Synopsis: He fell from the sky. She rose from the deep. When an unlikely savior pulls a prince back from deathâs door, neither of them can quite stay away from the shore that brought them together.
Word Count: 6.0K
Pairing: Prince!Jacaerys Velaryon x Mermaid!Reader
Genre: Little mermaid au, Jace lives!, fluff
Warnings: Mermaid descriptions of reader but nothing too specific about looks, Jace and Baela arenât betrothed, vermax :(, brief mentions of nudity.
A/N: Based off THIS REQUEST, I hope this doesnât seem rushed :) lowkey used my physics knowledge to make bs up đ„Ž
Divider credits to: @uzmacchiato <3
In a world where dragons roamed the sky and stranger things still lurked in the far reaches of Sothoryos, the existence of merfolk was hardly a thing beyond belief.
Yet for centuries the merfolk had kept to themselves, hidden from human eyes by choice rather than necessity, for the sea was their domain, vast and forgiving, older than any castle built of stone, and they had little wish to share it with a race that seemed forever at war with itself and everything around it.
In time, that same secrecy had turned them into little more than legend, tales spun by sailors over cups of watered wine on nights when the wind howled and the deck rolled beneath them. Sirens were known to lure ships onto rocks with voices sweet enough to make a man forget his own name, and feast on whatever remained once the rocks had finished their work.
Mermaids were a gentler breed by comparison, prone to guiding lost sailors safely home as often as they were blamed for storms and ill weather they had no hand in at all. Two natures entirely, wearing similar faces, and precious few humans who lived long enough to learn the difference between them.
They were beautiful creatures beneath the waves, long tails the colour of pearl and coral fading seamlessly into human torsos, faces too fine and too still to belong to any mortal woman, gill feathers tracing delicate lines along their throats that fluttered faintly with every breath of water drawn through them. Webbing caught the light between their fingers and along the curves of their ears, and their eyes, when a sailor was unlucky or lucky enough to catch one open beneath the surface, ethereal was the word men reached for, when they had any words left at all.
It had been pure chance that placed you so close to the Gullet on the day the battle came, chance and your own incurable curiosity, which your sisters had scolded you for since you were small enough to hide behind their tails.
You had always had a weakness for collecting things. Rings slipped from dead men's fingers, buckles and buttons and the little bronze bells that sailors sometimes wore for luck that had done them no good at all in the end, coins gone green and soft with centuries beneath the salt.
You kept them in the hollow belly of an old sunken hull you had claimed as your own years ago, arranging and rearranging them the way a child arranges shells on a beach, and you were forbidden, absolutely forbidden, from ever breaking the surface to retrieve anything that had not already sunk deep enough to be safely yours. The deep waters near the wreck sites were permitted. The world above the waterline was not.
You had seen fleets pass overhead before, dark hulls cutting shadows across the sunlit shallows, and it had never troubled you much. Ships came and went. Men fought their wars on the surface and left their dead to sink down to you eventually, and you had learned not to think too hard about where the trinkets came from.
What startled you that day, what sent ice through your veins even in water still warm from the summer sun, was the sound. A battle breaking out with no warning at all, not the slow grinding approach you were used to but something sudden and enormous, the water shaking with it as though the sea itself had been struck. Fire that should not have been able to burn beneath the waves somehow did, hissing and spitting where it touched the surface, and ash sifted down through the water like grey snow, and wood came apart in great splintering chunks, and bodies. So many bodies, falling and falling, sinking past you like stones dropped from a terrible height, men who had been laughing and cursing and praying only moments before.
You very nearly got swept into the worst of it yourself. Your pale pink tail caught for one heart-stopping instant on a length of trailing rigging, and you fought and thrashed to free yourself, kicking hard for clearer, deeper water, away from the chaos above. It was then that something struck the surface with such force that the shockwave of it rolled straight through your chest, and you turned back despite every instinct screaming at you to keep swimming, and saw a dragon.
Only the one. You did not know his name yet, though you would come to learn it soon enough. Vermax, green as new leaves, thrashing against water he had never been built to fight, wings beating in great useless sweeps, trying and failing again and again to claw his way back up into a sky that no longer wanted him.
And strapped to his back, tangled in leather that should have kept him safe and now threatened only to drown him with the beast, was a boy.
A very pretty boy, you thought, even through the horror of it, because you had always had a weakness for pretty things as well as shiny ones, and some habits did not care what was happening around them.
He fought his harness with a growing, panicked desperation, one leg caught fast beneath a buckle that would not give no matter how he wrenched at it, and you watched the fight slowly bleed out of him as the water rose past his chin and then his mouth. You watched him press his palm flat against his dragonâs scaled hide, whether in farewell or in simple desperate comfort you could not say, and something inside your chest twisted so hard and so suddenly that it hurt, a feeling you had no name for and no time to think about, and you were moving before your brain had caught up to it.
The buckles gave easily enough beneath your fingers, quick clever things built for human hands rather than merfolk ones but simple enough once you understood the shape of them, all but the one pinning his leg fast, which would not release no matter how you pulled. It was your sister's whalebone dagger, tucked always at your hip, that finally cut him free, the leather parting in one long stroke. By then the boy had gone entirely still, his eyes half open and unseeing.
You spared one moment, only one, though it cost you dearly to spare it, to press your palm flat against Vermaxâs scales in something like an apology, for jot being able to save him. The great beast simply closed his eyes, as if content that his rider had found safer hands than his own to carry him the rest of the way, and sank without a struggle into the dark below, leaving no trace but a slow drift of green scales catching what little light remained.
Surfacing was a huge mistake. You broke into open air in the very heart of the wreckage, ships burning on every side, smoke thick enough to sting your eyes, and had barely a breath to get your bearings before an arrow split the water beside you, close enough that you felt the wind of its passing against your cheek and almost hitting the boy in the neck.
You looked up into a row of crossbows all trained your way, men shouting words you did not understand but whose meaning was plain enough in the set of their shoulders, and understood with sudden, terrible clarity exactly how little difference they would see between a dragonâs rider and whatever monster had come to finish the work the sea had started.
You went back under. Humans could not breathe water, but neither, you thought grimly, dragging the boy's dead weight down with you, could you survive a volley of bolts meant to end lives.
You swam hard and fast and low, keeping to what cover the drifting wreckage offered, dragging him through water gone thick and stinging with smoke and ash, until the sounds of battle fell away behind you into a dull, distant roar and the nearest shore rose dark and welcoming against the horizon. You hauled him up onto the sand with strength you did not know you possessed, adrenaline lending you what your body alone could not, and only then let yourself look at him properly.
Your stomach dropped. His lips had gone the deep, bruised blue of a man already claimed by the sea, his skin pale as the underbelly of a fish, and his chest did not move at all.
The old stories. Your grandmother had told them half as warning and half as wonder, back when you were young enough to still believe every tale she spun, of how a drowned man's lungs might yet be coaxed back to life if the sea inside them was driven out in time, before the body forgot how to want air at all. You laid both palms flat over the centre of his chest, unsure of your own strength, and pressed down hard.
Once. Nothing happened. Panic clawed up your throat.
Twice. Your own breath caught, tight and painful.
Thrice, and you pressed with everything you had left in you, uncaring now whether you cracked something beneath your palms, because a bruise, even a broken rib, was nothing at all set against death.
On the fourth press he convulsed beneath your hands and turned sharply to one side, retching a lungful of seawater onto the sand, coughing so violently his whole body shook with the force of it. You sat back, tail curling instinctively beneath you, heart hammering, and watched the grey slowly bleed out of his face as air, found its way back into him at last.
He did not understand, in that first hazy moment, anything beyond the fact that he was somehow, impossibly, still alive. The world swam in and out of focus around him, blurred and ringing. The last clear memory he had was of Vermax beneath him and the water closing over them both in a great green rush, of struggling against a harness that would not give no matter how he fought it, and then a blurred pale shape cutting toward him through the murk like something out of a half remembered dream, and then nothing at all.
He sat up too quickly. Pain lanced through his skull bright enough to make him gasp, and he only dimly registered that he had knocked someone backward in the process, hearing a small startled sound beside him.
"I am sorry- I did not mean to- are you..." The words died somewhere in his throat.
A hand still rested lightly against his shoulder, small and cool and strange. He gaze followed it down past a bare collarbone, down a torso, and then no legs at all, only a long tail the colour of pale coral, still trembling faintly where it lay half in the surf, catching what little light the dying sun still offered.
His eyes came back up to meet yours. Yours were already wide with fright, caught somewhere between diving straight back into the water and staying just long enough to see what he would do with the knowledge now sitting plainly on his face.
"You," he breathed, and could not seem to manage a single word more than that.
You did not wait to find out what he would say next. You began dragging yourself backward toward the water on your palms, tail scraping over wet sand, and that seemed to break whatever had held him frozen in place, because he scrambled after you across the shore despite the state of his own battered, aching body.
"Wait, please, don't go, who are you? What is your name? Why did you save me? Why?" The questions tumbled out of him faster than you could possibly have answered even if your voice had worked properly, one tripping over the next, desperation making him clumsy with his words. When you opened your mouth to try anyway, nothing came at all, no sound, not even a whisper. You touched two fingers to your throat and shook your head slowly.
"You cannot speak?"
You nodded, something apologetic in the tilt of your head.
There was no simple way to explain it to him, not with gestures alone, that merfolk voices were shaped and tuned for the weight and pressure of deep water and simply could not survive in air thin and empty as this, so you only looked at him, sorry, and slid a little further back toward the tideline, the cool water lapping welcome against your tail.
"Wait!" He was on his feet now, unsteady, swaying slightly as he turned to take in the shore around him properly for the first time. "This is Driftmark- I think- and that," he pointed to a dark shape rising jagged from the water in the distance, smoke still curling faintly from somewhere within the battle behind them, "that's Dragonstone. That is where I live. I must find some way to thank you properly, I do not even know how yet, but I will. I swear it."
You gave him one last long look, drinking in the sight of him properly now that the worst of the danger had passed, pale and shaking and utterly unlike anyone you had ever pulled from the wreckage before, and nodded once before the water closed silently over your head.
What he did not know, could not have known, was that you had not truly gone. You lingered just beneath the surface, hidden in the shallows where the light still reached, watching as the full weight of what he had lost caught up to him at last.
You watched his shoulders begin to shake, watched him sink slowly to his knees on the wet sand as the grief he had been too shocked to feel finally broke over him, grieving the bond severed so suddenly with his dragon, a bond you understood was not so different from the ones your own kind shared with the great whales that sometimes let mermaids ride upon their backs through the deep currents. You felt sad and helpless and entirely too far away to do anything about either, your own chest aching in sympathy for a boy you did not even know the name of yet.
Trinkets, you thought at last, retreating slowly deeper into the water where the cold and the dark could swallow the strange, unfamiliar feeling sitting heavy in your chest. I will bring him pretty things. Pretty things always help. Everyone knows that.
By the time Jace made it back to Dragonstone, disguised as best his battered state allowed, the sun had long since set and the castle had already begun to mourn a prince presumed lost at sea.
Rhaenyra, who had spent the whole of that day and the one before convincing herself, against every hope, that he was truly gone, very nearly lost her composure entirely at the sight of him standing whole in the doorway of her solar, swaying but breathing, and threatened violence on anyone who dared suggest it a cruel trick before she was even certain of it herself.
Then he was close enough to touch, close enough that she could feel the warmth still clinging to him despite the cold seawater soaked through every layer of his clothes, and she crossed the room in three swift strides and pulled him into an embrace so fierce it near cracked his ribs, one hand cradling the back of his neck the way she had when he was small enough to carry on her hip.
She pulled back only far enough to strike him hard across the face, the sound of it sharp in the quiet room, then dragged him straight back into her arms before he had time to recover from either the blow or the embrace that followed it.
"Never," she whispered fiercely against his hair, "never again. Do you understand me?"
Jace made no complaint about any of it. He only held on, breathing in the familiar smell of her, flowery and something that had always simply meant home no matter where in the world he found himself, and let himself be scolded and forgiven in the very same breath, over and over, until the shaking in his hands finally began to still.
There would be time to explain everything later, the mermaid and the potion he did not yet know he would go looking for and the strange ache already settling in his chest at the thought of never seeing her again. Tonight he only wanted this, his motherâs arms and the solid stone floor beneath his feet and the simple, overwhelming relief of being alive.
It was two full days before he saw you again, two days that felt considerably longer to both of you than their number suggested.
He had taken to walking the shore each evening as the sun went down, though he offered no one an explanation for it beyond a vague murmur about wanting air, and Rhaenyra, watching her son closely for any sign of the grief she knew still sat unresolved in him, chose not to press the matter, not yet.
On the second such evening, with the light turning gold and heavy across the water at the very edge of dusk, a small shape broke the surface some distance out from where he stood. Only your eyes showed at first, wary, scanning the beach with the caution of a creature that had learned, however briefly, exactly what danger humans could pose. Once you were certain he was truly alone, no soldiers, no crossbows waiting in the shadows, you swam closer, arms full of things gathered carefully from the seafloor over the two long days you had spent working up the courage to return.
He laughed before he could help himself, disbelieving, because you had brought him what looked like a small fortune of drowned treasure: coins gone green with centuries of salt, sea glass worn to the smoothness of river stones in every colour from deep emerald to pale, milky blue, pearls still crusted faintly with the ghosts of the shells that had once held them, all of it cradled carefully against your chest as though it were the finest gift any king had ever received.
"For me?" He pressed a hand to his own chest, incredulous, and you beamed and nodded so hard your whole body shook with the force of it, tail flicking once against the shallows in what he would later come to recognise as excitement.
"I have nothing half so precious to give you in return," he said, quieter now, kneeling properly in the wet sand so that he was closer to your level, and you shook your head firmly, as if to tell him that was hardly the point of any of it, that gifts given freely required nothing given back.
He knelt at the waterline for a long while that evening and talked, filling the silence you could not, telling you his name, his House, that he was a prince of Dragonstone and heir to something called an Iron Throne that sounded, from the little he explained, far heavier a burden than any crown ought to be. Your eyes lit at the word prince, delighted, and you pointed to your own chest in turn, tapping it twice for emphasis.
"A princess, then?" he guessed, and you nodded, pleased as anything with yourself, and something in his chest that had been wound painfully tight since the moment the water closed over his head two days before finally began, slowly, to loosen.
You tried, that first proper evening, to tell him other things too, though the telling was slow and clumsy without words. You drew shapes in the wet sand with one finger, a rough sketch of a tail, of waves, of something that might have been a whale or might simply have been a very poor circle, and Jace watched with a fascination that made you strangely warm beneath your scales, guessing at your meaning and laughing softly whenever he guessed wrong, which was often.
When the moon rose high enough that you knew you had to leave, you leaned in and pressed a quick, shy kiss to his cheek, as if to tell him not to be sad any longer, that you would return, that whatever grief still lived behind his eyes need not be carried entirely alone. That Vermax lay peacefully beneath the sea. And if he had been pretty enough to catch a second glance from you even amid the chaos of a burning battlefield, well.
You had always liked pretty things, and you saw no shame in admitting it, even silently, even only to yourself.
In the days that followed, Jace found himself buried in the library far more often than seated at council, a fact that did not escape his mother's notice for long. The war, if it could even still be properly called that, had cooled in the aftermath of the battle into something closer to a wary, watchful peace, both sides circling cautiously around the idea of parley rather than open slaughter, and so Rhaenyra could afford, for the first time in longer than she cared to admit, to spend her worry on her son rather than entirely on her crown.
It was on the seventh day since his return that she finally cornered him about it, finding him hunched over a table stacked high with scrolls he had clearly been picking through for hours, Daemon lounging nearby against a bookshelf with a look of a man who had already scented an amusing story and had no intention whatsoever of leaving before he heard the whole of it.
"The one who saved me from the water," Jace admitted at last, ears burning red under his mother's steady gaze, "was a mermaid. I have been meeting her at dusk every evening since. She brings me gifts."
Silence, and then Daemon's low, delighted laugh rang out across the quiet library. "A fish," he said, "has stolen my sonâs heart. Rhaenyra, did you hear that? A fish."
"She is not a fish," Jace snapped, mortified, colour flooding all the way up to the tips of his ears, and would say nothing further no matter how Daemon pressed him for details, though his ears stayed scarlet the rest of the evening and he refused, quite pointedly, to look either of them in the eye.
It was only once they were alone, Daemon finally chased off by some matter of ships needing his attention, that Rhaenyra asked, more gently now, what exactly he hoped to find buried in all those old scrolls.
He confessed it slowly, haltingly, that he was searching for some means of letting you speak properly above the water, because you listened to him so patiently each evening, tilting your head at his every word as though nothing he said could ever bore you, and he found, to his own quiet surprise, that he wanted very badly to hear your voice in return, to know what you sounded like when you laughed instead of simply seeing it in the curve of your mouth.
Something in her face softened at that, the last of the earlier sternness melting away entirely. She crossed the room and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, something she would often do when he was but a babe and even now.
"I nearly lost you once already," she said quietly. "I do not think I would survive losing you a second time, not truly. If this girl from the sea brings you peace after everything, then that peace is worth more to me than I can properly measure. I will help you find your answer, if I am able. You have only to ask."
He thanked her, throat tight, and went to bed that night lighter than he had felt in a very long time.
By the tenth day, though, his search had turned up nothing but dust and disappointment, page after page of tidal charts and shipping records that told him everything about the sea and nothing at all about the creatures who lived beneath it, and he was scowling so fiercely at a particularly useless scroll that he did not hear Baela approach until she dropped a stack of books onto the table hard enough to make him jump nearly out of his seat.
"What have I told you about pouting, cousin? It hardly befits a prince, especially not one so recently returned from the dead."
"I am not pouting," he said, pouting.
She laughed, unbothered, and pushed the books toward him anyway, settling into the chair across from him with the satisfied air of someone bearing very good news. "Found these buried in the old archive, behind a shelf half the household seems to have forgotten existed. Scrolls on sea creatures, potions, that sort of thing, all written in the old tongue. Some of it looks to go back to Old Valyria itself, if the binding is anything to judge by. Thought they might serve you better than moping about the library like a wet cat."
His whole face changed, disappointment giving way so suddenly to hope that Baela laughed again just watching it happen. He thanked her so earnestly, gripping her hands in both of his, that she looked half embarrassed by the whole display and waved him off with a mock scowl of her own, and then he buried himself in the texts for the rest of the day and well into the night, barely stopping to eat, ink staining his fingers as he copied out passage after passage by candlelight.
The gods, it seemed, had finally decided to smile down upon him after everything, because tucked among the brittle, crumbling pages he found precisely what he had been searching for all along: an old Valyrian draught, described in cramped, faded script, said to grant a creature of the sea, mermaid or siren alike, a brief and temporary span of human legs, the magic bound to fade again once enough days had passed.
Gathering the ingredients took the better part of two more days, some of them common enough to find in any well stocked kitchen and others requiring correspondence sent quietly to a maester on the mainland who asked no questions he clearly did not wish answered, and finding an alchemist both skilled and discreet enough to brew the whole of it properly took longer still. But by the fourteenth day since the battle, Jace stood at the shoreline at dusk with a small vial clutched tight in one hand, its contents glowing faintly violet in the fading light, and his heart hammering somewhere up near his throat.
You surfaced as you always did by then, cautious first, scanning the shore out of old habit, then delighted once you saw him standing alone, swimming in swiftly with your usual haul of shells and drowned bottles clutched against your chest. He knelt at the waterline and, for once, did not simply talk about his day or ask after yours in the halting, gestured way you had both grown so used to.
He explained the potion instead, slowly, carefully, holding the vial up so you could see the strange violet light swirling within it, watching your face closely all the while for any sign that this was too much, too strange, too great a thing to ask of you.
You went very quiet. Your brow furrowed the way it always did when you turned something over carefully in your mind, weighing it from every side, and Jace, who had come to know that expression well over a fortnight of evenings spent together, made himself sit still and wait, though every part of him wanted to fill the silence with reassurance.
"It is only if you wish it," he said softly, when the silence had stretched long enough that he could not help himself any longer. "I would never have you feel forced into anything on my account, not after everything you have already given me. If you would rather not, I will understand completely, and I will still come to see you each evening, just as I have."
You studied the vial a long moment more, turning the choice over one final time, thinking of your sisters and the warnings you had grown up hearing about the dangers of the world above, of legs that were not truly yours and a voice that might vanish again the moment the magic faded.
Then you looked at him, at the earnest hope he could not quite hide no matter how he tried, and something in your face settled at last, resolve chasing out the last of the hesitation, and you nodded.
He could have wept from the sheer relief of it. He handed you the vial with hands that were not entirely steady, and you drank it down in a single determined swallow, immediately screwing your face up at the taste, which was somehow both bitter and sickly sweet beneath it, like rot dressed up in honey, and Jace laughed at the disgusted noise you made.
The change came almost at once, faster than either of you had quite expected. Your tail began to glow faintly from within, the violet light spreading through the coral pink scales, and then, slowly, the scales themselves began to dissolve and reshape, splitting and lengthening before your very eyes.
You watched it happen to your own body with something closer to wonder than fear, propping yourself up on your elbows in the shallow water to see it better. It did not hurt, not truly, only felt strange, an unfamiliar pulling and settling sensation that ran the length of what had been your tail only moments before, and then, quite suddenly, you had legs. Two of them, unfamiliar and entirely new to you, kicking weakly in the shallows as you tried, with no success at all, to make them do anything useful.
It was Jace who first remembered, with a start that nearly gave him whiplash, that you now had absolutely nothing on at all beneath the water. He spun to face the other direction so fast he nearly lost his footing on the wet sand, hurriedly unclasping his own travelling cloak and passing it back over his shoulder to you without turning around, ears burning scarlet all over again.
"Here, please, wrap this around yourself, I am so sorry, I did not think- I should have thought of it before you drank the wretched thing."
You took the cloak, bewildered by the whole strange business of clothing, and wrapped it clumsily about yourself as best you could manage with limbs that still refused to cooperate properly.
"Why," you whispered, voice thin and strange and entirely your own, and both of you went utterly, completely still.
"You spoke," Jace said, turning back around despite himself, eyes wide with wonder, all thought of modesty forgotten entirely.
"I did," you said, marvelling at the strange, thin sound of your own voice carrying through open air, so unlike the way words moved and pressed through water, lighter somehow, and stranger, but yours all the same.
He knelt properly before you then in the wet sand, something almost formal in the gesture despite how thoroughly absurd the whole moment truly was, both of them soaked and shivering and grinning like fools, and asked if he might finally know the proper name of the maiden who had pulled him back so stubbornly from death's door.
You told him. Your name, spoken aloud for the first time in your life, and that you were the seventh daughter of a house that ruled beneath the narrow sea, a true princess in every sense, just as you had claimed all along through nothing but gestures and a proud tilt of your chin.
"I know this may only last a short while," Jace said, still kneeling, still holding your hands as though he feared letting go might undo the magic.
"And I mean to keep searching, if that is what you wish, for some way to make it last longer, or even permanent. But for now, will you come and meet my family properly? They ought to see, with their own eyes, the girl who saved their prince from the bottom of the Gullet."
You tried to stand at that, eager and entirely too confident in limbs you had possessed for all of ten minutes, and discovered immediately that legs demanded a coordination and strength the sea had never once asked of you. You stumbled, pitched forward, and landed hard on your knees in the wet sand with a startled, frustrated huff.
You tried again, gripping his shoulder for balance this time, and managed perhaps three wobbling steps before your legs betrayed you a second time, sending you tumbling sideways with a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan of pure exasperation.
Jace, biting back a laugh of his own though it clearly threatened to escape, knelt beside you and tightened the cloak properly around your shoulders, then slid one arm behind your back and the other beneath the crook of your knees, lifting you up into his arms with far more ease than his still-recovering body should reasonably have allowed.
"I will teach you to walk properly," he promised, adjusting his grip as you settled, somewhat stiffly, against his chest, your new legs kicking experimentally against nothing at all. "Though I think that particular lesson is better suited to daylight and a rather softer patch of ground than this. Just now I have limited time before the magic fades, and I intend to make the very most of it while I can."
The jaws that dropped when Jacaerys Velaryon strode into Dragonstoneâs great hall carrying a girl in his arms, salt still drying in tangled waves through her hair, wrapped in nothing but his own travelling cloak and kicking her bare feet with open, delighted fascination at the strange new sensation of having feet at all, were a sight none of the household would soon forget, and several among the kitchen staff would still be whispering about weeks later.
Baela nearly dropped the tray she was carrying. Rhaenaâs mouth fell open mid sentence and simply stayed that way. You met Rhaenyra and Daemonâs twin looks of open astonishment with wide, curious eyes of your own, entirely unbothered by the attention, as though growing an entirely new pair of legs within the hour were the most ordinary thing in all the world, and gave the queen a doe eyed stare that made it very difficult indeed for anyone in that hall to remain suspicious for long.
Daemon was the first to find his voice, low and disbelieving, a slow grin spreading across his face. âWell- damn. He wasnât kidding about the fish.â
Rhaenyraâs palm found the back of his head before he had even finished speaking, a sharp, swift smack that made him yelp and rub at the spot, wounded.
âMind your tongue,â she warned, though there was little real heat in it, her gaze already softening as it moved from Daemon back to her son and the girl held so carefully in his arms.
In the end, there was little else for anyone present to do but believe it, however improbable the tale sounded when spoken aloud: that the lost prince of Dragonstone had indeed been pulled from the bottom of the sea by a little mermaid, and that she, in turn, without quite meaning for it to happen at all, had followed him all the way home.
summary â while combing the beach for treasures, you stumble upon the unconscious, grievously injured body of a soldier. you decide to help him, but in doing so find love in a man that may never be able to return it. (11.4k)
featured â jacaerys velaryon / fem!reader
content â spoilers! tread carefully, fluff and ANGST, angst w/ a happy ending, hurt/comfort, canon divergent, jace lives, light medical descriptions, reader cares a lot for jace, dual pov!!!, inexplicit mental health struggles (readerâs deceased father), dead vermax âč, 18+ MDNI implied sexual content/fade-to-black, tw there is a baby
a/n â am i anywhere near caught up with hotd? no. did i write this in spite of that? yes. i'm sorry if things don't make sense or are not in line with canon. the wiki and i did our best!
(cross-posted on ao3)
The cerulean waves lap at the silver beach, ebbing and flowing with the morrowâs breeze. Quiet has finally settled on the shores after a night of war and destruction. A battle beyond these argent sands occurred out in the gullet. All night, the savagery had kept you awake. This morrow, you collect treasures from your fish nets.
You step carefully across the sands, adjusting your silk scarf tighter around your mouth and nose. You bend the knee at the first net.
You heave it onto the shore. Nothing except too-small pieces of fabric and inedible shelled fish are in this one. You empty it and release the fish back to the embrace of the sea.
You stand again, taking a few more steps down. Your mind drifts as you fall into a rhythm of checking these nets, pocketing pretty shells and scraps of metal. Wonder pricks at the back of your neck as you imagine the war. As the lone tenant of this pier, you had never had to consider the rites of the Targaryen rulers. Most of your neighbors had already chosen their sides, even if it did not really matter in the scheme of thingsâneither of those fighting for the throne cared for their subjects, especially not those at the bottom, like you.
Rulers like these bled the common man dry while claiming it to be an act of love.
You move a little rougher with the next net. Nothing but rocks and debris in this one. You imagine it will be a while until you find a worthy treat. The Gods are usually not as generous on solemn days like these. War makes monsters out of men, and the Gods scorn those who partake.
When you stand again, your eyes drift a little further down the bank. At the edge of the shore, a clump of trees catch your gaze. The water is darker there, cloaked in shadow. The shrubbery bends so far, it almost touches the water. You draw closer, eyebrows furrowed.
A dark lump sits entangled by brush, barely concealed by the cluster of foliage. You draw closer, hesitantly. As your eyes adjust, you realize it is not a lump of debris, but a body. Your breaths quicken.
If the person is alive, would it hurt you? Never trust a soldier, your father had once told you.
You bend your knee just as if you are checking a fish net. Your hands unfurl from your sides, reaching out hesitantly. You can only see his body. It is clothed in thick leather, a quality of which youâve never seen before. Several arrows stick out of his torso. A pool of blood stains the sand maroon beneath him.
You pull back the shrubbery to see his face. You startle at the sight, falling back onto your bum.
His eyesâthey were openâalbeit, he did not seem to see much of anything. His skin was not grey and placid like the bodies that you had seen before. Worse, youâd heard something when you held yourself over him. A breath, shuddering through his parted lips.
âAlive,â you whisper in awe. To survive so many arrows, then the tumultuous sea⊠it would take more than just courage. It would take something otherworldly. You know then that your decision has been made.
A huge piece of driftwood sits beneath him in the sand. You push it aside to straddle him. Gently, you grab his arm and sling it around your neck.
The rest of your journey back to the cabin passes in a frenzied blur. You move quickly, trying to spend as little time as possible forcing the grievously hurt man onto his feet. He lets out little grumbles as you move, head lolling this way and that like a puppet cut from its strings. You make it inside and push open the door that your father used to live, laying him onto his back on the bed.
Blood immediately infiltrates the off-white of the duvet, crimson floating before your vision. He groans continuously as you break the ends off of the arrowsâserving as a reminder to the heart that still valiantly pumped beneath his ribs. Once they are off, you are able to slide the armor off.Â
The tunic comes easily. It seems to be made of a material that deflects water, so when you drop it onto the floor, a puddle of liquid forms in its spot. You struggle a little with his breechesâthough, those too come easily with a little pull.
After he is naked, you stare at his body in silence for a moment. You have helped men with injuries before. Arrow injuries just like these, even. But youâd never helped a man with this many.Â
You reach out to touch his cold cheek. He is so youngâhad to be your own age. Too young for the cruel, unflinching hold of war. Gently, you close his eyelids, shutting away the dark brown of his unseeing gaze. He did not need to be witness to this.
You steel your nerves and clench your fists a few times to breathe life back into your numb fingers. Reaching into the bedside table, you grab your suppliesâbandages, a bottle of rum, a couple cloths, and several blunt blades.
âIâm sorry, if you are awake,â you tell him, poising the knife along the edge of one of the arrow heads. âThis will hurt a lot.â
Hours pass quickly under your blade. Each of the five arrows is cut away, sewn with fishing line, disinfected with rum, and bandaged tightly. Sweat falls into your eyes as you step away triumphantly, and you lift a hand to brush it off. As they are levelled with your eyes, you realize your hands are a bloody mess. Your stomach churns and you force the appendages away.
You hover over him a moment longer. You study the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering of his eyelids. He had a strong nose and jaw, thick dark eyelashes and a head of water-matted brunet hair. By all appearances, he was quite common-looking. He had the complexion and hair of any man youâd pass on the way to town. But something about himâthe quality of his armor, the blemishlessness of his skin, it screamed something ethereal.
But even Gods can be killed.Â
Your mystery man is not out of the woods yet. The chances of any of those arrows not nicking anything inside him is next to none. Heâs also lost a lot of blood. The sheets are covered in it, not to mention the amount he was sure to have lost at sea.
You draw the hair sea-slicked to his head away from his forehead. Your hand slides to cup his cheek. He might never wake again. Your kind hand may be the last he knows. You wonder how many people missed himâif they were sitting with baited breaths, waiting for him to write. If only you could ease their worries.
You pull away and leave the room before your eyes can fill with traitorous saltwater tears.
There are few certainties in life. Ever since you were but a child, you had recognized this. Life is tumultuous and unfair. It takes and it takes, until you can give no longer.Â
The sea is a comfort. She does not take, she gives. Usually, she gives you more valuable things than a body, but you try not to question her motives.
Itâs been a day since you patched him and he still has not woken. His chest continues to move despite this disconcerting sign, and that remains your only comfort. You stood near-vigil at his beside for most of the hours following. Anticipatory nerves fill your every waking second, even at night when you lay awake trying to sleep.
You recognize that the danger has not fully passed for him. He had not had water in who knows how long. Eventually, his organs would fail due to dehydration and blood loss. That is, if the internal bleeding didnât kill him first.
You also cannot help the hope that blooms in your chest as you gaze upon his face. Perhaps it is the fact that his skin seems more alive as of late. The fact that you have seen his eyes move behind his eyelids more and more often. The fact that you were quite insufferably lonely, and therefore latched onto any individual who came your wayâalive or barely, as in the case of this man in your cabin.
You want him to survive because you want to know him. It is a thought that scares you as much as it invigorates you.
By his bedside, after a long morrow of scavenging by the tide, you dump your satchel of goodies on the now-clean duvet. (Now that had been annoying to doâhaving to move his admittedly quite heavy body over to remove the sheets). You begin to sort through them, cataloging them.
The silence is unsettling, so you begin to speak.
âThe sea has been kind this morrow,â you say softly. You pick up a smooth rainbow shell, twisting it this way and that in the light. âThese will sell for a couple of silvers.â
You put the shell down and then grab your cloth, gently stroking away sand and debris.
âMy father taught me to do this,â you tell the man, âhe taught me everything I know.â
Satisfied with its shimmer, you trade the shell for a clam. You pop it open forcefullyâapologizing profusely to the creature as you didâand stick your fingers into the dark crevice you created.
âNo pearl,â you report when your fingers come up empty. You bring the clam up to your eyes, stroking its now-broken shell. âIâm sorry, friend.â
The last piece had been one you were excited for. You grab the shrapnel of metal gently in your palms, categorizing the weight and feel of it with your hands.Â
âProbably off a shield,â you decide. âIâm sure a blacksmith would like this.â
You put the metal down and let out a heavy sigh. You stare at the man, worrying your lip between your teeth. Perhaps some foolish part of you had hoped he would wake up to the sound of your voice, like the stories you had read as a girl.
But life is no story, as you had to continually remind yourself. Things like that just didnât happen.
You go through a few other bits and bobs in silence, mood dampened by reality. A couple of small shells, a nail, and a scrap of maroon fabric. You arenât sure why you grabbed the fabricâperhaps youâd wanted to try and sew something. It is quite pretty, you decide. It had belonged to someone once.
Once you finish polishing the items, you lift your head up to look at the man. Thoughts and images flash through your mind. What was he like? You wonder. He seems strong, based on his broad shoulders and defined stomach. But he also didnât have the worn skin of a common man. He didnât have callouses on his hands or fading scars upon his torso. He had to be a prince, you decide. A prince of a faraway land, hoping to bargain peace between the two feuding Targaryen houses.
You nod, satisfied with that recreation of events. Yes, a prince. A just, altruistic one. Perhaps he knew of the war and wished to come and save the small-folk.
You look down at his pale hand resting lifelessly upon the duvet. You swallow thickly.Â
âYou must wake soon,â you whisper, âthe kingdom needs you.â
He does not stir. You sigh and gather your things into your satchel. If he is still not awake by the morrow, you decide, you will return his body to the sea.
That evening, you sit at the table with a plate of roasted fish and a glass of water. The fish is one of two meals you eat regularly. The other was for special occasions, depending on if you were able to procure bread and potatoes at the markets.Â
You always eat the eye of the fish first. You do not like it looking at you as you eat its flesh. It feels wrong. The eye is not very tasty, though. The odd texture always makes you vaguely nauseousâthe gooey, chewy ball. Your father had always laughed at you when you ate fish. He was not of an imaginative mind. He did not see the fish as being once alive, like you did. He did not imagine it swimming beneath the tide, with all its other fishy friendsâbefore it was snared by ruthless hands and suffocated by the open air.
You stare at the vacant chair across from you with an empty feeling in your chest. It had been so long since you had a companion at supper time. Your father had not spoken much, but his presence alone was always enough to keep you happy. He is gone now, like with the ebbing of the tide, and all that is left is the shadow of the person he used to be.
His fishing pole, next to the door. His journal, where he kept extensive notes about what he found out on the sea during the day. His bed that now had a new, warm body sleeping in it.
You wonder what your father would have done, had he found the man. You take another bite of the fish, forcing it down with a thick swallow. Would he have left him? You had never thought of him as being cruel, but you also know he loathed unwelcome responsibility. He had enough of an imagination to conjure horrible images of betrayal and hurt, and so you decide he probably wouldnât have brought him home to you. He had too much to lose to do so. Everyone did.
And so why did you? Perhaps, you think, you have lost everything that matters most to you already.
You stare down at the limp skeleton of the fish on your plate. You had never seen a person die of dehydration. Your father had once told you a story about a man he knew that had, and it sounded awful.Â
You pick up your dinner knife, a sharp, clean-edged blade, and hold it in the candlelight. The silver edge catches the light, highlighting the sharp point. Your hand trembles as you study it.
Would it be quick, painlessâslitting the sleeping princeâs throat? Or would it be messy and painful? Would it draw him out of sleep and would he gaze upon you with hurting eyes as he clutched the gaping hole in his neck?
Regret gnaws at you. As time draws on, you begin to think that the mercy you had granted your prince had been nothing but a farce. That by saving him for one moment had only just prolonged his suffering.
You put the knife in your satchel and stand. It is cruel, keeping a person alive only to die in a violent manner like thisâit is inhumane.Â
You take quick steps to the bedroom.Â
You have never killed a person before. Your father had plenty. He always said the eyes, you can hear his voice in your mind now, the eyes are always the worst part.Â
You canât eat the princeâs eyes like you can the fishâs. No matter what you did, you would have to see those eyes. And with it, the betrayal. You stand over his prone body now.Â
A sliver of moonlight streams in from the open window behind you, casting cool light across the heaving chest. He remains impassive, completely unaware of what you were about to do. You do not realize you are crying until you bring the knife up to your eyes and catch a glimpse of your face in the silver.
âIâŠI am sorry, friend,â you repeat the same mantra you had told so many clams before as you pried your fingers in their mouths, looking for a pearl. âBut this is a mercy.â
Your hands tremble like windblown seagrass as you lift the knife against his skin. A moment of hesitation prevents you from acting. And it is just enough for a pale hand to wrap around your own and for dark eyes to snap open.
âWaaa-ter.â
You let out a sharp gasp and yank your hand away. The man watches you, his visage crumpled with pain.
He repeats himself, voice quieter than the first time. âWater, pleaseâŠâ
You move into action. You dart out of the room, hands fumbling with the metal bucket by your door. You run across the moonlit shore to the well that sits on the edge of the woods. Quickly, you fill the bucket. You curse yourself all the whileâmind racing in what-ifs and guilt-ridden condemnations.Â
You heave the bucket back into the house and grab the same goblet you had used with your own water. You take a huge scoop and shuffle back into the bedroom like a child caught with their hand on the sweets plate.
The man is still awake when you re-enter, his eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. You drop next to him on the bed and angle his head and neck up onto the pillows behind him. Finally, you fulfill his request. He drinks like a man in Essos who has wandered the Red Waste for weeks; heavy, desperate gulps of the liquid. Some fall and drip down his side, which you dab away with a nearby cloth.
When he finally drinks it all, he pulls back, his breaths labored and eyes half-lidded.
âWâŠWhere am I?â he finally says once he has caught his breath. You notice him scanning the room as if trying to find the answer written in the stone.
You decide not to answer honestly. You fear what his reaction will be if he forces himself to recall the battle. Instead you say, âyou are safe.â
He stares at you as if only just noticing you. His dark eyes are swallowed almost completely by night, exhausted and ridden with heavy bags. He lifts a hand, as if to touch you, but it falls short. His eyes flutter, and then shut.
He falls unconscious. You touch two hands to his chest to confirm his heart still beats steadily. You let out a breath you had not realized you captured when you find his pulse.
Shame hits you like a tidal wave. You were going to⊠you were going to kill him. You are shocked at the tears that swim in your eyes. You stand in a hurryânot without remembering to pull the duvet back up to his chestâand stumble out of the room.Â
The adrenaline has all but worn away now. Tears clog your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. You allow yourself to feel the emotionsâall of them. Relief, shame, exhaustion, and fear overwhelm you completely and you can do nothing but sob. On the table in front of you, the skeleton of the fish and the silver knife mock you without having to say a word.
Waking feels like drowning. Fighting against the wave ahead of you, trying to get your head above water. Then when you finally surface, you fall behind the waves again.
Jacaerys wakes to the sun in his eyes and a warmth around his waist. He thinks for a moment, perhaps, he is in a dream. Another barrier between him and wakefulness. Then, the pain hits him. No, dreams donât feel like this.
The groan stumbles past his lips before he can stop it and his eyes shoot open. Everything is pain. It surrounds him like dragonfire and steals his breath. He trembles as he uses all his strength to cradle his side.
âGods,â he murmurs. He feels beneath his fingers the familiar texture of a bandage. Someone helped him.
Helped him. Helped him from what? He gasps as memory rolls over him. Drowning. Arrows piercing through skin and muscle. A dragonâs roar of pain. No, not just any dragonâ
âVermax,â he cries out, tears springing to his eyes. No, no, noâŠ
But it was true. His mind had never failed him before. His dragon. His beautiful dragon. Falling to the bottom of the ocean like a shipâs anchor. He tries to move, to jump to his feet, but he canât. Pain ricochets up his side, and he can literally feel the side of his chest pulling taut.Â
He stares at the ceiling above him with tears fogging his eyes and coating his tongue in salt. For one long moment, he despairs. Why? Why would he be punished this way? Forced to live without Vermax? The bond between rider and dragon could notâshould not be severed. Not by something as futile as war. He canât breathe, canât think. Everything is despair.
He should have died. Living is not a gift in this condition. His knuckles go white against the duvet. Anger sweeps over himâhot, potent fury.
He curses everyone who caused this. Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, even fucking Helaena. He doesnât care. Theyâll all pay.
But not like this. He finally shuffles himself into a seated position, cringing at the pain that shoots from every direction. Every small movement feels like another arrow tearing his skin.Â
His feet are unsteady as he finds his footing. For a second, he fears he might not be able to even walk. Then, he finds himself. He grabs his breeches off the table and slowly, painfully, shrugs them on. He leaves his chest bareâunable to even think about having to lift his arms over his head. He keeps one hand on the wall and the other around his waist as he stumbles across the room.Â
The place he is in is frighteningly humble. Thereâs nothing unnecessary here. Everything has a purpose, a function. No gilded armoires, tall candlesticks, or commissioned portraits. Bare, cobblestone walls, sparse furniture (all glaringly handmade and rustic), and cobwebs hanging in every corner.Â
Jacaerys moves slowly from the room he started in to the short hallway that opens into a tiny living area. A large fireplace is the only comfort to him. A pot of a molten, unappetizing glob bubbles above the waning fire.Â
There are very few personal effects here. Nothing to propose any kind of hint or insight. Out the window of the front of the ramshackle building, he sees amber light flickering across a wide sea.
His breath shudders out of his lips. He doesn't recognize this place at all. Heâs hurt. He has no dragon. Heâs never felt worse in his entire life.
All of what energy he summoned flees him in that moment. He practically collapses into a nearby chair and it creaks pathetically under his weight. He hangs his head and a soft sob escapes his lips.Â
Tears tremble down his cheeks and onto the wood table beneath his hand. His mind races, memory and pain and fury collide in a war of its very own. Vermax, his mind strays. The perfect dragon. Gone. He digs his nails into the grain of the table beneath his hands, trying to recapture something to ground him. Short, hyperventilating breaths escape his lipsâhis vision fogs.
Then, everything clears. His hands unclench and he leans back in the chair. He stares at the ceiling, measuring his breaths. You are still alive, he tells himself. Therefore you are still useful.
Because perhaps that was his real fear. That he would no longer be of useâthat he would no longer be worth fighting for. Heâd always measured his worth in terms of what he could provide to his mother. Perhaps the truth is that his worth stretches beyond that.
He hears the sound of crunching footsteps outside. He sits up in the chair, eyes flickering toward the door. Ahead of him, he notices with a jolt, a knife lay discarded on the table. He grabs it before he can think the better of it, brandishing it like he actually could fight his way out of this mess.
He ignores the pain throbbing in his side and pushes himself to stand again. He wonât die now. He canât.
The door creaks open slowly, and he angles the knife in front of himself protectively.Â
But the figure that crosses the threshold isnât what heâd been expecting. Wide eyes and a mouth fallen open into an oval. Hands clutching a satchel of⊠is that a seashell?Â
She drops the satchel with immediacy, hands flying into the air. Jacaerys thinks he hears something break inside.
He keeps the arm holding the knife up despite the involuntary tremble that has begun in his arm. A cool sweat travels down his temple. His vision wanes. Despite her⊠figure (she hadnât brandished a weapon a day in her life, he thinks), he knows looks can be deceiving.Â
âYouâre up.â She does not immediately acknowledge the weapon in his hand. Sheâs either brave or simply ignorant. Jace is not sure what heâs more afraid of.
âWhoââ he starts to speak, but he breaks into a coughing fit. His throat feels like it is on fire. She takes a step forward, as if to help or harm him, but he freezes her in place when he turns his gaze back onto her warningly. âWho are you?â
She tells him her name. Then she quickly adds, âyou washed up on the beach in front of my cabin. I found you.â
He bends over to clutch his side. He notices her eyes widen.
âPlease, Iâm not sure you should be up. You sustained massive injuries,â she tells him. âYour body needs rest.â
âI cannotââ he scoffs, then coughs again. âI cannot simply rest. I must leave. I mustâŠâÂ
A pang in his side makes him gasp and hunch over. The knife falls with a clatter against the floor but he canât seem to bring himself to retrieve it. Everything feels like it is in slow motion, out of his reach and control.
She grabs him around the waist before he tips over. He stays conscious long enough for her to lead him back to bed, but he falls within the waves again the second his head hits the pillow.
Consciousness returns to him in fragments. The sound of footsteps by his head. A burning pain spreading up his chest, to which he thinks he shouts, but cannot prevent. The feeling of a wet cloth soaking his tears and sweat.Â
When his eyes finally flutter open, it is dark in the room. A candle burns to a nub on the nightstand next to him, wax coating the wood. Sorrow fills his chest again so quickly it nearly steals his breath.
He sees her slip into the room like a wraith come to haunt him. It is ridiculous, he thinks, that she should be the one to stand over him. On any other day, in any other circumstance, she would not put up much of a fight. Now, he is at her mercy.
âYou tore one of your stitches.â Her voice is soft, but it reverberates in his ear drums and skull like a dragonâs final roar. He clenches his jaw and turns his head toward the moon that hangs like a silver noose in the sky. âI had to sew it back while you were resting.â
Jace doesnât reply. He isnât sure he would know what to say. How does he encompass all his feelingsâor even one of them, into a coherent thought? It isnât possible.
She draws closer and he tenses. She notices. âAre you going to try and hurt me again?âÂ
He considers her for a moment, then shakes his head.
She pauses, thinking about something, then she settles upon his side of the bed. Jace notices for the first time since sheâs entered the room, that she has a bowl of that wretched-looking soup in her hands.
âHere,â she says, outstretching the bowl. He leans back. She pulls away slightly. âSorry.â She cringes like even she realizes that the soup is nothing to write home about. âIt is all I have.â
Jace swallows thickly. He reaches a trembling hand out. She smiles, relieved.
He goes to take the bowl, but his arm feels weak. He pulls back. âPerhapsâŠâ he pauses, clears his throat. âPerhaps you couldâŠâ
Asking for help has never come easy to him. Being weak is not something he is accustomed to. His other hand clenches the sheet in his fist.
She nods. He does not have to be explicit. He untenses his hand as she leans forward, a small bit of soup in the wood spoon.
The first bite makes his face twist. She laughs.
âI truly am sorry,â she says. âI know it is probably not what you are used to.â
It takes every bit of his strength to swallow the offending liquid. It is strangely salty. It tastes like the brine that filled his mouth when heâÂ
He cuts the thought short. No need to ruin his own mood again.
âSomething happened to you out there,â she says as if sheâd read his mind, and although it should be a question, it is not, âsomething bad.â
He swallows another gulp of the soup. He does not reply.Â
She must realize he does not want to speak on that, for she does not press the matter. She lifts the spoon again and he forces down another sip.
âThe soup has fish and some potatoesâoh, and they had carrots at the market today, so I put those in too. Perhaps those are the disgusting parts. I wonât purchase them again.â
Jace does not have the energy, or perhaps the heart, to tell her it is certainly not the vegetables that have made the soup taste like what sea captains scrape off the bottom of their ships.
She scoops another bit of soup and he forces it down. His mouth had begun to retain that saltiness even when he no longer had the soup in his mouth, like a stain one canât wash away with soap and water.
She does not speak for a long pause, but Jace suddenly feels a bit antsy. It feels too intimate an act to not be speaking.
He swallows another mouthful, then clears his throat to speak. âDid you catch the fish?â he asks, his voice hoarse.
âOh, no, no,â she replies to him like it is a preposterous suggestion. Like killing fish is below her standards. âI just buy them.â
He frowns around the spoon in his mouth and hurriedly swallows the liquid. âThen why were you on the shore when you found me?â
She stirs the foul soup around for a moment, thinking hard about something, then she looks up at him. âI collect things. Shells, scrap metal, and fabrics. You would be surprised what comes with the morning tide, and even more what people would pay for them.â
An odd business, Jace canât help but think. It seems like a hard thing to have to rely solely on the Narrow Sea for food and shelter. The Narrow Sea, he remembers with a sudden clarity. That is near where they fought.
âAre you going to tell your name?â Her head is tilted as she asks this, the soup bowl now empty and forgotten upon her folded legs.
He ponders the question for a moment. He could tell her his full name, but it might backfire, especially if she harbors a grudge against his family. He doesnât think she has it in her to cause him harm, but he knows that many do not until they are cornered.
âJace,â he finally tells her. âJust Jace.â
She smiles and her entire face lights up like nothing heâs ever seen before. Something twists in his stomach. âNice to meet you, Jace.â
One, two, three, four. You count the shells noiselessly as you thread them onto the fishing line. They clink together softly as you pull the line taut around your wrist, measuring the width mentally. You remove the bracelet and add a few more of your little shells.
A few days had passed without much event. Jace drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day and slept soundlessly through the night. He did not complain, but you had seen his thinly-veiled winces and his shuddering breaths. You know that he is suffering more than he lets on.Â
It is an odd thing, you think, to be harboring a man in your home that you know next to nothing about, but had inexplicably formed an attachment to. You still know nothing more about Jace than his name and even that had not been an answer easily wrought.
You slide the shells all to one side and swiftly tie a knot at the end of the line, forming a perfect circular bracelet. Putting it to the side, you cut a new piece of fishing line and begin sorting through your shells again.
Just as you go to slide the first shell on, you hear something behind you. The creaking of wood as light footfalls go across.
You turn your head, body tense.
âJace,â you say, surprised by his appearance. You stand.
He had not been up since heâd ripped that stitch a few days ago, actually heeding your pleas to rest. But a part of you knew even then that the peace would not last long. He is a restless creature, like a bird stuck behind the bars of a cage.
âDo you need something?â You clutch your fingers together across your front, as if doing so could somehow steel your nerves.
He takes a step into the room. You notice his gait seems more steady today. He looks around every bit of the room, his eyes taking in all the pieces that make up your home. You gnaw your lip between your teeth. Did he approve of what he saw?
His voice comes suddenly, a blade cutting through the silence. âWhat are you doing?âÂ
It is not accusatory nor standoffish, instead it seems almost curious. You grab the bracelet you just finished and hold it out to him.
âA bracelet.â
Jace steps closer, tilting his head. âFor what purpose?â
You let out a short laugh. âIt has no purpose. It is just pretty.â
âHm.â He stares at the offending object like heâs never thought about making something just for the sake of making something before. You smile. He averts his eyes to the other side of the room.
âYou said you do not fish,â he says, âand yet you have a fishing rod.â
You follow his eyes to where the thing sits near the door. It sits, forgotten, in the corner of the roomâthere to haunt you and the person youâd never become, youâre sure.
âMy fatherâŠâ you start to say, but something gets caught in your throat. You forcefully swallow past the blockage. âMy father used to fish.â
Jaceâs accusatory eyes soften around the edges. He hobbles closer and takes the seat across from you at the table. Your fatherâs seat.
âAnd your fatherââ
âHe is dead,â you answer curtly, âhe has been for two summers now.â
You pick up the bracelet you had only just starteda nd slide a seashell onto the line. Hurt does not fill your chest like a cavity anymoreânow all you feel is numbness as it spreads from your lungs to your heart.Â
Jace turns his head to look out the window at the night sky. âMy father is gone too.â
Your eyes leap toward his in a flash. He does not look at you, his hand tracing repetitive shapes on the table. The deep circles beneath his eyes have all but faded now, but the weariness to his expression remains. He possesses the gaze of someone who holds more than they can carryâa gaze your father shared.
Your throat bobs as you force yourself to swallow. You feel hollow, but a bit of warmth has reentered your chest. Two children, you think, without a parentâan awful thing, certainly, but not especially rare in Westeros.
You slide another shell onto the bracelet, fingers trembling. âHe went mad.â Telling the truth, those three words, stings like betrayal. âHe was a knight before I was born. He never⊠he never forgot what he had to do. The faces of the men he killed⊠they haunted him.â
Jace goes pale. His dark eyebrows furrow, the line of his mouth pulling down. âI-Iâm sorry. That must have been difficult.â
You nod. Put another two shells on the line. Desperately, you search for a way to change the subject. âHe always wanted to teach me,â you say, gesturing to the rod, âbut he never did.â
He drags a quick hand through his curly brown hair, then pauses as he gets caught in a tangle. He huffs irritably.
âPerhaps,â he says, onyx eyes catching the amber light of the candle flickering on the table, âif I could summon the strength to get dressed and brush my hair, then I could show you how.â
You swallow thickly. âYou do not have toââ
âIt is the least I can do,â he murmurs. âYou saved my life.â
To smile feels inappropriate, so you avert your eyes and begin to tie a knot in another bracelet.
Jace stares at himself in the mirror that stands in the corner of the bedroom with solemn eyes. His eyes glaze over the bandages that wrap around his chest and lower torso, then the unfamiliar slightness to his shoulders and waist. He feels as though he looks at a person he no longer recognizes, like his mind has been transported into the body of someone much weaker than he used to be.
The old house is quiet in the morrow. Every once in a while, a soft breeze will make the house creak. One may occasionally hear a sea bird calling in the distance. Other than that, everything exists as if completely removed from reality; untouched by the war that rages just beyond the seaâs reaches.
His eyes flick back to the mirror and he sees her standing behind him with a deep green doublet wrapped in her arms.Â
âIt was my fatherâs,â she says, drawing closer. âIt might be a little large on you.â
Jace nods. She hands him the doublet. The material feels like cheap linen, nothing to the quality he had worn before. He does not mind. It would be odd, he thinks, for him to expect anything better.
He lifts the top over his head and she helps guide it over. She seems to be trying not to touch his skin, like she thought he might be made of glass. He clenches his jaw when he feels the familiar tightness in one of his wounds as his arms stretch over his head.
The doublet falls over his body easily, but it does hang on him a bit like the robes a septa might wear.
He hears the sound of muffled laughter from behind him and he turns his head.
âMy apologies.â She can barely get it out through her thinly-suppressed amusement. âYou do look a bit funny, though.â
Jace feels his lips tug upwards in the first semblance of happiness heâd felt in days. It feels odd and out of place, and so it disappears with his next blink.
âShall we go?âÂ
Jace nods. He follows her out of the bedroom and into the living area, watching as she bends to grab the fishing pole. He walks behind her as she leads the way outside, too slow to match her pace.
The brush of a briney mist against his skin feels like flying across the humid air on top of Vermax. His chest pangs and he forces the thought away. His eyes brush the swaying grasses that stand cloistered around the seaâs edge, each one caught up in a current of air drifting by. He watches the woman as she strides ahead of him.
She is quite plain. She does not have the dresses of the courts he is used to, nor the manners of a highborn lady. She moves unhindered by corsets and the plumes of expensive dresses. Her soft legs pump quickly across the sands, barefoot, like she has mapped every inch of the shore to near-perfection and knows without looking where she must go.
Seeing her slip ahead, her hair tangled in the seaâs mist, then as she turns over her shoulder with a jovial grin, it feels so different than anything heâs ever known before.
Baela is beautiful. She is poised, and gentle, but with a rough edge that assures him she couldâand wouldâeasily hurt him if pushed to it. But his stomach never flipped when she spoke. He never searched for her eyes from across the room. He never grasped her hand and wished he never had to let it go. He had known her for so long, he assumed she was all heâd ever need, that the feeling of content he felt in her presence was love. Now he isnât so sure.Â
She reaches the shore and stops when her feet hit the tide.
He meets her gaze as she turns to him. His heart pounds in his ears.
âIs it not wonderful?â She sweeps her arm in a half-arc as she speaks, eyes glimmering beneath the high morrowâs sun.
Jace draws his eyes away from her figure to the open waters. It is wonderful, he thinks. If not wrought with pain and regret.
He forces his gaze away. âYes.â
âSo,â she says, shifting on her heels, âhow do we begin?â
Jace steps forward and picks up the rod. He retrieves the little scrap of maroon fabric that she had found a few days back and attaches it to the end of the hook.Â
âIt is always a good idea to have some kind of bait,â he explains, âfish are attracted to movement. If you can find insects or worms, those work even better. But this fabric may do. We will have to see.â
He moves close to the edge of the water and lets the rod scrape the top of the ocean. âMost fish do not swim right by the shore, so you will need to throw the line out a little ways. Make sure that you do not catch your skin with the hook.â
She nods, eyebrows drawn together in deep contemplation. Jace nearly smiles at the way sheâs taking this all so seriously, before he catches himself and schools his expression.
Jace steadies his hand and propels the line out into the ocean. One of the wounds on his side complains at the movement, but he ignores it. He watches the line bob in the water with a softened expression. His memory flits between days spent under the sun at Driftmark and Dragonstone, laughing while he chases Lucerys with a wood sword; Laenor showing him how to fish among the tidepools; a fierce burn from the sun that is soothed by his motherâs affectionate hand.
âWho taught you this?â Her voice breaks through the silence that had settled between them. Her eyes keep steady on the line, lashes squinting against the harsh light.
âMy father,â he replies after a momentâs hesitation.Â
Another pause.Â
He feels her shift to look over at the side of his face. âIâm sure he would be quite proud of the man you have become.â
Jaceâs breath halts in his throat. Hands suddenly feel clammy. His heart hiccups and thuds against his skin. He had not thought of Laenor in a long time, Harwin even longer. It feels like decades had passed since he had seen either of them, a forgotten moment in his life overshadowed by tragedy after tragedy.
âOh, look,â she says suddenly from beside him. âA conch shell.âÂ
She wields the massive thing toward him. Her entire face is bright with delight as she shows him the object that any normal person would completely disregard. She is anything but normal, though.
âThese always sell for a few silvers at the markets,â she informs him, âthe rich folk think they are good luck.â
He is not able to reply before his arm suddenly jolts and he is pulled a few inches forward. On the end of the line, something stirs in the water.Â
âCome,â he orders her urgently. âSomething is biting.â
She draws close, her eyes wide. The conch shell drops to the sand. âWhat is it?â
âI donât know,â he says, âhere, you hold the rod.â
âWhat? I donât know how to catch a fish!â
He thrusts the rod into her hands. âI am too weak to reel it in. You have to.â It is a lie, but she does not seem to recognize it.
Her hands slip all over the rod as she tries to fight the beast at the end of the line. Jace, pitying her struggle, slides behind her and steadies her hands by placing his on top of hers. She freezes for a moment, then begins to pull. Jace clutches her hands gently within his own and he notices that they tremble like seagrass beneath his own.Â
âHold it steady,â he says against the shell of her ear, âpull only when you feel it stop fighting. You do not wantââ
Suddenly, the pressure is removed from the end of the line and they are both sent stumbling backwards onto the sand. Jace lands on his bum, but she is able to catch herself as she tumbles beside him. The line must have broken. The fish is long gone now.
âOh Jace, are you okay?â He looks over at her as she crouches beside him. âYou did not reopen your wounds, did you?â
The laugh that tumbles out of his lips makes her jolt back. Distantly, he is not sure why he is laughing. The fish got away, he landed on back on the sand, and now one of his cuts hurts. But he had just felt so alive. So unburdened by responsibility, like any man of ten and eight without the entirety of their motherâs empire resting upon their shoulders ought to feel.Â
The laughter eventually abates, and all that is left is the open sky atop him and the sun beating down on his skin.
âDo you think that the fish I cooked last night was spoiled?â she asks in response to his exuberant mood. âOnce, my father caught ill from bad potatoesâŠâ
Jace feels another chuckle escape his lips. âSorry,â he tells her. âI have⊠not felt that free in a long time.â
She lets out a soft âohâ and moves to lay next to him in the sand. Far enough away that there is no chance that they will touch, but close enough that Jace can smell the lavender on her skin.
Jace stares at the clear sky ahead of him until he begins to feel his body ache with exhaustion. He pulls himself into a seated position, but she does not move immediately. She looks at him with soft eyes from where she lays against the sand, a small, affectionate smile upon her lips. Her chest rises and falls slowly, hand absentmindedly drawing pictures in the sand.
His stomach churns as he turns away. He stares out at the rippling current with half-lidded eyes.Â
âHow far is the nearest town?â His words are nearly carried away with the next tide that pulls up the shore. She hears him all the same, sliding to sit up next to him.
âNot far,â she replies, a toothy grin on her breath, âwould you like to come and help me pick out a fish for dinner tomorrow?â
Jace does not reply. The hope tinged in her words makes something inside him feel rotten. Like he is corrupting the world wherein she lives. As he takes longer and longer to reply, he notices something settle upon her face. A realization that fades into melancholy.
âOh.â She looks to the sea in an attempt to hide the dewiness in her eyes, but Jace notices all the same. âYou wish to leave.â
âMy mother,â he says, âshe will be looking for me. She will not stop until she finds me.â
She nods.
Something compels him to continue. âI would stay. I would, truly,â he says, âbut this is bigger than me. Bigger than thisââ
âI understand, Jace.â But Jace is not sure she does. Her lips purse, her eyebrows drawn to form a small wrinkle between them.Â
âI would at least stay a couple more days,â he tells her, âI need to make sure I do not simply hurt myself again by leaving too soon.â
She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her head upon them. âIt sounds like a good plan,â she agrees quietly. âPerhaps⊠Perhaps I could pack you some food as well.â
âYes,â he says this far too enthusiastically, but he notices her brighten at the joy in his voice and so he continues to smile. âThat would be wonderful.â
She nods, pulling at a frayed edge of her dress. âThen it will be done.â
The two of them watch for a few more moments as the red sun burns a hole against the sky and as the water ripples with wrath.
âI will leave on the morrowâ--That is what he had told you over dinner the previous evening.Â
In the morrow, the sky opens and floods them with her tears.Â
You stand by the window of the cabin looking out at the frightful weather. Rain falls like daggers against the darkened, tumultuous sea. Waves crash against the shore. A crack of lightning makes you flinch.
âThe Gods are angry,â you say to the still air of the cabin.Â
Jace sits halfway over his plate of roasted fish as you say this. Then he straightens, his eyes flickering briefly outside. The dark brown of his irises reflect the grey of the clouds swirling above. âOr they do not grant me leave.â
You force yourself to pull away from the window. Turning your head, another flash of brilliant light comes across the floor, painting everything white. You fall into a silence as you step carefully across the cabin.
You knew that from the moment you found him, that it would not be permanent. Just like the rains that fall from above now, this momentary storm in your life will too pass. You had not even wished for him to stay, initially. You recall that first night, sewing his wounds with fishing line, as your eyes stretched across his alien visage. You had told yourself that his presence would be temporary as a comfort then, now you tell it to ground yourself in reality.
Jace had become more friendly in the past few days. Conversation came easily to him and made the thought of him leaving that much harder. Now you were the one that deflated at the sound of his voice across the hall, the one that shrunk from revealing the parts of yourself that had not seen the light in years.
You are selfish. It is a quality that had always lurked behind your eyes, but had sharpened since your fatherâs death. It is a survival tactic. Every animal, even humans, wish to hold onto the things they hold dear. It does not matter if it is not much. Everything you have is in some way worth keepingâincluding Jace.
But you could not fight logic. His mother, his familyâthey had a higher claim to him than you did. You could not keep him like a bird with clipped wings. It is cruel to even think it.Â
You scrub the dish in your hands until your hands feel raw and achy. The only light comes from behind you in the smoldering fireplace and the flash of light that illuminates the sky. You hear the clatter of the bowl from behind you as Jace finds his footingâthe screech of the chair as it rubs harshly against the floor.
You feel his warmth as he comes to stand beside you. He reaches a hand into the soapy mess over the wood bucket and fetches your hand from the fray.Â
âYou have made yourself bleed,â he observes quietly, a finger stroking over the cuts.Â
You feel your throat bob under the weight of his probing stare. You slip your hand away from his and turn your back to dip the bowl in the bucket of soapless water.
âHave I done something to upset you?â he murmurs. His words are echoed by a rumble of thunder in the distance.
You still your movements for just a second before continuing. Your cuts throb at the feeling of the cool water cleansing the blood from your hands. âNo,â you reply simply.
âThen why have you been so quiet as of late?â
You drop the bowl onto the wood surface in front of you and turn, drying your hands with a near cloth. âI just havenât had much to say, I suppose.â
Another flash of light. Rain as it beats ceaselessly against the metal roof. You face him, clenching the towel in your fist.
âShall we remove your stitches?â It had been suggested a few days ago as the first thing he would do before departing, so he would not have to bother with finding someone to do it for him on the road.Â
Jace looks like he might say something. Then he shakes his head. âOn the bed?â
You nod. âThat would be easiest.âÂ
You slip behind him as he moves toward the bedroom. On your way, you light the spill near the fireplace and bring it with you. Your eyes find his figure as it slinks through the darkness. Heâs healed so much better than you had ever expected he might. He should not have survived his injuriesâshould not have been able to heal so quickly. You think the Gods must favor his survival much more than they favored the own laws they stipulated.
He slides off his doublet and lounges back into the bed. You let the flame on the end of the spill touch the end of the wick of the candlestick and the room is bathed in a soft glow. You suffocate the flame and put the spill onto the table next to the bed.
Jace watches you as you do this quietly. When your eyes move up to his face, you notice his eyes are lidded, the tips of his ears red. You feel a warmth catch hold of your skin at his gaze and you avert your eyes to his chest.
You begin your work in silence. You lift the knot of each stitch and easily slice through it with the sharp edge of your knife. At the end of your first removal, you are happy to see that the wound has faded to a pinkish stripe.
âWho taught you this?âÂ
You startle at the sound of his voice after several long minutes of silence. It is a deep baritone, rough around the edges. Its unexpected richness has you shifting in your place on the edge of the bed. A flash of white light from out the window bathes his face in color.Â
âMy father.â You do not elaborate further. You think it self explanatory. Your father taught you everything.
âWas he hurt often?âÂ
You cut another knot. âThere are no maesters in the far reaches,â you tell him. A hint of bitter frustration lines your words. âI have assisted several people who have needed help in the village.â
âI did not know,â he replies softly, âthat is quite kind of you.â
âWe all share responsibility here, no one is without duty.â You put another piece of the fishing line to the side. âIt is how things function when you do not have the entire Seven Kingdoms at your disposal.â
You notice Jaceâs eyebrows furrow. His stomach tenses beneath your hand. âHow did youâŠâ
âIt is obvious,â you say, âyour voice, your cadence, the way you were dressed when I found you⊠you have no scars, no callouses. You did not offer your houseâs name, so I can only assumeââ
âJacaerys Velaryon,â he says, âthat is my name.â
You still. Your eyes dart to his, alarm filling your chest and stealing your breath. âVelaryon,â you echo, heart racing. âThat is the name ofâŠâ
âPerhaps you know of Corlys Velaryon,â he offers, âthe Sea Snake. He is my grandfather. Or Rhaenyra Targaryen, my motherââ
You stand, breathing panicked. âYou must leave,â you say, âwhy did you stay so long? The realm⊠your mother⊠the Seven Kingdoms need you.â
Jace leans forward to grasp your arm. You allow him only because you fear you may topple over without the stability.
âI am of no use to them in this condition,â he scoffs. You notice a faraway look in his eyes. The same look he sometimes got when he stared upon the ocean or recalled stories of his father to you. âMy dragon is dead, my body a wreck. There is nothing left of me for them to scavenge.â
âT-That is not true,â you stutter. âYou must at least find out if they are safe. You have been healed for days⊠you could have leftââ
âI stayed for you.â You fall silent at the sincerity in his voice. His hand drifts down the bare skin of your wrist to thread between your fingers. He cups your hand between his own.
âYou cannot stay,â you tell him.
âIt does not matter if I stay one more day. The realm will not fall today,â he replies, âwe cannot travel in this ruinous weather, anyway.â
Your eyes drift to the window, where the wind throws its tears against the pane. You nod slowly and find your seat again.
You grasp the knife from where you sat it on the duvet. You slide the other to rest upon his warm stomach. His breaths quicken beneath your hand as you drag it up to the next wound.
âI almost killed you the day after I found you,â you whisper, âI thought it would be a mercy. The fact that you are here at all⊠alive, breathing. It is a gift from the Gods.â
He leans forward. âWhat stopped you?â
Your movements pause from where you had started to cut away another knot. âYou did.â
His throat bobs. His hand moves from where it clutches the sheets to where your hand rests upon his sternum. He strokes the skin of your hand gently.
You lean forward without realizing what you are doing. He does not allow you to back away. He brings his other hand to the nape of your neck and leans forward to seal your lips with his.
The kiss is languid. His tongue probes the seal of your lips and you allow it to slip inside. You bring your hand up to cup his jaw and he drags the hand cupping your neck to your hair. You let out a soft moan against his lips and he responds to the noise by pulling you forward onto his chest.
You do not lean your weight onto him in fear of hurting him, but you feel his hands crawl to settle upon your heaving ribs. You gently settle your lower half onto his hips, settling your hand down on a part of his chest that had no injuries.
You and Jace continue to kiss for what feels like hours. It is exhilarating. It feels like flying. Your stomach feels warm and fluttery, and your lips are throbbing.
You shift your hips and Jace lets out a groan. You pull away from the kiss, concerned. His hand moves to grab the flesh of your hip, sliding you back some. There is a hardness beneath you that makes a pleasant chill slide down your spine.
âAre you alright, Jace?âÂ
âUnless you wish for us to have sex,â he grumbles, âyou should move off my hips.â
You swallow thickly at the insinuation. Sex. A novel thing. A thing that should be saved for marriage. But marriage seems so far from your mind now, drifting away like a current.
âAnd what do you wish for us to do?â you murmur. You slide forward an inch and he throws his head back onto the pillows. His chest heaves.
âYou know what I wish,â he groans. âIs it not obvious?â
You lean forward so that your lips barely brush his own. âThen take it.â
Sunlight streams through the window ahead of you, branding the side of your face with heat, and your eyelids flutter against the intrusion. You fist your fingers in the sheets and twist your legs close to your body. As you shift, you feel an arm pulling you backwards.
You grasp the hand splayed across your stomach between your trembling fingers.
âStay,â he murmurs against the shell of your ear. Tears bead in your eyes, but you keep them at bay.
Your thumb finds the pulse that thrums beneath his skin and you count his heart beats. The Gods are cruel, you think. They had kept Jace here long enough for you to miss him when he leaves.
You turn your body over to face him. You are not surprised to see him already staring back at you. His dark curls are a mess on the pillow beneath him. His lips pull upwards at the corners, but do not reach his eyes. He brings his hand up to stroke your cheek.
Your chin wobbles and he blinks away a frown.
âIt will not be forever,â he tells you softly, reverently,
âI will return to you one day.â
You bring a hand up to wipe away the stubborn tears. âI suppose you do not know when that will be.â
He leans forward to give you a kiss and you know that is the only way he can possibly tell you no.Â
Pulling away from the kiss feels like saying good-bye.
You stay in bed as he stands, sluggishly dressing himself as if he was still looking for reasons not to leave. You do not think he finds one. He turns his head to look back at you and his expression falters.Â
A small smile curls at your lips as you mouth the wordâgo.
He heeds your instruction and leaves your cabin with a satchel of roasted fish, a map to the nearest town, and a bracelet strung with seashells.
ONE YEAR LATERâŠ
The nets are full this morrow. The tide ebbs and flows, slinking across the silver sands. Birds let out cries of rejoice overhead for the plentiful bounty gifted by the sea.Â
You bend the knee to heave the first net out of the water. You clutch your chest protectively as you search through the things with the other hand.Â
âHm,â you murmur, âa rainbow shell.âÂ
You bring the shell up to the light and small reflections bounce across your vision. Tucking it into your satchel, you search some more. A piece of metal, two scraps of fabric, and a clam.
You pocket the metal and one of the ratty pieces of fabric, but allow the clam to slide back under the tide. You bring your dry hand to rest upon the head of the babe swaddled against your breast.
âShh,â you whisper to him as he begins to stir. âIt is alright, my prince.â
He brings his head up slowly to peer at you. A splatter of sea foam settles on the side of his face, but he does not seem to mind. He gives you a gummy smile and you return it lovingly.
He watches with bleary eyes as you sort through the next net of things. You show him each individual item as you retrieve it. Your heart skips when you feel a familiar shape and weight in the palm of your hand.
âA conch shell,â you inform him with a giddy grin, âthese sell for several silvers at the market.â
He stares at the shell with wide eyes. The pattern, a dark brown and white mottling, you think, must confuse or enrapture him by the way he looks at it.
The small of your back has begun to hurt. You straighten up and lift a supportive hand to rest underneath the babyâs bum.
âThis will be enough for today,â you decide. âThe sea has gifted us more than we need.â
The little boy smacks his lips as if agreeing with the statement. You nod and carry your satchel and the boy up the familiar path to the cabin.
However, your footsteps slow as you grow closer until you stop right before the door. Something is not right. You protectively cradle the back of your sonâs head as you touch a hand to the door.
It pushes open with little resistance. You slide the knife you kept on you at all times to your hand in one swift movement as you step inside.
You take not but two steps beyond the threshold before you freeze. The knife clatters to the ground and a gasp shudders from your lips at the sight in front of you.
He stands across from you like he never left. Heâs dressed in black gilded leathers, his body a tad leaner and steadier. His face looks older, more mature and shaped by circumstance, just as you imagine yours must too. His mop of dark hair curls around his ears, longer than when you saw him last.
His lips with awe. He stares at you and your face as if trying to map something with his mind.Â
âJace,â you say breathlessly. âHowâŠâ
âI saw you by the shore as I rode in from town,â he murmurs, taking a hesitant step forward. He lets out a soft laugh that sends your stomach aflutter. âI thought I might surprise you. I guess I am lucky to not have received a knife in my throat.â
Your throat bobs. Mistiness clouds your vision. âYou came back for us.â
âFor us?â Jace echoes, eyebrows furrowed. He comes so close he can reach out to you with his arm and you know that he has seen him then, by the shock that melts his features.
The boy turns his head to the best of his ability in your swaddle, his eyes searching for the unfamiliar voice. Jaceâs mouth comes nearly unhinged, a trembling hand lifting as if to stroke his head, but it falls short.
He forces his eyes to look at you. âHe⊠heâs mine?â
You bite your lip to suppress your smile as you nod. You reach around your neck with one arm while the other supports the babyâs bum. You unravel the swaddle easily, and the chubby baby flails his arms with relief. Never one to like a cage.
You outstretch him toward Jace and he takes him eagerly. He holds him with practiced ease. He supports the babyâs head and bum as he gazes down at him, tracing his forehead to the slope of his nose to the flutter of his lashes with only his eyes.
Jace finally breaks away from the baby long enough to look up at you. âAnd I just⊠I just left you. You and my son.â
Your heart skips a beat at the name. Son. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning like a fool.
âYou had to,â you say, stepping forward to lay a gentle hand upon his upper arm. âYour family needed you.â
He clenches his jaw. âNothing we did⊠nothing we accomplished⊠equals this.â
He strokes a featherlight touch against the boyâs cheek and he wrinkles his nose.
âWill youâŠâ you pause. You try to steel yourself for the rejection that may very well follow, hands clammy by your sides. âWill you be staying long?â
Jaceâs eyes rush to meet yours. He steps forward. The baby whimpers in his arms at the movement.Â
âI would stay forever if you would have me.â
You feel your heart skip a beat. âWhat? What of the throne? Of your family?â
He shakes his head. Your stomach drops.
âMy brother Aegon will be the next ruler. Wed to his cousin.â
âAnd you?â
His dark eyes soften as they consider this question carefully. He clutches the lost prince to his chest protectively.
cw: hotd season 3 spoilers, fix-it fic!, heavy angst, hurt/BIG comfort, fluff so much fluff, mention of violence, mourning but no death, yearning, kissing, jacaerys loves his wife more than anything, (3.8kw).
synopsis: He promised. To you, to himself, right before giving the order. "I will come back to you," Jacaerys whispered, pressing warm lips to wood, as if sealing his silent vow through the door.
a/n: mama will hold ur hand through this. it'll ALL be okay! bawled my eyes out at this but god i needed it. translations for the high valyrian used at the end!
He had never felt so cold before.
A chill seeping into the marrow of his bones and encrusting muscle and tissue, making it hard to move; to breathe.
His eyes battled the shroud of darkness, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldnât halt the certainty, which in that instant appeared like his end. Not slumber, not unconsciousness, but his demiseâs unyielding grip curled around him like a serpent and squeezed until it wrung every bit of life out of him.
Jacaerys felt the bite of the arrows like a brand, pulsing like another denominator of what was to come, to swallow him whole. One in his neck, one near his heart, and others in places he couldnât name, but remembered your hands and mouth touching countless times before.
The Gods were cruel to punish him right where your sweetness had been, where your love had touched and imprinted itself onto him, now stained by sharp steel and blood.
He hopes youâll have it in your heart to forgive him, for he cannot do so for himself. The more the world feels like a distant memory, the more his heart aches, its beating slowing, as if trying to mimic the syllables of your name one last time before it inevitably stops. One last call out to you, willing to see if you would answer, even if he knows that to be impossible.
Would you cry, he wonders, as if he doesnât already know the answer. Would you curse him? Would you hate him? Would you damn every moment youâve spent together, turning it into poison and ash?
Jacaerys would not fault you if you did, but his chest feels hollow at the prospect of causing such vile emotions to bloom in your tender heart, most of all towards him.
You are his most precious jewel, and losing his life is one thing, but knowing that means losing you as well? It tears at him more than those arrows have.
He thinks of his mother, who was so delighted knowing he had found someone to love, and someone to be loved by in return, truthfully and wholeheartedly. You two were meant to have a Valyrian wedding in a few moons, as it is custom, and he had been ardently awaiting to see how beautiful you would look in traditional garments. Trying to imagine it now, just as he had many times before, feels like another arrow aimed straight at his heart, plunging deep. Now, he will never get to teach you how to recite the vows in High Valyrian, wonât get to see the sparkle of joy in your eyes when youâre face to face, exchanging them, binding your destinies together for all eternity, even in death.
Death. Jacaerys supposes that if he dies without binding his soul to yours before his ancestors, he wonât have any pieces of himself that he knows will certainly be kept in the sanctity of your heart.
But maybe it is better this way, for you will not have to carry such a heavy burden ensnared in the crevices of your chest, reminding you of all youâve lost; of all heâs made you lose.
It might seem callous of him to think so, but the thought of you mourning him brings warmth to his veins, even through the chill of the sea. Knowing you have loved him enough to let tears fall from those pretty eyes of yours makes the inevitable hurt a little less.
Someone had cared for him and felt strongly enough to weep at his departure. That, in itself, is a gift. One of the many you had given him. You yourself have been the greatest one, blessing his days and easing his worries with nothing but a look, a word, a kiss. It had come like breathing to you, and he had never felt like he was out of air until now.
The sea is seldom merciful, and no matter how much he tries to beg the Gods to spare him, Jacaerys knows this time it might be in vain.
But how can he not beg? How can he not plead? If not with his voice, then with the remaining beatings of his heart, with the last vestiges of the memories he has of you.
He wishes he wouldâve said I love you more often, for it seems like he had been scarce in his vocalization of it. Now, every day doesnât feel like enough, because no matter how hard he tries, his throat is clogged with water and the words he means to say, if only for the last time. He wouldâve hoped it enough to ease the grievances he knows you would feel upon hearing of his demise.
Jacaerys wonders if you would eventually surrender yourself to another. If there would come a day where another man would sweep you off your feet, chipping away at all the parts of Jace burrowed deep in your flesh and blood. The thought makes him want to weep. You forgetting him, replacing the memories you have of him with those of another, as if painting anew on an old canvas one has no use of anymore.
If his promise wouldâve rung true, Jace would be by your side now, celebrating the victory at the Gullet, hugging his mother, then you so tight it wouldâve knocked the air out of you both. He wouldâve twirled you around while laughing, leaning in to press a multitude of kisses onto every patch of skin he could reach, knowing itâll make you laugh, cheeks flushed, looking at him like heâs your whole world.
May that be the last thing he wishes for before the sea takes him. May your face be the last thing on his mind before there is nothing but darkness, engulfing every bit of light that was you. May he always remember you, even when buried beneath the sea and the sand, wishing for nothing than to hear your voice saying his name one last time, your gaze softening upon looking at him, and maybe, if the Gods allow him one last mercy, the feel of your soft lips upon his own.
He knows he is not worthy, for if he were, Jacaerys wouldâve held onto his promise to come back to you, to his mother, to the Realm. But he couldnât. The Gods were ever cruel and took from him the very essence of his being, cursed to wait for his impending doom.
And wait, he had. Was it another punishment to still feel like he was hanging on but never sinking deep enough? To will him to replay every single memory of you and imagine thousands of others? To feel so close but so far away from the object of all his affections and desires?
Jacaerys would know you anywhere, he thinks. Even blind, hard of hearing, or sinking into nothingness, he would not fail to know you are close.
So why does it feel like you are? Is this another cruel trick before the ancestors welcome him to them? He swears he can feel the soft lilt of your voice somewhere in his vicinity, and it makes him want to move, to lean towards it and taste it. Make sure itâs real.
Please let it be real. To the Old Gods and the New, let it be real. Donât dangle such hope in front of him only to take it away, for it would feel like getting speared with arrows again and again andâ
âI shall watch him,â your voice sounded, just as sweet and lovely as he remembered, but also tired, croaky at the edges. What had happened? Why were you â âYou need rest, my queen. Let me, for now.â
My Queen? Mother?
The sounds were a bit muted, but he could hear footsteps, then the creaking hinges of a door, followed by a thud.
A long, hitched sigh followed, the one people do when they try not to let it show they were hurting, right before the tears inevitably fall.
Were you crying? He couldnât bear when you were. That pretty face he loved so much, marred by tears, undid him every time.
Jacaerys had to see, had to make sure you were okay, that nothing had befallen you too, that the Gods had been merciful to an angel such as you.
He was struggling. His body was not responding the way it should, barely able to feel his hands and feet properly. But that didnât matter now, for he only needed his eyes to will open so he could glimpse you, even if it was all a cruel fiction of his imagination, probably allowing him one more wish before taking him to the depths forever.
Please.
Please let him see his wife. His lady. His love.
Please.
One last time is all he asks.
If the Gods had ever looked down upon him and smiled, let them look down and smile once more. Grant him this one mercy. Just this once. Only this once.
He knows heâs begging, but what is there to do other than implore with all the strength left in him for one last look at you? In case he is to meet his end soon, let the sight of you be what he goes down feasting upon.
Blessed be The Mother, for I beg for one last mercy, for I shall gaze upon the one I hold most dear before my death and meet my end with a settled heartâ
Jacaerys wonders if you are wearing one of your soft gowns, the ones he loves most, for you look like a Fae from the library tomes you so love. Would you still wear the necklace he had given you, or have you thrown it away in a fit of grief and anger because of his recklessness? He wouldnât fault you for it. Just wished he could give you another to atone for his many sins, for how much sorrow he mustâve brought you.
But he is wrong.
You are wearing the pendant. Your fingers are wrapped around it, settled at the base of your throat, holding so tight your hand shakes, lips pressed to it, murmuring to yourself, eyes closed in prayer.
Are you praying for him to come back to you, just as he was? The thought makes warmth bloom beneath his ribs, licking upwards towards his chest, weaving until it finds his heart, willing it to beat faster. Even so close to dying, he supposes, you still manage to affect him just the same.
If this is but a dream, he hopes he never wakes up. Because standing here, looking at you, just as beautiful as the day he lost you, brings him more peace than any prayer he couldâve uttered. You are so pretty. His pretty girl. Always, always so very pretty. Even now, looking worn out, expression pinched, and hands shaking.
He wants to see your eyes, at least once, before he can't do so again.
"M-may you look at me, my love? For I want toâ"
Jacaerys is startled from finishing his sentence by the loud gasp you let out, body jumping beside him, startled and alert, like a doe sensing hunters on its tail. Your eyes are so, so wide with disbelief, watching him with the sort of bewilderment one would when seeing a creature unknown or some oddity come to life. Why were you looking at him like that? If this were but a dream, then whyâ
"Jace," you whisper, shaky and soft, like a petal swept by the wind, hands trembling so hard the pendant slips through your fingers. "Jace," he hears you repeat, as if the sound of his name in your mouth is something foreign you have to taste again. "Gods, Jace!" Your voice cracks along the syllables of his name, before moving closer, gazing at him with those pretty eyes he near plead to see, now teary and wide, sweeping over him as if checking to see if he's whole. He knows he isn't, for the battle must've left him with more than grievances and a hollowness in his chest that could only be filled if he still had a chance to live.
Your movements are shaky and hesitant, wanting to reach for him but shackled by a fear he does not know yet. Why won't you touch him? He can tell you want nothing more than to feel him beneath your palms, and yet you waver. Why? If this is to be the last mercy before his death, why is he imagining his beloved faltering instead of pressing close, so close and grasping at him like the air one needs to breathe?
Jacaerys tries to lift a hand, grimacing when his body again does not count him as its master, and makes it hard to move properly, feeling a sharp pain lance through his forearm, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. One to which you react instantly, shaking your head as you plead with him not to move, cradling his hand between both of yours, letting Jace feel the softness of your skin again. "No, no, my love, do not move," you sniffle, blinking back those stubborn tears lining your pretty eyelashes. "Please, you must rest. The Maesters said you are not to tire yourself any further."
The Maesters? What ever could you mean?
Blinking his eyes rapidly to dwindle the fog clinging to his vision, Jacaerys's breath catches when your own room comes into view, surrounding both of you. He supposes his imagination could not help but want to remember you in the place where you felt most at ease, the one where you shared your first kiss, first bedding, and many, many other milestones that now feel like a vice around his heart, squeezing tight. Will this be the last time he gets to pine for what once was and for what could never be again?
"H-how do you feel?" Your voice shakes again, snapping him out of his reverie, gaze finding its way back to yours, feeling himself melt just at the sight of you anew. Gods, you couldn't be more gorgeous. "You had been asleep for half of a fortnight. We didn't know if you would ever wakeâ"
And oh, his heart shatters into pieces when your words trail off into hiccuped sobs, soft chin wobbling, not being able to hold the weight of your grief and sorrow. His sweet wife was crying beside him because of his own foolishness, and there was no punishment severe enough for his transgressions. He could be put to the sword, and it would never erase the guilt in his chest at making you shed even a tear.
It takes him but a few moments to rear his mind from blame to the words you spoke, eyes widening in bewilderment as he registers the information you bestowed upon him. "Asleep?"
His voice is rough and unpolished from disuse, and he's watching you like you brought both salvation and perdition to his door.
But you only nod, squeezing his hand tighter, bringing it up to your mouth to press warm lips upon his skin, feverish and lingering, before cradling the back of his hand against your tear-streaked, warm cheek. "Yes, my love," you confirm, tone lightening with pure relief. "The Gods were watching over you, breathing life into you anew, just like we prayed for."
Breathing life back into you.
Does that meanâ
But he cannot hope yet. What if this is nothing but another trickery? The cruelest way to tear his heart asunder by making him believe he escaped from the unforgiving claws of the sea and is now granted another chance at spending a lifetime with you?
Jacaerys can feel a lump form in his throat, near choking him, his lashes dampening rapidly. "Do not forsake me, please," he pleads, willing his hand to clutch at your fingers again, with what little strength he has. "I cannot bear knowing this is but a dream." It is hard to speak as his chest heaves, blubbering like a child as he begs for a miracle from you, who he now hopes is all flesh and bones and not smoke and ash in front of him.
Your expression pinches, studying him carefully, as you so often used to do with your tomes and books in the low candlelight before bed, thumbing each page as you uncovered the secrets written through the dried ink. He feels like one now, as your eyes narrow, before those soft lips part in a round shape, understanding dawning on you.
"Oh, my sweet prince," you whisper, voice damp from your tears, but then the sweetest sound of all accompanies the wetness of your eyes.
A laugh.
Amidst all this confusion, all this befuddling turmoil between dream and reality, you laugh as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, and your mouth dared to form the shape of happiness again.
You turn your head to press a fervent kiss to his hand before moving closer, cradling his face between your palms. Thumbs soften the traces of tears onto his own pale cheeks from being under slumber for so long, willing to see a flush to them soon. "I am flesh and bone, not a mere mirage," you assure, another soft, disbelieving laugh tinkling between you, as if the mere thought of him believing this to be a play of the mind is ridiculous. "The Gods brought you back to me, just as I wished for, my love."
Gods, he thought he'll never get to hear that sound fall from your lips again. It makes his vision blur with tears, lips trembling as he chokes back from babbling again like a babe, but eager to quiet the ghosts of his mind that insist this is a delusion.
"P-prove it to me," he hiccups wetly, no longer preoccupied with how weak he must look, nothing like a prince and all like a man at the end of his hope, begging you to pull him towards salvation. "Please, ñuha jorrÄeliarzy," his tongue wraps around the endearment like it never forgot it, full of longing and desperation. "Show me I still have you, for I cannot bear the thought of losing you againâ"
He feels his heart breaking and mending itself back together over and over, waiting for you to grant him this one certainty in his hopelessness.
And Gods, you do.
Your lips are on his before he can blubber another supplication, palms tilting him the way you want to as you slot your mouths together so, so tenderly, like two wings of a butterfly touching while they flutter.
He feels it. He tastes it. Your tears, his tears, your promise, his desperation.
Jacaerys wishes he were stronger, for his body is weakened by the tragedy that befell him, not being able to grasp you as fiercely as he would if his limbs had not forsaken him. He can only will his fingers to brush against the folds of your skirts onto the bed, curling into the material until his hand shakes with the ardent want of closeness; of wanting to do more but being cursed into only hoping.
"You have me," you whisper against his mouth, branding the truth on his lips as you continue kissing him. He can feel you smiling into it, and it is unbecoming of him how that only makes him weep harder, his own tears trailing down your cheeks and chin now, too, from how close your faces are pressed together, smushed in your eagerness to prove what he so feared was nothing but a cruel twist of his mind. "And I have you, dÄrilaros ñuha."
Gods, your tongue tangles around the words so clumsily, no matter how many times he had patiently taught you the right way before, and still, he would never trade it for the world. Jacaerys wants to hear it a thousand times more, and then tenfold that, for the rest of his days.
He's overwhelmed. All the hopelessness he felt before, thinking he would never get to hear the sound of your voice, taste the sweetness of your lips, feel the warmth of your love. And now you are offering him all of those and more, and he feels like he cannot breathe if you dare stop for even a moment.
"Avy jorrÄelan, " he sobs, trembling lips barely able to return the soft kisses you so kindly confer to him still. "Avy jorrÄelan. Always," the words tumble from his mouth, choked and utterly devout. "Not a moment went by when I did not plead with the Gods to bring me back to you. I curse the sea for trying to wrench me from your side. For its greed and its cruelty, forâ"
But you silence him with a firmer press of lips, swallowing the last of his blubbering with the sweetness of your mouth, tasting salt and love and life. You exhale shakily, drawing back so your gazes meet, lips brushing, leaning to nuzzle your noses together as you whisper, voice fervent with conviction. "No more talk of misfortune," you say, nudging his cheek in reprimand with the tip of your nose. "Let me rejoice in having you again."
Jacaerys had always been weak to your whims, never one to deny you anything, least of all when spoken with such longing, such relief, bodies close and shaking with lingering grief and solace alike.
He nods, gathering strength enough to nuzzle you back, eyes fluttering at the feeling, to which you shakily let out another one of those honeyed laughs as you whisper. "But do not think I shall forgive you for trapping me in mine own chambers before rushing to battle with such recklessness."
Oh.
In the midst of all this, he forgot the events that led him to this whole predicament. Closing his mother's door, then yours, vowing to come back in the end, no matter the cost.
"But I haveâ"
"Coming back in such a state is hardly enough for me to count this as you honoring your vow," you say, eyes narrowing, even teary and full of adoration as they were. And he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything, but the fullness of his chest as it filled with so much love for you, it damn near burst open. "We shall discuss more of this when you've healed properly."
"Yes, my lady," he whispers, having the gall to look a bit sheepish, but alas, a small smile curls at his lips, the normalcy of your reprimand willing his senses into solace.
You harrumph, trying to show displeasure, but he knows there is too much relief blooming between you two now, softening even this attempt at being stern.
He makes an effort to tilt his chin up until his lips brush your tear-streaked, warm cheek, kissing it softly, not moving for a very, very long time.
"I'm sorry," is pressed against the damp skin, and he knows it'll take time and an exuberant amount of grovelling to will you to forgive him, but he wouldn't have it any other way.
Now that he has escaped death's grasp, he has a lifetime ahead of him to try to gain your favour.
And Gods, what a fortunate way to live out the rest of his days.
tag list: @silkaurum @oldtowrs @mademoisellepetite @dreamgirlevill @0nlybitt3r4may @rhaenyras-crown @ghostlybfgf @pinkdoeweirdo
Summary: Jacaerys and you have never gotten along very well ever since his mom and your dad got together. However, you both tolerate one another, staying out of each other's way. But this night, Jace has had enough of your defiant attitude, lashing out at you. Obviously, you decide to pay him back.
Warnings: SMUT; nasty and filthy language; dub!con (they both want it tbh); stepcest; both are mean to each other; masturbation; oral (m!receiving); degradation; name calling; rough sex; breeding kink lowk (he cums inside); fluffy ending; taboo relationship; reader admits to sleeping around; drugging? (reader uses Viagra on Jace, as payback);
Words: 11.7k
Notes: English is not my first language. This is hella đŻđ»đźđȘđŽđ (regarding the language used). They are not blood-related in this story. No descriptions of Reader and no use of (y/n). If you are uncomfortable with any of the warnings, please do NOT read it. Thank you.
đ . âź aera .á Öč â ê±
Jacaerys sits engaged in his studies in his room. Still, the constant pop music blaring from his stepsister's room soon distracts him. The loud tunes echo in the hallway, quickly becoming a source of frustration. He feels his aggravation bubbling inside him as he struggles to concentrate on his assignment.
"Why does she always have to blast that ridiculous music?" he says to himself, gritting his teeth. His patience is wearing thin, and he can no longer disregard the noise that seems intentionally designed to irritate him. Taking a deep breath to calm his rising anger, Jacaerys stands up and heads toward the door.
Walking to your room, he reflects on how much you frustrate him. "Why is she even awake? I still donât understand why she needs to be so loud. Canât she be a little more considerate?" The mix of irritation and anger boils within him as he approaches her door.
He knocks, but the music continues to drown out everything else. "Just fantastic," he mutters to himself, and at that moment, he realizes that his patience has completely evaporated. Jacaerys flings the door open, bracing himself to demand that she lower the volume. Still, heâs hit with a wave of anger that makes the whole predicament even worse. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for a confrontation.
"Hey, turn that music down," he demands. He lacks the composure to simply ask, and in that instant, his emotions take charge. Jacaerys is fully prepared for an argument, knowing that this encounter won't go smoothly.
You were dancing in your room, clad in your baby blue panties and a loose white tee. The music was blasting, the beat thumping through your veins as you moved to the rhythm. It had been a long, tiring day, and you just needed to let loose, to forget about everything.
Your hair swayed with each twist and turn of your body as you lost yourself in the beats of Black Eyed Peas, a classic. You finally felt somewhat better, like the cool, carefree girl everyone sees you as. Nothing else mattered except the music and the feeling of the air against your skin.
Suddenly, your 'party' was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. You didn't need to look to know it was Jace. He always had a knack for ruining your fun. But you didn't let it phase you. Instead, you turned up the volume, your grin turning wicked as you faced him.
You continued to dance, lipsyncing the words with exaggerated passion, putting on a show just to annoy him. His face contorted with anger, his brows furrowing. You had to bite back a laugh as he got angrier while you just kept twirling around like an exotic dancer.
"What? Not used to actually good music?"
Jacaerys stands in the doorway, his eyes wide as he takes in the sight before him. His stepsister is dancing in nothing but her underwear, your body moving sensually to the music. He feels a wave of anger wash over him, mixed with a hint of something else... something he doesn't want to acknowledge.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he shouts over the music, his voice dripping with contempt. "You can't just blast your shitty music at all hours of the night!"
He takes a step into the room, his eyes never leaving your body. He tries to look away, trying to focus on the anger bubbling up inside him, but he can't help but stare. Your curves are mesmerizing, your skin glowing in the dim light of her bedroom.
"And put some fucking clothes on!" he adds, his voice rising. "You look like a cheap whore!"
The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth, but he can't take them back. He knows they're cruel, but he's too angry to care. He hates you, hates how you have invaded his life, his home. And now you're dancing around half-naked, taunting him with your body.
"Don't you know I'm trying to study?" he shouts, crossing his arms over his chest. "Do you have any idea how annoying you are?"
He's breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest, he can't seem to look away from you, can't stop watching you move. Jace clenches his fists, trying to ignore the way your breasts are visible through the light-coloured tee and the way your panties hug your hips.
You stop dancing and glare at him, your lips pursed together. You abruptly shut off the music, the sudden silence deafening.
"Get out!" You yell, furious at his degrading words. You know you pissed him off, but he's never called you names like that before. What's gotten into him?
You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious about your state of undress. But you refuse to let him see that he's gotten under your skin. You keep your chin raised defiantly, meeting his angry gaze head-on.
"You're the one who barged in here unannounced," you snap. "Maybe if you knocked first, you wouldn't have seen anything. But apparently, you just can't help yourself when it comes to invading my privacy."
You turn away from him in disgust, not wanting to look at him anymore. Your heart is pounding and you feel your cheeks flush with anger and embarrassment. You can't believe he said those things to you. He's never been so cruel before.
Jacaerys feels a pang of guilt as he sees the hurt in your eyes, but he quickly pushes it down. You're the enemy, the intruder in his life. He can't let himself feel sorry for you.
"Oh, so it's my fault now?" he scoffs, taking another step into the room. "I'm the one who can't help myself? You're the one who's always prancing around half-naked, just begging for attention."
He reaches out and grabs your arm, turning you to face him. He can feel the heat radiating off your skin and can smell the sweet scent of your perfume. It's intoxicating, and he hates himself for noticing.
"Listen, you little bitch," he sneers, his face inches from yours. "I'm in charge here, not you. You don't get to do whatever you want, whenever you want. There are rules in this house, and you're going to start following them."
He can see the rage in your eyes, the way you grit your teeth. But he doesn't let go. He wants to show you who's boss, wants to make you submit to him.
"Now put some fucking clothes on and stay out of my way," he growls, giving your arm a rough shake. "And if I hear that music again, there will be consequences."
Jacaerys' grip is rough as he grabs your arm, and you can feel his nails digging into your skin. You grit your teeth, trying to suppress the wince of pain. His closeness is suffocating, his hot breath on your face making you light-headed.
"Get. Out." You spit the words at him, ripping your arm free. The movement leaves angry red marks on your skin, a physical reminder of his bruising hold.
In the past, you would have run straight to Dad. His presence loomed large, always ready to swoop in and protect you. But not this time. The air between you is different now, charged with a new dynamic since his relationship with Jace's mother. No, Dad won't interfere this time.
You are on your own.
Something stirs inside you. A spark of anger, of determination. You won't let him bully you, won't let him treat you like you're nothing just because it's his house.
A smirk plays at the corners of your mouth as a plan takes shape in your mind. Oh, you'll make him pay for this. You'll make him regret ever laying a hand on you.
"Now," you hiss, your voice low and dangerous. "Get out of my room before I scream. And if you ever touch me again, I will cut your dick off and fuck your face with it."
You watch as he hesitates, his eyes flashing with rage and something else, something you can't quite place. But he backs down, turning and storming out of the room.
You slam the door behind him, leaning against it heavily. Your heart races and your breaths come in short gasps. This isn't over. Not by a long shot. But for now, you've made your stand. And you will get the better of him.
Jace storms out of your room, slamming the door behind him with a loud bang that echoes through the hallway. His hands are shaking, his heart racing. He can still feel the heat of your skin under his fingers, and can still smell the intoxicating aroma of your perfume.
"Fuck!" he shouts, punching the wall in frustration. Pain shoots through his hand, but he barely notices. All he can think about is you - your defiance, your attitude, your goddamn body.
He knows he shouldn't have touched you, knows he crossed a line. But he couldn't help himself. You were just so... there, so tempting. And he hates himself for it.
Jace takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He can't let you get to him like this, can't let you see that you have any kind of power over him. He's the one in charge, not you.
But even as he tells himself this, he knows it's not true. You have a hold over him, a power he can't quite explain. And it terrifies him.
He stalks back to his room, slamming the door behind him. He needs to clear his head and focus on something elseâanything else.
But as he sits down at his desk, trying to force himself to concentrate on his homework, all he can think about is you. The way you looked at him, the way you smelled, the way your skin felt under his fingers.
He groans in frustration, burying his face in his hands. This is going to be a long night.
Jace slammed the door and before you could think, you were screaming, hurling the nearest object you could grab - your half-empty water glass - right at the wooden barrier separating you. It shatters on impact, scattering shards across the floor.
You pant heavily, your vision swimming with a red haze of fury. Those red marks on your arm are a throbbing reminder of his cruelty. How dare he lay a finger on you, how dare he treat you like you're just some nuisance to be dealt with.
Cursing under your breath, you go to clean up the pieces of glass, hissing as a few sharp slivers embed themselves in your fingertips. It hurts, but you grit your teeth and keep sweeping.
Tomorrow, you vow to yourself. Tomorrow, he's gonna learn not to underestimate you. And there's no one to stop you this time. No dad to intervene, no mom to play peacemaker, and no Lucerys to come to his defence.
Just you. And you know exactly how to make him pay. That smug, cocky expression on his face will be wiped right off when you're through with him. He'll be begging for mercy.
A wicked smile curls your lips as you imagine all the ways you can make Jace suffer. Oh, it's gonna be so satisfying to bring him to his knees. He'll regret the day he ever laid a hand on you.
Jace hears the crash of glass, followed by your muffled screaming. He knows you're angry, knows he pushed you too far. But he can't bring himself to care. All he can think about is the feel of your skin. It's driving him crazy.
He paces his room, his mind racing with thoughts of you. He hates you, but he can't deny the attraction he feels. It's eating him alive, consuming every thought. He's never felt this way before, never been so torn between lust and disdain.
Jace stops in front of his mirror, staring at his reflection. He looks like shit - his hair is a mess, his eyes are wild. He looks like he's losing his mind. And maybe he is. Because all he can think about is you, touching you, claiming you as his own.
He slams his fist against the wall, feeling the sting of pain in his knuckles. But it's not enough. Nothing is enough to quench this fire burning inside him. He needs you, needs to overpower you, needs to take you like an animal and make you into an obedient bunny.
Jace strips off his shirt, revealing his toned chest and abs. He's been working out like crazy lately, trying to blow off steam. But it's not working. Nothing is working. Except the thought of you, naked and helpless under him.
He reaches down, palming himself through his shorts. He's already hard, already aching for release. But he knows it won't be enough. Nothing will be enough until he has you.
Jace collapses onto his bed, his body tense with need. He wants to hate you, wants to push you away. But he can't. All he can do is lie here, imagining all the ways he's going to make you his.
His cock is hard and aching, straining against the confines of his boxers. He reaches down, stroking himself slowly, imagining it's your hand on him instead of his own.
Jace groans, his hips thrusting up into his hand as he imagines you touching him. In his mind, you're naked and wet, your body pressed against his, your lips trailing kisses down his chest.
"Fuck," he moans, his name for you falling from his lips like a prayer. He's always tried to resist you, always tried to push you away. But now, he can't fight it any longer. He needs you, needs to feel you, needs to claim you as his own.
He thinks about barging into your room again, pinning you against the wall, tearing your clothes off with his bare hands. He wants to touch you, to taste you, to make you scream his name in pleasure and pain.
Jace speeds up his strokes, his cock throbbing in his hand. He's close, so fucking close. Just a little more and he'll explode, will paint his chest with his seed like a fucking teenage boy.
"Oh, yes, fuck," he pants, his eyes rolling back in his head as he imagines you riding him, your tits bouncing in his face. He wants to grab them, to suck on your nipples until you're begging for more.
With a final groan, Jace comes, his cock pulsing in his hand as he shoots his load all over his stomach. He lies there for a moment, catching his breath, his body still tingling with pleasure.
Unable to drift off, you pop a melatonin and collapse onto the bed, giddy with anticipation for tomorrow. You just have to act normal and bide your time patiently. With your mind foggy from the drowsiness, you struggle to recall clever quotes about patience. Ah well, you'll just have to exercise some restraint until the moment is right. Tomorrow, Jace will get a taste of his own medicine.
The next morning, Jace wakes up feeling groggy and exhausted. He can still feel the ache in his cock, the memory of his fantasy still fresh in his mind. He rolls over, burying his face in his pillow to muffle a groan.
He knows he shouldn't have done that, knows he shouldn't be thinking about you that way. But he can't help it. You're always on his mind, always tempting him, always challenging him.
Jace gets out of bed, and heads to the bathroom to shower. As he strips off his clothes, he catches sight of the cum stains on his boxers from last night. He feels a sense of shame washes over him, followed by a surge of anger.
"Fuck," he mutters, balling up the underwear and throwing it in the hamper. "What the hell is wrong with me?"
He turns on the shower, letting the hot water cascade over his body. But even as he scrubs himself clean, he can't shake the thoughts of you from his mind. He imagines you in the shower with him, your hands sliding over his slick skin, your lips on his neck.
Jace groans, his cock stiffening again. He reaches down, wrapping his hand around it, stroking it slowly. He thinks about you, about how you'll look when he finally breaks you when he makes you submit to him completely.
He's close, so fucking close, when he hears a knock at the bathroom door.
"Jace, hurry up!" his brother Lucerys calls out. "We're leaving!"
Jace curses under his breath, releasing his cock reluctantly. He finishes his shower quickly, towelling off in a hurry. As he heads to his room to get dressed, getting ready to bid his brother and parents goodbye, he wonders what kind of shit you'll pull today.
You head downstairs as well, your heart fluttering with excitement as you watch your family leave for their weekend trip. You give them each a quick hug, your smile a little too bright, your eyes a little too eager. They say their goodbyes, reminding Jace and you to study hard for your upcoming finals.
You turn to Jace, who's engrossed in conversation with Lucerys. You seize your chance. Slipping into the kitchen, you retrieve the Viagra pill you'd tucked away in your pocket earlier. Your hands shake slightly as you open the capsule, pouring the powdered contents into Jace's glass of coffee. You stir it smoothly, erasing any trace of your tampering.
A wicked smile plays across your lips as you picture what will happen next. Jace, oblivious, will gulp down his spiked drink, blissfully unaware of the chemical coursing through his veins. And when the effects hit, oh, how delicious his suffering will be. The smug boy finally brought low by his own lust, enslaved by a desire he can't control.
Part of you feels a twinge of guilt for drugging him without consent, but your desire for revenge overshadows it.
Jace finishes his breakfast, gulping down the last of his coffee. As he starts to work on his History paper, he feels a strange sensation wash over him, a tingling warmth spreading through his body. He stands up, heading to the sink to rinse his cup.
But as he walks, he feels a sudden tightness in his groin. He looks down, shocked to see his cock hardening in his pants. What the fuck? He hasn't even seen you yet, and he's already hard? He can barely walk, his legs trembling with the effort of holding back his orgasm.
"Fuck," he groans, pressing his thighs together. His cock is rock hard, throbbing painfully against his zipper. He can feel it pulsing, almost like a heartbeat.
He stumbles back to the sofa, sitting down heavily. He can feel his heart racing, his skin flushed with heat. He knows he shouldn't be feeling this way, knows he should be focused on anything but you. But he can't help it. All he can think about is you, about your body, about fucking you until you scream.
Jace shifts in his seat, trying to adjust himself discreetly. But it's no use. His cock is throbbing, aching for release. He looks around, making sure you are nowhere near.
"Fuck," he mutters, reaching down to palm himself through his jeans. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, and knows he should stop before he loses control. But he can't. He needs to cum, needs to relieve the pressure building inside him. Jace is a mess. His cock is leaking steadily, soaking through his boxers and making a damp spot on his jeans.Â
He slides his hand into his pants, pulling his cock out and wrapping his hand around it. He's so hard it hurts, so fucking horny he can barely think straight. He starts stroking himself, biting his lip to keep from making a sound.
Jace's mind is filled with thoughts of you, of your body, of your touch. He imagines you walking in on him like this, seeing the shock in your eyes as you realize what he's doing. He pictures you dropping to your knees, taking his cock in your mouth like a good little slut.
"Oh, fuck," he moans, his hips thrusting up into his hand. He's so close, so fucking close. Just a little more and he'll explode.
You crouch behind the wall on the staircase, eyeing Jace through the gap. There he is, the always arrogant Jacaerys, pumping himself like a horny teenager. You can't help but smirk, feeling a thrill at seeing him so undone. But you can't ignore the dampening between your legs at the sight of his toned arm wrapped around his thick shaft...No! You shake your head.Â
You need to stick to the plan.
You stride into the living room, calling out in mock shock, "Ew! Seriously?!" You point accusingly at his hard leaking cock in his fist. "So I'm a 'cheap whore' for dancing in my room, but you can just whip it out and whack off anywhere?!"
You lay into him mercilessly, your voice dripping with disdain. "What are you, some kind of sick pervert? Jerking off where your innocent step-sister could walk in on you? God, you're disgusting!"
You know you shouldn't take such delight in humiliating him, but you can't help the wicked satisfaction curling within you as you watch his face flush with shame and anger. He looks like a scolded child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Get your act together, Jace," you scold, your voice laced with faux-concern. "This isn't appropriate behaviour."
Jace's eyes widen in shock as he hears your voice, his heart pounding. He's caught, exposed, his worst nightmare come true. He scrambles to cover himself, his face burning with shame and anger.
"Get out!" he shouts, his voice cracking with embarrassment. "Get the fuck out of here!"
But you don't move, just stand there with that smug look on your face. He can see the evil glint in your eyes, the way you're looking at him like he's some kind of pervert.
"Fuck you," he spits, his cock still throbbing painfully in his hand. "This is none of your business."
But even as he says it, he knows it's a lie. Everything about him is your business now, whether he likes it or not. You're in his life, in his head, in his fucking cock. And he hates it, hates you, hates everything about this situation.
He looks down at his crotch, seeing the wet spot on his toned stomach, the sticky strands of precum leaking from his tip. He feels like a fucking animal, like a dog in heat. And you're standing there, watching him, judging him.
"Get out," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Get the fuck out of here before I lose my temper."
But even as he says it, he knows it's a hollow threat. He's too weak, too desperate.
Jace's hand is still wrapped around his dick, his fingers slick with pre-cum. He can feel it dripping down his shaft, making a sticky mess of his boxers. He's so fucking hard it hurts, so desperate to cum that he can barely think straight.
"Just leave me alone," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Or I'll make you leave."
You bite your lip, looking at his aching cock, making a mess all over himself. "Aww..." you coo, pouting your pink lips. "Look at you, you're so horny, you can't even think straight. Your cock is leaking all over you."
You tease him with faux regard, your eyes gleaming with amusement. "What a mess you are, Jace. You really need to learn some self-control."
Jace glares at you, his eyes narrowing with anger and embarrassment. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, the shame burning through his body. He knows he looks pathetic, and knows that you're enjoying every second of his humiliation.
"Shut up," he snarls, his hand tightening around his cock. "Just shut the fuck up."
But even as he says it, he can't tear his eyes away from you. You're so fucking beautiful, so perfect in every way. And you're staring at him like he's some kind of freak, some kind of pervert.
He wants to hate you, wants to push you away, wants to make you suffer for what you've done to him. But he can't. All he can do is stare at you, his heart pounding in his chest, his cock throbbing in his hand.
"Fucking slut," he mutters, his voice low and vicious. "I bet you love this, don't you? Love seeing me like this, all pathetic and desperate."
His hand is moving faster now, stroking his cock with frantic, needy movements. He's so close, so fucking close to exploding. He just needs a little more, just a little more friction.
"I bet you're getting wet right now," he growls, his eyes locked on yours. "I bet you're picturing me fucking you, aren't you? Fucking you like the dirty whore you are."
He's not thinking straight, not thinking at all. All he can focus on is you, your body, your touch. He needs you, needs to dominate you, needs to make you submit to him completely.
"Come here," he demands, his voice rough with desire. "Get on your fucking knees and suck my cock like a good little slut."
He knows it's a mistake, knows he shouldn't be saying this. But he can't help it. The drug is clouding his mind, making him say and do things he never would normally do.
"Do it," he commands, his voice harsh and demanding. "Get over here and put that pretty little mouth to work."
Your breath catches in your throat as Jace's filthy words wash over you. You can feel the heat pooling between your legs, your panties growing damp with arousal. You never expected this, never thought he would affect you like this.
"N-no," you stammer, your voice trembling. You press your thighs together, trying to ignore the ache building in your core. You shouldn't want this, shouldn't want him. But you do, so badly.
You can feel your nipples hardening beneath your shirt. You know you should leave, should get away from him before it's too late. But you can't seem to make your feet move.
You can feel your juices trickling down your thighs, your panties clinging to your slick folds. You're so wet, so desperate for his touch. You know you should be disgusted by your desires, but you can't be. Not when Jace is looking at you like that, his eyes dark with lust and hunger.
Jace's eyes are burning with desire, his gaze raking over your body like he wants to devour you whole. He can see the way your nipples are hardening beneath your shirt, the way your breasts are swelling with need. He knows you're turned on, knows you want him just as badly as he wants you.
"Fuck," he growls, his hand speeding up on his cock. "You're so fucking hot. I bet you're dripping wet right now, aren't you? Bet you're aching for my cock."
He spreads his legs wider, giving you a clear view of his throbbing cock. It's swollen and red, the tip dripping with pre-cum. He knows it would feel so good inside your tight pussy, stretching you, filling you, claiming you.
He takes a step towards you, his hips thrusting into his hand. His cock is throbbing, dripping with pre-cum.
"Get on your knees and worship me," he demands, his eyes burning into yours. "Show me how much you want it. Show me how much you need my cock."
He knows it's immoral, knows he shouldn't be saying these things. But he can't stop, can't control himself. The medication is making him wild, making him say and do things he never would before.
He knows it's a challenge, and knows that you won't be able to resist. He can see the way your eyes are locked on his cock, the way your tongue is darting out to wet your lips.
"Come and get it," he taunts, his voice thick with desire. "Come and show me how much you want to be my little cock sleeve."
"Do it," he demands, his eyes boring into yours. "Get on your knees and suck my fucking cock."
He's moving closer now, his cock bobbing obscenely in front of him. He can smell your arousal and can see the way your body is shaking with need.
"Fucking. Do. It," he snarls, his hand tightening around his shaft. "Or I'll fucking make you."
He's so close, so fucking close to losing control completely. If you don't obey him, if you don't give him what he needs, he might just snap. Might just grab you and take what he wants, consequences be damned.
He's going to make you submit to him, make you his own personal fuck toy. He's going to use you, abuse you, make you beg for his cock.
"Now," he snarls, his hand tightening around his shaft. "Before I lose my fucking patience."
You take a small step back, shaking your head as if to clear it. "No, Jace... this is wrong," you say, trying to sound firm even as your body betrays you. Fuck, why does he have to be so hot? Every fibre of your being is screaming at you to drop to your knees and worship that massive cock.
The sight of Jace stroking himself, his eyes dark with lust, is enough to make your head spin. You want him so badly, want to feel that thick shaft stretching your throat, fucking your face until you're gagging and drooling all over yourself.
But you can't. You won't. No matter how much your body craves it, you know this is wrong. He's your stepbrother, for fuck's sake. You can't do this, can't cross this line.
You take another step back, your heart pounding in your chest. You were so close to giving in, so close to letting all of your inhibitions melt away.
"Jace, please," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "We can't do this. It's not right." Trying to sound commanding, but it sounds like a pathetic whimper.
Jace's eyes narrow, his jaw clenching with anger. He can't believe you're rejecting him, can't believe you're turning him down after everything his family has done for you. He's been nothing but patient to you, nothing but kind and generous. And this is how you repay him? By denying him what he needs most?
"Fuck you," he spits, his hand tensing around his cock. "You think you're better than me? Think you can just walk away?"
He takes a step towards you, his eyes burning with rage. He knows you're unconvinced. But he doesn't care. All he cares about is his own need, his own desperate hunger.
"I own you," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "You belong to me. And I won't let you go until I'm satisfied."
He lunges forward, grabbing you by the wrist and yanking you towards him. He pulls you close, his body pressing against yours, his cock rubbing against your stomach.
"You're mine," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "I'll fucking violate your throat until you're begging for more. And you'll enjoy every second of it."
He shoves you to your knees, his hand tangling in your hair. He pulls your head back, forcing you to look up at him.
"Open your mouth," he demands, his cock pressing against your lips. "Put that pretty little mouth to work and show me how sorry you are."
You stare up at Jace with wide, shocked eyes. The sweet, charming stepbrother that you know has transformed into someone so cruel, so aggressive. But despite yourself, you can't deny the slick pooling between your thighs at his vulgar words and forceful actions.
With trembling fingers, you place your hands on his muscular thighs, steadying yourself. Slowly, obediently, you part your pink, glossy lips and stick out your tongue, offering your mouth to him. Your heart pounds wildly in anticipation of what he might do.
Jace grins down at you, his eyes gleaming with triumph and dark lust. He grips your hair tighter, practically yanking you forward to take his throbbing cock. "That's it, slut. Open wide for your stepbrother."
He slaps his heavy, veiny shaft against your cheek and lips, smearing sticky pre-cum on your soft skin. The musky scent of his arousal fills your nostrils. "Mmm, yeah, gonna train you with my dick. Gonna wreck your throat with it."
Grabbing your jaw, Jace forces his fat cockhead past your lips, stretching them obscenely. "Ffffuck..." he groans at the tight, wet heat engulfing him. He bucks his hips, ramming several inches of thick cockmeat down your throat.
Your eyes bulge and water as he hits the back of your throat, making you gag and sputter around his invading length. Drool leaks from the corners of your stretched mouth. Jace's heavy balls smack against your chin.
"Take it, bitch!" he snarls, eyes wild with lust. "Choke on my fucking cock! Gonna use your throat like a fleshlight." He yanks your head forward, burying his dick to the hilt in your convulsing oesophagus.
Holding you in place, Jace starts savagely pistoning his hips, sawing his huge cock in and out of your abused throat. Your eyes roll back, drool splattering your tits as he uses your face like a cocksleeve. "Ungh, fuck, so good!" he grunts, grunting and sweating. "Best. Throat. Ever!"
Spit-roasted and choking, you can only gurgle helplessly as he breaks your throat. "Look at me," he demands, his voice rough with lust. "Look at me while I fuck your throat."
You force your eyes open, looking up at him through your tears. He's looking down at you with a wild, feral expression, his eyes burning with a hunger that terrifies and thrills you.
"You like this, don't you?" he asks, his voice low and cruel. "Like being used like a fucking toy. Like being my personal cum dumpster."
He pulls out suddenly, his cock slipping from your lips. You gasp for air, coughing and sputtering. But before you can recover, he's shoving back in, fucking your throat with renewed vigour.
"I'm going to ruin you," he promises, his hand tightening in your hair. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't remember your own name. Until you're nothing but a set of holes for me to use."
You moan around his thick cock, the vibrations travelling up his shaft as your throat constricts around him. Wet, obscene noises fill the room - the sloppy sounds of spit and drool as he uses your mouth like a disposable fucktoy
Gasping desperately, you pull off his cock for a moment, lungs burning. You gaze up at him with huge, tearful eyes, mascara smeared down your flushed cheeks. "Jace..." you whine pathetically, your voice is scratchy and broken.
You trail your delicate fingers along his chiselled abdomen and strong thighs, a soft apology. Your nails lightly scrape his heated skin, silently pleading for mercy. But your sorrowful puppy dog eyes hold a dark, masochistic thrill - you love being used like his personal fleshlight.
Jace chuckles darkly, his hand still fisted in your hair. "You look so cute when you're choking on my cock," he sneers. "Like a pretty little whore. My pretty girl."
He tugs your head forward, forcing you back onto his massive dick. Your nose presses against his pubic bone as he bottoms out in your throat.
"No more talking," Jace growls. "Just take it like a good little step-slut."
He starts face-fucking you with cruel intensity, hips slapping against your face. Drool pours from your stretched lips, making a further mess of your tits. He yanks your hair, forcing you to deepthroat him over and over.
"Fuck yes, gag on it," he pants harshly. "Choke on your stepbrother's fat cock."
Spit sprays from your mouth as he ruthlessly pounds your throat. Your eyes squeeze shut, tears streaming down your face. But you look up at him with a perverse, masochistic adoration.
Jace leers down at you wickedly. "Take it all, you filthy throat slut. Milk my cock with your whore throat."
He holds your head down, burying his dick as deep as it can go. Your throat spasms around him, convulsing as you struggle for air. But he keeps you pinned, using your mouth like a warm, wet fleshlight.
Pulling out suddenly, Jace rips you off his cock. A flood of drool and pre-cum pours out of your used hole. You gasp and splutter, trying to catch your breath.
"You love this, don't you?" Jace sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. "Love being treated like a cheap fucktoy. Like a set of holes for me to use."
He slaps your cheek with his wet, veiny cock. "Go on, slut. Clean my dick."
You obediently wrap your lips around his cockhead, suckling gently. You lap up the mixture of pre-cum and saliva, savouring the taste of his essence.
"Mmmm..." you moan around his leaking tip.
Jace shudders as your tongue swirls around his sensitive cockhead, your lips making little kisses along his shaft. "Ohh fuck, that's it," he groans. "Youâve done this before, havenât you? On your knees for some man who just wants to use you for your mouth and ass?â
You whimper softly as you clean Jace's thick shaft with your tongue, slurping up the mix of your spit and his pre-cum. Your eyes flutter shut as you lose yourself in the sensation.
But his degrading words sting, making you scowl around his throbbing cock. You want to show him how much more experienced you are than he realizes.
Releasing his dick from your lips with a wet pop, you shift to nuzzle his heavy, cum-filled balls. Your tongue darts out to lap at the wrinkled skin, stroking his veiny shaft at the same time.
"Ohh Jace," you coo sultrily, your warm breath washing over his sensitive sack. "Do you want to cum on your pretty little sister's face? Be a dirty pervert and paint me like a cheap whore?"
You roll his big balls in your mouth, suckling gently as you pump his cock with your soft hand. Your fingertips dance teasingly over his weeping slit, making him twitch and throb.
"Mmmm...I'll be such a good girl for you, brother. Just tell me where you want to cum. My mouth? My tits? All over my slutty face?"
Jace groans, his head falling back as you worship his most intimate areas. Your warm, wet mouth and soft hands feel amazing on his heavy sack and throbbing cock.
"F-fuck..." he stammers, his eyes squeezing shut. "You're so good at this. Have you practised much? On your ex-boyfriends?"
His abs flex as you tongue his balls, your hand pumping his slick shaft. "Dirty girl," he pants. "Bet you've sucked off lots of boys before. Bet you love it."
You glance up at him through your lashes, your eyes dark with lust. "Maybe I have," you purr, your hand speeding up. "Maybe I can't control myself around big, hard cocks. Maybe I just need to be filled up and used like the slut I am."
Jace groans, his cock throbbing in your soft hand as your tongue and lips worship his heavy balls. The sight of you nuzzling and sucking them, combined with the depraved words tumbling from your lips, has his cock swelling even larger.
You release his balls with a wet pop, gazing up at him with sultry bedroom eyes. "I've dreamed about your cock, brother," you purr, pumping his shaft slowly. "Imagined you bending me over and fucking me like you own me."
"Fuck," he pants, his hips rocking slightly into your touch. "You're such a dirty little slut. Begging for your own stepbrother's cum."
He reaches down to fist his hand in your hair, guiding your head to his groin. "Open up, whore. Let me feed you my cock."
You obey eagerly, parting your glossy lips to accept his thick meat. He slides over your tongue, the salty taste of his pre-cum flooding your mouth.
Jace starts fucking your face, his balls slapping against your spit-slick chin with each thrust. "Take it all, you filthy cumslut," he growls. "Choke on your stepbrother's fat cock."
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as he hits the back of your throat repeatedly, but you moan wantonly around his pistoning shaft. Drool leaks from the corners of your stretched lips, making a sticky mess of your chin and breasts.
"Mmmph!" you hum, the vibrations driving Jace wild. His grip tightens painfully in your hair as he starts bucking into your mouth with reckless abandon.
"Ohh fuuuck!" Jace throws his head back with a guttural groan. "Gonna fucking bust! Gonna paint your whore face with my load!"
With a final, brutal thrust, he buries his cock in your throat and unloads his seed directly into your belly. Hot spurts of thick, sticky cum shoot down your throat as he empties his heavy balls.
You whimper as Jace pulls his spent cock from your throat. Globs of his thick cum spill from your lips, dripping down your chin and onto your already ruined shirt. The fabric clings to your skin, damp with spit and his precum.
Wiping the cum from your face with trembling fingers, you bring them to your mouth and suck them clean with a sinful moan. Your body is on fire, desperate for more despite the ache in your throat.
You peel off your soiled top with quivering hands, revealing your perky tits glistening with dried fluids. Your pert nipples stiffen in the cool air, aching to be touched. You toss the shirt aside carelessly, uncaring of your state of undress.
You know he's not done with you yet. The drug has him in its thrall now, his need insatiable. Your pussy throbs, empty and needy. You present yourself to him, ready to be used again and again for his pleasure.
Jace drinks in the sight of your half-naked body, his eyes dark with lust and something more sinister. He circles you slowly, drinking in every curve and dip of your lithe form. His gaze lingers on your pert breasts, the peaks already pebbled with arousal.
He trails a single finger down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You shiver and arch into his touch, craving more. Jace chuckles lowly, the sound sending tingles across your skin.
"So desperate for it," he purrs, his breath hot against your ear. "So eager to be filled by your own stepbrother's cock. What a dirty little slut you are."
His hand snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against his muscular body. You can feel his renewed erection pressing insistently against your ass, hard and heavy. He grinds against you, letting you feel exactly what he wants to do to you.
Jace's fingers dance across your sensitive skin, tracing teasing patterns over your hips and thighs. He nips at your earlobe, tugging it between his teeth. "Beg for it," he growls, his voice rough with desire. "Beg me to fuck you like the filthy cumslut you are."
His words make you burn with shame and need, a combination that has you dizzy with want. You've never been spoken to like this before, treated like a piece of meat to be used for someone else's pleasure. But, god help you, you love it. Love being degraded and objectified by the man you've secretly craved for so long.
"Please Jace," you whimper, grinding back against his rigid length. "Please fuck me. I need it so bad. I need you to split me open on your big cock and make me yours."
Your shameless begging seems to inflame him further. With a low groan, Jace fists your hair, pushing you face-first onto the couch.
He looms over you, his eyes wild and hungry. "I'm going to ruin you," he promises darkly as he rips off your flimsy shorts and panties.
You yelp as Jace roughly pushes you down, your glistening holes exposed to his hungry gaze. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment as you feel his eyes devouring your most intimate places, watching the way they twitch and flutter with need. You can feel your arousal coating your inner thighs, your desperate cunt clenching around nothing.
Your breath comes in shallow gasps, your mind reeling with a mix of shame and desire. You've never been so vulnerable before, so utterly at someone else's mercy. And yet, you've never wanted anything more than you want Jace to claim you in this moment, to make you his in every way possible.
You can feel his eyes raking over your body, taking in every curve and dip of your quivering form. It's as if he's memorizing every inch of you. You squirm under the intensity of his stare, your skin prickling with goosebumps.
"Please," you whimper, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please Jace, I need you. I need you to split me open on your fat cock. I want to become your personal fleshlight, you can use me whenever you want, please."
Jace growls low in his throat, the sound sending shivers down your spine. He runs his rough palm over the globes of your ass, squeezing the supple flesh. "Such a desperate little slut," he taunts, giving your cheek a sharp smack. "So eager to be used like a cheap whore."
You cry out at the sudden sting, your pussy clenching hungrily. Jace chuckles cruelly, rubbing the reddening skin. "You like that, don't you? Like being marked and claimed by your stepbrother."
He spreads your cheeks wider, exposing your twitching holes to his ravenous gaze. "Look at you, dripping for me already. Your cunt is practically begging to be fucked."
Jace notches the swollen head of his cock against your entrance, the blunt tip nudging your sensitive folds. "Brace yourself, slut," he warns, his voice a dark promise. "I'm going to fucking destroy this sweet little pussy."
With that, he slams his hips forward, burying his massive length inside you in one brutal thrust. You scream at the sudden intrusion, your body stretched to its limits around his girth. It feels like he's splitting you in half, the thick cockhead kissing your cervix.
Jace doesn't give you any time to adjust, immediately setting a punishing pace. He pounds into you with animalistic eagerness, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. The couch creaks dangerously beneath you, rocking with the force of his thrusts.
"Fuck, so tight," he rasps, his hips never faltering. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. No one will ever make you feel as good as I do."
You can only whimper and moan, your mind short-circuiting with pleasure. It's too much, too intense. The feel of him claiming you so thoroughly, owning your body in the most primal way possible. It's everything you've ever wanted, even if you're too ashamed to admit it.
"Oh god, oh fuck!" You wail, your voice cracking with ecstasy. Jace's fat cock is stretching you beyond belief, filling you so completely that you can barely breathe. It feels like he's in your throat, splitting you open from the inside.
Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as he pounds into you mercilessly, the couch groaning beneath your combined weight. You can't believe how good it feels, how right. Like you were made to be used by him, and him alone.
In your pleasure-drunk haze, the words spill from your lips without thought. "You're even bigger than your best friend," you moan dazedly, clenching around his pistoning length. "Fuck, you're ruining my pussy!"
The moment the comparison leaves your mouth, you realize your mistake.
Jace stills, his hips still buried deep inside you. "What did you just say?" he asks quietly, a dangerous edge to his voice.
Realization dawns on you, horrified. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why did you say THAT?! Now he knows! Now he'll stop, now he'll pull out and leave you empty and aching and you can't let that happen!
"I didn't mean it," you babble, desperate. "I was just saying stuff, I didn't mean anything by it!"
Jace pulls out abruptly, his cock slipping from your clenching hole with a lewd noise. You whimper at the loss, your body already missing his thick meat.
But then he's flipping you over, pushing you down onto your back. He looms over you, his eyes dark and fathomless. One large hand wraps around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.
"Who?" he asks, his voice low and menacing. "Who have you fucked? Who else has had this sweet little cunt?"
His other hand reaches down, his fingers brushing over your swollen, sensitive folds. You buck your hips instinctively, seeking more of his touch.
"Tell me," he commands, tightening his grip slightly. "Tell me who you've spread your legs for. I want names, pet."
You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. You can't tell him the truth, can't admit to all the boys you've let use you. He'll hate you, he'll see you as nothing more than a dirty whore.
But then again, isn't that exactly what you are? A filthy cumslut desperate for any cock that will have you? Maybe this is your chance to finally be honest, to let him see the real you.
"I...I've fucked a lot of people," you whisper, your eyes downcast. "Guys from school, random hookups. I've let them all use me, brother. I'm nothing but a horny slut."
Jace's hand tightens around your throat, cutting off your air. "Did you enjoy it?"
You can barely breathe with Jace's hand around your throat, cutting off your air supply. Your lungs burn, and your vision starts to blur at the edges. But even through the haze of oxygen deprivation, you can feel the heat pooling in your core, your treacherous body responding to his show of dominance.
"Y-yes," you manage to choke out, your voice strained. "I loved it. Loved being used like a cheap whore, like a set of holes for them to fuck."
Jace's eyes flash with something dark and dangerous. His grip on your throat tightens even more, making spots dance across your vision. "Did you let them cum inside you? Fill you up with their seed like the dirty cumslut you are?"
You nod frantically, tears streaming down your face. "Yes, brother. So many times. I wanted to be claimed. Please, please fuck me. Use me like they did. I'm your filthy slut, yours to ruin."
Jace releases your throat abruptly, letting you gasp and cough, drawing in desperate gulps of air. He flips you back over onto your hands and knees, your ass presented to him like a bitch in heat.
"Spread yourself," he commands, giving your rear a sharp smack. "I want to see those slutty holes that have been so eagerly fucked."
You obey immediately, reaching back to spread your cheeks wide. Your swollen pussy lips glisten with arousal, your puckered asshole twitching hungrily. You're so empty, aching to be filled, to be used like the cum-hungry whore you are.
"Please, Jace," you beg, your voice trembling with desperate need. "I'm yours, only yours. No one can make me feel as good as you do."
You jiggle your round ass, spreading your cheeks to expose your soaked holes to his hungry gaze. Slick arousal trickles down your inner thighs, your pussy clenching around nothing, aching to be filled.
"I'll be your personal fucktoy, your cocksleeve to use whenever you want. Just please, fill me up again. I need your big cock stretching me open, claiming me as yours."
Your eyes are pleading, your body shaking with need. You've never felt so vulnerable, so utterly at someone's mercy. But you trust Jace, know that he'll give you exactly what you crave.
"No one else will ever touch me again," you promise, your voice breaking. "I'm yours, brother. Yours to fuck, yours to fill with your seed. I'll be the best little cockwarmer you've ever had."
Jace's eyes darken with lust as you present yourself to him so wantonly, your trembling body an offering to his basest desires. He drinks in the sight of your glistening folds, swollen and desperate for his touch.
"Such an obedient little slut," he purrs, trailing his fingers through your slick heat. "So eager to be bred by your own stepbrother, fucking dirty incest whore."
He notches the swollen head of his cock against your entrance, teasing you with the promise of fullness. Your hips buck back instinctively, trying to impale yourself on his thick length.
But Jace holds you in place, his grip bruising on your hips. "Ah ah, pet. You'll take my cock when I give it to you. Not a second sooner."
He drags the blunt tip through your folds, coating himself in your arousal. Each pass of his cockhead sends sparks of electricity racing up your spine, your body singing with need.
"Please," you whimper, tears of frustration leaking from your eyes. "Please, Jace. I can't take it anymore. I need you inside me, need you to fill me up."
With a satisfied growl, Jace lines himself up and thrusts forward, burying his massive length in your aching cunt again in one brutal stroke. You scream as he splits you open, your walls stretching to accommodate his girth. It's almost too much, the delicious burn of being filled so completely.
Jace sets a punishing pace, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the room, punctuated by your whiny moans and his grunts of effort.
"Take it, you filthy whore," he snarls, slamming into you. "Take my fucking cock like the cum-hungry slut you are. This is where you belong, speared on your stepbrother's dick."
It truly was, and you wouldn't change a thing about it. The degradation, the filthy words falling from his lips, the way he uses your body for his pleasure. You've never felt so complete, so utterly owned.
"I lo-ove your f-fucking cock," you sob brokenly, your fingers digging into the soft cushions of the couch. Drool spills from your slack lips and your eyes roll back in your head as Jace pounds into you with brutal force.
You're lost, drowning in a sea of pleasure, your mind short-circuiting under the onslaught of sensation. His thick cock stretches you impossibly wide, the wet slap of skin on skin filling your ears. You can't think, can't breathe, you can only focus on the feel of him splitting you open over and over again.
"Fuck, Jace!" You wail, your body convulsing around his pistoning length. "You're ruining me! Oh god, don't stop, please don't ever stop!"
Your hips rock back to meet his thrusts, desperate for more. You've never felt so full. At this moment, you're not even a person, just a hole for Jace to fuck.
You clench your hole around him, trying to milk his cock for all it's worth. You want him to use you, to fill you with his cum until you're leaking with it. You want to be his personal fucktoy, to exist solely for his pleasure.
You moan, your voice is ragged and broken. "All yours, big brother. Ruin me, break me, I can take it. Just please, please don't stop fucking me!"
Jace's thrusts become erratic, his cock pulsing inside you as he nears his peak. He leans forward, pressing his sweat-slicked body against your back. One hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back as he growls in your ear.
"Gonna fill this slutty cunt up," he pants, his hips snapping forward even harder. "Gonna breed you like the filthy whore you are. You want that, pet? Want to be knocked up by your stepbrother's seed?"
The thought sends a shockwave of lust through you, your already tight walls clamping down on his pistoning length. You've never wanted anything more, never ached to be claimed in such a primal way.
"Yes," you keen, pushing your hips back to meet his brutal thrusts. "Yes, fuck! Please! I wanna leak with your cum."
Your words seem to shatter the last of Jace's control. With an animalistic roar, he slams into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt. His cock jerks and pulses, painting your insides white with his thick seed.
"Gonna ruin this tight hole," he grunts, slamming into you harder. "Paint these filthy walls with my cum. You'd like that, wouldn't you? To be bred by your own fucking brother?"
You can only moan in response, your tongue lolling out of your mouth as you lose yourself to the relentless pounding of his cock. Your mind is blank, all thoughts consumed by the feel of him inside you, claiming you, owning you.
Jace's balls slap against your sensitive clit with each thrust, the added stimulation pushing you closer to the edge. Your toes curl, your nails scrabbling uselessly at the cushions as your body tenses, ready to shatter.
You scream as your own orgasm crashes over you, your cunt milking him for every last drop. Pleasure explodes behind your eyelids, whiting out your vision as you're consumed by ecstasy.
Jace collapses on top of you, both of you gasping for breath. His softening cock slips from your abused hole, a trickle of cum following in its wake. You can feel it running down your thighs, marking you as his.
As the post-orgasmic haze clears, reality starts to sink in. You just let your stepbrother fuck you raw, just begged him to cum inside. What have you done? What kind of sick, twisted person are you?
Shame and self-loathing wash over you, warring with the afterglow of pleasure. You should feel disgusted, should push Jace away and run as far away from this shame as you can.
When he finally pulls out, you feel empty. Your abused hole gapes obscenely, a trickle of his release leaking out. But Jace isn't done with you.
"We're not done yet, slut," he promises darkly.
"What?" You whisper hoarsely, your body still throbbing in the aftermath of Jace's brutal fucking. But even through the haze of pleasure, truth starts to creep in. You were the one who drugged him, who set this whole thing in motion.
"Wait," you whimper, twisting in his arms to face him. Your lips are swollen, your eyes glazed and unfocused. You can feel his cum leaking out of you. "Jace..."
Jace grabs you by the hips, pulling you flush against his body. His semi-hard cock nestles against your sensitive folds, making you gasp.
"You drugged me," he accuses, his voice low and dangerous. "Slipped something in my drink to make me fuck you. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"
Your heart pounds in your chest, dread and arousal warring within you. You've been caught, and your sick game exposed. But why does the danger only excite you more?
"I...I'm sorry," you stammer, trying to squirm out of his grasp. But Jace just tightens his grip, his fingers digging into your soft flesh.
"Don't lie to me," he snarls, shaking you roughly. "You wanted this, wanted me to fuck you senseless. Admit it."
He grinds his hips against you, his cock hardening further. You can feel him throbbing against your slick heat, the promise of more pleasure making you dizzy.
Your legs tremble, barely able to support your weight after the brutal pounding Jace just gave you. But it's not just exhaustion making you shake - it's the anticipation, the promise of more in his heated gaze.
"Y-yeah..." you admit meekly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I wanted to embarrass you. Wanted to see you lose control."
You look up at him through your lashes, biting your plump lower lip. "Did it work, big brother? Did I make you forget all about being a gentleman?"
You can feel his cock twitch against your slick folds, already hardening again. The knowledge that you've reduced him to such base lust, that you've corrupted him with your depravity, sends a thrill through you.
With a feral growl, Jace slams your head against the couch, pinning you there. His hands are everywhere, groping and mauling your sensitive flesh.
"You're playing with fire, little sister," he warns, grinding his rock-hard length against your aching core. You can feel him throbbing against you, hot and hard and ready.
Jace leans in, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "I should punish you for drugging me, you know. Bend you over my knee and spank that juicy ass until it's red and raw."
He punctuates his words with a sharp smack to your rear, making you yelp and arch into him. Your body craves more of his touch, your pussy clenching on nothing.
"Please," you whimper, too far gone to care how desperate you sound. "Punish me, Jace. I deserve it."
Something dark and hungry flashes in his eyes at your admission. "Filthy little slut," he growls approvingly. "Trust me, I will."
With a vicious smile, Jace scoops you up, throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of flour. He carries you towards his bedroom, his grip unyielding.
You shriek as Jace picks you up, your body going limp in his strong grip. You can feel his muscles flexing beneath your fingers as he throws you over his shoulder like a rag doll, carrying you effortlessly towards his bedroom.
Jace kicks open the door to his room, dumping you unceremoniously onto his bed. You bounce once, twice on the firm mattress before coming to rest on your back. You stare up at him, your chest heaving, your skin flushed and glistening with sweat.
"What are you going to do to me?" You ask breathlessly, your voice barely above a whisper. But you both know the answer.
Jace looms over you, his eyes dark with lust. He crawls onto the bed, covering your smaller body with his own.
"I'm going to ruin you," he promises darkly, his fingers finding your dripping slit. "Gonna fuck this greedy cunt until you're screaming for mercy."
He drives two thick fingers into your tight channel, making you cry out. Your walls clench around the intrusion, trying to suck him deeper.
"So eager," Jace croons, pumping his fingers in and out of your slick heat. "Such a desperate little slut, always hungry for cock."
He curls his fingers just right, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. Pleasure crashes through you, stealing your breath.
"Nngh, fuck!" you moan, your back arching off the bed. Your hips buck into his hand, chasing more of that delicious friction.
Jace just smirks down at you, his eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction. He knows exactly what he's doing to you, how he's reducing you to a mindless, cock-hungry mess. And god help you, you love every minute of it.
"Beg for it," he demands, scissoring his fingers inside you. "Beg me to fuck you like the desperate little whore you are."
"Please, Jace," you whine, your voice high and needy. "Please fuck me! I need your cock so bad! I'll do anything, be anything, just please use me!"
With a triumphant grin, Jace withdraws his fingers. He lines up his thick length with your entrance, the swollen head nudging against your fluttering hole.
"Since you asked so nicely," he purrs, slamming forward in one brutal thrust.
You scream as he splits you open, the stretch bordering on discomfort. But it's the good kind of pain, the kind that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back in your head.
Jace's thrusts are relentless, his thick cock pistoning in and out of your stretched hole. Even though he just fucked you, split you open and bred you like a bitch in heat, you can never get enough of him. Of his fat dick stretching you so full, claiming your body as his own personal fucktoy.
You moan like a whore, your voice high and keening as he pounds into you. Thank fuck Dad and his mom and brother aren't home, because the sounds you're making would make a porn star blush. Obscene wet slaps fill the room as Jace's hips slam against you, driving him deeper with every thrust.
"Harder," you beg, your nails raking down his sweat-slicked back. "Fuck me harder, Jace! Ruin me with that big cock!"
He snarls, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he slams into you even harder. The headboard bangs against the wall, the rhythmic thumping obscenely loud in the quiet room.
You can feel another orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Jace is hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, stoking the flames higher and higher. Your pussy flutters around him, your walls clenching greedily.
"Filthy slut," Jace grunts, pounding into your abused cunt. "Can't get enough of your stepbrother's cock, can you? Fucking desperate to be ruined."
He drives into you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your eyes roll back, drool leaking from the corner of your slack mouth as he fucks you stupid.
Your cunt is making obscene squelching noises, overflowing with Jace's cum from the last round. It dribbles down the crack of your ass, staining the sheets beneath you.
"Aaahh, fuck!" you moan, your toes curling as another orgasm crashes over you. Your pussy clamps down on Jace's pistoning cock, milking him for all he's worth. You claw your nails down his back, leaving red marks in their wake as he fuck you through your intense climax.
"Gonna flood this slutty hole again," he growls, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Fill you up with so much cum you'll be leaking for days."
With a roar of completion, Jace slams into you one last time. His cock jerks and pulses, painting your insides white with his thick seed. You can feel it filling you up.
Jace collapses on top of you, both of you gasping for breath. His softening dick slips out of your sore pussy, followed by a gush of cum. It pools between your thighs, oozing out onto the bed.
"Aah..." you whimper as your hole is throbbing, so sore and used from Jace's relentless pounding. You try to catch your breath, your eyes squeezed shut as aftershocks of pleasure course through your spent body.
But it feels so right, being claimed by him. Like you were made to be fucked thoroughly by your stepbrother's massive cock. Your pussy is still twitching from the sheer intensity, his cum leaking out of you in a steady stream. You're absolutely wrecked, but you've never felt more satisfied.
You open your eyes, looking at him. Seeing him just as messed up, makes you smile with adoration. His hair is messy, his skin covered in a sheen of sweat and his lips swollen from biting them so much.
Jace rolls off you, flopping onto his back with a groan. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, sweat cooling on his skin.
You turn to face him, propping yourself up on one elbow. Your eyes roam over his body, taking in every dip and plane. He's beautiful like this, dark hair tousled, muscles flexing with each laboured breath.
"That was..." You swallow hard, struggling to find the words. "Intense."
A wry smile tugs at Jace's lips. "You can say that again. Fuck, I don't think I've ever cum that hard in my life."
He turns his head to look at you, his eyes softening. "I meant what I said, you know. About you being mine now."
Your heart skips a beat at his words, warmth blooming in your chest. "I know. And I'm not going anywhere."
Jace reaches out, cupping your cheek with his calloused palm. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, the gesture surprisingly tender.
"I never thought I could feel this way about anyone," he confesses, his voice low and rough. "But you...you're under my skin. I can't imagine my life without you in it now."
You smile softly, emotion welling up inside you. You lean into his touch, nuzzling his palm.
"I never thought I could want someone as much as I want you," you admit softly. "I donât care if itâs wrong. I need you..."
"And I need you," Jace murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. "Always. You're mine, and I protect what's mine."
He seals his promise with a kiss, his lips moving against yours with aching tenderness. It's a stark contrast to the furious fucking that just took place, but no less meaningful.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. Jace tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your skin.
Jace's touch lingers, his fingers trailing down your cheek to your neck, your collarbone. He traces idle patterns on your skin, mapping out the contours of your body like he's trying to commit it to memory.
You smile drowsily at Jace, your hand caressing his handsome face, your thumb brushing tenderly over his cheek. "My beautiful boy," you murmur softly, your gaze locked with his intense brown eyes. Your heart flutters in your chest, the intimate closeness between you sending shivers down your spine. Never before have you felt so deeply connected to someone, so utterly exposed and vulnerable. But with Jace, it feels safe.
Jace leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. A soft sigh escapes his lips, his body melting into yours. He nuzzles into your palm, pressing a kiss to the centre.
"My sweet girl," he breathes, his voice low and rough with emotion. "You've ruined me for anyone else. No one will ever compare to you."
Jace wraps his arms around you, holding you close. You melt into his embrace, your head tucked beneath his chin. The world falls away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped up in each other's love and passion.
need fics about jace miraculously surviving that arrow to the neck and gets found by reader and they fall in love and live happily ever after by my desk RIGHT NOW!!!
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Dunk accidently mistakes Aerion's lady wife in his tent for a common whore because she did not arrive with the rest of the Targaryen party to the Ashford tourney. This is a oneshot, not related to any series.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, Aerion wants to roleplay, pregnancy mention, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.
The morning of the tourney had dawned bright over Ashford Meadow, the kind of morning that promised glory and broke that promise before the sun reached its zenith. You had watched the Targaryen party arrive from the shade of the pavilion, your hands folded, your spine a straight line of practiced composure. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, snapped in the wind, a sight that still made your stomach tighten.
Dunk, Ser Duncan, now, though it sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, stood near the lists with his squire, a small, shaven-headed boy with sharp eyes. The hedge knight watched the procession with a wariness that bordered on rude, his great height making him impossible to miss among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike. He had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. Prince Aerion Targaryen was coming to Ashford. Prince Aerion Brightflame, they called him. Some called him other things, though not to his face. This one, he had heard, was cut from different cloth entirely.
The prince was fair to look upon, all the Targaryens were, with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of violets, a sharp jaw and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a sneer or a smile, and it was difficult to tell which was which. He wore black riding leathers chased with silver thread, a cloak of deep crimson slung over one shoulder, and he did not look at the smallfolk who gathered to gawk. He looked through them, as if they were made of glass and of no consequence.
Duncan watched him dismount with an easy grace, handing his reins to a squire without a word of thanks. The prince stretched, rolled his shoulders, and cast a lazy glance across the meadow toward the rows of tents and pavilions that had sprouted like colorful mushrooms overnight.
âI am for my tent,â Aerion announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried well enough. It was a pleasant voice, cultured and smooth, with an undercurrent of something that made the hairs on Duncanâs arm prickle. âTell them to bring wine. Something red, from the Arbor, if they have it. None of that Dornish swill.â He paused, and a slow, private smile curved his lips. âI, myself, shall be finding a pretty woman to share it with.â
Chuckles followed. A couple of Kingsguards shared a knowing look. Duncan frowned. He had heard, somewhere in the jumble of heraldry and gossip that accompanied any great tourney, that prince Aerion was married. To some lady of a lesser house, a match that had raised eyebrows among the high lords but had been pushed through by the princeâs father, Maekar, for reasons Duncan did not pretend to understand. A wife. And here the prince was, speaking of finding a pretty woman as if he were a knight with nothing but a horse and a sword to his name. Duncanâs sense of honour, simple and stubborn as an ox, bristled at the casual dismissal. A man wed was a man wed. He ought not speak so.
But Duncan was no fool, not entirely. He kept his frown to himself and watched the silver-haired prince stride off toward the largest of the black-and-crimson pavilions, his cloak billowing behind him, and he thought, not for the first time, that the blood of the dragon was a strange and unsettling thing.
You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.
Now he was here.
You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.
You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.
âWine,â he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. âI told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.â
You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your fatherâs hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.
A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. âLeave it. Go.â
The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.
His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.
âWell,â he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. âHow very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.â
Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. âAerion.â
âI wonder,â he continued, as if you had not spoken, âwhat brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?â He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. âI am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.â
Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. âYou are my husband.â
âAm I?â He tilted his head, feigning surprise. âI had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.â His smile sharpened. âBoth so very eager to please their prince.â
You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. âIf you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.â
âOh, but you are.â His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. âYou are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.â He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. âLike honey. Like summer. Come here.â
Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.
âI am your wife,â you said again, quieter this time.
âYes.â He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. âYou are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?â
He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. âCome. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.â
You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.
You lowered yourself onto his lap.
His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. âThere,â he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. âThat was not so difficult, was it?â
âI am not a whore,â you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
âNo,â he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. âYou are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.â His teeth grazed your earlobe. âYou, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.â
You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. âThen teach me.â
Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. âOh,â he breathed. âI intend to.â
His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.
âFirst,â he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, âa whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.â He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. âShe does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.â
You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.
âLike this,â he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. âSlowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.â
âYou are the customer,â you pointed out, your voice breathless.
âI am.â He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. âAnd I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.â
His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.
âThere,â he said. âNow you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.â
He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.
âYes,â he breathed. âLike that.â
His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.
âNow,â he said, his voice a dark purr, âyou will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?â
You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.
âGods,â he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. âYou are...you are...â
You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.
âLook at you,â he said, his voice strained. âMy pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...â
His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.
He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.
You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.
When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. âI cannot...you are too...I need...â
You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.
You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.
But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.
His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.
"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."
You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.
"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.
"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"
Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.
But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.
"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."
You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.
"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."
Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.
"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."
There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.
"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.
"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."
"I thought..."
"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."
"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."
"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."
You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.
"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."
His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."
But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.
"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."
"No one would think that," you said.
"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."
He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.
"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."
"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."
He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.
"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."
"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."
"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."
"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."
Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."
"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."
You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.
"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."
His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.
"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.
For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.
"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."
"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."
"But I am..."
"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."
You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.
"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."
"I did not know you worried."
"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."
He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.
You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.
"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."
You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.
You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.
He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.
When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.
"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."
Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.
"Aerion..."
"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."
He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.
The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.
You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.
"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."
The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.
One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.
You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."
"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.
"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."
Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."
"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."
Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.
Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.
"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."
He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.
You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.
Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.
He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.
His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.
"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."
Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.
"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."
Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.
Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.
"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."
You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."
"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."
He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.
"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."
He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.
"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."
"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."
"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."
You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."
But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.
You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.
The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.
When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.
You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.
The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.
Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.
He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.
He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."
He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.
"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."
"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."
"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."
His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.
"My lady," he said slowly, "are youâŠare you well?"
You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."
"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."
But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.
"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."
"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.
He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.
It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.
"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."
He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."
"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"
He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.
It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.
"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."
He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."
Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.
"What is this?"
Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.
"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."
Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."
Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.
"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."
Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."
"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."
Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."
"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."
"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."
"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."
Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.
Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."
He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.
"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."
"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."
"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."
"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."
"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."
"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."
Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."
"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."
"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."
You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.
"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."
"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."
"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."
"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."
His eyes darkened. "Choose?"
"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."
"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
You smiled and said nothing.
He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."
"I would expect nothing less."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Aerion is not as nice here as in Growing Strong series because nobody can train him quite like lady Tyrell!reader.
summary: you meet peter in your new job, a job that you hate, and in one way or another he makes it easier and you fall in love with the wrong person
word counter and tw: (9,8k) smut, sex without protection, cheatingâŠ
The snow crunched under your new boots as you walked toward the Ennis, Alaska police station. The wind cut like knives, and even though you were wearing three layers of thermal clothing, you could feel the cold seeping into your bones. You had arrived two days earlier, but this was your first official shift. The uniform was a bit big across the shoulders, you had requested the smallest size available and it still looked borrowed.
âJust one year,â you repeated to yourself mentally, like a mantra. âYou fulfill your dadâs last wish and you leave. You go to Anchorage, or Fairbanks, or anywhere that doesnât smell like frozen fish.â
Your father had been a cop his whole life. On his deathbed, voice broken by cancer, he had taken your hand and whispered: âPromise me youâll try it. Just once. I know you hate guns and paperwork and⊠all of this. But I want to know my daughter walked where I walked.â You promised. And now here you were, fresh out of Criminology, hating every second before you even walked through the door.
You pushed open the double metal door. The artificial heat hit your face along with the smell of burnt coffee, old sweat, and disinfectant. The main room was small: four desks, a map of Ennis covered in red pushpins, and a sad Christmas tree that no one had taken down yet, even though it was already March.
âNew, right?â said a deep, tired voice from the back.
You looked up and there he was.
Peter Prior.
You had seen him in the internal WhatsApp group photo they sent you when you were hired. Short blond hair, blue eyes that always seemed half closed. Tall, but not imposing, more⊠tense. Like a compressed spring ready to snap. He wore the uniform impeccably, badge shining, but there was something in his posture that screamed âdonât fuck with me today.â
He approached with quick steps, extending his hand.
âPeter Prior. Iâm the liaison officer for new recruits. Danvers asked me to show you everything before he throws you into the icy water. Welcome to the shithole that is Ennis.â
You smiled, shaking his hand. His palm was warm, but the grip was brief, almost mechanical.
âThanks. Iâm⊠well, the new one. Call me whatever you want, just not ârookieâ if you can help it.â
Peter let out a short laugh that didnât reach his eyes.
âDeal. Come on, Iâll show you your desk. Itâs right next to mine. Lucky you.â
You followed him between the desks. The place was organized chaos: stacked reports, coffee mugs with dregs, a police radio that crackled every so often with distorted voices battling the cold. You sat down. The seat was still warm, someone had just gotten up.
Peter leaned against the edge of his own desk, arms crossed. He looked you up and down, not in a rude way, but evaluating.
âYou just finished college, right? What brought you to this frozen hell? Most new grads run to the big cities.â
You hesitated for a second. You didnât want to tell him the whole truth yet. Not a stranger, even if those blue eyes seemed⊠interested. Genuinely interested.
âMy dad,â you said finally, shrugging. âHe wanted me to try. Last wish and all that. So here I am, pretending I know what Iâm doing.â
Peter nodded slowly. Something in his expression softened for a moment.
âI understand that more than you think.â He ran a hand over the back of his neck. âMy father was a cop here too. Hank Prior. Youâve probably heard the name. Heâs⊠not the best example, but anyway. Guess we all have our chains.â
Before you could reply, the back door slammed open. It was Hank, his father, storming in like a bull.
âPrior! Where the hell is last nightâs report? Or did you spend the whole night playing house with your little wife?â
Peter visibly tensed. His shoulders rose half an inch, his jaw clenched. He said nothing, just slowly turned his head toward his father. But you saw it: how his fingers gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white.
Hank kept talking, louder, gesturing with open hands, breathing heavily through his nose as if every word was a personal grievance.
ââŠand now on top of that weâve got a little girl who doesnât even know how to load a damn rifle. Great. Just what we needed.â
Peter didnât answer. He just exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. But you noticed the detail: every time Hank breathed heavily, Peterâs jaw tightened a little more. Every time his father raised his voice in that dramatic way, Peter blinked more slowly, as if counting to ten to keep from exploding.
Hank finally left, muttering something about âbrats and favors.â The silence he left was heavy.
Peter released the desk and turned to you. His voice came out calm, almost kind.
âSorry. My father is⊠intense. Donât take it personally.â He ran his tongue over his lower lip, a nervous tic you were already starting to recognize. âWant me to show you the evidence locker or would you rather I explain the reporting system first? Your choice. I donât want to overwhelm you on day one.â
You smiled, even though inside you felt a strange mix. You liked him. Really liked him. He had this calm way of talking to you, as if he genuinely cared that you didnât feel lost. But at the same time⊠it bothered you.
That constant tension. The way he went rigid whenever someone breathed too hard, spoke too loud, or simply existed too noisily.
You didnât know why he was like that. You didnât know that behind that clenched jaw were years of shouting in his house, of his father blaming him for everything. You didnât know that Peter had learned as a child that any strong emotion was a threat. That a sigh too long could mean someone was about to break⊠and he would have to pick up the pieces.
All you knew was that it bothered you. Because you were tense too. Because you hated being there too. And seeing someone else carrying that same rigidity all the time made you want to grab him by the shoulders and yell âbreathe, damn it.â
âReports first,â you said finally, resting your elbows on the desk. âAnd if you explain how the hell to file this so Danvers doesnât kill me, I owe you a decent coffee. Not the poison in that machine.â
Peter let out a real laugh this time. Small, but real. The corners of his eyes crinkled.
âDeal.â He sat in the chair next to yours, turning it to face you. His knees almost brushed yours under the desk. âOfficial welcome, then. Weâll try to make sure you donât regret it⊠too soon.â
And while he explained the system, you watched him out of the corner of your eye. You liked him. Way too much for day one.
The day dragged on as if the station clock were frozen. Twelve hour shift that felt like twenty four: patrols on icy roads where the wind made the car shake, false calls about âstrange noisesâ that turned out to be foxes rummaging through trash, and tons of paperwork that left your fingers numb from typing. Peter stayed by your side almost the whole time, patiently correcting you when you messed up an incident code, explaining how to avoid getting chewed out by Danvers for a badly filed form. He spoke little about himself, but when he did it was in that low, measured voice, as if every word cost him effort.
At the end of the shift, past nine at night, both of you stayed a bit longer tidying up. The station was almost empty, only the hum of the fluorescents and the occasional creak of the radio remained.
âSurvived your full first day,â Peter said as he put on his jacket. âYou didnât die, thatâs already a win.â
You smiled, exhausted but strangely content.
âThanks for not letting me drown alone. Tomorrow will be better, right?â
He let out a short laugh.
âOr worse. Depends on the day. Rest. See you at seven.â
You said goodbye with a nod and a murmured âtake care.â You stepped out into the night cold, breath forming white clouds under the streetlights. You walked the three blocks to the small apartment you rented in the old part of Ennis. The living room light was on, your mother wasnât in bed yet.
You entered, taking off your boots at the door so you wouldnât dirty the floor.
âHowâd it go, honey?â she asked from the couch, teacup in hand, TV on mute.
âGood,â you answered, unwrapping your scarf. âLots of cold, lots of paper, but good. The partner they assigned me is⊠patient. Helped me a lot.â
She smiled, satisfied.
âIâm glad. Your dad would be proud.â
You climbed the stairs with heavy muscles. In your small bedroom, with its single bed and window overlooking a snowy alley, you collapsed onto the mattress without even changing. Your phone buzzed in your pocket: Instagram notification. You pulled it out on autopilot.
You didnât know why you did it. Or maybe you did, but didnât want to admit it. You opened the app, typed âPeter Priorâ in the search bar. You hoped he had nothing, that he was one of those guys who didnât use social media. But he appeared. Public profile, few posts.
Most from years ago.
Photos of snowy landscapes, a couple of blurry selfies in uniform, and then⊠a child. A baby with big eyes and very light blond hair, wrapped in a snowsuit, smiling with two teeth. In another photo, the same child a bit older, maybe two or three, sitting on a sled, laughing while Peter pushed from behind. No elaborate captions, just dates and snowflake emojis.
And then, one single photo of him with a woman. She was pretty, dark skin, long black hair, shy smile. The two of them on a pier, summer, his arm around her shoulders. The photo was old, four or five years. No more recent ones.
You stared at the screen too long. Your thumb brushed the screen by accident⊠and you liked it. The little red heart appeared like a gunshot.
âShit,â you whispered.
You unliked it instantly, heart in your throat. Closed the app, turned off the phone and threw it to the other side of the bed like it burned. Buried your face in the pillow.
âPlease donât let him see it. Please donât let him see it.â
The next day you arrived at seven sharp, dark circles hidden under concealer and stomach in knots. Peter was already there, sitting at his desk, reviewing something on the screen. He looked up when you entered.
âMorning,â he said in his usual calm tone. âSleep well?â
âMore or less,â you replied, sitting quickly and avoiding his eyes. âYou?â
âLike always. Come on, today Iâll teach you how to do the chain of custody report.â
The shift started the same as the previous one: detailed explanations, gentle corrections, the occasional dry but funny comment from Peter that made you smile despite the exhaustion. He said nothing about the like. Not a word. You started to relax a little.
Maybe he hadnât seen it. Maybe he didnât even check the app often.
At lunchtime, when everyone started pulling out their Tupperware or heading to the diner next door, you stood up.
âYouâre not eating?â
Peter shook his head, eyes still on the screen.
âNo time. Gotta finish this before the afternoon shift. Go ahead.â
You left, but couldnât help feeling a strange pang. You came back twenty minutes later with two to go coffees from the corner machine. You placed one on his desk.
âIt was the least I could do,â you said, shrugging. âFor being so patient with me.â
He looked up, surprised. Took the cup, sipped, and nodded.
âThanks. Really.â
You sat in your chair, sipping yours in silence. The coffee was awful, but it warmed your hands. After a while, Peter cleared his throat.
âHey⊠last night I saw you liked an old photo of mine on Instagram.â
You choked. Coffee came out your nose. You started coughing like an idiot, wiping yourself with your sleeve while your face burned.
âSorry, sorry,â you stammered between coughs. âYeah, that was me. Iâm so sorry. It was an accident. Well, not an accident, but⊠I unliked it right away.â
Peter let out a low, genuine laugh.
âNo problem. Seriously. Doesnât bother me.â
You stared at him, still red.
âItâs just⊠I like to check out the people I work with a little. You know, curiosity. Iâm not a stalker, I swear.â
He raised an eyebrow, amused.
âDidnât think you were. Relax.â
There was a short silence. You took a breath.
âThat baby in the photos⊠is he your son?â
Peter nodded slowly, looking at the coffee cup as if the answer were there.
âYeah. His nameâs Darwin. Heâs three.â
âHeâs beautiful,â you said, and you meant it. âHe has your eyes.â
Peter smiled, but it was a small, almost sad smile.
âThanks. Most people say he looks more like his mom.â
You didnât ask more. No need. You knew there was a story there, one he wasnât telling yet.
And he went back to work, as if nothing had happened.
The day passed in an exhausting fog: more reports, a minor accident call on the main road, a truck that slid on ice, no serious injuries, and Peter following you step by step with that patience that was starting to seem almost supernatural. When nine oâclock came, you both stood up almost at the same time.
âAnother day survived,â he said, stretching a little as he put on his jacket. âRest. Tomorrow might be busy.â
âYou too,â you replied with a tired smile.
He just nodded, gave that half smile that never fully reached his eyes, and you each went your separate ways. The night cold hit you as always, but this time you walked faster toward home, head full of thoughts you didnât want to organize yet.
The next day the shift started with the usual routine until Danvers appeared in the main room with a sour face.
âPrior, new girl. I want both of you at West Lake. A fisherman reported something weird in the ice: footprints that donât match, a hole that shouldnât be there, and a bunch of trash thrown around. Probably nothing, but go check before someone calls the press saying itâs another âunsolved case.â Prior, youâre in charge. Teach her how itâs really done in the field.â
Peter glanced at you sideways. Your stomach rose to your throat.
âMe? In the field?â you asked, trying not to sound as pathetic as you felt.
Danvers was already leaving.
âItâs not an action movie, itâs walking on ice and taking pictures. Youâre not gonna die. Move.â
In the patrol car, silence lasted the first five minutes. You clung to the seatbelt as if it could save you from something. Peter drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, staring straight at the snowy road.
âBreathe,â he said suddenly, eyes still on the road. âItâs not your first time on ice, right? Youâve walked in snow before.â
âSure, but not in uniform with a gun that weighs like a brick,â you replied, voice a little shaky. âWhat if I screw up? What if I see something weird and donât know what to do?â
Peter exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh.
âThen you look at me and I tell you what to do. Youâre not alone. Relax. Your body gets tense when youâre nervous, and on ice thatâs dangerous. Deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Do it now.â
You tried. Inhaled slowly, exhaled slower. It helped a little. The knot in your chest loosened enough for you to speak without trembling.
âThanks. Itâs just⊠this isnât my thing. Iâm doing it for my dad, but every time I go out in the field I feel like Iâm betraying him if I quit.â
Peter turned his head for a second to look at you. His blue eyes were softer than usual.
âI get it. My dad forced me into this too. It wasnât a âlast wish,â it was more like âbecome a cop or you donât exist to me.â So yeah, I know what itâs like to feel youâre keeping a promise you never asked for.â
The car stopped at the edge of the lake. The ice crunched under your boots as you got out. The wind was weaker there, but the cold felt rawer in the stillness. You walked together toward the hole the fisherman mentioned: an irregular circle about two meters wide, jagged edges, footprints around it, big boots⊠and smaller ones, like someone dragging something.
Peter crouched first, pulled out the flashlight and started scanning.
âLook at this,â he said, pointing. âThis isnât a normal ice fishing hole. Someone cut it with a saw. And those footprints⊠two types. One big person and one lighter.â
You crouched beside him, imitating his movements. You took photos with the department phone, like heâd taught you. While you worked, the silence broke again.
âWas your dad one of those who pushed you hard?â Peter asked, not looking directly at you.
âA lot. He said I had to be strong, that I couldnât be âjust another face in the crowd.â When he got sick, the last thing he told me was that he wanted to see me with a badge. That it was his way of knowing I wouldnât break easily.â You paused, staring at the black hole in the ice. âBut I break easily. I hate the cold, hate guns, hate feeling like Iâm pretending to be someone Iâm not.â
Peter stayed quiet for a while. Then he spoke, voice low.
âMy dad broke me when I was a kid. Yelled about everything: if I cried, if I didnât cry, if I breathed too loud. I learned to stay still, to make no noise, to show nothing. Thatâs why I get like this when someone raises their voice or breathes like theyâre about to explode. Itâs⊠automatic.â He straightened up, looking at the horizon. âKayla, my wife⊠she knows, but she still gets tired. And Darwin⊠he shouldnât grow up with a dad who canât find a moment of peace.â
You stared at him. It was the first time heâd talked so much about his personal life. You felt a lump in your throat, but not from nerves, from empathy.
âIâm sorry,â you said quietly. âI didnât know.â
âYou werenât supposed to.â He shrugged. âJust saying that⊠neither of us is here because we want to be. Weâre keeping promises that weigh on us.â
You worked in silence a bit longer: marked the perimeter, took ice samples, photos of the footprints. When you were finally heading back to the car, Peter stopped.
âHey⊠what we just talked about. Letâs forget it, okay? I donât want this turning into âthe day Peter opened up like a book.â And Iâm guessing you donât want to be seen as the one who hates her job either.â
You nodded quickly.
âForgotten. Completely. It was just⊠two people talking.â
He smiled, that small, tired smile.
âExactly. Two people talking.â
You got in the car. The ride back felt lighter. You didnât talk about the deep stuff, but the silence was no longer uncomfortable. It was shared.
When you got back to the station and handed in the report, Danvers just grunted âgoodâ and let you go. As you said goodbye at the door, Peter looked at you a second longer than usual.
âTomorrow at seven. Try to sleep.â
âYou too,â you replied.
And as you walked home, the cold stinging your face, you thought that maybe, just maybe, being in Ennis wasnât going to be as unbearable as youâd believed.
A month later, Ennis no longer felt like the end of the world. The cold was still brutal, but youâd learned to dress in layers that actually worked, to stop slipping so much on black ice, and to tolerate the station coffee without grimacing. Work had become routine: patrols, reports, absurd calls that led nowhere. And Peter⊠Peter made everything more bearable.
Not that he was the perfect movie partner. He was still tense, still clenched his jaw when someone raised their voice or breathed too hard, still disappeared into long silences. But with you he was different. He explained things with infinite patience, covered for you when you messed up a form so Danvers wouldnât find out, and every now and then dropped a dry comment that made you laugh in the middle of the heaviest shift. Youâd shared more car conversations, more comfortable silences, more glances that lasted a second too long. Nothing explicit. Nothing that crossed the line. But enough that, alone in your apartment at night, you scolded yourself for noticing how attractive he was: the way he ran his hand through his short hair when frustrated, how his blue eyes softened when he talked about Darwin, the line of his jaw when he focused on the road.
âHeâs your partner. Heâs married. He has a kid. Stop,â you repeated like a mantra. And it worked⊠until the next day.
That day was one of the worst.
You arrived early, as always, and found him already at his desk. He wasnât reviewing reports or talking on the radio. He was just staring at the blank screen, elbows on the table, head in his hands. Shoulders slumped, hair messy as if heâd spent the night pulling at it. When he saw you come in, he tried to straighten up quickly, but it was too late: youâd seen him vulnerable.
âMorning,â you said, dropping your backpack on the chair. âEverything okay?â
He let out a long, painful sounding sigh.
âNot exactly.â
You sat across from him, unsure whether to ask or wait. Peter rarely opened up like this. In the end, he spoke, voice low, almost hoarse.
âKayla kicked me out last night.â He paused, as if saying it out loud made it more real. âWe fought. A lot. She says Iâm absent all the time, that Iâm not there for Darwin, that I bring work home⊠and that she canât stand seeing me wound tight like a steel cable every time I walk through the door. So⊠I went back to my fatherâs.â
You froze. You didnât know what to say. The image of Peter sleeping in the same house as the man who broke him as a kid⊠hurt in your chest in a way you didnât expect.
âIâm sorry,â you murmured finally. âThat⊠sounds awful.â
Peter shrugged, but it wasnât convincing.
âThatâs how it is. Not the first time. I just⊠need a couple days for her to calm down. Or for me to calm down. I donât know.â
The silence stretched. You looked at him: dark circles, red eyes like he hadnât slept. And something inside you, that soft side that always got you in trouble, spoke before you could stop it.
âHey⊠my apartment isnât big. Itâs small, thereâs an extra room I use for storage, but⊠thereâs space. If you need a place to stay for a few days, no questions, no drama⊠you can come. Seriously. You wonât be in the way.â
Peter slowly raised his eyes. His gaze locked onto yours, surprised, almost vulnerable.
âThanks. Really. But no. I donât want to drag you into this.â
âYouâre not dragging me into anything,â you insisted, leaning forward a little. âItâs just a sofa bed. Or the room. Whatever. You donât have to sleep at your dadâs if you donât want to.â
He smiled, but it was a tired, sad smile.
âItâs not about that. Itâs that⊠if Kayla finds out Iâm staying with a coworker, a woman⊠sheâll explode even worse. And sheâd be right. I donât want to give her more ammunition to fight with. Iâve already fucked up enough.â
You understood. Of course you understood. You nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in your throat.
âYouâre right. Sorry. I just wanted⊠to help.â
Peter reached across the desk and touched your forearm for a second. Brief, warm, electric.
âDonât apologize. Itâs sweet that you offered. Really. Means a lot.â
He pulled his hand back quickly, as if realizing the touch had lasted too long. He looked back at the blank screen.
âLetâs work. Distracting myself is the best thing I can do right now.â
The rest of the day was strange. Peter ran on autopilot: patrols, statements, filing. He spoke just enough. You tried not to look at him too much, not to notice how his neck tensed every time the phone rang, how he rubbed his eyes when he thought no one was watching. But you noticed. Everything.
And deep down you scolded yourself again. Because while he was dealing with his broken marriage and his son far away, you couldnât stop thinking about how much you liked seeing him vulnerable. How much you wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be okay. How unfair it was that someone so good still smelled so good after twelve hours on shift.
At the end of the shift, as you said goodbye at the station door, Peter looked at you a second longer than usual.
âThanks for today. For listening. And for the offer. Really.â
âAnytime,â you replied, voice a little hoarse. âTake care, okay? And if you change your mind⊠doorâs open.â
He nodded, pulled up his jacket hood, and walked off into the snow that was starting to fall.
You stood there a while watching him walk away, hands in your pockets, heart beating too hard.
âFuck,â you thought. âThis is getting complicated.â
It didnât take long. Just three days after that conversation at the station, Peter showed up at the end of the shift with a small backpack over his shoulder and an expression that mixed relief and shame. He found you gathering your things and approached slowly, as if he was still deciding whether to take the step.
âHey⊠is the sofa bed offer still good?â he asked quietly, looking at the floor.
You looked at him, surprised but not entirely. You knew Hankâs house was hell, heâd mentioned it in passing a couple of times, minimizing it the way he always did: âItâs just temporary,â âItâll pass.â But that night his voice sounded different. Bone tired.
âOf course itâs still good,â you answered without hesitation. âYou sure?â
Peter nodded, running a hand over the back of his neck.
âThings with Kayla⊠got a little better. We talked on the phone, didnât yell as much. But itâs still not enough to go back. And living with my dadâŠâ He paused, exhaled hard. âI canât take it anymore. I need to get out of there even if itâs just a few days.â
You didnât say anything else. Just nodded and tilted your head toward the door.
âCome on then. My momâs home, but sheâs leaving for her town tomorrow. Youâll like her, she adopts anyone who looks lost.â
The walk to the apartment was short and quiet. The snow had stopped, leaving the air still and biting. Peter walked beside you with the backpack hanging off one shoulder, not saying much. When you reached the building, you climbed the stairs in silence. When you opened the door, the smell of lentil stew and fresh baked bread greeted you like a hug.
Your mother came out of the kitchen drying her hands on her apron.
âOh honey, youâre late todayâŠâ she started, then saw Peter behind you. âAnd whoâs this?â
âMom, this is Peter. My work partner. Heâs going to stay a few days in the back room. Things at his house are⊠complicated.â
Your mother looked him up and down: wrinkled uniform, dark circles, tense but polite posture. Instead of asking more, she smiled with that warmth that always disarmed people.
âCome in, come in, son. Donât stand there at the door like youâre going to rob us. Are you hungry? Thereâs plenty of stew and I just took bread out of the oven.â
Peter looked startled for a second, but then smiled and stepped inside.
âThank you, maâam. I donât want to be a bother.â
âYouâre not a bother. And call me Elena, âmaâamâ makes me feel old.â She gave his arm a gentle pat. âSit down, Iâll serve you a plate. And take off that jacket, itâs warm in here.â
Dinner was⊠easy. Your mother chatted about everything: how the cold wouldnât let up, how she missed the sun from her childhood which she said was warmer, silly stories from when you were little. Peter listened more than he spoke, but answered when asked: about Darwin, he showed a photo on his phone and your mother said âhow gorgeous, he looks like youâ, about work. By the end of the night, when your mother went to bed saying âIâm leaving early tomorrow, but take care of my daughter, okay,â Peter helped you wash the dishes in silence.
âYour mom is amazing,â he said while drying a plate. âShe made me feel⊠good. Thanks for this. Really.â
âNo problem,â you replied, glancing at him sideways. âThe sofa bed is made up in the little sitting room. The back room has a bed, but itâs full of my boxes. If you want more space, we can move them tomorrow.â
âThe sofaâs fine. I donât need much.â
He settled in quickly: backpack in a corner, uniform hung over a chair. Before turning off the light, he looked at you from the doorway of the sitting room.
âGood night. And⊠thanks again.â
âGood night, Peter.â
The next day the shift started as usual: seven sharp, uniforms on, horrible coffee in hand. No one at the station asked anything, Danvers just raised an eyebrow when he saw you arrive together, but said nothing. The day was calm: routine patrol, a noise report at an abandoned house, just wind, paperwork. Peter seemed more relaxed, though that baseline tension never fully left.Â
You talked normally, but there was something different in the air: a new complicity, as if sharing a roof had brought you closer without needing big words.
That night you returned to the apartment together.
The door opened to the same smell of home cooked food, your mother had left leftovers and a note: âEat well, donât fight over dessertâ, Peter took off his boots at the entrance, as heâd already learned to do, and dropped onto the couch with a long sigh.
âLong day,â he said, rubbing his eyes.
âThey all are,â you replied, sitting in the armchair across from him with a cup of tea. âHow are you?â
Peter nodded slowly.
âMuch better. No yelling here. I can breathe.â He paused, looking at you intently. âI donât know how long Iâll stay, but⊠thanks for letting me in. Literally.â
You smiled, feeling that treacherous warmth in your chest you tried to ignore.
âNo rush. Stay as long as you need.â
He didnât answer right away. Just looked at you a second longer, as if he wanted to say something and couldnât find the words. In the end he only murmured:
âGood night.â
âGood night.â
And as he settled on the sofa bed and you went to your room, you closed the door carefully, leaned your back against it, and let out the breath youâd been holding.
âThis is temporary,â you told yourself. âJust a favor to a friend. Nothing more.â
But deep down you knew it was no longer that simple.
During that first week, the routine settled in almost unnoticed. At first it was practical: you came back exhausted from the shift, cold clinging to your clothes and stomach growling after hours of bad coffee and stale station cookies. Youâd open the fridge, see the little that was there and say something like:
âTonight itâs whatever we find. Eggs? Pasta? Or shall we revive Elenaâs leftovers?â
Peter, who upon arriving took off his boots and hung his jacket with automatic movements, always answered with that tired half smile:
âAs long as itâs not lentil stew again, Iâm in.â
And thatâs how it started. Cooking together became the moment of the day when the uniform was forgotten. Peter wasnât a great cook but he chopped onions without complaining and quickly learned not to let the pan dry out. You put on soft music on your phone and between laughs at how clumsy he was peeling garlic or how you almost dropped the pot trying to drain the noodles, time slipped away.
After eating, youâd stay at the small kitchen table or on the couch, with mugs of tea or coffee. You talked about everything and nothing. At first it was work stuff: Danvers anecdotes, the latest idiot who called about âghosts in the basementâ that turned out to be rats, how Hank kept sending passive aggressive messages that Peter deleted without reading. But little by little the guards came down.
One night you talked about your father, how his last wish had dragged you here and how sometimes you felt you were betraying him by hating every second of the uniform. Peter listened without interrupting, just nodding, and when you finished he said quietly:
âYouâre not betraying him. Youâre fulfilling it. And afterward⊠afterward you can choose your path. No oneâs forcing you to stay forever.â
Another night it was him who opened up more. He told you about Darwin: how the little boy had started saying âdaddyâ in that tiny voice that melted him, how much he missed him that sometimes he stared at photos on his phone until his eyes hurt. He spoke of Kayla without anger, only with deep sadness: that he loved her, still loved her, but didnât know how to become the man she needed again. You didnât give advice, you knew he didnât want any, you just listened and occasionally placed your hand on the table near his, without touching.
Sleep overtook you late. Eleven, midnight, one. You said good night in a murmur and each went to their side: him to the sofa bed in the sitting room, you to your bedroom. But not always did you sleep through.
Some early mornings you woke up from the cold, the heating was crap, or from a noise, or simply because your brain wouldnât let you rest. Youâd go out to the living room in pajamas and socks, and there he was: awake on the couch, dim table lamp light, staring at the ceiling or at his phone with the screen off. The first time it happened, you stayed in the doorway.
âCanât sleep?â you asked softly.
Peter turned his head, surprised but not annoyed.
âNo. Thoughts. You?â
âSame.â
You sat in the armchair across from him, wrapped in a blanket. You didnât talk much that time. You just stayed there, in shared silence, listening to the wind against the window and the distant tick tock of the wall clock.
It happened two, three more times that week. Sometimes you chatted a bit: about bad movies youâd seen, how Darwin was turning four soon and Peter didnât know what to get him, how strange it was to wake up in a place that wasnât his house or Hankâs. Other times you just looked at each other in the dim light, saying nothing, and the silence was enough.
Every morning you got up early, as if nothing had happened. Coffee, quick shower, uniform, out together to the station.
No one at work suspected anything, or if they did, they said nothing. But at home, between the smell of home cooked food and talks until dawn, something was being built.
Slow, subtle, inevitable.
And you, every time you saw him sleeping on the couch with an arm hanging off or caught him really smiling at something silly you said, scolded yourself less. Because it was no longer just physical attraction. It was something more dangerous: connection.
It was Friday night and the shift had been one of the worst in weeks: a domestic fight that ended in an arrest, a road accident with two minor injuries, and a false shots fired call that turned out to be some idiotâs fireworks celebrating nothing. You got home past eleven, exhausted, clothes smelling of smoke and gasoline. Peter took off his boots at the entrance as usual, and you went straight to the bathroom because you needed a hot shower before the cold got permanently into your bones.
âIâm going first,â you said, already taking off your jacket. âIf not, Iâll freeze.â
Peter nodded, dropping onto the couch with a sigh.
âTake your time. Iâll make something to eat after.â
The bathroom was small, like everything in the apartment: old white tiles, narrow shower with plastic curtain, mirror that always fogged up. You undressed quickly, leaving your clothes piled on the floor, and turned on the hot water. Steam rose almost instantly, filling the space. You stepped under the spray, closed your eyes, let the water wash the day away.
You didnât hear the door open at first. The sound of the water covered everything. But then you felt a thud: the door flew open because Peter, distracted and with his mind elsewhere, thought youâd finished or simply forgot to knock. He came in looking for the soap heâd left there earlier and froze.
You turned instinctively, water running down your back, and he was there: half a step inside the bathroom, hand still on the doorknob, eyes wide open. The steam enveloped you both, but it wasnât enough to hide anything. You were completely naked, water sliding over your skin, and he⊠he was too close. The bathroom was so small that when he took a step back to leave, his chest brushed yours. Body against body. Wet heat against the cold fabric of his t-shirt. The contact was electric, accidental, inevitable.
Neither of you moved for an eternal second.
âSorry,â he murmured, voice hoarse, but he didnât pull back completely. His eyes dropped for an instant, involuntary, then returned to your face. He swallowed. âI didnât⊠mean toâŠâ
You didnât finish hearing the apology. Something broke. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe the whole week of stolen glances and loaded silences, maybe it was simply that you could no longer pretend. You raised your hand, placed it on his chest, right over the heart pounding like crazy under the now wet fabric, and looked at him fixedly.
Peter didnât pull away. Instead, his hand slowly rose to your waist, wet fingers brushing your warm skin. The steam wrapped around you like a curtain. And then it happened.
The kiss was rough at first, almost desperate. Lips against lips, no preamble, as if youâd both been waiting for this moment since the first night you cooked together. You pulled him closer, he pressed you against the cold bathroom wall, water now falling on both of you. His mouth tasted of salt and exhaustion and something neither wanted to name yet. His hands moved up your back, tracing the curve of your spine, and you tangled your fingers in his wet hair, tugging a little.
You separated for a second, gasping. His eyes were dark, dilated.
âThis is wrong,â he whispered, but his forehead rested against yours, and his hand never stopped caressing your hip.
âI know,â you replied, voice trembling. âBut donât stop.â
And he didnât stop.
He lifted you easily and you wrapped your legs around his waist. The water kept running, soaking both of you, but it didnât matter anymore. He walked the few steps to the next room, your bedroom, leaving a trail of water on the floor. He laid you carefully on the bed without breaking the kiss and yanked off his soaked t-shirt. The fabric fell to the floor with a wet sound.
He lay over you, skin against skin. The feeling of his hot, heavy body against yours was like fire. His hands roamed your sides, your waist, your thighs, as if he wanted to memorize every inch. You arched your back when his lips moved down your neck, leaving open kisses, soft bites. He let out a low moan against your skin.
âYour skin⊠itâs so warm,â he murmured, almost to himself, as if he couldnât believe it. His fingers dug a little into your hips and you felt him trembling. âFuckâŠâ
You watched him from the bed, water still dripping from your hair and his skin, forming small puddles on the sheets.
Peter stood at the edge of the mattress, t-shirt already on the floor, chest rising and falling fast, muscles tense with anticipation and something that looked like fear. His uniform pants hung low on his hips, belt buckle still closed, but the erection was already straining against the dark fabric.
You rose onto your knees, the cool room air contrasting with the heat still burning your skin. You extended your hands toward him slowly, giving him time to back away if he wanted. He didnât.
Your fingers found the belt buckle.
You opened it with a soft click, the sound echoing in the silence broken only by your breathing. You lowered the zipper slowly, brushing the hardness beneath with your knuckles. Peter let out a low, almost inaudible moan and closed his eyes for a second.
âAre you sure?â he asked, voice hoarse, broken. His hands rested on your shoulders, not to stop you, but to hold on. âIf we say stop now⊠we can stop. I donât want you to regret this tomorrow.â
You looked at him steadily, eyes locked on his. The blue of his irises was almost black from dilated pupils.
âIâm sure,â you answered, and you meant it. For weeks you had wanted him like this: vulnerable, needy, yours even if only for this night. âI want this.â
Peter exhaled shakily. Nodded once, as if he needed to confirm it to himself.
Your hands pulled down his pants and underwear in one gentle tug. He stepped out of them, standing completely naked in front of you. He was beautiful. More than you had imagined in the nights you scolded yourself for looking too much. And that line of blond hair running from his navel down to his erection, hard, thick. The tip already glistened with a drop of pre cum.
You moved closer, still kneeling on the bed. Your fingers wrapped around his length carefully at first, feeling the heat, the smooth taut skin, the veins pulsing under your palm. Peter gasped loudly, head tilting back for a moment.
âFuckâŠâ he murmured, hands tightening on your shoulders.
You stroked him slowly, up and down, feeling him harden even more in your hand. Then you guided him toward you. You lay back, spreading your legs, and pulled him closer with your other hand on the back of his neck. He leaned over you, bracing his knees on the mattress, his body weight covering you without crushing you.
With the hand still holding him, you guided him to your entrance. The brush of the tip against your wet folds made you both gasp at the same time. It was electric: hot, slippery, perfect. You were soaked from the kiss in the bathroom, and he⊠he was trembling all over.
âSlow,â you whispered against his mouth, though your voice came out broken.
Peter nodded, teeth clenched. He pushed just barely, the head entering first. You both let out a simultaneous moan. You felt him opening you, filling you inch by inch, slow, careful. The stretch was intense, delicious, and when he was halfway in, your nails dug into his back.
âMore,â you begged, arching your hips to help him.
He obeyed. One deeper thrust, and he sank all the way in. You both stayed still for a second, panting. You felt everything: the way he filled you completely, how he throbbed inside, how his pelvis pressed right against your clit. It was too much and perfect at the same time.
Peter lowered his forehead to yours, breathing against your lips.
âYouâre⊠so tight,â he whispered, voice broken. âSo warm⊠fuck, I donât know if Iâm gonna last.â
You smiled, though it came out shaky, and rolled your hips in a slow circle. The friction made you moan loudly, uncontrollably.
âMove,â you pleaded. âPlease.â
He started slowly. Pulled almost all the way out and slid back in, a controlled rhythm that drove you crazy. Every deep thrust pulled a moan from you, every brush of his pubic bone against your clit made you arch your back. Your hands roamed up his back, nails digging in, sliding down to his ass to pull him harder against you.
âHarder,â you moaned, voice cracking. âI want to feel all of you.â
Peter growled, a raw, animal sound youâd never heard from him. He sped up. The thrusts became harder, deeper, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room along with your moans and his. You watched him as he took you: sweat on his forehead, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, lips parted releasing hoarse gasps. He was beautiful. So beautiful it hurt. Seeing him like this, undone, lost in you, forgetting for a moment everything that broke him, was better than any fantasy youâd ever had.
âYouâre so beautiful,â he murmured suddenly, opening his eyes to stare at you while he kept moving inside you. âSo fucking beautiful⊠I canât believe youâre like this with me.â
You moaned louder, the words hitting you straight in the chest. You kissed him desperately, tongues tangling, while your hips rose to meet every thrust. The pleasure built fast, too fast, coiling in your lower belly like a wave.
âPeterâŠâ his name came out like a sob. âIâm closeâŠâ
He shifted the angle just slightly, hitting exactly where you needed. One, two, three more times and you shattered. The orgasm ripped through you, hard and intense, making your muscles clamp down around him, your nails dig into his back, a choked scream tearing from your throat. Peter growled your name against your neck, thrust once more, twice, then tensed completely. He came inside you with a long, broken moan, body shaking, filling you as he collapsed on top of you.
You stayed like that for a long while: panting, sweaty, joined. Him still inside, softening now, but not pulling out. You stroking his wet hair, his back, feeling his heart racing against yours.
Neither of you said anything yet. Just breathed. Together.
Neither of you wanted to talk about what had just happened. There was no âthis canât happen againâ or âit was a mistake.â Just loaded silence, still ragged breathing, and the weight of Peter on top of you, still inside you, soft and warm. He slowly lifted his head, looked into your eyes for a long second and, instead of saying anything, lowered his mouth and kissed you. It was a slow, deep, almost tender kiss, as if he wanted to memorize the taste of your mouth before reality returned. Your fingers tangled in his damp hair and you kissed back with the same softness, no hurry.
Afterward he rolled to your side, pulled you against his chest and covered you with the blanket. You rested your cheek on his warm skin, listening to his heartbeat slowly calm. Neither spoke. You just lay there, tangled together, breathing in the same rhythm until sleep took you.
The next morning you woke first. Gray morning light came through the window, cold and soft. Peter slept on his side, back to you, sheet low on his waist, revealing the curve of his back and the small tattoo on his shoulder blade. The heat from the night before was still there, smoldering under your skin like an ember that hadnât gone out. You moved slowly, pressing yourself against him from behind, and felt his body react even in sleep: a deep sigh, his back tensing slightly.
You slid one leg over his hip and climbed on top of him carefully. Peter opened his eyes slowly, confused for a second, but when he saw you there, naked, sitting on his thighs, hands on his chest, the blue of his eyes darkened instantly.
âGood morning,â you murmured, leaning down to kiss his neck.
He let out a low moan and his hands automatically rose to your hips.
âFuckâŠâ he whispered, still hoarse from sleep. âAre youâŠ?â
He didnât finish the sentence. You moved slowly, grinding against him, feeling him harden beneath you in seconds. Peter closed his eyes for a moment, breathing hard through his nose.
âWait,â he said suddenly, opening his eyes with concern. âI donât have condoms here. Yesterday was risky enough.â
You smiled, leaned down and gave him a slow kiss on the lips while your hand slid between you both to guide him.
âRelax,â you whispered against his mouth. âIâm on the pill. Have been for years. You can enjoy⊠everything.â
Peter swallowed hard, visibly relieved, but the worry mixed with pure desire when you felt the tip of him brush your already wet entrance. You guided him yourself, sinking down slowly, inch by inch, until you had him all inside. You both gasped at the same time. This time there was no rush, the rhythm was yours. You began to move in slow circles, rising and falling calmly, feeling every vein, every pulse inside you.
Peter couldnât take his eyes off your breasts. His hands rose and cupped them with reverence, thumbs brushing your hardened nipples while you moved.
You sped up a little. The wet sound of your bodies colliding filled the room along with your soft moans and his low growls. Peter gripped your hips, helping you slam down harder, but without taking control. Just enjoying. Enjoying the view, the feeling of being inside you, the way you clenched around him every time you sank fully.
âJust like that⊠fuck, just like that,â he gasped, eyes fixed on your breasts rising and falling with each movement. âDonât stop⊠please donât stop.â
You braced one hand on his chest and with the other touched yourself, finding the exact spot you needed. The orgasm came fast, intense, making you tighten around him and release a long moan that was almost a sob. Peter followed seconds later, fingers digging into your hips as he spilled inside you with a deep growl, body shaking beneath you.
You stayed joined for a long while, breathing hard, you still sitting on him. Then, with a tired smile, you got up and offered him your hand.
âShower. Both of us. Before weâre late for shift.â
Peter laughed softly, taking your hand.
You went in first and he waited outside, sitting on the edge of the bed with a towel around his waist.
While the water ran over you, you heard Peterâs phone ring in the bedroom. You heard him answer in a low voice.
âKayla? âŠYeah, Iâm fine. Whatâs wrong?â
The rest of the conversation was murmurs you couldnât quite catch. But when you came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, Peter was sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. The phone was silent now.
He looked up at you. His eyes were red.
âIt was Kayla,â he said quietly, almost broken. âShe said she misses me. That Darwin asks for me every day. That⊠she wants me to come home. That we should try again.â
The world crashed down on you in an instant. You felt a cold void in your stomach, as if someone had ripped the air from your lungs. But you didnât show it. You forced a small, fake smile.
âThen you should go back,â you said, trying to keep your voice from shaking. âItâs the right thing. For Darwin. For her.â
Peter stood up slowly.
âI didnât want this to happen like this. Last night⊠this morning⊠it wasnât justâŠâ
âNo,â you cut him off, soft but firm. âItâs okay. Really. It was⊠nice. But we both knew it was temporary.â
You turned quickly and went into the other room, closing the door behind you. You leaned your back against the wood, eyes squeezed shut. Peter followed almost immediately.
âHey, letâs talk,â he said from the other side, voice muffled. âPlease. Donât shut me out like this.â
âGo, Peter,â you replied, and your voice came out weaker than you wanted. âItâs for the best. For both of us.â
He tried the knob, but youâd locked it.
âPleaseâŠâ
You didnât answer. You slid to the floor, hugging your knees, and let the tears come in silence. No sobs. Just hot tears falling one after another while you listened to his footsteps slowly move away toward the front door.
Peter left without saying anything more. You heard the front door close with a soft, almost respectful click, as if he didnât want to make noise while breaking your heart. The silence he left was deafening. You stayed sitting on the sitting room floor, back against the closed door, knees to your chest, the towel still damp against your skin. The tears kept falling silently, hot and slow, until they dried on their own and only the burning in your eyes remained.
You felt dirty. Not because of the sex, that had been the most real and beautiful thing youâd felt in months, but because you had wanted him so much. Because you had let him into your home, your bed, your skin, knowing he had a family waiting for him. Because you had been selfish.
Before it got much later you grabbed your phone and sent a short message to Danvers:
âFeeling really sick. Vomiting and fever. Not coming in today. Sorry.â
You sent it before you could regret it. Then turned off your phone and threw it across the room. You didnât want to see if Peter tried to contact you. You didnât want to see his name on the screen and have to decide whether to answer or not.
The day was hell.
You dragged yourself to the bathroom and vomited everything in your stomach: the breakfast you hadnât eaten, yesterdayâs coffee, bitter bile that burned your throat. It wasnât just your body, it was the disgust you felt for yourself. Every heave came with a thought: âHow could you? He has a wife. A son. And you⊠you wanted him for yourself. Youâre pathetic.â You looked in the fogged mirror: swollen eyes, messy hair, pale face. You hated yourself so much you wanted to scream.
You went back to bed and curled up under the sheets that still smelled like him, his mint soap, sweat, sex. You tried to sleep, but every time you closed your eyes the images came back: his hands on your hips, his mouth on your neck, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in that moment. And then Kaylaâs voice on the phone, distant but clear in your head: âCome home.â
You vomited again at noon. And again in the afternoon. Your empty stomach hurt, but your chest hurt more. You felt like an idiot for believing, even for a second, that something between you could be real. That the nights cooking together, the talks until dawn, the shared silences in the dark⊠meant anything more than a temporary escape for him.
The phone vibrated several times on the floor. You ignored it. You knew who it was. Peter. First messages: âAre you okay?â, âPlease answerâ, âIâm worried.â Then calls. One after another. The sound of the phone against the wood was like a hammer in your head. You didnât answer. You couldnât. If you heard his voice, if you heard the worried or guilty or whatever tone he had, you would break completely. And you were already broken enough.
At dusk you got up only to drink water and vomit again. The apartment was too quiet without him: without the sound of his boots in the entrance, without the clatter of the pan in the kitchen, without his low laugh when he burned his fingers peeling garlic. You sat on the sofa bed where he had slept those first nights, hugging the pillow that still carried his scent, and cried for real this time.
Muffled, ugly sobs that left your throat raw.
When it got dark, the phone stopped vibrating. Maybe Peter gave up. Maybe he understood you werenât going to answer. Or maybe he was already on his way home to Kayla and Darwin, trying to fix what he broke for one night with you.
You crawled back into bed, curled into a ball, and stared at the ceiling. The self disgust didnât go away. The âloveâ for him didnât either. And that was the worst part. You still thought about how his skin felt against yours, how he told you you were perfect while looking at you with those blue eyes.
Tomorrow you would have to go back to work.
You would have to see him.
You would have to pretend nothing had happened.
And you didnât know if you could.
i didn't remember the boy (Darwin) in the series and i portrayed him as i wanted, then i looked for him but i didn't have time to change his description, SORRY, if i write more about Peter i'm going to do it well
now carrying his child, your prince dotes on you with the devotion of a man utterly enamored with the woman he loves
genre/warnings:
fluff, pregnancy, protective!valarr, lots of romance bc valarr is devastatingly in love, lover's quarrel, mentions of curses, hurt/comfort, childbirth, overall very self-indulgent
notes:
a continuation to in one's heart of hearts but can also be read as a standalone. *sigh* i'm so in love with him
âMy beloved, from this day forth, this heart of mine⊠is yours to keep.â
That was his wedding vows to you. And those sweet words would be carried by singers and spun into countless songs and verses afterwards.
They would have the realm believe you ensnared Prince Valarr Targaryen with some enchantment that he tumbled into love with you overnight and chose you as his princess consort.
But the truth is far sweeter.
He was the one who fell first, and he fell hard. In watching him love you so fiercely⊠you found yourself falling too, drawn by the love that had already chosen you.
In all the years you spent by his side, he never once gave you cause for disappointment. Through every joy and sorrow, Valarr remained steadfast, his love unwavering even as the two of you endured even the most painful heartbreaks.
And now, as he pressed his face against your growing belly, smiling giddily and mismatched eyes sparklingâ
âMy little one,â his voice was warm with affection. âWill you look more like your mother or me, I wonder?â
âyou found yourself falling in love with him all over again, as you had done countless times before.
You let out a chuckle, your fingers slipping into his hair, gently combing through his white strands.
âI wish heâll have your eyes,â you said, your voice fond. âA little prince who resembles you... yeah, Iâd love that.â
At that, Valarr lifted his head that was on your lap, his gaze finding yoursâbright, almost boyish. âMy eyes?â he echoed, amused. âOn the contrary, I think a princess like you would be nice too.â
âA princess?â you hummed, brushing your thumb along his cheek. âShe will have you wrapped around her little finger the moment she is born.â
He huffed a quiet laugh. âIâm already hopeless where you are concerned. What chance would I stand against a daughter of yours?â
âThen you are doomed.â
âGladly.â
You giggled and your husband only rolled his eyes, caressing your belly in slow, absent circles as though he could already soothe the child within.
âDid you hear that? Your lady mother loves having me doomed⊠and you havenât even been born yet.â
Valarr had been overjoyed when he knew you were with child again, but he also worried. After two stillborns, he had sworn he would not see you suffer in childbed again, but now that his seed had taken, he was determined this was to be the last.
The heir of Dragonstone pressed a gentle kiss against the swell of your belly, his voice dropping to a soft whisper meant only for the child you carried.
âPrince or princess⊠it matters not. As long as you come safely to us.â
His protective hand lingered there, before he glanced up at youâhis expression gentler now, threaded with the love he had for you.
âAs long as you keep your mother safe too,â he added quietly, the cool blue and warm brown of his eyes blinked then, almost like a plea.
Your heart lurched at his words. He had always feared for you, and though there was something endearing in the way he held you so dearly, you could not bear seeing it weigh heavily upon him.
âValarrâŠâ You cupped his cheek, guiding him to look at you fully. âYou must not carry that fear alone.â
For a heartbeat, he said nothingâonly leaning into your touch, his hand moving to cover yours where it rested against his face.
âI would bear far worse, if it means keeping you safe.â
You knew he would.
For if there was one thing all of the Red Keep had come to know, it was this: Prince Valarr was utterly protective of his princess consort.
At your smallest call, he came. At your faintest discomfort, he was already at your side. There was no hesitation or manly pride that stood in the way. It was sweet to see really, but the servants scarcely had time to breathe before he was giving them instructions of more cushions, warmer cloaks, cooler drinks, softer linensâ
And it wasnât just the servants who noticed.
âGods, nephew,â Prince Maekar grumbled. âShe is with child, not made of glass.â
One afternoon in the gardens, as Valarr hovered just a step too close while you walked, his hand always ready at your back, his uncle, Prince Maekar, watched the display with a raised brow.
Valarr did not so much as glance his way, his hand settling securely at your waist in response. âAnd yet I would rather treat her as such than risk otherwise.â
His uncle snorted, which made him look eerily like his son Aerion. âYou fret like an old nursemaid. I have seen squires with steadier nerves.â
At that, his father, Prince Baelor, let out a warm chuckle from where he stood nearby, the sound rich with amusement.
âLet him be, brother,â he said lightly. âIt is a rare thing, to see a man so devoted.â
âDevoted? Bah. The boy looks ready to faint if she so much as stumbles.â
âAnd you did not, when your first was expected?â Baelor returned, one brow lifting.
Maekar fell silent at thatâbegrudgingly. And Baelor held back his smile. Unlike the others who may feel Valarrâs concern was excessive, he was proud with the man his son had become.
He still remembered it all too clearlyâhow Valarr, still so young, had stood vigil before the funeral pyre of his two lost sons. That was a grief even Baelor himself had never known, and yet his son had borne it with a strength that was both admirable and heartbreaking. Not once had he faltered or wept while the flames still burned.
Only when it was over did Valarr finally look at himâ
âFather.â
And only then would he break. The composure he had held so fiercely gave way all at once, his frame trembling as Baelor gathered him into his arms. He wept like a child in that brief moment... but when it passed, as all storms must, Valarr drew back, steadied himself⊠and returned to you stronger, as though even his sorrow was something he had to bear so you would not have to.
His bold yet gentle boy. Baelorâs gaze softened as he watched you now, leaning close to murmur something into Valarrâs ear that made him smile.
The Hand of the King found himself wishing, with all his heart, for nothing but happiness for the two of you.
. . .
While it was him who was well-known throughout the Red Keep, there were moments where it was you who were being protective of him in returnâ mostly behind closed doors though.
âFrom now on, no more tourneys,â you had said firmly one evening, your arms crossed despite the softness of your voice.
Valarr blinked at you. âNo tourneys...?â
âYes,â you emphasized with a frown. âNo melees, no tilts, no⊠whatever it is you men insist on doing to break your bones for sport.â
A hint of a smile tugged at his lips despite himself. âYou would deny me my honor?â
âI would deny you a broken limbâor worse,â you countered. Your hand found his, squeezing gently. âDo you know what it does to me, watching you ride out there?â
His amusement faded at once, his fingers instinctively curling around yours, as though to reassure you.
âYou would send me into early labor with such stress. Is that what you want?â
âNever,â he answered at once, his grip tightening around your hand, a faint frown settling as his gaze found yours.
âThen you will stay. For me.â
There was no hesitation as he kissed your palm. âYour wish is my command, my love.â
And that was how your husband cheated his way out of the lists for the upcoming celebration of his fatherâs nameday. My lady wife worries for me, was what he told the small council as though that alone was reason enough.
. . .
Two days of lavish feasts, followed by five days of jousts, melees, and hunts held to celebrate Baelor Breakspearâs name day were as grand as it could be.
While your husband didnât partake in any of the potentially harmful activities, the two of you still made your rounds through the nightly balls, as was expected.
âAre you tired?â Valarr asked gently, his hand coming to rest at the small of your back. You were only in your sixth moon, yet there were moments your breath came a little shorterâand he took notice of it.
You glanced up at him, thoughtful for a moment before giving a small shake of your head. âNoâŠâ
The soft tune of waltz had already begun and it caught your attention. You had always loved to dance. Turning back to your pliant husband, you looked up with a twinkle in your eyes.
âDear husband,â you said sweetly, âdance with me?â
Valarr blinked, caught off guard for a brief moment. His gaze dipped instinctively to your belly before returning to your face. âAre you certain? You should not overexert yourself, and besidesââ
âBesides?â you echoed, one brow lifting.
He hesitated and that was all it took for your expression to change, a pout forming as you looked away.
âAh⊠I see. Perhaps you are embarrassed.â
âEmbarrassed...?â
âTo be seen with me,â you continued petulantly, your hand resting over the curve of your belly. âA woman grown fat and ungainly with child⊠I suppose it is not a pleasant sight next to the prince second in line to the throne.â
It took him a good three seconds to take in your words, and a smile spread across his face at the realizationâwhenever you were with child, you grew softly needy, seeking reassurance in the most endearing ways.
And every time, he found himself just as helpless against it.
His hand came to your face then, turning you back to him, and before you could say another wordâ
âMm!â He captured your lips with his.
It was not hurried, nor harsh, but firm enough to squash any foolish thought before it could take root. When he drew back, his warm breath lingered against your lips, and a dashing smile on his face.
âIf there is anyone in this hall worth looking upon tonight⊠it is youâ my princess consort of the Seven Kingdoms.â
His thumb brushed along your cheek, mismatched gaze softening as it lingered on youâas though he could not quite fathom how you could think so little of what he held so dear.
âI would move heaven and earth for the right to stand beside you. Youâand the child you carryâare my whole world. There is no one who could ever compare.â
Your breath caught slightly at the sincerity in his voice.
âYou are beautifulâŠâ he murmured, still smiling, his hand slipping down to rest over yours atop your belly. âMore so now than ever. And I would count it an honor to have every eye in that hall see me at your side.â
The tension in your chest eased, your lips curving despite yourself.
ââŠThen you will dance with me?â
Valarr took your hand in his, lifting it to press a tender kiss against your knuckles, a roguish smile playing upon his lips.
âAlways, love.â
And once more, the Young Prince and his princess consort left the court spellbound on the dance floorâ dazzling them all with the unwavering devotion they so effortlessly showed one another.
Your union was harmonious⊠but even the sweetest of bonds was not without trouble in its paradise.
And this time, it was in the form of your husband conjuring terrible images inside his own head after seeing you together with the bastard brother of the king.
âYou should keep your distance from him,â Valarr said, his tone stern, and he looked mildly vexed by how you merely crossed your arms before him.
âFrom Lord Bloodraven?â you replied, glancing at him with a hint of incredulity. âValarr, I know. Iâm not a child.â
His jaw tightened slightly. âNor do I think you one. But I have told you time and time againâ Brynden Rivers is not to be taken lightly. Donât exchange many words with him, heâll twist your words sooner or later.â
âI know how to handle him and how to take care of myself!â you returned, your voice sharpening just enough to show blatant irritation.
The very notion that your husband thought you were incapable of navigating the court wounded your pride, and you looked as if you resented him, which Valarr took notice.
âDonât look at me like that, love. That still doesnât mean I should stand idle when I feel something is amiss.â
âAnd it does not mean you must hover over every step I take. You cannot guard me from every shadow you imagine!â
âI speak only of what I see, and what I see is carelessness. In your selfish pursuit to be a princess who pleases everyone as if that is a trophy in and of itself, you are too blind to the consequences of overlooking this.â
A heavy silence fell between you. You had quarrels beforeâsmall disagreements born out of concern that twisted into bursts of anger, and usually you would understand him.
But this time, his words pierced you too deep. Selfish pursuit? A princess who pleases everyone? Did he not see it? That everything you did was for his name?
Valarr exhaled quietly, choosing to give in as he realized that he might have been too harsh. âI only wish to keep you safe.â
âAnd I only wish for you to trust me,â you answered with wobbling lips, though no less firm.
Then suddenly, your breath hitched as the child within you kicked your ribs sharply. Your hand flew to your belly, instinctively soothing it.
ââŠI am tired, husband,â you decided at last, trying to remain icy and hiding the cold sweat that had run through your spine. âI should rest.â
His expression faltered, regret flickering across his face. For a moment, it seemed he might say more, but whatever it was, he swallowed it down because he feared that pressing further would only upset you more, and it was the last thing he wanted.
âOf course.â
You did not wait for more. Turning, you excused yourself, leaving him standing there.
. . .
The small council chamber that followed felt stifling just as it usually was. King Daeron sat at its head, composed as ever, with Prince Baelor at his side. Across from them sat Brynden RiversâLord Bloodravenâhis pale gaze as unreadable as the rumors that surrounded him.
Valarr took his place among them, his expression guarded, mood still sour from that argument with you earlier. Though he listened and offered his thoughts when required, there was an edge to him that was apparent to at least his own father.
And when Lord Bloodraven brought up the next topic, his patience had nearly reached its limit.
âThere is a matter worth noting... Among the smallfolk, a childrenâs song has begun to spread.â
Prince Baelorâs brow furrowed. âA song?â
âA foolish one, no doubt,â King Daeron added, though his tone suggested he already disliked where this was going.
âAnd yet such things have a way of shaping thought,â Lord Bloodraven continued. His gaze shifted to Valarr, giving him a nod. âThey speak of the princess.â
Valarr stilled for a moment, before leveling his sharp gaze on him.
âOf her misfortune,â Lord Bloodraven went on, voice calm, almost detached. âSince she has yet to carry a healthy child to term, some have begun to wonder if she bears⊠a curse. And coupled with the whispers of infidelity with Prince Aerion before, it may be prudent to consider whether the princess consort remains fit to make public appearances amongst the smallfolkââ
To Valarr, that was enough.
âWords are wind, and I will leave them as such,â Valarr said, his voice cutting clean through the chamber, sharp as drawn steel, âBut if it is you who are questioning the honor of the princess, or her ability to conceive...â
His gaze locked onto Lord Bloodravenâs, unflinching.
âThen I will consider it a slight against herâ and by extension, against me. Mind your tongue, Lord Bloodraven, for I do not take such matters lightly.â
Prince Baelor watched his son closely, absently turning the ring on his finger. In that moment, he saw himself reflected⊠and yet not entirely. Where Baelor would have tempered his words, Valarr did not. He was bolder, brasher, and less willing to bend for the sake of diplomacy.
So much for the âprince among menâ they so often liken him to, Baelor mused, a faint smile on his lips.
King Daeron exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping once against the table. âEnough,â the king said at last. âWe will not give weight to idle songs.â
Lord Bloodraven inclined his head slightly, though whether in concession or calculation, none could quite tell.
. . .
Today couldnât have gone any worse, but fate really decided to test him today, it seemed.
Valarr had barely stepped out into the corridor when hurried footsteps broke through his thoughts.
âYour Graceâ!â
He turned sharply. It was your handmaiden, rushing to him while trembling with tears streaking her face.
âYour Grace, we are looking for you!â she gasped, struggling to catch her breath, âthe princessâsheâshe has collapsed!â
For a single, terrible moment, the world fell silent.
And then Valarr had broken into a run.
Fear seized him mercilessly, his steps echoing sharply against the stone halls as he made for your chambers, heart pounding with a dread that made his chest burn.
The doors to your chambers were thrown open without ceremony. Inside, the air was thickâ but you were not lying still as he had feared.
You were awake, propped against the pillows, your hand resting over your belly, though your expression was still dazed. Relief struck him so sharply it nearly brought him to his knees.
âWhat happened?â he demanded from the maester, breathless.
âMy prince,â Maester Yormwell greeted, stepping forward. âHer Grace suffered a spell of exhaustion. Too much stress, and perhaps too little rest, but all things considered⊠she is well.â
Valarr was at your side the moment the maester finished speaking. His hands found your shoulders at once, drawing you into an embraceâ yet with a tinge of hesitation, as though he feared holding you too tightly might somehow harm you.
A shuddering breath left him, and your fingers lifted, curling gently into his doublet as you leaned into the familiar comfort of him, seeking his scent.
And then you felt itâ the rapid pounding of his heart and tremor running through him.
âValarrâŠâ your voice still faint, your head swimming slightly as you looked up at him. Just like that, all your grievance vanished, realizing how deeply this had shaken him. âIâm fine.â
But he only shook his head, his grip tightening.
âI should not have argued with you,â he blurted, the words spilling out strained. âNot like thatânot when you areâ This is my doing. I upset you.â
âIt is notââ
âI should have known better.â
âValarr.â You held him a little tighter, grounding him. âIâm fine,â you said again, more firmly this time, before easing back just enough to look at him. âIt was nothing more than a momentâs weakness.â
The blue and brown of his eyes wavered, caught between relief and lingering fear, failing to bring himself to believe it so easily.
But you were insistent in reassuring him. Leaning in, you peppered soft kisses to his neck, your voice gentle against his skin.
âI promise you⊠this time, both me and the babe are well.â
He drew in another shaky breath before pulling you back into his arms, holding you closer and burying himself in your warmth, as though he could not bear even the smallest distance.
âIâm so⊠so glad youâre safe,â he choked out against your shoulder. You could have sworn he was near tears himself.
And your heart warmed so much, because this man was still the same kind man you had given your wedding vows to.
Before you knew it, the time for your confinement had come.
The days grew quieter, slowerâyour world narrowing to the comfort of your chambers as the heavy weight of the child you carried made even the simplest movements a monumental effort.
And most fortunately, you were not alone in it. Brightening your days like the sun, Valarr was always there.
Far more than anyone expected of a prince with duties as many as his, he found his way back to you each timeâto the point of stealing moments between council meetings, trainings and all obligations that had kept him away.
You sat propped against a mound of pillows, a soft moan leaving you as you shifted, your hand instinctively reaching for your aching back.
âI swear,â you muttered under your breath, âthis child is determined to make a sport of my suffering.â
A quiet chuckle sounded beside you.
âHmm? Already so wilful, arenât they,â Valarr mused, settling himself on the bed before gently guiding you backâuntil you were seated between his legs, your back resting against his chest. His hands came to rest over yours, warm and steady, feeling the firm skin of your belly that housed his babe.
âThis child takes after you, Iâm sure of it,â you huffed. âI was never so troublesome, my mother can vouch for me.â
He hummed, his chin coming to rest lightly atop your head. âMm, what a slanderous thing to say. I seem to recall otherwise.â
You tilted your head just enough to shoot him a look, lips pursed. âYou are an insufferable prince through and through.â
âAnd yet,â he said, mismatched eyes twinkling and lips curving, âyou chose me.â
You shifted slightly to settle more comfortably against him, though not without a faint wince. His hands went to massage your hips at once, attentive and careful as ever, his expression focused.
âYou are far too stiff when you put on the face of Prince of Dragonstone,â you said playfully, eyeing him. âIt makes you⊠rather frightening.â
âFrightening?â
âYes.â You feigned solemnity as you placed a hand on your chest. âTerribly so. I fear I may be getting nightmares from it. A prince who accuses me of having selfish pursuits...â
You felt him pause, but then he chuckled, warm against your skin as he pressed a kiss to your face.
âOh?â His voice changedâdramatic, almost exaggerated, as he gently took your hand and lifted it with mock reverence. âThen perhaps I must remedy that at once.â
You narrowed your eyes, almost bursting out in laughter at the way he composed himself into a princely air.
âOh, fair lady,â he began, his tone rich with theatrics. âI find myself madly in love with you. Please become my wife. I can offer you fresh meat and wine dailyââ
You snorted, swatting his hand away.
ââand soft sheets too,â he winked, leaning closer, a grin tugging at his lips. âWhat say you? Come with me to Dragonstone? I assure you, this prince is thoroughly harmless.â
Turning within his hold, you faced him with equal dramatics. âHow bold of you, to make such an offer to a lady already wed.â
âA tragedy. I shall have to win you over regardless.â
âI fear you shall fail, my prince. My husband would not take kindly to it.â
Valarrâs grin softened, warmth settling in his gaze.
âThen... I suppose I shall simply have to remain him then.â
Your breath caught, just slightly, when suddenly he closed the distance. But this time, there was no jestâonly warmth as his lips met yours.
The kiss was deep, unhurriedâfilled with a warmth and devotion and certainty. He nibbled on your lip, and you pressed yourself closer to him in response.
He shifted, easing your back against the cushions as he hovered over you, mindful as everâcareful not to press any weight, never forgetting the life you carried between you.
His lips brushed yours again and again, softer this time, and while he could not quite bring himself to stop anytime soon, he had to.
âMy love,â Valarr murmured against your lips, voice threaded with something achingly tender, âif I had a hundred lives, I would spend each one finding my way back to you.â
When he pulled away, his gaze swept over you, the beauty of his two-colored eyes stilled you in place. His hand came to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over your skin.
âI know more than anyone of what you have gone through.â His gaze was solemn. âAnd I only regret that I was not strong enough to spare you from it.â
The memory of that bleak birthing chamber and the grief of losing your sons made your chest tighten, tears risingâbut he caught your hand, lacing your fingers together and guiding them to rest over your swollen belly.
âI swear it, there is nothing in this world that I wouldnât cast aside if it meant sparing you pain. And if any hardship remains to come...â
The way he paused made lump rise in your throat. But then your prince smiled that pure, dashing smile of his.
âThen let it find me first. I will stand between you and it all. Be it fear, fate, or the will of gods themselves⊠I will not yield.â
Your first tear fell, overcome by the weight of his words, while his hold on your hand tightening just a fraction.
âI could not protect you in childbed,â he admitted, âbut I will spend the rest of my life ensuring that nothing touches you without first going through me, for as long as I liveâŠâ
His forehead rested against yours then, his voice barely above a whisper nowâ
âYou and our child are mine to protect.â
âand you smiled tearfully at what he promised as you knew it to be true.
âYour Grace, itâs alright⊠take deep breathsâ Yes, yes! Just like that!â
Your time had come when on one night, your waters broke just after youâd gone to bed. You had woken up to persistent contractions afterwards, which fully sealed your fate.
You had gone through this twice before, and you learned that there was nothing to be done when pain seized your womb with its merciless hold that made you cry out, except to let it run its course.
You lay on your side on the bed clad only in your shift, eyes closed, whimpering as another pain came over you.
âValarrââ Your voice faltered, trembling with tears as you clutched your handmaidenâs hand. âW-where is heâŠ? Has heâ has he returnedâŠ?â
She squeezed your hand in return, promising you before she ran, âI shall fetch the prince, Your Grace!â
Though it was considered improper for men to enter the birthing chamber, Valarr had always been present during all your labors. This time, however, he had ridden into the city on urgent business just as your pains had begun.
And now you were terrified, haunted by the memories of the previous births that led to stillbornsâ and desperately wanted him here.
. . .
When Valarr was alerted with the news of how your pains had started and that you were asking for him, he marched back towards Red Keep with everything he had.
The doors to the chamber flew open with a force, and Valarr strode in, breathless. His gaze found you at once and something in his expression shattered.
âMy loveâ!â
Your name broke from him as he seized your hand, his grip firm, grounding, as though anchoring you to him might somehow lessen what you endured. You scarcely had time to register his presence before another contraction seized you, fiercer than the last.
âIâm here!â He engulfed you in his embrace as you wept. âIâm here...â
The pains came without mercy, one upon the next, stealing what little rest you might have. Your body trembling as the agony built and builtâ until your moans dissolved into anguished wails.
Valarr felt his heart splinter.
Your sweet face was drawn tight with suffering, your hair damp and clinging to your skin, your fingers crushing his as though he were the only thing keeping you from being swept away entirely, all the while withstanding the pain he couldnât even begin to fathom.
Guilt gnawed at himâ he was the one who put you in this suffering⊠and more so when your voice broke:
âNo! Pleaseâ I canât! I canât take this!â
He leaned close at once, pressing his lips to your temple, then to your ear, his voice low, tinted with grief. âYes, you can, my love. You can. Donât fight it⊠Breathe. It will pass.â
Hours blurred into one another, marked by pain and the brief moments of reprieve between. Through it all, Valarr never once let you go. His voice remained at your side, soft and steady, murmuring against your skin.
Until, at last, the maesterâs voice broke through the haze.
âYour Graceâit is time. You must push.â
Valarrâs grip tightened around your body, and you bore down, summoning what strength you had left.
Each push felt as though it was tearing you apart, the compelling urge to push with all your might rising until it consumed you as a whole. Your world narrowed to the searing, all-encompassing agony.
âOh Seven, it hurts!â you wept and your husband pressed another kiss to your temple, trying to soothe you.
âYouâre doing so well.â His voice was thick with emotion. âJust a little more⊠I know you can.â
And so you gave in to your body's demands. Knees bent, you pushed again, feeling your baby move down through your body. Again and again you pushed until the fire between your legs was unbearable, until you felt being split in two, tears endlessly falling from your eyesâ
A scream tore itself from your throat.
The pain surged to its peak in one final blazing rush, and with it came a foreign sound.
A weak, feeble cry. Your babyâs first cry.
For one stunned heartbeat, silence swallowed the chamber. Everyone stood frozen as the newborn was caught, while you collapsed back upon the pillows.
âA prince!â the maester cried, joy breaking through at last as he carried the tiny life to be cleaned by the handmaidens. âThe princess has given birth to a healthy prince!â
But unlike the others who hastened toward the babe, Valarr did not move. He remained exactly where he was, his eyes never leaving you, who lay unconscious in his arms.
âLove...?â His voice trembled as he leaned over you, his free hand brushing your cheek, his heart lurching violently in his chest. âStay with meâpleaseââ
Around him, the noise dimmed, the celebration stilled into a breathless hush as all eyes turned back to the bed. They all saw their prince, who ignored his heir, for the sake of the woman he loved.
âWake up,â he urged softly, desperately, his thumb trembling against your terribly pale form. âWake up. Please⊠open your eyes.â
A moment stretched with you staying still.
Then another.
And thenâ
Your lashes fluttered. A breath seemed to pass through the room all at once.
Relief hit the Young Prince so sharply that he buckled, and a broken sound escaped his chest as he bent to you, pressing a lingering, trembling kiss to your lips.
âYou did it,â he whispered, tears spilling now as he pressed his forehead to yours. âYou did it, my love. Thank you... Thank you...â
Only when he had made sure you were fine did Valarr finally turn to see his son. Carefully, he took the tiny, swaddled bundle from the maester and placed him gently into your arms, guiding him close to your chest.
âA boy,â he murmured softly, pulling you into his embrace again. âJust as you wished⊠Isnât it something? We have a sonâŠâ
His hand came to rest over yours, both of you cradling the small, warm weight between you. You were utterly spent, your strength all but gone, and so you leaned into the steady rise of his chest.
This little one was too preciousâperfect, with all ten fingers, and not cold like the ones you held in your nightmares. He had drawn his first breath in this world, and in time, he would only grow stronger beneath your care.
A breathless sound left you when the babe stirred and opened his eyes.
Cool blue and warm brown.
âHe has your eyesâŠâ you cooed, your voice thick with awe as you looked up at your prince, tears shimmering in your gaze.
Valarr only looked at you. Not at the heir you had just given himâ but at you, as though the very sight of you, alive and breathing in his arms, eclipsed all else.
Then, with a tenderness that trembled at its edges, he leaned down and kissed you again.
All those who bore witness to itâthe maester, the handmaidens, every soul within that chamberâfell silent, for they knew that their beloved prince and princess had deserved this.
Their lives, once fractured by grief and shadowed by loss, had finally been made whole.
And so the years that followed would come to tell the same storyâ
Life, at last, had found its completion for the Young Prince and his princess.
Though Prince Valarr had hoped for a daughter he could spoil and cherish as his little princess, it became plain that he doted on his son from the moment he first took him in his arms. The realm delighted in the little prince as wellâhe was cherished and adored, bearing the fine features of his sire and the gentle disposition of his dam.
Yet even so⊠there was something all had come to understand. For all the love and pride Prince Valarr bore his son, it never rivaled what lived in his gaze when it fell upon his motherâ you, his sweet princess consort of the Seven Kingdoms.
That though he was a devoted father, a proud prince, and one day, hopefully, would be a great kingâŠ
Above all else, he was still and forever would be yours.
-18+ explicit sexual content, p in v!! breeding/pregnancy talk, spanking, creampie, slightttt overstimulation, mentions of pregnancy and children, pillow talk!!! multiple orgasms, andddd clingy aerion! xoxo! á„«áĄ
the first rays of dawn were just beginning to creep through the blinds of your shared bedroom painting stripes of light across the worn hardwood floors. you woke before your husband, as you often did, and became acutely aware of the firm, warm pressure against your ass from behind.
a mischievous thought took root. slowly, deliberately, you began to shift your hips, pressing back against him. the friction was exquisite, even through the thin layers of your nightgown and his boxers. you did it again, a slow, deliberate grind that had his cock twitching against you. a soft sigh escaped your lips at the pleasurable contact.
behind you, aerion stirred with a low groan. his arm, which had been draped loosely over your waist, tightened, pulling you more firmly against him. "mmmph," he mumbled into your hair, still mostly asleep. "what're you doin', baby..."
"wakin' you up," you whispered, pressing your ass back again.
"i can feel that." his hand slid down from your waist to your hip, his fingers gripping the soft fabric of your nightgown.
with a gentleness that contrasted the morning wood pressing insistently against you, he slowly bunched up your nightgown, lifting it inch by inch until it was pooled around your waist. his other hand moved to his own boxers, the sound of elastic snapping as he freed himself.
you felt the hot, velvet-smooth skin of his cock as he guided it between your thighs, the blunt head nudging against your already slick folds. he was leaking pre-cum, and he used it to paint your pussy, spreading the wetness around with slow, deliberate circles of his cockhead.
"sh sh sh," he murmured against your ear, his voice still thick with sleep but laced with growing arousal. "don't wanna wake the baby just yet."
you bit your lip to stifle a moan as his cockhead caught on your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. he did it again, then again, teasing you mercilessly.
"so wet already," he whispered against your neck.
his words were filthy, but his touch was tender. he continued to rub himself against you, coating his shaft in your wetness.
"gonna slide right in," he promised softly. "gonna fill you up before the sun's even properly risen."
you pushed back against him, a silent invitation. he took it, aligning himself with your entrance and pushing in just the tip. you gasped at the stretch, your body already craving more.
"shhhh," he soothed gently, though his own voice was strained with the effort of holding back. he pulled out slightly, then pushed in a little deeper. âi know baby, i knowâŠâ
he continued his teasing, shallow thrusts that had you squirming with need. each time he pushed in a little deeper, until finally, with one smooth stroke, he buried himself to the hilt. you both moaned softly at the feeling of being completely joined.
"fuck," he breathed, his forehead resting against your shoulder. "how come you are always so perfect? hmm? yâmade for me?â
all you could do was nod and press your face further into the pillow under you. he began to move, his strokes slow and deep.
his hand came around to find your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts. "wanna make you cum like this," he whispered. "then fuck you proper. gonna fill this pretty pussy with so much cum it'll be leaking out of you all day. maybe we'll get lucky and put another baby in you right now."
his dirty talk, combined with the sensations building inside you, had you spiraling toward your release faster than you expected. his fingers on your clit became more insistent, his thrusts a little harder, a little deeper.
"that's it, baby," he encouraged, sensing how close you were. "cum on my cock. let me feel that pussy squeeze my cock, cmâon."
his words were your undoing. your orgasm washed over you, waves of pleasure that had you clenching around him. he groaned at the feeling, his hips stilling as he let you ride it out.
as you came down from your high, he pulled out. âyâstill want me to fill you? work for that cum, baby.â
âare you gonna help me?â you whisper sleepily to which he only nods and pulls you up onto his lap, straddling him. his hands gripped your ass, his expression peaceful as he rested leaning back, hands gripping any soft skin he could grasp on your warm body.
you finally sink down onto his cock, taking him deep inside you. the new angle allowed him to hit that perfect spot inside you, and soon you were building toward another orgasm.
"look at you, pretty girlâŠ" he breathed, his eyes fixed on where your bodies joined. "gonna make me cum so deep inside you..."
his words spurred you on, and you increased your pace, grinding against him with abandon. his hands tightened on your ass, and suddenly he brought one down in a sharp smack that echoed in the small room.
"aerion!" you gasped, the sting mixing with pleasure.
"shhh," he grinned, smacking you again. "you'll wake the baby."
he brought his hand down again, a sharp crack that made you jolt and clench around him. "fuck, look at that," he breathed, mesmerized.
"i fuckinâ love this ass," he panted, his voice rough with desire.
he spanked you again, the sound sharp and dirty in the quiet room. his nasty talk sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, and you rode him harder, chasing your release. his hands roamed over your body, gripping your hips, your waist, your tits, before returning to your ass.
"can feel you drippin' all over me. my pretty wife has got the wettest pussy in the worldâŠâ he groaned, his voice a low, guttural rasp.
âi love you aerion- i love- oh fuck.â
he kneaded the flesh of your ass, his thumbs spreading you open slightly as you bounced on him. his gaze was intense, burning with a primal hunger that made your stomach clench.
he leaned up, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth and sucking hard. you cried out softly, your fingers tangling in his hair. he bit down gently before releasing it with a wet pop.
"gonna get these tits all full of milk again soon, mama," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he used the name that always made you melt. "gonna knock you up again. can't wait to see it."
the word sent a jolt straight to your core. "donât stop aerion," you whimpered, your movements becoming more frantic.
"i wonât, i wonât," he soothed, though his hips were snapping up to meet yours with increasing urgency. "i know what you need.â
his hands tightened on your ass, holding you in place as he began to thrust up into you from below, taking control of the rhythm. "gonna make sure it takes. gonna plug her up so none of it leaks out."
he shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly his cock was hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. your vision blurred, your body tensing as your orgasm began to build. "thaaaat's it," he encouraged, sensing your impending release. "there you go..."
his words, combined with the relentless stimulation, were your undoing. your second orgasm crashed over you, intense and overwhelming. you cried out his name, your body convulsing with pleasure as you collapsed against his chest.
he held you through it, his hips stilling as your pussy clenched around him. as you came down from your high, he began to move again, his strokes hard and deep, chasing his own release. the bed creaked softly in protest, but you were too lost in pleasure to care. his hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he fucked up into you lazily.
"gonna fill you up," he panted, his rhythm becoming erratic. "gonna give you another baby."
with a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and groaned, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his hot cum. "fuck yes," he breathed.
you lay there on top of him, boneless and sated, his softening cock still inside you as you both caught your breath. the room was quiet now, save for your mingled breathing and the soft sounds of the morning beginning outside.
aerion's arms came around you, holding you close against his chest. he pressed a soft kiss to your sweat-dampened forehead.
"best way to wake up, bar none." his hands stroking up and down your back. you settled back against his chest, your head tucked under his chin. his heartbeat was a steady, reassuring rhythm beneath your ear.
âget some rest while we still can. babyâs gonna wake up soonâŠâ
you laughed softly under your breath, already feeling your eyes grow heavy again as he held you tighter, both of you savoring the last quiet moments before your day started.
synopsis. reader is a skilled woodswitch who heals with herbs and whispered spells, summoned to the red keep she must heal a dragon or watch him die.
content. slight canon divergence (vaccinated valarr arc??). graphic depictions of illness & death. plague descriptions. probably incorrect folk medicine. sexism. canon typical themes. lots of grief and angst. comfort. possible tragic ending (havenât decided yet)
word count. 8.5k
note. ahhh ok my first one shot && ofc i made it more than one part⊠pls go easy on me as Iâm new to posting my writing on tumblr.
part i. part ii. part iii. end.
The cottage smelled of smoke, damp wool, and crushed herbs.
Bundles of drying plants hung from the rafters like small, silent guardiansâsage, thyme, bitterroot, and strips of willow bark bound carefully with twine. Their scent lingered thickly in the warm air, mingling with the steam rising from a pot that simmered slowly over the hearth. The sharp bitterness of the brewing herbs stung faintly at the back of the throat, a smell both medicinal and strangely comforting.
On the narrow bed beneath the window, Lord Smallwood writhed beneath his blankets.
His dark hair clung damply to his temples, sweat soaking through the linen pillow beneath his head. Each breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, as though the air itself burned his lungs. Fever had painted his cheeks an unnatural crimson, and every so often his body shuddered violently beneath the weight of the covers.
Near the door, two servants hovered uneasily.
âShould he be sweating like that?â one whispered, glancing nervously toward the bed.
âSeven save him,â the other murmured back. âHeâs been like this for three days.â
Neither of them dared step closer.
You ignored them.
Kneeling beside the hearth, you worked slowly with the stone mortar resting in your lap, grinding dried willow bark and mint together beneath the steady pressure of the pestle. The brittle leaves cracked and crumbled with each turn of your wrist, breaking down into a coarse, pale powder.
The rhythm was steady. Familiar.
Grind. Turn. Grind again.
The sound had always calmed you.
The old woman who had raised you used to say that the rhythm itself could settle a healerâs nerves. âYour hands must be steady,â she would tell you, her voice thin with age but sharp with certainty. âIf the healer trembles, the patient will follow.â
You tipped the crushed herbs carefully into the pot hanging over the fire and stirred.
The liquid inside had already darkened into a cloudy amber from the earlier mixtures. As the powder touched it's surface, a sharper scent rose into the airâbitter enough that one of the servants coughed softly into his sleeve.
Behind you, the lord groaned.
You turned at once.
Lord Smallwoodâs hand clawed weakly at the blanket as another wave of fever rolled through him. His breathing had grown ragged now, each inhale scraping from his chest like dry leaves dragged across stone.
You rose and crossed the small room in two quiet steps.
Pressing your palm lightly against his forehead, you felt the heat immediately. Still burning, but no worse than before. That mattered.
âHelp me sit him up,â you said.
The servants hesitated.
âHeâs very weak, my lady,â one said uncertainly.
âSo lift gently,â you replied.
After a momentâs pause, they moved forward, carefully sliding their arms beneath the lordâs shoulders. You slipped one arm behind his back to steady him as they raised him upright against the pillows.
His body radiated heat even through the thin linen of his shirt.
You lifted the wooden cup from the bedside table and held it carefully to his lips.
âDrink.â
His eyes fluttered open at the sound of your voice, unfocused and glassy with fever. âBitterâŠâ he rasped weakly.
âIt is meant to be.â
He managed a weak swallow, then another. A little of the liquid spilt down his chin, and you wiped it away with a cloth. When the cup was empty, you eased him back against the pillows.
The servants watched the entire process as though witnessing something sacred, and in a way, perhaps they were.
You dipped a cloth into the bowl of cool water beside the bed and wrung it out before laying it across the lordâs neck. His overheated skin steamed faintly beneath the touch. The fever had been climbing steadily all day. If it rose much higher, there would be little left to try.
âThey said you brought Lord Harroway back from death,â one of the servants said quietly, as if speaking too loudly might disturb whatever fragile balance held the fever at bay.
You did not look up from the cloth in your hands, wringing and laying it again across the lordâs brow.
âPeople say many things when a man survives,â you replied.
The servant hesitated, glancing toward the bed. âBut⊠Itâs true, isnât it?â
You did not answer immediately.
The fire cracked softly in the hearth, sending a brief flare of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind moved through the tall pines that surrounded the cottage, their branches whispering together in the darkness like distant voices.
At last, you said, âLord Harroway lived because his body chose to fight.â
The servant frowned slightly. âAnd you?â
You adjusted the blanket around Lord Smallwoodâs shoulders, tucking the wool carefully beneath his arms.
âI asked it to try.â
Silence settled once more over the small cottage.
The fevered man shifted restlessly beneath the covers, his breath quickening again as another surge of heat moved through him. You watched the change carefully, studying the rhythm of it.
Every illness had its own pattern. A rise. A fall.
Sometimes the body found its way back from the brink, sometimes it did not.
You reached for the small leather pouch tied at your belt and loosened the cord. Inside were carefully wrapped bundles of dried herbsâlavender, sage, and several others gathered from the forest hills.
You selected a few brittle lavender buds and crushed them gently between your fingers. Their soft scent drifted into the warm air beside the bed. It would not cure the fever, but it might help the body rest, and sometimes, rest was the first step toward survival.
Then, almost without thinking, you murmured the old spell. Your voice was low enough that the servants barely heard it. âRoot and leaf, draw the heat. Bone and blood, remember sleep. Fever passes, and breath grows slow, Let the quiet body know.â
The old woman had insisted the words mattered less than the intention.
âPeople trust rituals,â she used to say. âAnd trust is medicine too.â
Lord Smallwoodâs breathing stuttered, then steadied.
You sat beside the bed and waited; time seemed to stretch slowly in the dim light of the hearth. The servants eventually stopped whispering, busying themselves by replacing the cold cloth that lay on their lordâs head every time it warmed.
The fever burned for what felt like hours, rising and falling like a tide. Several times, the lord stirred violently, muttering half-formed words, his hands clutching at invisible things. Each time you cooled his skin and spoke softly until he quieted. Eventually, the trembling eased. His breath slowed. Then, gradually, the tight lines of pain in his face began to soften.
One servant leaned closer. âHeâs sleeping.â
You waited a beat to confirm. âYes.â
âBut⊠he hasnât slept in two days.â
You leaned back slightly, though your eyes never left the patient. Sleep was a good sign.
Not a victory, but a beginning.
âYou saved him.â The second servant looked at you as though seeing something extraordinary.
You shook your head gently. âNo.â
âBut he was dying.â
âPerhaps.â
The fire popped loudly, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind had begun to calm. You rose and moved back to the hearth, setting another bundle of herbs beside the pot.
Behind you, Lord Smallwood slept on; the servants watched him as if afraid he might vanish if they blinked. After a moment, one of them whispered, almost reverently, âA miracle.â
You stirred the simmering brew, the bitter scent filling the room again. âNo,â you said quietly. âOnly patience.â
You sat down on the low stool near the hearth and stretched your tired fingers toward the warmth of the flames. The long hours of tending had left your shoulders stiff and your eyes heavy. Outside, the forest had grown quiet. The wind whispered softly through the trees, rustling the branches like distant voices.
Sitting again, you started to clean your tools; any moment of peace was best used and not wasted. You cleaned them slowly, more out of habit than necessity.
The mortar still carried the faint scent of crushed willow barkâsharp and bitter beneath the softer sweetness of mintâand the smell lingered stubbornly in the stone no matter how often you rinsed it. Fine green dust clung to the inside of the stone bowl, caught in the tiny scratches carved by years of grinding.
You poured a little warm water into it and rubbed the inside with a cloth, turning the bowl carefully as you worked. The sound of stone against cloth was soft and steady, almost meditative.
Every movement was practised and measured.
The old woman had insisted on that.
Clean tools meant clean work. Clean work meant fewer mistakes. And in healing, mistakes could not always be undone.
When the mortar was smooth again, you wiped it dry and set it beside the window where the cool night air could reach it.
Your hands paused for a moment over the pouch at your belt.
The leather was worn soft from years of handling, the drawstring darkened where your fingers had tied and untied it countless times. When you loosened the cord and opened the pouch, the smell of dried plants rose at onceâearthy, bitter, comforting in its familiarity.
Inside were small bundles wrapped carefully in scraps of cloth.
Lavender for calming sleep.
Sage for cleansing.
Bitterroot for stubborn fevers.
Thyme for the lungs.
Each bundle was tied with a thin thread and marked with small knots that the old woman had taught you to recognise even in the dark.
You checked them one by one. The habit was older than you could remember. Healing began long before the patient arrived. A healer who did not know what she carried in her pouch was no healer at all.
The memory came to you then, the way many scents didâquietly, without warning.
One moment, you were standing beside the narrow bed in the cottage, listening to the restless breathing of a fevered lord. The next, the faint smell of crushed thyme lingering on your fingers had carried your thoughts years backwards, to a morning deep in the forest.
You had been younger thenâsmall enough that the dew-soaked grass reached nearly to your knees. Every step soaked the hem of your dress and chilled your ankles, but you had not minded.
The forest had always felt alive in the early hours, as though the world itself were waking slowly around you.
It had been quiet that morning.
Not silentânever truly silentâbut filled with the soft, living sounds of a place that had not yet been disturbed by the day. Birds called somewhere high in the branches above, their voices echoing faintly between the tall pines. A breeze moved through the needles overhead, carrying with it the cool scent of damp earth and pine resin.
Several paces ahead, the old woman walked slowly along the trail.
Her back had already begun to bend with age, though she moved with a steady patience that never seemed to falter. She leaned heavily on her crooked walking stick, which had been carved from a twisted length of ash wood so old the grain had turned nearly silver with age. Her hair had been the colour of frostâlong and thin, gathered loosely at the back of her neck with a faded strip of red cloth.
She noticed everything.
Every few steps, she would pause beside the path, not because she was tired but to crouch carefully beside some small plant growing half-hidden among the roots of the trees.
That morning, she stopped beside a patch of pale green leaves. âCome here,â she called without turning.
You hurried forward, nearly slipping on the wet stones beneath your feet.
When you reached her side, she gestured toward the plant growing low against the ground, brushing aside the surrounding grass so it could be seen clearly.
âWell?â she asked.
You crouched beside her.
The leaves were thin and slightly curled, their edges jagged like tiny teeth. Small white flowers had begun to bloom at the centre of the cluster.
You studied them carefully before answering. âFeverfew.â
The old woman nodded once. âAnd what does it do?â
âIt cools the blood,â you said, recalling the lessons she had repeated countless times before. âIt helps break fever and ease aching joints.â
She plucked a single leaf from the plant and held it up between her fingers, turning it slowly so the morning light caught the faint veins running through the surface.
âAnd what does it not do?â
You hesitated; the question had always struck you as strange. âIt does not cure death,â you said at last.
A faint smile touched the corners of her mouth. âGood.â
She placed the leaf carefully into the woven basket hanging at her hip before straightening slowly with the help of her walking stick. For a few moments, she said nothing, simply continuing along the path as though the lesson had already ended.
You followed behind her.
After a while, she spoke again. âPeople will say many things about healing,â she said, her voice quiet beneath the whisper of the wind moving through the trees.
You had heard this lesson before.
âThey will call you wise,â she continued. âSome will call you blessed.â
She glanced back over her shoulder. âAnd some will call you a witch.â
You frowned slightly. âAre you a witch?â
The old woman snorted softly at that. âIf I were, do you think my knees would ache this much?â That made you laugh, which only made her smile.
She walked a few more steps before stopping again, this time beside a narrow stream that cut across the forest path. The water ran clear and cold over smooth stones, its quiet rushing sound filling the space between the trees.
She crouched beside the bank and dipped her fingers into the water. âListen carefully,â she said.
You knelt beside her, watching intently.
âThe body knows how to mend itself,â she said slowly, her walking stick tapped lightly against one of the stones beside the stream. âWe only remind it how.â
You studied the moving water. âBut what if it doesnât?â you asked.
The old woman did not answer immediately.
For a long time, she simply watched the current moving past the stones, the expression on her lined face thoughtful.
At last, she turned her pale grey eyes toward you, âThen it was never ours to mend.â
You frowned again. âBut that means people will still die.â
âYes.â
The word came easily; there was no cruelty in it, only truth.
She pushed herself slowly back to her feet, leaning heavily on the stick once more. âThat is the hardest lesson a healer must learn,â she said quietly. âYou will help many people. More than you think possible.â
Her gaze softened slightly. âBut you will not save them all.â
You walked beside her again as the forest path wound deeper between the trees. âHow do you know when to stop trying?â you asked.
She smiled faintly at that.
âYou do not.â
She tapped the walking stick against the path again as she walked. âYou try,â she said. âAnd when the body chooses to fight, you help it.â
The wind stirred gently through the branches above.
âAnd when it doesnât?â you asked.
The old woman did not look back this time. âThen you make certain the patient does not face the end alone.â
The memory faded slowly.
The crackling sound of the cottage hearth returned, along with the smell of simmering herbs and the soft breathing of the sleeping lord in the bed behind you.
The old woman had been gone three winters now, yet sometimesâespecially on long nights spent beside the beds of the sickâyou could still hear her voice as clearly as if she stood beside you.
Correcting the way you tied a bundle of sage. Reminding you to watch the patient, not just the sickness. Or scolding you gently when you forgot to eat.
The cottage where she had lived still stood at the edge of the forest, though you rarely returned except to gather herbs from the familiar hills. The roof sagged more each year without her careful hands to mend it, and the garden had begun creeping slowly back into wildness. Foxglove had overtaken the old herb beds, and the mint had spread across half the yard.
It had felt wrong to stay there without her; you kept expecting to find her around the corner or to wake with her humming softly as she cleaned herbs. So you had moved, not far but somewhere else, somewhere your own.
A faint smile touched your lips. She would have liked this cottage; it had good soil, plenty of water, and hills thick with wild herbs. The mornings carried a clear light she would have appreciated.
For a while, you simply sat and listened: to the quiet breathing of the sleeping lord, to the steady crackle of the fire, to the distant rustle of the forest beyond the walls.
Healing often required nothing more than waiting; your mentor had always insisted on that.
âPatience first,â she would say.
You reached for another cloth and began drying the mortar again, though it was already clean. Your hands needed something to do while the night stretched slowly onward. Somewhere far beyond the cottage walls, a dog barked once in the distance, the sound carried faintly through the trees before fading again into silence.
Dawn would come soon enough, you thought, and when it did, the villagers would begin to arrive; they always did.
Someone with a cough, a twisted ankle, or a child burning with fever. Illness did not rest simply because one patient had begun to recover.
You set the mortar back on itâs shelf and rose quietly.
Across the room, Lord Smallwood slept on. His breath was slow now, even. For tonight, at least, the body had chosen to fight.
And that, in the end, was all a healer could ever ask for.
Morning came slowly through the forest.
At first, it was only a faint paling of the darkness beyond the cottage windows, a thin grey light filtering between the tall pines that surrounded the clearing. Mist clung low to the ground, drifting lazily between the tree trunks like pale smoke.
Inside the cottage, the fire in the hearth had burned low.
A few stubborn embers still glowed beneath the ash, casting a faint reddish light across the wooden floor. The smell of last nightâs herbs lingered heavily in the warm air, mingling with the faint scent of damp earth drifting in through the open window.
Lord Smallwood still slept.
You stood beside the bed, studying him carefully.
The fever had not vanished during the night, but it had weakened. The flushed heat had not left him entirely, but it no longer burned with the same savage intensity it had hours before. His breathing had deepened, each rise and fall of his chest slower than before. The harsh rasp of fever had softened into something steadier, though his skin still shone faintly with sweat in the glow of the fire.
A cloth rested across his brow, cool from the basin of water beside the bed. He seemed content at last, and you felt safe enough to leave him alone to rest.
The servants had withdrawn to the outer room after the lord finally settled, their anxious whispering fading into the soft murmur of the wind outside. Once or twice, you could hear the creak of the bench as one shifted or the faint clink of a cup, but they kept their distance now, unwilling to disturb the fragile peace that had settled.
You stepped outside the cottage quietly, pulling the door closed behind you so the hinges would not creak.
The morning air struck your skin with welcome coolness. Dew clung to the tall grass in the clearing, soaking the hem of your boots as you crossed to the wooden basin beside the door. It held water gathered from the nearby stream, itâs surface smooth and dark in the morning shade.
You plunged your hands into the cold water.
The chill bit instantly at your skin, sharp enough to make you suck in a breath. You scrubbed the faint stain of herbs from your fingers. The water stung where small nicks lined your knucklesâtiny cuts from knives, thorns, and bone needles gathered over years of work. You hardly notice them anymore.
Morning air filled your lungs as you straightened. It smelled of wet soil, pine sap, and the faint sweetness of crushed grass beneath your boots. After the thick herbal smoke and heat of the cottage, the forest air felt startlingly clean.
For a while, you simply stood there, letting the cool air wake the last heaviness from your bones. Your shoulders ached from hours spent leaning over the bed. The dull fatigue behind your eyes lingered stubbornly, but the forest had a way of easing it, as though the quiet itself could steady a weary mind.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow called harshly from the branches overhead. A breeze stirred the tall pines, sending a soft whisper of needles through the air.
Peaceful.
Familiar.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke the calm.
You looked up.
A boy from the nearby village came running across the clearing, his boots slipping slightly in the damp grass. His chest heaved with effort, and his hair stuck wildly to his forehead where sweat had gathered.
You had treated him during the last harvest when he had broken his arm falling from an apple tree. When he saw you watching, he waved both arms frantically. âSomeoneâs coming!â
You frowned slightly. âWho?â
The boy skidded to a halt beside the basin, bending over with his hands braced against his knees as he tried to catch his breath.
âA rider,â he managed between gasps. âFrom the road.â
Visitors were not uncommon; farmers sometimes arrived with injured animals. Villagers occasionally came seeking remedies for coughs or broken bones.
But riders were rare.
And they almost never arrived alone.
âDid he say what he wanted?â you asked.
The boy shook his head quickly, still breathing hard, his breath coming out in little white clouds. âHe asked for the healer.â
You wiped your hands against the edge of your sleeve, the rough cloth absorbing the last of the cold water.
Before you could ask anything further, the sound of hooves reached the clearing. Slow at first, a distant, hollow rhythm echoing between the treesâThen louder, like thunder over a dark sky.
The boy turned toward the narrow path leading through the trees, his eyes widening with excitement. âHeâs coming!â
A moment later, the rider emerged from the forest.
The horse stepped into the clearing first, its dark coat streaked with dust from the long road. Sweat darkened its flanks, and its breath steamed faintly in the cool morning air. Foam gathered along the edges of the bit where it worked its jaw restlessly.
The man astride the horse looked little better than the exhausted animal beneath him. Travel dust coated his cloak and boots, and the deep lines around his eyes spoke of many days spent riding without proper rest.
When he reached the clearing, he pulled the reins sharply, bringing the horse to a halt. The animal let out an indignant noise and pawed at the ground sharply, itâs tail flicking like a whip.
His eyes moved quickly across the cottage, the herb garden beside it, and the two of you standing in the grass.
Then he swung down from the saddle. His cloak shifted as he moved, revealing the dark doublet beneath. Even before he approached, you noticed the emblem fastened to his clothes.
Deep red on a field of black, a three-headed dragon.
The sigil of House Targaryen.
The boy beside you sucked in a quiet breath of awe.
The rider approached with careful, deliberate steps, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path. His gaze moved across the clearing, lingering briefly on the hanging herbs near the door, the drying racks beneath the eaves, and the open window where the scent of willow bark drifted faintly outward.
âWhere is the woodswitch?â he asked, stepping forward, expression serious. His voice was formal, but you could tell he was tired.
You stepped forward. âHere.â
His gaze settled fully on you then, not rudely, but with the careful scrutiny of someone who had travelled a long distance in search of something very specificâand was quietly wondering whether he had truly found it.
âYou are the one who treated Lord Harroway?â he asked.
âI treated him.â
âAnd he lives.â
âUntil the gods decide it is his time, yes.â You regarded simply.
The riderâs brow creased faintly at the answer.
Then he reached into the leather pouch at his belt and withdrew a folded parchment sealed with deep red wax.
âThe crown sends for you.â He held the letter out.
The wax seal bore the three-headed dragon clearly, the imprint sharp and unmistakable.
The boy beside you gasped.
You took the parchment slowly, feeling the thickness of the fine paper beneath your fingers. It was far finer than anything used in the villages.
You broke the seal hesitantly, trying not to show the slight tremble in your fingers. The parchment inside was smooth and heavy, the ink dark and precise.
You read the message slowly.
To the healer reputed to have cured Lord Harroway,
Word of your skill has reached the Red Keep. The royal family is afflicted by the spring sickness, and the maesters have not yet halted its spread.
I ask that you come to Kingâs Landing with all possible haste.
Prince Valarr Targaryen.
The forest seemed suddenly very quiet, like nature had held its breath along with you. Even the crow that liked to squawk in the early hours of the morning had fallen silent.
Beside you, the boy stared up with wide eyes. âWhat does it say? What does it say?â
You had almost forgotten he was standing beside you, but the small tug he gave your sleeve made you jolt in surprise. You gave him a small sideways glanceâ then your gaze shifted to the rider who was regarding the boy sharply.
Then you read the letter again.
Spring sickness.
The words carried a weight you knew too well. You had seen it before, or well, a similar affliction, it had broken out during the late autumn when all the trees turned orange.
Years ago, in a river village where the houses stood too close together, and the wells ran shallow in summer. The sickness had begun with a single fever.
By the time anyone understood what it was, half the village had taken ill.
Children first.
Then the old.
Then anyone who dared tend the sick without care.
It had spread like fire through dry brush. When the fevers finally broke, the burial mounds outside the village had doubled.
The ache of many sleepless nights assisting the old woman, treating people, crawled back violently as if it had never ceased; the feeling made you shudder. That was when you had doubted your ability to be a healer; you had cried after losing so many people you had poured all your efforts into saving.
If the old woman had not been there to pick you up, you surely would not have survived the ordeal yourself.
You folded the letter carefully, the smooth parchment sliding between your fingers easily.
âHow long has it been in the city?â you asked. While you had heard of some cases of sickness in more populated areas, it had not yet leaked into the countryside, where you preferred to spend your time.
The rider shook his head, a grim expression settling over his face. âSeveral weeks.â
âAnd the maesters cannot stop it?â
âNo.â He hesitated before adding quietly, âMany have already died.â
The boyâs excitement faded at once, and his gaze dropped toward the ground. Whatever he thought might happen, it was clear it was not this; to talk of such grief in front of a child⊠it was not savoury. The itch to send him away grew, but before you could say anything, the rider spoke.
âYou are requested at once.â his tone was firm, as though he feared you might refuse.
You looked past him toward the road disappearing between the trees. Kingâs Landing lay many days southâfarther than you had ever travelled, farther than the old woodswitch had ever allowed you to go.
Treating farmers and minor lords was one thing, but treating the royal family was something else entirely. What if they did not improve? Would they have your head for it? The thought made you shudder.
The boy tugged your sleeve again. âYou have to go,â he insisted. âIf anyone can help them, itâs you!â
You almost laughed.
People always said such things after someone survived an illness, as though healing were certain, as though herbs and patience could command life itself.
Your gaze drifted toward the cottage behind you.
Your gaze drifted toward the cottage behind you. Inside, Lord Smallwood still slept. If the fever returned stronger tonight, he might yet die despite everything you had done.
Healing was never promised, only attempted.
The rider waited patiently.
At last, you asked, âWhy me?â
The rider blinked once, clearly surprised by the question.
âYour name was recommended,â he replied after a moment.
âBy whom?â
âBy those who claim you have saved lives others could not.â The words carried more belief than you were comfortable with.
You studied the letter once more, mind spinning.
Prince Valarr Targaryen.
A man you had never met. A prince you had never even seen. Yet somehow he had heard your name in a distant village and believed it worth sending a rider across half the realm.
The wind stirred gently through the clearing, and for a moment, you imagined the old woodswitch standing beside you again, leaning on her crooked stick.
âA healer listens. If someone is ill, you go. Even when you know you might fail.â
You let out a long breath, emptying your lungs completely before lifting your gaze back to the rider. For a moment, you said nothing, weighing the words of the letter against the quiet life you had built here, against the forest and the patients who came to your door each morning. When you finally spoke, your voice was calm, though the decision behind it felt heavier than you expected. âAll right,â you said. âI will come.â
Relief spread across the riderâs face so quickly he made no effort to hide it. Beside you, the boy stared in open amazement before breaking into a grin so wide it seemed to light his whole face. âYouâre really going?â he blurted. âTo the Red Keep?â The excitement in his voice made the journey sound like some grand adventure rather than a desperate summons from a prince.
You turned back toward the cottage, already thinking through what would be needed. âIf Iâm to travel that far, Iâll need time to prepare,â you said, brushing the dampness from your hands onto your sleeve. âThere are medicines to gather, and Iâll have to make certain the villagers are looked after while Iâm gone. Illness doesnât wait simply because its healer has ridden south.â
âThat wonât be a problem,â the rider replied quickly, stepping forward as though eager to remove every possible obstacle. âIf you need help making arrangements, I can see to it.â
You nodded absently, though your attention had drifted back toward the clearing. Pausing at the doorway, you glanced once more at the forest stretching beyond the small patch of open ground. It looked exactly as it always hadâquiet and unchanged beneath the pale morning light. The tall pines swayed gently in the wind, their shadows moving slowly across the grass, and the familiar scent of damp earth and sap hung in the air.
It was peaceful here.
Familiar.
Safe.
For a moment, it was difficult to believe that somewhere beyond those endless trees a city was choking on sickness, and that a prince you had never met believed you might be able to save the people he loved.
You pushed the cottage door open and stepped inside, already reaching for the worn leather pouch that held your herbs. âGive me an hour,â you said over your shoulder, your voice carrying out into the clearing where the rider and the boy still waited. Then, more quietly, almost as if speaking the thought aloud made it real, you added, âOnce Iâm ready⊠we ride.â
The mule moved at a steady, tireless pace along the winding road.
When the farmer had first pressed the reins into your hands years agoâinsisting you take the animal as payment for healing his wifeâyou had expected something slower. The mule had looked ordinary enough then: broad-backed, thick-necked, with a stubborn tilt to her ears that suggested she might refuse to move whenever it suited her. But she had proven stronger than she appeared. Sure-footed on uneven ground and patient with long distances, she walked with a quiet determination that rarely faltered once she had set her mind to the road.
âShe carried sacks heavier than you through half my fields,â the farmer had said proudly, patting the muleâs neck as though the animal understood every word. âSheâll see you where youâre going.â
Now, as the road wound south through the low hills, you found yourself grateful for the gift. The muleâs hooves struck the packed earth in a steady rhythm, unhurried but relentless, her ears flicking now and then as the wind stirred the tall grasses along the roadside.
Beside you, the royal rider kept an easy seat on his horse. The animal beneath him was leaner and finer-boned, bred for speed rather than endurance, but the rider had slowed his pace without complaint to match the muleâs steady gait. Dust clung to both horse and rider from the miles already behind them, dulling the shine of leather and cloak alike.
The countryside had begun to change as you travelled.
The tall pine forests surrounding your home had gradually thinned, giving way to open hills and wide fields where golden grass rippled beneath the wind like the surface of a quiet sea. Small farms dotted the valleys below, their roofs pale against the dark soil of half-harvested fields.
Ordinarily, the road between villages would have been busy this time of year. Farmers would be hauling grain in creaking carts, neighbours walking between fields to trade news or tools, children running along the roadside until called back by impatient parents.
Today, the road was strangely quiet.
You noticed the silence first when the path carried you past a small cluster of cottages beside a narrow stream. The fields nearby lay untouched, though the harvest should have been well underway. No one worked among the rows of grain, and the doors of several houses stood closed despite the mild warmth of the morning.
A thin column of smoke curled upward from a shallow iron pan set in the middle of one yard.
The smell reached you as you rode past.
Vinegar.
You slowed the mule instinctively, studying the cottages more carefully now. One house had a cloth draped loosely across its doorway. Another had its shutters nailed shut from the outside, the boards hammered crookedly across the window frame.
From somewhere inside the cluster of buildings came the faint, ragged sound of coughing.
Your hand tightened slightly on the reins.
âWe should stop,â you said quietly.
The rider glanced toward the cottages without turning his head fully, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood. The mule had nearly slowed to a halt when the rider spoke again, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet morning air. âNo.â
You looked at him. âIf the sickness has reached this village alreadyââ
âWe ride.â He shook his head once, the gesture small but final.
Your gaze drifted back toward the cottages. Something moved behind one of the shuttered windowsâa faint shape shifting in the dimness beyond the glass. For a moment, you thought you saw a hand press weakly against the pane.
âI could at least look,â you said. âIt would only take a few minutes.â
The rider guided his horse slightly sideways, placing the animal squarely across the road ahead of the mule. The movement was calm, deliberate, leaving no space for you to pass.
His voice, when he spoke again, was not harsh. But there was a firmness to it that suggested he was accustomed to being obeyed. âThe prince sent for you.â
âAnd theyâre dying.â
âThey are already dead.â
The words struck harder than you expected.
âYou donât know that,â you said, staring at him.
His gaze met yours steadily. âI know the sickness.â
The wind shifted across the road then, carrying the sour smell of vinegar and illness from the silent cottages behind you. Somewhere above the fields, a crow cried sharply, its voice echoing across the empty hills.
The rider spoke again, more quietly now. âIf we stop at every village that coughs along this road, we will never reach Kingâs Landing.â
You did not answer.
Your eyes lingered on the cottages, on the shuttered windows and silent yards. The coughing had stopped, or perhaps the wind had simply carried the sound away.
Either way, the village looked still now. Too still.
You knew what the rider meant. You had seen sickness move like this beforeâswift and merciless, leaving little behind but empty beds and grieving families. Often, by the time a healer arrived, there was little left to do but comfort the living.
And you had been summoned somewhere far worse.
Slowly, you loosened your grip on the reins.
The rider let out a breath you had not realised he had been holding and nudged his horse forward again. The mule followed without hesitation, stepping back into her steady rhythm as though she had never intended to stop.
The cottages disappeared behind you as the road curved southward through the hills.
For a long while, neither of you spoke.
The muleâs hooves beat a quiet rhythm against the earth while the pale sky stretched wide above the empty countryside. The wind moved softly through the tall grass, whispering across the fields like distant water.
Far ahead, beyond the rolling hills and winding rivers, waited Kingâs Landing.
And somewhere within its crowded walls, a prince believed you might still save someone.
You had never seen Kingâs Landing before. But even as the city came into view from the road, you knew it could not look the way it did now.
Every traveller you had ever met who had passed through the capital described the same things: crowds thick as river reeds, shouting merchants, markets overflowing into the streets, carts rattling past one another in endless noise and motion. A city too large to ever truly fall quiet.
But the place spread beneath you now felt wrong even from a distance.
The towers of the Red Keep still rose high above the hills, catching the dull grey light of the afternoon. Ships clustered in the river below, their masts packed tightly together like a forest of bare trees.
Yet the roads leading toward the gates carried far more people leaving than arriving.
Families walked north with bundles tied to their backs. A farmer urged two thin oxen along a cart piled with sacks and blankets. A pair of septons moved barefoot along the roadside, heads bowed in prayer as they passed travellers without looking up.
All of them moving away.
You reached the city gates near midday.
Long before the walls themselves came fully into view, you could smell the city.
The wind carried it across the road in heavy wavesâcoal smoke, cooking fires, animal waste, and the sour odour of too many people crowded too tightly together. Beneath it all lingered another scent, sharper and more unsettling.
Sickness.
You had smelled it before in villages struck by fever.
It clung to the air in the same way smoke did, invisible yet unmistakable once you learned to recognise it.
The road climbed steadily toward the massive walls of Kingâs Landing. Their red-streaked stone towers loomed higher with every step the mule took, casting long shadows over the crowded approach to the gate.
Dozens of people waited there: Merchants with loaded wagons, travellers carrying bundles of belongings, a handful of farmers leading livestock.
Yet the mood was not the bustling impatience you might have expected from the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.
Most of the faces you saw looked tired, worried.
A man near the front of the line doubled over suddenly, coughing into his sleeve with such force that the sound echoed harshly against the stone walls. Those standing closest to him stepped away quickly.
The rider moved past them with a practised calm, using his horse to force them to move from his path. The guards at the gate wore golden armour that glinted in the setting afternoon sun.
One stepped forward, raising a hand. âState your business.â
The rider lifted a small token bearing the dragon crest. âRoyal summons.â
The guard studied the seal briefly before nodding and waving two others closer. âEscort them through,â he instructed gruffly.
Two guards on horseback appeared, one carried a long spear, the other rested a hand on the hilt of his sword as he gestured toward the street beyond the gate. âThis way.â
The moment you crossed beneath the stone archway, the sound struck you like a wave.
Voices, shouting, carts rattling over uneven cobblestones and the distant clang of hammer on metal somewhere deeper within the city.
Kingâs Landing was enormous.
Buildings crowded so tightly together that the streets between them seemed carved from stone and shadow. Wooden balconies leaned precariously overhead, their supports creaking beneath the weight of years.
The road beyond the gate stretched wide between rows of tall buildings, but half the shutters had been nailed closed. Others hung open like broken teeth. A market square lay just beyond the gateâbut the stalls stood abandoned, their canvas awnings sagging where no one had taken them down.
Someone coughed nearbyâdeep, ragged, uncontrollable. The sound echoed hollowly through the narrow street. In an alley, a septon knelt beside a man lying against the wall, whispering prayers as the man trembled beneath a thin blanket.
You watched a woman stagger from a doorway, clutching a cloth to her mouth as she leaned heavily against the wall. Her skin looked pale beneath the grime of the street, and sweat darkened the loose strands of hair clinging to her temples.
No one stopped to help her.
The rider guided his horse closer to your mule. âIt wasnât like this a month ago,â he said quietly.
You believed him.
Illness had a way of changing places quickly.
The Gold Cloaks led the way through the winding streets, pushing aside the few pedestrians who wandered too close.
âMake way!â Out of the road!â they barked harshly.
People stepped aside reluctantly and ducked their gazes while you passed, some stared openly though, and you worked to keep from meeting anyoneâs desperate eyes, nausea welling inside you.
You could see the signs everywhere now.
At the edge of the empty market square, a cart rolled slowly across the stones. Two men pushed it together, swatting at the flies that buzzed around them like a thick cloud. A rough blanket covered the long shapes piled inside; the cloth shifted as the cart lurched over a rut.
A pale hand slipped briefly into view before one of the men hurried to pull the blanket back down.
You looked away.
Farther along, a doorway had been marked with a crude smear of white chalk.
A warning. Sick inside, do not enter.
You tightened your grip on the muleâs reins.
One of the Gold Cloaks muttered under his breath. âSeven save us.â
The rider beside you said nothing, only kept his gaze forward, expression unreadable.
The smoke thickened again as you passed a small square where several makeshift bonfires burned brightly, fueled by flesh instead of kindling.
âNowhere to bury âem,â one of the Gold Cloaks said when he noticed you watching.
Behind you, another cart rattled slowly over the stones, heading toward the square with the fires. You did not turn to look this time, afraid of what or who you may see it carrying.
Even without ever having seen the city before, you could feel it. A place this large should have been chaotic with energy. Instead, the streets felt strained.
As if the entire population were holding its breath.
The road began to climb again as you approached the hill where the Red Keep stood.
The castle rose high above the city, its massive red walls glowing faintly in the late afternoon sun. From below, it looked less like a home and more like a fortress watching over the sprawling chaos beneath it. The closer you came, the quieter the streets became. The poorest districts gave way to wider roads lined with sturdier stone buildings. Fewer people lingered outside.
More guards appeared.
The muleâs hooves rang loudly against the cobblestones as you crossed the final bridge leading toward the castle gates.
Then the buildings parted dramatically, dropping away to nothing.
The Red Keep stood before you.
You had heard the name all your lifeâspoken with awe by travellers who had glimpsed it from the harbour or the city below.
But hearing of it was not the same as seeing it.
The fortress rose in layers of deep red stone, vast and uneven, its towers climbing into the dimming sky like jagged teeth. The walls were higher than anything you had ever seen, their surfaces worn smooth in places by centuries of wind from the sea. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon hung from the battlements. Even in the fading light, the scarlet dragons seemed to coil and twist as the cloth stirred slowly in the evening breeze.
The gates were large and heavily guarded.
Armoured men stood on either side of the entrance beneath the towering archway, their polished breastplates catching the last pale light of the sinking sun. Spears rested upright in their hands, and their eyes followed every movement in the yard beyond.
Unlike the guards at the city gate, these men did not wear cloth across their faces. Perhaps the sickness had not reached the castle, or perhaps they believed the stone walls protected them.
One of the guards stepped forward as your small group approached. âState your business.â
The rider lifted the dragon-marked token once more. âRoyal summons. The healer requested by Prince Valarr.â
The guard stepped aside, with a small bow of his head. âGo on.â
The gates of the Red Keep swallowed you. Inside, the courtyard opened wide beneath the darkening sky.
For a moment, you forgot the sickness in the city below.
The yard bustled with movement. Stable boys hurried across the packed earth, leading restless horses toward the stables. A group of servants crossed the courtyard carrying heavy baskets between them. Somewhere near the far wall, a hammer struck metal in sharp, ringing blows. The noise felt strange after the hollow streets outside. Yet even here something felt⊠strained. The movements were too quick. Voices were too quiet. No one lingered to talk. Everyone seemed to be hurrying somewhere.
Your mule slowed uncertainly as you rode into the yard, ears flicking at the unfamiliar sounds.
Two servants passed carrying armfuls of fresh linens stacked so high you could barely see their faces. Another man hurried past with a wooden crate filled with glass bottles that clinked softly together as he walked. A pair of maesters crossed the courtyard near the far tower, their grey robes billowing slightly in the wind. One of them spoke quickly to the other, gesturing with a scroll clutched in his hand.
You caught the faint smell of herbs drifting across the yard.
Sage, Mint, something sharper you did not recognise.
The rider dismounted beside you at last. âCome.â
A stable boy hurried forward to take the horses. He reached for the muleâs reins cautiously, eyeing the sturdy animal with open curiosity.
You slid down easily from the saddle. After hours on the road, the ground felt strangely unsteady beneath your feet. But you could not afford to dally and quickly pulled the saddle bags from your mule, herbs you had brought from home poked out of them.
The rider handed the boy the reins without ceremony. âSee, theyâre watered.â
âYes, ser.â The boy nodded quickly and led both animals away, casting another glance back at the mule as though surprised anyone had ridden such a creature into the Red Keep.
You followed the rider toward a broad doorway set into the castle wall. The doors stood open, revealing a dim stone corridor beyond.
The moment you stepped inside, the air changed.
Cooler, still.
Your footsteps echoed faintly along the floor.
Torches burned in iron brackets along the walls, their flames flickering gently in the draft from the open doorway behind you. The light threw shifting shadows across the vaulted ceiling above.
Servants passed through the corridor now and then, most of them carrying trays, cloths, or small bundles of herbs.
One girl hurried past with an armful of lavender tied in thick bunches. The scent followed her down the hall. Another servant carried a basin of steaming water that smelled faintly of vinegar. You glanced at it instinctively, following her form as she hurried away.
The rider continued without slowing, guiding you deeper into the keep. The corridors twisted and branched in confusing directions, passing beneath narrow archways and along staircases that climbed steeply toward unseen towers. The stone walls seemed to close in around you the further you went.
You realised quickly that you would never find your way through this place alone.
At one turning, a pair of maesters stood arguing quietly beside a table stacked with glass jars. ââŠthe fever worsens after the second day,â one of them said.
âAnd the coughing?â the other replied, but they fell silent as you passed, watching you with harsh gazes.
The rider did not pause, striding with determination.
The castle felt larger the deeper you went. Passageways branched into more passageways. Stairwells spiralled upward or vanished downward into shadow. The air carried the scent of herbs everywhere now: mint, Rosemary, Something bitter, something spicy.
At last, the rider slowed before a tall wooden door set between two narrow windows. Two guards stood there, instead of the black and red of House Targaryen, they wore pearly white armour that almost glowed against their surroundings; they were members of the Kingsguard.
They straightened as you approached, and you felt small under their gaze; you could practically feel the sweep they did of you, assessing for danger, perhaps even signs of illness.
The rider muttered something to one of them, and he nodded, gesturing to the door briefly. The raider didnt hesitate and knocked once. It rang out against the thick wood, echoing around the corridor they stood in.
A voice came from within that made your skin prickle with anxiety. The king's guard didnt just guard any old rooms for fun, only when a royal lay inside. With a click, the rider pushed the massive door open and stepped inside curtly.
âThe healer, your graceâ, he announced with a bow.
𧷠summary: your lord father brings you to kingâs landing for the young dragon princeâs nameday celebration, in hopes of finding yourself a suitable match.
𧷠pairing: valarr targaryen x fem!reader
𧷠word count: 13.6k (sincere apologies)
𧷠content/warnings: canon-divergent, ocs included. she/her pronouns. no y/n used. no specific physical descriptions. shy/reserved!reader. reader is from a lesser noble house. lots of insecurities. fluff. mutual pining. strangers-to-friends-to-lovers.
The wheelhouse had been your fatherâs idea of comfort.
Cushioned seats, curtained windows. Your houseâs sigil pressed into the wood of the door in pale pink and soft green.
You had spent the first two days of the journey with a book open on your lap, pretending to read while the wheels hit every stone and branch on the ground. By the third day, you had given up pretending and simply watched the curtains sway.
The Lord Aldric Sweetbriar sat across from you with his ledger, making small notes with his careful hand. He had barely looked up since you had finally crossed the Crownlands.
You did not interrupt him, you were good at that. It was one of the few things you were genuinely praised for, yet it was depressing.
Outside, the land had changed. You had noticed it gradually, the way you noticed most things; quietly and too late to say anything about it to anyone.
The usual green of the Reach; soft, fragrant, and familiar, had changed into something harder and less forgiving. The air that crept in through the tiny gaps of the curtain was different too. Heavier. It sat in your lungs differently than that of the cool, dewy mornings of Sweetfield; your home, where the mist made the village smell like wet earth and lavender.
Underneath your sleeve, you pressed your fingers to your wrist without thinking. Faintly damp. It has been since yesterday, and it is not entirely because of the heat.
The wheelhouse slowed.
You heard it before you felt it. The driverâs call, the change in the horsesâ rhythm. The curtain swayed in the breeze, and you caught a glimpse through the gap.
People. More people than you had ever seen gathered in one place in your entire life. Moving in every direction with the chaos the city had always known in its entire existence.
Letting the curtain fall back into place, your fingers found your wrist again.
Wallflower, you heard your sister Rowanâs voice in the back of your head, insufferable yet full of warmth. You are absolutely going to hate it there.
âWe are nearly at the gates,â Your father closed his ledger, then looked at you properly for the first time in hours. His eyes moved over your face, steadily assessing.
âHow are you finding the journey?" It was not quite a question, it rarely was with him.
âWell enough,â you said softly. Though it was not much of a response, your father always accepted and understood. Understood that you were nervous in the way you were your whole life. The one where you learned from a very young age to keep away and not let it show on the outside.
Your Lord father nodded. âYou will find your footing, daughter.â
You thought back to Briarkeep, in Sweetfield. The way the roses climbed the pale grey stone in the mornings. The way your youngest brother, Celyn always smelled faintly of whatever dirt he had been digging in. You said nothing.
The gates came. The noise swelled around the wheelhouse like water rising, and you sat still, letting yourself drown in it. You could hear horses and vendors, their voices layered together. It was nothing like you had ever known. Not even during the busiest mornings of the village square in Sweetfield, where you can still hear the brook.
The air was nothing like the Reach. It was thick and carried everything with it. Smoke, animals, too many people living too close in vicinity. It was not entirely unpleasant, but entirely overwhelming.
You were the youngest daughter of House Sweetbriar. The last of Lord Aldricâs daughters, the one that came after Rowan. Before her, was Edwyn and Elara. Growing up in the shadows of your older siblings, you spent your entire life finding your way in the space they had long already filled.
As Aldricâs heir, Edwyn had the house. Elara had her good match. Rowan had also found hers.
You had the garden. You had your books. You had Celynâs tiny hand in yours on the mornings he climbed into your bed before Briarkeep woke.
Now, you had this. Trying to remember how to breathe in air that felt nothing like home.
âThey call it the city of a thousand smells,â you said, mostly to yourself.
Your father glanced at you, the corner of his mouth slightly moving. âWho calls it that?â
âA book.â
âWhich book?â
âI fear I do not remember.â You did remember. You remembered exactly which particular shelf of Briarkeepâs modest library it was in, how old you had been when you read it, the fact you had read everything on that shelf twice. Though, you thought of it as irrelevant, that nobody had ever thought to ask.
Aldric let out a sound of amusement, before looking out the curtain. âIt is not wrong,â he responded.
As the wheelhouse continued to roll on, you thought about what your father wanted from this trip. The thought that sat in your chest the same way it did for weeks.
Lord Aldric had built his life with precision; good trade, good matches, good reputation. Every piece was placed deliberately and well.
Edwyn had married into another steady house from the Reach, his lady wife already with child. Same with Elara. With Rowan, nearly so.
Now, the last daughter, the quiet wallflower of Briarkeep, was being brought to Kingâs Landing like the final entry in his careful plan.
A connection beyond the Reach, he had told you over supper.
You had considered them. You laid awake in bed considering them. A Lannister would want gold and a name that rang across the Seven Kingdoms, you had neither. A Baratheon would want strength and storms, a lady who could stand tall in a great hall full of warriors, you were the girl that stood at the edge of them.
You had even thought, just once, in a weak moment you were not proud of, about what it would mean to carry a name like Targaryen. Full of dragonfire, to carry a babe with blood closer to the gods than that of humans.
You dismissed the thought immediately. You were only the youngest daughter of a house so minor that half the lords of the Reach would need a moment to think about it. Your house grew herbs, you pressed flowers and read books nobody asked you to read. When you did talk, it was mostly to a boy of six, with innocent eyes that matched her motherâs.
What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?
The wheelhouse rolled to a stop.
Around them, the noise of the city had not quieted but changed. Sounds of boots on cobblestone, distant clangs of armor, and low murmurs.
Your father had descended first, offering you his hand. You took it and stepped down onto Kingâs Landing for the first time.
The heat was immediate. You felt it on your skin, through the fabric of your dress, resisting the urge to press your cool fingers to your cheeks.
You stood beside your father, and looked up at the Red Keep for the first time. It was enormous. You had read the histories, the accounts of different visitors across generations. None of it had prepared you for the sensation of standing at its feet, at its mercy as the youngest daughter of a lesser house from the quietest corner of the Reach.
Lord Aldric placed a brief hand at your back. It was steady and grounding. The faint smell of his own fragrance made from herbs and oils only found in Sweetfield. It only did so much to comfort you, a reminder of how far you are from home.
Beckoning you forward, you took your first step and followed your Lord father.
Wallflower, you still heard Rowanâs voice. You hushed her in your thoughts.
The morning had already started before he was ready for it, which was becoming a habit he utterly resented.
Valarr stood at the window of his chambers while his squire worked at the laces of his doublet behind him, looking out at the courtyard below. Preparations had been underway long before dawn.
Tables being carried. The ebony and red banners being straightened. Servants moving about. There was an urgency that filled the air, that everything needed to be perfect. Perfect for a nameday celebration in the Red Keep.
His nameday.
To him, it did not feel like a celebration. It felt like a deadline.
âToo tight,â he said, without turning.
His squire murmured a soft apology and adjusted. The young prince said nothing.
Watching banners being rehung for a third time, his mind went back to the private conversation he had with his father two evenings ago. The one he had been dreading, but was inevitable.
You are not a boy anymore, Prince Baelor had said. A man of your age, your name, your station. The time has come to think seriously about what comes next.
What comes next? As though it were a simple thing. As though it was not the question that sat in the center of everything now.
The heir of the heir. Second in line to the Iron Throne.
He needed to look for a bride. A future queen of the Realm, to rule by his side when the time comes. He was definitely not ready.
His squire finished with the laces and moved to grab his cloak. Valarr finally turned away from the window, catching his own reflection in the polished mirror across the chamber.Â
He thought he looked exactly like someone who was about to spend the entire week being presented to the daughters of every noble house with enough ambition to secure an invitation. He was not particularly happy about it.
Valarr was far from ungrateful. From a very young age, he fully understood the weight of his name and position, and what it required. However, understanding and being at peace with it was not always the same.
A future queen. Someone whose name would sit beside his in the history books, a face he did not yet know. Someone who was somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms right now, perhaps dressing for the festivities, or perhaps already within these walls.
He wondered, briefly, what was she thinking about at this moment.
âYour Grace,â His squire stepped back. âYou are ready.â
Valarr looked at himself in the mirror once more. The black doublet he wore was accented by deep burgundy, the three-headed dragon forged in steel at the breast. His dark hair was done more neatly than usual, his silver streak proudly showing.
He thought about the day ahead. The incoming introductions and careful conversations. The noble ladies that would be presented. The Lord fathers who would be watching. All enshrouded by the grand performance of a nameday celebration.
The young dragon prince straightened.
You had read about the Great Hall of the Red Keep.
It was so grand and vast in a way that made you feel your own insignificance, that you were only one person. To be standing in a room that bore witness to power and greatness.
Aldric stood beside you, feeling the complete opposite. That was the thing about your father that you never quite managed to inherit. He could walk into any room, and find his footing within moments, even as a lesser lord that merely dealt with herb trades.
By no means was he arrogant. He was simply a man that held a particular steadiness within himself, a man who knew exactly who he was.
Your father took a breath, straightened his shoulders, and became Lord Aldric Sweetbriar, a man whose house you might not immediately recognize but whose bearing you would not miss.
You secretly envied him for it.
âCome, daughter,â he said, and beckoned you forward into the noise. You only followed because it was you had to.
The hall was already full and continued to get fuller.
You stayed close to your fatherâs side and tried to do what you always did on occasions like these: observe, rather than participate. It was a strategy that proved to be quite successful at small gatherings in the Reach.
There were lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, some clustered together like in a map. Lannisters in their signature red and lustrous gold. Baratheons standing broad shouldered and loud across the hall, already nursing goblets of wine.Â
The familiar Tyrells gathered near the center of the hall, as they always did. Orbiting them were other lords from the Reach that you recognized by sigil.Â
Despite being the quietest in the hall, the northern lords were easy to spot. They held their demeanor so differently than those of the south, standing watchfully. You noticed that they had not yet decided to take their thick furs and cloaks off yet, even in the humid air of Kingâs Landing.
You recognized that particular stillness. Those who were more accustomed to silence rather than southern spectacle. Embarrassingly, you felt an unexpected affinity towards them. Perhaps you could do well in the North.
You continued observing the room, and kept your hands still like Elara had taught you.
Your father was already in conversation with a lord from the Crownlands, warm and genuinely interested. He introduced you briefly, and you smiled. Then you stepped back and let him continue, slightly behind his shoulder like a shadow.
Then you became aware of the women perhaps about an hour in. A group of highborn ladies near the far end of the hall, the kind of women who had been raised in grand castles rather than being merely invited to them.
âIs that a Sweetbriar sigil?â
The voice was not quiet, it was not meant to be. It held the character of someone who had grown up in rooms where their voice was always worth hearing. Then, light laughter. Dismissive and entirely certain of itself.
âThe Red Keep allows herb merchants now, apparently.â
You kept your eyes forward, and face entirely still, with practiced grace. Instinctively, you pressed your fingers against your wrist once again. Thinking back to the brook behind Sweetfield, and Celynâs soft giggles, you pretended to not hear their discussions.
âMy dear.â
The voice came from your left. It was warm and unhurried. You turned.
Lady Ellinor Tyrell was not a young girl but a striking woman, the kind of lady that was naturally placed at the center of any space she occupied. You remembered Edwynâs silly infatuation about her when you were younger, filling your ears with detailed descriptions of her beauty and grace.Â
âLady Tyrell,â You greeted, bowing your head slightly before curtsying.
She looked at you with genuine warmth and slight amusement, like she had heard exactly what had been said earlier. Seeing your father deeper in conversation with the other lords, she gently took both your hands in hers.
âI had thought that was you,â her eyes moved over your face with fondness. âYou have grown since I last saw you at Highgarden.â
âI was the age of four and ten, my lady,â your voice came out steadier than you felt. âMy father had brought us for the harvest feast.â
âAye, that is right,â the corners of her eyes creased warmly. âI remember that you spent the whole of the afternoon in the gardens, and nobody could find you for supper. The head gardener spoke of you afterward, and said that you knew more of the medicinal properties of half his plants than most of his staff combined.â
Something in your chest had loosened. âHe was far too kind to say so, my lady.â
âHe was truthful to say so.â Lady Tyrell then tucked your hand gently through her arm, turning you both away from your busy father.
âHow does your Lord father fare? Your siblings? All is well?â
âYes, my lady. Well enough. My youngest brother Celyn has only just turned seven.â
âThe little one,â she said softly. âSeven already. The years do not slow for any of us.â
Gently drawing you forward, she says, âCome, there are some among our company who will be glad of your acquaintance.â
âLord Fossoway has been asking for your fatherâs rosemary oil for the better part of the year, and has not had the good sense to simply send a raven to Briarkeep.â
A breath of a laugh escaped you, before you could stop it. Lady Ellinorâs eyes crinkled at the corners.
âThere,â she said quietly, only for you to hear. âThat is better.â
She then led you gradually toward the gathered group of Tyrells and other houses from the Reach. She always kept you included in the discussions, without making it feel like a charity. The Reach lords and ladies received you with easy warmth and familiarity. You were one of theirs, after all, no matter how small your house is.
Your father caught your eye from across a group of Crownlands lords, giving you a small nod. Well done, hold steady. You heard his voice in your head, before straightening your own posture.
For a fleeting moment, you were not the wallflower of Briarkeep.
Only for a moment.
The hush came without warning.
One moment the great hall was full of noise; voices, laughter, and the clink of goblets across the gathered nobility. Then, it stopped. Not all once, but in a wave.
You felt it reach you before you understood what it meant.
Every head turned toward the doors. Yours did too.
âHis Grace, King Daeron the Good of House Targaryen, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.â
The heraldâs voice carried through the great hall, ringing through the stone walls.
âHis Grace, Baelor of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir to the Iron Throne.â
The rustle of fabric, and soft footsteps rippled around you. Lady Ellinor inclined her head with graceful precision. You lowered yourself into a curtsy beside her, eyes fixed on the cold stone floor.
âHis Grace, Valarr of House Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, on the occasion of his nameday.â
You heard footsteps, slow and measured. Moving through the parted crowd. The whisper of fine fabric. The soft clink of ceremonial armor.
After Prince Matarys, the family of Prince Maekar followed, filling the hall with the full weight of Targaryen blood gathered in one space. You kept your eyes down and your curtsy steady, listening to each name.
Then the herald fell silent. A beat of silence.
Then King Daeronâs voice, older and gentler than you had expected, carried throughout the hall.
âRise.â
You rose with everyone, before finally taking a look at the royal family for the first and probably only time.
Impossible to miss, you saw the king first. White haired and measured, wearing the crown of his father, Aegon the Unworthy. Beside him stood Prince Baelor. The grey at his temples did nothing to diminish him. If anything, it had only refined what was already there.
When the older prince shifted, your eyes found the one beside him without meaning to.
Prince Valarr Targaryen.
You had heard about him from othersâ accounts. The descriptions had been accurate enough, dark brown hair with a silver streak that showed his Valyrian ancestry. Somehow, it still failed to prepare you for the reality of him standing in the same room as you.
He looked on to the hall of people celebrating his nameday, with an expression you could not quite name from a distance.
He did not look unhappy. Nor entirely at ease.
Perhaps a combination of the two.
He did not look your way once. Why would he? There were higher born lords and ladies filling every inch of the hall, daughters of great and wealthy houses positioned carefully within his line of sight.
Prince Valarr stood with his shoulders straight, his face composed, and his eyes moving steadily across the room without once landing on the unremarkable youngest daughter of a lesser Reach house, standing quietly at Lady Tyrellâs side.
You told yourself you were relieved. Mostly.
âHe is more handsome than the accounts would suggest, is he not?â Lady Ellinorâs voice came softly at your shoulder, with quiet amusement. You became suddenly aware that you had been staring.
Heat crept up the back of your neck.
âI fear I would not know, my lady,â you said, gathering whatever composure you had left. âI have not read many accounts.â
âNo,â Lady Ellinor said, with a sound that was not quite a laugh. âI do not suppose you have.â
You kept your eyes carefully forward, your stomach filling with a slight discomfort; like you had been caught doing something you were not supposed to.
The celebration resumed itself around the royal familyâs presence, noise swelling back into the great hall with ease. Lords and ladies continued to move about. Goblets were refilled. Musicians finding their place once again.
It was a nameday celebration. You reminded yourself of that.
Across the hall, you watched as the young prince was received by the first group of lords. You could not hear the words being exchanged from this distance. You did not need to. The menâs postures. The practiced smiles. Their daughters positioned themselves deliberately at their Lord fathersâ sides, lovely and composed. Like they had prepared their entire life for this moment.
Prince Valarr received them graciously. He was patient. Yet, there was something behind his eyes, even at this distance. You recognized it the same way you did for the northern lords.
A person resuming their duties, while something continues to weigh heavy on their mind.
You understood that feeling rather well.
Having detached himself from the Crownlands lords, your father appeared at your side. Lady Ellinor had since separated from you, being pulled away by her own family.
âThe royal family,â he observed, in the quiet tone he always used when he took note of something.
âAye,â you said. âSo it is, my lord.â
Aldric was quiet for a moment, surveying the hall with patient yet ambitious eyes. The eyes of a man who had come to Kingâs Landing with a purpose, and intended to see it through.
âI spoke with Lord Brightwater this evening. A Crownlands house, good standing.â He paused. âHe has a son. Second-born. Near your age, from what I understand.â
You looked at your father.
He was not looking at you. He was watching the hall with the same steady expression.
âHe seemed a reasonable man,â Lord Aldric continued. âHis house is respectable. Not large, but steady.â
You understood what he was not saying. You had always been good at reading between the lines of what he said.Â
Do not look toward the prince, my sweet daughter. We are not here for that, and you know it as well as I do.
He did not say any of it. He did not need to. Because he was kind-hearted enough to not speak of it plainly to you.
âI see,â you said softly.
âI thought it worth mentioning,â Your father said gently.
You looked back at the group of lords and ladies, with the young prince at the center of them all. The prince who had not looked your way once and would likely not think to.
You pressed your fingers to your wrist beneath your sleeve.
âYes,â you said. âWorth mentioning.â
The great hall had received him exactly as he expected it to. A prince of the great dragon house. The heir of the heir.
Valarr moved through the first hour with the careful patience his father had taught him his entire life. Lord after lord. Name after name. Exchanging conversations and pleasantries that always had hidden meanings and agendas underneath them.
Instead of enjoying the feast, he knew his real duty. Matarys drifted past him at some point, with the satisfied and relaxed expression of a youngest son enjoying himself without the weight of obligation on his shoulders.
âHow fares my big brother?â His younger brother said, falling into place beside him for a moment with a goblet in hand.
âWell enough,â Valarr said.
The even younger prince looked at him sideways. âYou have spoken to four lords in the past hour, and smiled at all of them in exactly the same way.â
âThat is called courtesy, dear brother.â
âThat is called exhaustion,â Matarys took a long sip. âThe Lannister lord has had his eyes on you for the past quarter hour. He has his daughter with him. The one in gold.â
âI am aware.â
âHer beauty is quite astounding.â
âI am also aware of that.â
âBut?â
Valarr said nothing. Matarys seemed to understand. He did not push. He simply downed the remaining wine in his goblet, and patted his older brother on the shoulder. He then drifted away into the crowd, like he still had all the freedom and time in his hands.
Valarr watched him go with a combination of envy and affection in his chest.
Making sure to keep his face composed, he let out a subtle sigh before turning back to receive the Lannister lord.
Baelor caught his eye from across the hall. A look that said nothing, yet everything. Valarr gave him the smallest nod in return.
He had lost count of how many conversations he has had. This time, it was a lord from the Stormlands. Broad and direct in the manner of his region. It felt refreshing to him, especially after the Lannister lord that seemed to only speak in glamorous riddles.
Until something in his periphery caught his attention without quite announcing itself.
Near the group of Tyrells and Reach lords. A girl at Lady Ellinor Tyrellâs side, standing with the quiet grace of someone who had been observing everything. There was nothing loud about her. Nothing deliberate. She was simply there. Her stillness was different from the other ladies he had observed this evening.
The highborn daughters were still in the same way an archerâs drawn bow was; calculated and waiting.
She was still in the way a person is when they were genuinely content to observe. She stood still, feeling like no one was watching her.
Valarr did not know why his eyes stayed on her for half a second longer than they should have. There was no obvious reason for it. She was not positioned to be noticed. Her sigil, at a distance, he could not place it. A small rose on green, it must be a lesser house he was not familiar with.
Then the Stormlands lord had said something that required his attention. The prince teared his eyes away from her.
She had not crossed his mind again. Not deliberately.
Though once, near the end of the evening, when the feast had concluded and the lords were beginning to retire to their chambers, Valarrâs eyes moved one more time toward the place the Reach group had been.
She was gone. With her father most likely. Off to retire to whatever chamber had been arranged for them.
There was no reason to notice the absence of someone whose presence he had barely registered.
He noticed it anyway. Briefly.
Then, Matarys appeared at his side to announce that the evening was finally over. Valarr let himself be steered toward the corridor, and put the evening behind him.
He tried to.
Valarr had not slept particularly well.
This was not unusual following the first night of a week-long celebration. There was always a particular kind of restlessness that came after hours of practiced performance.
He dressed unceremoniously, sending his squire away earlier than usual. He stood at the window, watching as the Red Keep woke up in the pale morning light. He stood still until a knock came.
It was not his squire. He knew his squireâs knock.
âEnter,â Valarr said.
Surprisingly, it was his father. He looked like a man who had been awake for several hours and had already put them to good use.
âCome,â Baelor said. âWalk with me.â
Entering his study, Baelor settled into a chair near the hearth. He gestured for Valarr to do the same.
He looked at his son with attention that made Valarr feel seen and measured his entire life, never unkindly. He let the silence sit, comfortable and undemanding.
Until he said at last, âWell.â The single word doing the work of a much longer question.
Valarr took a few moments to think.
âIt was the first evening,â he said. âThe Lannister lord presented his daughter. A Baratheon cousin. Several other ladies from the Reach.â
âAnd your thoughts?â
âGracious. Well prepared. All of them exactly what they were meant to be. Or taught to be.â He paused. âThe Lady Lannister especially. I could not find a fault with her if I tried.â
Baelor tilted his head forward slightly. This was his son.
âBut?â
Valarr sighed softly, âBut I kept looking for the person underneath the preparation and could not find her.â He said plainly, knowing his own father was the one person he could be plain with. âPerhaps she was there. Perhaps I did not look long or well enough.â
Baelor nodded slowly. He did not push. He never did.
After a moment, âThere was a sigil I did not recognize. Near the Tyrells, perhaps from the Reach. A pale rose on green.â Valarr said it as casually as he could.
âA lesser house, I think. I could not place the name.â
His father looked at him with an expression that was entirely neutral, yet somehow still managing to be amused.
âSweetbriar,â Baelor said, without hesitation. He remembered everything. âHouse Sweetbriar of Briarkeep. A minor house of the Reach. Loyal to the Tyrells for generations. Their trade is in herbs and botanical oils.â A brief pause. âLord Aldricâs youngest daughter.â
Valarr absorbed all this information with a nod that he deliberately kept measured.
His fatherâs eyes did not leave his face. âIs she the one who has caught your eye?â
âNo,â Valarr said, perhaps a bit too promptly. âI was only wondering, father.â
âMm.â Baelor said nothing further on the subject. Valarr thought it was considerably worse than if he had said something.
âOnly a few days remain,â he said at last. âThe young lords and ladies your age are gathering in the gardens this morning. It would do you well to go among them. Not just as a prince looking for a bride.â
He held Valarrâs gaze steadily. âSimply as a person among people.â
Valarr exhaled slowly through his nose as he pulled the studyâs door closed behind him.
The corridor was quiet. He stood for a moment with his hand still on the door, thinking about how he wished not to go to the gardens before accepting that he had to go regardless.
He turned away from the door.
âYour Grace.â
Valarr stopped.
The Lady Lannister was standing in the same corridor outside his fatherâs study, dressed in a gown of morning sunlight. She was as composed and lovely as she had been the previous evening. Donning the same practiced smile.
âMy lady,â he said. âGood morrow.â
âAnd to you, Your Grace.â She gently stepped beside him, with the practiced ease of someone who knew how to handle something when given an opening. âI had heard the young lords and ladies are to gather in the gardens this morning. Might I have the honor of accompanying you, my prince?â
There was no graceful way to say no. There was no reason to say no.
âOf course, my lady,â he said.
The gardens of the Red Keep were at their best in the morning, before the heat of the day settled fully into the air. They were already gathered by the time Valarr arrived.
Groups of lords and ladies dispersed among the paths and flowerbeds, the casual mingling of people who were all here for the same unspoken reason, pretending to simply enjoy the morning air.
The Lady Lannister walked beside him and spoke beautifully of the gardens and the weather, how it reminded her of her home at Casterly Rock.
Valarr was certain that he was adequately present in the conversation; he thought of her as pleasant company.
With mild guilt in his chest, he just wished that he found her more interesting than he actually did.
He then steered her gently toward a certain group of highborn ladies. âThe Lady Serrett is there,â he said. âI believe you are acquainted.â
She understood. He could see that she understood. She received it with perfect composure, dipping into a curtsy and a smile that flickered with subtle disappointment.
âOf course, Your Grace. I thank you for the company.â
âThe pleasure was mine, my lady.â
After the group had received the Lady Lannister, he continued walking through the gardens, giving small nods and smiles of acknowledgement towards the other groups.
He looked along the paths. The rose arbor. The far end near the fountain where a group of younger lords had gathered.
He did not find what he was looking for.
He stopped.
What exactly was he looking for?
A pale rose on green.
Lord Aldric Sweetbriarâs youngest daughter whose name he still did not know. A girl he had no particular reason to be looking for in the gardens of the Red Keep.
Valarr was looking for her anyway.
He became aware of this with slight discomfort, a realization. He turned away from the gardens. He did not need to be there.
The young prince heads for the library.
The library of the Red Keep was not a place most guests sought out during a nameday celebration. It was tucked away in the quieter part of the castle. It smelled of old parchment and the settled dust of books that had been there for generations.
Valarr had been coming here since he was a young boy. It was the one room in the Red Keep where nobody expected him to be in.
He pushed the door open. Then stopped.
You turned a page. It was a simple gesture. Simple in the same way you breathed in air.
You had found the library by accident the previous evening, slipping away from the corridor while your father talked to yet another lord.
You have not even broken your fast yet, and you are still here. The morning light came in clean through the window beside you. You had your feet tucked underneath you on the chair, which Elara would have had something to say about, with a book open on your lap.
For the first time since leaving the Reach, you felt entirely comfortable.
Then, the door opened. You looked up.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then you were on your feet with a speed that almost sent the book flying. You quickly closed it and held it tightly in your hands, before immediately dropping into a curtsy. Heat rose in the back of your neck and ears.
Seven hells. Of all the rooms in this enormous castle. Of all the people to walk through the door.
âYour Grace,â You managed, eyes fixed on the level of his boots. âForgive me, I did not â I had not thought ââ You stopped, trying to collect yourself. âI shall take my leave at once.â
âPlease, do not.â
His voice was gentle. Not unkind. Not amused at your expense.
You cautiously looked up from his boots. He was looking at you with an expression you could not name. Not displeased. Curiosity?
âI did not come to drive you out, my lady,â he said. âSit. Please.â
You sat, slowly pulling your book back to its earlier position. Trying not to look like a person who had not just been caught sitting with her feet tucked under her in the dragon princeâs library reading a book she had taken off his shelf without permission.
Prince Valarr settled into the chair across from you, a look of quiet curiosity on his face.
âMay I ask what it is you are reading, my lady?â he asked.
You looked down at the cover. âA history of the Valyrian freehold, Your Grace.â You paused. âI do hope it was not â that is, I took it from the shelf without ââ
âIt is a library,â he said simply. âBooks are meant to be read.â The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. âWhat do you make of it so far?â
You blinked. The question was genuinely curious, it caught you off guard.
âIt is ââ You started, carefully thinking. The prince looked at you as though he actually wanted to know. âConsidering the subject matter, whoever wrote it was far more interested in dates than in people. I keep finding myself wanting to argue with the written annotations.â
Something shifted in his expression. âI have written those annotations.â
You looked down at the book with sudden horror. Opening the book, you found a passage about the early dragonlords, a small annotation written neatly beside it.
This is not what the Maester Gyldayn wrote. See the Fires of the Freehold, Chapter Fourth.
You stared at it for a moment. Then helplessly, âYou are correct that it is not, Your Grace. Maester Gyldayn contradicts this passage.â
Valarr looked at you more properly then. âYou have read the works of Maester Gyldayn.â
âI have read most things, Your Grace,â you said, before catching yourself. It came out with more confidence than you had intended to present to a prince of the Seven Kingdoms in a library you had wandered into uninvited.
But, Prince Valarr did not seem to find it presumptuous. If anything, he found it the complete opposite.
âYou are Lord Aldricâs daughter,â he said then. Not quite a question. âOf House Sweetbriar.â
You looked at him in shock. âYou know of my house, Your Grace?â
âAs a Prince of the Realm should,â he said simply. âIt is my duty to know of the noble houses that swear their banners to the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms.â
âYour house is from the Reach, loyal to the Tyrells since the beginning. Your trade is in herbs and oils.â
You stared at him. Not the careful practiced stare of a lady maintaining her composure in the presence of a prince. But a genuine, unguarded stare of someone that finally felt seen, and remembered.
âIââ You stopped. âYes, that is correct, Your Grace.â
âYou were not in the gardens this morning,â he said, before even thinking about it. His expression shifted slightly.
âNo, Your Grace.â You kept your voice even. âI find I am better suited to libraries and books than gardens.â You paused, âwhich is perhaps strange, given that my house trade is botanical.â
âNot strange,â he said. âHonest.â The prince looked at you for a moment with the same quiet curiosity. âYou were here yesterday evening as well.â
It was more of an observation than a question. You had not seen him outside the Great Hall the previous evening and yet he somehow knew.
âYes, Your Grace,â you admitted. âI discovered it by accident. Forgive me, I hope that was notââ
âNo need to apologize, my lady,â he said gently. âI have been coming here since I was a young boy. It is the one room in the Red Keep where nobody expects anything of me.â He said it so plainly. âI find that I am protective of it.â
âI understand, Your Grace.â You looked down, before shyly looking back up. âI have a corner of the garden at Briarkeep. Behind the lavender rows where they grow tallest. Nobody thinks to look for me there.â
The prince was quiet for a moment, looking at you with the same expression he had worn since he sat down. One you still could not name.
âYou preferred this to the gardens this morning?â he said. âEven knowing the lords and ladies our age were gathering?â
âYour Grace,â you said carefully, âwith all respect â I am merely the youngest daughter of a lesser noble house from the Reach. The lords and ladies in the gardens are not gathering for my benefit.â
Something shifted across his face. Not pity. Something more complicated and careful.
âAnd yet your Lord father has brought you here,â he said.
âMy father,â you started, after a small pause, âhe is an optimistic man. It is one of his finest qualities.â You looked down at the book briefly. âHe has his eye on the second-born son of Lord Brightwater.â
âHe is quite ambitious, yes. But he is realistic. That is why we are here, Your Grace.â
You said it steadily, because it was true and because you had made your peace with it, rather than thinking about the alternative. The thought you had long dismissed since before arriving at Kingâs Landing, that you had no business thinking about right now, sitting in the library with a prince of the Seven Kingdoms.
Prince Valarr was quiet for a long moment.
âPardon me, Your Grace,â you said then, thinking the silence felt too dangerous to leave uninterrupted. âDo you not want to be in the gardens yourself? I understood that the morning was intended forââ
âFor the search,â he said, with a grimace not directed at you. âAye, it is.â
Valarr leaned back in his chair and looked at the shelves in the room, the morning light moving slowly across the long rows of books.
âMy nameday celebration,â he said, âis not entirely a nameday celebration.â
âI know,â you said gently, looking down at your hands.
He looked at you.
âEveryone knows, Your Grace,â you said, with kind honesty. âThe daughters who have been brought by their Lord fathers.â You paused. âIt is plain enough to anyone paying attention.â
âAnd you pay attention, my lady,â he responded.
âI do little else,â you said, before thinking about it.
The prince almost smiled. It was close enough that you noticed it and looked away, back at the book in your hands.
âHave you made a decision yet, Your Grace?â you asked, in a quieter tone. Rowan would be slack-jawed if she were here. You were not sure where the sudden courage to ask came from. Perhaps it stopped feeling like a conversation between a crown prince and a lesser lordâs daughter. You could not name this feeling yet.
He was quiet for long enough that you thought you had overstepped.
âNo,â he finally said. âI have not.â
You looked up at him.
âDoes that surprise you, my lady?â he said.
âA little,â you admitted. âO-Only because you are who you are, Your Grace. Every great house in the realm would consider it an honor beyond measure. I had assumed the matter would be easily decided.â
âEasily decided,â he repeated quietly, more to himself. âAye. It ought to be.â
âEvery lady I have spoken with has been everything she was meant to be.â He looked at the open window, the sunlight getting brighter as the morning began to pass.
âGracious and accomplished. With names that would sit well beside mine in history books. I have no reasonable objection to any of them.â
You waited patiently.
âAnd yet,â he continued. âI kept looking for the person underneath all of that.â
âEvery exchange and conversation felt like a prepared performance. Every smile and gesture placed exactly where it was meant to be. I stood inside of all of it yet I feltââ
He paused. âAbsent. As though it was happening to someone who looked like me while I watched from a distance.â
âI do not think they are false,â he said. âI think they have simply been prepared so thoroughly for this that there is no longer any distance between the preparation and the person. I keep struggling to find where one ended and the other began.â
You were quiet for a moment. Then the silence swelled even more.
Until, âMy eldest sister Elara,â you started slowly, âwas presented to her husband at a feast in the Reach when she was seven and ten. She spent a year beforehand learning everything about his house, his preferences, his family, the way he took his wine.â You paused. âShe is also genuinely fond of him. Genuinely happy. The preparation and the person â they were the same.â
âI am not saying that it is not real,â you continued carefully. âOnly that perhaps the preparation does not mean there is nothing underneath it. Perhaps it only means you have not yet been given the proper circumstances to find out.â
Prince Valarr was quiet for a moment. âAnd what circumstances would those be?â
You thought about it honestly. âOnes that do not feel like an audition,â you said plainly. âA room where nothing is required. Where there is nothing to perform for.â
He looked at you. âA room like this one,â he said, with an unreadable expression.
You suddenly became aware, the heat rushing back to your neck. âI did not meanââ You began.
âI know,â he said quietly, with the sincere intent of not making you feel foolish. âI know you did not.â
He looked at the book in your hands, the small annotations he wrote resting underneath your fingers.
âI do not know your name, my lady,â he started. âI know your house, your father, your trade. I know you have read Maester Gyldaynâs work, and disagree with this authorâs treatment of dates.â
The corner of his mouth moved. âI do not know your name.â
You looked at him. At the prince sitting across from you in a library, who had not stayed in the gardens, who had come here instead, who was looking at you with something in his mismatched eyes â
You stopped. His eyes.
You had not been close enough the previous evening. One brown. One blue. Warm earth and still water.
You forgot, for just a moment, what he had asked you.
You told him your name.
Valarr said it once, quietly, as though he was testing the weight of it on his lips. You would sacrifice anything to the Seven to hear him say it once more.
A knock at the library door. Valarrâs expression shifted. Something concealing the openness that had been there a moment ago.
âEnter,â he said.
It was his squire, slightly out of breath. He had been looking for the prince for longer than he wanted to admit.
âYour Grace,â he bowed. âYour presence has been requested. Prince Baelor awaits you in theââ
âAye,â Valarr rose, without hurry and hesitation.
You rose too, instinctively. He looked at you. For a moment he simply looked, in the same way he had been looking since he sat across from you.
âMy lady,â he said. He was the young dragon prince again, not the person who had been sitting across from you, discussing Gyldaynâs work in the quiet of the morning.
âYour Grace,â you replied, dipping into a curtsy.
He held your gaze for just a moment longer than what was strictly necessary.
Then he turned and followed his squire out of the library. The door closed.
You stood beside your chair for a moment, the book still in your hands. Everything in the room felt like the prince had not even stepped foot in here. You sat down slowly.
You opened back to the same page you had been on before the door opened. Reading the same sentence three times.
Then you turned to the small annotations, your fingers gently brushing against the dried ink. His handwriting, small and neat.
This is not what Maester Gyldayn wrote.
You closed the book carefully. You pressed your fingers to your wrist beneath your sleeve.
I do not know your name.
He knew it now.
You were not entirely sure what to do with any of what happened during the last hour.
Sitting in the library for a while longer, with the book closed in your lap, you did not read. Instead, you thought.
You were the youngest daughter of House Sweetbriar. Your father had his eye on Lord Brightwaterâs second-born son. In five days, the princeâs nameday celebrations would conclude and you would return to Briarkeep. To the lavender rows and Celynâs muddy hands.
In five days, the prince would have already chosen a lovely bride worthy of carrying the Targaryen name. Worthy to stand by his side as the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Worthy to read small notes of affection in his neat handwriting. Worthy to get lost in those mismatched brown and blue eyes of hisâ
You shut the thought down before it could finish itself.
Setting the book on a small nearby table, you stood. Smoothing your skirts the way Elara had taught you.
You were here because your father is an optimistic man with a good eye for opportunity, and a second-born son of a Crownlandsâ lord who was by all accounts reasonable and steady.
You were not here for mismatched eyes and written annotations.
You picked up the book once again, before putting it back on the shelf you had found it in.
Then you left the library and went to find your Lord father.
You thought about almost nothing else. Almost.
The great hall was somehow louder on the second evening than the first, which you had not thought possible.
You sat with your father among the Reach lords, several tables removed from the royal family, which was exactly where a house like yours belonged. You kept your hands folded in your lap, and did what you usually did: observe.
Your father was already in conversation with the lord beside him. You let the noise drown you and tried not to think about the library.
You were not succeeding particularly well in that regard.
Until, it happened so suddenly. You were looking at nothing in particular. The lit torches, the three-headed dragon on one of the banners, the other guests between you, a pair of mismatched eyes already looking back.
Your breath caught.
You looked away immediately. Back to your hands, to the untouched goblet of wine in front of you, to your fatherâs profile as he continued to speak to the lord next to him.
Your neck felt warm.
You did not look back.
Across the hall, Prince Valarr looked away a moment after you did. Just a moment.
Matarys, beside him, said nothing. But he noticed.
The feast continued. The torches began to burn lower. You kept your eyes where you belonged.
You did not look back. Almost.
Lord Aldric Sweetbriar was always gentle about things. Especially to his youngest daughter. Somehow, it made it more difficult to argue with him than if he simply raised his voice.
He had knocked on your chamber door before breakfast, ledger already closed under his arm.
âYou will go to the gardens this morning,â he said. âWith the other ladies.â
âMy Lord fatherââ
âYou will go,â he said again. Same tone. Same eyes. âWe are here for a purpose, daughter. Your purpose is not the library.â
You had gone to the gardens.
You found the quietest corner you could, which was unfortunately not very quiet. You sat on a bench, a slight distance from the gathered lords and ladies, a book tucked under your arm like a shield.Â
The gardens were beautiful, with the flora being more well kept than those at Briarkeep, which was saying something.
The gathered groupâs energy has shifted, as though someone significant had arrived. You looked up.
He had come alone, which surprised you. No squire at his shoulder, not even Matarys. Just the young prince, stepping into the gardens with ease.
He saw you before the group saw him.
For half a second. In that half second, his gaze found the quiet corner you sat in. His expression shifted the same way it did at the library.
Then the crowd turned, the lords and ladies straightening around his presence.
He moved toward you. Not enough to be obvious, just a slight shift in direction. A small step, the beginning of an intention.
Highborn ladies appeared on both sides, along with a young Westerlands lord that extended a hand to him in greeting. The group closed around him.
There was no gracious way to refuse. He went with them. Of course, he did.
Valarr glanced back once subtly. You had already looked back down at your book.
You read the same page four times.
After midday, your father had formally introduced you to Lord Brightwaterâs son in the gardens, with the quiet satisfaction of a man ticking something off a carefully planned list.
His name was Lucian. He was tall, brown haired, and well-mannered. He smiled at you, and it felt genuine.
âMy Lord father tells me you are a great reader,â he said, walking beside you on one of the garden paths.
âHe flatters me,â you said. âI simply have few other hobbies, my lord.â
âI find the same is said of me.â He glanced at you sideways, âWhat do you like to read, my lady?â
You gave him a real answer, and he listened and responded thoughtfully. It was a pleasant conversation.
He was everything your father had said. Steady, kind, and genuine.
Yet, you waited for something underneath it.
You were still waiting when the walk concluded, your fathers gently separating you both. Lord Aldric looked quite satisfied.
Across the gardens, the young prince watched you walk with the young Brightwater lord.
He then returned his attention to the lord beside him, responding back to his question.
He did not look back across the garden path. He did look back just once.
Matarys, who was a few steps behind him, looked between his older brother and the distant figures of you and Lucian Brightwater.
He said nothing. Not yet.
On the fourth day, you had borrowed yet another book. This one was thinner than the last, a collection of botanical records from the early Andal settlements. It seemed it was forgotten, wedged in between two heavier books in one of the shelves at the library.
It seemed that there was no gathering today. Your chest fluttered, your steps lighter than usual as you approached the empty gardens.Â
The sunlight came in low and golden through the hedges, and the air was cooler than usual. It was enough to faintly remind you of home.
You sat down on a bench near the far end of the path, opening your book. Given the circumstances, this was one of the rare times you felt entirely content.
Then, footsteps on the stone path, gradually getting closer.
You had recognized them before you looked. You somehow learned the particular rhythm of his walk, without even meaning to.
Valarr sat down at the other end of the bench without asking, which would have been presumptuous from anyone else. From him, it simply was not.
He looked at the gardens for a moment, thinking about what to say.
âAnother one,â he said, nodding at the book.
âBotanical records from the early Andal settlements,â you said. âI found it wedged between two considerably large volumes. It looked forgotten and lonely.â
âAnd do you have opinions about it, my lady?â
âI have opinions about everything,â you spoke plainly. âI simply do not often say them aloud.â
He turned to look at you. âYou say them to me.â
You did not know how to answer. Deciding to look down at the page, you both knew it was already an answer in itself.
The silence had settled between you and the prince. It was comfortable; neither of you felt the need to fill it.
Until, âYou have siblings, my lady?â
âFour, Your Grace,â you said. âEdwyn is the eldest and the heir of Briarkeep. My father has taught him well, he will be a good lord.â
âThen Elara. She taught me everything I know about being a proper lady; keeping my hands still and not saying the first thing that comes into my head.â
You looked down at your fingers inching toward your wrist. âFor which, I am quite successful.â
âAnd the third.â
Something warmer moved through your voice. âRowan,â you looked at a hedge across the path. âRowan is the kind of girl that fills a room without knowing it. She is bright, yet restless, incapable of keeping her thoughts to herself if there is anyone nearby to hear it.â
Your fingers brushed against the illustrations on the page. âShe is the one who started calling me Wallflower.â
Valarr stayed quiet, yet attentive. He was listening completely.
âIt was not meant unkindly,â you said. You knew it never had been and you had always known it even when it brought you unease. âRowan thought it was funny at first. Then it was simply the truth. I had become the name whether I wanted it or not.â
The corner of your mouth moved. âShe always meant it affectionately. But, she was also completely certain that she was right.â
âWas she right?â he asked.Â
You considered it honestly. âMostly,â you admitted. âI stand on the sidelines. I observe rather than participate. I am not fond of large rooms full of people I do not know.â You paused. âIt still brings me unease when she says it. Which probably means it is true.â
He was quiet for a moment. Then, âYou said four.â
You looked at him.
âEdwyn, Elara, Rowan,â he said. âThat is three.â
You stared at him. Valarr had been paying the same quality of attention to you that you paid to everything else. The realization sat in your chest with a feeling you could not name.
âCelyn,â you responded. âHe is the youngest. Seven years of age.â
You took a moment, trying to gather his character in mere words. âHe has very strong opinions about the garden. Delivers them with the full authority of a Grand Maester.â
Your mouth curved ever so slightly. âHe once spent an entire afternoon in tears because a bee had died near the lavender rows. He felt personally responsible.â
Something shifted in Valarrâs expression, quiet and recognizing.
âHe sounds exhausting,â he said.
An amused breath escaped you before you could stop it. Valarrâs eyebrow slightly twitched upward at the soft sound.
âHe is the best person I know,â you said simply without hesitation.
Valarr looked toward the hedges for a moment. âI have a Matarys,â he said.
You looked at him.
âHe is not seven,â he continued. âHe is considerably older and considerably more troublesome.â He says with both exasperation and affection.
âHe delivers his thoughts with the confidence of someone who thinks they are never wrong.â
âThat is Celyn,â you replied, smiling down at the book still open in your lap.
âThen I apologize, most earnestly, for what is about to come,â he said.
This time, a genuine giggle escaped you. The sound made something flutter inside Valarrâs chest. It was real and unguarded. It was beautiful.
âYou can call me Valarr,â he said.
You looked up at him, his mismatched eyes brighter than ever.
âWhen it is only us,â he continued. It did not sound like a command nor a request, just something honest. He looked toward the path, âEvery conversation I have had begins and ends with my titles. Sometimes I feel as though I am merely a title rather than a person.â
He looked back up at you, âyou are one of the few people I have spoken with who makes me forget that. I would rather not be reminded of it when it is only us.â
You looked down, âThat is a great deal of trust to extend to someone you have only known for four days.â
âAye,â he said plainly. âIt is.â
âThen you must do the same for me,â you said quietly.
He looked at you with a slight crinkle in his eyes. Then he said your name. This time, the way he said it felt like he had known you for the longest time.
You looked back down at your book before he could notice the slight change in your expression.
Afterwards, the conversation flowed easily between you and Valarr. Just two people surprising each other with opinions and knowledge, passing the book to each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You did not notice how much time had passed until more voices began to fill the garden. The morning had ceased to belong to only you and Valarr.
He stood up slowly, before saying your name once again. He bid you goodbye, before walking back up the path to where he came from.
You sat with the book closed in your lap, letting the morning light shine on your face. The same feeling in your chest returned, the one you still could not name.
You were beginning to suspect that it did not need one.
Could the Great Hall get any more lavish? You thought. There were more candles than the previous nights, and more flowers blooming along the tables.
As usual, you sat with your father and the Reach lords. Lucian Brightwater sat nearby, smiling at you when your eyes met. You smiled back. Your father noticed it with quiet satisfaction.
Across the hall, Matarys was having a considerably better evening than his brother. He drifted through like he always did, finding entertainment in whatever space he ended up in.
Tonight, he found himself in the presence of Lady Ellinor Tyrell, sitting at the end of the Reach table. He intended to only stay for one goblet of wine. It ended up being three.
âYou remind me of someone,â he told her, at some point during the second drink.
âDo I now, my prince?â she replied amusingly, like she had been told this many times and she never got tired of hearing it.
âMy father,â he said. âThe way you listen. Like you already know what someone is going to say and are simply giving them the courtesy of saying it.â
Lady Ellinor smiled warmly, âyour father is a good man, Your Grace.â
âThe best I know,â Matarys said plainly.
They sat with that for a moment. Until, âPrince Baelor is not the only good man I have observed this week.â
Matarys looked at her sideways.
âI speak of your brother,â she said. âThe young prince has conducted himself with more genuine care and patience than most men even try to manage in a lifetime at court.â
She paused, then started speaking more softly. âI have also observed that he is considerably more careful about where his eyes rest during the evening feasts than he realizes.â
Matarys said nothing. He was looking at Valarr from across the hall. His private suspicions had just been confirmed by an outside source.
Valarr was listening to a lord to his left with every appearance of complete attention. He was also looking across the hall, thinking that no one would notice the destination of his gaze.
Matarys did, and it landed on you. Sitting several tables away, hands folded as you watched Lucian Brightwater speak to your Lord father. You were not looking back at the royal table, and it was obvious that you did your best not to.
He looked back at Lady Ellinor, a small knowing smile already painted itself on her face. âThe gardens tomorrow morning,â she said quietly. âI intend to invite the young Lady Sweetbriar for a private walk.â
Slowly, the same smile made its way to Matarysâ face. âHow curious,â he said. âI had thought of suggesting the very same to my brother.â
Lady Ellinor said nothing further. Instead, she raised her goblet slightly to him. Matarys did the same in return.
Neither you nor Valarr has noticed.
Lady Ellinorâs note arrived before breakfast.
Brief and warm; a walk in the gardens this morning. There was no gathering today. Just the two of you.
Having barely touched the bread on your plate, you folded the note carefully and put it away. Your father had read the note from beside you.
He nodded at you in approval, allowing you to leave breakfast with silent permission.
You had arrived before Lady Ellinor and stood at the entrance of the main path. Hearing footsteps getting closer from behind, you smoothed out your skirt in preparation.
âGood morrow, my dear,â Lady Ellinor greeted you. You did the same.
Then, more footsteps coming from behind you. That familiar rhythm.
You turned.
Matarys had appeared at Valarrâs chamber long before his squire usually did. âThe gardens,â he said. âWalk with me, big brother.â
Valarr looked at him for a few moments, trying to read his face, as an older brother who had been on the receiving end of Matarysâ schemes since childhood.
âWhy?â he asked.
âBecause you have spent the better part of the week in great halls and dusty bookshelves,â Matarys replied.
âAlso because your nameday festivities are concluding soon, and you look like a man who has forgotten what sunlight feels like.â
Valarr hesitated, but went anyway. It was better than staying in his chambers thinking about the end of the week.
You looked at each other across the garden path. Then, from somewhere behind you, the sound of Lady Ellinorâs handmaiden hurrying toward her lady with urgency.
You turned to see Lady Ellinor already a few steps away from you. âForgive me, my dear,â she called back, âI shall find you again later.â
Before you could respond, she was gone.
Somewhere behind Valarr, the even younger princeâs voice spoke. âBy the Seven, I had entirely forgotten. Father wanted to see me this morning.â
âTerrible timing. Sincere apologies.â Matarysâ footsteps were already retreating.
Valarr did not turn around to watch him go. He only looked at you with an expression that was beyond the usual composure of a crown prince; with unguarded honesty.
You looked at each other. âThat,â you started carefully, âwas not subtle.â
âNo,â he agreed. âIt was not.â
A small pause. âPrince Matarys,â you said.
âAnd Lady Tyrell,â he added.
Your lips pressed together against the laugh building in your chest. âI might have to have a few words with Lady Ellinor.â
âI have been having words with Matarys since I was old enough to speak,â he said. âI will save you the effort. It does nothing to help.â
The same laugh from the previous morning escaped, the one Valarr wished to hear again. Perhaps for the rest of his days.
You pressed your fingers briefly to your lips, but it was already too late. He was looking at you with a brighter gleam in his eyes.
He said nothing, only offering his arm to you with ease.
You looked at him briefly, then at the garden path ahead. You took his arm.
It was the easiest walk of the entire week. No lords watching from the corners. No highborn daughters being positioned. No performance.
It was just the two of you on a garden path in the morning, talking the way you had talked in the library and on the bench.
He asked about Briarkeep. You described it honestly; the pale grey stone, the brook, the wet earth. The way he listened intently still caught you off guard.
You asked about Dragonstone. You could tell by his tone that he had complicated feelings about the place.
At some point, the path had curved and you were both in the quieter part of the gardens. The walk slowed naturally.
âThere are only two days left,â you said plainly.
âAye,â he said quietly, âthat is true.â
You did not say anything else about it. Neither did he.
You both continued to walk until the path ended at a railing that looked over Blackwater Bay. You both stopped to breathe in the faint salty air.
Valarr turned to face you, catching the way the seabreeze blew strands of your hair away from your face.
You looked up at him. The morning light was fully on his face, and his mismatched eyes were looking at you the way they always did. Except, there was nothing careful about it anymore. Nothing held back or prepared.
Valarr lifted his hand slowly, giving you the chance to step away if you wanted to. You did not. His fingers brushed against your hair ever so gently.
His hand then rested at the edge of your jaw. You did not step away. Though, you were not sure how you were still breathing.
âI have been trying,â he said quietly, âto find a reason not to do this.â
âHave you found one?â you said, voice steadier than you expected.
He looked at you for a moment longer. âNo,â he said simply.
It was not a grand gesture. It was not reckless. It was quiet and honest. Like it had always been between you and Valarr.
His lips were soft and warm on yours. His gentle hand at your jaw was careful. It only lasted a brief moment, yet it was entirely certain of itself. More certain than anything else in both your lives combined.
Your hands slowly climbed onto his chest. Your fingers slightly brushed against the three-headed dragon at his breast, where you could feel his heartbeat underneath the fabric. His other hand then wrapped itself around your waist, holding you closer.
When you pulled away, you barely did. He did not move far, his hands staying where they were. Valarrâs face was close enough that you felt his eyelashes flutter against yours.
He only looked at you with the same, genuine attention he gave to everything else you say and do. Except now, absolutely nothing was holding him back.Â
You had also noticed something else in his face, like great relief.Â
You had also finally recognized the feeling in your chest for what it was. The same one you felt since the library. Probably even before that.
Both of you stayed like that for a while. There was no reason to move. The morning belonged only to the two of you.
You did not speak. You did not need to. The whole week had been full of words; careful and measured. Now, there was simply this.
His thumb moved gently, once against your jaw, as if he was making sure you were real. You pressed your fingers slightly more firmly against his chest for the same reason.
The waves of Blackwater Bay continued to roar below you. Somewhere far away, the Red Keep continued its business, like an entirely different universe from where you were both standing.
You thought back to the journey from the Reach to here. The thought you had quickly dismissed so firmly.
What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?
You tilted your head back slightly to look at him. Valarr was already looking at you with those mismatched eyes of his. Not with the gaze of a composed prince of the Realm.Â
But simply a man. A man holding you tightly in the quiet corner of the gardens, like you were going to disappear if he ever were to let go.
Valarr had asked for the audience himself, which was unusual. Normally it was Baelor who called for Valarr to his study. This time, he knocked.
âEnter,â his father said.
Once his son entered, Baelor set down his quill. He gestured for him to sit by the hearth. The fire was lower than usual. Somewhere below, the Red Keep was beginning its preparations for the final evening feast.
Baelor waited patiently, as he always did, letting the silence settle for a bit.
Then, âI have made my decision.â
âI know what you will say,â Valarr continued. âI know what the considerations are. The weight of it, the courtâs concern, the questions it will raise,â He paused. âI have thought about it all.â
âI know you have,â Baelor responded, without sounding dismissive.
âShe is the youngest daughter of a minor house from the Reach,â Valarr said plainly. âHer family trades in herbs and botanical oils. She has no claim, no great alliance to offer.â
He looked at his father. âShe has read Maester Gyldaynâs work. She found the error in the Valyrian freehold text. She talks about her youngest brother the way I talk about Matarys.â A pause. âShe says exactly what she thinks, but only when she trusts one enough to say it.â
âAnd she trusted me with it.â
Baelor looked at him with something careful and attentive. It was deeply familiar.
âI went looking for the person underneath the preparation,â Valarr said. âWith her, there was no preparation to look underneath. She was simply herself. Entirely and without apology.â
âI did not know what to do with it at first. Then I did not want to do without it.â
The study was quiet for a few moments. Until, âyou have spent time with her,â Baelor said at last.
âAye.â
âMore than what was visible.â
âAye,â Valarr did not elaborate. Baelor did not need him to.
His father looked at him. Truly. With the same eyes that had watched him grow up in this keep, ones that trusted him enough to make his own decisions.
âLord Aldric Sweetbriar,â Baelor started, slowly. âHe is an honest man. His house is small but his name is clean. Strong and steady. He has never given the crown any cause for complaint in generations.â
Something that almost resembled a smile made its way to the older princeâs face. âYou said no,â he said. âWhen I asked if she had caught your eye, that second morning.â
âI fear I said it too quickly,â Valarr admitted.
âYou did,â Baelor agreed. âI noticed.â
âShe does not know,â Valarr said. âI have not spoken to her about it. I wanted to speak to you first.â
Baelor nodded slowly. âThen go speak to Lord Aldric,â he said. âTonight, before the feast. Give the man the courtesy of warning before his world changes considerably.â
His fatherâs smile deepened, âAnd then, go find her.â
Valarr stood up, before his father called him once again.
âShe sounds,â he said simply, âlike someone worth finding.â
The Great Hall had truly outdone itself.
Lords and ladies moved through the hall in their finest dress, knowing that tomorrow they would need to depart Kingâs Landing, dispersing across the Seven Kingdoms again.
Valarr moved through it all easily, feeling the absence of the weight on his shoulders. Tonight, he actually smiled in ways that were genuine rather than practiced. He managed to actually taste the wine for once.
Matarys pointed it out first, âYou look different.â
âI am the same as I have always been,â Valarr said simply.
The younger prince grinned, âYou are not.â Then, he nudged his shoulder.
âHow were the gardens this morning?â
âEnlightening,â Valarr replied.
Matarysâ grin grew wider.
Later in the evening, Valarrâs gaze naturally moved to the Reach tables.
Your father was there, seated among the other Reach lords, speaking to Lord Fossoway. But the seat beside Lord Aldric was empty.
He was already moving before he had even thought about it.
Excusing himself from whatever conversation he was in, he moved through the great hall. Then to the giant doors, and into the corridor, where the noise of the feast had become distant muffles.
He walked the same way he had walked since he was a young boy, to the quieter parts of the Red Keep, taking turns he had taken countless times.
Valarr already knew where to find you.
You looked up when the door opened. The faint glow of the candle illuminating the side of your face.
âThe feast,â you said softly.
âWill continue without me,â he said.
Valarr crossed the room, and sat in the same chair he did that second morning. He said your name softly.
Closing the book on your lap, you said, âyou came to find me.â
The candle flickered between you.
âI always seem to,â he said simply.
âI was not supposed to be here for this,â you said quietly, more to yourself than anything. It was not a protest. Just the simple truth.
âI know,â he replied.
âI was here for Lord Brightwaterâs second son.â
The corner of his mouth moved, âHe is, I am sure, a perfectly reasonable man.â
âHe is,â you said. âHe was very pleasant.â
âThen it is deeply unfortunate,â Valarr said, âthat you spent the entire week in my library.â
A soft, genuine laugh escaped your lips. Then, you both looked at each other, the feeling in your chest settling into something permanent.
He rose from the chair, simply and quietly. He moved towards you. You uncurled your feet from beneath you, moving to stand, but he was already lowering himself on one knee before you.
You stared at him. Words dying in your throat.
Valarr Targaryen, heir of the heir, second in line to the Iron Throne, was kneeling on the floor of the Red Keep library in the soft candlelight, looking up at you with those mismatched eyes as though there was nowhere else in the Seven Kingdoms he would rather be.
He took both of your hands in his. His thumbs resting against your knuckles.
The candle threw golden light across the side of his face. Across the silver streak in his dark hair.
You could not speak. You were not certain that you were breathing.
"I have spent this entire week," he said, quietly, only for you, "looking for the person underneath the preparation." His eyes did not leave yours.Â
"Instead, I have found someone who had no preparation at all. Someone who argued with my annotations and told me plainly, in my own library, that she was here for Lord Brightwater's second son."
His lips pressed together briefly.
"Someone who described her little brother crying over a bee with more love in her voice than most people do in a lifetime of grand declarations." He paused.Â
"Someone who kept ending up exactly where I was looking."
Your eyes were beginning to do something you refused to allow in the Red Keep library, so you pressed your lips together and held very still.
His hands tightened slightly around yours.
"I know what I am asking," he said lowly. "I know the weight of the name I am asking you to carry. I am not asking you to carry it lightly."Â
A breath. "I am asking you to carry it with me. Every part of it."Â
His mismatched eyes were very bright in the candlelight. "I would face all of it considerably better with someone beside me who tells me the truth, who reads the books nobody else thinks to read, who finds the quiet corners of every room she enters."
He looked at you, and there was nothing held back in it.
"Who reminds me," he said softly, "that I am only a man."
You looked down at him. The prince who had left his own nameday feast just to sit in the silence with you.
Your free hand moved before you decided to move it. Your fingers found the side of his jaw, gently. He leaned into your touch.
"Have you spoken to my father?" you asked softly.
"I have. He asked very precise questions.â Valarr paused, "I believe I was able to curry his favor."
"He is not an easy man to impress," you said.
"I am aware." His hands were still holding yours. "I made sure I prepared thoroughly."
Then, something broke loose in your chest. A small sound escaped you that was not quite a laugh. Something that happened when your heart was too full.
Valarr looked up at you.
"Well," he said. Very quietly. "What say you, my lady?"
You looked at him for a long moment, kneeling before you in the library where it had all begun. Holding your hands in both of his, the candlelight warm between you, and the final feastâs noise almost non-existent.
You thought of Briarkeep, of Sweetfield. The lavender rows. The brook. Edwynâs strength. Elaraâs grace. Rowanâs brightness. Celynâs innocence. You loved every piece of it.
You had not expected to find something here that you could love just as completely and certainly.
"Yes," you said. "I accept, most ardently."
Something shifted across his face that you had never seen before and would spend the entirety of life learning the name of.Â
Valarr rose slowly, your hands still in his. You rose after him.
He whispered your name. Then he raised your hands to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles.
âMy love,â he whispered again. You answered him in the only way you felt that was right.
You closed the distance between you. His hands gently find their way to your cheeks, while your hands rested against his chest.
When you parted, he rested his forehead gently against yours. You stared into his mismatched eyes.
You knew you had a whole lifetime ahead of you, giving you more than enough time to do so, but you never want to miss a single second ever again.
You both stayed like that for a long moment in the quiet library.
What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?
The answer was simple. The same thing you had always offered to the gardens and library shelves at Briarkeep. To your youngest brother, Celyn.
Warnings: Reader is Maekar's Daughter (They're Targaryens Y'all); Grief / Mourning; RIP Daddy Baelor; Marriage Troubles; Pregnancy; Mentions of Death; No Physical Description of Reader (Minus Having Hair, but No Color Mentioned)
Word Count: ~3000 words
Plot: After Baelor's death, you and Valarr struggle to put the pieces of your marriage back together.
Master List
Staring at the ceiling of your quarters, you breathed in and out, trying to not cry as the hours dragged on. You reached for the table beside your bed and picked up your journal. You sat up in your bed, glancing at the empty spot beside you as your shaking hands etched another line onto the page. Counting each group, you rested your hand on the page as a teardrop smudged the last group.
Three moons and six days. Three moons and six days since your good father Baelor took his last breath. Three moons and six days since your own father struck the fatal blow. Three moons and six days since your husband looked at you with any fragment of joy or care.
Angrily wiping the tears away, you closed the journal and set it aside. You threw back the blankets and pulled on a thick cloak to fight the chill in the air. You slipped your feet into slippers before marching towards the door. The guard on duty seemed startled at your presence at the late hour, but quickly straightened up under your sharp gaze.
âWhere is my husband?â you demanded, allowing the door to shut behind you.
âI believe his study, my lady.â
âThank you,â you murmured, already moving down the hall at a brisk pace.
You knew the halls and corridors like the back of your hand. Kingâs Landing had long been your home and you weathered what felt like every possible war or trouble within these walls. But the chill in the air, the distance between you and those around you, was a feeling you had never expected to feel within these familiar corridors.
Was one supposed to feel so alone in their own family home? You did not think so. But you were not sure how to repair the divide.
King Daeron the Good, at the news of his eldest sonâs demise at the hands of his youngest son, had seemed to slip from reality. You had spent some time with him, but he never seemed to find the strength to speak in your presence.
Your father, Maekar, had only grown harsher and angrier since returning to Kingâs Landing. You knew that Aerionâs banishment and Aegonâs disappearance weighed heavily on his shoulders. And his brotherâs face surely haunted each step he took. He could not seem to look at you either, and you were left to wonder what you had done for your own father to be unable to stomach the sight of you.
And your husband . . . he was not the same. Nor did you think he ever would be again. When Baelor took his last breath, you worried that he had taken the foundation of your marriage with him.
Valarr had always been a serious man since his youth. The weight of the Iron Throne seemed to stamp out the indulgences and whims that other children sought in him. He took his role seriously, striving to live up to Daeron and Baelorâs names.
But you knew another side to him.
One that enjoyed skipping rocks on the shores of Dragonstone and nearly threw himself into the surf once when he tried to out throw another. One that had a habit of stuttering when he was flustered, which only seemed to increase as his cheeks reddened. One that enjoyed braiding flowers into your hair, murmuring how he would do the same with your daughters in the future.
But you had not seen that man since Ashford. And you had nightmares about never seeing him again. You could only wake up to his side of the bed undisturbed before you broke.
Turning the corner, you headed down the stairs to the study that until recently belonged to Baelor. The guards at the entrance straightened up and opened the door for you. Stepping into the room, you let the door shut behind you before you spoke.
âIt is late,â you murmured, stepping farther into the room. Valarr looked up from the scroll that he had been reading and sat up in his seat more. He seemed to struggle to meet your eyes and you pursed your lips, fighting tears. âMayhaps you should retire to bed.â
âI cannot,â Valarr responded quietly, which only made the tears harder to hold in. âThere is still much work that I must do.â
He fiddled with the papers on his desk as you looked towards the fire, trying to gather yourself. Beneath your cloak, your arms folded protectively over your abdomen before you forced them to straighten out, lest your husband notice. Though you did not know why you would be concerned with him noticing. He did not even look you in the eye when he broke your heart, so how would he notice that?
âI did not mean to cause you concern,â Valarr stated, and you knew that he was sincere. But it still sounded so cold.
âI know you did not,â you murmured tiredly, collecting yourself once more. âBut I cannot help but worry about you.â
Valarr looked away. âYou should not.â
âI am your wife,â you reminded him. Your voice broke at the end, which caused Valarrâs fist to tighten. Anxious, he turned to fiddle with his ring. âIt is my duty to worry about you.â
Valarr did not reply, simply because he did not know what to say. The cavern between the two of you seemed to crack and deepen as the silence dragged on.
You knew that you could not be angry with him. He had lost his father at the hands of your father in a battle that your brother had provoked. He was now thrust into the position of heir apparent, a role that he believed he had decades to prepare for, rather than moons.
But you were not your father, nor Aerion, nor the hedge knight. You were his wife and his future queen, a woman who would do anything to have a sliver of his prior self in her life once more.
âDo you wish for me to leave?â you finally spoke up, causing Valarr to look up from his hands. âWould that be more pleasing to you?â
âOf course not,â Valarr replied, sitting forward in his seat. âI . . .â He sighed, staring at his hands once more. âI simply have much work to do.â
It was an excuseâa pathetic oneâand you both knew it.
Summoning all the poise that you could muster, you nodded deeply to him, which caused Valarr to look up once more. âThen I will leave Kingâs Landing to Dragonstone, where I will not disturb you while you have much work to do, my lord husband.â
Valarr stood up from his seat at your statement, eyebrows furrowed with concern. âDragonstone?â He searched your face for any jest. âWhy do you wish to return to Dragonstone?â
You licked your lips and tried to hold the tears back. âI believe that it might be best. For all of us.â You turned to the floor, sniffling. âI do not wish to interrupt your work any further.â
You turned for the door, but Valarr stepped around his desk and reached for your hand before you could get too far. As you spun around to look into eyes of your husband, you waited for him to speak. To plead or beg for you to stay. To fight for your marriage, for your family, for your love. But it seemed that words had abandoned him.
You could see the tears in his eyes and you felt your own drip down your cheeks. Smiling painfully, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, lingering for a moment. âI love you,â you whispered into his skin. âAnd when you have need of me again, I shall return.â
You stepped back and turned for the door again. Your hand slipped from his grip and he did not reach out once more.
When the heavy door shut behind you, Valarr returned to his seat. Dropping into the chair, Valarr rested his head in his hands. His fingers curled, digging his nails into his scalp as the emotions rolled over him. He was a man of action, but yet he could not even rise from his chair to rush after his wife. He had not meant for her to be a casualty in his grief, but yet there their marriage laid, broken and shattered on the floor of his fatherâs study.
Climbing back to your quarters, you did nothing to hide your tears as they dribbled down your cheeks and neck. You stepped into your chambers and pulled the cloak from your shoulders. Tossing it onto a chair, you moved to lay down in your bed.
Resting your hand on the swell of your growing bump, the one you had carefully hidden from everyone but your trusted maid, you closed your eyes and allowed yourself to finally sob.
*~*~*~*
Valarr fiddled with the rings on his finger as he sat through another Small Council meeting. King Daeron had been unable to join them and Valarr was forced to sit at the head of the table. His skin prickled the moment that he sat down in the chair and he was certain that he would not be comfortable until he left the chair once more. Â
At least Maekar handled most of the remarks. Valarr would speak up when he felt that he had something to suggest of importance, but otherwise, he remained silent, fiddling nervously with his rings.
âAnd what of the Princess?â one foolish councilor demanded, causing both Valarr and Maekar to stare daggers at him. âIt has been too many moons since she left for Dragonstone. She should return here, where the Young Prince remains, for he is still without an heir.â
âYou dare question the choice of my daughter?â Maekar snapped, looking ready to cleave the manâs head clean off his shoulders.
But before Maekar could properly threaten the lord, Valarr stood up from his seat and rested his hands on the table. Staring the lords at the table down with an icy glare, Valarr straightened up, seemingly channeling his father in that moment.
âThe Princess was ill and needed fresh air to recover. Until she returns, which she will when she is able and healthy, her name is not to cross this table with anything other than the proper deference and honor that her station and title afford her.â
The room was silent, minus a few murmurs of agreement from the lords. Valarr, satisfied, resumed his seat and took to fiddling with his rings under the table once more. He grunted out, âI believe that we should discuss the expansion of the trade routes in the east once more.â
The meeting adjourned and Valarr sat quietly in his seat as the lords filed out of the room. Maekar remained seated beside him, staring at the door until it was shut behind the last lord. Neither Valarr nor Maekar spoke for the first few moments that they were alone. Not until Maekar finally found the way to face the image of his brother seated beside him.
âHave you heard from her?â Maekar asked quietly, all of the strength evaporating from his tone.
Valarr shook his head. âOnly a note that she had arrived safely.âÂ
Maekar nodded and the lines on his face seemed to deepen at the knowledge. Turning back to Valarr, Maekar opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated for a moment. Almost as if the pain in his heart had clogged his windpipe.
âYou must go to her.â
Valarr turned to Maekar, almost incredulous, as he sat up in his seat. âShe does not want to see me. Why do you think that she traveled a sea away from me?â
âDo not play a fool.â Maekarâs jaw clicked as his teeth grit together, trying to hold back the emotions that naturally welled at the thought of his brother. âAnd do not punish her for my sins.â
âI . . .â Valarr began to protest, though it died on his tongue a moment later. He stared down at his rings, twisting them around his fingers once more. âI did not intend to.â Valarr bowed his head, letting out a sigh of frustration. âI never meant to hurt her.â
âThen go to her,â Maekar urged once again. âDo not allow her to slip further away.â
Valarr sat quietly, staring at the table. âAnd what if she tells me to return here? Without her?â
âMayhaps you should go and find out for yourself what her reaction will be, rather than stewing in the throes of hypotheticals.â Maekar stared at Valarr, trying to read his expression. âSuch a path will only lead to madness, not resolution. That I can tell you with certainty.â
Maekar stood up from his seat, leaving Valarr alone with his thoughts.
*~*~*~*
âMy lady,â your maid called, bursting into your room as you soaked in a private bath, âyour husband. He is approaching as we speak.â
You stopped lathering yourself and set the soap down. Resting your hands on the edges of the tub, you stared at the fire before turning to your trusted maid. âYou are certain?â
âI am, maâam. He sent a man ahead with the news.â
You nodded and rinsed the soap from your skin. With a sigh, you turned back to your maid. âI suppose you should help me up then. I will have to dress to greet him.â
Meanwhile, Valarr walked up the stairs to Dragonstone. He was nervous, though he did not let it show. He was waiting for you to deny him at the gate. After all, he sent no letter and showed up unannounced, interrupting your private peace after moons of silence between the two of you. Nodding to the guards as they opened the doors, Valarr stepped inside.
A guard stepped forward, bowing to Valarr before straightening up. âThe Princess has indicated that she wishes to greet you in her chambers.â
âThank you.â
Valarr headed up the stairs to your room. Fiddling with his rings once he rounded the corner and saw your door, Valarr let out a breath and stepped forward. He knocked on the door and waited for your affirmative before stepping inside.
You stood with your back to him by the window as you stared out at the waves. Turning around at the sound of his footsteps, you stared up at your husband, who appeared frozen in shock at your appearance. With winter winding down, you had forgone a heavy cloak and allowed your husband to see your full pregnant bump for the first time.
The maesters estimated that you would deliver within a moon or two and there was no possibility of hiding the news from your husband. Valarrâs eyes stared at your belly as his breathing became increasingly shallow. His heart felt like it was going to burst through his ribs.
You stepped towards him, but the reminder that you were not simply a painting on the wall seemed to undo the lock on his knees. Valarr dropped to his knees as you stood before him, tears streaming down his cheeks. You could not join him on the floor, not easily anyways, so you gently rested your hand in his hair, brushing the strands with your fingers.
He grabbed your hand in his own and pressed a shaky kiss to the palm of your hand. You remained silent, allowing Valarr a moment to take in the news.
âI am so sorry,â he whispered out, staring up at you. âI am so sorry, my love.â
âYou are here now,â you replied, brushing his hair once more. âAnd that is all I need.â
Valarr stood up from the floor and engulfed you in a hug. You quickly buried your nose into his chest as he pressed a kiss to your head. The two of you stood in silence, simply rocking to the beats of your hearts, and basking in the warmth of the other.
âHow long?â Valarr asked softly, murmuring into your shoulder.
âI suspected it when we returned to Kingâs Landing.â You trailed your fingers up and down his back. âI feared that the news would strike you down. And if I were to lose the baby . . . I feared that you would never recover.â
âIâm sorry,â Valarr begged you once more, causing you to press a kiss to his cheek. âPlease . . . please, forgive me, my love.â
You rested your hand on his cheek. âI have already forgiven you.â
âYou should not,â he protested shakily.
âAnd yet, I do.â
Pulling him in for a soft kiss, you were relieved at how naturally the two of you seemed to fall into the embrace once again. Valarr cupped the back of your head and gently begged for your touch with each kiss from his lips. He pulled back and rested his forehead against your own, staring into your eyes.
âWhen . . . how long do we have?â
âA moon or two, as the maesters believe.â
âI shall stay here,â Valarr vowed, âuntil the babe is born and your health has returned.â His hand dropped to your bump, gently pressing his palm against the swell.
âWill they not miss you in Kingâs Landing?â
âI do not care,â Valarr remarked, pressing another kiss to your lips. âMy duty is here.â
Tears welled up in your eyes as you pulled him in for another kiss, relieved that your husband had finally returned to you.
*~*~*~*
It was said that Prince Baelor Targaryen was born the moment that his great-grandsire, King Daeron the Good, finally succumbed to the Great Spring Sickness miles away from him in Kingâs Landing. He was named for his grandsire and reportedly bore a striking resemblance to the departed prince, save for the silver hair atop his small head.
His father, warned of the sickness enveloping Kingâs Landing, ordered that the entrances to Dragonstone be shut and sealed until the sickness passed. And when the sickness finally passed and the new king and queen could safely return to Kingâs Landing, the first to greet them at the docks was Prince Maekar, who reportedly wept at the sight of the babe.
Author's note: completely forgot i wrote this lmao
The bath was warm, steam curling through the air and clinging to the stone walls of your private chambers.
Outside, the last light of dusk painted King's Landing in shades of amber and rose, but here there was only the gentle lap of water and the steady beat of your husband's heart beneath your ear.
Valarr's arms wrapped around you from behind, his chest pressed against your back as you both soaked in the heated water. His lips found the curve of your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses against your skin.
The tension of the day, of every day, seemed to melt away in these quiet moments, when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world could not intrude.
"You're quiet tonight, ÄbrazÈłrys," he murmured against you, using the Valyrian endearment he favored when you were alone. Wife. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and you felt him smile as you shivered slightly.
You turned in his arms, water sloshing gently, until you faced him. His dark hair was wet and plastered to his forehead, and that striking streak of silver-gold caught the candlelight like spun moonlight.
You traced your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight roughness where his beard had begun to grow by evening's end, then down to where his pulse beat steady and strong beneath your touch.
"Just tired," you whispered. "I've felt... strange today. Queasy."
His brow furrowed immediately, the lazy contentment in his blue eyes replaced by sharp concern. His hand came up to cup your face, thumb stroking gently across your cheekbone. "Strange how? Should I call for a maester? Is it your stomach? A headache?"
You laughed softly, the sound muffled against his chest as you leaned into him. The warmth of him, the solid reality of his love, it was the only anchor you needed. "Valarr, I feel a bit ill, not dying. Besides, you know what the maesters will say." You pulled back, offering him a wry smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "That my courses are late again, perhaps? They've said that a hundred times."
Something flickered in his expression, pain, quickly masked, but you knew him too well to miss it. He pulled you closer, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your wet hair with infinite gentleness.
"One day," he promised, his voice rough with emotion. "One day, yndysâ"
"I know." You kissed his chest, just above his heart. "I know you believe that."
Two years. Two years you had been married to Valarr Targaryen, and your belly remained empty, your courses as regular as the turning of the moon. Two years without even a hint of a pregnancy, not even a miscarriage to prove that you could conceive. Two years of hope and heartbreak, of seeing the pity in kind eyes and the cruelty in cruel ones.
Two years of rumors.
---
The first time you heard them, you had been walking through the gardens, seeking respite from the stuffy confines of the Keep and the weight of courtly expectations. The roses were in bloom, their scent heavy and sweet, and you had thought to steal a moment of peace before the evening's duties called you back.
You rounded a hedge and caught the tail end of a conversation between two of your ladies-in-waiting. You recognized their voicesâLady Celia, young and pretty and recently wed herself, and Lady Jeyne, older and sharper-tongued, who had served in court since before you arrived.
"...two years is telling, isn't it?" Jeyne was saying, her voice carrying clearly through the afternoon air. "Not even a miscarriage. My sister miscarried twice before she birthed her first, and even that was considered unusual. But nothing? For two years? There has to be something wrong with her."
Celia's voice was softer, hesitant. "Perhaps the prince... perhaps he does not... I mean, if he cannotâ"
"No, no, there's nothing wrong with him." Jeyne laughed, the sound ugly. "I've heard the serving girls talk. He's perfectly capable. It's her. Some women just aren't made for bearing children. It happens."
"But what will happen?" Celia asked. "To their marriage, I mean? The prince needs an heirâthe realm needs an heir. If she's barren..."
You had frozen mid-step, your heart plummeting into your stomach. The words barren, annulment, new wife echoed in your mind, each one a knife. Before you could retreat, before you could compose yourself into the mask of a princess, a voice like winter cut through the air.
"Enough."
Valarr stood behind you, you realized. He must have followed you from the chambers, must have heard everything. His face was cold, controlledâthe face of a prince, not the warm, loving husband you knew. But his eyes... his eyes burned with a fury you had never seen.
The two women went white as milk when they saw him. Celia dropped into a curtsy so low she nearly fell. Jeyne's face lost all its color, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
"You will return to your families," Valarr said, his voice leaving no room for argument. There was no heat in it, no emotion, and that was somehow more terrifying than if he had screamed. "By morning. You will pack your things tonight, and you will be gone before the sun rises. If I hear so much as a whisper of such slander againâfrom anyone, about my wifeâit will not be banishment they face. Am I understood?"
They fled. And then Valarr's arms were around you, his cold prince's mask crumbling as he held you close, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your hair.
"Pay them no mind," he begged you, his lips pressed to your hair, your temple, anywhere he could reach. "They are fools. They know nothing. They are nothing. You are everythingâ"
"But what if they're right?" The words tore from you, raw and bleeding, before you could stop them. You pulled back just enough to look at him, to let him see the tears streaming down your face. "What if I am barren? What if I can never give you children, never give you an heir, neverâ"
He kissed you then, fierce and desperate, swallowing your fears with his lips and his love. When he finally pulled back, his own eyes were wet.
"Then we will have no children," he said, his voice steady despite the tears. "And I will love you just the same. I will love you until my last breath and beyond. I will love you in this life and the next and every life after that. You are mine, Y/N. Not for your womb. Not for your ability to give me heirs. For you. For your laugh. For the way you crinkle your nose when you're annoyed. For the way you hum in your sleep. For you."
---
The rumors never stopped, of course. They simply grew quieter, more insidious. You saw the looks at feasts, the whispers behind fans and goblets, the pity in some eyes and the smug satisfaction in others. You heard the murmurs of annulment and new wife and barren floating through the halls like poisoned butterflies.
But you also saw the way Valarr shut them down. A cold stare here, a sharp word there. Once, a lord who spoke too loudly at a feast about the "prince's unfortunate marriage situation" found himself assigned to the farthest, most miserable post in the Seven Kingdoms within the week. His wife wept. His children wailed. And Valarr watched it all with an expression of stone.
He never told you about that. You heard it from a servant who thought you should know how fiercely your husband protected you.
He protected you. He cherished you. And every month, when your courses came, he held you while you cried and then he held you while you made love, as if he could pour all his love into you and make the pain disappear.
"Next month," he would whisper against your skin, his voice thick with his own unshed tears. "Next month, my love. We'll try again next month. And the month after. And the month after that. For as long as it takes. For forever, if that's what it takes."
And you would believe him, because believing him was easier than believing the whispers. Because loving him was the easiest thing you had ever done, and being loved by him was the greatest gift you had ever received.
---
In the bath, with the warm water soothing your aching body, you tried to push away the queasiness that had plagued you all day. Probably something you ate. Perhaps the fish at supper had been off. Perhaps the heat was too much. There were a hundred explanations, and none of them were the one you had stopped allowing yourself to hope for.
Valarr's hands moved gently along your back, soothing, loving, tracing patterns on your skin that he had memorized long ago. His touch was reverent, as it always was, as if you were something precious and fragile and infinitely worthy of worship.
"You work too hard," he murmured against your shoulder. "You exhaust yourself with duties. You're up before dawn, you don't rest during the day, you attend every function, you smile at every lord and lady who looks down on you." His arms tightened around you.
"Perhaps we should retreat to Dragonstone for a moon. Just the two of us. No court, no duties, no whispers. Just us."
"That would only give the gossips more fuel," you sighed, leaning your head back against his chest. "The prince hiding away his barren wife. She must be even more defective than we thought, if he can't bear to be seen with her."
"Stop." His voice was gentle but firm, and he turned you in his arms so he could look into your eyes. "Do not let them live in your head, my love. They are not worth a single one of your tears. They are not worth a single moment of your peace. You are more than their words. You are more than their cruelty. You are mine, and I will not let them hurt you."
You opened your mouth to respond, to tell him that his love was enough, that you were trying so hard to believe him, that some days you even succeededâ
But the words never came.
Instead, a pain ripped through youâsharp, sudden, agonizing. It seized your lower belly, your womb, with such ferocity that a scream tore from your throat before you could stop it. Your body curled inward, hands flying to your stomach as if you could somehow contain the agony.
"Y/N?" Valarr's hands caught you as you doubled over, the water splashing wildly around you both. His voice was sharp with terror. "Y/N, what is it? What's wrong?"
"Painâ" You gasped, another wave crashing over you, deeper and more intense than the first. "Valarr, it hurtsâsomething's wrongâ"
He was already moving, lifting you from the bath with strength you forgot he possessed. Water streamed from both of you as he carried you to the bed, his face ashen with terror, his arms shaking but steady. He laid you down as gently as if you were made of glass, but even that small movement sent another spike of agony through you.
"Did I hurt you?" he was asking, his voice breaking as he knelt beside the bed, his hands hovering over you, afraid to touch, afraid not to. "Sweetheart, did Iâwas it something I didâin the bath, did Iâ"
You couldn't answer. Another pain, deeper than before, had you curling in on yourself, a keening cry escaping your lips. It felt like something was tearing inside you, something vital and essential, and you clutched at Valarr's hand with desperate strength.
He wrapped a vest around you, his hands trembling so badly he could barely manage the ties, and then he was on his feet and shoutingâscreamingâfor servants, for guards, for a maester.
"NOW!" he roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "GET THE MAESTER NOW! RUN!"
---
The hours that followed were a blur of agony and confusion.
Maester Edric came, his face grave as he examined you. You lay in the bed, sweat soaking your hair, the linens beneath you, pains ripping through you at irregular intervals that made no sense to anyone. Valarr never left your side. He held your hand through every wave of pain, pressed cool cloths to your forehead, whispered words of love and terror in between calling for answers no one could give.
"I can find nothing wrong," the maester said finally, his brow furrowed deep with confusion and frustration. He had examined you twice, three times, each time with the same result. "No fever, no swelling, no sign of injury or illness. Her stomach is soft, not rigid. Her pulse is strong. I... I do not understand."
"Then look again!" Valarr demanded, his voice cracking. He had not slept, had not eaten, had not left your side for a moment. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair a wild mess, his tunic stained with your sweat where he had held you. "She is in agonyâlook again! There must be something! There has to be something!"
They gave you milk of the poppy. It dulled the edges of the pain but did not stop it entirely. You drifted in and out of consciousness, aware of Valarr's voice, of his hand gripping yours, of the whispered fears of servants who thought you were dying.
Dying. The thought floated through your poppy-fogged mind. Was this death? This endless, ripping pain that came in waves like the sea? Was this how it endedânot with a grand tragedy, but with some mysterious illness that even the maesters could not name?
"The Seven are taking her," you heard someone whisperâone of the servants, a woman who had served your household for years. Her voice was thick with tears. "It's a punishment. It must be. For something."
"Hold your tongue!" another voice hissed, but the damage was done.
You saw Valarr's face harden, saw the fury flash through his terror, but he didn't leave your side. He couldn't. He was trapped between his need to protect you and his need to protect your honor, and in the end, you were more important.
"Leave," he said quietly to the room at large. "Everyone except the maester. Now."
They fled. And then it was just you, and Valarr, and the maester who could do nothing but watch you suffer.
"There's something," you gasped during a lucid moment, when the pain had receded enough to allow thought. Your voice was barely a whisper, cracked and broken. "There's somethingâI can feel itâinside meâtrying to come outâ"
Valarr was instantly alert, leaning close. "What? What do you feel?"
"I don't knowâ" Another wave of pain crashed over you, and you screamed, your back arching off the bed. "Somethingâthere's something thereâI can feel itâpleaseâ"
A servant girlâwho had been allowed to stay to fetch water and linensâhurried to look when Valarr gestured frantically. She lifted the sheets, peered between your legs, and then stumbled backward with a sharp intake of breath.
"Gods," she whispered, her face going white as bone. "Gods aboveâ"
"What?" Valarr was on his feet, his heart in his throat. "What is it? What's wrong?"
The girl's face was white as bone, her eyes wide as saucers. She pointed with a trembling hand. "It'sâmy prince, it's a headâthe princess is giving birthâ"
The next hour was chaos and wonder in equal measure.
Maester Edric rushed back in, his composure completely shattered. More servants were called, women who had experience with birth, who knew what to do. Linens, hot water, cloths, all the preparations for a birth that no one had known was coming.
Through it all, Valarr stayed at your side, his face a mask of shock and awe and desperate fear. He held your hand through every contraction, wiped the sweat from your brow, pressed kisses to your temple and whispered words of love and encouragement.
"How?" he kept asking, his voice wondering and terrified all at once. "How did we not know? How did no one know?"
But you knew. You knew, even through the pain, even through the haze of milk of the poppy. Your courses had comeâlight, yes, irregular, but present enough that you had never thought to question. Your belly had remained flat, your weight unchanged, your body showing no signs of the life growing within. You had never felt the quickening, never felt the child move, never experienced any of the symptoms that every book and every woman said you should have felt. A hidden heir. A secret kept so perfectly that even the mother hadn't known.
"The babe is coming," the head midwife announced, her voice calm and professional despite the extraordinary circumstances. "My prince, you may want toâ"
"I'm not leaving." Valarr's voice was steel. "I'm not leaving her. Not for a moment."
And then, with one final, agonizing push that tore a scream from your throat, a new cry filled the room.
Not your cry, a new voice, small and fierce and alive, cutting through the chaos like a ray of sunlight through storm clouds.
Silence fell. Everyone in the room seemed to stop breathing, to stop moving, as the midwife lifted the tiny, squalling bundle.
"A boy," she said, her voice awed. "My prince, my princess... you have a son."
Valarr didn't look at the babe at first. He looked at you, his eyes streaming tears, his face pressed to your sweat-damp hair, his whole body shaking with relief and joy and a love so overwhelming it seemed to fill the entire room.
"You did it," he whispered, his voice broken and beautiful. "You beautiful, perfect, impossible womanâyou did it. You gave me a son. You gave us a son."
The midwife approached, the babe wrapped in clean linen, still crying with the fierce determination of new life. "Would you like to hold him, my princess?"
You nodded, unable to speak, and they placed him in your arms.
He was smallâsmaller than you had expected, though you had no basis for comparisonâand wet-faced from crying, with a tuft of in his tiny head. His eyes were squeezed shut, his little fists clenched, his cries slowly subsiding as he settled against your chest.
Valarr leaned down, one trembling finger reaching out to gently touch that tiny head. His face crumpled, and for the first time since you had known him, your strong, fierce husband wept openly.
"He's perfect," he managed. "He's absolutely perfect. Just like his mother."
You looked up at him, at your husband who had defended you against a kingdom, who had loved you when the world called you barren, who had held you through every disappointment and every fear and never once wavered in his devotion.
"I told you," you whispered, your voice broken but triumphant, a smile spreading across your exhausted face. "I told you there was something wrong with me."
Valarr laughedâa sound of pure, overwhelming joy, bright and free and wonderfulâand kissed you with all the love in his heart. He kissed your lips, your cheeks, your forehead, your hair, each kiss a promise and a prayer and a celebration.
"Nothing wrong with you," he agreed against your lips. "Nothing but perfection. Nothing but miracle. My wife. My love. The mother of my son."
The news spread through the Red Keep like wildfire.
By dawn, the entire castle knew. The princess who was whispered to be barren had given birth in the night, to a healthy son, without anyone even knowing she was with child. The servants who had thought she was dying now spoke of miracles and blessings. The ladies who had whispered behind her back now hurried to offer congratulations, their faces flushed with embarrassment.
And in your chambers, as the first light of dawn crept over King's Landing, you held your son and watched your husband pace the room like a man possessed.
"A son," Valarr kept saying, as if he couldn't quite believe it. "We have a son. I have a son. We have a son."
"You've said that seventeen times now," you teased gently, though your own smile hadn't faded since the babe was placed in your arms.
"And I'll say it seventeen hundred more." He came to sit beside you on the bed, his hand reaching out to stroke the babe's cheek with infinite gentleness. "Have you thought of a name?"
You looked down at the tiny face, peaceful now in sleep, and felt your heart swell with a love so fierce it almost hurt.
"He'll need a cradle," you murmured, suddenly realizing all the things that would need to be done. "And clothesâwe have no clothes for him. And a wet nurseâI don't know if I canâ"
"Shh." Valarr pressed a kiss to your forehead. "All of that will be handled. Right now, you rest. You've done enough for one night." His voice cracked with emotion. "You've done everything."
---
The days that followed were a blur of visitors and well-wishers, of lords and ladies coming to pay their respects to the prince and princess and their miraculous son.
King Daeron II came himself, his aged face bright with joy as he held his first great-grandson. "Auriom," he said, testing the name. "A fine choice. First of his name"
Prince Baelor, Valarr's father, stood tall and proud, his nose wrinkling as he smiled "The boy looks the same as valarr did as a babe," he observed. "And he his mother's strength. He'll go far."
Even the rumors changed. No longer was there talk of annulment and barrenness. Now the whispers were of miracles and blessings, of the Seven's favor shining upon the young prince and his devoted wife. The same ladies who had once pitied you now sought your favor. The lords who had whispered of setting you aside now bowed low and offered congratulations.
You didn't care about any of them. You cared about the tiny life in your arms, and the husband who looked at you as if you had hung the moon and stars.
One night, a week after the birth, you woke to find the cradle empty and your husband standing by the window, holding Aurion in his arms.
You watched them for a long momentâValarr, his dark hair messy, that silver streak catching the moonlight, swaying gently as he hummed a soft Valyrian lullaby to the babe in his arms. His voice was low and sweet, the ancient words wrapping around the quiet room like a blessing.
"Ćños iÄ hĆ«renkon qrinuntys," he sang. "JemÄ« iksis zÄlagon." Light and shadow, my little prince. Forever there is fire.
You must have made a sound, because he turned, his face softening when he saw you awake.
"Couldn't sleep?" you asked softly.
"He was fussing," Valarr said, crossing to sit beside you on the bed. "I didn't want him to wake you. You need your rest."
You reached out, touching his face, feeling the slight stubble on his jaw. "So do you."
He turned his head, kissing your palm. "I can't stop looking at him," he admitted quietly. "I keep thinking... what if we had listened to them? What if I had let the whispers sway me? What if I had let them convince me that you weren't enough?" His voice broke. "I would have missed this. I would have missed him. I would have missed everything that matters."
You moved closer, resting your head against his shoulder, looking down at your son together.
Aurion slept peacefully, his tiny chest rising and falling, one small fist pressed against his cheek.
"You never wavered," you reminded him. "Not once. Even when I doubted myself, you never doubted me."
"Because I know you," Valarr said simply. "I know your heart. I know your soul. I know that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I will spend the rest of my life making sure you know it too."
- valarr targaryen x wife!reader x aerion targaryen
to the realm, your marriage with the young prince is a storybook union worthy of songs. but after tragedies befell you one after another, the love that once seemed effortless begins to fracture... and it doesn't help that another prince has his obsession set on you
genre/warnings:
suggestive, tw. miscarriages, angst, smut, hurt/comfort, mentions of infidelity, arguments, injury and blood in tourney (aka valarr and aerion fighting each other for you), pregnancy, fluff
notes:
wc. 5.8k ! reposted with rewritten & extended scenes! i fell in love with valarr at the first sight really *sigh* and aerion is my sidepiece i loved writing this so i hope you will enjoy it too <3
You and the Young Prince are beloved by many in Kingâs Landing.
Valarr, the gallant heir of House Targaryen, and you, his graceful princess, seem to embody everything the realm hopes for: beauty, devotion, and a love that appears effortless beneath the watchful eyes of the court. You married young, and despite all whispers and warnings the elders told you, both of you were tremendously happy in your marriage.
âA toast to my beloved princessâmy constant strength and guide through another year added to my name!â
His voice would ring proudly through the hall, rich with affection as goblets were lifted in your honor. He would gaze at you with such tenderness afterwards, and anyone with eyes would gasp at the breathtaking show of love.
A love match. Yours was the picture-perfect royal union⊠at least until the tragedies began.
âValarr, Iââ you would choke on your own tears each time you carried a child to term only to lose them before you could ever hold them in your arms.
And every time, he would pull you into his arms.
âIâm sorry⊠Iâm sorry,â he would murmur softly, shushing your sobs as he held you close, mourning the loss just as deeply even as he tried to be your comfort.
A loss that the maesters called misfortune. Another that the septas named the will of the Seven. Each time, the court offered condolences, and each time you and Valarr stood side by side, composed and dignified as a royal couple ought to be.
But grief, no matter how carefully hidden, has a way of changing things.
Behind closed doors, the silences between you began to grow longer. The smiles you once shared became sparser, weighed down by sorrow neither of you quite knew how to speak aloud. Yet before the court, you both still played your roles flawlessly.
Because in Kingâs Landing, the prince and his princess were meant to be perfect.
âYour Grace, do you feel well?â
Your maidâs gentle voice broke through your reverie. You had been staring at the skies above Summerhall for far too long, your gaze distant and unfocused.
You turned to her with a placating smile. âIâm fine, Rose. Come, letâs go.â
Summoned to Summerhall by Prince Baelor, the moment you arrived, Valarr was swept away into discussions with his father and the other men of the court, leaving you with little to do but free time for yourself.
The castle grounds had grown quiet by the late afternoon, most servants busy with their duties. Your steps eventually carried you beyond the courtyards, towards a humble district where smallfolk lived and worked beneath the protection of the castle.
However, your walk was cut short.
An old woman stood near the edge of the road, her back bent with age, her thin hands clutching a bundle of herbs. Yet it was not her frailty that caught your attention.
It was the way unsettling way she stared at you.
Her eyes were too sharp for someone so oldâwatching you with an unsettling intensity. You slowed, uncertainty prickling along your spine, and then the woman spoke:
âThe princess of love and beauty,â she murmured, her voice thin and rasping. âYet cursed with the misfortune of having shadows strangling the brave princeâs sons in her womb.â
A cold shiver crawled down your spine. The words struck like a blade and it felt as though your darkest nightmares had been dragged into the open for the world to see.
You did not stay to hear more.
Your breath came quicker as you fledâ the womanâs voice still echoing, stirring those bleak memories of the silent chambers, the hushed voices of maesters, Valarrâs arms around you while you wept until your body ached.
You only wanted distanceâfrom that witch, from her terrible eyes, from the shame. And in your hasteâ
You collided with someone.
A solid figure stood in your path, and the sudden impact forced a startled breath from your lungs. Strong hands caught your waist before you could fall.
âWell now...â a smooth, velvety voice drawled above you, low with unmistakable amusement. âWhere is the princess rushing off to in such distress?â
You wouldnât mistake that voice for anyone elseâs.
Prince Aerion Targaryen stood before you, tall and imposing as ever, silver hair gleaming in the afternoon light. His grip on your waist was firm enough to keep you from retreating so easily.
âUnhand me, my prince,â you proceeded to say afterwards, and he did. For a three good seconds, he observed the lacy black dress you were wearing, and let out a snort.
âYou are not in mourning. Why do you always wear this unseemly dress?â
His words offended you really. It hadnât even been three moons since you lost your babe, and he dared to ask this?
âI am, in fact, in mourning. Please let me be.â
Aerion snorted again.
âDo not mourn too hard, sweet cousin. A fine fruit can only grow from a good seed. One cannot expect much from⊠defects.â
Your eyes hardened. âWhat are you insinuating?â
âIâm merely suggesting that the fault may not lie with you at all, my princess,â Aerion replied, a thin, cruel smile curving his lips.
Valarrâs face rose unbidden in your mindâhis gentle patience, the way he would tighten his arms around you on the nights he mourned your lost babes. Never once had he spoken a word of blame. Never once had he let you feel alone in it.
The insult burned hotter than if it had been aimed at you.
âYou will hold your tongue, Aerion,â you spat, your voice suddenly sharper, eyes flashing with apparent rage as you didnât bother to address him properly. âYou speak of a prince of the realm. And a far better man than you will ever be.â
Aerionâs smile faltered for the briefest fraction of a second before it returned, colder than before.
âHow fiercely you defend him,â he scoffed. âHow touching.â
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur meant only for you.
âThink about it. If it were me, I surely will not fail you. The blood of the dragon runs stronger in my veins than it ever will in his.â
Talking with Aerion always felt like talking to the wall. You didnât deign him with more response, simply turning on your heel to head back towards the castle.
However, you failed to realize that watchful eyes had taken note of the closeness between you and your cousin-by-law. Only later would you learn that this encounter with Aerion would bring consequences you had never anticipated.
The tale that soon spread was a wild one: you, the princess consort, is having an affair with the Bright Prince himself.
âT-thatâ that is bloody outrageous!â
You paced restlessly in your marital chambers, righteous anger coursed in your veinsâ it wasnât enough that they had insulted you, but to pair your name with that mad prince?
Your husband, calm as ever, only stared at you quietly from his desk.
âYou must not believe that treasonââ you turned to Valarr in a flurry. âThereâs no truth in it! I just stumbled into him while we were at Summerhall, thatâs all!â
Valarr remained silent, studying you as he twirled the quill in his hand. He hadnât voiced any accusation or anything, and it made your heart twist.
âI swear to youââ you pressed on quickly as you approached him, almost breathless now. âI barely spoke to him, and whatever he implied, I shut it down immediatelyââ
Valarr finally set the quill down. The soft tap of it against the desk sounded far too loud as he rose from his chair. His gaze never left yours as he crossed to where you were, and your heart thudded painfully under the weight of that unreadable stare.
He stopped before you, seemingly disregarding whatever it was you were saying, and it was without any warning whenâ
âI would never dishonor you like that, dear husband, you must believe meâ Mmph!â
He pulled you into a sudden, searing kiss.
His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck as though the gesture alone could silence the storm of words tumbling from your sweet lips. You almost gasped, instinctively curling your fingers around his doublet.
It was nothing like the tender kisses you were used to. The kiss was rough, intenseâalmost hungry. His grip tightened slightly at your nape as his mouth claimed yours again and again. The force of it made you stumble a few steps back before he steadied you against him.
When Valarr finally pulled away, he sighed, a haze settling into his gaze.
âI do not wish to speak of my vile cousin, love.â
âBut those rumorsâ I swear it, Iââ
âShush,â Valarr smiled then, pressing a finger on your lips. It was soft at first glance, reassuring evenâyet it did not quite reach his mismatched eyes, which remained dark and distant. âI know.â
Your prince had always been gentle. He had never let anger rule over him, but sometimes you just wished he would. You looked at him sadly as his dashing blue and brown eyes focused solely on you, thinking of everything he had achieved until now.
The realm might think that the heir of Dragonstone had everything handed to him in silver platter, but they had never seen all the effort he put to remain worthy of it. He was the perfect prince to everyone, yet behind closed doors, only you saw the exhaustion he tried to hide, the endless trainings he would endure, the weight of expectations that followed him like a shadow.
And that only made the guilt inside you feel worse, because he had done everything right, except for one flaw. You.
His wife who had not even managed to give him an heir. Worse still, now these boundless whispers of your supposed infidelity threatened to besmirch his name.
You opened your mouth again, still trying to explain, but Valarr didnât let you.
He captured your lips once again.
This time there was no restraint at all. His hands slid to your waist, fingers squeezing your flesh as he pulled you firmly against him, the kiss deepening with a fervor that stole the breath from your lungs. There was urgency in the way he held you nowâsomething restless beneath the calm he had worn only moments ago surfacing unbidden.
âH-husbandââ
âQuiet,â he commanded, lust taking over him, ââah, my princess...â
Before you quite realized what he intended, he guided you backwards... and the edge of his desk pressed suddenly against the backs of your thighs.
With a swift motion he lifted you and bent you forward over its polished surface, the scrolls scattering beneath you. Valarr stepped between your knees, devouring your lips with renewed intensity and forced his tongue inside, even rougher this time.
Where he was usually careful and soft, his hands now held you with a more possessive grip. When he pulled you closer, the tug was harsher. When his lips wandered across your skin, the kisses he left behind were hotter and harder.
He was the only Targaryen prince who knew your body best. He knew where to touch, where to caress, where to lick and suckâ
And what to do to get you nicely warm and ready for him.
âLook at meâ will you?â
He tipped your chin towards him before he entered you in one swift go. The sudden stretch tore a broken cry from your lips as you threw your head back, moaning his name in broken syllables as tears fell from your lashes.
And before long, the chamber fell quiet save for the sounds of your mingled breaths and flesh tangled together, the lamplight flickering softly against the walls as the night became a blur around you.
There would be a grand celebration for King Daeronâs nameday in Kingâs Landing.
The festivities were to last ten days and nights to remind the realm of the strength and prosperity of House Targaryen. Lords and ladies from across the Seven Kingdoms had already begun to arrive, and there would be feasts and a grand tourney held in the kingâs honor.
The first day, however, was reserved for the feast.
The great hall blazed with candlelight, the long tables heavy with roasted meats, fruits, and sweet wines. Music drifted through the hall as servants moved tirelessly between the guests. You sat quietly in your seat, hands folded neatly in your lap as you forced yourself to maintain the composure expected of a princess.
âGreetings to you, my princess...â
And it was impossible not to feel the stares.
Whispers had already traveled faster than ravens through the court, and though everyone only spoke to you in pleasantries and riddles, you could feel the weight of their judgment.
âPay them no mind.â
You looked up when Prince Baelor spoke gently beside you. Your father-in-law regarded you with a kindnessâwith those very same mismatched gaze your husband hadâthat made your throat tighten.
âThe court feeds on foolish gossip,â he continued. âIt will pass soon enough.â
You managed a small, grateful smile. âThank you, Your Grace.â
His reassurance was sincere, and you knew he meant it kindly, but it did little to quiet the shame that lingered in your chest.
As the evening wore on, the musicians eventually struck up a livelier tune. The feast slowly shifted into dancing, couples rising from their seats as the center of the hall cleared.
You watched absently as the first pairs took the floor... but then your breath caught.
Valarr had stepped down from his seat and extended his handânot to you. Kiera of Tyrosh accepted it with a bright smile.
Your fingers curled in your lap as you watched them join the dancers.
Kiera moved gracefully beside him, her gown sweeping across the floor as they turned together. They made a handsome pairâyour composed prince and the elegant daughter of a powerful lord. The lords and ladies in the hall had noticed as well.
âShe suits himâŠâ
âA fitting matchâŠâ
Each word sank into your chest like a needle and the longer you sit here, the more you couldnât bear to watch the dance floor any longer.
Rising quietly from your seat, you began to make your way toward the edge of the hall, hoping to slip away before the sting in your eyes betrayed you, however...
âMy princess.â
You froze. Prince Aerion suddenly appeared before you, his silver hair gleaming beneath the candlelight. He bowed slightly and offered his hand, though the smile that followed was anything but respectful.
âWould you grant me this dance?â
Your first instinct was to refuse, but then you realized too many eyes were already on you. Refusing him openly would only feed the whispers further. Biting back your anger, reluctantly, you placed your hand in his.
Aerion led you to the dance floor, and he drew you into the proper steps with unsettling ease.
âYou look miserable tonight,â he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.
âI am merely tired, my prince,â you replied stiffly and Aerion chuckled, almost tauntingly.
âSuch loyalty to a man who leaves you sitting alone while he dances with another.â
âPrince Valarr is my husband,â you hissed.
âYes,â Aerionâs violet eyes lit with a manic glint, âand yet I cannot help but think you would fare far better with me instead.â
âDo me a favor and cease this nonsense.â
âBut it is true.â His grip tightening slightly at your waist as the dance carried you through another turn. âI would never leave you sitting alone while the court talks about you.â
You said nothing. You simply endured the remainder of the dance in tense silence.
The moment the music ended, you pulled away hurriedly. Without waiting for his reply, you turned and left the hall.
The air in the corridors felt cooler, quieter. You exhaled slowly, hoping the distance from the feast would steady your thoughts. Footsteps sounded behind you to disrupt your newfound peace, however.
âRunning away so quickly?â
You sighed. âAerion, pleaseââ
He followed you down the corridor regardless, his long strides quickly closing the distance. Before you could move again, he stepped in front of you, blocking your path in the empty hall.
âYou avoid me as though I were a monster,â he said with a faint laugh.
âBecause you behave like one,â you snapped.
His smile sharpened. You tried to step past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrists. âAerionâ let go!â
But he did not move. Instead, he pushed you back a step until your shoulders brushed the cold stone wall behind you.
âYou deserve better than that dull, careful cousin of mine.â Aerion leaned closer, his face only a mere inch from yours. âA princess should not waste herself on a dragon who barely burns.â
âI will hear no more of thisâ!â
For a moment, his grip tightened hard enough to bruise, his gaze dark, and the deserted hall suddenly felt far too small.
His hand slid from your wrist to your arm, pressing you firmly against the wall. He leaned down, attempting to seize your lips in a rough kissâ
You turned your head sharply, the contact landing against your neck instead. Panic surged through you as you shoved against his chest.
âAerion, stop!â
Your voice broke into something close to a shriek as you struggled against him. His hold only tightened as he tried again, heedless of your resistance.
. . .
The banquet hall had become suffocating for Valarr too.
While he had asked Kiera of Tyrosh for his first dance, it was out of courtesy since he had been talking to her. What he had not expected was to see you take the floor with Aerion out of all people.
It made him restless, because even though everything was false, the fact that it had become such a rumor in the first place meant he wasnât able to protect you. And lately there had been a strained distance between you he had been meaning to mend too.
His gaze moved across the tables, searching instinctively for you. He was thinking maybe he could excuse both himself and you from the feast and retire to your chambers. When he didnât find you, he stepped out to the corridors.
And that was when he heard it. A muffled cry.
Valarr turned the cornerâ and the sight that greeted him was one he would never have imagined could happen even in his nightmares.
You pinned against the wall, your dress disheveled, tears in your eyes as you struggled against the man holding you in a very compromising position.
Aerion.
For a heartbeat Valarr did not think. Could not think. That was also when the world seemed to narrow into something blindingly redâ
He lunged. His hand seized the back of Aerionâs collar and tore him away from you with brutal force. The sudden motion sent his wretched cousin stumbling back a step before his fist followed like a punishment.
Bam!
The punch landed squarely on his jaw and the Bright Prince staggered under the blow. Valarrâs chest heaved, every muscle in his body coiled tight with rage. For a moment it took everything he had not to strike again.
âValarr!â you gasped, immediately pulling him back. He turned to you only to find your shaking hands and tear-streaked faceâ and the sight made his heart lurch in his chest.
Your husband forced himself to step back towards you as he glared at his kin. His voice, when it came, was tight with restrained fury.
âI will regain my honor tomorrow. At the joust.â
Valarr did not wait for Aerion to answer as he took your hand firmly, and pulled you away from the corridor, leading you back towards your marital chambers.
Behind you, Aerion remained where he stood. His cheek throbbed where the punch had landed, but he barely felt it as much as the sting that burned incessantly in his chest.
Because in his own twisted wayâ
Aerion had already given his heart to you too.
The door to your marital chambers barely closed when Valarr turned to face you and placed both hands on your shoulders, checking you over.
âDid heââ His voice faltered slightly before he forced the words out. âDid Aerion do anything to you?â
You shook your head like a limp puppet, still trying to process what had just happened. The tension in his shoulders loosened only slightly, but it was still there, still burning.
âYou cannot challenge him tomorrow.â You started trembling, realizing the gravity of what he said earlier. âValarr⊠please...â
He clenched his jaw. âHe will answer for what he did.â
âYou cannot do this over me!â Your voice rose despite yourself. âThe entire court will be watching. If something goes wrongââ
âSomething has already gone wrong,â Valarr cut in sharply. âAerion has insulted me. He laid his hands on youâ and you expect me to simply stand by and do nothing?â
âBut you will be in dangerââ
âI will be fine.â
âYou will not!â
Your words echoed in the chamber, and for the first time, you saw how composure slipped from the Young Princeâs face.
âIs your faith in me truly so little?â he questioned, hurt. âDo you truly believe I cannot defeat him in a fair duel?â
âThatâs not what I meanâ he is a monster!â you said quickly, the words tumbling out in distress. The memory of Aerionâs grip on your arm flashed through your mind, followed immediately by the terrible image of Valarr lying bloodied in the arena. Your stomach twisted.
âYouâve seen how he fights. He has never cared for honor in a tourney. He plays foul whenever it suits him. I donât want anything to happen to youââ
âBut I would do anything for you!â
The words burst from him so suddenly, louder than you had ever him yell before, and you fell silent, wide-eyed.
âI cannot stand idly when my cousin dishonors the woman I love and pretend it means nothing!â Valarr continued, his voice sharp. âI cannot watch you be treated like that and remain silent!â
His knuckles curled into tight fists at his sides, the restraint he had always carried now visibly fraying.
âYou think I care about the courtâs whispers?â he went on, quieter now, his gaze on you almost painful. âNo. Let them whisper.â
You shook your head weakly, tears falling. âValarrâŠâ
âI hate how they questioned your honor because of what we have been through, but even that is still better than seeing you in childbed again.â
Valarr looked away briefly, as though gathering the strength to continue. His eyes then returned to yours, heavy with something you had rarely seen from himâraw grief, as he shook his head.
âI will not put you through that again if I could help it. I cannot subject you to that ordeal again. Even if we are to remain childlessâ then so be it.â
His words struck you deep.
âI cannot watch you mourn our lost children again and again.â His blue and brown eyes gleamed with unshed tears. âThe pain you feel⊠I feel it as well. And for all I know, it may be because of me.â
Your heart clenched painfully. This was not what you wanted to hear, and the sight of your composed husband broke down in tears was not something you wanted to see.
âIâm sorry I cannot give you healthy children,â he choked out, voice hoarse. âIâm sorry for taking away the joy that should have been yours. Iâm so, so sorry that our marriage has brought you more grief than happiness. Iâm sorry...â
So this was why he always apologized to you. You couldnât bear it any longer.
Before he could say another word, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms tightly around him.
âDonât say that...â you managed amidst your own tears. âIâm the happiest with you. I could only endure all this with you by my side...â
His arms slowly came around you in return, holding you just as tightlyâas though the two of you were the only things keeping the other from falling apart.
Because after all, before the throne, before the realm and its endless expectationsâ you and Valarr had always been, first and foremost, just two people who loved each other.
âMay the luck of the Seven shine upon all the combatants!â
The tourney started at the crack of dawn. Knights in gilded armor lined the field while the stands overflowed with nobles and commonfolk alike, all eager to witness the spectacle.
You sat stiffly in the royal box beside Prince Baelor. Jousts had never excited you, the thunder of hooves and splintering wood only made your heart pound with dread rather than thrill.
The first round belonged to the lords of the realm. Knights from every corner of Westeros rode proudly into the lists as they tilted against one another. The crowd cheered loudly each time a lance shattered or a poor soul was thrown from his saddle.
Yet you barely watchedâ until a roar suddenly erupted from the crowd.
You looked up just in time to see Aerion lowering his lance after his last winning tilt. Across the field, Ser Leo Tyrell lay sprawled and bloodied in the dust beside his fallen horse.
The crowd cheered wildly as he removed his skull-like helm. Even from afar you could see the cruel curve of his smile. Not long after, he rode toward the royal box, stopping below the platform and looked up at you, making your insides churn uneasily.
âMy princess,â he called smoothly, his eyes catching the morning sun. âPlease grant me your favor.â
You truly hesitated, because you had wished to grant yours for your husband in the first place. But at Baelorâs urging and the knowledge that the house of the dragon must be seen united in front of these people, you relented.
You silently dropped the wreath to his lance, and he grinned in response.
âI shall wear it proudly,â he told you with a smirk.
You forced yourself not to respond. He rode away soon after, leaving murmurs of the audience who wondered why the prince royal was asking the favor of the princess consort of his own cousin in his wake.
The second round of the joust began not long after.
Many combatants gathered at the center of the field, their armor gleaming beneath the growing sunlight, and the herald raised his staff, announcing:
âPrince Valarr of House Targaryen, Heir of Dragonstone, will choose his opponent of the day!â
Valarr came riding into the arena atop his black destrier, his armor dark and polished like obsidian. He looked calmâalmost impossibly soâas he surveyed the line of waiting knights.
Your heart pounded painfully in your chest as you watched your husband rode slowly past the gathered challengers. Then, almost immediately, he lowered his lance and pointed it directly atâ
âPrince Valarr chooses Prince Aerion Brightflame, second son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall!â
Gasps rippled through the stands before they broke into cheers. Prince Baelor beside you exhaled slowly, and you clutched your heart.
Your felt sick to your stomach. He really made good on his promise to Aerion. âNo...â your voice came out in a croak.
Noticing your distress for a while now, Prince Baelor reached over and gently took your hand.
âHe will be fine,â he assured you as you squeezed his palm. You looked at him helplessly, tears already shining in your eyes.
Baelor watched his son ride into position with a thoughtful expression. âMy late wife used to worry like you whenever Valarr entered the lists too,â he said then, a nostalgic smile on his face. âShe would clutch my arm just as tightly.â
His gaze softened when your first tear fell and you hurried to wipe it. As a father, he was glad that his precious son had you to worry about him. He is in good hands, he thought.
Baelor too had taken measures to keep Valarr safe all this time, but he also knew that for better or worse, his son had inherited certain stubbornness from him, especially when he was after something he wanted.
The two royal princes of House Targaryen lowered their visors... and the first tilt began.
Your heart was in your throat as you knew the truth others didnât. Valarr was not the most naturally gifted fighter. While Aerion thrived in the field as though born for it, Valarr had to earn his skills through relentless training and work harder than most to simply match what Aerion could.
And it showed. Each pass forced him to fight to remain upright in his saddle.
For the first three tilts, Valarr and Aerion broke their lances evenly. It was during the fourth tilt that disaster began.
Aerion angled his lance downward toward Valarrâs horse and the impact sent the animal crashing sideways. Your husband fell hard into the dust.
A cry escaped your lips, but before you could even breathe, he was already rising, demanding his right for contest of arms.
The clash of their blades echoed across the arena as they struck again and again. The fight was fierce, relentless, the princes accumulating wounds from each other.
Then Valarr knocked the morningstar from Aerionâs gripâ the crowd roared as the two abandoned their weapons entirelyâ
And they fought with their bare hands.
. . .
Valarrâs head was still ringing from the earlier fall. The world swayed with each breath and he could taste his own blood, but he forced himself to remain standing as he lunged at his vile cousin.
Each time he remembered how he had forced himself on you the night before, his blood boiled, and it was what fueled him upright. However, Aerion was always the better fighterâ his blows came hard and fast, and Valarr had to take several strikes to the face.
They were clearly wearing each other out. Every strike grew heavier, every breath harsher as the fight dragged on beneath the blazing sun.
Then suddenlyâwhether by chance or by the Sevenâs judgmentâAerion stumbled.
And Valarr seized the moment. He surged forward and struck him again and again, every punch driven by the fury he had kept buried from the night before.
Aerion lost his footing and fell into the dirt. Valarr staggered forward, chest heaving, driving his boot sharply into his cousinâs chest.
âYield,â he demanded through ragged breaths. âYield, cousin!â
Aerion glared up at him, his silver hair matted with dust and his own blood, his face badly bruised. For a long moment it seemed he might refuse out of sheer spite as he spat on his boots.
âI yield.â
Done. It is done.
âPrince Valarr is victorious!â
The crowd thundered in cheers, but he barely heard it. His gaze lifted instead towards the royal box.
Towards you, who looked breathtakingly beautiful in the colors of Targaryen crimson and black. Even from the arena floor, he could see the track of tears on your cheeks. His heart warmed so much at the sight of you.
And seeing that, he vowed he would crown you his Queen of Love and Beauty by the time this tourney ended.
âI told you⊠I bloody told you!â
Your voice rang through the chamber as you hovered anxiously beside him.
Valarr sat at the edge of the bed after a maester finished binding another bruise along his ribs and left. Dark blotches were already blooming across his arms and shoulders, and a shallow cut near his mouth had been carefully stitched. Yet he boyishly grinned at your irked face.
âI only wished to win the victorâs laurel,â he said almost innocently, though the faint wince he tried to hide betrayed how sore he truly was.
âFor what?â you demanded, looking pale after enduring days of anxiety that it made your gut not sit well with you, arms crossing over your chest. âSo you could come back marred with bruises from head to toe?â
Valarr merely smiled. Because despite the aches in every limb, the memory of this morning still lingered warmly in his mind.
âI name you, my beloved princess... the Queen of Love and Beauty.â
The gasp had swept through the stands and everyone was stunned in silence before the cheers and well wishes roared the moment he dipped his lance towards you.
He had fought for eight days just for that, pushing his aching body to the edge so the realm could see exactly what he wanted them to see. A prince utterly devoted to his wife.
To Valarr, that alone had been worth every bruise.
But you were still glaring at him.
âAnd what if something worse had happened?â you continued, clearly not ready to forgive him so easily, a hand above your heart. âWhat ifââ
But your words faltered as a sudden wave of nausea rose in your throat, the color draining from your face as your stomach lurched unpleasantly. You placed a hand over your mouth.
âWhat is it?â he started, concern sharpening his voice.
However, you were unable to answer him as the urge to throw up overwhelmed your senses. You turned abruptly, and hurried towards the chamber pot.
Valarr was on his feet instantly despite the protests of his battered body. âMy loveââ
He reached you just as you finished retching, both arms coming to steady you. âAre you unwell?â he asked, alarmed. âHow long have you been feeling ill?â
You wiped your mouth with a trembling hand. The room seemed to sway slightly as you leaned against his bare chest for support. For a moment neither of you spoke as you evened your breath.
It was then that realization dawned on the two of you.
A thoughtâone both of you had not dared to voiceâhung heavily in the air. You remembered that night on his desk, and you almost let out a gasp.
You had gone through this before, and Valarr felt the same fragile spark of hope stir in his chest, but he forced himself to calm down.
Your eyes slowly lifted to meet his, your hands shook slightly as Valarr took them in his own. He held you carefully, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles in quiet reassurance. His mismatched eyes held yours steadily.
âNo matter what happens this time,â he declared, âI would stay beside you. I would take good care of you.â
You had heard his vows beforeâspoken before the gods, before the High Septon, before the realm itself. And never once had Valarr failed to keep his word.
If the Seven chose to bless you this time, then you would welcome the miracle with hope.
And if they did not⊠You would still have him. And he would still have you.
When he pressed a tender kiss to the side of your head, you knew that much was certain.
summary: prince valarr knows his duty as baelorâs heir is to secure the targaryen line and its claim to the iron throne for generations to come. a pretty wife like you has only made the responsibility easier to bear.
valarr targaryen x reader
warnings: smut, quickie, fingering, p in v, mating press, creampie, slight breeding kink.
masterlist
youâd always known your husband to be a dutiful prince, even before you wed; still, valarrâs devotion to siring an heir takes you by surprise. for the second time since morning, heâs sought to have you, seeking you out between his other lessâŠtitillating commitments.
heâd given you time enough only to disrobe before he laid you on your marital bed, his lips pressed against yours in a hungry kiss. his palms roam your skin freely, tracing a path down your body to where you truly need him.
âbut, my prince, the small council meetingââ youâre silenced by your own gasp as his hand slips between your legs, circling your most sensitive spot. you feel the length of his hard cock pressed against your thigh; his urgency clear.
âtheyâll wait,â he mumbles, trailing his lips down your neck.
his finger slides into you with ease, and he works you open gently, until a second digit is met with no resistance. you moan quietly, tangling your hands in his hair and pulling lightly at his silver streak. the prince smiles against your skin, grazing your throat with his teeth as he braces himself on either side of your body with his strong arms.
he aligns himself at your entrance and sinks into you in one graceful motion, his muscles rippling with strain. almost instantly, his head drops into your shoulder, his eyes screwing shut as your warmth envelops him.
âgods, you feel good,â he groans, rocking his hips steadily. your breathing is shallow, hampered by the fullness inside you. the prince quickens his pace as your walls relax around him, biting back another moan when he sees you reach between your bodies to touch yourself.
âiâve been told it canâŠhelp the pregnancy take,â you tell him cautiously, your cheeks hot.
valarrâs mismatched eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide with lust as he watches your self-pleasure. fuck. careful to stay sheathed inside you, he hooks his hands under your thighs and pushes your legs back until youâre completely exposed to him. you whine at the newfound depth, feeling your cunt pulse around him rhythmically.
the new position sets fire coursing through the prince, whose thrusts become harder, unrestrained. your fingers move faster and your soft whines of his name melt into pleas as your belly tightens, your release building dangerously fast. valarr canât help the smugness that tugs at him at the sight of you trembling at your own touch, so visibly overwhelmed by the size of him and his strong hands holding your legs open.
âwaitâvalarr, iâmââ
you cry out abruptly, unable to finish your thought as an orgasm tears through you fast and hot, burning you up from within. your cunt squeezes around him with abandon, the haste of the moment only adding to your arousal.
âfuck,â he rasps, his voice raw and his skin sheened with sweat. heâs fighting his own climax, but the feeling of your walls clamping around him, milking him, is almost too much to bear. yet, you give him no respite; you have a duty to him, after all.
you lock your ankles around his waist and pull him closer to you by the nape of his neck, your fingers coiling through his soft hair. âplease,â you breathe, âcome inside me, my prince. make me yours.â
those words are all it takes; with a deep groan, valarr throws his head back, spilling his seed into you in hot, thick spurts. you feel him twitch inside you as his sensitivity mounts, and when his hips finally stagger to a halt, his body drops onto yours.
his limbs feel molten and his heart rattles in his chest; the temptation to stay like thisâburied inside you, with his face tucked into the crook of your neck and your hands running through his hairâis almost too strong to deny. still, a foggy memory of the small council meeting, to which he was now inexcusably late, drags him out of his bliss.
he sighs heavily and presses a loving kiss to your neck, lifting himself off you with care. you whimper when he slides out of you, the sudden emptiness unfamiliar. tucking your knees to your chest to keep his release inside you, you follow valarr with your eyes as he dresses himself with haste.
âdo you think it worked?â you ask after a moment.
âtime will tell,â he says, fastening his belt. he conceals it, but a smirk pulls at his lips.
the prince makes his way to you again, peering at your exposed cunt and the small droplet of his seed that seeps out of you. thereâs a hint of pride on his faceâsomething he oft tries to suppress, though you know it simmers just beneath the surface.
âuntil then, we will try again. and again. and again. as many times as it takes.â his voice is gentle, but you see fire behind his eyes.
âyouâll carry the blood of the dragon soon enough.â
