my heart is yours
SYNOPSIS. nothing could ever stop a lover from pulling her beloved back from death’s door.
PAIRING. jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader
WORD COUNT. 3,923
CONTENT WARNING. major character death, corpse desecration, graphic depictions of a dead body, decomposition, corpse theft, body horror, resurrection, religious themes, blood and gore, grief and mourning, obsessive love, emotional infidelity, psychological horror, angst with no happy ending (not proofread!!).
They say love always asks for something in return.
Not at first, no— but every bargain begins as a blessing.
Not when it is soft and sweet and blooming beneath summer skies. Not when it lives in stolen glances and trembling hands and promises whispered into the dark. Not when it settles quietly between two people and convinces them it will last forever.
In the beginning, love gives—
—It gives warmth. It gives purpose. It gives you another soul to orbit, another heartbeat to measure your own against.
It teaches you how to live.
But love is a hungry thing.
And hunger, if left unanswered, becomes ruin.
Feed it your time and it will ask for your devotion. Feed it your devotion and it will ask for your future. Feed it your future and— one day— it will bare its teeth and ask what remains.
Some call that sacrifice.
Others call it grief.
But there is precious little difference between the two.
For when love loses the thing it was made to cherish, it does not die quietly. It claws. It bargains. It prays. It digs its bleeding hands into the earth and demands the impossible.
And sometimes— sometimes the impossible answers.
They say death is the only bargain that cannot be undone. That once a soul has crossed the threshold, no prayer, no plea, no amount of weeping can call it back.
That is what the wise men say.
But the wise have rarely buried the person they loved most. They have rarely stood before a body still warm from yesterday and been expected to accept eternity. They have rarely watched the world continue turning when theirs has already ended.
Grief makes heretics of the faithful.
Monsters of the gentle.
And worse—
Fools of us all.
And the terrible thing about love is that it teaches us to give freely. Our time. Our loyalty. Our futures. Our hearts.
And the terrible thing about gifts is that once they are given—
they no longer belong to you.
But it did not always begin with loss.
There had been a time before graves and gods. Before salt-stiffened shrouds and desperate prayers spoken to uncaring flames. A time when the world was simpler, lighter, stripped of the suffocating weight of war.
Or perhaps… it only seemed that way because he had still been alive.
Before grief hollowed you from the inside out, scraping away at your ribs until you were nothing but a cage of skin and memories, there had been laughter echoing through the cavernous, dragon-carved halls of Dragonstone. There had been endless summer afternoons spent wandering around sun-drenched courtyards where the sea breeze smelled of wild thyme and sweet grass and not iron and decay.
You remembered the simple grounding warmth of another hand finding yours in the dark, slipping between your fingers behind the dust-scented tapestries of the castle as though it naturally belonged there. As though parting were a physical impossibility.
There had been Jacaerys.
Not the solemn, burdened prince sung in tragic ballads. Not the flawless, rigid heir to a contested iron throne, nor the shattered waterlogged corpse carried home from the wreckage of the Gullet.
Just him.
Just… Jace.
He was a boy with perpetually wind-tangled brown curls and a crooked boyish smile that he only ever flashed when the court wasn’t looking. A boy who laughed just a little too loudly when he was genuinely amused, his whole chest shaking with it, and who loved too fiercely. He was a boy who spoke of the future as though it were something certain— as though that future was something waiting patiently just beyond the horizon.
And perhaps that was the cruelest part of all—
The future had existed once.
Until it didn’t anymore.
Jace had pulled you aside with an urgency that immediately set your heart racing, his hand closing around your wrist before you could disappear into the crowd. "Come with me," he had said.
No explanation, no greeting— only that familiar grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. And you followed anyway. You always did.
He led you away from the bustle of the castle, away from the servants and guards and watching eyes, until the noise of Dragonstone became little more than a distant murmur carried on the wind.
Only then did he stop. And only then did his smile begin to fade. Something in your chest tightened.
"What is it?" you asked.
For a moment, he said nothing. His gaze drifted toward the sea. Toward the horizon. Toward the waters that would one day take him from you.
"I have to leave," he said quietly. And just like that, the world changed. You stared at him.
"Leave?"
"The Triarchy has been sighted in the Gullet." His jaw tightened.
The words settled heavily between you. War. It was always war.
War had lingered over Dragonstone for so long that it had become as familiar as the sea breeze. Yet somehow, hearing it from Jace's own lips made it feel real in a way it never had before. You tried to smile— tried to make light of it.
Jace must have seen something change in your expression, because his features softened immediately.
"Hey."
His hand found yours. Warm. Steady. Alive.
"I'll be back."
You laughed softly.
"That's what everyone says before they leave," you murmured, your voice cracking slightly under the weight of a sudden dark premonition. Your fingers dug into the rough wool of his jerkin, desperately needing to anchor him to the earth.
"And I mean it," he insisted, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your chest ache.
"You cannot possibly know that," you whispered against the narrow space between your lips.
"I do know it."
A familiar stubbornness entered his voice, that sharp, unyielding edge that had always made him entirely impossible to argue with. He squared his shoulders, lifting his chin just a fraction. "The Triarchy isn't taking me down."
You raised an eyebrow, a breathless, desperate attempt to bring back the easy cadence of your usual banter, to shield yourself from the terror creeping into your veins. "Oh?"
"No." His boyish grin returned, flashing bright and defiant against the bleak gray backdrop of the cliffs. He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression brimming with that infuriating, beautiful life. "I am annoyingly difficult to kill."
Gods. You loved him.
You loved him so much that it frightened you sometimes— a vast consuming ocean of devotion that threatened to drown you if you looked too closely into its depths. The realization settled quietly, heavily in your chest as you looked at him standing there beneath the brilliant afternoon sun. The wind caught in his dark curls, tossing them wildly across his brow.
His eyes were bright with an unshakeable determination, and his future— splendid, heavy, and grand seemed to stretch boundlessly before him.
You stepped closer, erasing the final inches of distance between you. The teasing smile slowly disappeared from his face, replaced by stillness.
For a brief moment, neither of you spoke. There were immense, fragile things hanging in the air between you— confessions kept hidden in the dark, fears whispered only to the night sky, truths neither of you had ever quite found the courage to name aloud.
Slowly, deliberately, you lifted your hand. You placed your palm flat against the center of his chest, right over his doublet.
Beneath your touch, his heart beat hard and fast. It was an erratic, chaotic rhythm, hammering violently against his ribs as though it could not quite decide whether to race forward into the coming storm or stop altogether under the weight of your gaze.
Jace inhaled sharply, his chest expanding beneath your hand, but neither of you looked away. The intensity in his dark eyes was paralyzing.
"My heart is yours," you whispered.
The words left your lips before you could second-guess them, before pride or fear could claw them back. It was simple. Honest. And utterly terrifying.
For a moment, the world seemed to be still entirely. The crashing of the tide against the black rocks below faded into a distant murmur. The wind died down. The sea, vast and indifferent, seemed to hold its breath. He stared at you, his lips slightly parted, your words embedding themselves into the very fabric of his being.
He was about to reply back— when one of the guards was hurrying toward you from across the courtyard. Jace cursed under his breath. And for a second, he remained where he was– looking at you. Your hand still resting against his chest. As though he wanted to say something. As though he had been on the verge of answering.
But duty won. As it always did. The sudden absence of his warmth felt colder than it should have.
"I'll find you when I return," he promised.
Not if.
When.
The certainty in his voice was almost enough to make you believe him.
Almost.
The sea had not been kind to Jacaerys Velaryon. He did not look like a prince. He looked like a shattered doll left to drown. The cruel iron arrows of the Triarchy had torn through his neck, his chest, and his throat. Bloated by the brine, his skin was the translucent color of curdled milk, marbled with dark blue veins. His beautiful dark curls were matted with seaweed and gray sand. Vermax was gone, a mountain of burning scales sinking into the crushing depth of the Gullet, and Jace had followed his dragon into the dark.
They bathed his corpse in sweet oils, trying to mask the heavy sweet stench of the sea, wrapped him in a magnificent shroud of black velvet, and began the preparations for the pyre. The lords spoke of duty. They spoke of a prince’s tragic noble end.
But you did not look at his royal shroud. You looked at his hands— the small crescent scar on his thumb, the fingers that had traced your jawline under the cover of midnight when the world was still quiet.
No, the word formed in your chest, hot, violent, and choking. Not him. Not yet. I will not let the fire have him.
Stealing a prince’s corpse from under the nose of a grieving queen— a grieving mother— is a madness punishable by a horrific death, but love— love does not care for laws. It was easy enough to bribe a despairing, weeping silent sister with a handful of stolen gold; easy enough to drag his heavy, stiffening body from the crypts and into the dark belly of a salt-stained trading galley bound for the East before the pyre could be lit.
You hid him beneath coarse burlap and heavy barrels of salted fish. For weeks, you lay beside him in the damp, claustrophobic dark of the ship’s hold, your cheek pressed against his cold, unyielding velvet-wrapped chest, ignoring the slow and horrifying softening of his flesh.
You whispered to him through the long, rolling nights. You told him about the spring. You told him you would not let him go.
Volantis smelled of cloves, old sweat, and burning flesh.
The Black Walls towered over Volantis, dark against the evening sky. Beneath them stood the Temple of the Lord of Light, vast and red, its great fires burning day and night, casting long shadows across the crowded streets below.
You dragged Jace’s body through the filthy back alleys, hiring desperate tight-lipped smugglers with the last of your family’s jewels to carry the heavy wooden chest containing his decaying remains. By the time you breached the inner sanctum of the Temple, the smell of him was thick, a sweet, cloying, terrible rot that clung to your clothes and coated the back of your tongue.
A Red Priestess did not turn when you entered. She stood before a towering and roaring wall of flame, her crimson robes bleeding seamlessly into the firelight. Her hair was the color of dried oxidized blood, and her eyes, when she finally turned her head, were entirely devoid of human warmth.
"You bring a corpse to the hearth," she said, her voice like grinding stones over deep water. "The Lord of Light warms the living, child. He does not concern himself with flesh that has begun to rot."
"Bring him back," you choked out, falling hard onto your knees on the scorching stone floor. Your hands were blistered and bloody, your fingernails caked with dried sea salt and Jace’s decaying skin. "I know your god can do it," you said. "I've heard the stories. The sailors speak of priests who breathe life into the dead. Please."
The priestess walked toward the wooden chest, stepping over your trembling, pathetic form. She lifted the heavy lid with a pale elegant hand, completely unbothered by the sudden, suffocating rush of the Gullet’s stench that filled the sacred chamber. She looked down at Jacaerys— or looked at what remained of him. His skin had taken on the pale, swollen cast of the drowned. Dark curls clung damply to his brow. His lips hung slightly parted, as though caught in the middle of an unfinished breath.
She let out a soft, sharp sound— a dismissive, cruel little laugh.
"There is nothing for him here, girl," she said softly, shutting the lid with a dull echoing thud. "He has gone where all men go."
"No!" You lunged forward, desperately grabbing the hem of her heavy crimson robes. "He is the heir to the Iron Throne. He cannot simply die. He has a purpose. A destiny."
"He is meat," she corrected coldly, pulling her robe from your frantic grip. "And he belongs to the worms. Go home. Weep for him there."
"I will give anything!" you screamed, your voice cracking, tears tracking clean lines through the soot and ash on your face. Your knees struck the stone hard enough to bruise. You scarcely felt it.
“Anything,” you repeated, your voice cracking. “Take my gold. Take my sight. Take my blood. Take my years. Take whatever your god demands, but please— give him back.”
The fire roared in the silence that followed. The priestess did not answer immediately. She simply watched. And you hated her for it. You hated the calmness in her face. Hated the stillness in her posture. Hated the way she looked at you as though she had seen this scene play out a hundred times before.
Perhaps she had.
Perhaps desperate lovers crossed the Narrow Sea every day, dragging coffins behind them and begging the gods to undo what could not be undone.
Slowly, the priestess turned her gaze toward the chest. Toward Jace— or toward what remained of him. The firelight flickered across her face.
“You would give anything?” she asked at last.
“Yes.”
No hesitation— totally devoid of uncertainty. The answer came so quickly that it almost surprised you.
The priestess’ mouth twitched.
“You speak as though sacrifice is simple.”
“I do not care about simple.”
“You should.”
The priestess stepped closer. The hem of her crimson robes whispered across the stone floor. Somewhere beyond the temple walls, a bell began to ring. The sound echoed through the chamber. You barely heard it. Your eyes remained fixed on the priestess.
“If there is a price,” you said quietly, “tell me.” The smile disappeared. The priestess regarded you for a long moment. Then she stepped forward.
Close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off her skin.
Close enough that you could smell smoke clinging to her robes.
Without warning, she lifted a hand.
One pale finger pressed against the center of your chest. Directly over your heart. You hissed. The touch burned. The priestess tilted her head slightly.
Listening.
To your heartbeat.
To the frantic rhythm stumbling against your ribs— to the life still coursing through your veins.
“He has no pulse,” she murmured. Her eyes drifted toward the chest.
“No warmth.”
The pressure of her finger increased.
“No fire.”
You looked up. Firelight flickered across her face, reflected in her eyes until they seemed to burn from within. You swallowed.
The air suddenly felt too thin. Too hot. “If he is to breathe again—“ the priestess continued softly, “—then he must borrow what is missing.”
The realization came before the words. Some instinct deep within you already knew. Your heart began to pound harder. The priestess felt it. Of course she did. A strange look crossed her face. Not pity— but a look somewhere, something close to disappointment.
As though she already knew what your answer would be.
“His heart is silent—” she said. The temple seemed to hold its breath. “—If he is to live, you must give him yours.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The fire roared behind her, filling the silence with its hunger. Shadows flickered across the walls of the temple, stretching and shrinking with every breath of the flames. It felt as though the very chamber was waiting to hear what you would choose.
Jace lay motionless inside the chest.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
The word echoed through your mind. You thought of Dragonstone. To sun-warmed stone beneath your feet. To afternoons spent wandering its halls with nowhere to be and all the time in the world. To Jace’s laughter carried away by the sea wind. To the future you had built so carelessly together—so certain of its existence that neither of you had ever thought to question it.
And suddenly the choice did not feel like a choice at all.
“Take it.”
“Silly girl.”
The words should have angered you— instead… they merely exhausted you.
Her eyes flickered toward the chest.
“You think he will rise, gather you into his arms, and thank you for saving him.”
The corner of her mouth lifted. A sad smile— a cruel one. Or perhaps both.
“You have dragged a corpse across half the world because you cannot bear to let him go.” The flames reflected in her eyes. “And now you stand before me offering your heart as though the gods reward devotion.”
She shook her head.
“The dead do not return unchanged.” But you did not care. You had crossed an ocean. You had slept beside a corpse. You had abandoned reason somewhere in the Narrow Sea.
Whatever warning she intended to give had come too late.
“Take it,” you said again.
And this time, your voice did not tremble— there was nothing uncertain in your voice.
The priestess dragged you to the stone altar beside the chest. The ceremony was not grand. There were no beautiful chants, no comforting prayers. There was only a jagged obsidian blade, the roaring and suffocating heat of the fire, and a pain so agonizing it tore the air from your lungs before you could even scream.
You felt it. The tear. The terrible, visceral pulling of the meat inside your chest. Ribs cracking open like dry twigs under a boot. And then a sudden horrifying emptiness. A vast freezing void where your warmth used to be.
As your vision began to fade into a dull, featureless gray, you heard a sound from the wooden chest. A long, gasping, wet rattle. A horrific, choking intake of breath.
Jacaerys Velaryon lived.
But you did not. Not truly.
When you returned to Westeros, people rarely noticed you unless you wished them to. you kept to the edges of rooms and the backs of crowded halls, more shadow than woman.
The cold never bothered you anymore. Neither did the heat. At first, you thought it was grief.
Then one night, alone in your chambers, you pressed a hand to your chest. And found nothing waiting for you there. No heartbeat, no rhythm— only stillness.
You sat awake until dawn with your hand over your ribs, listening to that terrible silence.
But you could hear it. If you stood close enough to him, you could hear it clearly.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It was loud. It was steady. It was yours. Every time he laughed, every time he sighed, your stolen heart beat violently against his ribs, keeping his resurrected flesh warm.
You thought he would look for you when he woke. You thought your face would be the first thing he searched for. After all— you had crossed an ocean for him. You had carried him through salt and rot and prayer. You had torn your own life apart to stitch his back together.
Surely… that had to mean something.
But when Jacaerys finally opened his eyes in Volantis, something in them felt wrong. Not absent, empty— it was simply… distant.
For a long moment, he stared at the ceiling as though listening to a sound only he could hear. When his gaze finally found yours, there was recognition there. Yet it brought little comfort. He knew your name, he knew who you were, snd yet—he looked at you the way one looks upon a half-forgotten dream after waking— familiar enough to remember, yet somehow out of reach.
The warmth that had once come so easily to him seemed diminished. His smiles were rarer. His laughter quieter.
More often than not, you would catch him staring toward the horizon, his thoughts already leagues away. And though he thanked you for what you had done, though he spoke to you with kindness, there was always something standing between you— a distance neither of you could name.
As if some part of Jace had remained behind in the dark waters of the Gullet, and what returned to you was only what death had chosen to spare.
And then came the North.
By then, the war was over. Rhaenyra Targaryen sat the Iron Throne at last. Lord Cregan Stark rode south with his banners. Yet it was neither the soldiers nor the lord himself that altered the course of your life.
It was the woman who came with them.
You watched from the dark corners of the Great Hall as Jace sat by the roaring fire. You watched him look at her. She was wild, fierce, and smelled of pine, blood, and winter frost. She did not know the boy he used to be, she only knew the resurrected prince, the myth made flesh.
You stood behind a heavy stone pillar, your hand pressed hard against your flat and silent chest, as Jace laughed at something she whispered.
And inside him, your heart leaped.
You felt it. Because it was your heart, you felt the sudden, violent rush of warmth that flooded his veins— you felt the erratic, fluttering skip of the pulse when her fingers brushed his arm— you felt the deep, heavy, suffocating thud of devotion settling into his bones.
He was falling in love with her.
He leaned in, his eyes bright— the very eyes you had bought for him with your own eternal damnation— and pressed his lips to hers.
Across the room, a phantom ache bloomed in your empty chest. A hollow agony that tore through your non-existent soul. You wanted to scream, you wanted to tear your skin open, but you had no breath to catch, no tears to shed.
You could only watch— paralyzed, as the man you destroyed yourself to save gave his smiles, his promises, and his future to another woman.
He loved her completely. He loved her fiercely.
And the worst, most terrifying part of it all— the cruel truth whispered by the red priestess in the smoky dark— was that you knew exactly how much he loved her.
Because the very heart beating for her... was yours.
