#I need a hot week | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eggtargaryenii · 2 months ago

Text

EAST OF THE SUN | PART IV

“Aemond has always been very jealous over you," Jace said doubtfully. "And protective.” “Not because he wants to bed me,” you dismissed, sipping on your wine. “I was his only friend for a long time, so naturally he likes to hoard my company. And he likely is only so protective of me because he thinks of me as a kind of elder sister to him.” “Ah—so you mean he wants to bed you and wed you.” You choked on your drink, giving Jacaerys a scandalised look.

7k words, aemond x fem!reader x jacaerys. childhood friends to lovers (except it's cousins), political drama. chapter warnings for targaryen incest and themes of xenophobia/racism and misogyny. dividers from @/cafekitsune.

SERIES SUMMARY & MASTERLIST.

XII. FIVE OF SWORDS

You did not really know what to think of Rhaenyra Targaryen.

On a political level, you did not think highly of her. Once you were old enough to understand your role in court—that is, a womb to be eventually traded in return for gold or swords or support—you became confused with Rhaenyra’s behaviour. She married Ser Laenor Velaryon and then immediately began to fornicate with another man, which was fine. But it was strange that she chose a man with fair skin and dark hair for her paramour, rather than someone who looked more like Ser Laenor, and it jeopardised her standing in court. It felt silly to you, and was one of the reasons why, at the tender age of ten, you vowed to marry a handsome lord who was inclined to desire women: if you were too busy being happily bedded by your husband, then you would not have the time or wherewithal to lay with another man and give birth to any bastards. (Certainly, you would not be interested in having any affairs if Cregan Stark was your lawful husband.)

On a personal level, you misliked Rhaenyra. You had never forgiven her for Aemond’s eye. As a child you had been furious at turns with Jace, Luke, and Aemond for the debacle, but as an adult you could not fault three children for an accident. What you did fault was Rhaenyra’s actions following it: treating Aemond’s eye like it was an afterthought to the bastardy talk, as if her son had not just irreversibly rendered him half-blind. As if Aemond did not lay feverish in bed for weeks after, as if he did not need to spend months retraining his body to his altered vision, as if he were not twice as vulnerable to attacks from bullies and swords and morningstars. As if he did not need to live with the knowledge that his very body was a disposable thing to his father, something that could be overlooked so long as Rhaenyra’s claim could be protected.

No—you did not like Rhaenyra.

You were certain that Rhaenyra did not feel so poorly about you, however. She never concerned herself with you when you were a child, and you did not fault her for it: you were not close in age, and she was heir apparent to the throne. She mostly knew you as someone whom Jace had befriended, and she liked you for it. Occasionally she would invite you to dinner with them in the Small Hall, or let you break your fast with her family. Sometimes she would talk with you then, and humour your questions about the Small Council (Do they know where my father is? Will they banish me from the Red Keep? Is the Hand really going to betrothe me to an old man?), and sometimes she would look at you with something close to pity.

Rhaenyra probably did think well of you. Still, it felt like an obvious lie when she called you into her chambers the day after your father’s funeral and said, “You know I have always been very fond of you.”

“Thank you, Princess,” you said graciously, immediately. “I have always been so grateful for your kindness, and especially for allowing me to spend time with Jacaerys.”

She smiled at you. You returned it, careful not to let the wariness show in your eyes.

“It was the least I could do. I owed it to your father—he was very kind to me. He would sail back from Lys and bring me trinkets, and I loved them so. I do not think Prince Daemon liked the attention he gave me, however.”

You shuddered to think of the suggestion of romantic jealousy between Daemon, your father, and Rhaenyra. You truly would walk into the sea if she disclosed a sordid relationship between herself and your father right now.

Outwardly, however, you only gave her a sentimental look. “I had never known that. Were the two of you close?”

“He was often away from King’s Landing, so I knew him not well—but I knew him well enough. And my husband, of course, was fond of him.” She smiled. “Now that your father is gone, Daemon and I feel that it is only right that we care for you.”

You did not comment on the fact that your father had been gone for nearly ten years already. “Oh,” you said, your eyes growing hot as you remembered to cry. The tears were easy to summon and mostly from frustration at knowing that your father’s death was being used in these petty games of court, but Rhaenyra need not know that. “That's—that’s very kind of you.”

“I know Jacaerys is very fond of you too,” she continued. “If you need to continue leaning on him, know that I will be happy to see it.”

“Of course.” You wiped your eyes. “I am ever so thankful for his help during my petition. And your husband’s too. It is a kindness I cannot repay.”

“As I said, it is only right.” Rhaenyra gave you a long look, then seemed to make a decision. She reached for something on the table beside her, then placed a velvet box in front of you. “Please—take this.”

Your look of surprise was genuine when you opened it. Inside was a pair of earrings—from the rippling sheen of the reflected light, Valyrian steel, so dark that it was nearly black. Rubies glimmered among the delicate metalwork, a bold red. You knew only of one person who had ever worn jewellery like this: “My mother’s?”

“Not quite, but close. Your father brought it back from one of his trips to Lys and gifted these to me, but I have not had much chance to wear them as of late—they are a young person’s jewels.” She gave you a look that was distinctly motherly, which made you feel distinctly uncomfortable. “I feel that it is only right that these go to you, rather than being wasted on my vanity.”

“Oh,” you breathed. “Thank you, Princess.”

You had a feeling where she would be going with this.

“It would be a great honour to me,” she said, “if you were to wear these at the upcoming feast.”

It was with great effort that you did not sigh.

“Of course, Princess.”

XIII. TWO OF SWORDS

There was nothing less you wanted to do than to attend the banquet meant to precede the next day’s tourney. This reluctance had less to do with the loss of your parents (though that was undeniably a factor; you were still looking forward to the day you could crawl into the dragon pit and wail in solitude) and more to do with the dread of navigating the court. Within the Red Keep, wearing the wrong colour dress to sup alone could earn you the ire of half the castle; choosing the wrong one for this banquet could quite literally kill you.

Alicent expected you to wear green, as would the Tyrells. Rhaenyra expected you to wear her earrings, which were obviously meant to be paired with black and red. It would insult one faction or the other if you did not respect their wishes, but at this point, you also had no desire to align yourself with either. Rhaenyra had not convinced you of her cause, and if you played too nicely with the Hightowers now then they would take that as a sign that they could further abuse you as they pleased in the future.

On the other hand, you did not want to offend anyone too much. Cultivating a relationship with the blacks might be useful in the future, though your greatest concern was the Hightowers—neither your coin in Braavos nor the power of your dragon could save you if the Hand decided to poison you. That could be a very real risk as you currently had no heir. Should you be killed, the money in the Iron Bank would fall to your next of kin: King Viserys on paper; Alicent Hightower in practice.

No, you could not openly antagonise the Hightowers. However, appalling them? Probably fine. Alicent already found you appalling on a daily basis, and the Hand made it no secret that he was happy to write you off as the daughter of a foreign bed slave whenever it was convenient. You were sick of it. If they were going to accuse you of being a whore, then let them suffer the shame of having raised one.

When you walked through the heavy oak doors into the Great Hall, a hush fell over all the lords and ladies present. A few noblewomen covered their open mouths with their hands, emphasising their shock and disapproval. It was already difficult not to laugh at them, but you almost barked when you saw Jace’s reaction to what you were wearing: he very clearly choked on his wine and nearly spat it out. The sudden flush on cheeks probably was not from the Arbor gold, either. You winked at him, hoping Alicent would notice.

Rhaenyra, sitting next to him, seemed amused at the Queen’s own scandalised expression. Of all the King’s party present, you greeted her first, curtsying as best as you could in your delicate, green silks. Lysene clothing was really not made for Westerosi customs, you thought; there was not a lot of material around your waist to lift, as most of it was cut to reveal your thighs, and the view it gave of your décolletage as you bowed the was… well, it did not leave much to the imagination. Nor did any other part of the dress. The silk was so sheer that it revealed far too much when the light struck it a certain way.

“What an interesting choice of dress,” Rhaenyra remarked, the corner of her mouth lifting. Her gaze caught on the rubies dangling from your ears; you smiled.

“I chose to wear Lysene silks today to match the earrings you gifted me, Princess,” you said. “The dress was from my mother’s old wardrobe. The colour clashes a bit with the red, but it was all I had on hand, I'm afraid.”

“I’m sure.” She seemed neither convinced or upset. “Well, both the earrings and the dress look beautiful on you, my dear. Wouldn't you say so, Jacaerys?”

Jacaerys composed himself quickly enough, but you noticed that he was careful to look only at your face as he spoke. Still, he composure had returned when he replied, “You look very lovely tonight, my lady. I shall need to ask you for a dance later.”

“I look forward to it. Come find me when it pleases you, my prince.” You curtsied again, turned away, and tried not to cackle at the expression that Jace made when he realised just how much leg your dress showed. You were fairly certain that Rhaenyra was herself trying not to laugh at her son's expense, smiling into her goblet as she watched his reaction.

Alicent, on the other hand, did not seem nearly so amused.

“You… Lyseni,” she said, managing to make a very neutral word sound incredibly pejorative, “have very unusual styles of dress.”

“I would not know. Having been born in King’s Landing, I am unfamiliar with Lysene styles as a whole, my Queen,” you replied calmly. “This dress is from my mother’s old wardrobe. It was the only green dress I owned—you know I do not wear the colour much.”

“I would have been happy to have had a dress made for you,” she said, voice tight. “You are our kin, after all. We are happy to ensure that members of the royal family dress as royals should.”

“I did not want to burden the Crown’s coffers, as I know they are limited,” you parried, and Alicent’s expression nearly put you in stitches. “Is my betrothed here tonight, my Queen? I should like to finally meet him, if he is.”

Part of you had hoped that this outfit would disgrace you too much for an introduction to the great house of the Reach. You were even hopeful for it when Alicent advised her father that you were not dressed suitably for a formal introduction, but the Hand insisted on it. In the end, Alicent had you meet Lady Tyrell at the behest of her father.

Lady Tyrell seemed an interesting woman. She served as the regent of Hightower given her son Lord Lyonel’s young age. Apparently significantly less pious than the Queen, Lady Tyrell took your appearance in stride.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” she said after a curtsy. “I saw your petition in the throne room a sennight ago, and I could not help but ask for an introduction after that… you are a very eloquent speaker. I am sorry to hear about your father, by the way. I recall it was said he was a diplomat in Lys and that your mother was a woman of the Lysene court—is this dress something of hers?”

Woman of the Lysene court. You liked the way Lady Tyrell talked, as well as her values: apparently irreligious. You wondered what she and her house wanted from you. If she saw you during the petition, it was most likely all the gold you were arguing over. Highgarden was not short of wealth, but they always wanted more for it.

“It was indeed left behind by my mother before she returned to Lys,” you replied. “And I thank you for your kind words. Everything I know, I have learned from the Queen—she took my education into her own hands after my father passed, you see…”

The two of you exchanged pleasantries with one another. You painted an image of Alicent that had her in the golden light of the Seven and wearing a halo; the Queen’s posture relaxed visibly as she listened from nearby. When it came time for you to meet Arthur Tyrell, though, you noticed her stiffen again.

Ser Criston next to her also bristled. His eyes were heavy on Ser Arthur. He was startlingly handsome with his Tyrell features (though not as handsome as any Stark men, you noted), with a full head of mahogany curls and honey brown eyes that nearly shone gold at times in the chandelier light. He had a charming, playful smile that you did not see very much in your circles. Jace was too serious to make that sort of expression, Aemond too frightening, and Aegon too slovenly.

Most importantly, though, Arthur seemed not to mind your dress, taking you without hesitation to the dance floor.

“I was not told my betrothed would be so beautiful,” he said.

“And I was not told mine would be so handsome,” you replied swiftly, deciding to humour him. Then you added, wanting to know why Ser Criston seemed so disdainful of him, “Though I have heard tales of his bravery in the Marches.”

“Exaggerations, I'm sure,” he replied.

“Then I would like to hear the truth of it from the man himself.”

Arthur was humble, yet glib of tongue. He replied to all your questions respectfully, but not without a little flirtation or humour, and always with charisma. You found yourself frustrated: you could not tell how such a charming and well-accomplished man had earned the ire of Ser Criston. His only damning trait seemed to be that he was a bastard, which you could not care less about.

It seemed that you could only get the truth from the white cloak himself. When you were nearly about to signal for Ser Criston to ask you for a dance—the two of you had such a protocol, for times when you were made to dance with some lecher and Aemond was not around to extract you—when the one-eyed prince himself instead came to your aid.

“Pardon the interruption, Ser Arthur,” a familiar voice said behind you, “but I would like to trouble my cousin for a dance.”

“Of course, my Prince,” the knight replied, and he handed you off to Aemond gracefully. Once you were in Aemond’s arms, he nodded at Ser Arthur, his mouth curling into a kind of smile. You could not decide if his expression was handsome or unsettling. Certainly, it was not friendly.

“You do not like him,” you said in Valyrian, as Aemond led your feet across the marble floor.

He brought you close to him before he replied, in the same language, “I do not like him being around you. I spoke with Ser Criston and found his background… troubling.” Aemond had you twirling, the sheer silks around your waist swaying with your movements. “The knowledge makes me worry about the way he was looking at you.”

Your brow arched. “He looks at me the way that most men have looked at me my entire life.”

“I do not like it when most men look at you.”

A laugh. “So many japes from you lately!” The two of you circled one another as a lute sung delicately. “Well, why do you dislike the gaze of this man? Tell me about the crimes of my betrothed—I shall soon die from suspense if you do not.”

Aemond brought you close. Your hand on his chest, his lips against your ear, he said, “The man raped and pillaged towns in the Dornish Marches. Some of the worst crimes Ser Criston has ever seen in battle—an offence to the Seven, he said.”

Your expression fell. Aemond led you along in the dance, not allowing you to stop—likely remembering the watching crowd. He kept his face so near to yours; it took a moment to realise he was hiding the shock in your eyes from the gazes of others.

After a long moment, you remembered yourself, and you began to think of all the implications. It now made sense that Lady Tyrell did not care about your choice of dress: it was fine that you were a harlot, as she meant to marry you to a raper. What confused you, though, was that Queen Alicent had so readily agreed to the match as well: she may have disapproved of whores, but she openly despised rapers and felt they should all be gelded, just as the Seven-Pointed Star commanded.

“Does your grandsire know?” you asked, moving deftly around your partner. “Your mother?”

“I cannot say for certain,” Aemond said, “but I suspect they do.”

You nodded, tried not to look too grave as you said, “I will find a way out of this marriage.” Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the Tyrells watching the two of you. You pressed yourself against Aemond, likely more intimately than any dance would warrant, so that you could whisper into his ear. “Were you serious about finding a means to avoid my betrothal?”

“Not only serious—I have already planned it.” Aemond smiled in his unsettling, handsome way once more. “Play along in the morrow. Remember: Any consequences will not befall you.”

What consequences? you meant to ask—but then you were interrupted.

“Pardon me,” a new voice said in the Common Tongue, and the both of you broke apart to see Jacaerys. “I wanted to make good on my promise to dance with my cousin.”

It was a command, not a request. Aemond studied him for a moment, and you wondered for a moment if they would begin to posture with each other, but he then acquiesced.

“Of course, nephew,” Aemond replied. He then switched to Valyrian: “Take care not to pass her off to any untoward characters. I'd rather her stay even in your hands than certain others. Bring her to me once you are done.”

Your cousin gave you a long look, his single eye glinting strangely. He brought your fingers up, and you did not realise what he was doing until his lips were pressed chastely against your knuckle. You stared blankly at the foreign sensation, at the soft touch of his mouth against your skin, unable to comprehend what was happening. But the realisation came only a moment later, suddenly and violently:

Aemond Targaryen was kissing your hand.

You nearly jerked back. What are you doing? you wanted to ask, but Aemond did not give you much time before turning to leave, smiling as he retreated to the high table.

You gave him a bewildered look as he disappeared into the crowd. Jacaerys, himself, seemed equally surprised. As he took your hand into his, he began questioning you: “Did I misunderstand,” he asked quietly in the Common Tongue, “or did my uncle just entrust you to me?”

Your speech remained in Valyrian: “You understood correctly, though you may have missed the backhanded insult. I believe he doesn't want me back in the arms of my betrothed. Aemond and Ser Criston mislike the man.”

“Do they?”

“Yes. Or, well—it is more like they abhor him.” You were uncertain if Jace knew the words for ‘rape’ or ‘pillage’ in Valyrian, so you adopted the Common Tongue once more, smiling brightly: “Nevermind all of that. We can talk later, when we are somewhere more… private.”

Multiple eyes glanced away, eavesdroppers averting you now that they'd been caught. You figured that those around you thought you were speaking of the kiss, and not of the reputation of Ser Arthur. Certainly, Queen Alicent must have, for her jaw was so tight and angry that she could have only been thinking of her son’s open favour toward you, or perhaps the betrothal that he just put into jeopardy. You supposed it was also a particularly sordid sight for her given the new whispers surrounding you: Jacaerys was said to have carried you back to your room in the early hours of the morning a few days ago. To anyone who believed the rumour, it must have looked to some like you were seducing both princes, their hearts in your cruel thrall even though you were now betrothed to a Tyrell. Luckily for you, however, the whisper had come from a kitchen maid who was a reputed liar: even though it was true, most were sceptical of the tale.

Alicent likely believed them, though, for she had given you a long lecture about preserving your innocence for your betrothed during your last meeting, followed up by an implication that there were ways in which one could feign virginity on a marriage bed should they have fallen into sin before their wedding night. She alluded to the old trick of staining one’s sheets with chicken’s blood while their groom was distracted. Though you were not offended at her belief that you had ruined yourself, you were offended at her belief that you would be stupid enough to jeopardise a marriage in this way. Using chicken’s blood was good enough for commoners, but it hardly worked for noblewomen. Septas and maesters would not be fooled by such a lazy deception, and you were both well-aware of it.

Thinking of the conversation made your head pound, so you turned to your only solace at a time like this: “Would you like to sit and have some wine, Jace? I have not yet tried the Arbor gold.”

“Of course.” Jace took your hand in his, led you to the high table at the front of the hall. A maid promptly approached with goblets and wine, which you were glad to drink, hoping for the sweet oblivion of complete inebriation. Jace’s brow lifted as he watched you.

“I did not know that you had grown into such a drinker.”

“Only during banquets,” you said dryly. “I find that I cannot otherwise endure them.”

“How ironic,” Jace remarked. “This is my first in the Red Keep, and I find myself envying you for having attended so many.”

You were startled as you realised that the Crown Prince, of all people, had neither attended a tourney nor a banquet in King’s Landing solely because of the petty infighting in his family. “Sorry,” you said immediately. “I’d forgotten this was your first feast here. I’ll try to be better company.”

“You are always good company,” Jace reassured you, “though I would enjoy a proper dance with you later. We’ve never danced together before, you know—I meant it when I said I would want one.” He smiled, and you felt your stomach flutter in a dangerous way.

Crown prince, crown prince, crown prince, you repeated silently, trying to remind yourself that you could absolutely not become besotted with the heir to the throne. If Jacaerys were to be the object of your longing (a futile one, for it was an impossibility that you could ever marry him), then you would never find a lord for yourself whom you could be happily bedded by. There was not a single noble man in the Realm who had a face that could compete with his—not even Cregan Stark!

“I'm not a very good dancer,” you remembered to reply. “I may step on your feet.”

“You seemed fine with my uncle.”

“Only because he's strong at leading. It isn’t unlike swordplay, which he excels at.” You sighed. “It is a wonder that I did not embarrass myself in front of Ser Arthur.”

Jace gave the Tyrell a sidelong glance, contemplative. “I have heard from the Queen that he is now your betrothed,” your cousin said, “which I imagine must make my uncle unhappy, as he clearly wants to bed you.”

You gave Jace a tired look. “Many people believe that I am Aemond’s lover, but I can assure you that the assertion is false.”

“That kiss did lead me to believe that he would prefer it to be true.”

“I would not pay it any mind. A kiss on the hand is a simple enough courtesy, not necessarily a sign of courtship. And even if it was unusual for him, he is likely only plotting something.” Something that the Queen will hate as much as the Tyrells, you supposed.

“Plotting something, or acting on a lifelong desire?” He studied you carefully. “Aemond has always been very jealous over you. And protective.”

“Not because he wants to bed me,” you dismissed, sipping on your wine. “I was his only friend for a long time, so naturally he likes to hoard my company. And he likely is only so protective of me because he thinks of me as a kind of elder sister to him; it was the role I played to him when we were children.”

“Ah—so you mean he wants to bed you and wed you.” You choked on your drink, giving Jacaerys a scandalised look. “What? Sibling marriage is the custom of our family.”

“I meant that he thinks of me as a sister in the Andal way.”

“Yet none of us are Andals—including yourself, dear cousin. You are a Targaryen.”

Your mood soured as he reminded you of the fact. You could not help but think of how eager you were to run away from that Small Council room a fortnight ago, so aggrieved were you by your kin.

“Can you ask your lady mother to disown me from the family?” you begged, and Jace snorted.

“Only you would reject the life of a trueborn Targaryen,” he said, shaking his head. He likely meant it as a jape, but the words had a bitter timbre to them, and you felt torn between guilt and resentment. Trueborn or not, Jacaerys had a number of people protecting his place in this family—yourself included. The same could not be said of you.

“My trueborn family rejected my mother. I may as well be a bastard.”

“Every bastard still wants for a family.”

“A family, sure, but I imagine not always their family by blood. Most of them do well enough. I feel I would.”

“You wouldn't really want to leave it all behind,” he accused.

“No,” you admitted. “I thought briefly of running away, after I was told of my father's death. But now there are people here I care for too much. Like Aemond, or Wildfyre.”

“And?” Jace prompted.

“I suppose I like Luke well enough.”

“How cold.”

You smiled at the prickly look he feigned. “I would miss you terribly, Jace. But I tire easily of all the politicking in these walls.” You sighed heavily. “If she cannot disown me, could you ask Princess Rhaenyra to marry me off to someplace far from King’s Landing? And not to any Targaryen men, please.”

“I have little say in such matters, but if you'll take a Velaryon, I could get you as far as Dragonstone.”

Aemond was nearby, clearly listening, and you realised now that Jace must have noticed. You smiled at your dark-haired cousin, amused.

“A tempting offer,” you replied playfully, “but you’d become a Targaryen once you ascend the throne, and I'd also be back here once more when that happens. I'm afraid I'll need to decline.”

Jacaerys played at disappointment, clicking his tongue. “Ah, well, it was worth a try.” He picked up his own goblet from the table, took a draught. “There’s always the King Beyond the Wall. Is that far enough for you?”

“I would rather face the Others than Otto Hightower,” you said dryly. “Certainly, I would fear them less.”

You expected Jace to laugh, but he only studied you, as if curious. After a moment of consideration, he leaned in and asked, “Would you care to step outside with me, my lady? For some fresh air.”

Fresh air was clearly not what he wanted. Nevertheless, you agreed and allowed Jace to help you out of your seat. As you rose, you glanced at Aemond, worried for his reaction, but his attention was not on you. He was speaking with Ser Arthur, you realised, who did not seem pleased by whatever Aemond was saying. Your brow furrowed, and you wondered if you should intervene, but Aemond glanced at you then, the corner of his mouth hooked slyly, his gaze as unsettling as it was reassuring.

Play along in the morrow, Aemond had told you, so you decided whatever he was planning was not your business tonight. You turned on your heel and took Jace by the arm, hurrying away.

IX. SEVEN OF CUPS

The night was cool and quiet, but you knew that it was not empty. You were certain that there would be many curious about why the Crown Prince would want to step outside and close the doors to the Great Hall behind him, obviously seeking privacy. Guards were posted in the courtyard below despite being within the inner castle walls; the balcony above you was silent when there should have been chatter and music from the banquet drifting from its threshold. Someone had stepped outside and closed the doors to escape the noise—meaning they could now listen to you rather than the noise of the feast.

You had long ago noticed that some of the sordid rumours about you involved your moments when you believed you were utterly alone with another person, or when you moved through supposedly empty halls and corners of the castle. From this, you suspected that there were eyes and ears placed all throughout the Red Keep. When you brought this up to Aemond (talking quietly in the dragon pit, where Wildfyre and the many other dragons ensured that you were both alone), he outright confirmed it. Larys Strong is quite adept at collecting whispers, he had commented. The Queen often consults him on them. King Viserys, though, has never paid him any mind—he does not see the value in knowing the whispers of King’s Landing.

When you asked Aemond how he had collected such whispers, he merely smiled.

After this conversation, you quickly surmised that all adept players at court had eyes and ears to aid them. You had not realised how much you had taken this knowledge for granted until Jacaerys disclosed that he had wanted to step onto the balcony to get some privacy.

“Privacy?” You made a face. Dragonstone had evidently spoiled the man. “This is not a private place. I do hope you aren't planning on saying or doing anything that may be seen as untoward. The Queen already believes that you have taken me abed and thoroughly ruined my innocence.”

Jacaerys cleared his throat. Moonlight tended to wash out the colour from anything illuminated by it, but you suspected he had gone red. “I will say nothing that will fuel those rumours. I only wanted privacy from my uncle, lest he be offended by my suggestion.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Is someone truly listening?”

“You’re within the walls of the Red Keep. Someone is always listening, except for in a scarce few places. I can show you some other time where I like to go for real privacy.” You tilted your head. “But let's hear your suggestion. I am curious to know what would offend Aemond so.”

“The Hightowers,” Jace started, “have mistreated you these past few days. You japed about it just now, but the Hand and the Queen have sche—”

You placed a finger to his lips, and his eyes widened, startled. He swallowed thickly, only relaxing when you moved your hand away. You then smiled and finished for him: “Yes, the Hand and the Queen upset me during my petition. But it is well-known that they always have the best interests of the Realm at heart—it is clear they were only acting for the benefit of the Seven Kingdoms when they contested my inheritance.” Giving Jace a meaningful look, you asked, “What of it?”

Jacaerys caught on quickly, thank the Seven. “It is understandable that they have the best interests of the Realm at heart, but I keep the best interests of yours in mine. I was not entirely jesting in the Great Hall: I would take you away from the Red Keep, if you so wished.”

You stared. “Take me away?”

“To Dragonstone,” he offered plainly. “Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon would happily host you for as long as you desired. I would be there to keep you company during your stay, as would Luke.”

“Ah. Do they want to take me as their ward?” It was unsurprising, you thought. They likely wanted your inheritance. But you played the fool: “Or do they need a dragonrider? I know Lord Velaryon has trouble with pirates every now and then. It would be sensible for Prince Daemon to solicit my help as they are allies, I suppose.”

“They aren't inviting you. I am.” You blinked at him, obviously uncomprehending, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “You could see the castle,” he began slowly. “Visit the beaches. Fly to Braavos to oversee your wealth, and I would accompany you if you liked. Vermax would be happy for it—I do believe he misses you.”

It was hard to believe in the generosity of the offer, though you knew generosity was in Jace’s nature when it came to you. Still, you needed to confirm it: “You want me to come to Dragonstone… for leisure?”

“If leisure is what you want, then yes. If for some reason you wish to labour, though, I am sure there is plenty to be done.” He smiled. “You could teach me Valyrian, to start.”

There was really nothing in the world that sounded more appealing than living in a darkly beautiful castle by the sea and tutoring a gorgeous prince who wished to take you to Braavos. Certainly, it would be the fantasy of any other maiden.

Still, you hesitated. “I am unsure if this is wise…”

Jacaerys leaned in then. “You've always wanted to get away from the Hightowers,” he said quietly, “even when we were children. Now is your chance.”

You raised a brow, wondering how you let that slip to anyone other than Aemond. “Did I tell you that?”

“You quite literally told me to rescue you from them.”

“Did I?” you asked, perplexed. But you recalled it a moment after: when Princess Rhaenyra was sent to Dragonstone and Jacaerys was downtrodden about parting from you. He had just lost Ser Harwin, so you’d felt poorly for him—had Aemond not been so feverishly ill from the loss of his eye, you might have actually asked Rhaenyra to host you so that you could stay with Jace a while. It made your heart ache that you couldn't be with him, especially since you knew what it felt like to see your father leave your home and then never return. So of course, you promised Jace that you would someday be reunited, and that you would stay by his side then.

You hadn't thought about those words in years.

“Oh,” you murmured, oddly touched, “yes, I suppose I did say that, didn’t I? I thought you would have forgotten about it by now.”

He gave you an expression that you couldn't quite decipher. “Of course I remembered,” he said earnestly. “You asked me to take you away—so let me.”

You stayed quiet for a long moment as you considered the offer. You heard the scrape of soles against brick on the balcony above you, the clink of knights’ armour below. All the eyes and ears of the Red Keep pressed upon you, and it made your heart pound.

“I can't,” you spoke carefully. You leaned forward—close enough to murmur into his ear. “The Queen has already arranged for the Tyrells to take me as a ward. If your mother were to take me on instead, then it would put both her and the Queen in an uncomfortable position. The Tyrells would be offended by them both. I do not think Princess Rhaenyra would want to malign a great house.” And I do not wish to know what Otto Hightower would do to me if I put Queen Alicent in such a sensitive position, you left unsaid.

You could see, in Jace’s eyes, his understanding, acceptance, and eventual disappointment in the reality of your situation.

“It would be wiser for you to stay,” he finally agreed, “but do know that if either Highgarden or the Red Keep become unbearable, there will always be a place on Dragonstone for you.”

You peered beyond the balcony, into the dark night where you imagined many eyes watching you. From the way Lady Tyrell had talked to you, you could tell that Highgarden would likely not be too different from the Red Keep—full of silver-tongued flatterers, keen whisperers, and elaborate schemes. It was exactly the kind of politicking that made you so eager to get away from King’s Landing—the kind of politicking that you would find anywhere there were those who thirsted for power.

And few people in the Realm desired power more than Rhaenyra.

“It is generous of the blacks to offer this,” you said finally. “If I could follow you to Dragonstone, then I would.”

“It is not the blacks who offer it,” Jacaerys replied. “I meant it when I said that I was inviting you. I only wish to offer you a place in which you are safe. If you ever find yourself wanting a home without flattery and falsehoods, then come join me on Dragonstone. I shall never turn you away.”

You gave him a wistful smile.

“You are very kind, Jace,” you replied gently, “and I love you dearly for it. But no such home could ever exist for a Targaryen.”

END PART IV

bonus: I posted a super horny excerpt of a fic where Jace is thinking about ******* you in that dress. enjoy! (yes he was losing his mind fr during that scene. aemond too but he was better at hiding it)

#jacaerys velaryon x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #jacaerys x reader #aemond x reader #let's pretend this hasn't been up on ao3 for a week already #jace is so lovesick over u i feel so bad for him needing to compete with his hot and freaky uncle

236 notes · View notes