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astrxq · 3 months ago

Note

Hiii I saw that with the requests still open, if you're picking it up you could write something in which the reader joined the group of bastards to try to tame a dragon, she ends up taming Vermithor, Jace was already nervous about the idea of bastards taming dragons then when he discovers that a girl tamed the biggest dragon he becomes more nervous about the situation, perhaps the appearance of the reader that led him to this judgment (short and delicate) over time she proves worthy and Jace ends up becoming affectionate for her, despite his behavior at the beginning being quite rude towards her...if possible, the two even end up having a relationship pls

Dragon's Embrace

jacaerys velaryon x dragonseeder!reader

words: 20k

notes: non-canon events. ooc... kinda mean!Jace. idk a few arguments, mentions of death, wounds and war. not really enemies to lovers. kissing, making out, m!masturbation, talk of wounds.

The High Valyrian words rolled off your tongue with surprising ease, each syllable a flicker of ancient power. You sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor of Dragonstone's great hall, your silver hair catching the light from the nearby braziers. Around you, a couple of other dragonseeders – bastards with the blood of Old Valyria flowing through their veins – repeated the phrases in unison.

"Sōves," you murmured, tasting the word for 'fly.' Your mind drifted to Vermithor, the great bronze beast you had somehow managed to tame. Even then, weeks later, it seemed impossible that the second-largest dragon in the world heeded your commands.

To your left, Addam recited the words with quiet confidence, his dark hair gleaming in the firelight in comparison to yours. Ulf, seated nearby, stumbled over the pronunciations, his face flushed with frustration and too much wine.

And there, lurking in the shadows at the edge of the hall, stood Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. Jace. Queen Rhaenyra's eldest son and heir. His dark eyes scanned the group, lingering on each face with barely concealed suspicion. When his gaze fell on you, you felt a chill that had nothing to do with Dragonstone's perpetual dampness.

"Again," the Maester intoned. "Sōvegon. Ilagon. Dracarys."

You dutifully repeated the words – fly, land, dragonfire – your mind half on the lesson and half on the brooding prince. You had noticed his growing unease as the dragonseeds proved their worth, claiming mounts that had been riderless for years. But it was your success with Vermithor that seemed to truly rattle him.

A girl, his age, with the features he lacked – silver hair and a bone structure that could only belong to a Targaryen.

You had heard Ulf mock the Prince, knowing he could be hanged for treason, mentioning his dark hair and questioning his heritage. Ulf’s careless words – “the prince might not be a true Targaryen at all” – dripped with a venom that seemed to hang in the air like a curse. And while Ulf was quick to dismiss it as drunken rambling, you couldn’t help but wonder if the Prince’s wariness of the dragonseeders was out of fear, rather than hate.

The shadows cast by the flickering flames danced across Jace's face, revealing fleeting glimpses of his thoughts. His posture was rigid, a prince’s bearing that spoke of duty and the burden of expectations. When he turned away from you and strode toward the far end of the hall, you felt a pang of unease. It was as if he were a storm cloud, his presence casting a shadow over your achievement.

"Do not forget the inflection," the Maester advised, his voice a rasping whisper that seemed to echo off the stone walls. "High Valyrian is not merely spoken; it is felt, breathed, and lived."

You nodded, trying to push aside the disquiet his gaze stirred within you. Addam’s voice rose, clear and untroubled, as he continued the recitations, while Ulf's attempts grew increasingly erratic. The wine must have dulled his senses, for his slurred words were a stark contrast to Addam’s precision.

A sound of metal scraping against stone drew your attention to the Prince’s direction. Jace was examining a set of ceremonial swords displayed on a nearby rack, his fingers tracing the engravings with a careful, almost reverent touch. The contrast between his practiced indifference and the raw emotion simmering beneath the surface was palpable. He was both a prince and a young man grappling with his place in a world that seemed to have shifted beneath his feet.

You glanced sideways at Addam, who met your eyes with a nod of mutual acknowledgment as he repeated the words, his pronunciation far more advanced compared to yours. Ulf, however, was lost in a haze, his mind far removed from the lessons at hand.

Jace's approach was inevitable. His footsteps were deliberate, each one echoing off the stone as if he were trying to measure the distance between himself and the rest of the world. His dark eyes finally locked onto yours, the weight of his stare a palpable force. The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating.

Jace’s voice broke the silence, sharp and clear, cutting through the murmurs and distractions of the hall. “Enough of this,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of impatience. The usual rhythm of the lesson faltered as everyone turned to face him.

“The High Valyrian lessons are important,” Jace continued, his gaze fixed on the Maester, who nodded in acknowledgment. “But we are at war. The true value of the dragonseeders lies not in their ability to recite ancient tongues but in their readiness to fight.”

You watched as Jace’s fingers drummed rhythmically against the hilt of one of the ceremonial swords. His frustration was evident, and you could sense the tension in his posture, like a taut string waiting to snap.

“We need to be preparing for battle,” he said, his eyes sweeping over the group. “The dragons are our strength, but it is not enough to simply ride them. We must train as if our lives depend on it – because they do.”

Addam’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion, his focus shifting from Jace to you.

Ulf’s head lolled to one side, still clearly affected by the wine. He mumbled something incoherent, and you could see the disdain in Jace’s eyes as he glanced over at him. The prince’s patience was wearing thin, and he was not in the mood for leniency.

Jace strode purposefully to the center of the hall, his boots echoing sharply against the stone. “You will take your lessons outside,” he declared, his voice resolute.

You could feel a mix of apprehension and excitement in the air. The idea of training outside was both daunting and exhilarating. The raw elements of the world would push you to your limits, but it would also forge you into a more formidable force.

The Maester sighed, his expression a mixture of resignation and understanding. “Very well, Prince Jacaerys,” he said. “We will arrange for the lessons to be held in the training grounds.”

“Which one’s this, again?” Ulf leaned his body to yours, his breath smelling of wine as he spoke.

Jace glared.

“It is the prince, Ulf.” you replied.

“Ah! The young prince!” Ulf hurried to stand, almost stumbling as he walked towards the prince. He was stopped from the attempted hug by Jace’s arm on his torso, making him take a step back.

Jace’s face was a mask of barely contained irritation as he eyed Ulf with a mix of contempt and concern. “I suggest you keep your distance,” Jace said, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable edge. The prince’s warning was clear: he would tolerate no nonsense, not from the drunken Ulf or anyone else.

You felt a rush of embarrassment on Ulf's behalf, even as irritation prickled at your skin. His drunken antics were becoming a liability, and you knew they reflected poorly on all the dragonseeders. Your eyes met Jace's for a brief moment, and you saw a flicker of something in his gaze as you gently but firmly guided Ulf back to his seat.

"My apologies, Your Grace," you said, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. "Ulf is... enthusiastic about his training."

Jace's lips twitched, almost forming a smirk before he schooled his features back into their stoic mask. "Enthusiasm is one thing," he replied, his tone dry. "Sobriety is another. See that he's fit for tomorrow's outdoor session."

You nodded, accepting the responsibility without complaint. As Jace turned to leave, his cloak swirling dramatically behind him, you couldn't help but wonder at the conflicting emotions his presence stirred within you. There was admiration, certainly – for his dedication, his strength of purpose. But there was also a lingering resentment at the way he seemed to look down on you and your fellow dragonseeders.

The Maester cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to the present. "Well," he said, his voice tinged with resignation, "I suppose that concludes today's lesson. Rest well, all of you. Tomorrow will bring new challenges."

As the group dispersed, you lingered, helping Addam gather the scattered scrolls and tomes. He shot you a sympathetic look. "Don't let the prince get to you," he said softly. "He's under a lot of pressure."

You sighed, running a hand through your silver hair. "I know. It's just... frustrating. We're risking our lives for this cause, same as him. Why can't he see that?"

Addam shrugged, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe he does. Maybe that's what scares him."

His words stayed with you as you made your way through Dragonstone's winding corridors to your modest chambers. The castle was a maze of dark stone and flickering torchlight, every shadow seeming to hold secrets. You couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched, though whether by ghosts or spies, you couldn't say.

Sleep came fitfully that night, your dreams a chaotic swirl of dragons and dark-eyed princes. You woke before dawn, your body tense with anticipation for the day ahead. As you dressed in sturdy riding leathers, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the polished metal of your water basin. Your silver hair gleamed in the early morning light, a stark reminder of the heritage that both elevated and isolated you.

The training grounds were shrouded in mist when you arrived, the first hints of sunrise just beginning to paint the sky. You were surprised to find you weren't the first one there – a solitary figure was already moving through sword forms with fluid grace.

It was Jace.

You hesitated, unsure whether to announce your presence or simply wait for the others to arrive. But before you could decide, Jace spun, his practice sword coming to a stop mere inches from your throat. His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in recognition.

"You're early," he said, lowering the wooden blade.

"As are you, Your Grace," you replied, striving to keep your voice neutral.

Jace regarded you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your surprise, he tossed you a practice sword. You caught it reflexively, the weight unfamiliar in your hand.

"Show me what you can do," he said, falling into a fighting stance.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback. "I... I'm not trained with a sword, Your Grace. My skills lie with dragons."

"And if you're unseated in battle? If your dragon is injured? Will you be of no use then?."

His words made sense, but you couldn't shake the feeling that this was some kind of test. Still, you had never been one to back down from a challenge. You mimicked his stance as best you could, trying to recall the few times you'd seen swordplay up close.

Jace didn't give you time to overthink it. He lunged forward, his wooden sword a blur. You reacted on instinct, bringing your own blade up to parry. The impact jarred your arm, but you managed to deflect his attack.

"Not bad," Jace said, circling you slowly. "But you're too tense. Relax your shoulders."

You tried to follow his advice, but it was hard to relax with his intense gaze fixed on you. He came at you again, this time with a series of quick strikes that had you stumbling backward.

"Footwork," he barked. "Mind your footing!"

You gritted your teeth, frustration building. You were aware that he was testing you, to see if a dragonseeder – a bastard – was as capable as him, he was making himself respectable.

You struggled to keep up with Jace's rapid movements. His strikes were precise, each one designed to expose weaknesses. The early morning mist seemed to thicken around you, adding to the sense of suffocating pressure. Your breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps, the wooden sword feeling like an alien extension of yourself.

“Focus,” Jace commanded, his voice cutting through the mist. “Your footing is off. You’re overcompensating.”

You adjusted your stance, trying to follow his instructions. Every time you thought you had a handle on it, Jace’s next attack would force you back into defensive maneuvers. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, seemed to search for any sign of weakness or hesitation.

“Remember, you’re not just fighting with a sword,” he said, his voice low but intense. “You’re fighting for your survival. For your place here.”

A pang of frustration shot through you. The implicit challenge in his words was clear: prove your worth or be dismissed. You wanted to shout back, to remind him that you had tamed Vermithor, that your bond with the dragon was no small feat. But you swallowed the words, channeling your frustration into your movements.

Jace was relentless. He pressed the attack, pushing you harder with each passing moment. His precision was almost mechanical, each strike aimed at testing your limits. Sweat dripped down your brow, mingling with the mist and making it hard to see clearly.

When you stumbled and nearly fell, Jace stepped back, his sword lowering slightly. There was a brief moment of silence, filled only with the distant sounds of the castle waking up.

“If you cannot wield a sword,” he started, breathless. “Then you are of no use in the battlefield.”

Your chest heaved with exertion, anger and frustration warring within you. Jace's words stung, but you refused to let them break you. With a deep breath, you steadied yourself and met his gaze.

"With all due respect, Your Grace," you said, your voice low but firm, "a dragon is worth a thousand swords. I may not be a master swordsman, but I have tamed Vermithor. That counts for something, doesn't it?"

A flicker of emotion passed across Jace's face – surprise, perhaps. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, you spoke again.

“And I believe you’ve been in as many battles as I have.”

Jace’s eyes narrowed, a storm of conflicting emotions playing across his face. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might retort sharply, but he halted, as if reconsidering. He dropped his sword next to your feet, indicating he was taking his leave.

“If you falter in battle, the dragons will not be enough to save you,” he said.

You stood there, breath coming in ragged gasps, your grip on the practice sword tightening as you fought to steady yourself. The mist around you seemed to thicken, shrouding the training grounds in an almost tangible silence.

Jace’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his expression inscrutable. Then, with a final nod, he turned on his heel and began walking toward the distant castle, his cloak billowing behind him like a stormy banner.

"Hey."

The voice startled you, and you whirled around to see Addam approaching, his own practice sword in hand. His eyebrows rose as he took in your disheveled appearance and the two swords at your feet.

"Was that Prince Jacaerys I saw leaving?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

You nodded, bending to pick up the discarded swords. "He was... testing me, I think."

Addam's expression softened with understanding. "Ah. And how did that go?"

"About as well as you'd expect," you said wryly, picking up the swords from the ground. "I'm no swordsman, Addam. I'm a dragonrider."

He took the sword, twirling it experimentally. "We're both, actually," he corrected gently. "Or at least, we need to be. The prince isn't wrong about that."

You sighed, knowing he was right but still feeling the sting of Jace's dismissal. "I know. It's just... frustrating. We've proven ourselves with the dragons. Why isn't that enough?"

Addam was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. When he spoke, his voice was low and thoughtful. "Think about it from his perspective. We're bastards, given power that even he, a trueborn prince, doesn't fully understand. It must be... unsettling."

You considered his words as the two of you began to warm up, moving through basic sword forms. Addam was patient, correcting your stance and grip with a gentleness that stood in stark contrast to Jace's intensity.

Ulf arrived last, looking worse for wear but mercifully sober. The Maester appeared shortly after, clutching scrolls and looking decidedly out of place amidst the clanging of practice swords.

The day's training was grueling. You alternated between physical drills and lessons in High Valyrian, your mind and body pushed to their limits. Through it all, you couldn't shake the memory of Jace's dark eyes, the challenge in his gaze.

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you found yourself alone once more. The other dragonseeders had retired to the great hall for the evening meal, but you felt drawn to the cliffs overlooking the sea.

The wind whipped your silver hair around your face as you gazed out at the horizon. In the distance, you could see the massive form of Vermithor circling lazily, his bronze scales catching the last rays of sunlight.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled you from your reverie. You turned, expecting to see Addam or perhaps the Maester, but instead found yourself face to face with Prince Jacaerys once more.

His dark eyes swept over you, taking in your windswept appearance and the way you stood so close to the cliff's edge. For a moment, something like concern flickered across his features, but it was gone so quickly you might have imagined it.

"You should be at dinner," he said, his tone clipped and formal.

You raised an eyebrow, unable to keep a hint of defiance from your voice. "As should you, Your Grace."

Jace's jaw tightened, and you braced yourself for a reprimand – or perhaps, a push. He was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the whistle of the wind and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. When he spoke again, his voice was hard.

"Riding a dragon is dangerous," his voice sharp. "Don't forget that. One moment of weakness, one lapse in control, and he could burn this entire island to ash."

You turned to face him fully, your eyes narrowing. "I'm well aware of the risks, Your Grace. But I also know that Vermithor would never harm me. Our bond–"

"Your bond," Jace interrupted again, his voice sharp, "is based on blood and chance. You're a dragonrider because of your Targaryen ancestry, not because of any special skill or worthiness."

His words stung, more than you wanted to admit. You clenched your fists at your sides, fighting to keep your voice steady. "Then why did you allow us to attempt to claim the dragons in the first place? If we're so unworthy, why take the risk?"

Jace's eyes flashed with anger, but also something else – uncertainty, perhaps. "We need every advantage we can get in this war. But make no mistake, your loyalty will be tested. And if you're found wanting..."

He left the threat unspoken, but it hung in the air between you, as palpable as the mist rolling in from the sea. He glared. You knew he’d heard Ulf’s mocking of the dragonseeders and their Targaryen claim, having joked about being owed the same opportunities as the prince simply because of illegitimacy.

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze steadily. "I am loyal to Queen Rhaenyra and her cause," you said firmly. "I would never betray that trust."

Jace studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes seeming to search for any hint of deception. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "See that you don't," he said.

"You speak as if our bond with the dragons is nothing but a fluke," you said, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within you. You clenched your fisted hold on your skirts, trying to remain calm.

Jace's eyes narrowed at your words, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "A fluke? No. But it's not the grand destiny you seem to think it is, either. You're a tool, nothing more. A weapon to be wielded in this war."

His harsh assessment hit you like a physical blow, but you refused to let him see how deeply his words affected you. Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his gaze defiantly.

"If I'm a weapon, Your Grace, then I'm one that chose its wielder. I could have claimed Vermithor and flown far from here, far from this war. But I didn't. I chose to stay and fight for Queen Rhaenyra's cause. That has to count for something."

For a moment, something flickered in Jace's eyes – surprise, perhaps, or a grudging respect. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual mask of cool indifference.

"Words are wind," he said dismissively. "It's actions that matter. And so far, all you've proven is that you can sit on a dragon's back. That's not enough."

You felt your temper flaring, the frustration of the day's training combining with Jace's dismissive attitude to push you to the edge of your patience. "Then tell me, Your Grace, what would be enough? What do I need to do to prove my worth to you?"

Jace seemed taken aback by your direct challenge, his brow furrowing as he considered your words. For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, as if he wasn't quite sure how to answer.

"Prove your worth?" he finally said, his voice low and intense. "Prove that you're more than just a bastard with a lucky bloodline. Prove that you understand the weight of the responsibility you've been given. Prove that you're willing to sacrifice everything for this cause. Prove that you will not attempt to usurp mine and my mother’s claim because you share Targaryen blood."

It was almost as if he spoke more to himself than to you. You weren’t blind, his dark hair and sharp features reinforced the claim of bastardy of the Prince, and you understood the weight of his words. His unspoken insecurities about your place in this war – the way your bloodline might stir fears of rivalry or discord – were laid bare in that moment.

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm.

"I understand the weight of this responsibility better than you might think, Your Grace," you said quietly. "Every time I mount Vermithor, I'm acutely aware that one wrong move could mean death – not just for me, but for countless others. I don't take that lightly."

Jace's expression remained impassive, but you thought you saw a flicker of something – curiosity, perhaps – in his dark eyes. "Fine words," he said. "But words alone won't win this war."

"No," you agreed. "They won't. But neither will distrust and division among our own ranks."

For a long moment, Jace simply stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, you turned on your heel and strode back towards the castle, leaving him alone with the wind and the waves.

You pretended not to notice his stare as you walked away, his eyes glued to your loose silver hair and his mouth flinching an angry frown.

________

The following days blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and frustration. True to his word, Jace had moved the dragonseeder training outdoors, and the elements seemed determined to test your resolve. Rain lashed against your face as you struggled through sword drills, and biting winds made it nearly impossible to concentrate on your High Valyrian lessons.

Through it all, Jace's presence was a constant, looming shadow. He watched your every move with critical eyes, quick to point out flaws and slow to offer praise. It was as if he were searching for any excuse to prove that you and the other dragonseeders were unworthy of the power you'd been given.

One particularly grueling morning found you paired with Addam for sparring practice. The two of you circled each other warily, wooden swords at the ready. You had improved since that first humiliating session with Jace, but you were still far from comfortable with a blade in your hand.

"Remember," Addam said quietly, "keep your guard up and watch my footwork."

You nodded, grateful for his patience and support. As you began to exchange blows, you found yourself settling into a rhythm, your movements becoming more fluid and natural.

"Better," a voice called out, and you stumbled, nearly dropping your sword as you realized Jace had been watching. He strode towards you, his own practice sword in hand. "But still not good enough. Step aside, Addam. I'll take it from here."

Addam hesitated, glancing at you with concern. "Your Grace, perhaps–"

"That wasn't a request," Jace said sharply, and Addam bowed, retreating to the sidelines.

You squared your shoulders, trying to prepare yourself for whatever test Jace had in mind. He didn't keep you waiting long, lunging forward with a speed that took your breath away. You barely managed to parry his first strike, the force of it sending shockwaves up your arm.

"Too slow," Jace barked, pressing his advantage. "A real enemy won't give you time to think."

You gritted your teeth, focusing on staying on your feet as Jace's attacks came faster and harder. Sweat stung your eyes, and your muscles screamed in protest, but you refused to yield.

"Is this how you'll defend yourself if you're unseated?" Jace taunted, his dark eyes glittering with a mix of anger and something else you couldn't quite name. "Is this how you'll protect your dragon?"

The mention of Vermithor sparked something within you. With a surge of strength you didn't know you possessed, you pushed back, your wooden sword clashing against Jace's with a resounding crack.

For a moment, surprise flashed across his face. Then his expression hardened, and he redoubled his efforts, driving you back across the muddy training ground.

"Better," he said, his voice low and intense. "But not good enough. Not nearly good enough."

With a lightning-fast move, he knocked your sword from your hand, sending it spinning away. Before you could react, the tip of his practice blade was at your throat.

"Dead," he said simply, his chest heaving with exertion. "And your dragon left riderless, vulnerable to our enemies."

You glared at him, frustration and anger boiling within you.

"If you can't keep up, you'll be left behind." he said.

With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving you standing alone in the mud, your practice sword hanging limply at your side and Addam’s apologetic eyes meeting yours.

As the days wore on, Jace's challenges became increasingly difficult. He seemed determined to push you and the other dragonseeders to your breaking point, as if hoping to prove once and for all that you were unworthy of the dragons you'd claimed.

One morning, he announced that you would be flying a series of complex maneuvers with your dragons. The sky was overcast, threatening rain, and a chill wind whipped across Dragonstone's craggy peaks.

"The enemy won't wait for fair weather," Jace declared, his dark eyes scanning the group. "You need to be prepared to fly in any conditions."

You exchanged a glance with Addam, who looked as apprehensive as you felt. Ulf, on the other hand, seemed almost eager, a dangerous glint in his eye that made you uneasy.

As you made your way to where Vermithor was waiting, you couldn't shake the feeling that Jace was watching you. When you turned to look, you caught him quickly averting his gaze, his jaw clenched tight.

Mounting Vermithor, you felt a sense of calm wash over you. Whatever challenges Jace might throw your way, this was where you belonged. The great bronze dragon rumbled beneath you, his scales warm against your legs.

"Sōvegon," you murmured, and Vermithor launched himself into the air with a powerful thrust of his wings.

The wind howled in your ears as you climbed higher, the ground falling away beneath you. You could see Addam and Ulf on their own mounts, keeping pace on either side.

From the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Addam and his dragon, gracefully cutting through the air. Addam seemed more at ease with each passing moment, his form moving with practiced ease, his commands to Seasmoke calm and assured. A glance to your other side revealed Ulf, struggling to maintain control over Silverwing, who was clearly restless. The dragon's erratic movements were a stark reminder of the challenges that came with taming such powerful creatures.

Jace stood on the ground below, his gaze following your every movement with a critical intensity. You could feel his scrutiny like a weight on your shoulders, but for once, it didn’t seem to impede your focus. Instead, you channeled the pressure into your flying, pushing Vermithor to execute the complex maneuvers Jace had outlined the Maester to teach.

When you landed, the ground felt solid beneath your boots, a welcome contrast to the swirling winds of the sky. Addam and Ulf followed closely, their expressions reflecting a mix of relief and exhaustion. Ulf’s face was flushed, but his dragon seemed to have calmed, at least for now.

Jace approached, his dark eyes locking onto yours, a lilac hue to them. You braced yourself for the usual barrage of criticism, but to your surprise, he merely nodded, his face a mask of contemplative silence.

You held back a prideful smile as his attention turned to the Maester’s corrections on Ulf’s pronunciation to help him control his dragon, knowing that you’d exceeded Jace’s expectations.

________

Jace couldn’t sleep.

The night was restless, a tumult of thoughts and emotions swirling within him. He lay in his chambers, the heavy tapestries of Dragonstone’s stone walls casting long shadows across the room. He tossed and turned, the silken sheets tangling around him as if trying to restrain the turmoil within.

His mind replayed the day’s events on an endless loop. The sight of you, mounted atop Vermithor with such ease and grace, had struck him with an unexpected intensity. It was a raw, unsettling mix of admiration and envy. Your fluid movements in the sky, so effortless, contrasted sharply with the years of struggle he had endured to achieve the same mastery. It wasn’t just your skill that unsettled him – it was the ease with which you seemed to command the dragon, the naturalness of it.

Jace’s fingers clutched the bedclothes tightly, his knuckles white. The image of your silver hair cascading like a waterfall behind you, the fierce determination in your eyes as you navigated the winds, ignited a fire within him.

It was a fire that he was unprepared for, one that was fueled by a mix of desire and frustration.

He thought of your beauty, how it shone even in the harsh light of training. You were everything he was not. A dragonrider born of Targaryen blood, your claim was untainted by the bitterness of his own struggles. His mind was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions – an ugly, fierce jealousy tempered by a begrudging respect.

The ache of his own inadequacy gnawed at him. The more he scrutinized you, the more his insecurities surfaced. You were the embodiment of everything he could never be – confident in your heritage, untarnished by doubts. It was a cruel irony that you, an illegitimate Targaryen, could be so effortlessly perfect in a role that he had fought so hard to master.

Jace's breathing became uneven as he imagined the way you had ridden Vermithor, the way you’d handled the dragon with an ease he had once yearned for. The sight had stirred something primal within him, a frustration that was both physical and emotional.

He could feel the heat rising in his body, his mind unwilling to acknowledge the true nature of the desire that had taken root. In a moment of reckless abandon, Jace’s hand drifted beneath the sheets, his touch unsteady as he tried to quell the overwhelming sensation.

His heart pounded in his chest, the rhythm echoing the throbbing ache between his legs. He was painfully aware of how the sight of you had roused such an intense response, one that he could neither ignore nor fully comprehend.

The more he thought about you – your commanding presence on the dragon, your fierce retorts, the way you had held your own against his relentless testing – the more his frustration mounted.

Jace’s hand grew more insistent, his movements fueled by a mixture of anger and longing. The room seemed to close in around him, the cool breeze from the window doing little to soothe the heated tumult within.

He cursed under his breath, the sound of his voice mingling with the soft rustle of sheets and the distant, rhythmic crash of the waves against Dragonstone’s cliffs. A quiet moan left his mouth as he tried to angrily remind himself to stop thinking about you.

His efforts were useless.

His thoughts wandered to how you would look and feel under his own hands. The combination of tactile details – the smoothness of the leather riding attire, the grip of the gloves, the precise knot of your hair – created a vivid, tantalizing picture that his mind couldn’t escape.

It was a cruel irony that what drew him to you with such fervor was also what separated you from him.

Eventually, the intense heat inside of him subsided, leaving him with a deep, uncomfortable emptiness. Jace laid back, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and stared at the darkened ceiling. The overwhelming urge to understand the complex emotions he had experienced gnawed at him, but for now, he was left with the stark reality of the night’s revelations.

The shadows on the walls seemed to mock him with their silent judgment.

He finally closed his eyes, trying to silence the storm within. The echo of your voice, the sharpness of your defiance, and the image of you riding Vermithor continued to dance at the edges of his consciousness. Sleep came reluctantly, a fitful rest punctuated by dreams that blurred the line between reality and the fantasies his mind could not fully grasp.

________

The following morning dawned gray and dreary, the sky a brooding expanse of clouds that mirrored the restless turbulence of Jace’s mind. You awoke feeling the weight of the previous day’s exhaustion and frustration still heavy on your shoulders. Sleep had been elusive, leaving you with a vague sense of unease that clung to you as you dressed in your training clothes.

Dragonstone seemed to groan under the oppressive weight of the clouds. As you made your way through the castle's winding corridors, your boots echoed loudly against the cold stone. The chill in the air made the castle feel even more somber, its narrow hallways and flickering torchlight adding to the oppressive atmosphere. You braced yourself for the day ahead, knowing that Jace’s scrutiny would likely be even sharper after yesterday’s performance.

Your breath misted in front of you as you took in the scene – Addam and Ulf were already there, their dragons waiting nearby. Ulf looked more subdued than usual, his face a mixture of apprehension and exhaustion.

Addam’s eyes met yours with a nod of encouragement. “Good Morrow,” he said, his voice carrying a note of camaraderie despite the weather.

“Morning,” you replied, your voice subdued. The cool air bit at your cheeks, and you could see the steam rising from the dragons’ nostrils as they shifted impatiently.

Jace appeared at the edge of the training grounds, his cloak billowing behind him as he walked with purpose. His gaze swept over the assembled dragonseeders, his expression unreadable. You noticed a subtle shift in his demeanor, a stiffness in his posture that spoke of inner turmoil.

The Maester, joined by one of the guards, called the group to attention with a sharp, commanding tone. “Today, we’ll be working on endurance and control. Dragons are powerful, but they are not invincible. You need to be able to ride them through the worst conditions, maintain your composure, and execute your orders flawlessly.”

The rain began to fall more heavily, drumming against the stone and making the practice swords slick and unwieldy. Jace’s eyes flickered to you, a brief flash of something that might have been residual frustration or something more.

“Pair up,” Jace instructed. “Addam, you’re with Ulf. I’ll work with you.”

You felt a mix of apprehension and determination at his command. Addam and Ulf moved to their positions, their dragons snorting and stamping in the growing downpour. Jace approached, his demeanor as stern as ever.

“Ready?” he asked, though his voice carried a note of distraction.

You nodded, gripping your practice sword tightly. “Ready, Your Grace.”

Jace’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than usual, and you couldn’t quite read the expression in them. Then, without further ceremony, he lunged forward with surprising speed. The wet ground made each movement more challenging, and you found yourself slipping and struggling to keep your footing.

Jace’s attacks were relentless, his wooden sword a blur of motion. You fought to maintain your balance, your arms burning with the effort to parry his strikes. The rain pelted down, making it difficult to see clearly and adding an extra layer of difficulty to the already grueling exercise.

Jace shouted over the roar of the rain. “You need to adapt to the conditions. You can’t afford to be thrown off by a little water.”

You gritted your teeth, pushing through the discomfort. Each parry was a battle in itself, the wet sword slipping in your grip, the muddy ground threatening to send you sprawling. Jace’s intensity didn’t waver, and you could feel the weight of his expectations pressing down on you once again.

As the minutes ticked by, exhaustion began to set in. Your movements grew sluggish, your grip on the sword less sure. Jace seemed to sense your fatigue, and his strikes became more focused, each one designed to test your limits.

“Steady,” he said, his voice cutting through the rain with a fierce edge.

You knew he was right, and you pushed yourself harder, fighting through the rain and mud to meet his relentless assault. The clashing of swords, the splashing of rain, and the shouting of commands became a cacophony that drowned out everything else.

Finally, with a final, decisive strike, Jace knocked your sword from your hand, sending it skittering across the ground, he took a step forward, accidentally causing you to slip on the muddy floor. The practice sword at your throat was a cold, wet reminder of your defeat as well as your now soaked and dirtied skirts.

“Dead,” Jace said, repeating his words from the other week, his voice heavy with a mixture of frustration and something else that you couldn’t quite place. “And your dragon left riderless.”

You sat there, drenched and panting, as Jace stepped back. The rain streamed down your face, mingling with the sweat and mud. Your chest heaved with exertion, but you refused to let the frustration show. Your stomach burnt with rage, seeing Jace’s defeat as mocking, like all of his tests seemingly focused on only you for the past weeks.

Jace’s eyes softened ever so slightly, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something in them – perhaps an understanding, pity, or a grudging respect.

Feeling the Maester’s eyes on him, he extended his hand out for you to grab.

You looked up at Jace, your breath coming in heavy, visible puffs against the rain-slicked sky. His hand extended toward you, glistening with raindrops and a subtle, yet unexpected gentleness. The muddy ground beneath you was cold and unforgiving, and you hesitated for a moment, fighting the surge of anger and frustration that had been building inside you.

With a deep breath, you reached out and grasped his hand. His grip was firm, and he pulled you up with surprising strength. As you stood, the rain continued to pelt down, streaming off your hair and soaking your clothes. Jace’s eyes remained locked on yours, and you could sense the conflict swirling within him.

"Thank you, Your Grace," you said, your voice steady despite the exhaustion and lingering anger. There was an edge to your tone, but you forced yourself to keep it respectful.

Jace’s breath heaved, matching your panting in exhaustion. His fingers lingered on yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary, the contact fleeting yet unexpectedly warm. The touch was gone almost as quickly as it had come, and he pulled his hand back abruptly, as if struck by the realization of the gesture.

Jace cleared his throat, his voice regaining its authoritative edge. “Best get cleaned up before our leave at dawn.”

In the warmth of the castle, you peeled off your drenched garments, the cold air of the corridor biting at your damp skin. The sound of the rain became a distant murmur as you headed toward your quarters, where a hot bath awaited you. The steam rising from the water seemed to promise a moment of solace, a brief escape from the relentless pressure of your training.

You sank into the bath with a sigh, the warmth enveloping you like a comforting embrace. The heat helped to soothe your aching muscles and eased the sting of the rain-soaked bruises that marred your skin. As you soaked, the events of the day replayed in your mind. Jace’s stern demeanor, his seemingly endless expectations, and the fleeting touch of his hand all jostled for attention in your thoughts.

The knock at your door was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to rouse you from your reverie. It startled you from your thoughts, and you quickly rose from the bath, wrapping yourself in a simple, damp robe. The warmth of the water still clung to your skin, but the cold air of the castle’s corridors nipped at your exposed shoulders.

You padded to the door, the sound of the rain growing louder in your ears as you approached. Thinking it was your assigned handmaid, you swung open the door with expectation. The sight that greeted you, however, was far from what you had anticipated.

Jace stood in the doorway, his cloak still damp from the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes met yours, and for a brief, disconcerting moment, the stern facade you had come to expect softened, revealing something more vulnerable beneath.

“Your Grace?” You stammered, confusion and surprise evident in your voice. You instinctively tightened the robe around yourself, the simple garment feeling inadequate against the unexpected intrusion.

Jace’s eyes flickered over you, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze. He cleared his throat, not meeting your gaze. “I wanted to speak with you,” he said, his voice more subdued than usual. “I assume now is not a good time?”

At your silence, he cleared his throat again, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll come back later if now is not the best time.”

You hesitated, your mind racing to reconcile the image of the harsh, demanding instructor with this more vulnerable figure standing in front of you.

“No, it’s… it’s alright,” you said, your voice wavering slightly. You stepped back to let him in, the act feeling both awkward and oddly intimate. “Please, come in.”

Jace entered, his movements measured and deliberate. He glanced around the modest quarters, the flickering light from the single candle casting long shadows on the walls. The steam from the bath still lingered, adding a sense of warmth to the otherwise chilly room.

His back was to you as you shut the door behind you, you took your chance to fix your robe again.

As Jace turned to face you, his eyes briefly flickered over your form before quickly averting his gaze. The silence between you was thick with tension, broken only by the steady patter of rain against the windows.

"I..." Jace began, then paused, seeming to struggle with his words. "I wanted to speak with you about today's training."

You nodded, maintaining a careful distance between you. "What about it, Your Grace?"

Jace's jaw clenched, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for the right words. "I may have been... overly harsh," he finally said, the admission clearly costing him.

You felt a flicker of surprise at his words, but it was quickly overshadowed by the frustration that had been building for weeks. "Overly harsh?" you repeated, your voice taking on an edge. "Is that what you call it?"

Jace's eyes snapped to yours, a hint of his usual fire returning. "I'm trying to apologize," he said, his tone sharpening.

"Are you?" you countered, emboldened by the privacy of your quarters and the lingering warmth of the bath. "Because it sounds more like you're trying to justify yourself."

Jace took a step forward, his eyes flashing. "I'm doing what needs to be done to prepare you for war. Do you think our enemies will show mercy? Do you think they'll care about your feelings?"

"And what about you, Your Grace?" you shot back, your voice rising. "Do you care about our feelings? Or are we just weapons to be sharpened and discarded?"

Jace's face contorted with a mix of anger and something that looked almost like pain. "You don't understand," he said, his voice low and intense. "The responsibility, the weight of it all–"

"I understand more than you think," you interrupted, taking a step closer to him. "I understand that you're pushing us – pushing me – harder than anyone else. Why is that, Your Grace? What is it about me that threatens you so much?"

Jace's breath caught, his eyes widening slightly at your boldness. For a moment, you thought he might lash out, but instead, he seemed to deflate slightly.

"You don't know what it's like," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "To have everything you are questioned, to have to prove yourself every single day."

You felt a pang of sympathy, but your anger was still too fresh to let it go entirely. "And you think we don't?" you asked, gesturing to yourself. "You think being a bastard with a dragon makes life easy?"

Jace's eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flash of vulnerability in them. "You have what I've fought for my entire life," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "The Targaryen look, the natural bond with a dragon... it all comes so easily to you."

You shook your head, frustration building. "Easily? You think any of this has been easy? I've worked just as hard as you, Your Grace. The only difference is, I don't feel the need to tear others down to prove my worth."

Jace's eyes flashed dangerously. "You have no idea what I've been through, what I've had to endure–"

"And you have no idea what I've endured!" you shouted, your control finally snapping. "You've judged me from the moment I arrived, pushed me harder than anyone else, all because you see something in me that you can’t accept in yourself!"

Your voice echoed through the small room, reverberating off the stone walls. The tension between you both was palpable, thick enough to cut through with a sword. Jace stood there, stunned by your outburst. His eyes burned with a mix of emotions – anger, frustration, and something deeper that you couldn't quite place.

He stepped closer, his face inches from yours. "And what exactly do you represent?" he growled.

"Everything you fear you're not," you said, your voice low and intense.

Jace's breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought he might strike you. Instead, he stood there, his chest heaving, his eyes locked on yours. The tension between you was palpable, a living thing that seemed to crackle in the air.

"You know nothing about me," Jace said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"And you know nothing about me," you replied, matching his intensity. "Yet you've judged me, pushed me, tried to break me. Why, Your Grace? What are you so afraid of?"

Jace's eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something – doubt, perhaps, or a hint of remorse. But then his walls slammed back into place, his expression hardening.

"This conversation is over," he said, his voice cold. "I expect to see you ready to depart at dawn."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of your quarters, leaving you standing there, your emotions a tumultuous storm. As the door slammed shut behind him, you let out a shaky breath, the weight of the confrontation settling over you like a heavy cloak.

You sank onto your bed, your mind reeling from the intensity of the argument. Despite the lingering anger and frustration, you couldn't shake the image of Jace's eyes in that final moment – the vulnerability you'd glimpsed, the pain that seemed to lurk beneath his harsh exterior.

________

As the first light of dawn crept over Dragonstone's craggy peaks, you stood at the edge of the castle's courtyard, your breath misting in the cool morning air. The events of the previous night weighed heavily on your mind, the echoes of your heated exchange with Jace still ringing in your ears. You adjusted the straps of your riding gear, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the turmoil of emotions swirling within you.

The sound of approaching footsteps made you stiffen. You didn't need to turn to know who it was; Jace's presence was unmistakable, carrying with it a weight of unspoken tension.

"Your Grace," you said, your voice carefully neutral as you turned to face him.

Jace stood before you, his dark eyes unreadable. The vulnerability you'd glimpsed the night before was gone, replaced by his usual mask of princely composure. Yet there was something different in the way he carried himself, a subtle shift that you couldn't quite place.

"Are you prepared for the journey?" he asked, his tone clipped and professional.

You nodded, meeting his gaze steadily. "Yes, Your Grace. Vermithor and I are ready."

For a moment, Jace's eyes flickered to the dragon behind you, a mix of emotions flashing across his face too quickly for you to decipher. When he looked back at you, there was a hint of something almost like respect in his gaze.

"Good," he said, his voice softening slightly. "We have a long flight ahead of us. Stay close to the formation and be prepared for anything."

You couldn't help but notice the absence of his usual harsh criticism, the lack of a cutting remark about your abilities or your place among the dragonriders. It was a small change, but a noticeable one.

"Of course, Your Grace," you replied, surprised by the lack of hostility in your own voice.

Jace opened his mouth as if to say something more, then closed it, seemingly thinking better of it. Instead, he gave a curt nod and turned to address the rest of the group.

As he walked away, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between you. The tension was still there, crackling beneath the surface, but it felt different now – charged with a new kind of energy that you couldn't quite name.

You mounted Vermithor, settling into the familiar grooves of his scales. As you waited for the signal to depart, your eyes were drawn once again to Jace. He stood tall and proud, every inch the prince and leader, but now you could see the weight he carried, the pressure that bore down on his young shoulders.

As the first rays of sunlight broke through the clouds, Jace gave the signal. With a powerful thrust of his wings, Vermithor launched into the air, and you felt the familiar rush of exhilaration as the ground fell away beneath you.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a sudden gust of wind that buffeted Vermithor, causing him to dip slightly. You instinctively tightened your grip, leaning into the dragon's movements to help him stabilize. As you regained your balance, you caught Jace looking back at you, a flicker of concern crossing his face before he quickly turned away.

The journey continued in relative silence, broken only by the occasional shout of a command or the distant rumble of thunder. You knew you were heading towards enemy territory, and the thought sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold air rushing past you.

As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, Jace signaled for the group to descend. You guided Vermithor down, following the lead of the other dragons. The clearing Jace had chosen was small, barely large enough to accommodate all the dragons, but it was well-hidden by a thick canopy of trees.

You dismounted, your legs stiff from hours of riding. As you stretched, trying to work out the kinks in your muscles, you noticed Jace approaching. His face was set in its usual stern expression, but there was a hesitancy in his steps that you hadn't seen before.

"We'll camp here for the night," he announced to the group. "Set up a perimeter and tend to your dragons. We move out again at first light."

As the others busied themselves with their tasks, Jace's eyes met yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the tension from the night before hanging in the air between you.

"Your flying has improved," Jace said finally, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "You handled that wind gust well."

The compliment, small as it was, caught you off guard. "Thank you, Your Grace," you replied, searching his face for any hint of mockery or condescension. But his expression remained neutral, almost carefully so.

He nodded, straightening his posture before walking towards Addam, who was already working on the makeshift tents.

The night settled in around the camp, the sounds of the forest a constant backdrop to the low murmur of conversation and the occasional snort or rumble from the dragons. You found yourself unable to sleep, your mind too active with thoughts of the day's journey and the impending dangers that lay ahead.

You sat up, wrapping your cloak tightly around you against the chill night air. The embers of the campfire glowed softly, casting long shadows across the clearing. Your eyes were drawn to the edge of the camp, where a solitary figure stood silhouetted against the starry sky.

Jace.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you rose and made your way towards him. He turned at the sound of your approach, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword before recognizing you.

"Your Grace," you said softly, coming to stand beside him. "I hope I'm not intruding."

Jace shook his head, his gaze returning to the darkness beyond the camp. "No," he replied, his voice equally quiet. "I couldn't sleep either."

You stood in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. Finally, you gathered your courage and spoke.

"About last night," you began, but Jace cut you off with a raised hand.

"We don't need to discuss it," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "What's done is done."

You nodded, accepting his words but feeling a twinge of disappointment. Part of you had hoped to clear the air, to perhaps reach some kind of understanding.

Jace's profile was cast in a soft glow, the shadows accentuating the lines of his face. His eyes, usually so hard and unreadable, now seemed softer, more contemplative. The silence between you stretched, heavy with the weight of your mutual regrets.

"It's beautiful here," you said softly, almost to yourself. The moonlight filtered through the trees, casting pale silver patterns on the ground. "Hard to believe we're heading into battle tomorrow."

Jace glanced at you, his expression softer than you'd ever seen. "It's always like this before a fight," he murmured. "The calm before the storm. It makes you appreciate the small things… even if just for a moment."

You could feel the weight of his words, the weariness of a young man who had seen too much, felt too much. Despite your differences, despite everything that had passed between you, you found yourself wanting to offer him something, anything that might ease that burden.

“I apologize for my tone yesterday, it is no proper way to speak to the prince.”

He didn’t meet your eyes as he shook his head, grip tightening on the sword on his side. “My anger was misplaced.”

Jace's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, the darkness beyond the campfire's reach seemingly mirroring his own internal struggles. His shoulders were squared, but there was a weariness in his posture that spoke of more than just the physical exhaustion of the day's journey.

"I shouldn't have pushed you so hard," Jace said after a long pause, his voice carrying a rough edge.

You turned to him, studying his profile in the dim light. There was a rawness to his admission, a vulnerability that seemed out of place against the backdrop of his usual princely demeanor. "We all have our burdens to bear," you said quietly.

Jace's gaze dropped to the ground, and for a moment, the shadows of the forest seemed to swallow him whole.

The shadows around you deepened as Jace stood silent, his expression lost in thought. The night air was cool, tinged with the earthy scent of the forest and the faint crackle of the dying campfire. The weight of unspoken words hung between you, thickening the silence.

Jace finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he were confessing something he had kept buried for too long. "I've been told all my life that I must be strong, that weakness isn't an option for someone in my position. But the truth is, strength comes at a cost. It... it's lonely."

The admission caught you off guard, revealing a side of him you had never truly seen before. He was the prince, a leader, someone who had always seemed so unyielding, so focused on his duty. But beneath that armor, there was a young man who had been forced to grow up too quickly, who had been carrying the weight of expectation for as long as he could remember.

"You don't have to bear it alone," you said softly, your voice filled with an earnestness that surprised even you. "We may be warriors, but we’re also human. We can be strong and still lean on each other. That doesn't make us weak; it makes us stronger."

Jace's gaze lifted to meet yours, and for the first time, you saw the flicker of something in his eyes – relief, perhaps, or gratitude. It was subtle, but it was there, a crack in the armor he had worn for so long.

"I'm not used to this," he admitted, his voice low and uncertain. "Letting people in. Trusting them with... with more than just my commands."

"You don't have to trust everyone with everything. Just... start small. We’re all here for the same reason, facing the same dangers."

Jace looked away, his jaw tightening as he considered your words. The silence stretched between you again, but it was different now – less tense, more reflective.

"I pushed you harder because I saw potential in you," he finally said, his tone more measured. "The silver-haired Targaryen bastard girl who claimed Vermithor." he quoted the whispers that ran in the towns and the halls about you.

He clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "I don’t have the hair or the eyes that mark our bloodline. I don’t look like them, not like you do. And because of that, some people question whether I truly belong – whether I’m really worthy of the name 'Targaryen.' Even if they don't say it outright, I see it in their eyes, hear it in the way they speak to me."

Jace's words resonated with a deep-seated pain, one that came from being constantly measured against a standard he could never fully meet. You could see the struggle etched into his features, the way his identity had been chipped away by years of doubts and whispers. You grew up with the same feeling.

"I’ve had to fight for every shred of respect I’ve earned," he continued, his voice growing rougher, more raw.

He glanced at you then, his eyes holding a flicker of vulnerability, as though he was finally letting you see the part of himself he had kept hidden from everyone else. "You, with your Targaryen look, your natural bond with Vermithor – everything that was supposed to be mine by birthright, you have. And I envy you for it.”

His gaze flickered to yours, searching for sincerity in your words. There was a pause, a moment where the world seemed to hold its breath. “It made me push you harder, made me want to test your limits. For that, I apologize.”

You listened, the raw honesty in his voice catching you off guard. Jace, the ever-stern prince who seemed unshakeable, was confessing something deeply personal. His envy, his insecurities – they were laid bare before you, revealing a man struggling to reconcile his sense of duty with his own humanity.

"I never wanted to outshine you, Your Grace," you replied softly, your tone gentler now. "I’ve only ever wanted to do my part, to prove that I belong here, just like you. We’re all fighting the same battles, even if they look different."

Jace's shoulders sagged slightly, as though the weight of his burdens had grown heavier with his admission. But there was also a sense of release, like a pressure valve slowly easing open. He took a deep breath, his eyes searching yours for understanding.

His frustration flared for a moment, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. How could you compare your childhood to his? How could you understand what it was like to have your very claim to the throne questioned every day of your life, simply because of illegitimacy?

But then he stopped himself, the sharp retort dying on his tongue. He looked at you more closely, taking in your beauty. Your silver hair, once a source of pride for those who bore it, had become a symbol of isolation for you. It marked you as different, as other, just as his dark hair had marked him. The whispers, the sidelong glances, the subtle digs – perhaps they weren’t so different after all.

He wondered if you, too, had tried to hide your hair when you were younger. Had you ever thought of cutting it off, of trying to blend in, just to avoid the stares and the whispers – just like he had?

His anger faded, replaced by a quiet understanding that settled deep within him. Before he could speak again, you interrupted.

“Your eyes have a pecs of lilac in them,”

Your words hung in the air between you, soft and unexpected, like a breeze that carries away the last remnants of a storm. Jace blinked, taken aback by the sudden change in topic. He hadn’t expected you to notice such a small detail, let alone comment on it. His eyes – his Targaryen eyes, though dark – held traces of that lineage in their depths, a subtle glimmer of lilac that hinted at the blood he carried, despite what the whispers said.

He looked at you, truly looked at you, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you standing there under the stars.

"You're the first to ever mention that," he said quietly, his voice carrying a note of disbelief, as if he wasn’t sure whether to accept the observation as a compliment or a revelation.

The fire crackled softly behind you, casting flickering shadows across Jace's face. His fingers loosened their grip on the hilt of his sword, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding released.

“Lilac,” he repeated, almost to himself. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s barely noticeable,” you replied, your voice equally soft. “But it’s there.”

Jace’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough to hint at one. His gaze held yours, the distance between you shrinking as the night deepened around the camp. His eyes, once guarded and stern, now softened as he processed your words. It was as if that small observation, something so easily overlooked, had breached the walls he had spent years constructing.

"You seem to see things others don't," he murmured, his voice almost lost in the whispering wind.

You shrugged your shoulders, you eased yourself down beside the campfire, the warmth of the embers a welcome contrast to the chill of the night air. Jace settled next to you, the earlier tension between you seeming to dissipate into the quiet intimacy of the moment. The firelight flickered, casting dancing shadows that played across the forest clearing.

You started talking about the following day, the conversation slipping into the familiar rhythms of strategy and preparation. Jace listened intently, nodding as you discussed potential scenarios and contingencies. The wariness between you had faded, replaced by a shared focus on the task ahead.

The warmth of the fire, coupled with the soothing hum of Jace's presence, began to weave a calming spell over you. Your words grew softer, more hesitant, and the exhaustion of the day began to take its toll. You found yourself leaning slightly against Jace, the weight of your head coming to rest on his shoulder. He did not move away, allowing the small gesture of closeness that had begun to form between you.

Jace’s body, though tense from the day’s travel and the weight of his responsibilities, seemed to relax as you drifted into sleep. His breathing evened out, and the night seemed to embrace you both, holding you in a fragile moment of peace.

The warmth of the campfire, combined with the gentle rise and fall of Jace’s breath, lulled you into a deep sleep. You were unaware of how the hours passed, lost in dreams that seemed to blend with the soft glow of the embers and the subtle presence of the prince beside you.

But the peaceful interlude was not to last. The sound of Ulf’s unmistakable voice pierced through your dreams, a sharp and playful contrast to the calm of the night. His voice was loud and mocking, carrying the unmistakable cadence of someone who reveled in mischief.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the prince and his shadow, all cozy by the fire!” Ulf's voice carried a teasing edge. “Should I come back later, or are you two planning on making this a nightly tradition?”

You stirred, blinking awake to find yourself still nestled against Jace, whose own eyes fluttered open with a groggy confusion. The warmth of the campfire seemed to have been replaced by a rush of embarrassment as you quickly disentangled yourself from Jace’s side.

Jace looked at you, his face a mix of surprise and embarrassment, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. You straightened yourself, trying to regain your composure, while Ulf’s laughter continued to reverberate through the clearing.

You shot Ulf a look, your cheeks flushing slightly. “Ulf, must you be so loud?”

Ulf’s grin widened, clearly enjoying the reaction he’d provoked.

Jace cleared his throat, a more serious expression returning to his face as he rose from the ground. “Enough, Ulf. We have a long day ahead of us. Let’s focus on the tasks at hand.”

You exchanged a glance with Jace, the earlier intimacy of the night still lingering in your thoughts, even as the responsibilities of the day pressed upon you. Almost immediately, you got up to stand next to a readied Addam, his battle armor already on, a sword smaller than Jace’s hanging from his hip.

The camp was abuzz with activity as the dragonriders geared up for the impending battle. Dragons roared and snorted, their breath forming clouds in the chilly air. Jace moved among his men with purpose, his usual commanding presence restored. He glanced at you occasionally, his gaze unreadable but not unkind.

The journey to the enemy stronghold was uneventful, the clouds rolling in thickly as if they, too, anticipated the day's violence. When you arrived at the battlefield, the sight was grim. The ground was churned into a muddy mess, dotted with the remnants of previous skirmishes.

You could see Jace at the forefront, his stance firm and resolute as he surveyed the battlefield. The sight of him, standing tall and unwavering despite the looming threat, stirred something within you.

Hours passed in battle, you could feel your arms and legs begin to pain in exhaustion, you were sure your hands would grow to be calloused because of the sword. You’d lost Addam, you realized, and Jace. You could only make out the figures and the armors of the men on your side, and yet there was no sight of your known faces.

As the battle raged on, you caught sight of Addam in a tight spot. He was surrounded by enemy forces, his movements increasingly desperate. Without a second thought, you signaled to Vermithor and descended toward him, determined to aid your comrade.

The sight of the enemy closing in on Addam made your heart race. You urged Vermithor into a steep dive, your focus entirely on clearing the way for Addam. In the chaos, a sudden burst of enemy fire caught you off guard. You tried to maneuver out of the way, but it was too late. The attack struck your side, sending a searing pain through you as you struggled to stay conscious.

You heard Addam's shout of alarm, saw his face twisted in concern as he fought off his attackers. With a grimace, you pushed through the pain, landing awkwardly near Addam and helping him fend off the enemy. The effort took everything you had, your vision blurring as blood seeped from the wound in your side.

By the time the immediate threat was subdued, Jace had arrived, his eyes scanning the battlefield before landing with the precision and authority of a seasoned leader. He saw you slumped against Addam, the blood staining your clothing, and his expression turned to one of furious concern.

________

"What were you thinking?" Jace's voice cut through the din of the tent the second your eyes opened, his tone harsh as he rushed to your side. "You could have been killed!"

You winced at the pain as Jace's hands gripped your shoulders, his eyes flashing with anger. "I was just trying to help Addam," you managed to say through gritted teeth, the adrenaline of battle fading, leaving only the sharp sting of your injury.

Jace's face was a mask of frustration, his gaze shifting between you and Addam. "You’re not supposed to throw yourself into danger recklessly," he snapped.

The intensity of his anger was palpable, and though it was directed at you, it was clear that it stemmed from a place of deep concern.

Addam, now safe but visibly shaken, looked at you with a mix of gratitude and worry. "You didn’t have to do that," he said quietly, helping you to sit as the maesters were alerted of your awakening to tend to your wound.

Jace paced back and forth in the tent, his anger radiating off him in palpable waves. His earlier softness seemed to have evaporated, replaced by the stern, unyielding demeanor you'd grown accustomed to during your training.

"This is exactly what I've been trying to prevent," he snapped, his voice sharp enough to make you flinch. "Reckless behavior, disregard for orders, putting yourself in unnecessary danger. Did all those lessons mean nothing to you?"

You felt a sinking feeling in your stomach. The connection you'd felt with Jace by the campfire, the understanding you thought you'd reached, seemed to have vanished like smoke in the wind. His dark eyes, which had shown glimpses of warmth and vulnerability, now blazed with disappointment and frustration.

"Your Grace, I-" you began, but Jace cut you off with a harsh gesture.

"No excuses. You could have compromised the entire mission. Did you even consider the consequences?"

His words stung, each one feeling like a step backward in the relationship you'd hoped was improving. You lowered your gaze, unable to meet his intense stare. The progress you'd made, the understanding you thought you'd reached – it all seemed to have crumbled in the face of his renewed anger.

As the maesters entered to tend to your wounds, Jace turned away, his posture rigid with barely contained fury. You couldn't help but feel that you were right back where you'd started – a disappointment in his eyes, someone who couldn't be trusted to follow orders or make the right decisions.

The silence in the tent was thick with tension as the maesters worked on your wounds. You could feel Jace's presence, a storm of barely contained emotion, even with your eyes closed. The pain of your injury seemed almost secondary to the ache in your chest at his harsh words.

As the maesters finished their work, Jace dismissed them with a curt nod. You braced yourself, expecting another barrage of anger. Instead, you heard him let out a long, shaky breath.

"Do you have any idea..." he began, his voice lower now but still taut with emotion, "...what it would do to our cause if we lost you? What it would do to–" He cut himself off abruptly.

You opened your eyes, surprised by the shift in his tone. Jace stood with his back to you, his shoulders rigid, hands clenched at his sides. When he finally turned to face you, his expression was a complex mix of anger, fear, and something else you couldn't quite name.

"Your Grace," you said softly, wincing as you tried to sit up straighter. "I never meant to–"

"To what?" Jace interrupted, his voice rough. "To throw yourself into danger? To disregard everything I've tried to teach you?" He ran a hand through his dark hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "You're more than just a soldier, more than just a dragonrider. You're..." He trailed off, seeming to struggle with his words.

You waited, heart pounding, as Jace visibly wrestled with his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost vulnerable.

"You're important," he said finally, meeting your eyes. "To the cause, to... to all of us. I can't have you risking yourself like that."

The admission hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. You could see the conflict in Jace's eyes, the battle between his role as a leader and his personal feelings.

"I couldn't let Addam die," you said quietly. "Not when I could do something about it."

Jace's jaw clenched, but some of the anger seemed to drain out of him. He moved closer, sitting on the edge of your cot. "I understand that," he said, his voice low. "But we need you alive. I–" He hesitated, then continued, "I need you alive."

The intensity in his gaze made your breath catch. For a moment, the rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in this small, quiet space.

"I'm sorry for worrying you," you said softly. "But I'm not sorry for what I did."

Jace's lips twitched, almost forming a smile despite himself. "I know," he said, shaking his head. He reached out, hesitantly, and took your hand in his.

You looked at your joined hands, then back up at Jace's face. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it was tempered now by a deeper understanding, a connection that couldn't be easily broken.

As you looked at your joined hands and then back up at Jace's face, you could see the complex mix of emotions playing across his features. The anger that had initially flared was now tempered by concern, relief, and something deeper that made your heart quicken.

Jace's thumb absently traced circles on the back of your hand, the gentle touch at odds with the tension still evident in his posture. His eyes, dark with their hidden flecks of lilac, searched your face as if trying to memorize every detail.

"You should know better," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

The words were not the scolding you expected, but something softer, almost pleading. The gentle brush of his thumb against your skin sent a warmth through you that rivaled the heat of the fire that had crackled between you the night before.

Jace’s gaze didn’t waver from yours, though a flicker of something – perhaps pride, perhaps something deeper – flickered in his eyes at your words. He shifted slightly, bringing his free hand to rest on the edge of the cot, as if steadying himself.

“You’re brave,” he said, his tone hushed, as though the words were not meant to be heard by anyone but you. “Too brave, perhaps. And too important to lose.”

The weight of his admission settled between you like a tangible thing. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but hold onto the connection that had formed between you, tenuous yet strong.

His words, “I need you alive,” echoed in your mind, carrying a significance that went beyond the battlefield.

The harsh reality of your situation, the war raging outside, seemed to fade away as Jace leaned in closer. His hand tightened around yours, as if anchoring you both in this fragile moment. The heat from his body, the warmth of his breath as it fanned across your face, chased away the lingering cold from the injury and the battle.

And then, just as you thought he might say something more, something that would change everything, he leaned back slightly, releasing your hand with a reluctance that you could almost feel.

“You need to rest,” he said softly, the stern commander reasserting itself, though the gentleness in his tone remained. “We’ll talk more when you’re healed.”

You nodded, though a part of you longed to reach out and pull him back, to hold onto the moment that had passed between you.

After what felt like hours of patching and cleaning your wounds, Jace had managed to slip through and speak with you. He refused to let you back into the battlefield – specially with a gash on your side – but when you insisted on the need for Vermithor’s advantage over the enemy, Jace had reluctantly agreed, but only after making you promise to stay airborne and avoid direct combat.

________

The battle was over, but the aftermath lay heavy on the land, a tapestry of mud and blood woven with the remnants of conflict. The once-vibrant battlefield was now a somber expanse, littered with the debris of war. Exhaustion clung to every soldier, every dragon, every inch of the ground. As you mounted Vermithor, the gash on your side throbbed with each movement, a sharp reminder of the earlier chaos.

Jace’s gaze was fixed on you, his eyes carrying an unspoken command. "You’re still too weak to fly alone," he insisted, his tone brooking no argument. "I’ll ride with you."

You wanted to protest, to assert your independence, but the weariness that settled deep in your bones made you reconsider. The sharp sting of pain with every shift in position, the bruising fatigue that had crept into your limbs, and the sight of Jace’s determined face all contributed to a reluctant acceptance of his offer.

As you climbed onto Vermithor’s back, Jace followed, settling himself behind you with a firm yet gentle touch. His warmth pressed against your back, a reminder of the closeness you had shared earlier. Vermax, with its deep green scales shimmering in the dimming light, followed closely behind, the dragon’s eyes scanning the horizon with a vigilant gaze.

The journey back to Dragonstone was slow, each beat of Vermithor’s powerful wings a measured rhythm that spoke of both strength and weariness. Jace’s arms were steady around your waist, his presence a solid anchor against the turbulent sea of exhaustion and pain. The rhythmic whoosh of the dragon’s wings was soothing, a constant and reassuring pulse that contrasted with the chaotic clamor of the battlefield.

Jace’s breath against your neck was warm and steady, a comforting presence that eased the sharp edges of your discomfort. Occasionally, his fingers would tighten slightly, a silent reminder that he was there, that he cared. The quiet between you was filled with an unspoken understanding, a deepening of the connection that had sparked amidst the chaos.

When Vermithor landed, the soft thud of his massive body against the earth was both grounding and comforting. Jace helped you dismount, his hands steady and careful as he guided you down. The pain in your side flared with the sudden shift in position, but the presence of Jace, his unwavering support, provided a solace that tempered the discomfort.

"You did well today," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of both praise and relief. "We’ll get you patched up and then, you can rest."

You nodded, feeling the exhaustion in every fiber of your being. As the maesters took over, tending to your wound with practiced efficiency, Jace remained close, his presence a steady source of comfort amidst the flurry of activity. The tenderness in his eyes, the concern etched into his features, spoke more than words ever could.

Addam made it a point to stay by your side, along with Jace and a bored Ulf.

Jace’s gaze was unwavering, his attention split between the maesters and you. His expression was a complex blend of concern and relief. Each time you glanced up, you found his eyes fixed on you, offering silent encouragement. His earlier sternness had softened, replaced by a more personal, almost tender vigilance.

Addam lingered nearby, his face showing a blend of gratitude and worry. Ulf, as usual, was there too, leaning against a nearby pole with a smirk that seemed to suggest he found the whole situation amusing.

“Just a flesh wound,” Ulf quipped, trying to lighten the mood as he fiddled with a small dagger. “You should see the other guy.”

Jace shot Ulf a sharp look, though the corner of his mouth twitched in a suppressed smile. “This isn’t a time for jokes, Ulf.”

“Just trying to make things less grim,” Ulf said with a shrug, though his voice lacked its usual bravado. “Can’t be all brooding and maudlin all the time.”

The maesters continued their work with a practiced efficiency, and soon enough, the immediate pain began to ebb. They wrapped your wound in clean bandages, applying a soothing ointment that smelled faintly of herbs. You winced slightly as they finished, but the relief was palpable.

Addam and Ulf were soon shooed out by Jace, who insisted on staying with you for a little while longer. The place was quiet, save for the occasional murmur of the halls. Jace sat beside your cot, his presence a calming constant as you drifted into a fitful sleep.

He stirred as you moved, his eyes moving to meet yours with a look of relieved affection. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice gentle and laced with concern.

“Better,” you replied, though your voice was hoarse. “Doesn’t hurt as much.”

Jace’s lips curled into a soft smile, though the exhaustion in his eyes was still evident. “That’s good.”

Jace’s smile was soft, a faint curve of his lips that warmed the exhaustion etched in his features. You could see the toll the weeks had taken on him – the weariness in his eyes, the lines of tension that hadn’t fully eased from his face. Yet, there was something else in his expression, a quiet relief, as if the sight of you awake and coherent had lifted a weight from his shoulders.

“Rest,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as though he feared disturbing the fragile peace that had settled over you both. “You need to regain your strength.”

You nodded, feeling the heaviness in your limbs, the dull throb in your side where the maesters had tended to your wound. The pain was still there, a constant reminder of the battle, but it had dulled to a manageable ache, thanks to their skilled hands and the calming presence of Jace at your side.

“Stay with me?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could think to hold them back.

Jace’s eyes softened further, a mix of tenderness and something deeper flickering in their depths. He didn’t answer right away, but the way he reached out, his hand finding yours and holding it gently, spoke volumes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, his voice steady, unwavering. His thumb traced small circles on the back of your hand, a soothing gesture that matched the comforting rhythm of his breathing. “Not until you’re well, and even then...”

He trailed off, the sentence left unfinished, but the weight of his words lingered between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Even then, he wouldn’t leave. Not unless you wanted him to.

The quiet that settled between you was different now, not the heavy silence of exhaustion and pain, but a peaceful, shared moment of understanding. The flickering light from the lantern cast soft shadows across Jace’s face, highlighting the sincerity in his eyes.

As your eyelids grew heavier, the warmth of his hand in yours, the steady rise and fall of his breath, became the last things you were conscious of before sleep claimed you once more. You knew, even as you slipped into the depths of rest, that when you awoke, he would still be there. His presence was an anchor, grounding you in a world that had been so violently upheaved.

And when you did wake again, hours later, the first thing you saw was Jace, still by your side, his head bowed in sleep, yet his hand never letting go of yours.

You stirred, the movement bringing a sharp reminder of your injury, but the pain was more bearable now, the throbbing a distant murmur rather than the sharp, immediate agony of the previous day.

Jace’s head was still bowed, his dark hair falling in disheveled strands over his forehead. He looked peaceful in his slumber, the tension of the past days momentarily eased. His fingers were still wrapped around yours, a quiet testament to the unspoken promise of support that had lingered through the night.

You shifted slightly, careful not to disturb him, and he stirred, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours. There was a moment of disoriented surprise in his gaze, quickly replaced by a soft, relieved smile.

He shifted slightly, brushing his hair back with his free hand. You tried to sit up a little, but the movement brought a wince of discomfort.

“Careful,” Jace said quickly, his hand tightening around yours. “Don’t overexert yourself.”

You nodded, sinking back into the pillows with a grateful sigh.

“The maesters said you’ll need a stick to support you while you heal,” he repeated, glancing briefly at the corner of the room where a simple wooden staff leaned against the wall. “It’s just a precaution, but it should help ease the strain on your injury.”

“Thank you,” you said softly, squeezing Jace’s hand gently..

Jace’s eyes softened at your touch, his thumb brushing against your knuckles in a comforting rhythm. “I owe you many apologies” he said quietly.

The words seemed to carry a weight that went beyond the simple apology, touching on something deeper and more profound. “For the way I’ve treated you these past months.”

You blinked, surprised by the confession, but the sincerity in his voice was undeniable. You could see the turmoil reflected in his eyes, the shadows of frustration and regret that spoke of unspoken battles fought within himself.

“I’ve been... difficult,” Jace continued, his voice faltering slightly as he struggled to find the right words. “I let my envy and confusion cloud my judgment. I saw what you could do, what you were capable of, and instead of acknowledging it, I let my insecurities get in the way.”

You squeezed his hand gently, the gesture meant to offer comfort as he navigated his feelings. His admission was unexpected, but it spoke of a profound self-awareness and a willingness to confront his own failings.

“I was jealous,” he admitted, his voice growing quieter, almost lost amidst the soft rustle of the room. “And I didn’t know how to reconcile that with... what I felt.”

There was a raw honesty in his confession that made your heart ache. The realization that Jace’s harshness had stemmed from his own internal struggles added a layer of complexity to your understanding of him. It wasn’t just a matter of respect or authority – it was deeply personal.

You took a deep breath, letting his words settle within you. The apology was unexpected, but it was a crucial step toward understanding the shifting dynamics between you. The revelation of his jealousy and confusion didn’t excuse his actions, but it did offer a window into the complexity of his emotions.

Jace’s fingers tightened around yours as you spoke, the weight of your words mingling with the burden of his own revelations. The flickering lantern light cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the vulnerability that had become so evident in his gaze.

“I didn’t understand why you were so hard on me,” you continued, your voice steady despite the pain. “I felt like I was always under scrutiny, like my every move was being judged.”

“I know that my actions hurt you,” he continued, his voice soft yet firm. “And I regret that deeply.”

You let his words sink in, feeling the truth of them settle within you. There was still a part of you that carried the hurt from those months of tension and misunderstanding, but Jace’s willingness to confront his own flaws and his desire to make amends touched something deep inside you.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness right away,” he added, his voice a gentle murmur. “But I hope you’ll be able to see that I’m trying to change.”

You squeezed his hand again with a small nod of your head, his fingers moved to trace patterns over yours.

________

The pain from your wound had dulled to a manageable ache, but the stiffness in your side reminded you of its presence with every movement. When you attempted to rise from your cot, the wooden staff Jace had spoken of the night before was already by your side, a silent companion to aid your steps.

You reached for it, and just as your fingers closed around the polished wood, Addam’s familiar face appeared by the door.

“Morrow,” he said, his voice gentle as he offered his arm for support. “Council’s called. They want you there.”

You nodded, the weight of the day settling on your shoulders. “Help me up?”

With Addam’s help, you eased yourself to your feet, gripping the staff tightly as you found your balance. Your wound protested the movement, but you swallowed the discomfort, knowing that there was no time to indulge in weakness.

As you made your way to the council, each step was deliberate, measured by the steady rhythm of your staff tapping against the ground. Addam’s presence beside you was a comfort, his hand hovering near your elbow in case you faltered.

The council tent was already filled with the familiar faces of your comrades. The air inside was thick with the weight of decisions yet to be made, the tension palpable as discussions buzzed low and serious. Jace stood near the center, his back straight and his demeanor composed, though his eyes softened when they found you.

“Glad you could join us,” he said quietly as you approached, his gaze flickering briefly to your staff before returning to your face. There was no trace of the vulnerability he’d shown you the night before, but you could sense the shift in his demeanor, a gentleness that hadn’t been there before.

You nodded in response, taking your place at the table with a small sigh of relief as you eased into the chair. The council members turned their attention to you, the murmurs quieting as they awaited your input.

One of the older commanders spoke first, his voice gruff yet tinged with concern. “Given your injury, it’s too risky to have you ride Vermithor into battle. We need you to recover fully before you’re back in the field.”

The words, though pragmatic, carried a sting of frustration. You’d always been one to lead from the front, to be where the action was fiercest. But you also knew that, in your current state, pushing yourself too hard could lead to greater harm.

“What do you suggest?” you asked, your tone even despite the undercurrent of disappointment.

Jace stepped forward, his expression thoughtful. “There’s another task we need handled – something that doesn’t involve direct combat but is crucial to our strategy. We’ve received reports that the mood among the smallfolk in King’s Landing has been... shifting. We need to gather information on their sentiments, to understand what’s happening within the city walls.”

You frowned slightly, considering the implications. The smallfolk’s loyalty could be a powerful force, swaying the tides of public opinion and, by extension, the decisions of those in power. If unrest was brewing in King’s Landing, it could be both an opportunity and a threat.

“And you want me to go to King’s Landing?” you asked, the weight of the task settling in your chest.

Jace nodded, his gaze steady on yours. “You and I will go together.”

You held back the smallest of smiles that urged to show on your face at the thought of being paired up with Jace again, this time in a more calm setting.

A murmur of agreement passed through the council, and the meeting continued with discussions of logistics and preparations for the journey. Jace remained close, his presence a steadying force as the details were ironed out.

As the council dispersed, and you found yourself standing once more with the support of your staff, Jace lingered beside you.

“If you feel it’s too arduous, you must rest.” he said softly, his concern evident even through his professional demeanor. “We’ll take it slowly. I’d rather have you well than risk aggravating your injury.”

You nodded, appreciating the care in his voice. “I’ll manage,” you assured him, though the stiffness in your side was a persistent reminder of your limits.

The pre-dawn air was crisp as you and Jace prepared for your covert mission to King's Landing. You both donned simple, nondescript clothing, far removed from your usual attire. Over these, you draped heavy cloaks with deep hoods, the fabric rough but ideal for blending in with common folk.

Jace handed you a length of cloth, his eyes meeting yours briefly. "For your face," he explained, demonstrating by wrapping a similar piece around the lower half of his own face.

You took the cloth from him, your fingers brushing against his as you did. The touch was fleeting, but it carried a spark that sent a subtle shiver down your spine. The intimacy of the moment, the proximity of his body to yours, made your heart race. You felt the warmth of his breath against your cheek as he helped you adjust the cloth, and the proximity stirred a deep, unexpected longing.

The cloth was soft and slightly coarse, its earthy hue blending with the dark colors of your cloak. Jace’s fingers were gentle as he wrapped it around your face, his touch both firm and tender. You could feel the heat of his body radiating against your side, a stark contrast to the cool morning air.

As he finished securing the cloth, his hands lingered just a moment longer than necessary, his fingers grazing the edges of the fabric with a lingering touch that made your breath hitch. His face was close to yours, his eyes focused intently on the task at hand, yet you could sense the subtle intensity in his gaze.

"There," he said softly, his voice carrying a reassuring warmth. "Now we’re ready."

You nodded, trying to steady your racing heartbeat. The closeness of his presence was intoxicating, and you struggled to mask the flush that crept up your cheeks. The brush of his fingers, the warmth of his breath, it all conspired to make the moment feel charged and intimate.

Jace stepped back, his eyes sweeping over you with a quick, assessing glance. The softness in his gaze was tinged with something more, something that mirrored the emotions roiling within you. The air between you felt charged, heavy with unspoken feelings and a shared understanding.

With a final nod, you both made your way to the stables. Jace mounted Vermax first, then extended his hand to help you up. You settled behind him on the saddle, your arms instinctively wrapping around his waist for security.

"Hold on tight," Jace murmured, his body tense against yours as Vermax spread his wings. “Tap my shoulder if you’re hurting.”

With a powerful leap, Vermax took to the air. The sudden rush of wind threatened to tear away your hood, but you held it in place with one hand, the other still firmly gripped around Jace. As Dragonstone fell away beneath you, the vastness of the sea stretched out ahead.

The journey was mostly silent, the wind too loud for easy conversation. But there was a palpable tension in the way Jace's body remained rigid, alert to any potential danger. Your own senses were heightened, aware of every shift of the dragon beneath you and every subtle movement of Jace's body.

As you and Jace approached the gates of King's Landing on foot, having left Vermax far behind, the bustling crowds provided excellent cover. You both adjusted your disguises one last time, exchanging a nervous glance.

"You feeling alright?" Jace murmured, his voice low.

You nodded, feeling a flutter of nervous energy. As you joined the flow of people entering the city, you stayed close to Jace, your shoulders occasionally brushing. The guards at the gate seemed bored and distracted, barely glancing at the steady stream of travelers.

Jace placed a protective hand on your lower back as you passed through the gate, guiding you forward. The touch, though brief, sent a jolt through you. You caught his eye, seeing a flicker of something intense in his gaze before he looked away.

Once inside, you both breathed a sigh of relief, stepping to the side of the busy street. Jace leaned in close, ostensibly to adjust your cloak, but his proximity made your heart race.

“We should make a stop at a tavern first, so you can sit. Maybe have something to refresh ourselves with.”

Jace guided you with practiced ease, weaving through the throng of people while keeping you close. The weight of his hand on your back was reassuring, and every now and then, his fingers would brush against your side, a gesture both casual and intimate.

The tavern Jace chose was a modest, unassuming place nestled between larger buildings. As you entered, the warm, dimly lit interior was a welcome contrast to the cool morning air. The scent of ale and roasted meat mingled with the faint aroma of wood smoke, creating an atmosphere of comfortable familiarity.

Jace led you to a quiet corner, away from the main hustle of the tavern. You eased into a seat with a sigh of relief, the discomfort in your side lessening as you finally rested. Jace took a seat opposite you, his gaze scanning the room with a practiced vigilance.

Jace ordered two simple meals and a couple of mugs of ale as you shifted to comfort for your wound. As the innkeeper went off to prepare the order, Jace’s attention returned to you.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern.

You managed a small smile. “I’m alright. Just glad to be off my feet for a bit.”

Jace’s gaze softened, a mix of relief and admiration in his eyes. He reached across the table, his hand brushing against yours for a brief moment. His thumb lightly grazed your fingers, a gesture so intimate that it sent a shiver down your spine.

“I’m sorry if this is uncomfortable,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t realize how strenuous it would be.”

“It’s not too bad,” you assured him, though the truth was that the strain of the journey was wearing on you.

As you ate, Jace continued to observe the room with a watchful eye. His attention was sharp, taking in every detail of the patrons and their conversations. You could sense his focus, his determination to gather information amidst the seemingly mundane activity of the tavern.

You hoped that no one recognized the prince while his face was uncovered by the cloth. A few curly strands had fallen to his forehead, revealing more of his features. He was a handsome man, it was a known fact about him, and the thought of being recognized made your stomach turn in anxiety.

“So, what are we looking for?” you asked, breaking the silence.

He took a moment to gather his thoughts, his expression serious. The warm glow of the tavern's lanterns cast flickering shadows on his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his features and the intensity in his eyes.

“We need to listen for any hints of unrest or dissatisfaction among the smallfolk,” he began, his voice low and deliberate. “Rumors, complaints, anything that might suggest a shift in public sentiment. It could give us a clearer picture of the stance in the city and help us understand if there’s something brewing beneath the surface.”

As you ate, the door to the tavern swung open, allowing a gust of cool air to sweep through the room. You glanced up to see a man storming in, his face flushed with anger. He was a burly figure, his clothes worn out and his expression set in a scowl.

The man approached the bar with a determined stride, his voice rising above the murmur of the tavern. “I’ve had it with this place!” he roared, slamming a mug onto the counter. “The food’s been slacking for weeks, and I’m sick of excuses!”

The innkeeper, a wiry girl with a tired look in her eyes, tried to placate him. “We’re doing the best we can,” she said, her voice strained. “The shortage of resources is affecting everyone. The prince regent’s policies–”

“The prince regent!” the angry man interrupted, his voice filled with scorn.

Jace’s attention snapped to the scene, his eyes narrowing as he listened intently. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened as he processed the man’s outburst.

The innkeeper, looking flustered, tried to calm the man down. “I’m just a servant of the Crown’s orders. It’s not my fault–”

“It’s not just your fault!” the man retorted, his anger palpable. “But you’re the one we have to deal with every day. We’re struggling out here, and all we hear are excuses. The prince regent’s policies are driving us to the edge!”

Jace’s expression hardened, his eyes locked on the angry man.

You glanced at Jace, catching the flicker of determination in his eyes. He seemed to be weighing the implications of the man’s words, his mind clearly racing with thoughts and strategies.

“Sounds like we’ve hit a nerve,” you murmured, leaning in slightly so Jace could hear over the ambient noise.

Jace nodded, his gaze never leaving the scene at the bar.

Eventually, after what seemed like ages of complaints from the man, still fuming, he stormed out of the tavern, leaving behind a trail of murmured conversations and uneasy glances.

After a while, Jace signaled for you to leave, and you both prepared to make your way back to the safety of your lodgings. The streets of King’s Landing were still bustling with activity, but the weight of the information you had gathered hung heavily in the air.

As you exited the tavern and stepped back into the cool evening air, Jace’s hand once again found its place on your lower back, guiding you through the crowded streets.

You, leaning on your staff, moved with a deliberate pace. Despite the comfort of the bustling market, you still felt the nagging stiffness from your wound.

At one stall, a vendor with a grizzled beard and a jovial demeanor was offering stolen gems. Jace nudged you gently, a subtle invitation to enjoy the brief moment of everyday pleasure.

The vendor, noticing Jace’s interest, gave a friendly nod. “Good day to you both,” he said, his voice warm. “Fine weather for shopping, isn’t it?”

You leaned closer, examining the gems with an appreciative eye. The sunlight caught their facets, casting brief, colorful reflections on the stall’s wooden surface. Despite the circumstances, there was a certain charm in the way these stolen treasures seemed to capture the essence of the market’s spirit, although you could hear people’s desperation for the merchant’s fish only a few feet away.

Jace’s hand brushed against yours as he reached for a particularly vibrant sapphire. You looked up to find him watching you with a soft smile, his gaze carrying a hint of mischief.

“You want it?” Jace’s smile widened slightly, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “If you like it, it’s yours.”

The vendor’s eyes widened, anticipation for some coins evident on his face.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, your voice tinged with genuine admiration.

Jace’s hand lingered near yours, the closeness of his touch amplifying the warmth you felt. “Then it’s yours,” he said, his voice playful yet sincere. “A small token of appreciation for your help today.”

The vendor, still eagerly watching, cleared his throat. “Aye, a fine piece it is.”

You glanced at the vendor, then back at Jace, your heart fluttering at the simple act of kindness. “Are you sure?” you asked, though the gleam in Jace’s eyes made it clear he was entirely serious.

Jace nodded, his smile unwavering. “Absolutely. Consider it a gesture of gratitude.”

You took the sapphire, feeling its cool weight in your hand. The vendor’s grin widened, clearly pleased with the transaction.

“Thank you,” you said softly to Jace, feeling a surge of affection for him. Although half of his face was covered, you could see his eyes wrinkle up to a smile as he handed coins to the vendor, mumbling something and giving him some extra ones.

As the day wore on, you and Jace moved through the city, gathering snippets of conversation and avoiding contact with any guards. The bustling market you had enjoyed was quickly becoming a place of hurried whispers and hasty exits. The clamor of vendors packing up and the hurried footsteps of people hurrying to their homes filled the air.

Jace's hand was firmly clasped around yours, his grip tightening as he guided you through the crowded streets. The sudden presence of guards moving purposefully through the city sent waves of unease through the crowd. Their commanding voices and stern expressions made it clear that they were enforcing an early curfew.

"Come on," Jace urged, his voice urgent but low. “This way.”

He guided you swiftly through the narrowing alleys, his grip firm and reassuring. The streets, once crowded and lively, were now eerily quiet as people hurried to their homes. You could hear the clanging of armor and the distant shouts of the guards as they enforced the curfew.

Jace led you down a narrow alley, its walls closing in around you. The dim light filtered through the high buildings, casting long shadows on the cobblestones. As you reached a secluded corner, Jace pulled you behind a stack of crates, his eyes scanning the alleyway for any sign of pursuit.

The proximity of his body, the urgency of the situation, and the adrenaline coursing through you all combined to create a heady mix of emotions. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your face, his heart pounding against yours.

You panted, the wound stinging at your side because of the running and the lack of rest during the day. When he noticed you wincing, almost wailing in pain, he softly shushed you.

“We need to stay quiet,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath.

You nodded, your heart racing not just from the danger but from the intense closeness of the moment. His gaze locked with yours, a look of fierce determination mingled with something deeper, more intimate.

As the sounds of the guards faded into the distance, the tension between you and Jace grew palpable. His eyes softened, a flicker of something that went beyond the urgency of the situation. The world seemed to shrink to just the two of you in that narrow, dimly lit alley.

He leaned in, moving the cloth away from his mouth, reaching for yours as well. His breath warm against your ear as he spoke in urgent, whispering tones. “Are you alright?” His voice was barely more than a murmur, filled with concern.

You nodded, though it was clear that the pain was sharp. “Just... give me a moment,” you whispered back, trying to keep your voice steady despite the throb in your side. You could feel the steady pulse of Jace's heartbeat through the proximity, each beat syncing with the rhythm of your own nervous pulse.

Jace’s hand rested lightly on your shoulder, his touch gentle but firm, offering support. “We’ll stay here until the coast is clear,” he said, his tone soothing as he kept a vigilant watch over the alley. His fingers traced a comforting pattern on your back, the touch both grounding and tender.

The closeness of his body was overwhelming. The small space behind the crates allowed for little separation, and the soft brush of his clothing against your skin was electrifying. Every shift, every breath, seemed amplified, drawing your attention to the intimacy of the moment. The warmth of his body against yours was both reassuring and intensely distracting.

You caught the flicker of his eyes as he turned to face you, their intensity softened by concern. “I didn’t mean to push you too hard,” he said softly, his voice trembling slightly. “I just... I want to make sure you’re safe.”

You met his gaze, your heart racing for reasons that went beyond the danger of the situation. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though the truth was that the pain was more pronounced due to the adrenaline and anxiety coursing through you. “It’s just... the pain.”

His fingers tightened slightly on your shoulder, his thumb brushing against your neck in a soothing motion. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s not your fault,” you assured him, your voice faltering slightly as the proximity made it hard to focus.

Jace’s gaze lingered on yours, his breath mingling with yours in the narrow space. The intensity of the moment, the urgency of their escape, and the closeness of his body created a charged atmosphere that made your heart pound. His face was mere inches from yours, his eyes locked with yours in a silent exchange that spoke of shared emotions and a growing connection.

As the pain in your side began to dull slightly, you allowed yourself to relax, if only a little. The tension in your muscles eased, and you leaned slightly into Jace’s comforting presence. The tight quarters of the alleyway seemed to shrink even further, narrowing the world down to just the two of you.

Jace took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. “Once the guards are gone, we’ll move again. But for now, we must stay quiet and keep ourselves hidden.”

Minutes passed in quiet anticipation, the sounds of the city’s night life serving as a backdrop to the cocoon of intimacy you shared. The pain in your side slowly became a more distant murmur, overshadowed by the electric closeness of Jace’s body and the warmth of his gaze. The sounds of the street faded into silence, the only faint sounds coming from the tavern’s glass clinking from some of the guards and the brothel.

You found yourself leaning into his touch, your body responding to the warmth and closeness in ways you were trying to suppress. The soft brush of his clothing against yours, the gentle pressure of his hand, and the heat of his body made it almost impossible to focus on anything but the way he made you feel. His proximity, the intensity of his gaze, and the intimate setting created a heady mix of desire and connection.

As the silence stretched between you, the world outside seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you in the narrow alley. The flickering light from the street cast shadows across Jace’s face, highlighting the sharp angles and soft contours of his features.

You tried to suppress the wave of desire that surged through you, reminding yourself of the critical nature of your mission. The sensation of his hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his body, and the closeness of his gaze created a magnetic pull that was difficult to resist.

You shifted slightly, attempting to distance yourself from the overwhelming proximity and regain some semblance of control.

His thumb continued to brush lightly against your neck, a tender gesture that seemed to defy the urgency of the situation. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked again, his voice a soft murmur that carried an undercurrent of worry and care.

You nodded, though your voice was barely more than a whisper. “I’m... I’m fine,” you managed to say, though the truth was that the proximity was making it harder to think clearly. “Just need a moment.”

Jace’s eyes searched yours with a mix of worry and something deeper, his thumb brushing against your neck in a tender, soothing motion.

“Are you sure you’re alright–” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, when you, feeling overwhelmed by the closeness and the surge of emotions, took a breath and made a decision.

You leaned in, closing the small distance between you. Before either of you could fully comprehend what was happening, your lips met his. The kiss was sudden, fueled by the intensity of the moment, and it seemed to silence the world around you. His eyes widened in surprise, but that shock quickly gave way to something more primal and eager.

Jace’s response was immediate and fervent. His hand, which had been gently resting on your shoulder, slid to your neck, pulling you closer. The kiss deepened as his lips moved against yours with a hungry, passionate urgency. You could feel the heat of his body, the thrum of his heartbeat, and the way his touch seemed to electrify every nerve in your body.

Jace's hands gripped you with a fervor that matched the intensity of the kiss, his fingers pressing into your back as if to draw you even closer. His mouth moved with a determined, almost desperate rhythm, as though he wanted to savor every second of this unexpected, profound intimacy.

Jace’s tongue brushed against yours, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine. His kiss was a torrid mix of heat and longing, each touch of his lips and flick of his tongue adding to the overwhelming intensity. His hands, now gripping your back with a firm, almost possessive hold, pulled you closer, making every brush of his skin against yours feel electric.

The desperation in his movements matched the deep, primal need that surged between you.

You felt his breath coming in quick, ragged bursts, mingling with yours as the kiss grew even more fervent. His lips were warm and demanding, parting yours with a force that made your heart race faster. The kiss was wet and passionate, a tangle of tongues and fervor that made it impossible to think of anything but the overwhelming need you both seemed to share.

Jace's hands roamed over your back and neck, his touch both urgent and tender, as if trying to convey everything he felt in that single, intense connection. The closeness of his body against yours, the heat radiating from him, and the rhythmic pulse of his heartbeat created a heady mix of sensations that made the kiss feel all-consuming.

Managing to pull off the hood of his cloak, your hands found their way to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft, tousled strands as you pulled him closer, the heat of his body pressing against yours.

When you finally broke apart, both of you gasping for air, the alleyway seemed to have transformed. The dim light from the street filtered through the narrow passage, casting an ethereal glow on Jace’s face, which was now flushed with a mix of surprise and desire.

He looked at you with a mix of wonder and urgency, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I–” he started, but his words faltered as he struggled to regain his composure.

You met his gaze, feeling a rush of vulnerability and exhilaration. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, though you knew the apology was unnecessary. The kiss had been as much for you as it had been for him, a release of pent-up emotions that had been building between you.

Jace’s expression softened, and he shook his head slightly, a small, almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t be,” he murmured, his voice low and intense.

Finally, the sounds of the guards’ patrol receded into the distance, leaving you and Jace in a quieter, more serene moment.

“We need to...” you whispered, your voice trailing off as you tried to regain your composure.

Jace nodded, his expression a mix of determination and tenderness. “Yes,” he said softly, his voice carrying a new, intense undertone.

With a final, lingering look, Jace stepped back, his hand sliding reluctantly from your back. The warmth of his touch lingered, a reminder of the connection you had just shared. He straightened his cloak and adjusted the fabric around his face, ensuring that his disguise remained intact.

You did the same, pulling your hood back up and securing it around your face. The urgency of the situation reasserted itself as the sound of footsteps echoed faintly in the distance, a reminder that the city’s dangers were far from over.

Jace took your hand once more, his grip firm but gentle. “We’ll need to move quickly,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Follow me.”

You both reached the city gates with a cautious optimism. The guards were preoccupied with a scene unfolding nearby – a drunken man who refused to leave the gate area and kept stumbling into their path, much to their exasperation. The guards’ frustration provided a crucial distraction, offering you a window of opportunity to slip past them.

Vermax’s eyes glowed softly as he recognized you both, and with a gentle nudge of his snout, the dragon seemed to sense the urgency of your return.

As Dragonstone’s silhouette loomed on the horizon, you could feel the weight of the long day lifting, exhaustion taking over you.

The familiar surroundings of Dragonstone welcomed you, the cold stone walls and the scent of the sea providing a comforting reminder of home.

You both took a moment to gather yourselves, the quiet of the castle grounds a soothing balm after the frenetic pace of the night. Jace’s gaze lingered on you, a soft smile playing at his lips as he took in the relief and exhaustion etched on your face.

“Get some rest,” he repeated, his voice gentle. “I’ll check in on you later.”

Neither of you made a move to leave. Instead, Jace stepped closer, mumbling. “I hope this is alright, too.”

Before you could fully process his intent, he leaned in again, his lips finding yours with a gentleness that belied the urgency of the situation. The kiss was soft and lingering, a tender caress that conveyed more than words ever could. His lips moved against yours with a slow, deliberate warmth, each touch a reminder of the connection you had shared in the alley.

You responded with equal tenderness, your hands reaching up to cup his face as you deepened the kiss. The warmth of his breath, the softness of his lips, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat created a cocoon of intimacy that was both comforting and exhilarating. The kiss was a balm for the exhaustion and the stress, a moment of pure, unguarded connection amidst the chaos.

“I’ll be here if you need me.” he said again, his voice a soft whisper as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your face.

You nodded. With a final, lingering glance, Jace stepped back, his hand slipping from yours as he watched you make your way into the castle.

The echo of Jace’s voice, soft and reassuring, lingered as you made your way into the castle. Each step felt heavier with the weight of the day’s trials and the emotional intensity you had just shared.

As you lay in bed, the soft rustle of the linens was the only sound breaking the stillness. The warmth from the fire seeped into the room, and you found solace in the quiet. The day’s exhaustion made your limbs heavy, and the steady rhythm of your breathing gradually lulled you toward sleep.

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soulofapatrick · 2 months ago

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Sleep, I've Got You - Liam Mairi x Female Reader

Summary: you haven't slept in two weeks and two people are pushing you to seek Liam's help

Warnings: none

Words: 2.3k

Y/N's POV

The training room is filled with quiet conversation, but I linger in the doorway, unnoticed. Violet is stretched out on the floor with a book in hand, Bodhi and Garrick are watching Ridoc and Sawyer debating something trivial. Liam is just listening along, breathing air through his nose when either of the goofs say something even more ridiculous than the other but he’s fiddling with a dagger in his hand. Xaden is in the corner, brooding as usual, his dark eyes occasionally flicking up to meet mine before drifting away.

“Go to him.” Draighanmúr’s, or Draighan as I call him, voice rumbles in the back of my mind, firm and gentle. His presence is soothing, as always, but his suggestion catches me off guard, feeling his silent urge for me to move from where I’m still hovering in the doorway. He doesn’t say who the ‘him’ is but I know exactly who he is on about.

I shouldn’t be here. My body is heavy with exhaustion, my thoughts fogged by the lack of sleep that’s haunted me for days. I know I should turn around and head back to the dorms, crawl into bed and pull the duvet over my head and try to get a single wink of sleep. Something, or someone, keeps me rooted in place, Xaden’s eyes flicking over to mine again once more before he goes back to brooding.

The shadows around me seem to come to life, curling around my ankles like tendrils, their touch cold and almost tangible. There’s a light pressure at the back of my legs, an insistent nudge that makes me take a wobbly step forwards. My breath catching in my throat as I realise what’s happening—these aren’t just ordinary shadows. They’re Xaden’s.

I glare at my wingleader instinctively, annoyance flickering in my chest. He’s the only one who could be doing this, the one manipulating the shadows to push me out of the safety of the darkness where I’ve been hiding. His eyes meet mine briefly, and there’s a knowing look in them, an acknowledgment of what he’s doing. He doesn’t say anything, though, just tilts his head slightly as if to say, You know this is for your own good.

Draighan chuffs in the back of my mind as if agreeing with Xaden’s silent comment, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and agreement as he tells me You need rest, and you know who can give it to you. His presence is warm, comforting, but it doesn’t take away the frustration bubbling inside me. Xaden and Draighan unknowingly conspiring against me.

With a resigned sigh, I continue to shuffle forwards, my movements somewhat sluggish and uncertain—things you don’t want for a dragon rider. Every step feels heavier than the last, and I hesitate again, my body instinctively trying to resit the pull. But I can feel Xaden’s eyes boring holes into the side of my head, a silent pressure that refuses to elm me retreat. It’s as if his gaze alone is propelling my forwards, leaving me no choice but to keep moving until I find myself standing next to the group of boys.

Ridoc glances up at me, a mischievous grin on his face which would have me worried if it were anyone else but Ridoc as he asks, “You joining us?” His tone is light, but there’s genuine curiosity in his eyes, like he’s surprised I’ve wandered over to them and not Violet.

I just nod, the motion feeling more like a reflex than a conscious decision. Without saying a word, I sink down the wall, near Sawyer and a few steps away from Liam, close enough to feel the warmth of Liam’s presence but far enough that I don’t feel complexly exposed.

The golden evening light streams into the training room, casting a warm, ethereal glow over everything it touches. Liam sits bathed in that light, his soft light-blond hair catching the glow, making him look almost ethereal. His tall, muscular frame, as built as Dain, is relaxed as he fiddles with a dagger, the blade catching the light as it twirls effortlessly between his fingers. His blue eyes are focused on the conversation, a soft, thoughtful expression on his face as he listens to the banter around him. There’s a rugged handsomeness to him, emphasised by the prominent nose and the sprawling rebellion relic that begins at his wrist and disappears under the sleeve of his tunic. When he smiles, a dimple appears, adding a touch of warmth to his otherwise stoic demeanour.

My heart tightens in my chest as I watch him. He looks like he belongs in this light, like the strength and calmness of it are just extensions of who he is. There’s a quiet confidence about him that draws me in, and I can’t help but feel my crush on him swell, massive and overwhelming. I’m head over heels for him, and it’s a feeling that terrifies me as much as it thrills me.

Draighan’s presence in my mind is a steady, reassuring hum, bolstering my resolve. I scoot closer to Liam, my movements slow and deliberate as I inch toward him. My heart races as I reach out, nudging his right arm from his lap. He looks down at me, a hint of surprise in his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything as I lay my head down where his arm once rested.

I tense, my whole body stiffening in anticipation of some kind of backlash or teasing comment. I’m ready for Ridoc’s sharp wit, for Sawyer’s playful jabs, or even for Liam to shift uncomfortably and pull away. But none of that happens. Instead, there’s a beat of silence, and then I feel Liam’s hand find its way into my hair. His fingers are gentle, tentative at first, before they start to move in slow, soothing strokes.

Liam's fingers begin to move through my hair, the touch light and careful, as though he’s afraid of hurting me. He smooths out the knots with practiced ease, each motion gentle yet firm. The tension I’ve been holding in my scalp and neck gradually starts to dissolve under his deft touch, the soothing strokes lulling me into a state of relaxation I haven’t felt in days.

As his hand continues to comb through my hair, he leans forward slightly, tilting my head to the side so that our eyes meet. His blue eyes, usually so sharp and alert, soften as they take in the exhaustion written across my face. There’s a quiet understanding in his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of how tired I am, how much I need this moment of comfort.

“You’re exhausted,” he murmurs softly, his voice low and tender. “Sleep.”

The warmth in his tone wraps around me like a blanket, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the noise of the room, the worries in my mind. It’s just him, his voice, and the steady rhythm of his fingers in my hair. He lets go of my face, leaning back against the wall as he continues his soothing ministrations. Before he settles, though, his fingers briefly brush against my cheek, a tender gesture that sends a warmth spreading through my chest. Then, his hand returns to my hair, the steady, rhythmic strokes coaxing me closer to the edge of sleep.

As I begin to drift, I catch Ridoc’s eyes from across the room. He’s been watching quietly, his playful demeanour momentarily subdued. He mouths a single word at me, a question: Nightmares?

I nod once, softly, the motion barely perceptible. It’s all I can manage in my state of exhaustion, but it’s enough. Ridoc’s gaze softens in understanding before he turns back to his banter with Sawyer, Bodhi, and Garrick, picking up the conversation where he left off.

The world around me fades into the background as Liam’s fingers continue to move through my hair, the gentle rhythm pulling me closer to sleep. Draighan’s presence hums softly in the back of my mind, a comforting reminder that I’m safe, that I can finally let go. My breathing slows, and before long, I succumb to the exhaustion, my body sinking into the warmth and comfort of Liam’s lap.

————

I slowly drift back into consciousness, the heaviness of sleep gradually lifting as awareness returns. The first thing I notice is the softness beneath my head—a pillow, not the comforting firmness of Liam’s lap where I last remember resting. I shift slightly, feeling the warmth of a blanket draped over me, its weight soothing against the cool air of the room. There’s another weight too, heavier and more solid, resting across my waist. It takes me a moment to realize it’s an arm, strong and steady, holding me close.

I blink, my eyes adjusting to the dim light in the room. The training room is gone, replaced by the soft glow of moonlight filtering through a small window. The familiar scent of leather and something distinctly Liam fills my senses, grounding me as I take in my surroundings. I’m not in the dorms, not in my own bed. My heart skips a beat as the realisation sinks in—I’m in Liam’s bed.

I take a slow, deep breath, feeling the rise and fall of the warm body behind me. His presence is solid, comforting, and undeniably familiar. The heat of his body seeps into my back, and for a moment, I just lie there, processing the unexpected but welcome reality of where I am.

Carefully, I roll over, shifting beneath the weight of his arm until I’m facing him. The room is quiet, the only sounds being the soft rustle of the blanket and the steady rhythm of Liam’s breathing. My eyes trace his features, relaxed and peaceful in sleep. His spiky blond hair is tousled, a few strands falling across his forehead. His sharp, blue eyes are hidden behind closed lids, their intensity softened by the calmness of slumber. His prominent nose and the faint shadow of stubble on his jawline give him a rugged look, but there’s a gentleness to him now, a vulnerability that makes my heart ache.

As I lie there, taking in every detail of Liam's serene face, I feel an overwhelming tenderness swell in my chest. His usually intense blue eyes are softened by sleep, his features relaxed in a way I rarely get to see. I can’t help myself—I lean in and press a gentle kiss to his jawline, just where the faint shadow of stubble begins. His skin is warm and slightly rough beneath my lips, the contact filling me with a quiet sense of intimacy.

The soft press of my lips causes him to stir, his brow furrowing slightly before his eyes slowly flutter open. For a moment, he looks disoriented, but then his gaze finds mine, and a slow, sleepy smile spreads across his face, the dimple in his cheek deepening.

"How'd you sleep?" he murmurs, his voice husky with sleep, and it sends a shiver down my spine.

I begin to answer, my voice still soft and laced with the remnants of sleep, "Better than I have in days—" But before I can finish, I notice his eyes flick down to my lips, lingering there for just a heartbeat before he moves.

In a fluid motion, Liam closes the small distance between us, capturing my lips in a kiss that feels like the culmination of something we’ve both been wanting for far too long. His lips are warm and firm against mine, moving with a gentle urgency that takes my breath away. His hand, still resting on my waist, tightens slightly, pulling me closer as if he needs to make sure I’m real, that this moment is real.

The kiss is slow and tender, but there’s a depth to it that speaks of unspoken emotions, of the comfort we find in each other. His thumb brushes over my cheek as he deepens the kiss, his touch both loving and reverent. I lose myself in the sensation, in the way his lips mold perfectly to mine, in the way his warmth seeps into every corner of my being. It feels like coming home, like finding a piece of myself I didn’t know was missing.

When we finally part, it’s with a shared breath, both of us a little dazed but undeniably content. His forehead rests gently against mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us.

"Maybe we should get a little more sleep," he whispers, his voice a soft murmur that makes my heart flutter. There’s a hint of a smile in his voice, one that I can’t help but return.

"Yeah," I agree, my own voice barely more than a sigh as I shift closer, tucking myself against his bare chest. The steady beat of his heart beneath my ear is a comforting rhythm, lulling me back toward sleep. His arm wraps securely around me, holding me close as his other hand continues its soothing motions, tracing gentle patterns along my back.

As I drift off, the warmth of his body enveloping me and the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath my head, I feel an overwhelming sense of peace. With Liam holding me close, sleep comes easily, and I let myself surrender to it, knowing that for now, everything is exactly as it should be.

Fourth Wing Masterlist - To be made Comment to be added to tag list

#Liam mairi #liam mairi x reader #Liam mairi x you #Liam mairi x y/n #Liam mairi fourth wing #fourth wing #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing Liam mairi #fourth wing Liam #Liam mairi fluff #Liam mairi smut #Liam mairi angst #Liam mairi one shot #Liam mairi imagine #fourth wing imagine

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novaursa · 3 months ago

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The Cold Embrace (2/2)

Requests are closed!

- Summary: As time passes, snow begins to melt.

- Paring: velayrion!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: @missisjoker So, here is the second and last part straight from the oven that was being baked all night. I had a lot of fun writing it. I hope you guys like this conclusion of this two part story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 1/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess @jellybeanstacey0519 @strengthandstay @anne-mary-1d @lovelyteenagebeard

The crisp chill of autumn clung to the air, painting the landscape of Winterfell in muted shades of orange and gold. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, and the days had grown shorter, yet despite the changing season, little had thawed between you and Cregan Stark. The cold inside the walls of Winterfell seemed to mirror the tension that still lingered between the two of you, each day marked by stilted conversations and, more often than not, sharp exchanges.

Today was no different.

"You speak of duty as if it’s something noble," you spat, your voice tight as you stood across from Cregan in the courtyard, your cloak billowing in the wind. "But this—this life you’ve trapped me in—it’s a cage. You call it honor, but what is honorable about ripping me away from my family?"

Cregan, his expression as hard as the stone walls surrounding you, stood tall, arms crossed over his chest. The northern winds blew through the yard, stirring his dark hair as he met your gaze with his own unflinching one. "A cage? Is that what you see this as? I have given you more freedom than many would expect from a lord. You come and go as you please, and I have not demanded anything of you that you have not been ready to give."

"You think freedom means letting me roam these cold, barren lands?" you shot back, your voice rising. "I am a dragon, Cregan, not some northern wolf content with howling at the moon. I am bound to the skies, to fire and wind, and every moment I am here, I wither. You cannot understand that."

His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with frustration. "I have done everything to make this a home for you," he said, his tone dangerously low. "But it’s clear that nothing will ever satisfy you. You’re too busy yearning for something you’ve lost to see what is right in front of you."

You scoffed, turning away from him, your steps hurried as you walked toward the godswood, needing space, needing air. "There is nothing here for me but snow and silence," you muttered, though you knew he heard you.

Cregan watched you go, his heart heavy as the weight of your words settled in. He stood there for a long moment, the wind tugging at his cloak, his expression unreadable. Inside, however, there was a storm brewing—a storm of disappointment, frustration, and something else, something deeper that he had been trying to deny for months.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he turned and made his way back into the keep, his mind racing with thoughts he could no longer ignore.

In the warmth of the solar, the fire crackled in the hearth, its light casting flickering shadows across the room. Grand Maester Kennet sat across from Cregan, his wise old eyes studying the lord with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"You’ve been quieter than usual, my lord," Kennet said, folding his hands in his lap. "Something weighs heavily on you."

Cregan leaned back in his chair, staring into the flames. He had kept his feelings bottled up for so long, unwilling to admit to anyone, let alone himself, how much this situation had affected him. But now, with the distance between him and you growing each day, the burden felt too great to carry alone.

"She doesn’t want to be here," Cregan said quietly, his voice rough with an emotion he rarely let show. "No matter what I do, no matter how much I try to make this place a home for her, she only sees Winterfell as a prison. She longs for Dragonstone. For her family."

Kennet nodded thoughtfully, his expression sympathetic. "It is not uncommon for one to yearn for the place of their birth, especially when it’s been taken from them. The Princess... she is like her mother, strong-willed and fierce. The North is a different world for someone raised among dragons and fire."

Cregan exhaled slowly, leaning forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed a hand over his face. "I know that. I’ve known it since the day she arrived. But... there’s more. It’s not just that she can’t find a place here." He paused, his voice dropping, as if the words themselves were difficult to admit. "I care for her, Kennet. More than I thought I ever would. When Jacaerys first came to me, he spoke of her with such passion and admiration. He told me stories of her strength, her spirit, how she was a woman who could stand beside any man, even one like me. And I believed him. I admired her before I even met her."

The Maester listened in silence, his brow furrowed in thought as Cregan continued.

"And when she arrived," Cregan went on, his gaze distant, "I saw it. Everything Jacaerys said was true. She’s fierce, and proud, and... gods, she’s beautiful in her own way. But she looks at me like I’m the reason for all her misery, like I’ve taken something from her that she can never get back. She’ll never see me as anything but the man who keeps her from the life she wants."

Kennet sighed softly, shaking his head. "Love is a complicated thing, my lord. You cannot force it, nor can you expect it to bloom in a place of resentment. The Princess... she is grieving the life she left behind. She may yet come to see what you offer, but it will take time."

Cregan’s eyes flickered with doubt as he looked at the older man. "Time may be something we don’t have. The war brews in the South, and her family is at the heart of it. She feels trapped here while her brothers and mother fight for the throne. I’ve heard her speak of it—how the North is no place for dragons, how she feels as though she’s losing herself in the cold."

The Maester tilted his head, considering Cregan’s words carefully. "It is true that the North is no easy place for a soul like hers. But perhaps... perhaps if you can show her that she can still be who she is, even here, she might come to find her place."

Cregan stood from his seat, pacing the room, the weight of his frustration palpable. "How can I show her that when she refuses to let me in? Every time we speak, it turns into an argument. She doesn’t trust me. She doesn’t want to be here, and she certainly doesn’t want to be with me."

Kennet rose slowly, his hands resting on the table as he regarded Cregan with a calm, steady gaze. "Then you must be patient, my lord. If you truly care for the Princess, you will have to endure her fire, much like one endures the harshest winters. But winters pass, and even in the North, the snow melts. Perhaps in time, her heart will soften."

Cregan sighed deeply, staring into the fire once more. He wished it were as simple as waiting for the snow to melt, but as the days passed, he feared the rift between him and you was growing too wide to ever close.

He wanted you to see him, truly see him, not as the man who kept you here but as someone who could stand beside you, strong enough to weather the storm of your spirit. But until then, all he could do was wait.

And hope.

The halls of Winterfell buzzed with an unusual energy, a hive of activity that Cregan hadn’t expected so soon after the summer's end. The brisk wind of autumn howled through the open courtyards, and yet the chill in the air was not the only sign that winter was approaching. Men and women rushed through the keep, arms filled with supplies, voices rising in quick, urgent conversation.

Cregan furrowed his brow as he observed the flurry of work. His bannermen and servants seemed to be following orders, yet none had come directly from him. His curiosity piqued, he caught sight of one of his men, Ser Roland, directing a group of stable hands with a sense of urgency. Cregan made his way over, his long strides carrying him across the courtyard.

"Ser Roland," he called out, his deep voice cutting through the noise. "What’s all this about? I don’t recall ordering preparations for winter just yet."

Ser Roland turned quickly, bowing his head in respect before answering. "Lord Stark, it’s not your orders we’re following. The Princess has taken it upon herself to make sure Winterfell is ready for the long winter ahead. She’s been directing the stores, making changes to the rations, and ensuring that all livestock are accounted for."

Cregan’s brow lifted in surprise. "The Princess? I wasn’t aware she had taken an interest in such matters."

Ser Roland nodded, his expression a mixture of admiration and confusion. "Aye, my lord. She’s had us reorganize the grain stores and instructed that additional salt be used to preserve meats in case the winter lasts longer than expected. She also had some of the women gather herbs and berries for medicinal stocks—said it’s something her mother did on Dragonstone. Even ordered new tunnels to be dug beneath the walls, should the snow block access to certain parts of the keep. It’s... impressive."

Cregan was silent for a moment, taken aback by the level of thought and strategy that had gone into the preparations. The Princess, who had made it clear she despised this place, was ensuring it would withstand winter’s cruelty. And yet, she hadn’t spoken a word of it to him. His initial surprise gave way to a grudging respect.

"And where is she now?" Cregan asked, his tone more curious than demanding.

Roland hesitated before answering. "The Princess took to the skies a short while ago, my lord. She went flying on Silverwing."

"Flying," Cregan repeated, his brow furrowing. It wasn’t unusual for you to seek solace in the skies, but the flicker of worry began to creep in. "And who accompanied her?"

Roland shifted, his expression turning sheepish. "Your son, my lord. Young Rickon went with her."

Cregan stiffened, his heart quickening at the thought of Rickon riding atop Silverwing. His instinct was to feel alarmed—to think of all the things that could go wrong with a boy so young riding a dragon, even one as gentle as Silverwing. For a moment, the image of his son, small and fragile, atop such a powerful beast made him want to storm out and demand answers.

But then he stopped himself. Rickon was not some fragile boy. He was his son, a Stark, raised to face the wild north and the dangers that came with it. And more than that, Silverwing was under your command, a dragon bound to your will. His mind raced with the desire to scold you for being reckless, but something held him back. Rickon had begged for a chance to fly, ever since he had seen the dragons for the first time.

"Thank you, Roland," Cregan said curtly, turning away from the bustling activity of the courtyard and heading toward the godswood where he knew you often landed with Silverwing.

The cold air bit at Cregan's face as he walked through the open fields behind Winterfell. The godswood stood tall and silent in the distance, but it was the open expanse of land beyond it that caught his attention. There, just returning from the skies, was Silverwing. Her massive form settled gracefully on the ground, her wings folding in with practiced ease as you and Rickon dismounted.

He could see Rickon from afar, his small figure bounding toward the keep, his face lit up with sheer joy. As Cregan approached, he heard his son before he saw him up close.

"Father!" Rickon shouted, running full speed toward Cregan, his excitement bubbling over. "I flew, Father! I flew on Silverwing! She let me ride with her, and we soared above the trees! You should’ve seen it!"

The boy’s face was flushed with exhilaration, his cheeks red from the cold wind, and his eyes sparkled with uncontainable glee. He practically bounced in front of Cregan, his enthusiasm infectious.

Cregan knelt down, placing a hand on Rickon’s shoulder. "Did you now?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "And you weren’t afraid?"

Rickon shook his head vigorously. "No! The Princess told me not to worry. She said Silverwing wouldn’t let anything happen to me." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, eyes wide with awe. "And she didn’t. I felt like I was part of the sky. Can I go again, Father? Please?"

Cregan looked down at his son, his heart swelling with pride at the boy’s bravery. The initial urge to reprimand you, to accuse you of putting his son at risk, faded as he saw the pure joy on Rickon’s face. How could he take that away from him?

He stood up, his eyes drifting toward you. You were brushing snow from your cloak, your gaze turned elsewhere, as if trying to pretend you hadn’t noticed him approaching. But you had noticed. You always did.

For a moment, Cregan was silent, the tension between the two of you palpable. He could have said something. Could have warned you against taking such risks with his son. But instead, he let out a quiet sigh, looking back down at Rickon.

"You can go again," he said softly, ruffling the boy’s hair. "But only when the Princess says it's safe."

Rickon beamed and immediately ran off toward the keep, his excitement carrying him as fast as his legs could take him. Cregan watched him go, then turned his gaze back to you. You still hadn’t spoken, but your eyes met his, guarded as always.

"I should scold you," he said, his tone measured. "You had no right to take Rickon flying without asking me first."

You straightened, your chin lifting slightly. "He wanted to go. And Silverwing wouldn’t have harmed him."

Cregan nodded, but his expression remained serious. "I know. But he’s still my son. And as much as he may adore dragons, I need to know he’s safe."

The tension hung between you for a moment longer, but Cregan couldn’t help the way his heart softened slightly. Despite everything—despite the constant bickering, the distance between you—he could see that while you might not want this marriage, you cared for Rickon. The way you had taken him flying, giving him the one thing that had brought him so much joy, didn’t go unnoticed.

"Perhaps," Cregan added quietly, his tone softer now, "you don’t want me. But you will be a good mother to Rickon. I can see that."

For a moment, you didn’t respond, your expression unreadable. Then you gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "I’ll keep him safe," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Cregan watched you for a long moment before turning and heading back toward Winterfell. The coldness between you two remained, but now there was a small crack in the icy wall that had stood between you since the moment you arrived.

The cold air was sharper here, beyond the walls of Winterfell, biting deep into Cregan’s skin as he led his men through the thick snow-covered wilderness. The northern winds howled, carrying with them the scent of pine and frost, mingled with something far more sinister—the smell of smoke from a Wildling camp. They had been tracking the Wildlings for days now, ever since word came that a raiding party had crossed the Wall, attacking isolated settlements and stealing what little food and supplies they could find before winter’s full grip took hold.

Cregan’s blood thrummed with the familiar tension that came before battle. His breath formed clouds in the cold air, his grip firm on the hilt of his sword as he and his men closed in. They could see the crude campfires in the distance, flickering like beacons in the darkening forest.

"Stay low," Cregan whispered to his men, his voice barely audible above the wind. The Stark bannermen, seasoned and loyal, followed his command without hesitation. They fanned out in a loose line, their cloaks blending into the snowy landscape.

The Wildlings had set up in a small clearing, their crude weapons and fur-lined tents marking them as a desperate group. There were perhaps a dozen of them—armed with spears, axes, and the occasional rusty sword—but they were not to be underestimated. Wildlings were fierce, survivalists hardened by the lands beyond the Wall. This fight would be bloody.

Cregan motioned to his men, and in unison, they surged forward, the snow muffling their approach until they were nearly upon the camp.

The first clash came fast and violent.

Cregan’s sword met the steel of a Wildling’s axe, the sharp clang of metal ringing out into the frigid night. The raiders shouted in surprise, their camp erupting into chaos as the Stark men descended upon them. The Wildlings fought back viciously, their crude weapons swinging wildly, aiming for any vulnerable flesh they could find.

Cregan swung his blade with precision, cleaving through a Wildling’s chest, blood spraying across the snow like ink on parchment. He turned just in time to parry another blow, gritting his teeth as the impact jarred his arm. Around him, the sounds of battle raged—shouts, screams, the wet thud of bodies falling into the snow.

But then, something sharp and hot bit into his side.

Cregan gasped, stumbling back as a Wildling spear pierced his flesh just below his ribs. The pain was immediate and blinding, spreading like fire through his body. His grip faltered on his sword for a moment, but he didn’t let go. With a roar, he swung his blade in a brutal arc, slicing through the man who had struck him. The Wildling crumpled to the ground, but Cregan was already weakening, his vision blurring at the edges.

The fight continued around him, his men cutting down the remaining Wildlings, but every movement Cregan made sent waves of pain crashing through him. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright, even as the blood began to seep through his furs, staining the snow beneath his feet a dark crimson.

At last, the battle was over. The Wildlings lay dead, their bodies scattered across the snow like broken dolls. Cregan’s men stood victorious, though bruised and bloodied themselves.

One of his men, Ser Vayon, rushed over to him, his face pale with worry as he saw the blood. "My lord! You’re wounded."

Cregan waved him off, trying to mask the severity of his injury. "I’ll live," he growled, though his voice was weaker than he intended. "But I can’t make it back as fast as the rest of you. Take the others and ride ahead. Get help."

Ser Vayon hesitated, his eyes darting between Cregan and the rest of the men. "We can carry you—"

"No," Cregan interrupted, his tone firm despite the pain. "I’ll slow you down. If you ride ahead, you’ll reach Winterfell faster. I’ll follow behind." His vision blurred for a moment, and he had to steady himself against a nearby tree. "Go. That’s an order."

Reluctantly, Ser Vayon nodded, glancing back at the other men. "As you command, my lord."

With that, they mounted their horses, casting one last worried glance at him before spurring their mounts and riding off through the snow. Cregan watched them go, the sound of hooves fading into the distance, leaving him alone in the quiet, snow-covered forest.

He took a few shaky steps, but each movement sent a fresh wave of agony through his body. His hand clutched his side where the blood still flowed, staining the white snow beneath his boots. The world around him tilted, and he fell to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He tried to rise, but his strength was failing, his body too weak to carry him any further.

Just as his vision began to swim, he heard a sound—a distant, high-pitched screech that cut through the silence like a knife.

Cregan blinked, his vision blurring as something massive appeared in the sky above him. He squinted through the haze of pain, trying to focus, and then he saw it—Silverwing, her silver-scaled body descending from the clouds like a gleaming specter. The dragon landed with a soft thud, her wings folding as she approached him, her eyes gleaming in the dim light.

Cregan cursed under his breath, trying to wave her off with a weak motion of his hand. "Go on, beast," he muttered, his voice slurred with exhaustion. "I’m not your rider."

But Silverwing ignored him, her massive head lowering as she nudged him gently with her nose. The touch was surprisingly gentle for such a fearsome creature, as if the dragon knew he was on the brink of collapse. She nudged him again, more insistently this time, her warm breath washing over him as if urging him to stand.

Cregan tried to push her away, but his strength was gone. "Damn dragon," he rasped, his body trembling from blood loss. "Leave me."

Silverwing let out a low rumble, her large eyes narrowing as if in disapproval. She nudged him one last time, and when he still didn’t move, she took matters into her own talons. With surprising care, Silverwing wrapped her claws around his body, lifting him effortlessly from the snow.

Cregan groaned, the world spinning around him as Silverwing took flight, the sensation of being carried through the sky both terrifying and surreal. His body was limp in her talons, the wind whipping through his hair as they soared above the treetops, Winterfell a distant shadow on the horizon.

His eyelids grew heavy, the pain in his side fading as numbness took over. The world below him grew smaller, the sky a dark blur above.

As Silverwing’s wings beat rhythmically, the wind howling in his ears, Cregan's consciousness began to slip away, the edges of his vision turning black.

The last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him was Winterfell’s walls in the distance, growing closer with every beat of Silverwing’s wings. Then, nothing.

Cregan Stark knew no more.

The courtyard of Winterfell was a storm of chaos as you pushed through the throngs of servants and guards, your heart racing, breath short. The cold northern wind stung your face, but you barely felt it. All you could focus on was the sight ahead—Silverwing, her massive silver form crouched low on the snow, her head lowered protectively over a motionless figure sprawled at her feet. You shoved past a startled servant, your voice rising above the din of panic.

"Move aside!" you barked, pushing through the crowd until you finally reached the clearing where Cregan lay, blood staining the snow beneath him, his face pale and ashen.

Silverwing rumbled softly as you approached, her enormous eyes watching you, but she made no move to stop you. Her wings shifted, creating a barrier between the man she had carried home and the gathering onlookers.

Your heart leapt into your throat. The sight of Cregan—your husband, though it had never felt real until this moment—bleeding and unconscious before his own keep sent a surge of fear through you that you hadn’t expected.

"Where is Rickon?" you demanded, whirling around to one of the women standing near the edge of the scene. Rickon’s nanny stepped forward, worry etched on her face.

"He was playing with the other children when we heard the commotion," she said nervously, glancing toward Silverwing. "Should I—?"

"Find him," you interrupted quickly, your voice firmer than it had been in weeks. "Keep him away from here. I don’t want him seeing his father like this."

The woman nodded, clearly relieved to have something to do, and hurried off into the crowd. You turned back toward Cregan just as Maester Kennet knelt beside him, his hands moving with the steady calm of a man who had seen too many battle injuries in his lifetime. His fingers probed at the wound beneath Cregan’s furs, his face grim.

"Will he live?" you asked, unable to keep the edge of desperation from creeping into your voice.

Kennet didn’t look up, his attention still fixed on the blood-soaked gash. "The wound is deep, but he’s strong. If we can stop the bleeding and keep the fever from setting in, he has a chance. But we need to get him inside—now."

Already, several of Cregan’s men were lifting him carefully onto a makeshift stretcher, their faces pale with worry. You followed as they carried him toward the castle, your feet moving without thought. The icy wind cut through your cloak, but you ignored it. The only thing you could focus on was the sight of Cregan’s lifeless form being carried through the halls of Winterfell, his breathing shallow and labored.

As they reached his chambers, the men gently placed him on the large bed, stepping back to allow Maester Kennet to work. You hovered just beyond the bedside, your hands clenched into tight fists at your sides, helplessness gnawing at you. Despite everything—despite the constant arguments, the coldness between you—you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him like this. The stark realization struck you hard, knocking the wind from your lungs.

You didn’t want him to die.

For what felt like hours, Kennet worked over Cregan’s body, stitching the wound with deft hands and applying herbs to stave off infection. You stood nearby, your eyes never leaving Cregan’s pale face. He was so still, too still. The sight of him like this made the cold inside Winterfell seem even more unbearable.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Kennet finished his work. The room was filled with the scent of medicinal salves and the sharp tang of blood. The old Maester wiped his hands on a cloth and turned to you, exhaustion etched in every line of his face.

"I’ve done all I can for now," he said quietly. "He will need time to heal, but whether he wakes or not depends on his own strength."

You nodded mutely, your throat tight with unspoken fear. "Thank you, Maester," you managed to whisper. Kennet gave a small nod, then gathered his supplies and left the room, leaving you alone with Cregan.

For a long time, you stood there, staring at the man who had become your husband, the man you had fought with, resented, and yet now feared to lose. His breathing was shallow, but steady, the rise and fall of his chest a small reassurance in the overwhelming uncertainty that hung over the room.

Without thinking, you moved closer to the bed, sinking into the chair beside him. Your hand reached out almost instinctively, and before you could stop yourself, your fingers closed around his. His hand was rough and calloused, larger than yours, but in this moment, it felt fragile.

"You stubborn, foolish man," you whispered, your voice breaking as you held onto him. "You always have to be the hero, don’t you?"

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them away, unwilling to give in to the fear gnawing at your insides. Instead, you lowered your head, closing your eyes as you prayed softly in Valyrian, the words flowing from your lips in a desperate plea to the gods of your ancestors.

"Grant him strength," you whispered, tightening your grip on his hand. "Give him the will to fight, to wake up."

The room was silent save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the warmth of the flames doing little to thaw the cold dread that had settled in your chest. You stayed by his bedside, refusing to leave, your heart pounding with every passing second.

Despite everything, you weren’t ready to let him go. Not yet.

And so, you stayed, waiting, praying, and hoping that Cregan Stark—your husband—would find his way back to you.

Cregan awoke slowly, his mind swimming through the thick fog of pain and disorientation. The world around him was hazy, the room spinning as he tried to make sense of where he was. His body felt heavy, weighed down by a deep, aching fatigue that seemed to seep into his very bones. He blinked, his vision clearing little by little, and as the soft flicker of firelight came into focus, he realized he was back in his chambers, the familiar scent of burning wood and herbs filling the air.

It was then that he noticed her.

You sat beside his bed, your arms crossed, your expression a mixture of concern and irritation. The furrow in your brow deepened as you noticed him stirring, your lips pressed into a thin line that barely masked the relief you must have felt. Despite the heaviness in his limbs and the sharp pain that shot through his side with every breath, Cregan couldn’t help but find it almost... amusing. There you were, the Dragon Princess, always so fierce and untamable, looking as though you were about to scold him, even now.

"You're awake," you said sharply, though there was a tremor of emotion beneath your voice that gave you away.

Cregan tried to sit up, wincing as the pain lanced through his side, but before he could make much progress, you were leaning forward, pushing him back down with a firm hand on his chest.

"Don’t even think about it," you warned, your tone brooking no argument. "Maester Kennet said you shouldn’t move. Not unless you want to tear your stitches and end up back in this bed for even longer."

He lay back with a grunt, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the discomfort. "Well, I wouldn’t want to upset the Maester," he muttered, his voice gravelly from disuse.

You gave him a look that would have wilted lesser men. "You almost died out there, Cregan."

The smirk faded from his face as he looked at you more closely. There was something in your eyes—something raw and unguarded. The irritation, the frustration—it was all there, but beneath it, there was a depth of feeling that surprised him. You were angry, yes, but not just at him. You were angry because you had been scared. Scared of losing him.

The realization hit him like a punch to the chest, and for the first time in years, he felt something stir inside him. It was warmth, not from the fire in the hearth, but from the way you were looking at him—fierce and tender all at once. It had been a long time since anyone had cared for him in that way, and now, seeing it in you—the woman who had resisted him, who had fought him every step of the way—brought a strange sense of peace to his heart.

"You care," he said softly, more to himself than to you.

You scoffed, crossing your arms tighter as you sat back in the chair. "Of course I care. You’re my husband, for better or worse." Your tone was sharp, but the emotion in your eyes betrayed you.

Cregan couldn’t help but chuckle, even though it sent a sharp pain through his side. "I didn’t think you’d admit that so easily."

You glared at him, though the fire in your eyes wasn’t the same angry blaze he was used to. It was different now—softer, though no less fierce. "Don’t flatter yourself," you shot back. "I’m only here because Rickon can’t see you like this. He’d worry too much."

Cregan’s lips twitched into a faint smile. "So, you’re saying you’re here for Rickon, not for me?"

You opened your mouth to retort, but then you stopped, your eyes flicking away for a brief moment before returning to his. "I’m here for both of you," you admitted quietly, your voice losing some of its edge. "You were reckless, Cregan. Going after those Wildlings in your condition was foolish. What were you thinking?"

He sighed, his hand moving slightly to rest against his bandaged side. "I was thinking I needed to protect the North. To protect my people."

"At the cost of your life?" you shot back, incredulous. "Your people need you alive, not bleeding out in the snow."

There was a pause, and then Cregan gave a small nod, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that surprised you. "You’re right," he said, his voice low and steady. "I was reckless. But it’s what I’ve always done. I’ve always put others first. The North, Winterfell, my family... I didn’t think anyone would care if something happened to me."

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken things. You stared at him for a long moment, your expression softening, and for the first time, Cregan saw something shift in you. The walls you had built between you—the ice that had kept you at a distance—continues to crack, again a little more than before.

"I would care," you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I may not have wanted this marriage, but I don’t want you dead."

The warmth in his chest grew, spreading through him like a fire kindling to life after a long, cold winter. He had known you were strong, had admired your spirit from the moment Jacaerys spoke of you. But now, seeing you like this—caring, vulnerable in your own way—it was more than he could have ever expected.

"I never thought you’d stay by my side like this," he said, his voice soft, his dark eyes searching your face. "But you did."

You looked away for a moment, your fingers tightening in your lap. "I stayed because I couldn’t leave you like that. No one deserves to be alone when they’re hurt, not even you."

He chuckled softly, wincing at the pain it caused. "You have a strange way of showing concern, Princess."

Your lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it was laced with exasperation. "You’re insufferable, you know that?"

"I’ve been told," he muttered, still smiling despite himself.

The tension between you seemed to ease then, the space between you no longer as cold and vast as it once had been. Cregan felt it—the change, subtle but undeniable. And though he knew things wouldn’t be easy, though you would likely bicker again and clash as fiercely as you had before, there was something different now.

For the first time in a long while, Cregan Stark felt something stir inside him—a warmth, a sense of hope. He didn’t know what the future would bring, but for now, he was content with the knowledge that you were here, by his side, and that perhaps, just perhaps, you cared for him more than either of you had realized.

And that was enough.

The godswood was bathed in the soft light of the late afternoon sun, the ancient red leaves of the weirwood tree rustling in the cool breeze. Cregan walked beside you, his stride steady now, fully recovered from his near-fatal wounds. It had been months since that day when Silverwing had saved him from death's grip, and in that time, the distance between you and Cregan had shifted. You still bickered, your sharp words clashing like swords, but there was something different now. Beneath the teasing, the arguments, there was a warmth that neither of you could deny.

"I still think you're insufferably stubborn," you muttered, your arms crossed as you walked along the path beside him. "Charging into battle like a fool—next time, I won’t be sitting by your bedside."

Cregan chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made your irritation flare even hotter. "Ah, but you did sit by my bedside," he said, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "And I seem to recall you staying there for quite some time. Worrying about me, even."

You shot him a sharp glare, though it lacked the real venom it once held. "You should be thanking the gods you survived, not teasing me for caring whether you lived or died."

"I do thank the gods," he replied, his voice quieter now, more serious. "But I also thank you. You stayed with me, Y/N. I haven’t forgotten that."

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, and for a moment, you felt the familiar defenses you had built around yourself begin to crumble. You glanced away, your gaze falling on the gnarled roots of the weirwood tree, trying to ignore the way his words made your heart flutter.

"You’re still a fool," you mumbled, though the edge had left your voice.

Cregan stopped walking, and you felt him gently take your hand, pulling you to a halt. You turned to face him, and in the quiet of the godswood, with only the wind rustling through the leaves, you found yourself caught in his gaze—those deep, grey eyes filled with something you hadn’t allowed yourself to see before. There was no frustration, no anger—only warmth, only want.

"And you’re still the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met," he said softly, stepping closer. His hand reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face, the touch so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine despite the cold air. "But I wouldn’t want you any other way."

You opened your mouth to retort, to say something biting, but the words never came. Instead, you found yourself closing the distance between you, your breath catching as his hand cupped the side of your face. His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, and the last remnants of the ice between you began to melt.

Before you could think, before you could stop yourself, your lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as though both of you were testing the waters. But the moment your mouths touched, the fire that had been simmering beneath your bickering flared to life. His hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer, and your arms wrapped around his neck, deepening the kiss.

Neither of you spoke; there were no more words left to be said. The cold air around you seemed to disappear, muted by the heat that surged between you. His lips were warm and insistent, his body pressed against yours with a need you hadn’t known you could feel.

Without breaking the kiss, Cregan’s hands moved to the ties of your cloak, loosening them with deft fingers. You tugged at his own furs, pushing them from his shoulders, and soon the cold was biting at your exposed skin, but you didn’t care. And neither did he. The warmth of your body, of your fire, was all that mattered to him now.

Your cloak fell to the ground, forgotten among the roots of the weirwood, and Cregan’s hands were on you, pulling at the fastenings of your gown. You gasped as the cold air hit your bare skin, but his hands were there to chase it away, his touch rough and gentle all at once. You tugged at his tunic, eager to feel his skin beneath your hands, and when he pulled it over his head, you marveled at the strength of him, the way his muscles rippled beneath the scars and callouses of a warrior.

Before long, the two of you were bare to the elements, the cold air forgotten as he lowered you gently to the ground. The soft moss beneath you was cool, but the fire in your veins made it bearable. Cregan’s body hovered over yours, his eyes searching your face for any sign of hesitation.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice husky with desire, but still full of the respect that had always been there beneath your bickering. "I won’t force this, Y/N."

You stared up at him, your heart racing, and for the first time, you felt no resistance. No walls, no barriers. You nodded, your voice barely a whisper. "I’m sure."

With that, he kissed you again, slow and deep, as his body pressed gently against yours. His hands were everywhere—on your waist, your hips, trailing down your thighs, sending sparks of heat through your entire being. When he finally entered you, it was with a slow, deliberate tenderness, his eyes never leaving yours.

The brief flash of pain as he broke your maidenhead made you wince, but he was there, soothing it with soft kisses, his hand tangled in your hair. And then, as the discomfort began to fade, the pleasure took its place, warm and insistent.

You moved against him, your body finding a rhythm as you urged him on with the softest of moans, your hands gripping his shoulders, your legs wrapping around him. His breath came in ragged gasps, his control slipping as he gave in to the fire between you, the primal, unspoken connection that had been building for months.

The cold wind whispered through the trees, but it could not reach you. The warmth of your bodies, entwined beneath the ancient weirwood, was enough to drive it away. Cregan’s movements grew more intense, his lips never straying far from yours, his hands gripping you as though he feared you might vanish.

Your moans mixed with his groans, the air between you thick with the sounds of your love-making, the passion that had been hidden behind walls of ice and words for so long. Every touch, every thrust, brought you closer to a place neither of you had been before, and when the moment came—when your bodies finally reached the peak—you clung to him, your breath ragged, your body trembling with the force of it.

He followed you over the edge moments later, his own release marked by a soft growl that sent shivers down your spine. For a moment, the world seemed to still, the wind quieting, the godswood holding its breath as the two of you lay entwined, the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

Cregan didn’t move, didn’t pull away. Instead, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered your name. You closed your eyes, letting the weight of the moment settle over you, your heart still racing from the intensity of it all.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt truly warm.

The day was crisp and clear, the sky a bright blue canvas that stretched out endlessly above Winterfell. Silverwing, her silver scales shimmering in the afternoon sun, stood in the godswood, shifting her weight restlessly, her wings fluttering with barely-contained excitement. You stood beside her, hands on your hips, grinning as you watched Cregan approach, his expression a mix of wariness and resignation.

"You look like you're marching to your execution," you teased, unable to hide the amusement in your voice. Silverwing gave a low, eager rumble, her eyes fixed on Cregan as though she sensed his hesitation and found it endlessly amusing.

Cregan, on the other hand, didn’t seem to share Silverwing’s enthusiasm—or yours, for that matter. He slowed his approach, eyes narrowing at the massive dragon before him. "I thought I was done with near-death experiences for a while," he muttered, giving you a sideways glance. "But here I am, about to climb on the back of something that could roast me alive."

You chuckled, stepping closer to him and placing a hand on his chest. "Oh, don’t be such a Stark about it. Silverwing wouldn’t dream of harming you—not as long as I’m here." You flashed him a grin, though you could tell from the way his jaw tightened that he wasn’t quite convinced.

"I suppose that’s supposed to reassure me?" he asked, glancing up at Silverwing’s massive head as she tilted it curiously toward him.

"Well, it should," you said, rolling your eyes playfully. "Besides, she likes you. Remember how she likes to nudge you? If a dragon doesn’t like you, trust me, you’ll know."

Cregan swallowed hard, his eyes flicking back to Silverwing’s gleaming teeth. "Comforting."

You laughed, grabbing his hand and tugging him closer to Silverwing, whose tail flicked impatiently behind her. "Come on, brave Lord of Winterfell. It’s not every day you get to ride a dragon. You might even enjoy it."

"I highly doubt that," Cregan grumbled, though he allowed you to lead him closer.

When you reached Silverwing’s side, you placed a hand on her flank, feeling the familiar warmth of her scales beneath your palm. The dragon lowered herself slightly, making it easier for you to mount. You turned to Cregan, your smile widening at the sight of him standing there, arms crossed, clearly trying to mask his discomfort.

"Up you go," you said brightly, giving him a playful shove toward Silverwing’s side. "Ladies first."

He shot you a look that could have frozen the Wall, but with a resigned sigh, he began to clamber up the dragon’s side, his movements careful and deliberate. You followed him, slipping easily into the saddle behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist to keep both of you secure.

"You’re going to want to hold on tight," you whispered into his ear, your voice laced with mischief. "Silverwing can be...enthusiastic."

"Great," Cregan muttered, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the saddle. "Just what I needed to hear."

Silverwing, sensing the shift in your posture, gave an eager roar, her wings unfurling in preparation for takeoff. The wind stirred around you, and you felt Cregan tense beneath your arms, his muscles coiled with nervous energy.

"Here we go!" you called out, laughing as Silverwing leaped into the sky with a powerful beat of her wings.

The ground fell away beneath you in an instant, the cold wind rushing past as Silverwing soared higher and higher. Cregan let out a startled curse, gripping the saddle with both hands as if his life depended on it, while you laughed, the exhilaration of flight filling you with a wild sense of freedom.

"Relax, Cregan!" you shouted over the wind, leaning into him. "You’re not going to fall!"

"I’d rather not test that theory!" he shot back, his voice strained as Silverwing dipped suddenly, her wings cutting through the air with effortless grace.

You couldn’t help but laugh again, leaning your chin on his shoulder as the dragon steadied herself, gliding smoothly over the landscape. "See? It’s not so bad, is it?"

Cregan didn’t respond immediately, though you could feel the tension in his body slowly start to ease as the flight became less of a frantic rush and more of a smooth ride. The wind was cold but invigorating, and beneath you, Silverwing hummed contentedly, clearly enjoying the chance to stretch her wings with both of you on her back.

"Alright," Cregan finally admitted, his voice quieter now, though still laced with reluctance. "Maybe it’s not as terrifying as I thought."

You grinned, tightening your arms around him as you pressed a kiss to his cheek. "See? I told you. You’re a natural dragonrider."

"Let’s not go that far," he muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward in a smile.

For a while, you soared together in silence, the vast expanse of the North stretching out beneath you—white fields, dark forests, and the distant peaks of mountains all bathed in the pale winter light. Cregan relaxed more with each passing moment, his breath steadying, though he still gripped the saddle firmly. You could feel his heart pounding beneath your touch, but it wasn’t the frantic rhythm of fear anymore. It was something else—something closer to excitement.

After a while, you guided Silverwing back toward Winterfell, and as the dragon swooped low over the godswood once more, you couldn’t help but tease him again. "I think you might have even enjoyed that a little."

Cregan shook his head, though there was a faint laugh in his voice. "Enjoyed? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Princess. I’m still deciding if I’ll ever do this again."

You smirked as Silverwing touched down with a graceful thud, her wings folding as she lowered herself to the ground. You dismounted easily, then turned to help Cregan down, though he shot you a look as if to say he didn’t need the help.

"I’ll give you credit for bravery," you said, watching as he finally stood on solid ground again. "You didn’t scream once."

"That’s because I was too busy clinging for dear life," Cregan muttered, though his lips quirked in a smile. "But I’m alive, aren’t I? That’s something."

You laughed, stepping closer and placing a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. "You did well. Maybe you’re more suited for the sky than you thought."

He looked down at you, his expression softening as he rested his hand over yours. "Maybe. But for now, I think I’ll leave the flying to you."

You grinned, leaning up to kiss him softly. "Suit yourself. But you’re always welcome to join me."

Cregan chuckled, pulling you closer. "We’ll see about that. But if Silverwing’s happy, I suppose I’ll consider it."

Silverwing let out a soft, approving rumble behind you, and you couldn’t help but smile. "I think she likes having you around."

"Gods help me," Cregan muttered, though there was warmth in his eyes that told you he didn’t really mind.

And as the two of you stood there, with Silverwing watching over you, the cold air seemed to fade away, replaced by the warmth of your shared laughter and the fire you had ignited between you.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #cregan x you #cregan x y/n #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #cregan stark #hotd cregan #cregan x

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 8 months ago

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Between Fire and Stone

Daemon Targaryen/Strong!female

summary: anxious about her approaching union to Aemond, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen seeks comfort | word count: 2.8k~ | warnings: incest, reader is described with strong features, fingering, p in v sex, arranged marriage, Daemon being a cheeky cunt

A/N: idek what I was on to write this cos I'm not usually a Daemon girlie but here we are besties. Tysm @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for beta-ing 😘 appreciate you

The cold mist nipped at the skin around her ankles, a shiver running up her spine as she struggled through the jagged rock towards the Dragonmont. Her fingers brushed against the stark stone for balance, the other holding the lit torch to light her way before her in the darkness.

It was one of her favourite things, taking a stroll through Dragonstone in the hour of the wolf. Peaceful. Quiet. Something she could have all for herself. Away from the prying of her maidservants and the overbearing boisterous nature of her brothers. Though Jace, now a man grown, still held onto those immaturities.

Yet another thing that set her apart from her siblings.

For she, only a mere year younger than Jace, was considered a woman, ripe for marriage and bearing children, whereas the same hastiness was not pressured upon him. She knew her mother had never intended to bestow such responsibilities on her, but she understood, it was inevitable. As that time loomed ever closer, she found herself roaming her home more often, as if to savour the feeling of once being a child.

Where her brothers could seek adventure with their dragons once they were big enough to saddle, her egg had not hatched in her cradle. She would not inherit the birthright of the blood of Old Valyria, yet another judgement cast upon her that only inflated her sense of belonging at her mother's side. With her moonlit hair and pale lilac eyes, each of her children could not have looked more different.

Before the incident, there existed only one other soul who could truly fathom the depths of her solitude. No dragon. Ceaseless taunts. The notion of isolation, even amongst one’s family. Any semblance of camaraderie had been extinguished the day Lucerys took his eye. That defining moment when Aemond—her uncle—seized his birthright had marked the fracture in their familial bonds. In the aftermath, her mother, alongside her new husband Daemon, orchestrated a grand scheme to mend the shattered relations, a plan that involved her betrothal to him at an opportune moment.

Try as she might, she couldn't conjure the image of herself as his wife. The thought of residing in King's Landing under his roof refused to coalesce into a coherent vision. It remained an elusive spectre, haunting her thoughts with its intangible uncertainty.

Whispers of tradition and duty echoed in the hallowed halls of her childhood, spun by the gentle tongues of Septas who spoke of the sacred rites of marriage. Tales of Lords and Ladies, of the solemn exchange of vows, and the anticipated consummation on the wedding night. Some stories painted a picture of pleasure and intimacy, of unions founded on mutual desire and affection. Others whispered of duty, of sacrifices made for the sake of one's spouse, regardless of personal inclination.

Caught in the web of uncertainty, she pondered which version of Aemond awaited her, a tender partner or a distant lord, bound by duty and tradition. The unknown loomed before her like a shadow, casting doubt upon her heart and stirring a quiet fear within her soul. She knew not what to expect, but the uncertainty itself was enough to unsettle her, to sow the seeds of apprehension in her mind. And as the weight of anticipation hung heavy in the air, she couldn't help but wonder, which path would her marriage tread, and would she have the strength to endure whatever lay ahead?

Amidst the towering peaks of Dragonmont, she sought solace in the embrace of ancient flames and the soothing hum of Vermithor's slumber. Here, amidst the rugged terrain and the ever-watchful gaze of the dragons, she found a fleeting sense of peace.

But it was not the Bronze Fury that sang to her.

“Hen ñuhā elēnī:

Perzyssy vestretis,

Se gēlȳn irūdaks…

Ānogrose.”

She felt the rush of heat at the nape of her neck. Daemon stood straight, back facing her, his voice near-matching the hum of Vermithor’s deep exhales.

“It is late, Princess.” Unlike her, Daemon remained as he dressed during the day, shown when he turned to face her, with the self-satisfied smirk on his lips. “What troubles you?” he asked.

She tried to raise her chin, but her eyes betrayed the turmoil that stirred within.

“My fate,” she said, her careful steps drawing ever nearer. "I am to be wed to Aemond, but I fear what awaits me in that union.”

Daemon hummed, as if curiously amused.

She had known no father figure since Laenor. And though she knew sooner than her brothers the truth that lay beneath the careful picture her mother had forged, since she had been wed to Daemon, he had taken practice with his own daughters and become almost a father to her alike.

She felt his eyes sink over her once before returning to her eyes.

"Marriage is a weighty matter," he said. "But is it the marriage itself that troubles you, or something more?”

She did not miss the lilt to his voice. The one, that like his eyes had done many times before, made something squeeze in her gut. A fire burning bright. A feeling that brought her shame.

He was her mother's husband.

“I cannot say exactly,” she confessed. “Perhaps it is leaving Dragonstone. Mother and my brothers. And being alone in the capital with no face I recognise with trust.”

Daemon nodded almost indistinctly, his fingers reaching out to brush a lock of hair back over her shoulder, admiring her hair loose of its usual braids. His touch sent a shiver down her spine, a sensation both familiar and disconcerting. She fought to push aside the conflicting emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, the warmth of his touch conflicting with the knowledge of their complicated relationship.

"Leaving behind the familiar can indeed be a daunting prospect," Daemon acknowledged, his voice a velvet caress, “But fret not. Within you resides the same fire that fuels your mother's resolve. Embrace it. You are as much Targaryen as any of them.”

She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks at the intensity of his gaze, at the way he seemed to see straight through her defences. She knew she should be wary of his advances, of the way he danced on the edge of propriety with his words and his touch. But there was something undeniably alluring about the way he held her gaze, about the way he made her feel desired and understood.

"Thank you, Daemon," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your support means more to me than you know.”

Daemon's smile was a slow, seductive curve of his lips, his eyes alight with a fire that mirrored the flames of the Dragonmont.

"Ah, but my dear Princess," he replied, his voice low and husky, "you have yet to discover the true depths of my support.”

She felt her throat close up, the feeling mirroring somewhat what happened between her thighs.

What could he possibly mean?

“Do you fear it?” he asked. “The act of consummation?”

Her cheeks flushed crimson at Daemon's bold question, his words sending a jolt of both arousal and apprehension coursing through her veins.

“It… is perfectly normal, I would think,” she answered, words failing her.

"Princess," he murmured, his voice a soothing caress against her skin. "There is no shame in feeling uncertain. It is only natural to have doubts, especially when faced with such intimate matters.”

She felt he was circling her, as dragons did their targets. And felt her heart thumping in her chest.

“With Aegon, I dare say, I would join you in your uncertainty. But Aemond, on the other hand… is a different matter entirely.”

“How so?” she asked, breathing out when he disappeared out of her line of sight, his presence at her back, fingers draping past the material of her dress.

“I am afraid he may be less… forthcoming with expressing his desires,” he purred. “He may be cold, or at least that is how it may be interpreted.” Her eyes met his with bated breath as he appeared on her opposite side, closer. “He may not be so adept with the pleasures of a female body.”

She swallowed, a chill settling on her front, her body reacting thus. He remained silent, as if daring her to say what he knew was already on the tip of her tongue. So, she took the plunge. “And…you are?”

Daemon smirked smugly, and she knew she already had her answer., “What do you think?”

Her heart raced. Her mind struggled to contemplate whether she should be honest or not, for she had heard stories and rumours. She knew she was treading dangerous waters, playing with fire in the form of her mother's husband, but there was a part of her that couldn't resist the allure of his confidence, his charm, his undeniable magnetism.

"I... I suppose I never considered such matters," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at the admission.

Daemon's eyes danced with amusement as he stepped closer. "Perhaps it is time you did," he murmured, fingers trailing lightly down the curve of her spine.

Her skin vibrated with anticipation as she fought to maintain her composure in the face of his overwhelming presence. She knew she should pull away, should put an end to this dangerous game they were playing, but the lure of Daemon's charm was too strong to resist.

“Mayhaps I could demonstrate and put your worries to rest,” he suggested, crossing the imaginary but daring line seemingly without fear. “Rest assured, my experience in such matters is... extensive."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled to maintain her resolve, her body betraying her with every flutter of her lashes, every quickened breath. “But… you and Mother—”

Her lips clamped shut with the bruising of his grip in the softness of her waist, urging her back to the rocky, hard wall. Only now, when faced with the Rogue Prince, did she realise just how small she truly felt.

“Your mother is preoccupied with her own affairs," he replied, his voice dripping with a dangerous allure. "She won't concern herself with our little... indiscretion.”

The realisation sank in that she was alone with Daemon in the secluded confines of the Dragonmont, far removed from the prying eyes of the world. And yet, she still felt her lips go dry when he hung the torch and trailed his touch upon her skin where he was taking her skirts with it.

She could not hide her nerves, or the beating rush of arousal, “Bu—but… with Aemond, I must—”

The air felt warm as her skirt was rucked around her hips. She squeaked when his calloused fingers swept through her folds, ashamed to find she was affected by what he was doing to her as her slick coated them easily.

Daemon chuckled, a pleased hum in his chest that she was wet and ready, while his other hand busied with the laces of his breeches, “Sweet girl. When my dear nephew has his cock buried inside you on your wedding night, he will not know the difference.”

His words, combined with the tight circles he applied to the forbidden bud tucked between her legs, had white hot pleasure burning in her veins. Her lips were parted, but no sound came out. All she could do was look upon his pleased face with a hedonistic expression, feeling very much like they were doing something deliciously wrong but could find no reasonable excuse to cease.

“Do not look so surprised. I have seen the way you watch me. Are you not ashamed for looking upon your own mother’s husband with lust?”

The more he touched her, the more arousal he coaxed forth, the sound lewd and forbidden in the raw silence of the Draognmont. She could not answer his question without subjecting herself to further embarrassment. Even so, attempting to concentrate enough to form words as his two forefingers slid within her tight, hot walls, was near impossible. She gasped quietly, the feeling so foreign and yet not unpleasant. And like Daemon in any other scenario, while his motions were forceful, somewhat brutal, they were calculated, without effort. Like it came innately. Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, his digits buried deep inside curved towards him, stoking a fire at the hearth of her.

“Answer me.”

She nodded frantically. “Yes—I am ashamed—”

It was all she managed before the feeling began to crest, building and building as if she were climbing some great height and was about to tumble off. But she only exhaled shakily as Daemon withdrew his fingers from her fluttering, sensitive walls, using the moisture to lubricate himself with a careful caress of his manhood.

He chuckled at the wounded expression on her face. “No need for shame, Princess.”

She caught the glint of his ring as he wrung the fabric of her skirts in his fist. Her eyes widened as the head of his cock disappeared easily between her swollen folds, with no real full feeling until he pushed forward, both with hesitation and a sort of evil excitement.

Her back pressed against the jagged stone, her lips only parted to suck in air where it had left her lungs. It was a feeling she could describe very little, the sting of being stretched around him painful and yet once sheathed fully inside her, hips pushing against her own. Daemon wrapped his fingers around her fleshy thigh to tug her leg over his hip, a flash of white hot pleasure creeping up her spine. He only grunted, her slick ridges gripping him greedily without any effort on her part.

For a few moments, he stayed like that as if waiting for any complaint, but when he found none, began a steady rhythm, fingers creating crescent-moon shaped welts in her skin. He did not share in her reaction. He simply raised one corner of his lips in a pleased manner, watching her face, treating it very much as a lesson in pleasure more than anything else.

She could scarcely think with the violent push of his hips, the notch of his belt stabbing into her each time.

“My nephew does not deserve this perfect. little cunt.” He grunted from the effort. “Tell me, Princess—when he is fucking you with his narrow little prick, will you be thinking of this instead?”

Her eyes slipped shut, her head tipped back and fingers coming to her own mouth to muffle the lewd sound that threatened to come out. Her perceived embarrassment at her own enjoyment of this only seemed to motivate Daemon further, and he widened her hips with a soft nudge of his knee against her leg and groaned at the way she tightened around him.

“You liked that, didn't you?” He breathed against her face, looking briefly down between them to watch how he rooted himself inside her over and over, as if unable to believe this was really happening. “I bet he won't make you this wet. I doubt the little cunt will even know how to make you come.”

Her skirt fell from his hand as it drew down between them, and she resisted the urge to squeal when he began to apply pressure in tight, sure circles around her bud.

“You shall have to teach him those pleasures.”

Her fingers gripped his forearms tight as she climaxed, her tight, hot walls spasming around him uncontrollably. It was so utterly different to the way she had pleasured herself before. This time, the forbidden combination of Daemon stretching her open around him and the pleasure he coaxed from her with his fingers meant that this peak seemed to drain her entire body of energy. Her body feeling boneless in his hold, that if he let go, she would surely lose her balance.

A flash of fear cracked like lightning across her subconscious. Surely he did not intend to spill inside her?

He did not overstimulate her for much longer as he neared his own end. Rather, he savoured the feeling of her warmth sucking him in for just a few moments more before pulling out, stroking himself vigorously to completion, warm ropes of his spend coating her lower stomach.

In the quiet dead of night with only her laboured breathing to echo within it, she felt her eyes could not keep up with her mind as she glanced back up at him. His rapidly cooling seed began to dribble towards her thighs, swiftly covered by her skirts once more as Daemon lowered her clothing back into place. The reality of the dangerous and yet delicious sin she had committed with him began to rise into clarity.

Upon his fingers shone the damning proof of his sordid claim on her, pearly in the glow of torchlight. “What a waste. I’d have liked to see it dripping from you.

But that pleasure… I shall save for my nephew, sweet girl."

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies

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these-lovely-monsters · 3 months ago

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The Dragon's Pretty Treasure - Part 1

[NSFW | 18+]

Characters: m!dragon x f!reader

Content: kidnapping, mild dub-con, inhuman anatomy, size difference, two dicks, dp, tail action, fluids, koala bear fleshlight

(Note: part 1 is just the setup and only contains kidnapping - aforementioned cws are for the whole story)

Series complete: [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ⋆

Opening your eyes, you blink a few times, trying to adjust your vision to the darkness surrounding you. There is a faint glow that gently illuminates the space around you but everything else is mostly darkness and all you can make out are vague shapes and shadows. Looking around, you see that a small bit of light is coming from some embers in a dying fire next to you. This is definitely not your tiny studio apartment back home.

Where the hell are you?

As you sit up, you rub your eyes, groaning at the stiffness in your joints. From the aches in your muscles, you must have been asleep for a while. Looking down, you realize that you are lying on a bed of what seem to be soft furs or pelts of some kind. A cool breeze drifts in from somewhere and you shiver, realizing that you are also naked.

What the fuck happened?

But before you can try to rack your foggy brain to figure it out, a giant yellow eye the size of your head blinks open at the edge of the darkness across from you. Yelping in shock, you scramble backwards as the eye rotates to reveal a second one just as large and luminescent. Both eyes have giant slitted pupils and seem to glow in the darkness. Before you can get far, something smooth and cool wraps around your waist, holding you in place. Heart pounding in your ears, you glance down to find that it is a dark green, almost black, appendage covered in scales. Extending from the darkness, it winds around your stomach with the end coming to a tapered point near your navel. It squeezes gently, hard enough to hold you firm but not enough to hurt.

Holy shit, is it a tail of some sort?

Too terrified to move further, you hold your breath and look back up at the giant yellow orbs peering at you from the shadows. Slowly, they begin to draw closer, and you hear heavy, measured thuds echo off the walls. As the eyes approach the dying fire, a massive snout comes into view and then a head the size of a car follows. Your eyes bug as you take in the scaly surface of a face, with ridged brows and a line of spikes running in increasing size from the tip of its snout up and over the back of its head. Two large horns protrude from above its brows and curve backwards towards where you assume its shoulders would be.

When its snout is a few inches from your face, you tremble as its nostrils flare and it inhales deeply. Then it exhales with a low rumbling sound as its hot breath fans across your face, blowing strands of hair off your shoulders.

It’s…sniffing you!

You nearly jump out of your skin when a deep, inhuman voice booms through the cavern and you have to cover your ears from the sheer volume.

“You are awake.”

The voice continues to echo off the walls for a few moments and then silence settles again, apart from the monster’s deep rhythmic breaths and your pounding heart. Slowly, you lower your hands from your ears and realize, belatedly, that it hadn’t moved its mouth when it spoke.

Had it projected its voice or are you just going crazy? Probably just going crazy.

“Where…where am I?” you manage to stammer out.

“My cave,” it rumbles again, softer this time, as if it realized its voice was too loud.

Oh fuck, you are going to die here, cold and naked in this cave.

Beginning to hyperventilate, you start to struggle in the grasp of its tail.

“Please don’t eat me!” you shout.

You need to figure out a way to get out of here!

It lets out a low, chuffing sound, which must be a chuckle and says, “I don’t plan to eat you.” And before you know what’s happening, its jaws part slightly and a giant, tapered tongue slips between massive, razor sharp teeth and licks up the side of your neck.

Shit, this monster definitely wants to eat you.

“Why am I here?” you squeak, utterly terrified but trying to keep it talking in the hopes you can figure out an escape plan before it decides it’s done playing with its food.

“I wanted a pretty treasure for my horde.”

A pretty treasure?... Does he mean you?

⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ⋆

I promise there will be smut in part 2!

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

Bonus: here is a size comparison if you're wondering just how big this guy really is...

#monster fucker #terato #monster x reader #monster x lover #monster #monster boyfriend #monster x human #these lovely monsters #dragon #tlm dragon #tlm stories #monster smut #m!monster #f!reader

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voidsentprinces · 4 months ago

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Reminder: A Realm Reborn wasn't particularly about us. It was about the Eorzean Factions, it was about the Scions of the Seventh Dawn and their interactions with and thwarting Gaius and the XIVth Legion. We were just a useful champion slowly growing to fame but not truly a Warrior of Light until literally the prelude to the Castrum raiding mission.

The Parting of Glass wasn't about us either. It was, once again, about the world. And how it had begun changing after Gaius's fall and the brief period of peace away from Garlemald's Shadow. About Alphinaud beginning his arc of growth with hubris and the creation the Crystal Braves and what it might of looked like IF the Scion's good nature was lent to anyone and everyone. And thus opening itself up to the very corruption Minfilia feared to move away from the Waking Sands and to the Rising Stones in the first place.

Heavensward isn't about us. It is about Alphinaud's continue growth, learning of Ishgard's past and history. Hubris, arrogance and narrow viewing lead Alphinaud to steps of the Foundation, it has lead Estinien astray and made Ysayle believe she is a messiah incarnate. And through the journey, each of them grow as they learn the terrible truth about the Dragonsong War. Estinien in particular has his eyes opened and no longer simply seeks revenge on Nidhogg but to get to the bottom of it all. So no other shepherd's son has to live as he has. Ysayle learns she is a shade and a faux Shiva not truly Hraesvelgr's beloved or even in the same category as her. She learns swallow such delusions and embrace what Saint Shiva stood for in its entirety. Which means leaning to lay the road for peace between Ishgard and the Dragons and opening a path to this by sacrificing herself for those she loved so dearly. Alphinaud learns from all of this and more and is humbled by the duty of a knight, the fervor of a dragoon, the sacrifice of a saint, and the courage of his companions and of Sharlayan's arrogance from Master Matoya. To put others before himself and allow others to support him when he falls.

The Far Edge of Fate isn't about us. It was about how Ishgard carries on after Thordan and the Heavens Ward are shown to be the monsters they are. How the remnants of the church, the knights of Ishgard, and the civilian population react to the realization with rejection. How facing off against Nidhogg possessing Estinien, the Warriors of Darkness, and the machinations of Ilberd force Eorzea and Ishgard to look inward and know truly where they should go from there. To ignore the easier road and take the higher path no matter the strife and hardship it provides them. Because when they reach the otherside they would be better for it. Finding that courage, after five years of procrastinating and hemming and hawing, the Eorzean Alliance finally begin to mobilize to free Ala Mhigo from Garlemald and perhaps take on the Empire itself.

Stormblood isn't about us. It is about Doma and Ala Mhigo fighting for the survival of their people and cultures. Facing the parts of their society that were spurned and used as tools of hatred against their principles. That provided the necessary cracks required for Garlemald to break them down and oppress them in the first place. And how reforging under those values and those long histories of violence can make a new path and come to terms to over throw the tyrants who fed on their weakened states and make a strong unity still.

A Requiem of Heroes wasn't about us, it was about the world facing down the barrel of war with Garlemald. And uncovering its origins, its founding father was an Ascian. How Varis is forced to face down the lie as Elidibus wears the skin of his son and the great grandfather he and other Garleans were taught was a walking god in all but name was a sham and a daemon bent on causing more pain and suffering than mankind ever deserved. How the effigies of hate and pain choose to use their fervor to help their people instead of turning against them once more. How every person can change and be given a second chance. How that second chance is what that person requires or if they are pushed the wrong direction, can caused tragedy to unfold. And lastly, it is about our companions, slowly. One by one. Being dragged to the unknown. The story slowly taking away the players on the stage until finally...

Shadowbringers was about us. It was about how we were instrumental to the world so much that it lost nearly all hope in another timeline. How a group of your fondest friends began and how your comrade's furthest decendents acting on the hope of your legend and stories. To provide a plan of action and lead to happier world. How even when everything seems lost and gone and your purpose seems to turned everything around you into twisted monstrosities. That you can bring the night and wait in comfort for a dawn to bring better days. And the tenacity of your aid providing a world on the brink, the love, the compassion, the understanding, the strength, and the will to stand up to a flood of destruction and spit fate in the eye. Even it costs them everything, they keep fighting until they can see a brighter tomorrow.

Death unto Dawn was about what the tomorrow brings. How it could be another fight but to find what is WORTH fighting for. The memories of those you fight and lived amongst, old studies and things of the past being made to provide the answer to the future, making right wrongs even against those you had wronged unfairly, and to gather together and keep each other safe. You are not alone out here. There are those who will help you along to a brighter future.

Endwalker was about you and yours. About how everyone reacts to an uncertain future in different manners. How some would make ready to flee at the approaching storm, while others would fight, and others might even push you further to the edge. But even when all is lost, call upon the memory of happier times to light the way with hearts aligned shining brilliantly against despair and finding your place amongst those memories.

Growing Light was about us teaching another to hear, feel, and think and experience the world seemingly gone. That everything needn't be give or take. It can be a charitable, warmer place if we make it. It can be kinder and even in the face of unrelenting and undying destruction. Hope will spit out a tooth and stand up once more.

I say all of this because, I've seen people mad that Dawntrail is leaning hard about being about Wuk Lamat and others. To which I say so what if Dawntrail is about Wuk Lamat and Koana? So what if its not about us? We've had four story lines about us. Now we must impart what we've learned to the future as they face similar and sometimes overwhelming odds. To stand tall against the onslaught and make their own choices, their own way to bring a smile to all they hold dear. How family needn't be blood related, they can just be a group who sit down at the table at the end of the day. And speak, laugh, cry, and love. Unto this trail to dawn we shall light way for the future of our world and everything this new dawn brings is worth it.

#{ ramblings of the void }

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d1stalker · 3 months ago

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Embers of Connection [Logan Howlett]

Summary: You're not like him. In fact, you're not like any of them. Maybe that's why he doesn't trust you-- why he doesn't want to trust you. But, time and time again, you prove him wrong.

Warnings: none really. lowkey enemies to friends to lovers.... kind of slow burn. fem!reader/afab!reader - maybe some grammatical errors

WC: 6.3k - MASTERLIST

The mansion was quiet as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, casting long shadows across the lawn. Inside, the halls of the Xavier Institute were just beginning to stir, the students slowly waking to another day of training, learning, and discovery. But in a room far removed from the rest of the school, a figure sat alone, her eyes fixed on the window, lost in memories of a past long gone.

You were not a mutant, at least not in the way the students at the school understood the term. You came from a lineage so ancient, so steeped in myth and legend, that even the oldest books could not fully capture the truth of your people—a race of beings who walked the earth with the grace and power of dragons, feared and revered in equal measure.

But that was long ago, before the rise of mutants, before the world had changed. Your people had been hunted, exterminated by those who feared the strength you carried within your veins. You had been just a child when it happened, too young to understand why your world was being torn apart. One of them, moved by pity or perhaps some deeper sense of guilt, had spared your life, hiding you away until the danger had passed.

You had wandered for years, alone and afraid, never staying in one place for too long. You learned how to conceal your wings, hide your sharp nails, and conceal your powers. The world had changed, and you had no place in it, no home to return to. It was by chance that you crossed paths with Charles Xavier, a man of immense power and wisdom, who saw in you not just a relic of a forgotten time, but a soul in need of protection and understanding. He had taken you in, offered you a place in his school, not as a student but as something else—something he himself could not fully define.

And so you stayed, a silent observer in a world that was not yours, learning from the shadows, watching as the young mutants trained and grew, honing their powers under Charles’ guidance. You were an enigma to them, a being from another time, another world. Some were curious, others wary, but none dared to challenge you.

Until Logan arrived.

You sensed his presence before you saw him, a raw, untamed energy that crackled through the air like a storm on the horizon. The students whispered about him, their voices hushed with a mixture of awe and fear. The Wolverine, they called him—a man who had seen more battles than he could count, whose past was as blood-soaked as it was mysterious.

You were in the garden when he first laid eyes on you. He was alone, his expression dark and brooding as he walked across the grounds, clearly uncomfortable in this place of peace and learning. His gaze swept over the students, then landed on you, standing apart from the others, your wings folded close to your back, your scales glinting in the morning light.

His eyes narrowed, and you could feel the weight of his scrutiny, the suspicion that curled like a shadow behind those intense, feral eyes. He approached, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You’re not a mutant,” he said, more of a statement than a question.

You met his gaze, unflinching. “No, I’m not.”

“Then what are you?” There was no warmth in his tone, only a cold curiosity.

“A survivor,” you replied steadily, though your heart beat faster at the memory of what you had survived. “My people were hunted to extinction long before you were born.”

Logan’s expression hardened, and he took a step closer, his stance challenging.

“So why are you here? What do you want?”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him with the same intensity he gave you. “I could ask you the same thing. But I’m here because Charles offered me a place, a sanctuary. He’s curious about what I am… and he believes I need protection.”

“Protection from what?” Logan’s tone was edged with skepticism, as if he didn’t believe you were a threat to anything or anyone.

“From the world,” you answered simply. “And perhaps… from myself.”

He scoffed, the sound harsh and dismissive. “You don’t know what it’s like, being a mutant. You’re just hiding here, playing along, pretending to understand.”

You bristled at his words, your wings twitching with the urge to unfurl, to show him just how much power you held within you. But you held back, staying calm.

“And you don’t know what it’s like to be the last of your kind, to watch everything you’ve ever known be destroyed. We all have our battles. Just because mine are different doesn’t mean they’re any less real.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to find the lie in your words. But there was none to be found, and that seemed to unsettle him more than anything.

“Just stay out of my way,” he growled, turning sharply and walking away without waiting for a response.

You watched him go, a mixture of anger and sadness swirling in your chest. You had known the moment you met him that Logan would be a challenge, a force of nature that would not be easily swayed or understood. But you hadn’t expected the sting of his words, the way they cut deep into the wounds you had thought long healed.

Over the next few months, you and Logan avoided each other as much as possible. He made it clear he didn’t trust you, and you made it equally clear you didn’t care for his attitude. The students quickly picked up on the tension between you, giving you both a wide berth whenever you were in the same room.

But Charles Xavier, ever the strategist, saw something neither of you did—a potential for growth, for understanding, if only you were forced to confront each other. So, when a mission came up that required both your skills, he sent you out together, despite your protests.

The mission was simple in theory—retrieve an artifact from a group of rogue mutants who had stolen it. But from the moment you and Logan set foot in the field, it was clear that working together was not going to be easy.

Logan, used to working alone, resisted your attempts to coordinate, charging ahead without a plan and nearly jeopardizing the mission in the process. You, trained in patience and strategy, found his reckless approach infuriating, and the two of you clashed at every turn.

The mission was ultimately successful, but it came at a cost—your mutual respect for each other (well, whatever had existed of it to begin with). The animosity between you only deepened, cementing your status as strangers within the walls of the school.

---

Enveloped in the forest's ancient embrace, you walked among towering trees that stood like silent sentinels. Their gnarled branches wove together, forming a dense canopy that swallowed most of the light. Cool, damp air hung heavy with the earthy scent of moss and decaying leaves. Each step sank into the soft, spongy ground, the stillness occasionally interrupted by the rustle of leaves or the distant call of a bird.

You moved with purpose, your eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger. Logan walked a few paces behind you, his expression as unreadable as ever. Charles had sent the two of you on this mission with little more than a vague explanation, and the tension between you had only grown as you ventured deeper into the wilderness.

“You sure this is the right way?” Logan’s voice broke the silence, gruff and tinged with impatience.

You didn’t bother turning to face him. “I’m sure.”

He let out a low grunt, clearly not satisfied with your answer. “I still don’t get why Xavier sent me with you. Seems like you could’ve handled this on your own.”

You bit back a retort, knowing that engaging in another argument wouldn’t get you anywhere. “Maybe he thought you could learn something.”

“Learn what?” Logan scoffed. “How to wander aimlessly in the middle of nowhere?”

You stopped abruptly, spinning around to face him. “You’re here because Charles thinks you need to understand what I’m dealing with. This isn’t just another mission, Logan. It’s personal.”

His gaze hardened, but there was a flicker of something else—something softer—beneath the surface. “And what exactly are you dealing with?”

You hesitated, unsure how much you wanted to reveal. The memories of your past were painful, buried deep for a reason. But you knew that if you were going to work together, he needed to know.

“There’s an ancient temple hidden in this forest,” you began, “It’s said to hold a clue—something that could lead me to the mutants who destroyed my people. I’ve been searching for answers for years, and this is the closest I’ve ever come.”

“And you think finding this clue will give you what you need?”

You nodded, the weight of your words pressing down on you. “I have to believe that it will. My people were wiped out—hunted down and killed because of what we were. I’m the last of my kind, and I need to know why.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze locked on yours. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep and hoarse, almost hesitant. “I know what it’s like to lose everything. To have your whole world ripped away from you. But revenge… it doesn’t bring peace.”

“This isn’t about revenge,” you said firmly, though part of you knew it wasn’t entirely true. “It’s about closure. About understanding.”

Logan didn’t respond, but the look in his eyes told you he understood more than he was letting on. He turned away, resuming his trek through the forest, and you followed, the tension between you easing slightly.

The journey was long and arduous, the dense undergrowth making progress slow. The further you went, the darker the forest became, the ancient trees blocking out the sun entirely. It was as if the forest itself was warning you to turn back, but you pressed on, driven by the need to find the temple.

Finally, after what felt like hours, you reached a clearing. In the center stood the temple, its stone walls covered in vines and moss, its entrance a dark, gaping maw that seemed to swallow all light. The air around it was thick with an ominous energy, as if the very ground was infused with the memories of the past.

“This is it,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Logan.

He nodded, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the temple. “You sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

With that, you stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the temple. The air inside was cool and damp, the stone walls slick with moisture. The only light came from the narrow beams of sunlight that managed to filter through cracks in the ceiling, casting long shadows across the floor.

The deeper you went, the more the oppressive feeling grew. You could feel it in your bones, a sense of foreboding that made your skin crawl. But you didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, even as the darkness closed in around you.

Finally, you reached the heart of the temple. In the center of the chamber stood an ancient altar, covered in strange markings that seemed to pulse with a faint, eerie aura. But what caught your attention was the object lying on the altar—a small, intricately carved stone, glowing with a soft, ethereal light. You found yourself moving towards it subconsciously, almost in a trance.

Logan hung back, his senses on high alert. “Be careful. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.”

You nodded, reaching out to take the stone. The moment your fingers touched it, a surge of energy shot through you, and you gasped, the memories flooding back in a rush.

You saw your people, the Draconic, living in harmony with nature, their wings glinting in the sunlight, their scales shimmering like jewels. But then came them, their faces twisted with fear and hatred, their powers unleashed in a torrent of destruction. You saw the fires, heard the screams, felt the pain of loss as your world crumbled around you.

And you saw them—the creatures who led the charge, who ordered the slaughter. Their faces were burned into your memory, and now, thanks to the stone, you had the knowledge you needed to track them down.

But your moment of revelation was short-lived. As you turned to show Logan the stone, you noticed something else—a series of dark shapes lying dormant against the walls of the chamber. Your breath caught in your throat as you realized what they were.

Dozens, hundreds of them, the ones responsible. Their bodies encased in some sort of stasis, their forms twisted and unnatural. These were the ones who had destroyed your people, the ones who had brought death and destruction to your world. And now they were here, waiting.

“We need to leave. Now,” you whispered urgently, your heart pounding in your chest.

Logan’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the sleeping mutants. “Agreed. Let’s get out of here before they wake up.”

You moved quickly, retracing your steps toward the entrance. But as you passed one of the mutants, Logan accidentally brushed against it, his claws scraping against the stone. The sound echoed through the chamber, and you froze, your heart skipping a beat.

The creatures began to stir, their eyes snapping open, glowing with an unnatural light. Groans and snarls filled the air as the creatures awoke. Panic surged through you, the sight of the mutants awakening bringing up old, buried fears. You didn’t need to be told twice. You bolted for the entrance, Logan close behind, but the mutants were faster, their rage propelling them forward.

“Go!” Logan urged, grabbing your arm as the enemies began to move toward you.

But, in a effort to delay their advances, you had an idea. A surge of primal instinct took over, and you felt a transformation deep within you. Your eyes flashed, glowing with a fierce, emerald shade as they narrowed into slitted dragon-like orbs.

With a deep breath, you summoned the power of your ancestors. Flames erupted from your mouth, a torrent of blazing fire that swept across the chamber. The first wave of predators got caught in the flames, their forms writhing in the intense heat. The ancient stone walls glowed with the reflected light, casting long, flickering shadows. Now was your only opportunity for escape.

You unfurled your wings, the leathery membranes catching the air as you leaped into flight, grabbing Logan’s arm and dragging him with you. The temple walls blurred past as you flew through the corridors, the remaining mutants hot on your trail.

“Hang on!” you shouted, your voice barely audible over the rush of wind.

Logan didn’t respond, his focus entirely on the creatures chasing you. They were relentless, their fury palpable as they closed in, their powers crackling in the air around them. Logan clung to you, feeling a mix of awe and frustration. The cool wind whipped around but inside, he felt the sting of helplessness. He had always prided himself on his physical prowess, his ability to fight, to survive. Yet here he was, carried like a child by someone he had barely trusted.

Whatever these predators were, they were fast in their pursuit. However, you were faster. You burst out of the temple and into the open air, your wings propelling you forward with all the strength you could muster. They followed, but they were no match for your speed.

You swooped low, diving into the dense forest below, weaving through the trees with precision. Logan felt his his claws digging into your scales, but you barely noticed, your focus entirely on evading the threat. Watching the forest shrink beneath him, he felt a deep sense of inadequacy. He had been the one to get them into this mess, and now, instead of being the hero or the savior, he was reduced to a mere passenger. The raw power you displayed was breathtaking, but it also highlighted just how little he had known about you.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you lost them. You landed in a small clearing, breathing heavily, your wings trembling from the exertion. Logan released his grip, dropping to the ground beside you, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of what had just happened settling over you. The danger had passed, but the tension remained, a lingering reminder of how close you had come to disaster.

Logan was the first to break the silence. “You saved my ass back there.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “You would’ve done the same.”

He nodded, his gaze meeting yours. “Maybe. But I didn’t know you could do all that. The wings, the speed… the power. You’re a hell of a lot stronger than I thought.”

You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “I’m just trying to survive.”

“You’re more than that,” he said quietly. “You’re a fighter. And I… I respect that.”

The tension between you shifted, the animosity that had defined your relationship beginning to melt away. You saw Logan in a new light, not just as a stubborn, solitary warrior, but as someone who understood pain and loss, someone who had his own demons to face. And as he stared at you, he caught a glimpse of the fierce determination that drove you. In that look, he saw not just a fellow X-Men but a formidable warrior with her own battles and her own story. He understood now that you were more than he had given you credit for.

“Thanks,” you said softly, “For helping me. For trusting me.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “We’re a team now, right? So let’s do this together.”

And in that moment, something shifted between you. It wasn’t quite friendship, but it was a start—an understanding, a shared sense of purpose. You smiled.

---

A few days later you and Logan find yourselves on the balcony of the mansion, taking in the peaceful surroundings. Logan leans against the wooden railing, his eyes lost in the horizon.

“Never really get used to these quiet times, do you?” Logan mutters, taking a drag from his cigar.

You sit beside him, your posture relaxed but alert. “It’s a stark change from the chaos, that’s for sure. But I guess we need these moments to recharge.”

Logan exhales a plume of smoke, glancing over at you. “Recharge, huh? I guess you really did a number back there. Flying us out, unleashing fire… It made me rethink a lot of things.”

You raise an eyebrow, curious. “Oh? What are you thinking now?”

He shifts, his expression thoughtful. “I thought you were just another oddity at the school. But seeing you in action… You’ve got a lot more going on than I realized. There’s a strength there I didn’t see before.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. “Thanks. It means a lot to hear that from you.”

Logan shrugs, a faint grin on his face. “I guess we both have our surprises.”

You laugh lightly. “Seems like it. I’ve seen a different side of you too. You’re not just the gruff loner I thought you were.”

Logan’s eyes soften. “Yeah, well, I suppose I’ve got my own stuff to work through. You’re not the only one with a past.”

“You’re right,” you say, your tone gentle. “We all carry our burdens.”

A comfortable silence settles over the two of you, the evening’s calm settling in. Logan reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, crumpled piece of paper. He unfolds it carefully, revealing a sketch of the ancient temple you explored. It captures the essence of the place—its grandeur and hidden menace.

“I drew this after our mission,” Logan says, offering it to you. “Thought you might like it.”

You accept the sketch, your fingers tracing the lines. “It’s really good. Thank you. No one’s ever taken the time to understand the significance of these places to me before.”

Logan chuckles, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I guess we’re not so different after all. We’ve both got our own battles”

“Yeah. And we’re fighting them together now.”

Logan’s grin widens slightly. “Let’s try not to make a habit of almost getting killed, though.”

---

Realizing the potential he saw in you and Logan wasn’t a hoax, Charles assigned you to more missions together, hoping to strengthen the bond between you and harness your combined skills. Each mission brought its own challenges, but the respect and understanding you had developed for one another made you an unstoppable duo.

There was a palpable shift in the air during these joint ventures. Logan’s gruff exterior softened around you, and his trust in your abilities grew. You, in turn, found yourself relying on his raw strength and experience more than you ever expected. The missions, though often intense, became a testament to your growing synergy.

One day, however, Charles decided to send Logan on a mission without you. The decision came with good intentions—Logan needed to work independently to regain his confidence and show that he could handle situations on his own. He was sent to investigate a lead on a dangerous group of mutants that had surfaced. It should’ve been routine. In and out, minimal resistance, standard extraction. But nothing about your life ever goes according to plan, and this time is no exception.

The distress call came through late at night, jarring you awake from a restless sleep. The voice on the other end was strained, panicked. Logan’s voice. You had never heard him like that before.

“They got me,” he had said, the roughness in his voice edged with something you hadn’t heard from him before—fear. “Don’t know who they are, but they’re… strong. Can’t fight ’em off.”

The line went dead before you could respond, leaving you wide-eyed and breathless in the darkness.

Now, standing on the deck of a small boat cutting through choppy waters, you replay those words in your mind, over and over. The coordinates he managed to send you led to a remote island, far off any known maps—a place of whispers and legends, rumored to be inhabited by creatures of immense power and terrifying abilities. Mutants, yes, but something else too. Something different.

Cyclops-like mutants. You remember the stories from the older X-Men, of a time when creatures with a single, glowing eye roamed the earth. You had been too busy mourning the loss of your people to be aware of what else was going on around the world. They had been driven to extinction, or so everyone thought. But it seems that, just like the ones who destroyed your kind, they had simply been lying in wait.

You glance at the island now coming into view, its rocky cliffs rising sharply from the water, shrouded in mist. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as you sense the power emanating from the place, the dark, ancient energy that pulses like a heartbeat beneath the surface.

There’s no turning back. You tighten your grip on the wheel, the wind whipping through your hair as you steer the boat toward a small, concealed cove. It’s time to see just how far your powers can take you.

You drop anchor in the shallows, the boat rocking gently as you strip down to your tactical suit. The fabric clings to your body, designed to be lightweight and flexible, perfect for what you’re about to do. With a deep breath, you dive into the water, feeling the cool embrace of the ocean as you slip beneath the surface.

As soon as you’re fully submerged, the change begins. Your skin hardens, taking on a faint shimmer as it transforms into scales. Your fingers and toes elongate, webbing forming between them, allowing you to cut through the water with incredible speed. Your vision sharpens, the murky depths of the ocean becoming clear as day.

You swim toward the island, your movements silent and fluid, a predator in your own right. The water is your domain, and you move through it with ease, your body perfectly adapted to the environment. You can feel the power coursing through your veins, the ancient, draconic energy that makes you who you are. It’s exhilarating, but you keep it in check, focusing on the task at hand.

The cove is narrow, hidden by jagged rocks that would tear apart any normal vessel. But you slip through them effortlessly, the scales of your skin providing protection against the sharp edges. You surface silently, peering over the edge of the rocks to get a better look at the island’s interior.

It’s as eerie as you imagined, a landscape of twisted trees and dark shadows, the air thick with the scent of decay. And there, in the center of it all, is a massive stone fortress, old and crumbling, yet still formidable. It’s clear that the cyclops mutants have made this place their home, and it’s equally clear that Logan is being held inside.

Your heart clenches at the thought of him, trapped and possibly tortured, and you have to force yourself to remain calm. Logan is tough—one of the toughest people you know—but even he has his limits. You have to reach him before those limits are tested too far.

With a final deep breath, you haul yourself out of the water, your body instantly adapting to the new environment. Your skin returns to its normal state, the webbing between your fingers and toes retracting as you prepare to move on land. You move quickly, keeping to the shadows as you approach the fortress.

The entrance is heavily guarded, as you expected. Two massive cyclops mutants stand watch, their single glowing eyes scanning the area with unnerving precision. You study them for a moment, assessing their strengths and weaknesses. They’re strong, undoubtedly, but you have the advantage of surprise and agility. You crouch low, waiting for the right moment. When one of the guards shifts slightly, turning his attention away from the entrance for just a second, you make your move. In a blur of motion, you spring forward, your claws extending as you strike. The first guard doesn’t even have time to react before your claws rip through his throat, silencing him instantly.

The second guard is more alert, swinging a massive fist toward you, but you’re already moving, ducking beneath his arm and driving your claws into his chest. His eye widens in shock before the light fades, and he collapses to the ground with a heavy thud.

You don’t waste any time, slipping inside the fortress before anyone else can notice. The interior is as dark and foreboding as the exterior, with narrow, twisting corridors that seem to go on forever. You move silently, your senses on high alert as you navigate the labyrinth of stone and shadow.

You find Logan in the deepest part of the fortress, chained to a wall in a small, dimly lit cell. He looks battered but not broken, his eyes narrowing in defiance as he glares at the door, ready to fight anyone who comes through it. But when he sees you, his expression softens, a mixture of relief and concern flickering in his gaze.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles.

“Would’ve been here sooner if you hadn’t let yourself get caught,” you retort, already working on the chains that bind him.

He snorts. “Didn’t exactly have a choice. These bastards are stronger than they look.”

You nod, your expression serious as you focus on freeing him. “I know. But we’ll figure a way out. Together.”

Logan’s chains fall to the ground with a heavy clatter, and he flexes his wrists, testing his strength. “Together? Sounds good to me.”

You help him to his feet, steadying him as he takes a moment to regain his balance. He’s clearly been through hell, but he’s still standing, still fighting. It’s one of the things you’ve always admired about him, even when you couldn’t stand his attitude.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he mutters, his voice low and dangerous.

You nod, but before you can move, a deep rumbling sound fills the air, the walls vibrating with the force of it. The ground beneath your feet trembles, and you realize with a sinking feeling that the cyclops mutants know you’re here.

“Time to go,” you say urgently, grabbing Logan’s arm and pulling him toward the exit.

The two of you move quickly, navigating the twisting corridors with practiced ease. But it’s not long before the mutants catch up to you, their heavy footsteps echoing through the fortress as they close in. You can hear their growls, low and menacing, and you know you’re in for a fight.

Logan doesn’t need any encouragement. He’s already on the prowl, his claws extended as he charges toward the nearest mutant. The two of you fight side by side, a lethal combination of strength and raw power. Logan’s claws tear through flesh and bone with brutal efficiency, while you use your claws and wings to strike with precision and speed.

But the cyclops mutants are relentless, their sheer size and strength making them formidable opponents. For every one you take down, two more seem to take their place. The battle is intense, the air filled with the sound of clashing steel and guttural roars.

In the midst of the chaos, one of the mutants lands a heavy blow to Logan’s side, sending him crashing into the wall with a sickening thud. Your heart lurches as you see him go down, and something inside you snaps. A fierce, draconic roar escapes your lips as your wings unfurl, their scales gleaming in the dim light. Your body shifts, your scales hardening as your claws grow longer and sharper.

You launch yourself at the mutants with a ferocity you’ve never felt before, your claws tearing through their defenses like paper. Your wings whip through the air, knocking them off balance, while your scales protect you from their attacks. It’s a dance of death, a whirlwind of power and accuracy that leaves the mutants reeling.

From his place on the ground, Logan watches as you take down the last of the cyclops mutants, your body glowing with the aftereffects of your transformation. You stand amidst the carnage, your chest heaving with exertion, but there’s a fire in your eyes that hasn’t been there before—a fire that burns with a fierce determination to protect the man you care about.

“Damn,” Logan mutters as he pushes himself to his feet, wincing slightly. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

You can’t help but smile, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. “What if you already are on my bad side?” you tease, though there’s no real bite to your words.

He chuckles, the sound low and rough. “Fair enough.”

With the mutants defeated, you and Logan make your way back through the fortress, the oppressive atmosphere beginning to lift with each step you take. As you reach the outer wall, you glance up at the sky, the mist beginning to clear as dawn approaches. You can see the small boat you came in anchored in the cove, waiting to take you both to safety. Logan follows your gaze, then looks back at you, his expression unreadable.

“Ready to get out of here?” you ask, your voice low as you take a step closer to him.

He nods, his eyes softening as he looks at you. “More than ready.”

Without another word, you extend your wings, the powerful muscles flexing as they unfurl to their full span. Logan watches you with admiration and something else, something deeper that he’s not ready to voice just yet. You wrap your arms around his waist, and with a powerful beat of your wings, you lift off the ground, carrying him into the air.

The flight back to the cove is short, but it’s enough time for you to feel the tension in Logan’s body start to ease as the wind rushes past. You land gracefully on the deck of the boat, setting Logan down gently before retracting your wings. He lingers for a moment, his hands still on your shoulders, as if reluctant to let go.

“Thanks for the save… Again” he murmurs.

“Anytime,” you reply, your heart skipping a beat at the closeness between you. You pull away slightly, not wanting to dwell on the feeling too much, and move to untie the boat from the anchor.

Logan takes a seat on the bench, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. You’re aware of his gaze as you work, but you try to focus on the task at hand. The sooner you get back to the school, the sooner you can both recover from this ordeal.

The boat cuts through the water smoothly, and the silence between you is comfortable, the need for words unnecessary. Logan leans back, closing his eyes as he lets the sun warm his face. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, taking in the lines of his face, the slight smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

You’re almost back at the mainland when Logan finally breaks the silence. “You know,” he says, his voice deep and filled with thought, “I’ve been through a lot in my life. Seen a lot, done a lot. But I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

Your hands still on the wheel, and you turn to face him fully, your heart beating a little faster.

“What do you mean?”

He opens his eyes and looks at you, his gaze steady and unwavering. “You’re strong, tougher than anyone I’ve ever known. But it’s more than that. You… you don’t give up on people, even when they don’t deserve it. Even when they’re as messed up as me.”

“Logan,” you start, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“Let me finish,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re always there, always fighting, and I… I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for that. For everything you’ve done, not just today, but since the day we met.”

You’re at a loss for words, the sincerity in his voice taking you by surprise. Logan isn’t the type to open up easily, to admit to needing anyone. But here he is, doing just that, and it makes your chest tighten with emotion.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you finally manage to say, “I did what anyone else would’ve done.”

He gives you a look, one that says he doesn’t believe that for a second. “No, you didn’t. You did what you do best. You fought for me. And I think… I think it’s time I stop fighting against this.”

“Against what?” you ask, though you have a feeling you already know.

Logan takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself for what he’s about to say. “Against what I feel for you. Against this… connection between us. I’ve been pushing it away, trying to ignore it, but I can’t do that anymore.”

Your breath catches in your throat as his words sink in. You’ve felt it too, the pull between you and Logan, the way your hearts seem to beat in sync when you’re together. But you never thought he felt the same way, never dared to hope that he could see you as more than just a teammate.

“Logan, I…” You struggle to find the right words, the ones that will convey everything you’re feeling.

“I feel it too. I have for a long time. Since the temple. But I was scared. Scared that it would ruin what we have, that it would make things complicated.”

“Things are already complicated,” he says with a wry smile, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

You nod, your heart swelling with a mixture of hope and apprehension. The boat slowly comes to a stop upon the reaching the shore, but you don’t make a move to get out. “So… what do we do now?”

Logan reaches out, taking your hand in his, the roughness of his skin a comforting contrast to the softness of the moment. “We see where this goes. And if it gets too complicated, we deal with it together. Like we always do.”

Logan’s eyes search yours, his gaze tender and filled with unspoken promise. Slowly, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, hesitant kiss. It’s a gentle touch, a careful exploration of the emotions that have been building between you.

You respond with equal tenderness, your hand still in his as the kiss deepens. The kiss is more than just a physical act; it’s a melding of hearts, a silent declaration of the feelings you’ve both been holding back.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathless, a shared smile lighting up your faces, and for the first time in a long time, the future seems less daunting.

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A/N: Thanks for reading! I've been lurking for so long and have finally decided to start writing again. I think I gotta write smut or something after this - it was sooo dramatic and for what LOL.

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