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eldrith · 2 months

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˗ˏˋ A Golden Crown ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon

jacaerys velaryon x aunt/targ!fem!reader [part two of a golden cage] words: 11.3k SORRY synopsis: "Princess? Is it true, you can see the entire world on dragonback?” notes: hello im back with the second part to a golden cage! follows a non-canon timeline/events; characters aged-up to 20/21. They are a bit insane for each other in this one <3 oops<3 warnings: canon-typical mentions of war/violence, canon-typical incest, brief mention of blood, angst/grieving, hand kink, less enemies to lovers and more yearning, switch!Jace this time, hair pulling kink, oral (f&m receiving), mentions of virginity/experience, fingering, improper use of High Valyrian again (and obviously idk if its correct nor do i care), they have a bit of a marriage kink i fear feedback is appreciated <3 requests open. masterlist

DAWN HAS BARELY LICKED THE COAST WHEN YOU ARE SUMMONED TO THE QUEEN’S APARTMENTS.

A concealed yawn, flushed cheeks - sleepily, you exchange whispers with your handmaids as your hair is styled and a dress is laced onto your waking frame. A quiet morrow, spurred by the diminishing dark blanket of night and and the beginnings of chirping birds as you eye the guards that meet you at your chamber doors with confusion.

They stand tall, their armor glinting in the rising light - you stare, somewhat foolishly, with suspicion - You’ve never had personal guards here at Dragonstone, but as they begin to escort you, a sinking feeling falls into your stomach.

Last night, your mind whispers, they found out about last night. A foolish anxiety, you realize; there were no guards in the hall between you and Jacaerys’ rooms - you’d delivered a story of sneaking to the kitchens to your handmaidens upon returning, telling them your dinner had been interrupted and you’d amended your hunger.

You had, in a way - but not down in the kitchens.

The click of soled shoes down the stone hall masks the sharp inhale you let out at such vivid memories - waking up this morning, still syrupy with remnants of your previous night between your thighs and a desire to feel him against you. You wonder, absently, what Jacaerys did once he returned to his quarters last night; the thought burns your cheeks further.

You do not even consider your own concern until you are crossing halls to the eastern wing of the castle; your brows furrow when you ask softly what the meaning of this early meeting is - silence is your answer.

The pebble in the pit of your stomach sinks lower when you turn the hall towards the Queen’s council chamber - Baela and Rhaena walk from the Southern quarters, their own confusion upon their faces. “Good morrow,” You greet them, blinking at the absence of guards accompanying them; Baela’s brow furrows in return. “Good morrow,” she responds cautiously. “Why such early summons?”

Rhaena nods in agreement, her eyes scanning the corridor behind you as if searching for answers; a gentle grasp of your forearm before you’re all three leaning together, heads hovering in a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you hear anything? Did something happen last night?”

You feel yourself turn hot rather instantly, innocent as the question is:

Did something happen last night? You’re reminded rather vividly of what activities you found yourself engaging in last night; Jacaerys, with his smooth hands and scorching stare, lips kiss-bitten, whispering to you in High Valyrian. The muscles of your inner thighs, burning with strain even when you awoke, the memory of his breath against your core and his mouth against yours.

Instantly you shake your head, a mix of embarrassment and concern knitting your brows; “No, nothing I know of. I thought perhaps you both might know something - my guard hasn’t said a word since he escorted me.” You recover quickly.

The three of you exchange uneasy glances and relent the odd undercurrent of urgency as you push through the threshold into the council chamber. A burst of air, cooling against your beating heart, brings you flanked with your cousins to face the strategy room.

The gentle smell of morning tea and fruits welcome your empty stomach with a grumble and you bow at your Queen sister, who stands at the head.

The long, wooden table is surrounded - your uncle, nodding to his daughters as they take their places standing next to him, Rhaenys and the Maester just across from them; Joffrey and the babies are absent, likely in their playroom with the nannies. You swallow - the air is thick with some anxious energy and you are quick to divert the attention from you as you take place aside Rhaenys.

No moment after you have just graced your Queen and the others at the council with a good morrow do the large wooden doors creak open once more.

Jacaerys, freshly shaven and hair still damp from bath, enters. The morning light yawns into the room - redder, more orange than the quiet whispers of eve, the sun off of Dragonstone sends streaks through the obsidian and into the honey of Jacaerys’ eyes.

The prince is addressed by nods and murmured greetings from the room as he takes his place at the table - a tightness grows in your throat as his eyes, laced with curiosity, search until they land on you.

His movements do not falter; practically, dutifully, Jacaerys stands before his place, hands falling onto the top of the carved chair. They are long, with slender fingers that curl over the top, veins that split off in deltas before rosy knuckles and two dark signet rings- capable hands. You blink hard, skipping your gaze over his hands and up - to his shoulders, the same ones he’d so dutifully laid your thighs upon as he knelt between your legs just last night-

You snap your eyes, forcing them to him in a wash of embarrassment over your scandalous thoughts.

As he comes to find his place, he gives a small nod to you, a gentle dimple poking his cheek in the short shadow of morning. Torturous.

You look away quickly as you try to cast out all thoughts of him; you cannot bear the smirk you see growing upon his lips in your peripheral vision as you wait for the Queen to take her seat.

It isn't until she bids you all seated that you notice what lies in front of her, and with it grows a fear deep within your breast. With a dry swallow, you watch as Rhaenyra takes into her hands a raven’s letter.

The broken wax has crumbled, but its seal bears the unmistakable sigil in its dark green wax: the Iron Throne.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice.” She begins, “We received early this morning a message from King’s Landing.”

You shift in your seat, heart pounding, feeling Jacaerys' presence across from you even without looking at him; The atmosphere is charged with the weight of Queen Rhaenyra’s voice as glances are thrown around. You catch Baela’s eye, the concern of your own mirrored in her expression.

“From the Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower,” Rhaenyra begins, her voice steady, laced with an undercurrent of steel, “It has come to our attention that the Dowager Queen Alicent’s eldest daughter has been kidnapped from King’s Landing.”

A breath falls from your lips, eyes widening in surprise. A murmur of concern ripples through the room, but Queen Rhaenyra continues, her voice unwavering.

This is a grave violation: This coerced departure is a grave misstep and betrayal of her responsibilities to the Crown - constituting the highest treason as sister to the King. Immediate return is demanded to rectify this misunderstanding - failure of this will constitute unavoidable consequences.”

Daemon, leaning to pour himself some tea, lets out a dark chuckle. “Treason, they say. More like liberation from their clutches.”

It is a tone which you cannot afford to laugh at - nobody can. Rhaenyra’s gaze flicks to him briefly, as he gestures to you with the teapot, lifting a brow in question. You nod stiffly, throat dry as you look back to the Queen, who resumes reading:

“The Princess is hereby demanded to be safely returned to King’s Landing. Failure to do so will result in severe repercussions. King Aegon II will not rest until his sister is returned and those responsible are brought to justice.”

The room falls silent as the Queen lowers the letter, her eyes finding your own.

A third betrayal; like some passage of the new gods, telling of foes coming in three. You grip the side of your chair, eyes swimming with hatred for what they’ve done to your family. “It seems our enemies are eager to paint us as villains,” she says, her voice carrying the weight of authority and indignation. “But we know the truth.”

You cannot find words; floundering, your mouth opens, though nothing but shock, anger, fear courses through your veins. Kidnapped?

Baela leans forward, “What will we do, your Grace?”

You, plunged in a sea of ice - betrayal, your mother’s eyes and your brother’s cruel tongue, hatred sewn into every look given to you by the King’s court members. And now, they wish for you to return? Spreading the narrative that you were kidnapped?

“We must respond swiftly,” Jacaerys says, brows drawn, “Show them we do not take to threats kindly.”

Queen Rhaenyra nods, “There must be a response - but we must also be strategic. We cannot afford to be drawn into open conflict just yet.”

It is true. After the loss of Lucerys, it is not the time to engage in conflict; strategy must be held over any will of force. Feeling the weight of their eyes on you, you take a deep breath and speak up, your voice steady. “Loyalty is not just about words, but actions. Actions that demonstrate commitment, even in the face of…baseless accusations."

You feel Jacaerys's gaze on you, but you refuse to meet it directly, instead focusing on the others in the room who listen intently.

"I choose to be here because my loyalty lies with Queen Rhaenyra and the realm," you continue, your tone measured but firm. You do not let your eyes land on the man who sits across from you; the one you’ve had to convince time and time again that you are no traitor. Something like frustration brims at the surface of your tongue, but you mind your manners and bite it back.

Disdain bites somewhere within you; now, suddenly, Jacaerys has come to your side so quickly? You find yourself bitter at the thought of him suddenly coming to his senses after allowing a small chance of indulgence in such an…improper way.

His words from the night before sting: Is it true that your taste in fashion matches your taste in allegiances? A bit confused, I presume.

Soon they all echo in your mind - his taunts, jabs, those mutterings from under his breath. You’re nothing but a traitor…A snake in dragon’s clothing. A puppet, dancing on strings pulled by whoever promises you a bit of power.

You refuse to meet his eye, clearing your throat as you tilt your chin, "Anyone who doubts my allegiance has mistaken my intentions for weakness. Perhaps I should deliver the message myself.”

The room remains silent, the weight of your words hanging in the air. You resist the urge to glance at Jacaerys, knowing that the hurt and frustration still simmer beneath the surface of your calm demeanor, and a spare glance might undo your manner.

Daemon sits forward with interest, lifting a brow, “You make a suggestion to return to King’s Landing yourself.” He observes, watching your expression for any betrayal of schemes, “To proclaim your allegiance to Queen Rhaenyra.” Several eyes slide to you after this accusation and you close your lips, looking at your queen.

Jacaerys, unable to keep silent, leans forward in protest. "We cannot allow that," he states firmly, his jaw set as he speaks directly to his mother, "Sending her back to King's Landing would only play into their hands."

He pauses, as if weighing his next words carefully.

"We must show strength and unity here. If we send her away, we not only weaken our position but also risk her safety," Jacaerys asserts, his voice steady but with an underlying intensity; your lips purse, flickering down to your empty plate as a rush of affection pulls at your chest.

Rhaenyra’s gaze softens slightly with some kind of surprise as she looks at her son, your own expression shocked.

Daemon, ever the provocateur, holds a playful glint in his eye, "If Jacaerys is so concerned about her safety, perhaps he should teach her to wield a sword, like he learned as a squire in his youth." An inkling of jest brings a sigh from Rhaenys and Rhaenyra alike; you look down to the empty plate before you, at the steam that swirls up from the teacup.

You truly do not have the skills you wish to possess; though you’ve been a dragonrider your whole life, should you ever find yourself on the ground with a weapon in your hands, you’ll be useless. The thought of Jace teaching you lessons sparks some kind of embarrassment through you - to show him your weakness, to admit a flaw in your armor… you swallow down the defensive wall that slides up.

Jace stiffens at the remark, a faint blush coloring his cheeks and his jaw tightening as he turns towards Daemon with a glare. "This is not a matter of personal sentiment," he retorts sharply, his tone defensive. "It is my duty to ensure the safety and well-being of all within her Grace’s realm. Do you really believe Alicent will let her leave once she’s there?"

Your cheeks seem to be permanently heated; biting your lip, you resist sending a sharp look to your uncle. Rhaenyra, sensing the tension, interjects calmly, "Jacaerys, your concern is noted." She turns her gaze to you, giving you the floor amidst the charged atmosphere of the council chamber - with your name, she asks, “What do you think?”

It is indeed uncomfortable to be scrutinized by those around you - to return to your family, to face them and expect to be returned unscathed? It’s much more likely your throat is slit in the night by your brother, or being chained up below the keep the moment you touch foot in King’s Landing.

Taking a breath, you speak carefully, "I… agree with Jacaerys. Sending me back could be seen as a concession." You wring your hands together, a habit you’d picked up from your younger sister Helaena in your youth; at the memory of her, that soft smile and sweet humming, your heart pangs. You shake your head, “They’d never let me leave.”

Rhaenys nods thoughtfully beside you, "It would weaken our position, especially if we are to fairly assume they would not grant her safe voyage back to Dragonstone.”

Your sister nods in thought, "Perhaps a different approach is needed," she says, her gaze shifting to you once more. "We will have you write a letter personally in response to your grandsire, clarifying your position. Send it by raven this evening."

“Yes, your grace.” You agree.

As the council delves into the specifics of the response, the memories of last night come creeping back into your head, try as you do to ignore them; a silent undercurrent, a reminder of the sacrifices necessary to personal desires for the sake of political obligations.

A reminder, a mutter of last night that replays in your mind: You are quite beautiful like this. You do not dare look over at Jace, palms sweating as a longing desire pumps the blood to your veins. You take a shaky sip of your tea, biting your lip - never before have you thought a woman could experience such…selfish pleasure - taking, taking, taking. It is with a jolt of heat that you realize: you’d likely take anything Jacaerys would give you, and perhaps that is what you fear the most.

You’re not betrothed, you remind yourself. Last evening was a mistake.

The drone of a voice is cotton to your ears; Under the table, you suddenly feel Jacaerys’ foot brush against your own - whether by accident or design you can’t be sure, but you jolt slightly, eyes flicking to him.

The touch sends a shiver down your spine, and despite the gravity of the situation, a small, traitorous part of you enjoys the attention as your eyes flicker back to his own. He watches you, a brow twitching, as if he cannot help himself - with an urge you do not resist, you allow your own foot to brush in return; a slight slide against his calf, scarcely there. An admission of some kind, even as his eyes return to the conversation at hand.

You’re beginning to believe you choose to do these things just to see the pink blush spread across Jacaerys’ face - you find that you’d be happy to do anything to see that flush again.

You are very rudely ripped from your thoughts as your uncle clears his throat; with a blink, you turn your attention back to the task at hand at the tail end of a discussion, “-Did they really expect her to return quietly?” Rhaena asks.

Something prods the back of your mind, and you bite your lip.

“They waited two weeks to declare this alleged kidnapping,” You say slowly, gathering attention from the attendees, “It must have been for a reason. There can be no mistaking; they saw me leave, it was not easy. I dragged a Whitecloak out to the sea with the mouth of my dragon when I did finally escape.” You admit somewhat bashfully.

Several faces turn to you in surprise at your candid admission. You had indeed left in a flurry of anger, fueled by determination and perhaps a touch of recklessness.

Your half-sister’s brow furrows slightly, her expression thoughtful. "A deliberate delay," she muses aloud, her gaze sharpening with insight. "They seek to paint your departure as a kidnapping rather than a choice." Her eyes meet yours, a silent understanding passing between queen and subject.

“To make me seem,” You swallow, “Delicate.”

Jace’s eyes flicker to you, but you promptly ignore the stare once more, his stare burning through you.

Daemon leans back in his chair, nodding slowly. "Crafty, indeed," he remarks, his voice tinged with admiration for their opponents' cunning. "They mean to leverage this against us."

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, the weight of their scrutiny heavy. Jacaerys, perhaps sensing your unease, clears his throat softly. "We must respond swiftly," he suggests, his voice firm with determination. "To show them that we will not be manipulated. That she is not weak."

Queen Rhaenyra nods in agreement, her resolve firm; "You will draft the letter," she tells you, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Make it clear that your allegiance lies here, and that any attempt to manipulate the truth will not go unanswered."

You nod, still reeling in shock at the letter sent to you. "Yes, your grace."

YOU FIND YOURSELF WEARING FITTED ARMOR OVER YOUR CLOTHING THAT VERY EVENING.

Indeed with a bit of reluctance, you know your uncle’s words are right; after sending a raven to return to your Grandsire’s Maester, Queen Rhaenyra had suggested that, despite her husband’s teasing words, perhaps it would be obliging for you to learn to handle yourself should you ever find yourself in danger.

The practice yard is surprisingly alive with clashing steel and grunts of exertion; determined to clear your mind and improve what little skills you possess, you seek out Ser Marbrand from across the yard.

Arms crossed, the Queensguard watches as the men in the yard spar - a flare of anxiety as you spare a glance around, the thick black of your cloak fluttering in the breeze.

“Ser Marbrand.” You call his attention as you near, hands clasped together. He greets you with a small bow, turning to face you, “My lady.” He nods.

You purse your lips, “I was hoping I might train with you today?” A flash of something warm in his eyes as he nods easily, "Aye, m'lady. I've been expecting you."

You blink in surprise, letting your head tilt slightly, "Expecting me?" You parrot. The wind off the island whips your hair into your eyes, and you pull it back with a lifted brow.

He nods, "The King Consort's orders. He thought you might benefit from some training. And," he glances over your shoulder, "His Grace the Prince is to oversee your session."

Oh, gods.

You follow his gaze behind you to see Jacaerys sparring with another soldier; you blink, face hot with irritation at Daemon. Always one to poke the bee’s nest.

“I’m sure he is quite busy, Ser,” You say quickly, protesting; the thought of Jace scrutinizing you, teaching you with those hands and his face and- you’ve already begun to sweat. Ser Marbrand shakes his head, "Busy or not, orders are orders. Besides, His Grace surely will be more than willing to make time for you, Princess." He says, chivalrously. Ironic, you think - before yesterday, you could barely get a word in with His Grace Jacaerys before he’d storm the other way or hide in his chambers.

You remain to follow the man, pursing your lips in irritation as you walk with him towards Jace. The sun against your eyes, you watch with a silent curiosity - memories of watching he and Luke in your youth, sparring with trainers in the yard of the Red Keep; when Ser Harwin Strong would wield a sword and guide their young fights.

You must not have seen Jace spar since you were near three and ten - back when you were giddy to be betrothed to such a valiant boy, kind and strong-willed. The memory is bittersweet as you watch him move now, fully grown and confident.

Jacaerys, mid-swing, notices you approaching beside Ser Marbrand and finishes his bout with a swift, decisive move- in the glint of sun, he steps back, nodding to his sparring partner before turning to you. The sun has kissed him in his practice outside; freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, one just upon the bow of his lip. You blink back the urge to smooth your thumb upon it.

The prince’s surprise is evident, though he quickly schools his expression into one of polite attentiveness as he greets you with a soft voice and a nod.

"My Prince," Ser Marbrand begins, "as per the King Consort’s orders, you are to supervise m’lady’s training today."

Jacaerys blinks, clearly taken aback; you feel just as slighted by Daemon’s clear jest, but the Prince quickly recovers with a polite, honorable nod. He glances at you briefly before turning to Ser Marbrand. "I... see. Of course."

The Queensguard raises an eyebrow but nods, handing Jacaerys a training sword and gesturing to an open space. "Very well. I'll leave her in your capable hands."

Capable hands. Your stomach flips, eyes unintentionally falling to Jacaerys’ hands, where they hold the hilt of his sword tight.

Soon, the man is gone; a silence covers you awkwardly and you bite your lip as Jace looks towards his own boots in the dirt, taking a deep breath. “Right, shall we begin?” He offers.

You should by now be used to Daemon's meddling - perhaps this was a ploy to foster camaraderie and trust between your formerly betrothed and yourself, yet indeed it feels more like some torture, a tease.

A curse from the gods, for your sins.

When you give him a tight nod in affirmation, Jacaerys takes up position opposite you. "We should start with the basics," he said briskly, his tone professional. "Grip your sword firmly but not too tight.” You do as he says, but his hands are on yours; palms large, they cover yours easily, unfurling your pointer finger to re-grip it on the leather of the training sword. Blinking at the image of your hand in his, you become dizzy with his proximity. His hands are soft, warm - strong.

Your face burns when his finger gently traces the inside of your palm,“Your fingers must-"

Panicking, you jump, "-I know how to hold a sword," you cut in, your voice sharper than intended.

He pauses, his jaw tightening briefly as he eyes you; For a moment, you know he can read right through you. "Forgive me," he replies evenly, schooling the twitch of his lips, "Let's begin with a simple parry."

The lesson begins, and it’s immediately clear that Jacaerys is both a skilled fighter and an ardent teacher; standing before you, sword in hand, his expression a mixture of patience and determination. The sun casts a golden hue over his features, highlighting a stray curl across his forehead that begs your fingers to brush away. You don't, though; instead you remain, desperate to feel his body against yours again and terrified of what it means.

"Keep your stance steady," he instructs, gesturing to your hips, "Balance is crucial."

You mirror his stance, albeit awkwardly, the weight of the sword feeling unfamiliar in your grip. "Like this?" you ask, trying painfully to focus on the task at hand despite the lingering tension between you.

He nods, adjusting your posture gently with respectful hands: A glimpse of the boy you knew in your youth; the graceful nod, gentle instructions, flushed cheeks. You hope he does not feel you shiver when his hand pulls your hip, lingering for a moment longer before he pulls away. "Better. Now, let's try the strike I showed you."

As you attempt the movement, your sword clangs against his, the sound echoing in the quiet courtyard. Frustration bubbles within you, fueled by the reminder of your inexperience, a worry nibbling at the back of your mind, some old insecurity fostered in the ravages of your unloved childhood. Must she always be annoying someone?

"Again," Jacaerys encouraged, his voice calm yet insistent, brow drawn low as his eyes take in your form. You bite your lip, wishing you could have had your peace learning with Ser Marbrand.

You move to strike; he blocks it with such ease it makes you huff in exasperation. A light tap on your stomach with his own training sword - he shakes his head.

A memory, flashing in your mind at the action: your fingers, tugging his hair until he looks up at you - gently continuing his ministrations upon your heat, shaking his head as he shushes you. His voice, low against your trembling skin. Gaomagon daor vīlībagon ziry, Sodjisto. Do not fight it.

You set your jaw, flustered and torn between such emotions - his voice brings you back to the yard. “Again.” He orders.

Gathering what strength you remain, you lunge at him; He parries easily, his eyes never leaving yours as he nods patiently, “Better. But you’re still too predictable.”

Your jaw ticks once again, regretting ever having agreed to the Queen’s wishes: you’re now stuck with Jacaerys, your desire burning you to the touch each time you so much as grace your fingers against his, and your anxiety whispering in your ear - Must she always be annoying someone?

The lesson remains incredibly torturous.

He is attentive, correcting your stance, your grip, the angle of your strikes, all with a mixture of patience and intensity. You begin to sweat, though the island boasts a cold seabreeze that blows your hair away from your face. It begins to dawn on you; he’s playing a game. Jace’s touches begin to linger a moment too long - on your wrist, your arm, your hips; his breath warm on your neck as he adjusts your position. A wry grin when you stumble over your words. Each time he corrects you sparks a flare of anger and something else you’re not willing to name, and it is not long until the prince notices it.

“You’re holding back,” he says as he blocks another strike. “Why?”

You pause, breathing hard, your eyes locked on his own with a breath of deception. “Maybe I’m afraid of hurting you.” You say, lifting a brow.

He laughs, a short, sharp sound. “You won’t.” He assures you, regripping the training sword.

It’s true; your moves are slow, ungraceful; next to him, you look like a stumbling little lamb. You grit your teeth, resisting a glare as he smirks gently in the light.

With a huff of frustration, you attack again, putting all your strength into it. This time, he doesn’t hold back either - He disarms you after two short moves, his sword pressing against your throat; Then you’re both breathing hard, faces inches apart.

Oh.

Hunger crawls its way up your throat. It burns- a real desire, as his breath hits your forehead, to feel his lips against you again. No, you school yourself, you mustn’t give in to temptation.

“You need to keep your guard up,” Jacaerys says, his voice low as his eyes search yours, “Or you’ll leave yourself vulnerable.”

You glare at him, the frustration from the council meeting bubbling up as you sigh, "I'm trying, not all of us are born swordsmen. This isn't exactly my forte."

You watch his head dip down, close to your face - hair glinting in the sun as he shakes his head subtly. Your stomach flips, a slip of arousal as you smell that same cologne oil that curled you into his bedsheets the night before.

A slight trickle of irritation leaks through his otherwise chivalrous, patient disposition as lifts his head again, leveling you with a look, "No, it really isn't."

The comment pricks at your pride; setting your jaw, you tear your eyes away from his plush lips, downturned in a frustrated pout.

You can see the regret at his words as he sighs sharply. He breathes your name, "It takes practice. Even I had to learn."

"Easy for you to say," you shoot back, your voice tinged with sarcasm. "You were trained from childhood.” You state, taking a step back - his sword moves away from your throat, the pressure of the wood removed as you shake your head, “I can’t believe I have to do this,” Your voice, exhausted and petty with the humiliation of performing so poorly in front of Jacaerys, “Just because you wished to see me flail around with a sword.”

Jacaerys sighs, his patience clearly fraying, “I never suggested you take a blade in your hand.” he replies, his tone defensive.

“-Wouldn’t be the first time I did, would it?” You counter. At this, his eyes flicker down to your palm, bearing the nearly healed, puckered scars along the fulcrum of your fingers from where you’d taken his sword in your hand in this very courtyard. His voice, echoing through the empty stone walls those weeks ago. You think you can just waltz here, switch sides, and everything will be forgiven? That you can replace my brother?

It seems he, too, recalls the words spit to each other that evening; with a sigh, he nods. "Perhaps it does not feel like it, but you've improved," he remarks, his voice softening, “Even in just a few hours.”

A flash of guilt in your stomach as you avoid his gaze, nodding curtly as you hand him your sword from the ground. “Thank you, my Prince."

Your words must give him pause; with a hesitation that sends your heart stuttering, he looks down at you, squinting against the reflection of the sun on the shields beside you.

His tone is cautious - you’re stuck counting the splatter of freckles which grace the strong slope of his nose, that speckle up his cheeks and lead you to his gentle eyes, usually so sharp with fire. He says your name so softly it sounds foreign. "Last night," he breathes - but it makes you tense.

Fear, panic. Must she always be annoying someone? You cut him off, shaking your head quickly, "Let's not talk about it." You saw weakly, sending him a close-lipped smile.

You cannot talk about it, not now - if you do, the words will spill out; I am worried you hate me, how could you not hate me? My brothers called you a bastard. My brother took the throne from your mother. My own brother killed yours. I am too consumed with the desire to be loved by someone that I do not believe it is possible anymore.

All you can do is look away, heartbeat in your throat. You know what I want, he’d said. Do you?

Jacaerys sighs, running a hand through his hair. His voice is gentle once again as it comes from his plush lips. "As you wish."

You glance around the training yard, noticing the curious glances from the soldiers and servants - several of whom avert their eyes when you look their way. You can’t help but to feel like a snake, come to nest in the dragonpit. "I should go," you decide, palms sweating as you turn away.

"Wait," Jacaerys calls out, his voice urgent. Heads turn, not just yours - he seems to register the panic in your eyes, and he shifts on his feet as he looks around at the others before returning his gaze. "Nyke jāhor daor ȳzaldrīzes hen ziry.” He calls; a warmth floods through you at his use of the language, knowing nobody else in the yard will understand what he says to you, “Ivestragī issa geron ao arlī." His eyes are kind, if not desperate; I will not speak of it. Let me walk you back.

You wish you didn’t immediately nod; barely a hesitation before you agree with a small, “Sȳrje.”

IT SEEMS THAT WHEN YOU WALK WITH JACAERYS, YOUR HANDS CANNOT HELP BUT BRUSH AGAINST EACH OTHER.

It happens once and you pull your hand away slightly, taking a step sideways to avoid his warmth. It’s quiet, as he leads you up the path from the sparring yard and to the crossroads - your hands and shoulders brush once again as you take a small step towards the pathway to the cliffs; he, one to the castle.

Jacaerys tilts his head towards the castle with a questioning look, but does not say a thing. A clear of your throat before you whisper, “I wasn’t planning on going to my quarters. I’d like to watch the sun set.”

The slope of his shoulders catches your eye as he turns to you, clearing his throat with a nod that is so similar to how he once carried himself in your youth that you nearly forget where you are.

His doublet is black, matching the cloak that flutters behind you in the gentle breeze; pinned with the sigil of his bloodline, he looks all the Prince he’s been raised to be. You look down, wondering what he might see when he looks at you, wearing black and red, your House’s dragon sigil on your chest. Perhaps, in another world, you and Jacaerys would be Lord and Lady of this very castle you look at.

The thought strikes a deep melancholy through you, and as he begins to walk away, you gasp out a rush. “I wouldn’t mind some company.”

He levies you with that look; indescribable, his lips pink and eyes burning with something - inhaling through his nose, he nods.

You walk towards the cliffs in silence; the path winds rugged terrain with jagged rocks and ancient obsidian underfoot, and Jacaerys offers a hand to you as you climb down one boulder to settle into the small bedding of grass that watches the sea. You pretend the touch does not send sparks through your hand.

The wind whips your hair as the breathtaking beauty of Dragonstone unfurls before you. The sky ablaze with the streaks of purple bled from the blue of daytime; releasing pink and gold, the sun sinks slowly into the vast expanse of the ocean. The waves crash against the rocks below, sending sprays of saltwater into the air, carrying the scent of the sea.

When you lower yourselves to rest against the grass, it is quite pleasant.

You know, however, what you’re both thinking: you came from that sea, bleeding and wheezing, just over the horizon - only weeks ago. And somewhere, in that very distance, your grandsire is likely reading your letter swearing to Queen Rhaenyra.

The breeze dies slowly with the falling of the sun; your hair settles, Jace’s curls blowing just so in the breath of the ocean. It suits him, this island; it’s somewhere laced within that blood, the same blood you share. Your blood.

After a moment, he speaks.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” He starts, “But I’d be remiss if I didn’t say this.” His voice, so sincere; you cannot help but nod, giving the grace for him to speak, knowing at some point it will have to happen.

“I was blinded by grief, when you returned.” He says quietly, thumb picking at the skin of his nail - a habit you’ve noticed he’s picked up in recent weeks. His younger brother Joffrey does it, too. “I didn’t want to let myself feel relieved when you came to us.” He shakes his head, clearing his throat. “Even though I was. It never quite felt like you belonged with…them.”

You cannot speak; tears, welling but unshed in your eyes as you watch the set of the sun. He lets his words become swallowed by the wind for a few moments and gives you the grace of peace to gather your tears before they fall.

After another minute of quiet, he shifts beside you.

“Did you really drag a Whitecloak out to the bay in King’s Landing?” His voice is curious, soft; jesting. You let out a small laugh, feeling some kind of tension melt from your shoulders.

“I’m afraid so,” You admit, recalling the day with a tight throat. You glance at the scar on your arm from where the guard’s sword had struck you; how your dragon had listened to your scream of pain, pierced him with its teeth, and thrown him down into the depths once you found your way out of the City.

You take a deep breath; be it the sun warping the reflection upon the sea, or the heat of the man sitting beside you, the words you’ve been holding back for so long finally find their way to the surface. “I heard you,” you say quietly, “the night you left the Red Keep. I heard you talking to your mother and Daemon about your…” You feel a pang of vulnerability, “...concerns about marrying me.”

Jacaerys's expression softens, and he shifts uncomfortably, his voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t realize you were there,” he admits quietly. “I was foolish back then,” he begins, his voice tinged with self-reflection. “It was after that last dinner, when..”

He trails off, and does not need to finish his words; you remember all too well Aemond’s antagonistic words against his parentage, Aegon’s tease over you and Jace’s betrothal - all of it, that night.

You nod slowly; it feels like ages ago.

“Like I said yesterday,” he continues, his expression shifting, “I... I didn’t know what I wanted then.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning; what could have been feels awfully close as your knee touches his own, your eyes over the ocean. His sword lies in the grass beside him, the silver metal reflecting the dying sun. You revel quietly in the kindness his voice can carry when he is not laced with mistrust or disdain.

“It is a shame,” He starts again, hand roving through his curls, “You will be a wonderful wife to whomever you marry."

Your heart catches in your throat - his candor catches you off guard, your chest soaring. His curls dance around his jaw.

“I’ll likely wish I were him for the rest of my life.”

Jacaerys' words hang in the air - longing, a deep sadness that swirls within you for what could have been. You cannot find the words to respond as you stare into his eyes - they search you, open and dripping with honesty. His vulnerability has opened a door you've both tiptoed around for so long; you’re afraid to go through it, to admit what you’re telling yourself cannot be true. What you’ve told yourself your whole life.

“Jace, I...” Your voice catches, nerves tingling with the weight of your own feelings; you look down in embarrassment. “...I’ve spent so much of my life trying to prove myself, to show people why I’m worthy of…” you trail off softly, eyes tracing the horizon where the sun dips closer to the edge of the world.

Now, if ever, you know you can be honest. You clear your throat, “If it were up to me, you would be that man.” You admit, not daring to look at him.

Your heart beats hard in your throat; Jacaerys reaches out, his hand finding yours tentatively. You nearly jolt at the warm touch of his fingers, but you curl yours around his as you look down.

“You’ll make a fine King one day, Jacaerys,” You say with a small half smile, rising your eyes to watch him wistfully. His chin tilts down, eyes flickering from your own to your lips and back, laced with that same melancholia you feel. “And even after all this time, I still wish…”

The unspoken wish is palpable between you when Jacaerys meets your gaze, his forehead resting on yours.

“As do I.” He whispers.

IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND SLUMBER THAT EVENING.

You try.

The handmaidens bathe you; you ask them quietly of their childhoods, dazy and staring over the rim of the bath, watching the swirls of heat escape the milky water. They tell you of their homes, families, parents, brothers, sisters, lovers. When you ask them to continue, they whisper of the smallfolk on the island, sharing laughter and gossip. Usually, you indulge them in the more lively stories - ask more of the people, question whether any of them have taken a husband; they are unlike your old handmaids in the Red Keep, who whispered only when you were not there, more oft than not to your own mother.

Here, they are kind, quiet. They are just girls.

Tonight, you cannot help but wish you were one of them.

A foolish, senseless thing to say - you, indeed, have had a better life than any of the smallfolk, a truth which has always rubbed the wrong way as velvet on cracked skin; you sigh nonetheless and move silently as they dress you for slumber.

You ask them of their lovers - few of them have one, but they flush and giggle and whisper their names; you, ecstatic for them but confined in your little cage of gold, smiling wistfully and yearning. To love who you could, to marry who you could.

“Princess,” One of them asks as she prepares your hair for sleep, “Is it true, you can see the entire world on dragonback?”

A sweet question, one that would usually make you grin. Yet the words stirred a deep melancholy in you and all you could do is murmur a small affirmation.

The memories come in the dark.

As you lie restless in your bed, tossing every moment, your desire for Jacaerys consumes you.

Breath, hot and willing, against the skin of your neck. Fingers, nimble and intent, sliding up your thigh, dragging the skirt of your dress. A groan, melting into your mouth as your lips find his.

Sinner, your mother’s voice in your head. You sin.

One candle, faint and flickering as it weeps white wax, mocks you in the corner of your room. You tire of counting the cracks in the stone of the ceiling; turning, the empty space of your mattress is cold and uninviting.

You were not cold when you were warming the sheets of Jacaerys Velaryon last evening.

Writhing in pleasure in his room, the hearth still drawn and hot, his sharp jaw against your thighs as he mouthed over you. A small grin, face between your legs, fingers reaching the most secret part of you.

Gods.

You try to ignore the ache, the desire; but when the witching hour is far gone, you drop your bare toes onto the stone floor with a sigh.

Just to see him, you tell yourself. There is no ache so insatiable that you cannot ignore it for the evening. For the rest of your life, your mind chides, he is not yours to have.

Just to see him, you promise yourself. You tug over a robe; it is red, it drips off you like blood. Just to see him.

When you open the doors to your chamber, mouth opening to instruct your guards to allow you to leave, you stop short.

The hallway is not empty.

His tunic tousled and lips puffy as if he could not sleep - in the midnight hours, his hair is a black mass, his eyes sharp and dark. It is an honest Jacaerys in front of you with his eyes wide, insistent: no uniform, nor sword, nor duties, nor titles; clad in a tunic and trousers. Simply Jace.

"-I must speak with you.” His voice is near desperate.

You take a sharp breath, eyes falling aside to the guards who stay vigil at your doors. “Leave us.” You command; the guards move to stand sentinel in the hallway, giving you a moment of privacy with the prince.

You close the door behind Jacaerys after he enters your chambers, the sound echoing in the quiet room. You light several of the candles near your resting table, smoothing over your nightgown as it dawns on you how inappropriately you are dressed to hold company of your Prince.

He remains, standing ever-respectful, eyes roving over your personal belongings, scarce as they may be as you fled the Keep those weeks ago. Seashells along the windows; flowers, picked by you and Baela the other day before breaking fast. A needlepoint hangs beside your bed - the web of a spider and a small butterfly, the wings singed at the ends as it flies away from a dragon - A gift from your younger sister for your last nameday. Mere days before you escaped.

When your eyes meet his finally, your hands wringing together, you whisper to him. “Jace.”

"I can't bear this," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper; his eyes are sharp, near pain. Your teeth clench; a fire burning in your stomach, desire coiling once again.

“Jacaerys,” You repeat, eyes fluttering, unable to stop yourself as you take steps towards him, feeling his warmth as he steps to close the gap.

"Think of it,” He begs, “You, sister of the Usurper; I, the son of the Queen.”

Your brows, furrowed as they were before, begin to untangle at the realization of his words, his intention. Heat douses you, stomach flipping.

“-To show them where your loyalties lie. It would unite our cause with a single banner.” He adds, shaking his head as he takes yet another step towards you. The smell of him; it catches upon your nose and you inhale, stuttering as you swallow thick cotton down your throat. You can imagine the horror on your mother’s face when the news came to King’s Landing; you, married to him.

“As we were meant to.” You nearly whimper it - and it is true; you indeed spent childhood with Septas and Maesters, sitting under tutelage and furiously studying for your future roles. To rule one day; Prince and Princess of Dragonstone, King and Queen of the Seven Realms. What could have been, may still be. He is right; too many things have been lost to time and circumstance.

There is a delicious, angry possessiveness that takes over you, burning in your abdomen, sliding through your stomach, infiltrating your lungs as you stare at the man before you. You were promised to each other.

Jacaerys's eyes are dark, intense, and filled with a longing that mirrors your own. He steps closer until there's barely any space between you, his breath warm on your face. "Please,” His lips brush your own, “Do not make me beg for you.”

You curb your gasp, legs nearly weak as he huffs against your lips, “-Because I will. Until my last breath,” He insists, and you press up onto your toes, lips grazing his own, “You mustn’t.” You soothe. Fingers find purchase on your waist as he lets out a shaky breath.

"I crave you,” He confesses, his voice trembling, “To have, as a husband may have his wife."

Your heart races, the heat of his words igniting something deep within you. It is all you can do to lay your hands on his chest; his heart, beating strong and true beneath your fingers that tremble with desire. Your lips brush his cheek as you pull him to you; down, bending his neck so your lips can meet flush with his ear.

“Pār emagon nyke, valzȳrys.” You whisper into his ear, biting at the soft skin of his lobe. Then have me, husband.

A deep growl; fingers flexing around your hips before gripping tight, Jace groans into you, face burying in your neck as you kiss along his jaw. He is far too impatient for such teasing; his lips find yours with a heat you’ve never felt - soft lips with urgent fervor, pulling and tugging and giving, taking, giving, taking.

You are delirious with the scent of him in your own chambers, the curls that wind themselves through your fingers when you tug him by the nape of his neck. He tastes of peppermint tea; he nips at your lips like a balm to a cut as you sigh his name.

You take a gasp as his lips travel; they roam your neck, first - teeth sharp when he leaves a bite against your pulse, as if reminding himself of your humanity. Hands, still trembling, slide around until he drags a palm up your stomach; cascades of arousal follow in his wake, your skin perking at such light touch.

His grasp finds your breast; you both stutter an inhale. Your sleeping gown is thin enough - your nipples, pert and aching with need, are pinched gently as he explores you, leaning back with attentive eyes as if to see what you like.

But he cannot resist; your head tips back, hair cascading down your back as his lips follow his hands - over the hemline of your dress, his lips press the plush skin of your breasts, his breath hot against your skin.

You swallow your heartbeat, gasping sharply as he suddenly grabs your arse. “gaomagon daor henujagon ēnka, mandia trēsy,” You moan as his hand squeezes you, lifting until you’re coaxed on to the tips of your toes. Do not leave marks, nephew.

He groans against your skin, lips just barely pulling away from your heaving chest; a pinch of your pert nipple has you biting back a moan as you ache for him. He shakes his head, mouth brushing over your skin as he whispers lowly, “Kesan tepagon ñuha ābrazȳrys hae nyke jaelagon.” Shivers rove over you as you pull his hair; desire too much for you as you crash your lips once more with his own. I will mark my wife as I wish.

He moans a sweet thing; one you wish to hear every day for the rest of your breaths. With desiring hands, he pulls you until the lines of your bodies are flush, stumbling as he begins to take staggering, heady steps broken by kisses. You stumble backwards, unwilling to let him go as his hungry palms slide up your spine. “I need you,” You whisper, “I must have you, Jace, please.” You beg yourself, eyes finding his own with a spark; his hands, warm, curl over your shoulders just as they did the back of the chair yesterday.

And then a light nudge until you fall to the seat with a gasp.

Your hands slide out of his grasp as you slide into the chair; he bends his neck to watch you in the candlelight. Tall, standing above you - your hands tug at his tunic, unable to voice your desire but staring up into those dark eyes, pleading.

A smirk in the faint light; flickered flamelight against his dimpled cheeks as a slender hand cups your jaw, thumb gracing your cheek. You thrum with desire. “I have not ceased to think about you,” Jace rumbles, “And how you taste against my tongue.”

You let out a gasp as he once again brings himself to his knees - his face, right in front of you. Breath hitting his lips, you hum, “I have not ceased to think about it either,” You admit.

A smile, eyes teasing: "And here I was, believing I was the only one losing sleep over it," he murmurs. You smirk, near a retort until his strong hands grasp your legs, tugging you towards the edge of your chair; a yelp as he begins, then, to drag your thin gown up your thighs. Toes curling in anticipation, you let out a shaky breath.

He lets out a deep groan as you are once again exposed to him; eyes flickering up to you before returning to your glistening cunt. A thumb, curious and feather-light, swipes up your center, collecting your arousal and sending you jolting. He hums lowly as his hand raises; in the low light of the chambers, your desire glints on his thumb and you flush, watching him with a gasp as he brings the digit towards your lips.

Your tongue swirls around his finger - a moan at the sweet, earthy taste of yourself with him. He presses curiously against your pliant tongue, eyes fixated on your glossy lips. “Please,” You gasp when he pulls his thumb away, sinking lower to pull your thighs over his shoulders once more.

He gives you no more than a caress on your inner thigh before his tongue delves into your soft folds; eager, impatient to taste you.

A gasp that tapers into a low whine escapes your lips as his find your pearl, tongue swirling and hands holding you to the chair.

It is all you can do to prevent the swear words from tumbling from you; his low hum at the taste of you sends tremors of pleasure through your body. Your hands find their home once again in his hair, clenching against his curls as you gasp.

“Jace,” You whisper breathlessly, “D-don’t stop-”

You are full of pleasure; his tongue moves lower, nose pressing against your sensitive nub as his tongue slides into your entrance. A moan of his name, your back arches as he moves; pulling you impossibly close by his arms, your eyes fall shut in bliss.

You begin to near your high incredibly soon; eager, your prince does not cease - teasing, groaning, whispering broken phrases in High Valyrian into you.

A few moments until your head is thrown back over the top of the chair; gasping with stutters, you whimper as a hand once again finds your breast, squeezing and pinching as his tongue continues to drive you towards the edge.

Your chest stutters, littered with love bites and marks - nearing the edge of bliss quick, your legs clench around his head. Groaning into your center, he pulls you tighter, tongue swirling over your pearl as he drags one hand, slow and wanton, to your cunt.

There is a moment where the waves crash in tandem with your shudders; as if you and the ocean are one, Jacaerys taming your storm with a groan and hands splayed over your hips. Soon a finger slides, teasing your entrance; your spine bends as you let out a gasp, shifting to stare down at him.

“Jace, I’d-” You gasp, “I’d like to-to feel you.”

He hums softly against your folds, sending shivers over your chest. “You do not feel me now, Sodjisto?”

You flush, your breaths ragged as he resumes, slipping his middle and ring finger within you - the stretch makes you groan, desire dripping from his glance as he watches you. A lifted brow, some cocky glance of pride from the prince - You nearly smack atop his curls for the look, but you’re near writhing, the wood of your chair creaking, his hum a low grumble that sends sensations through you.

He knows what you’d meant - but as he begins to work a rhythm against you with his fingers, sweat beading at the skin of your chest, he does not seem keen to stop. “I am close,” It comes out as a gasp, eyes rolling back momentarily as some fire strikes in your abdomen. He gives no response yet continues to curl his fingers, exploring you, tongue swirling around your sensitive spot and pulling you closer and closer to release.

His name is the sole thing which passes your lips when you hit your pleasure; shaking legs, your fingers tug hard enough on his hair to elicit his own moan. He watches you, chin tilted up as he slows his fingers, riding you through your ecstasy as you release his curls.

“Gods,” He whispers, eyes searching yours as you catch your breath. Your legs slide off his shoulders; he, with a deft hand, catches an ankle and presses a chaste kiss before lowering. The grin you share is shockingly bashful, for the misbehavior you’ve just found yourselves in once more.

You sit up slowly, heart pounding as you grab his face, pressing a heated kiss to his lips. You taste your essence, rising gently as he does, your hands rising to his tunic.

A fervor you’d not known you possess takes you - tugging him harshly, he grunts your name as he stumbles with you, hands falling to your hips. A smile in the candlelight, a soft chuckle as he tilts his head, “You’re quite eager,” He mutters lowly, lips catching your jaw. You tilt your neck, humming as your hands begin their descent, trembling with desire and the unknown.

You hum - indeed, you’re eager. Your fingers graze the waist of his trousers before he pulls back, staring at you, “My love,” He whispers; it sends warmth through your veins, heart rushing with affection.

You shrug, “Might I return the favor, nephew?” You ask, schooling your face as innocently as possible, though you yearn to climb atop him this very moment. He is once again red, swallowing thickly, his eyes widening slightly. “You... you don’t need to,” he stammers, trying to maintain his composure as you bite your lip, “We shouldn’t—”

You place a finger on his lips, silencing his protest; they press against your hand in a silent kiss as you shake your head, “Jace, please,” you whisper, your voice soft and enticing. “It is all I can think of, even this morning, at the table-”

He coughs, eyes widening in desire before he grasps your cheeks tight, pressing his lips to yours. He pulls away, with eyes darkened. “You drive me mad,” he confesses, his voice trembling.

You smile, your heart pounding in your chest. “You’ve said as much before,” you whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. His eyes have left yours to trail over the marks that litter your chest; a possession that flickers within his gaze.

You grasp his jaw tighter - tugging him until he looks at you with a small smirk, “Do not make me beg for you, Jacaerys.”

His eyes nearly roll as he registers his own words used against him; “I wouldn’t say no to you,” he breathes, his lips brushing against your neck, "Never." You shiver at his touch, a thrill running through you. “Good,” you reply, your voice low and urgent. “Because I cannot wait any longer.”

You tilt his head up, your lips meeting his in a searing kiss that he returns with equal fervor, his hands roaming your body as if trying to memorize every curve, each contour.

Breaking the kiss, you look into his eyes, your own filled with determination. “Lie back,” you instruct softly, guiding him down towards your bed as he’d done to you just last night. His brows raise slightly and you kiss the freckle above his cupid’s bow. “Let me take care of you.” You whisper against his lips.

He obeys, his gaze never leaving yours, filled with a mix of anticipation and need. As you straddle him, you feel his hands on your hips, steadying you.

Upon his elbows, his eyes watch as you unlace his trousers - his arousal hard and lying just above where you straddle him, you feel a deep ache to fill yourself with him. His hand slides up your hip, dragging your nightdress upwards in the action, until his thumb graces below your breast. “Beautiful,” He whispers, eyes true. You smile, tugging his tunic until he leans forward; you pull the fabric from his frame, eager to feel his warm skin against your own.

When his chest is bare, you splay your hands over him; pale skin, glowing with the hue of night, planes of muscle and lithe hips. A shiver of desire - a hunger more possessive than you’ve ever known. You trace the lines of his body, marveling at the strength and grace he possesses.

“My Prince,” you murmur, your voice filled with awe and affection. “You are… exceedingly handsome.”

It takes no longer that the blush rises to his cheeks than you’ve found your way to crawl between his thighs, releasing him from his trousers; his cock, hard and weeping of precum. An exhale from his full lips as your hand grazes him - lying long against his lower stomach, you run your fingers over the base of him, watching as his hands grasp your bedsheets. Perhaps, you hope, your sheets will smell of him on the morrow.

You’ve touched men before; in the days of boredom, in the shadow of your family, sneaking off behind walls or hiding in the Keep. Yet none of them, like this - none of them, how you want to touch Jace.

“Jacaerys, what you did…” Your eyes flicker to the chair, “kissing me, there…” You sound foolish - but his eyes are wide, always listening. “I want to do that, too.” You say earnestly.

At your words his head falls back on the pillow. “Gods be damned,” He mutters to himself, a hand pushing his curls back from his face as you lower yourself, spitting gently - a string of saliva, falling onto the head of his cock, your eyes wide at the deep scent of his bath oils and him.

You grasp him in your palm - thicker than you’ve known, and it makes you ache in an indescribable way as you slowly move your wrist, staring up at him. “Fuck,” He whispers, biting his lower lip and sitting up slightly, “My L-”

Whatever he planned to say is forgotten; flown from his brain the moment you wrap your lips around his warm cock, tasting the beads that leak from him. Jacaerys lets out a moan so lustrous it makes you keen yourself - spurred on by his reaction, you suckle, sliding your tongue lower, to meet where your palm moves up his cock and back down.

“G-Gods-” He stutters, a hand threading through your own hair, guiding you quite gently as you begin to bob your head with the motions of your palm. He is heavy against your throat, thick - large, you cannot fit him all but you try as he lets out a short gasp, tucking a strand of hair from your eyes.

It is only a few more moments before you become more confident; the man beneath you writhes with restraint, one hand fisting the sheets and the other tangled in your hair, guiding you upon his length.

Your desire for him aches - to see him in his own state of bliss, as he has so unfairly seen you in twice by now. You breathe through your nostrils, slowing your fist and taking him deeper into your throat, relishing in the gasping grunt you pull from his flustered lips.

It is nearly too much - you gag slightly, moaning at the feeling as you feel your own arousal drip onto the mattress below you. His own hand tightens in your hair; he is holding back, you think.

“Love,” He mutters, voice sewn with heady desire. You do not listen to his call, instead bobbing your head, feeling him tighten, knowing he too is close to the bliss you just felt minutes ago. “L-laesi,” He stutters, using the incorrect word, eyes. You continue moving upon his cock until he hisses, tugging your hair gently, “Jurnegon rȳ nyke.” He commands, voice full of pleasure with a steel edge to it. Look at me.

You do.

Eyes full of lust, the muscles of his abdomen tight with desire, sweat upon his chest. You nearly lose your mind in his beauty for a moment, before he groans, “Where- I’m close.” He is unable to speak full sentences; a part of you rings with pride, the same pride he likely feels reducing you to such a similar state. “Where shall I-”

You hum, pulling your lips from his cock and replacing your movements with your hand, tilting your head, “I told you,” you say, “I’d like to taste you, My Prince.”

His head throws back at this, muttering a string of swears and High Valyrian - and when he hits his own high, you slow your movements, lips wrapped back around his head, stroking his pulsing cock as he lets out a groan. He comes inside your mouth, his seed coating your tongue as you moan. He is warm, salty; Kin of the Sea, after all.

You collapse against his clothed thigh once he is through his clouded bliss, breathing heavy. Your throat has begun to ache; with shaky legs, you crawl up to where Jace tugs you, his eyes warm and spilling with honey.

You were once told by a handmaid that men often fall asleep after such release; Jacaerys seems none more keen to stay awake, his hands sliding over your figure, eyes stuck on your frame. It sets a fire back within you as he hums, hand sliding over where your dress rides up, grasping your arse once again. You let out a choked moan, eyes finding him with heat, “Jacaerys?” You ask, voice hoarse, quiet.

His brows furrow only slightly; you kiss the wrinkle away gently. “I want you to take my maidenhood,” You whisper, cheeks hot as your lips brush his forehead. His swallow is thick, the desire coursing through your veins as his hand trails your spine delicately - His eyes darken with desire, lips falling to nip gently at your throat, “You mustn’t say these things when I have you in bed.” He nearly growls against your skin.

You hum, hands sliding over his naked torso, traveling the contours and planes. “I mean it.” You whisper - he groans your name, head falling back - but there is a flicker of something else; resolve.

“We must wait,” he says softly but firmly, his hands gently but insistently pushing you back. You let him, knowing he is right but wishing for once you could ignore such obligations. “-Until we are married. For your honor, and…” His eyes fall away from yours and you must duck your own to keep sight of him, “...and for ours.” He adds quietly, thumb stroking your hip.

And there, in the soft candlelight, your heart strikes; You can see the internal struggle in his eyes, the memories of whispered accusations and doubts about his own parentage surfacing. He has lived a life of whispers, many of your own family’s doing - one he does not wish upon another.

Your heart aching with him, you nod, hand cupping his cheek, “Jace,” you say gently, “You are the very embodiment of duty - and an honor to your lineage.” He looks away, but your hold on his jaw remains as you kiss his temple, “We will wait.” You agree softly.

“I WISH YOU COULD STAY,” YOU WHISPER.

Jace presses a kiss to your forehead, pulling his tunic back on as you hover by the doors.

His eyes soften as he takes in your frame, “I’ll speak to my mother in the morrow.” He says gently, nodding, "And we can make arrangements for our betrothal."

You hide a grin with a ducked head, feeling giddy like the child you were the first time you were promised to each other.

When you open your chamber door to bid him farewell, you are once more met with a shock; Ser Marbrand stands, about to knock on your quarter doors.

You must mirror his own look of surprise; you at him, he at the sight of you and Jacaerys together. Your own throat runs dry, blood rushing from your face as you clear your throat, knowing how very indecent it all must look.

“Princess…" He greets, eyes flicking from you to Jace, "Prince.” His eyes flick then to the guards standing vigil outside your door; A brief moment of tension, palpable in the air, before he clears his throat and speaks firmly, "Apologies for the disruption. There's an urgent matter - An incoming ship has been sighted in Dragonstone bay, wishing to hold court with our Queen."

Your mouth opens in shock - the middle of the night? You share a sharp look with Jace - Your letter. You open your mouth to speak, but Jacaerys takes a step forward, “How many ships? Who leads them?” he asks sharply, his mind already calculating the implications. You turn to gather your robe as Jace asks once more, “Where is my mother?”

“In the council’s chambers. You have both been requested.” Ser Marbrand meets Jace's gaze evenly, "A single ship, my Prince - bearing a green, three-headed dragon.”

requests open.

part three.

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