#Accounting and Taxation Training Course | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

maryaandmorevna · 3 days ago

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A Song of Swan and Dragons V.

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Summary: Following Princess Rhaenyra as one of her ladies-in-waiting, Arianne Swann was woefully unprepared upon arriving at the Red Keep. No scroll or tome could have captured the astounding amount of gossip that thrived within the Targaryen court. For a mere lady like her, it felt as though she had made a catastrophic blunder before even having the chance to place her pieces on the board.

Yet, if she allowed her heart to guide her—especially toward the man it had chosen—Arianne believed she could endure anything and emerge triumphant. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon would one day be king, and though her father often said that hope was a fool’s errand, she dared to dream she might one day be his queen. If only his boor of an uncle would stop tormenting her.

Chapters: 5/? (59, 462k)

Warnings: safe for now, canon-typical sexism, the story will get progressively darker and will include explicit content, canon character death(s), dubcon, noncon, it's war folks

Tagging my dear @lacebvnny, hope you like it! Also, my dear beta @kyonkyon69!!!

I., II., III., IV.

V. Tōma

“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.”

—William Shakespeare

(Aemond)

Aemond was irked.

He clicked his jaw, following the glaringly pink fabric of Lady Swann's skirts and the crimson end of the girdle trailing along them as she disappeared between the courtiers. Who did the little courtesan think she was?

He cared not for her terrible company!

Aemond was rather attempting to excuse himself as well - his impeccable breeding and station all but forced him to continue conversing with her ladyship - so she did not have to invent an entire little charade to escape him.

There was no doubt in his mind that she understood how the taxation system worked — and that she might have been the only fool to read through Tyland's verbose and entirely tedious treatise.

Why would she waste time on matters of coin? Any Lord worth his salt had a steward to manage accounts and allocate resources. Did she fancy herself a Florence Fossoway?

Aemond scowled.

It was his day that was ruined!

He traced the ornately decorated pommel of his sword. It felt jarringly different than the silken warmth of Arianne Swann's skin.

Targaryen prince groaned and continued on his way. He passed the Grand Hall and went to Holdfast. This was merely a delay. He hated delays.

Of course, he had not meant to seize her wrist, it was —

Simply a momentary lapse of judgment.

His blood was incited from sparring all day.

Well, it was her fault. Infuriating wench, testing his patience and good graces.

He happened upon her as he strode to his chambers for a fresh change of clothes after the morning drills in the training yard. It had been a fairly lucrative morning, though the squires who served as his opponents could not say the same. Not when he had a point to drive home.

Aemond tried to focus on perfecting his techniques, as Cole advised, but the moment he saw those mongrels of his whore-sister, his muscles ticked. Jace and Luke kept to themselves, testing various swords and chatting with knights who were either unaware or cared not, that they were in fact bastards stealing Aemond's birthright.

Aegon's birthright. The One-eyed prince had to remind himself. But by extension, his as well.

At least the younger Lord Strong, a filthy craven, had not dared to stare at him directly. Mayhaps he remembered, Aemond thought while shoving Cole's squire violently to the ground, that he owed him a debt.

A debt of blood that should be repaid in kind.

His useless father, The King, had not even deemed it fit to punish Luke for maiming his son.

"I cannot grow him another eye."

"No," Aemond recalled screaming and weeping while the maester cut his stitches.

"But you could have made it fair. An eye for an eye."

They were observing him, and it only fed Aemond's rage like a fattened lamb.

The squire yielded and the crowd gathered around him cheered.

"My Prince, shall we practice your parrying?" Criston Cole helped the man off the ground.

"Against me, for their sake."

Aemond took the offered shield, fixing his stance. He preferred facing Cole above all, as the man kept him on his toes, leaving no time to ruminate on veritable stupidities — like how Lady Swann's waist had fit so perfectly between his hands.

The way a rogue curl escaped her braided chignon, grazing the soft curve of her neck.

"It is merely practice." Criston paused after taking the blow from Aemond's vehement riposte.

"What weighs on your mind?"

He lowered his sword.

Aemond held his answer at bay — his sharp eye flicking toward Lucerys Velaryon, who was fruitlessly attempting to knock a weapon out of his brother's hand.

The older bastard at least knew how to fight properly.

What little challenge would it be to duel the bastard who took his eye! He could settle his grievance with one strike of his blade to the bastard's neck.

Alas, his mother had her own designs that required restraint.

"They will not be here for long."

Aemond stared at Cole, his silvery eyebrow twitching. He loathed not being privy to everything discussed behind the council chamber's double doors.

"Mother decided to welcome Vaemond Velaryon. He will petition for Driftmark's seat. Successfully."

Ser Criston fixed his padded gambeson, unwilling to commit to words.

His subdued reaction only confirmed it to Aemond — the theory that had crawled through his gritted teeth was indeed correct.

Their parrying continued, though the One-eyed Prince's thoughts veered like a warhorse.

What happy occurrence in this blighted world would it be — the bastards being stripped of the things they unlawfully seized as theirs and Rhaenyra shown for what she truly was. An old whore hiding on Dragonstone, where the Realm cannot witness her depravity.

Aegon's birthright would be restored. A bitter reminder flitted through his mind — Aegon would not even care. Just as he did not care when he shamed Helaena with his revels and his whores.

"Her Grace, the Queen will be fair in her judgment. As will your grandsire." Cole concurred.

Certainly, they will. The corner of Aemond's shapely mouth twisted. Depending on the number of Lords they might alienate.

He raised his shield high to defend against the blow. Cole made a quick turn and struck again, from the left — almost forcing him off balance.

The One-eyed prince cursed and repositioned himself.

It would serve that proud wench right if his nephew's true parentage were discussed publicly.

He cleared the sweat from his forehead.

A bastard and whore's granddaughter. What a lovely pair.

Aemond blocked Criston's diagonal strike and huffed.

What did he care about what happened to Saera's granddaughter? Her insult from last night was dealt with — his blood burned while he lectured the custodian to keep better watch over rare tomes — and he resolved not to spare a thought on her anymore.

She was nothing. A hayseed from the Marches.

Once Criston concluded they were done for today, Aemond's left arm trembled from holding a heavy shield steady under hundreds of blows.

He went to the armory to clean his blade until he could discern his visage in the polished metal.

His fingers hovered over the scar that split his right cheek in two. The deep red gash tugged at his attention, the rough ridge of it an ever-present reminder of that night. He often envisioned himself doling out justice for his mauling, his fingers bloody from tearing the disgusting bastard's eye out.

Fair.

He could gift it to his mother, a payment for her suffering long overdue.

She had wept over his loss, his disfigurement.

She had raged and raged but to no avail. His eye was gone and no one answered for it.

Alicent Hightower was not of the blood of the dragon and so Aemond could not blame her for failing to realize the sacrifice was worth it.

Vhagar was worth an eye, an arm, a leg — anything to him.

"You are still my handsome boy, Aemond. My loyal child."

She had cradled his face in her warm hands, her thumbs gliding softly over his cheeks.

"You are my son, the king's trueborn son. A scar does not change this." Her touch lingered at his temple, her thumb brushing over his brow in gentle strokes. Aemond buried his face into his mother's shoulder — careful to avoid pressing against the wound, still oozing through the bandages — and inhaled the myrrh and rose her hair was perfumed with.

How much he adored the comfort of those thick, curling strands.

When he was a babe, he would tug at the ringlets, watching them spring back into place.

"An eye will not change this."

Alicent had promised, fingers pressing into his shoulders, grounding him.

"When the time comes for marriage, you will not lack for prospects. This changes nothing—" She shook him lightly as if she somehow knew Aegon had taunted him that he was now frightening maidens with his face. Aemond wanted to tell her that he cared not because it meant he frightened their enemies too.

"You will have the loveliest lady at court, if you wish it." The Queen promised.

"They will see me cold in my grave before I let them diminish you."

Aemond pulled away slightly, frowning.

"What does that matter?" he asked quietly.

"I will wed as is my duty. I care not whom."

His chest ached as he witnessed the unadulterated pride brimming in his mother's eyes.

Yet now, years later, he tried to ignore the most rotten of thoughts. It could be this — this defect, this ugliness—that had kept lady Arianne from accepting his invitation.

The eyepatch hugging the contours of his face hid the worst of it.

He scowled at himself.

This was imbecilic.

After all, he was a man, not some fragile creature to be undone by a mark.

Not to mention, Aemond did notice the occasional lady casting bashful glances his way, batting their eyelashes — and, if they managed to exchange words, flattering his Valyrian looks and his skill with the sword. It was the Targaryen Prince himself who ensured their aspirations advanced no further.

He would be damned by the Seven before allowing some vapid, sycophantic harlot to elevate herself at his expense.

It was past midday meal when he departed the training grounds, climbing stone steps and passing several spacious hallways on his way to the Holdfast.

It was rather happenstance that he decided to take a shortcut through one of the inner courtyards.

How could the gods force him to suffer her presence after the humiliation she had caused him?

Arianne Swann stumbled upon his path serendipitously because he was determined to avoid her and waste no thought on her after last night.

She was crying.

Red-faced and trembling, she was rushing along the colonnade, the hem of her pink woolen dress swishing frantically around her ankles.

Aemond found himself leaning against the cool marble pillar, his pale eye taking in the way her luxuriant curls tumbled in disarray, glinting like auburn embers under the shifting light.

The longest strands reached her svelte waist, adorned with a ruby-red silk girdle, the color of flame and fire.

Its sheen was as bold as blood, sashaying down her skirts.

When he saw her trip over her own feet, Aemond could not stop himself. His throat moved before reason could restrain him.

She was amusingly furious. Did she think he would deny it?

He wanted her to know. To understand that no one could slight him and walk away unscathed.

Least of all, a mere woman of no consequence.

She pointed her dainty finger at him, as though she had a right to demand anything of him, her sovereign — and Aemond's blood sang.

It surged through his veins, like molten fire, an intoxicating rush that dried his mouth. His good sense was affected by something primal, something he couldn’t name, coiling deep in his chest like a serpent.

Arianne Swann was a slight, delicate thing, with dark long lashes and a heart-shaped mouth — an infuriatingly insolent mouth.

What admirable mettle, to insult him to his face.

“Malevolent arse!” she hissed, venom dripping from every syllable. He couldn’t help but think that perhaps it was her grandmother's blood that burned so hotly within her. So alike his own.

He resolved to have this matter finished after last night — after making sure she paid for her transgression of refusing his generous offer — and here she was again, forcing the most distasteful thoughts to occupy his mind.

Aemond had more important matters to deal with than this unwelcome fancy. Finding a way to gouge the bastard's eye out without angering his mother, for starters.

He did not need this courtesan diverting his attention from enemies that were now occupying half the Holdfast.

A beguiling little spitfire pretending to be an innocent swan.

He was being sent to hell, in High-Valyrian no less. A tongue that, for him, was as familiar as his own breath.

She had formed the sentence correctly, yet her accent was downright atrocious.

Aemond’s lips curved faintly at the sound despite himself.

He knew he should have chastised her for it, but at that moment, his afflicted reason found her strange pronunciation oddly endearing— unpolished and wild, like a hatchling flailing through its first flight.

Something febrile and voracious twisted in his chest when Arianne, emboldened by her not-so-righteous fury, invaded his space. He could not be the only one afflicted by this unreasonable pull. Why else would she dare tread so close?

One-eyed Prince felt the heat of her proximity, the fierce determination in her eyes, and it ignited something far darker within him.

He wanted to bed her.

Even worse, he desired to listen to her harangue about the Siege of Norvos and discover a new expletive she would bestow him with after, inevitably, he corrected her flawed understanding of archaic High Valyrian.

His hand twitched at his side, every muscle in his body demanding action, and before he could think, his arm shot out to capture hers.

His fingers closed around her delicate wrist, more carefully than he cared to admit. Arianne Swann was just a woman, and he did not think he could derive pleasure from injuring one of her kind.

He was no Aegon.

The sudden contact was like a shock of cold fire, setting his skin alight.

She prattled about Iron Islands as if she did not understand what he implied less civilized men would take from her.

Was she so sheltered as to not understand that if men like himself did not keep order her life would have been miserable?

Aemond released her, irked that he was spurred into such an undignified reaction.

She ought to be thanking him, a trueborn Targaryen prince, rather than antagonizing him — his family was the protector of the Realm.

Rather than provoking him with that Lyseni-looking silk accentuating her waist.

Aemond examined the offensive fabric, sliding his thumb over its texture.

Blood was everything to Valyrians, and blood was red, ruby-red, and scorching.

Did she know? There should have been copies on Dragonstone, but with her lack of High-Valyrian...

He knew though.

Aemond pored over a multitude of scrolls pertaining to the Freehold. Some were brought by Aenar himself when he came to Dragonstone.

Before the doom, crimson girdles were bestowed by the Archon of Oros, a dragonlord from one of the twoscore ruling families, to his favorite wife — or his most prized concubine.

The girdle was a symbol of devotion, a mark of the highest favor, worn to signify one’s status as the most cherished of all.

It spread to Lys over time.

What business did it have draped around Arianne Swann's waist?

She was a nobody. She could not have known —

His lip curled with distaste, though his pulse quickened.

Did his bastard nephew know this? Was it a token of affection? Pathetic, really —

It was a flash of caustic spite that brought the insult — a Lyseni courtesan — to his throat, shoving it through his vocal cords.

Aemond saw the way her hand tightened, the flush painting her cheeks.

She was rattled, he could tell.

Would her cheeks color further, he wondered — the thought came with an almost shocking intensity — if he were to unwrap that silk from her waist, to feel its smoothness slip through his fingers, to see it fall away from her body, revealing what lay beneath.

No —

The sheer stupidity of lust astounded him.

Yet, as his disciplined reason rejected further musing on claiming Lady Arianne as his mistress, his blood thrummed at the thought.

The image of her, unwrapped, lying bare and pliant, seared through his thoughts with an unsettling fervor.

The One-eyed Prince didn’t want to allow her this leverage. To grant her residence inside his thoughts would be akin to a defeat.

He barely knew her — except that she had fun while playing cyvasse, and that she read Gawen, Gawen for fuck's sake, one of his favorite accounts on the Conqueror's reign, and thought a hundred dragons descending on Quarlon was worth losing sleep over.

He barely knew her and his instincts demanded he shove a dagger through the side of Tyland Lannister's neck.

She feigned ignorance, but he was not so naive as to believe she could pore over a scroll detailing the benefits of seigniorage while failing to understand taxation.

Aemond's jaw clicked.

Did she play the simple, devoted maiden for his nephew too? That would explain why the gossipers simpered how lovely a couple they made.

The One-eyed Prince stomped to the Queen's apartments.

Couldn't she have pretended simple for him too? That way he wouldn't have spared another thought for her. The Court was full of simpletons, some of them women, and he never felt anything but disdain for them.

"Prince Aemond, Your Grace."

The Kingsguard announced him before he entered the Queen's drawing room.

"Aemond." Alicent rose to her feet from where she sat, discussing matters with the Hand. The rich emerald folds of her gown shimmered with gold-threaded embroidery, tracing delicate patterns of fiddlehead ferns spiraling down the long, draping sleeves.

Her hands squeezed at his forearms gently, yet Aemond felt their reassurance nonetheless.

"Mother."

His tone softened.

"Grandsire," Aemond greeted, nodding toward the tall, commanding figure reclining on the chaise.

"Where is your brother?" Otto Hightower inquired, his voice measured but edged with expectation.

Drinking himself half to death, or dirtying the sheets of some whore.

"I reckon you know it better than I do." The Prince declared levelly.

Aegon was predictable if anything.

He would disappear for days at a time, and then re-emerge — filthy, hungover, his coin purse emptied. They should have never made his sweet sister marry the moron.

Alicent shook her head. After a pause, she turned to him once again.

"We will hold the petition over Driftmark's inheritance. One moon from now—"

"I know," Aemond interjected. "You were not going to let this opportunity slip when Vaemond Velaryon himself presented it."

The Queen's face bloomed with quiet worry, subtle yet unmistakable.

"While those people are here, you must look after Aegon. If he were to be discredited in any way —"

"I always do," Aemond replied, his voice even as a wave of bitterness lapped at his innards. He would, of course, ever the wastrel's loyal shadow.

The dutiful soldier.

Protecting his brother was a burden as constant as it was unwelcome. If only they could see that Aegon would never change, that he would have been a much better fit —

"Go on then, grandson." Otto dismissed him. "We have more matters to discuss."

Aemond's nostrils flared.

"What about the Strongs? Their very presence defiles the Keep. Rhaenyra flaunts them openly as if daring us to speak the truth!" He sneered.

"They ought to be thrown into the Blackwater Bay."

Alicent shook her head.

The One-eyed Prince was irked by their restraint. Lucerys Velaryon, the bastard who owed him a debt, was here. When will the debt be paid?

"You will do no such thing." The Hand's tone turned sharp, brooking no argument.

"This is not the time for rashness, boy."

"Aemond understands that." his mother interjected gently — her fingers brushing lightly against her son's upper arm in a fleeting, grounding touch.

"He has never faltered in his duties to the family and the crown."

The praise washed over the One-eyed Prince like a warm bath — stirring some desperate yearning he could never quite silence.

Aemond blinked.

The warmth evaporated when his gaze returned to his grandsire, made cold by the bitter truth. No amount of loyalty or sacrifice would change his place with Aegon.

"Nor will he." Otto set the goblet on the small table.

"Borros Baratheon is yet to have a male heir. Jason Lannister has five unwed daughters. Your hand, boy, might just become a very valuable tool in winning those to our side."

Aemond opened his mouth, but no words came. A tight pull settled beneath his ribs, uncomfortable and unyielding, as though something ancient within him bristled at the thought.

Vhagar was awake.

"Mother. Grandsire."

He inclined his head stiffly, excusing himself from the room.

Servants bowed low as he strode past, their eyes carefully averted. A familiar throbbing in his left temple only infuriated him more.

Marry Borros Baratheon's daughter!? Solely so a son he sires upon her can be named as an heir to Storm's End — not even to carry a Targaryen name.

His firstborn son, continuing a legacy not his own!

The indignity gnawed at the inside of his skull.

He, a trueborn prince of the valyrian blood, condemned to live as a mere consort, awaiting the day their son would come of age to wield authority?

It punctured a wound in his pride so deep he shook from it.

The pain behind his left eye socket intensified.

Aemond did not even particularly wish to be married — not to some stranger, some lady fearful of his scar or too awed by his prestige. He already despised this unknown woman simply because he would have to bother with her feminine sensibilities.

Besides, who would look after Mother and Helaena if he were to be sent away to play husband to some frigid wench?

Who else would protect them? Aegon?

When he reached his chambers, he yanked off his boots with swift, irritated motions.

The bed dipped beneath his weight as he sank onto it.

For a brief moment, Aemond's sore muscles flooded with a rare, primal contentment.

Vhagar must have been devouring something to her liking — he felt the sharp pull of her voraciousness through their bond.

A living, undulating line beginning somewhere in the pool of his consciousness, puncturing through the back of his skull, and ending beneath the emerald scales.

Vhagar was his, the only creature who had ever truly recognized his worth, his grasping blood. A dragon had chosen him, after years of mockery and humiliation.

And not just any dragon — Visenya’s pride and joy, a beast unlike any other, fiercer and mightier than all her living kin.

He had been prepared to face death that windy night on Driftmark — to face her fire and ruin and be torn asunder by it, when she closed her gargantuan maws and allowed him to climb onto the saddle.

Vhagar claimed him, just as he claimed her.

Another wave of pain blossomed behind his temple, searing and relentless, crawling down his cheekbone like molten iron. His eye socket throbbed, rebelling against the cold touch of the jewel lodged within.

Aemond could practically hear her roaring from a shared ache.

With a weary sigh, he reached up and removed the eyepatch, setting it aside.

What use would siring sons even serve? For them to watch their birthright stolen by a whore of his sister and her bastards.

Aemond's jaw tightened at the thought, bile picking at his insides.

His thoughts flitted to Arianne Swann. To her green eyes and ruby-red silk hugging her svelte waist.

He shook his head sharply, as though the motion could banish the image.

For a while, he thought of nothing, following the pulsating pain in his left temple.

Those first weeks after the injury were nothing short of a nightmare — the gaping hole had to be cleaned constantly, and there was only so much milk of the poppy a boy of ten and two could take.

Three grown men had to hold him down as the Grand Maester scraped and scoured the raw flesh.

Helaena would bring him strawberries and fruit tarts after, and even Aegon could not find anything to laugh about for a few hours.

The first time they tried to fit the gemstone into the healed wound, Aemond shrieked so loudly that his agony echoed all the way down to the black cells beneath the Keep.

Missing straw dummies with a sword and being told it is what it is, boy, you've lost an eye was worse than the pain.

Aemond could not accept that.

A man who rode the largest dragon in the world could not be a weakling.

Day after day, he escaped to the training yard, despite his mother's protests. Even if it meant he now found himself worse than Aegon and his lickspittles — the young squires who fawned over his brother and followed his every word.

He snuck out even after the evening meals to the gardens of the West Wing, face still wrapped to keep his wound safe from the dirt, a cloak over his hair — probably the single useful thing Aegon ever taught him.

There, far from the laughter of the other boys and his mother's worried gaze, he practiced striking the tree bark, undisturbed, as the West Wing was mainly used to host visiting lords who had business with the Crown.

One time some sniveling girl-child almost ruined his little scheme. Her dress was black— some childish frock— and her hair bound in a net. At first, Aemond thought she might be a novice of the Faith.

Annoying as she was, asking him if he was crying — "I am not crying, you stupid toad! Leave me alone!" — she did give him his lucky handkerchief.

It was a rather ridiculous notion, as he did not believe in such things.

Yet, the day after he hit the straw dummy three times in a row, and the Grand Maester finally concluded the cleanings, torments were no longer required.

So he kept the stupid handkerchief, carrying it with him until he became someone who needed not something as fickle as a stroke of luck to beat anyone.

Aemond groaned at the insistent throbbing now circling his entire head.

It flared less these days, his eye socket adjusting to the pressure of a cold, smooth jewel pressed against its flesh at last.

But it was rather stubborn tonight. Trickling down his cheekbone and denying him rest.

Aemond wasted the night chasing sleep, limbs tangled in sheets.

Thoughts blurred into fragments — he felt the icy sting of air as he soared leagues above the earth, the cold bite of a blade slicing across his cheek, the unyielding weight of a sword in his grip, the fragility of a wrist caught between his fingertips, the heady rush of victory, and the clout of vēzos rhaenisar.

Rest eluded him, slipping further from his grasp with every passing moment.

By the hour of the wolf, his frustration spilled over like a roaring volcano.

He shoved the sheets to the floor and rose from the bed, bare feet striking the cold stone.

He had not touched the milk of the poppy in months, priding himself on withstanding pain without it — but it seemed now he would have to, lest the first light find him tired and haunted.

Only half a cup. No more than once per moon. Never more than half a cup.

Only the weak —

One day, he would collect his debt.

The One-eyed Prince succumbed to rest and woke in time for sword practice. Though without memory of the strange, disjointed poppy-induced dreams.

Lady Arianne crying because her crimson girdle does not fit.

Her belly swollen with a child.

Bastard's bastard.

A malformed little wyvern.

Bastard's bastard's bastard's —

The child has silver hair.

The noose tightens—around Aegon's neck. Around Helaena's neck. Around his mother's neck.

His—

Dark Sister is crimson with his family's blood. He is better, better —

Daemon lies dead with Aemond's sword in his throat.

He is plucking Lucerys Velaryon's eye out. It rests in his palm, slimy and round.

Arianne Swann tells him to go to Seven Hells.

Tells him the child is his.

Tells him he looks handsome with the iron and ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror resting upon his head.

And then, with inexplicable certainty, he is wrapping a silken girdle around her waist, as red as blood coursing relentlessly through their veins.

(Arianne)

' Dearest father, I have some news —'

Arianne stared at the parchment for some time before deciding to crumple it and add it to a growing pile of discarded letters.

'My beloved papa, some unsavory development —'

'—Please do consider that I am the one who is informing you.'

" I cannot tell him! Or mother!" She crowed in frustration. The first light meant she would have to leave her chambers soon.

What awaited her was a daunting list of duties to be performed impeccably.

Arianne could not afford any mistakes after yesterday.

She would prove to Rhaenyra that she was the best possible good daughter she could have asked for. If only keeping away from Jace was that easy.

What was she supposed to tell him? Who was she supposed to attend banquets with? Some other man?

Her father's letter was curt and lacked instructions on how she should proceed regarding possible betrothal. Donnel Swann was clearly occupied with something. Arianne just wished he had told her what it was.

"I swear it is only a vile slander." She muttered, dipping her quill into the ink.

"I should write that in the letter."

Miriam clicked her tongue.

She was busy braiding her lady's hair into a simple, long plait.

"You did have the book you were not supposed to have here."

Arianne huffed.

"I did not steal it! That evil...bothersome Aemond lied!" Her voice soared into a grating shriek. Arianne tossed the quill, crafted from a goose feather, and clamped the ink pot shut.

She needed to replace her quill, it was getting rather dull.

She had one made with swan feather, but loathed to put it to use as quills of swan feathers were the best and sought-after by scribes for their durability and fine tips. Stonehelm boasted no less than five and ten lakes on its lands, making it one of the only areas in the Red Watch — and the entire Stormlands — fit for the large bird on the Coat of Arms of her house.

The Slayne rushed nearby — violent and so very wide — towards the Sea of Dorne.

Arianne would sometimes fall asleep to the clashing sounds of the river's gurgle and the storm-carried waves crashing against the stony shoreline.

She had not realized how much she missed the simplicity of her home.

"I've heard that name a dozen times since yesterday." Miriam interrupted her musings with an exasperated sigh.

"And you will hear it more!" Arianne hissed. "How have I offended the Gods for them to send me that...that Stygai demon to humiliate me! Princess Rhaenyra now holds me to be a corrupting influence upon Jace!"

Aemond.

Gods, what an annoying twat with an annoying name. Self-important, duplicitous slanderer!

"Who is he again to Prince Jacaerys?" Her maid stroked her chin questioningly.

"These Targaryens have strange family trees—"

"An Uncle."

The curt reply had Miriam's countenance settle into puzzlement.

"Ought you not be on good terms with him then?"

Arianne glared at her.

She wanted to inform her father of other things, though. Her conversation with Ser Tyland Lannister proved most enlightening. The ideas he peddled in his treatise had merit in her opinion.

Arianne knew Lord Donnel would certainly dismiss her taxation proposals for their vassals — he preferred things to be done as they always had been.

Undeterred, she reopened her ink pot and set to writing her musings.

We could implement a variable tax rate— adjust it depending on the harvest yield — to ease the burden on the smallfolk in lean years and collect surplus revenue in good ones. That surplus, in turn, could be reinvested...in our case constructing irrigation channels to draw water from the Slayne and boost the fertility of our rather poor fields.

Arianne frowned as she considered the idea—it sounded like something a mad maester might propose.

Levies were fixed obligations, the dues a vassal owed his liege in exchange for protection and governance. They were not meant to fluctuate with a vassal's own fortunes.

A droplet of ink fell from the tip of her feather, slowly spreading across parchment like a shadow.

But easing the burden in lean years would be beneficial, because...Taxing already burdened smallfolk would only strip them of the meager resources they need to secure food and invest in their own productivity. A hungry man only obeys one lord, his stomach. It could incite riots.

She could discuss this with Jace at least, he would not call her mad or deem her presumptuous. And perhaps, comforting as it was, she was not the only one inspired by Tyland's treatise.

One day, when she becomes Queen — If, Arianne, it is very uncertain if — she will fight tirelessly to implement laws and reforms that will benefit the Realm.

"You should eat." Miriam plopped onto her bed, rubbing her eyes.

Arianne folded the parchment, deciding to finish the letter in the evening, and grabbed a few bites of cheese and freshly baked bread.

She spent the morning debating about silk quality with Lady Celtigar. In the end, they came to an accord — Princess Rhaenyra needed both the purple and the blue. Her dresses should be the richest in the realm. A message must be sent.

Arianne had not seen Jace since yesterday. Since her princess told her her son was fond of her.

It was a problem, apparently.

"She will be my betrothed."

As soon as her heart leaped with girlish hope, the dim, harsh, unforgiving voice of the future queen quashed it down.

"Dragon's blood runs hot — do not encourage him. His heart belongs to the Seven Kingdoms."

Arianne pursed her lips.

Seven Kingdoms could not love him back as she could.

And her heart was capable of loving both him and the land, she was sure of it.

They had not done anything uncouth, and she firmly believed she was not encouraging him to disregard his duties.

Besides, if their betrothal happened, would it not be preferable they were fond of each other?

Arianne moved through the hallway quickly, her thoughts consumed with a thousand things at once. Well, she did have to figure out solutions to more than a few problems.

First, her image among the courtiers. Yesterday's lapse could not be allowed to happen again. She will heed Rhaena's advice to the best of her ability. In the future, they will know her for herself, not for things she could neither choose nor have any control over.

There, somewhere, far from the shadow of Saera Targaryen's legacy looming over her, far from the dreadful reality of some unnamed, boring, ugly husband, there existed an idyllic life by Jace's side.

Arianne saw herself, sitting in a dress of rich, dark brocade embroidered with both swans and dragons — surrounded by a coterie of lords and ladies while they discussed matters of governance.

One day, she would fill the Keep with maesters, philosophers, and esteemed septons.

With the Queen's authority, she could invite Selyssa Morrane — a renowned woman philosopher from Braavos known for her argument that the rigid, singular conception of self is the root of suffering — to enrich the halcyon courtly life Arianne envisioned.

She waited outside the library for the younger princes.

It reminded her of the second problem, the book problem.

It seemed that, for now, her misfortune with The Fires of the Freehold was not a subject of gossip — and for a few who had asked her, she feigned shock and mortification. 'How could I have ever gotten my hands on a tome of such rarity, my lady Broome. I would not understand anything!'

Yet it was not what weighed on her mind.

It was the third problem. Rhaenyra's approval.

Was it truly so damning that Jace might feel something for her — a twinkle of something she dared not to name, lest she commit a sin of desire.

Yes, a voice as austere as her mother’s whispered in the back of her mind. It would be damning if the Crown Princess intended to wed you to Prince Joffrey once he came of age instead.

The Seven would not look kindly upon a woman who longed for one brother while being bound to another.

The songs never ended well for those caught between kin.

A midday meal had already passed when she made her way to the Royal Sept.

Arianne crossed the yard, gathering her unembellished skirts so as to not dirty the hem.

She opted for a modest attire of dark grey — the same woolen frock she arrived in.

The Sept was a circular structure, situated near the stables, but towering over them.

It was larger than the one in Stonehelm, with high windows and twelve rows of benches for worshippers to pray and contemplate on the Seven's mercy.

She lit a candle at the Mother's altar, praying for her family — guard them while they journeyed on the Kingsroad, shield them from bandits and other unsavory folk.

Arianne glanced up at the high vaulted ceiling, wondering if some of the mercy could fall on her before standing up.

Next to the marble altar of the Mother was the Father's statue. She watched as the flame flickered on a newly lit candle, before lowering herself on her knees.

Arianne prayed he judged her justly for she was no thief.

She prayed he judged Aemond Targaryen for telling lies. For accusing her of...gallivanting around the Keep. He unfairly labeled her a hussy!

Arianne mentioned all the insults he so cruelly spat at her to the Father Above, including mocking her dress, saying it was not decent (it was!), and comparing her to strawberry tart. How rude!

She blinked several times before glancing up at the tall, marble statue.

Judge us all justly Father Above, and punish his rotten, hideous heart!

She could still feel the weight of the One-eyed Prince's attention, pressing against her spine like an overly-tight girdle.

What satisfaction had it given him to meddle in her affairs? To make her stand before Rhaenyra like a common thief and bear witness to her princess' disapproval?

Arianne realized she would constantly have to be wary of Rhaenyra’s caution — it tightened like an iron chain about her neck. Would she ever be allowed the honor of Jace escorting her to feasts again?

'I do not wish to marry some other lord. I want to marry Jace.'

Praying to the Crone was a fleeting rite. She merely begged for wisdom, since her usual route to solving problems was barred to her here. Ever had Arianne sought solace in the library’s tomes, where the wit of greater minds offered practical solutions to most things.

She lit another candle and placed it among the melting vax underneath the Maiden's feet.

'It is your day soon, Fair Maiden. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon is dear to my heart. But if that is too presumptuous of me... if he is not to be mine, grant me a husband worthy of reverence....who is not too old, who is diligent in his studies, and sharp of mind. Please not a simpleton like Bryen Caron.'

Arianne swallowed.

'Please, Fair Maiden. A husband whose loyalty would not falter with shifting winds. Of noble blood and good House. A warrior who faces peril without flinching, for what good is a lord who cannot protect what he loves?'

Her chest rose and fell with a long breath.

Such things mattered to women of the Marches, where steel was as common as a song, and men were measured by their readiness to defend what was theirs.

She bit her lip, hesitant. 'Tall, if it pleases you Maiden... and not cursed with a face that frightens horses.'

The flicker of a smile tugged at her lips, fleeting as the candlelight.

'Not a boy like Joffrey Velaryon or Eddard Leygood. I do not wish to wait years to be kissed! Oh, Fair Maiden...I would truly need him to command power — if it is not a sin of ambition to seek so — because, well, if he cannot reign in our vassals, they will run as they please and diminish our lands...'

She pouted.

'At least he ought to compel them to heed my counsel and leave governance to me then— '

"You are new." The soft breeze of a voice spoke from her left.

Arianne glanced sideways, noticing a young woman kneeling by the statue of the Crone.

"Pardon, my lady." She answered honestly. "I do not know your name."

The lady offered a small smile. She was clad in a lively green gown bedecked with white embroidery — her hair was a stark contrast, it fell almost to her hips in the darkest shade of brown.

Pearls crowned the top of her head in neat, shimmering rows.

"Elisa Stokeworth."

Arianne returned the smile. A white lamb on a green field, holding a golden goblet. She memorized most of the houses and heraldry when her brother had to. House Stokeworth had once boasted a Lord Alyn who served both Aegon the Conqueror and his son Aenys as Hand of the King— though she wasn’t sure how many generations had passed since.

"I'm Arianne Swann."

Elisa's large eyes widened.

"You are far from home!" It seemed she knew her houses as well.

"Are Marches as dangerous as they say? Are you here to marry?"

Arianne blinked several times, surprised by the sudden question.

"I would not say so. Our Keep has really thick walls...and watchtowers. The Dornish had not invaded in years. All our men are trained in arms from boyhood."

She glanced up at the Maiden's serene face.

"I suppose I am here for marriage. Are you?"

Elisa smiled, her pale cheeks creasing with dimples.

"Yes. So, I'm praying for my father."

Her father? To the Crone? Arianne’s brows arched.

"That the Crone grants him wisdom in choosing my husband," Elisa explained with a conspiratorial chuckle.

Arianne stifled a laugh with the back of her hand. How did she not think of that?!

"I ought to pray for that as well."

She nodded with wry amusement.

Elisa rose gracefully, smoothing her gown.

"Well met, Lady Arianne. I hope the Crone and the Maiden grant us both good husbands."

"And to you, Lady Stokeworth," Arianne replied, her smile lingering. However, it was not until she left the Sept that she realized she had forgotten to implore the Maiden for a kind husband.

She paused on the threshold, considering whether to return but ultimately decided against it.

Her father had once told her that kindness did not serve a man well. Enemies would carve it from his bones and wear it as a triumph.

Arianne concluded she could be kind for them both.

The rest of her day was rather filled with more duties.

She worked through the large pile of letters for Princess Rhaenyra, sorting them into categories of different importance. She read to Prince Viserys and helped him paint the stables of his Dragonstone miniature.

She did not inquire about Jace's whereabouts, and she recited from The Seven-Pointed Star with Lady Massey.

Not even her Septa — a very old and strict woman named Meria, who had been in Stonehelm for as long as Arianne could remember anything — would find fault in her conduct today.

The Maiden's Day was approaching, which meant every maiden would have to light a candle in the Sept and know the correct prayer. The night before a banquet would be held and an honorable man would escort each young unwed woman.

Arianne had been hoping Prince Jacaerys would be her escort, but now it seemed that could not be.

Her excitement about it evaporated.

The banquet was also a symbolic gathering before the holy day of the Maiden — a day to be spent in quiet contemplation, praying, performing purification rites, and visiting the Sept.

By the time Arianne stepped out of Rhaenyra's drawing room, the weight of her tasks had left her weary and faint with hunger.

She plopped onto her bed once in her chambers, holding up the parchments Miriam had left on her vanity during the day. A letter from her aunt Johanna that she was thrilled to read as it had been weeks since Arianne wrote to her, and a note rolled up into a tiny scroll.

She twirled the letter in her hand, admiring the pretty seal her aunt had.

The Black Swan of Lys.

Two black waxen swans, their elegant necks forming a heart.

Arianne unfurled the note first, wondering who'd —

My lady Arianne, will you meet me in the Godswood before supper? Though you have every reason to be mad at me, I am still hoping you will.

- Jace

She stood up so quickly that the room spun around her.

Arianne tossed Johanna's letter onto the bed to be read later, and frantically tried to neaten her messy braid. Oh, she despaired at the unremarkable gray frock she wore.

She did not think she would even see Jace today!

Now there was no time to change into something nicer and call for Miriam to help her lace the dress.

Arianne sighed, giving up and settling for tying a slender, silver chain around her waist. The links were delicately wrought and adorned with small moonstones.

It took her some time to find the correct way to Godswood. The Keep was still alive with servants rushing around winding passages carved from the ancient red stone.

Once she reached a corridor's end, a grand arched doorway opened into the Godswood.

Arianne halted, breathing in the fresh air of damp earth and wildflowers.

She descended a dozen stone steps when a deep, thunderous bellow seemingly echoing from leagues away, startled her.

She lifted her gaze to the bleeding sky— though dusk was more breathtaking from Stonehelm’s towers— and beheld a massive, dark shape gliding over the Keep.

A dragon.

With wings so large they momentarily blotted the firmament.

Arianne's mouth fell open, her skin pricking with goosebumps as she followed its eastward flight. 'Is that...Dreamfyre? No...Vhagar?'

Her heart quickened with both wonder and a rush of disbelief.

Living on Dragonstone had numbed her to the regular presence of dragons, and she recalled once witnessing the Old King’s and the Good Queen’s dragons emerging together from their cavern to hunt. Yet this creature was truly behemothic — a vision that made her blink and recall, with a shiver of awe, the gargantuan skull of Balerion that Jace had shown her.

Arianne sighed, willing her legs to move over the soft moss.

She saw a familiar figure pacing under the Wisteria Arbor, his silhouette caressed by the amber glow of the late afternoon sun. The hanging blossoms swayed gently, lilac and violet trembling with each passing breeze.

She hesitated for a moment, debating whether to approach her prince.

Her toes curled inside her shoes.

When she read his message, she had come — rushed, even — before her mind could truly grasp the implications of meeting him here. Alone.

It felt... decidedly clandestine.

The note, the secrecy, the defiance.

Arianne tried to ignore the illicit tremor that nestled in her stomach.

Princess Rhaenyra explicitly told her, no — ordered her, to keep her distance from her son. What was this, if not encouragement?

She ought not! Even if it was Jace.

And yet, the forbidden nature of it sent a thrill through her, licking the nape of her neck, trailing down her spine.

Arianne felt her palms grow clammy as she took a few tentative steps.

He turned at the sound of his name, his brown eyes gleaming, warm as melted amber.

"Arianne," Jace murmured, a smile catching at the corner of his mouth.

"You came."

"Did you think I would not?" She asked, puzzled at the relief in his tone. Arianne took in his black tunic, the hint of Velaryon blue embroidered at the cuffs. Jace was taller than her, his shoulders were broad, and he appeared every inch the prince he was, both of fire and sea.

"I rather hoped you would." He admitted, raking a hand through his unruly curls before offering her a smile.

They fell into a short silence filled only by the distant rustle of leaves and the faint birdsong above.

Jace cleared his throat and offered his elbow so that they might walk together.

Princess Rhaenyra's warnings aside, her father would have a fit.

It was one thing to traipse the rocky shores of Dragonstone together, when everyone knew when and where they went, but meeting secretly in the Godswood was another matter altogether.

Slowly, hesitantly, she slipped her fingers around his forearm. His sleeve was soft beneath her touch.

Jace let out a breath, so faint she might have imagined it, then covered her hand lightly with his own.

"I am truly sorry about the book." He spoke somberly once they reached the great Weirwood. Its pale, veined trunk was as wide as both of them standing next to each other.

"Arianne, I swear that I did not think you could be blamed —"

"It is not your fault." She interjected, shaking her head. How could he even think she blamed him? It was his abhorrent uncle who ruined everything!

"And you should not have interfered on my behalf."

"Of course, I should have." Jace countered, voice firm.

"But —"

"Do not think about it." He tapped the back of her hand, his touch featherlight. Arianne met his dark-lashed eyes, a glimmer of warmth touching her cheeks. Just as the words of gratitude formed inside her throat, Jace frowned.

"Wait, What did my mother tell you?"

She gulped.

"Nothing really —"

"Arianne." He pressed gently and turned toward her so that she could not evade his gaze.

Lady Swann inhaled before huffing in defeat.

Somehow it did not seem like she should speak with Jace about this.

For the first time in her life, she lamented wasting time sneaking inside her brother's lessons to listen as her father lectured on the logistics of supply lines and the advantages of high ground. What use was knowing the merits of natural chokepoints and the fortifications of Nightsong and Horn Hill, if she did not know how to navigate her way into a prosperous betrothal?

She ought to have asked for a tutor in the art of conversation, like the one Rhaena had — a polished Pentosi who could make her charming and teach her how to sidestep questions like these without truly answering them.

Would Princess Rhaenyra ever forgive her if she found out?

"That I...ought to...keep a proper distance from you," Arianne muttered at last, glancing at the blood-red foliage above their heads.

Jace stilled, before a veritable laughter — boyish, unguarded, and as pretty as silver bells, erupted from his throat.

Her spine tensed.

She had braced herself for disappointment, perhaps even argument...but not this. Her curly-haired Prince was not angry. If anything, he seemed almost amused.

"So the same thing she told me." Jace chuckled wryly.

"That we are rather close. "

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Arianne’s breath caught — just slightly — as a strange, fluttering tension settled between them. Was it the weirwood and those strange gods the northerners revered, or the way his earthly brown irises brimmed with something fervent?

Her fingers tightened where they rested against his arm.

"She told you to keep your distance from yourself?" She tilted her chin, tone deceptively light.

Jace rolled his eyes, an impish grin dancing across his face.

He unfastened his cloak, spreading it between the gnarly roots before lowering himself onto it.

Her prince patted the spot beside him in silent invitation. Arianne sensed her lips forming a smile as she gathered her skirts and sank down next to him, the weight of the cloak cushioning her from the cool dampness of the earth.

It wasn't until their shoulders touched that she realized it might have been inappropriate of her. For all the space the great roots commanded, they sat close. Closer than they ought to.

Closer than her septa decreed was scandalous.

Jace exhaled, tilting his head back slightly, his dark curls brushing against the pale bark of the weirwood.

"I will not, though." He murmured. "Stay away from you."

Arianne's throat locked, her cheeks burning.

Did she hear him right?

The pulse in her veins rushed — his words touching some tender, fragile place beneath her bones.

She found herself unable to react in any other way than to pretend the mossy ground was of particular interest to her.

"Unless...it is what you want, my lady." She heard him say after some time. Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her skirts.

Jace had left her an escape, a polite way out.

I expect you not to encourage him. The words were sensible. Logical. They were the expectations of the world she had been born into. Marriage was a duty, not an idle dream.

Her teeth sank into the tip of her tongue.

The very thing she was ordered to avoid was the one thing she wanted.

"D-do you?" Jace rasped, voice barely above a whisper when she remained quiet.

Arianne lifted her gaze to him, finding something raw in his expression, something earnest.

"I… No—" she faltered, the word sticking to her vocal cords like a caramelized pear.

"But I would not… wish to disobey my princess."

Jace sighed, dragging a hand over his jaw. He momentarily turned his fervent gaze away, staring into the distance as though weighing his next words.

"My mother rather thinks I'm the disobedient one." He shook his head before turning to her.

"Do you know who tattled?"

Arianne blinked, caught off guard.

"N-no." She lied, though with a good reason. If Jace were to argue with Aemond on her behalf, it would only serve as further proof of her troublesome influence. She had little desire to be caught between the tensions of the Targaryen family. Well, at least until she married. Then she will plot Aemond Targaryen's exile.

A shadow slid down Jace's face, his nostrils flaring.

"When I find out, I will make them rue the day they were born."

His voice was measured, but it carried the weight of an oath.

Arianne swallowed the lump in her throat, felt the strain around it. The sheer sincerity in his tone unsettled her. For a moment, she nearly told him the truth — damn the consequences. She wanted Aemond to pay.

Yet before she could muster a proper reply, Jace suddenly straightened, his lips curving.

"Wait, I almost forgot." The thrum of his voice turned airy as he reached into the folds of his tunic, retrieving a small, carefully wrapped parcel.

"I have something that will make you feel better. Give me your hand."

"Ah - What?"

Undeterred, he lifted her hand himself, calloused fingers brushing against her palm as he placed the small bundle there. Arianne felt his warm touch linger a moment longer than necessary, but she rationalized it with her own wishful thinking.

She unwrapped the parcel carefully, the scent of lemon and sugar wafting up to meet her.

A lemon cake.

Soft and golden, with perfectly round edges.

"I...Thank you, my Prince." Arianne murmured, overcome with strange timidity at the gesture.

She took a small, delicate bite, savoring the tangy taste of lemon on her tongue. Oh, she itched to devour it, but she was not a mannerless peasant.

Then she took another bite, equally dainty — earning her a chuckle from Jace.

He nudged her playfully, enticing her cheeks to redden.

"Do not hold back, my lady. I know you are fond of them."

Arianne shot him a glare, though the corners of her lips twitched.

"It is called manners." She recited.

With a small shrug, Jace leaned back, crossing his arms loosely. She dared to glance at him ever so often as she enjoyed her cake. How handsome he was! His full lips were slightly parted, and it incited the most reprobate reveries in her mind.

The kind that made her wonder how would his mouth feel upon hers.

Warm? Finer than Volantene silk? As tender as rain?

The fairytales seem to agree on one thing, though — once a gallant knight kisses his lady love, all her troubles come to an end. They marry and live happily, ever after.

Ridiculous, Arianne scolded herself. Firstly, Jacaerys Velaryon is a prince, not a knight. Besides, the stories never delve into the sheer amount of work needed to smoothly run a large household. The tithes, the grain reserves, the proper positioning of fortifications... Happily ever after is a lot of work, really.

Jace shifted slightly, moving his leg just enough that it brushed against hers. Her muscles locked at the fleeting contact.

Arianne flushed crimson.

"She will be my betrothed."

A shiver passed down her neck. Ought she ask him about that? What if he hadn't meant it? Hope is a fool's errand, her father often lectured.

Swallowing hard, she tried to regain control, pushing the thought aside.

Instead, she focused on something else, something she felt no shame in discussing with him.

"Oh, I have this idea about taxation..." Arianne broke the silence, her fingers tracing idly the patterns on the cloak she was sitting on.

"Well, Ser Tyland inspired me, but—"

Jace's attention was immediate, his keen eyes not straying from her face while she monologued.

"I see a few problems there," he replied thoughtfully, tapping his index finger against his lips.

"Though you are right that it might be a better way of collecting taxes, perhaps."

Arianne's eyebrows knitted together.

"Problems?" Her voice faltered, a note of dejection threading through it.

"The great Lords will not take kindly to the Crown now telling them they must accept less than what they are entitled to from their vassals, just because the year was poor," Jace explained.

"But… if you're a King, then they have no choice in the matter," Arianne countered, slightly irked. Some of those lords could scarcely read! They sure enjoyed living peacefully in their lands under the protection of a Crown, while the Marches stood as a defense against Dorne.

Jace shrugged lightly, his rueful smile returning.

"I suppose," he admitted. "Yet I’d prefer to have them cooperate with me, thinking it is their own will."

Arianne’s gaze hardened, and she spoke without hesitation, the words flowing from her with surprising force.

"They have to cooperate with you. Your word is law. The reforms we want—" She halted abruptly, realizing what she was implying.

"I mean... the King should change the realm for the better, regardless of what the lords think."

Jacaerys Velaryon chuckled, his brown eyes glimmering with amusement.

"You— Arianne— are a pretty tyrant, if I may say so." He regarded her with a peculiar expression.

Her heart seized and she was at once disarmed and at a loss for words. Tingling warmth flooded her cheeks, her skin simmering under the weight of his words. Pretty. But...tyrant?

The words seemed to war with each other in her mind.

She couldn’t quite figure out whether she should be flattered or embarrassed.

Her lips parted, but she couldn’t find the right response.

Instead, Arianne settled into an awkward silence, her gaze lowering as she tried to regain her composure.

As if the gods decided to punish her impudence, she thought of Aemond Targaryen.

" If the men who court you listen to such rants, you will remain an unwed maiden until you die."

The weight of those words now hit her like a stone, sinking into her marrow.

Jace, her own Galladon of Morne, as if sensing her discomfort, shifted slightly, his voice softer as he spoke.

"We could work through the details of your tax proposal once this lawless attempt at seizure of Luke's inheritance is dealt with. After we return to Dragonstone," He suggested, hand brushing his dark curls off his forehead.

"My mother might like the idea too—"

As soon as he had finished speaking that sliver of dread, that stone sank even further.

Arianne froze, bile biting at her stomach.

She suddenly realized with unsettling clarity that Jace still believed things would remain the same — that the easy companionship they had now, with shared ideas and laughter, would continue on their journey back to Dragonstone. That she would return to Dragonstone with him.

Like this.

Unwed.

They would stroll side by side, exchanging words about books and politics, enjoying sunsets, and poring over famous cyvasse matches.

But the truth...life was not a song, nor a fanciful tale. The truth was that she would not return with him. Not as Rhaenyra's lady-in-waiting. She would have to marry before the year was out, Jace or no Jace.

On that, her parents would hear no arguments.

"My father should reach the capital by the moon's end," Arianne said delicately, though the words felt heavy in her mouth.

"S-so, I doubt I would be returning with your mother's household."

Jace stared at her, confusion passing over his features.

He studied her for a long moment, brow furrowing in thought.

"He intends to marry you off."

Arianne nodded slightly, glancing at her feet, an awkward heat suffusing her face.

"I am ten and eight, almost," she said, voice faltering with the truth. "I should have been married two years ago."

'You are the only reason I am not.'

She pored over the shapes the gnarly roots made on their descent into the earth — her bravery vanished into thin air, and Jace fell silent.

'Please, say something. Anything.'

Arianne smoothed her skirts, drying her palms against them.

How utterly unfair that she could topple a kingdom on a cyvasse board, yet the campaign to seize her future seemed ever out of reach. She loathed it. Sometimes, being a woman felt like a deliberate slight from the gods.

Princess Rhaenyra was truly an exception. Heir over her brothers. A Queen to be in her own right, not as consort to a King.

The first time Arianne learned of it, she felt envy coiling around her lungs.

Her father would sooner torch Stonehelm than have her inherit it over her older brother. Even if she read faster, remembered every supply route through the Boneway, and could argue whether the Free Cities thrived better under merchant princes or elected magisters, it meant little.

Robb was a man, and that alone made him worthy. He could swing a sword with ease, while Arianne — if she even managed to lift a longsword — was more likely to trip and spill her own insides before she ever cut down an enemy.

She barely dared to lift her verdant eyes from the ground, but when she finally did, Jace was still watching her, as though piecing together something unsaid.

If she wished to be powerful, it would have to be through a husband.

Even Alysanne needed Jaehaerys.

"Two years ago we were exchanging letters, do you remember?"

Of course, she did.

They sent each other the occasional letter ever since they met years ago. Arianne's then visit to Dragonstone was brief — and mostly spent imploring Rhaenyra's oldest son to reach her the scrolls from high shelves of the magnificent library. It was the first time she had seen dragons, and the memories of that day still lingered, vivid and surreal.

She nodded and Jace continued, "You told me your aunt sent you a cyvasse set for your name day."

A small laugh escaped her lips. That felt like another lifetime ago.

"I was devastated." Jace went on, a grimace passing over his visage. "Because it was my idea too. I've racked my mind over a gift for you. So, I —"

"Sent me a finished copy of Balder's The Edge of the World," Arianne said, tone sprinkled with mirth.

"I have it with me, you know. It is a good read when I want to be afraid."

Jace sighed, his dark lashes fluttering. "Of course you do."

Arianne grinned at him before her expression softened.

It sounded sweet, the image of Jace pacing and musing about a gift for her.

"You mentioned in one of the letters that the island fascinated you." He added, defensive.

"Because they are supposedly cannibals —"

"Supposedly."

"Well, Maester Balder thinks so," Arianne noted. "They invaded the nearby Skane and killed all the men before feasting on their flesh. Some passages are truly nauseating. Skagosi practice the first night and when they lure ships to their shores, the sailors are ripped apart and sacrificed in their savage rites."

"Gods." Jace shook his head with a faint smile.

"This is not what I wanted you to think about."

"I'm...sorry? Jace?"

"Arianne, what I am attempting to...say, is that I've admired you since forever."

A bird chirped nearby.

Her heart jumped to her throat.

A bout of fever crept up her face as Arianne fumbled for something to say.

'Jace. He just...he said... gods, what am I supposed to say?'

Her mind whirled, and for a moment, she wondered if she should simply faint like a proper lady — He can kiss me awake...

Prince Jacaerys shifted, his body angled so that he faced her now.

His eyes were dark like obsidian while he regarded the flushed, creamy skin of her cheeks.

“When we were children,” he continued, his voice soft yet steady, “it was friendship, of course. But that month you were with us on Dragonstone... That was the most fun I had. You were clever— and so curious about everything. I remember you cried when Vermax ate that lamb—"

Arianne squinted, now glaring at him.

"I did not!"

"You did." He declared, lips spreading into a teasing smile.

Her thoughts flashed back to that moment. Luke, Rhaena, and even Jace had all laughed when she suggested a more humane method for delivering the lamb to Vermax as if such a notion was laughable.

Dragonkeepers frowned at her, uninterested in hearing her prattle.

She’d wanted to avoid the bloodshed, the poor thing was screeching, unaware then of how deeply they understood dragons while she knew nothing.

It was when Lady Baela unexpectedly visited her family at Dragonstone that she learned the truth.

Most dragons loved to hunt.

The struggle, the fight, was what fueled their appetite.

Moondancer would not wish to eat a carcass, Baela had explained casually, smoothing down her beautiful silver locks, just as I would not care for spoiled meat. The harder the prey fights back, the sweeter it becomes. It drives them into a frenzy, you see. It makes the kill all the more satisfying.

"You also wanted a girl dragon." Jace declared slyly, shaking her from her thoughts.

His large, warm palm closed over hers.

"One that Vermax would like. So we could see each other even when my mother became Queen."

"Jace!" She yanked her hand from his grasp, mortification rushing through her.

"Do you wish to embarrass me further?"

Her only response was a callow grin.

"I said we could do that if we married."

Arianne’s breath lodged, trapped inside her chest.

She didn’t know what to say. if only she were taught — oh, no, no, because her pulse rushed into her ears, rippling and wooshing against her skull —

Didn’t know how to say anything at all.

Jace exhaled, his grip finding hers once more, firmer this time. His fingers curled around hers as if drawn by some invisible pull that he had resisted long enough and could do so no more.

His thumb brushed against the back of her hand, tracing perfect, insistent circles.

"When you stepped off that ship…" He hesitated, wetting his lips before continuing. "I thought I was dreaming. You were not a child anymore."

She sensed the faintest tremor in his grasp.

"You were beautiful, Arianne."

The words nearly undid her.

Arianne's eyes widened, her vision swam.

Gods.

The heat that flooded her skin felt unbearable, forcing blotches of crimson upon her cheeks and the delicate line of her throat. She wanted to look away, to will herself into composure, but his gaze held her captive — deep, steadfast, poring over her face as if he was commanded to paint her portrait.

Then, perhaps realizing he had been staring too long, Jace abruptly averted his eyes, straightening.

He released her, his hands falling to his sides.

"If you do not share my affections, please speak now, my lady." He declared in grave tones, the apple of his throat bobbing.

"And I will never mention it again."

Gods.

Arianne found herself teetering on a precipice, the ground crumbling beneath her feet.

She walked barefoot into the sea and was caught in a riptide, as voracious waves dragged her further away from the shore — the land filled with duties, Rhaenyra's orders, and sins of the ancestors — until it vanished into the horizon.

Turbulent and murky, it lured her like a siren because it was what she wanted all along.

The waves could drown her.

The rich, endless depths of his dark eyes could drown her too.

Arianne exhaled, her heart walloping.

"You know a lady should not hear such things without a chaperone present, my Prince?" she said, aiming for levity, though her voice wavered at the edges.

"Arianne."

Her name left his lips like something painful.

She dared not look at him.

Her fingers dug into the silken fabric of her skirts.

She could not look at him.

"I do share them." Arianne susurrated.

"Affections, I m-mean. I admire you —"

Before she could stumble further over the words, Jace reached for her hands, gathering them very tenderly between his larger ones.

"Jace —"

He brought them to his lips. Arianne sucked in a quiet breath as the heat of his mouth caressed her hand, slow and deliberate, reverent even.

How soft his lips are. Gods, it feels like a sin.

Arianne swallowed, wallowing in the heat of them. The warmth seeping into her skin, lingering, lingering — as if her prince meant to burn his devotion into her.

She had never been particularly devout, though she performed her duties to the Seven with care.

But at that moment, in Kings Landing — a disastrous, awful place she did not belong in — Arianne could not help but feel that Maiden herself had heard her prayers and answered them.

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