
“Neither did you,” he smiled sadly, placing both of his hands on her shoulders and pulling her for a hug. “Give them some time. Those lords will come to realise that what you’re doing is for the best of our people.”
“Thank you, Father,” she mumbled in defeat, too tired to argue back.
Prince Qoren let out a dry chuckle, though it was tinged with sorrow.
“I can scarcely believe it,” he whispered, resting his chin atop her head. “My daughter is finally a woman grown.”
He held her close, allowing themselves a moment of silence. He could only whisper an apology for the burden his daughter had been forced to bear.
It was the hour of the wolf, and the once-bustling corridors of the palace lay silent, emptied of guests, save for the weary guards struggling to keep their eyes open in the dead of night.
As Y/n left the Council Chamber, followed by her shadow, Casymir, she allowed herself to become more at ease as she found solace in the darkness.
“My dear sister!”
Elyas’ voice bounced on the walls, making the Princess flinch. He sauntered towards her, his steps unsteady, but she kept walking, refusing to face him.
“Busy coming back from seeing your whores?” Y/n asked, her tone sharp, wanting to put an end to the futile conversation and retreat to her chambers.
“Jealous, sister?” He grinned, staring at her with droopy eyes. “I know you never liked me seeing other women, but since you've been so occupied with your dear husband… so preoccupied you haven’t even spared me a glance… what was I meant to do with myself?” He slurred, struggling to find his balance as Leoran held him upright.
She turned away and continued down the corridor, Casymir silent at her side.
“I’m talking to you!” Elyas snarled, grabbing her arm and forcing her to face him.
Casymir’s grip tightened around his spear, his knuckles white, but Leoran subtly shook his head.
“Oh, look at you,” Elyas sneered, his breath reeking of wine. “What? You think you’re better than me?” His words were slurred, but his voice dripped with resentment. “You and Father are always looking down on me—both of you! You could've included me in your meetings. I could’ve helped you. But no! What am I even here for?” He suddenly began to laugh, though his brown eyes held nothing more than the growing hatred he began to feel towards his sister.
“You want to know what we discussed? Fine,” Y/n exhaled, pushing him away with both hands. “I know you won’t like this, but… you are to be betrothed to Lord Thaddeus’ daughter, Hylda Yronwood,” she took a cautious step back, bracing herself for his inevitable outburst. “I made sure to find you the most suitable match among the lords' daughters. Hylda is a beautiful, kind soul, and she—”
Her words faltered as Elyas’ expression twisted, his lips trembling. His drunken haze gave way to something far more fragile. His knees buckled, and before she could react, he collapsed at her feet, his body wracked with broken sobs.
“No,” he wailed, his voice echoing in the empty halls of the palace. “You can’t do this to me!” He looked up at her from the cold marble floor, his brown eyes glimmering in despair. “Whose idea was it?” He seethed. “Whose idea was it to trade me off like some slave?”
Y/n shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet his gaze.
“Of course, it was you,” he spat, his breath ragged. “Father would never conjure up something so heinous,” he clenched his fist and slammed it against the ground. “If you want me to suffer so badly, why not just kill me here and be done with it?”
“It’s not just you,” she said quietly. “Farien as well.”
“All of this… for what? So you can sit on that throne? So you can wear a crown and call yourself Queen?” His voice wavered as he shook his head in disbelief. “And Farien… he is but a boy. How could you drag him into this? You... you have no right!”
“Every decision I made was for the best,” she countered, though the words felt hollow even as she spoke them. “House Yronwood is the second strongest in Dorne, and this alliance will secure your future. And, Elyas… you’re of age. The time has come for you to take a wife. It will be good for you… to have someone, to love—”
She faltered, not believing the words spilling from her own lips.
“You think that matters to me?” His hands shot out, gripping the ends of her skirts in desperation. His eyes, red and pleading, searched hers for mercy. “You swore it to me,” he whispered. “You swore that I would be your betrothed. That we would rule Dorne together.”
“I never swore such a thing,” she shot back.
An oppressive silence stretched between them as Elyas wiped his tears and buried his face in the crumpled drapes of her dress.
“In my dreams, you did.”
Y/n’s breath caught in her throat.
Elyas’ words hung heavy in the air.
For a moment, she saw him not as the drunken, foolish brother before her, but as the boy he had once been. The boy who had idolised her, who had believed in a world where they could stand side by side, ruling Dorne together. Oh, how tightly did Elyas cling to that promise that never left her lips?
“Elyas, listen to me,” she began, her voice strained. “Whatever foolish fantasies you’ve thought of…” She swallowed hard, her throat tight with remorse. Elyas was insufferable, selfish, cruel… but so was she. And still, it hurt to see him in that state. “You have to stop clinging to them. Once I am Queen—”
“No!” he growled, his fingers twisting into the fabric of her dress, his body trembling with denial.
“Once I am Queen,” she continued, forcing herself to stay composed, “you will be the one to rule here,” she inhaled sharply, steadying herself. “Father and I are ensuring everything is in place for you to take your rightful position as the Prince of Dorne.”
“No, no, no…” Elyas shook his head violently, his pleas turned into screams, enveloped with both fury and grief.
Y/n took a step back, tugging her dress free from his grasp. Straightening her posture, she smoothed the fabric and exhaled slowly, pushing down whatever remnants of guilt threatened to rise.
“Leoran,” she said, softly. “Escort my brother back to his chambers.”
Elyas’ breath hitched as he lifted his head, watching her turn away.
“You dare turn your back on your own brother?” He shouted, blinded by pain.
She hesitated but did not look back.
“Just so you know,” he called after her, his voice laced with anguish. “It's you. It has always been you. And it will always be you.”
Daemon Targaryen lingered in the shadows, his presence barely visible under the dim torchlights, lilac eyes tracking every movement between the Martell siblings.
The Princess had melted into the darkness, vanishing as if she had never been there at all, closely followed by her sworn protector. Elyas on the other hand, writhed on the ground, as Leoran struggled to bring him back to his feet.
A slow smirk tugged at Daemon’s lips. How pathetic, he thought, as Elyas clutched his stomach and fell on his knees once again, staining the marble floors with his vomit.
The real threat was the Princess. She was far too dangerous for his liking, not because she was strong, but because she understood how to wield control, even over the ones she loved the most.
Yes. There was something here. Something worth unearthing.
With a final glance at the broken boy on the floor, he disappeared into the shadows, saving what he had learned for when the time was right.
Jacaerys Velaryon stood stiffly as the seamstress took his measurements. His garments grew more intricate with each passing day, slowly leading up to his wedding. Yet, despite the lavish drapes adorning his shoulders, they did nothing more than weigh him down.
Neither he nor his family had been involved in the negotiations between the Dornish lords; they had been cast aside, their presence tolerated but never truly acknowledged. The lords of Dorne had pledged themselves not to the Targaryens, but to Prince Qoren and Princess Y/n.
More than once, Rhaenyra and Daemon had debated returning to Dragonstone. Were it not for the impending wedding, they might have done so, already tired of bending to every demand the Martells had placed before them, no matter how absurd.
“You look lovely, Jace,” Rhaenyra said, offering him a small, bittersweet smile. Her gaze was proud, and she felt the quiet sorrow of a mother watching her son become a man grown. “Had things been different, then mayhaps we might have enjoyed these celebrations.”
Jacaerys exhaled sharply, his hands balling into fists. He tried to ignore the memories clawing their way to the forefront of his mind: Y/n, straddling him, her breath hot against his ear as his fingers curled around her waist.
Foolishly, he had believed that moment had meant something. That she had seen him, not just as a filthy Targaryen, but as a man. Yet since that night, she had remained as distant as ever, her gaze filled with nothing but cold disdain.
It was absurd, childish, even, to dwell on it. And yet his mind wandered, time and time again, to the thought of what might have been.
If she had kept going that night, there was no doubt she would’ve stayed in control. Jacaerys could only imagine how he would remove her dress, his finger hooking and pulling down on the strap to reveal her chest as she continued grinding her core against his hardened cock, at her own pace, slowly and torturously.
Then he would’ve tried to cup her breasts and feel the warmth of her flesh on his palms, only for her to slap his hands away, draw a dagger and press it to his throat in silent warning, should he dare take more than what she was willing to grant.
Jacaerys cursed himself every time his mind strayed to such thoughts. They were in the midst of a war and he had duties far greater than satisfying his carnal needs.
“Had things been different, there would be something worth celebrating. But these feasts are nothing but a waste of our time. Besides, you have seen how she behaves, Mother,” Jacaerys scoffed, lifting his arms as the seamstress continued her work around his torso. “She indulges in men and wine, and holds the values of a Street of Silk whore. Westeros will crumble as quickly as this marriage.”
Rhaenyra exhaled sharply, but it was Daemon who spoke first.
“But have you seen what she has accomplished in such a short time, Jacaerys?” He countered, watching the boy with an amused glint in his eye. “She convinced the greatest Dornish lords to stand with us. That is no small feat.”
“Do not be mistaken. They are loyal to her and her father, not to my mother. They know that once Y/n becomes Queen, they will remain in good standing. That is all.”
“And yet,” Rhaenyra said, “persuading men who would rather see us flayed and left for the scorpions is not easy. You see how they treat us here, Jace.”
Rhaenyra sat with her hands folded in her lap, her gaze steady on her son. She had seen the work Princess Y/n had done, how she pulled the strings during the celebrations. Not Prince Qoren. Not the Dornish lords. It was Y/n. If not for her, Rhaenyra wouldn’t stand a chance against the Greens. And yet Jacaerys, blinded by his disdain, refused to acknowledge her political prowess.
“Do not act as if she has done something extraordinary,” he muttered, irritated. “She acted in her own interest, as she always does. The Princess does not shy from showing her ambitions.”
“And yet those ambitions,” Rhaenyra said sharply, “have gained us more allies than we ever hoped for, Jacaerys.”
“At least you’ll be pleased to know that her brother is not so happy with his situation. I recently found out the Princess has arranged a betrothal between Elyas and Hylda Yronwood, and the little one to Freya Dayne,” Daemon smirked.
“I see she has no qualms about selling off her loved ones like cattle either,” Jacaerys scoffed.
At that, Rhaenyra shifted, discomfort settling in her chest as she thought of Y/n, and for the first time, she wondered just how alike they truly were.
“Mayhaps that is what she wants us to think…” Daemon mused, swirling the crimson liquid in his cup. “From what I heard last night, the Princess seemed to be quite fond of her brother Elyas, far more than she would like to admit,” he paused, a smirk ghosting lips. “And not just her brother. People talk, Jace. The servants whisper of the little adventures both siblings have with their sworn protectors and how they have been… caught plenty of times.”
“With their sworn protectors?” Jacaerys shook his head in disbelief.
“Casymir and Leoran Sand. Two of the few bastards Prince Qoren has sired,” Daemon added.
“This is exactly what I was fearing,” he burst out. “The future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, a lecherous whore. I bet Westeros would love to have someone like that as their queen,” he scoffed. “And the future King? A bastard. How would we be any better than Aemond? At this point, the smallfolk would have him sit on the Throne instead.”
Rhaenyra looked away, stung by her son's words, knowing all too well that his judgment extended to her too, for the choices she had made, for the men she had taken while still bound to Laenor in the past.
“Jacaerys,” Rhaenyra rose to her feet, her blood simmering. “Aemond is a murderer. Do not confuse a woman’s promiscuity for evil.”
“Oh, Mother… you make the Princess sound as if she has never stained her hands with blood,” he spat back. “She is a murderer. She has killed men, innocent men who sought her hand. I could have been one of them had she not chosen to strip us to the bone with her endless demands.”
“I will not justify that, Jace. I do not know the Princess well enough to excuse her actions,” she met his gaze. “But I will say this: despite being a woman grown, she was not ready to wed. I have told you before, Jace, of the things I did to postpone the marriage your grandsire pushed upon me,” she glanced at Daemon. “Mayhaps she was only trying to escape her duty. But this time, she has chosen to fulfil it.”
Suddenly, their conversation was interrupted by three sharp knocks. Ser Domeric Uller opened the door and cleared his throat, his expression unreadable as he scanned the room and set his eyes on Jacaerys.
“Prince Jacaerys,” he spoke. “Your presence has been requested by Princess Y/n.”
Jacaerys climbed up the stairs as he adjusted his garments, a guard trailing beside him as he made his way to the Solar. The Princess had summoned him, having supposedly settled all negotiations. As they got closer, he braced himself for whatever terms she had arranged on their behalf.
The guard pushed the door open, revealing Y/n amid laughter with a cup of wine in hand. Across from her, her sworn protector, Casymir, lounged comfortably, amusement glimmering in his blue eyes.
The sound of her laughter died the moment she caught sight of Jacaerys. Casymir, slowly and deliberately, straightened himself and moved towards the door, though he didn't leave.
Jacaerys shot him a glare.
“My Prince,” Y/n raised her cup in a mock toast and gestured for him to sit.
Jacaerys took a seat across from her, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Silence lingered between the three of them, but his thoughts stirred, still plagued by Daemon’s words from earlier.
“My Princess,” Jacaerys finally greeted, not hiding the displeasure in his voice.
“I wished to inform you of what my father and I have discussed with the other lords,” Y/n began. “As you may already know, I have secured the loyalty of Houses Dayne, Yronwood, Jordayne, Uller, and Santagar. What you must provide is a small price to pay compared to the concessions my brothers have been forced to make,” she idly traced the rim of her cup with a fingertip.
“The Queen and the King Consort should be present. As should Prince Qoren,” Jacaerys’ eyes flickered around the room.
“What for?” Y/n bit back a laugh. “There is nothing left to discuss. Everything has been settled. Besides, this marriage is between us, and we’ve scarcely had time together. I deemed it appropriate that you, my betrothed, should know first.”
“Oh, how thoughtful of you.” Jacaerys leaned back in his seat as he feigned disinterest. “Please, do enlighten me, what have you offered these lords on behalf of my house?”
“I told you. A small price to pay,” Y/n swirled the wine in her cup. “Vynce Santagar, Lord Karl’s son, and Rykard Uller, Lord Yorick’s son, wish to join the Kingsguard. They said a lonely serpent may never lie safe in a house of dragons.”
“They are not wrong.” Jacaerys scoffed. “The Red Keep will turn against you before you even set foot inside. They will not accept someone like you as their Queen.”
“Rather,” Y/n mused, her lips curving into a smirk, “they wouldn't want a bastard for their King.”
Jacaerys inhaled, fighting to keep his composure, yet his hands balled into fists. From the corner of his eye, he saw Casymir leaning against the wall, grinning.
“Bastard, bastard, bastard,” Y/n chanted. She rose from her seat and sauntered around the room, the delicate silk of her dress trailing behind her like ghosts. When she reached Jacaerys, she leaned down, her breath warm against the back of his neck. “Why are you so upset, my Prince?”
Jacaerys exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. Then, suddenly, he jabbed his leg with a clenched fist.
“Because you are right!” He admitted through gritted teeth. The Princess bit back a smirk, watching him unravel before her once again. “I am a bastard,” he spat. “My only assurance to the throne is that I am a dragonrider, yet even that claim weakens by the day. Those mongrels have already claimed the last three dragons, and I thought if I wed my half-sister Baela, then mayhaps I could still hold onto what little claim I had left. But my mother refuses to see the problem.
“This war will not end once my mother sits on the throne. The moment she dies, one of those Targaryen bastards will come crawling back, claiming they have more rights than I do. I— I see it in their eyes. For all I know, Aegon is still out there, waiting for the right moment to return to King's Landing. Then those silver-haired bastards with more Targaryen blood in their veins will follow. The usurping will never end… and this foolish notion of uniting the Seven Kingdoms?” He scoffed bitterly. “The smallfolk will spit us out before we are even crowned.”
A thick, suffocating silence preceded his outburst, making him realise that, in the midst of his anger, he had just revealed his deepest insecurities to Y/n, someone who could easily exploit them.
But Y/n simply laughed.
It was not the soft laugh of a lady, but the amusement of someone indulging a fool, filled with something that unsettled him to his core. Without warning, she dropped onto the seat beside him, draping her legs over his lap. Her foot traced the length of his thigh in a lazy, teasing motion.
Jacaerys stiffened, his pulse hammering against his chest. He should’ve shoved her off. He should’ve demanded she behave. And yet, he didn’t. He sat there, caught between conflicting emotions, unable to decide whether her touch was a provocation or a twisted form of comfort.
“The Bastard and the Whore,” the Princess mused. “The King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. It’s rather poetic, don’t you think? That the fate of the realm rests in the hands of the very people Westeros despises most.”
“If only my mother had not bedded the first man she laid eyes upon, then I would not have been born this way,” he muttered through his teeth.
“Then you would not have been born at all,” she corrected, her playful demeanor vanishing in an instant. A flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes, displeasure, mayhaps even disappointment. “Bastards are born of passion, are they not?” She asked. “We don’t despise them in Dorne.”
She leaned back, resting her weight on her elbows, and gave Casymir a knowing smile.
“I must have thousands of siblings. That’s why we love our people like they’re our own.”
“How tolerant of you,” Jacaerys scoffed.
“I will never understand why the rest of Westeros look down upon us. This war your family has started? It’s the smallfolk who suffer for it. Why must your mother fight so hard for the Throne? Why is it that, the moment a woman is destined to sit on it, men claw and tear at her claim? First, it was Rhaenys Targaryen, The Queen Who Never Was, and now, your mother?”
Jacaerys wanted to talk back, yet no matter where he looked, he couldn’t find an answer that would satisfy her.
“Look at me,” she said, and he obeyed without a second thought. “I am to become the Princess of Dorne. No one has dared to challenge my father’s succession. Not Elyas. Not my half-brothers. This war of yours would’ve never happened here.”
“Try telling that to the rest of Westerosi lords,” he argued. “They would sooner tear the realm apart than see their traditions undone. That is simply not the way of things beyond Dorne.”
“But why?” She pressed. “Why must all of you follow those rules so blindly?”
“I–”
“Fear,” she simply said. “Fear of change. Fear of losing control. Westerosi lords don't cling to their traditions because they are right or just… they cling to them because they're afraid. Afraid that if they yield, even once, everything they own will crumble.
“I won’t claim Dorne is perfect. No kingdom is. But here, I can rule. I can lead armies and speak without being silenced. My voice is followed, not cast aside. I know the privileges I hold as the Princess, privileges ladies elsewhere can only dream of. Had you been born a woman, then mayhaps you would be grateful to be here in Dorne.”
Jacaerys’ lips parted slightly, as though to respond, but no words came.
His gaze flickered to Casymir, who now wore a small, genuine smile. And then to Y/n, who, for the first time, spoke to him without hidden pretenses.
For the first time, she wasn't trying to provoke him.
For the first time, she simply spoke.
A/N: hello hello, belated merry xmas and happy new year to you! i'm finally back after the long hiatus, but a lot happened. (warning, a bit long)
as some of you might know, i graduated last july, and ever since i've been struggling to find a job, so i had to make that my priority. job hunting sucked the life out of me. for a bit of context, i went to one of the top unis in the uk and graduated with a first. i thought that alone would get me a job (spoiler alert: it didn't). most of my mates were all doing a panic masters while others got lucky and landed a graduate job.
i considered doing a masters, but i coulnd't afford it, and i truly think that having one would not improve my chances of landing a job in the field i want.
i applied to multiple firms, only to get endlessly rejected by them. in the meantime, i tried applying for any part-time job in my town: pret, nero cafe, starbucks, etc. only to be rejected. this was extremely demoralising.
by that point, i was growing desperate and kept applying for jobs where i was overqualified and that weren't even related to my degree, just so i could get out of this rut.
well, the good news is that i finally managed to land a job as cabin crew for one of the biggest airlines in the uk. is it my dream job? no. is it related to my degree? no. but it's what i have for now, and it's not too bad, i guess?
anyway, before i went on my unannounced hiatus, this chapter was already 75% finished. i had so much fun writing the angsty dialogues between the siblings and finally having y/n and jace have a normal-ish conversation for once.
i hope you all have been well, and i want to thank you for your continued support of this story. i might take long to update, but i know exactly where this fic is going and i won't stop until i finish it. i haven't been able to read or respond to any of your messages yet, but i will get into that soon.
happy reading, my loves!
Taglist: @happinessinthebeing @deltamoon666 @dark1paradise @elz-zalarrr @v0dka4a (continued in comments)
