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astrxq · 23 hours ago

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Stage Light, Palace Light .I

jacaerys velaryon x theatre!reader

words: 23.6k (… i’m so sorry)

notes: tumblr won’t let me post this as a full fic so i’m dividing in half… though i think that kind of takes away from the whole thing, it’s the only way for me to post it :(( i hope the length doesn’t scare you away 😭

content!!: jacaerys secretly attends a theater in town, disguised as a commoner. captivated by a fearless and enchanting penniless actress, he asks for a private reading of one of her plays for a chance to see her again. — luke is alive in this, notttt following canon events obviously.

both parts will be posted simultaneously!! so you don’t have to wait for me to upload it if you want to read it :) — part 2 is tagged at the end of this post.

The halls of Dragonstone were eerily silent under the pale glow of the moon. Jacaerys paced his chamber, restless energy coursing through him. The heavy burden of duty weighed on his shoulders, suffocating in the castle’s confines. It wasn’t the demands of war or the pressures of ruling that plagued him tonight – it was a hunger for freedom, for something outside the expectations of a prince.

Draping a plain cloak over his shoulders, he slipped out unnoticed. Jacaerys had memorized the guard rotations months ago, making his escape through the servant's entrance as natural as breathing. The rough-spun wool of his cloak scratched against his neck – a far cry from the silks he was accustomed to, but that was precisely the point.

The cobblestone streets of the port city sprawled before him, a maze of possibilities. The salt-laden breeze carried the lingering scents of the day's activities – fish from the docks, fresh bread from late-working bakeries, and something sweeter, more enticing: his own freedom. Jacaerys pulled his hood lower, savoring the anonymity that darkness provided.

He wandered without purpose at first, letting his feet carry him away from the imposing silhouette of Dragonstone that loomed behind him. The wealthy merchant districts near the castle gradually gave way to more modest neighborhoods, where the buildings pressed closer together and the streets grew narrower. Here, despite the late hour, life still stirred.

The sound reached him first – laughter, music, and the unmistakable buzz of a crowd. Following the noise, he found himself in what appeared to be the city's entertainment district. Lanterns strung between buildings cast pools of warm light, and the streets were alive with people moving between taverns and various establishments.

But it was a different sort of building that caught his attention. Smaller than the grand playhouses he was used to, this theater had a weathered wooden facade that spoke of history and character. A hand-painted sign announced tonight's performance, people were filling inside, their faces bright with anticipation.

Jacaerys hesitated at the entrance. He'd attended countless performances in his life, but always from private boxes, always surrounded by the trappings of royalty. This... this was different. Through the open doors, he could see simple wooden benches, packed close together. The air was thick with the smell of tallow candles and humanity.

"Coming in, lad?" A gruff voice startled him from his contemplation. An older man was collecting coins at the door, his weathered face kind despite his rough appearance. "Last few seats available, but you'll need to hurry."

Jacaerys fumbled with the copper pieces in his pocket – another detail of his disguise, carefully planned. The coins felt foreign in his hands; he was more used to others handling such transactions. "Yes, I... thank you."

Inside, the theater was intimate in a way the royal playhouse never was. The ceiling hung low, and the stage was barely elevated above the floor, everything was made of wood. Jacaerys found a spot near the back, where shadows gathered in the corners. From here, he could observe everything while remaining relatively hidden.

The audience around him was different from what he was used to – merchants still in their work clothes, sailors with salt-stained boots, young couples pressed close together on the narrow benches. They chatted among themselves with an easy familiarity that suggested many were regular patrons. It was crowded enough to fill the small establishment.

As the lanterns dimmed and the crowd hushed, Jacaerys felt something shift inside him. Here, in this modest theater with its creaking floorboards and flickering lights, he was just another face in the crowd. No one cared about his lineage or his responsibilities. For these few precious hours, he could simply... be.

The curtain hadn't yet risen when he heard your voice for the first time.

You were berating someone backstage, your words carrying clearly through the thin partition. "If you've lost the prop dagger again, Thomas, I swear by all the gods..." There was laughter in your tone despite the scolding, and something about it made Jacaerys lean forward slightly.

A ripple of anticipatory chuckles went through the audience – clearly, this was not an unusual occurrence. The woman next to Jacaerys noticed his confusion and leaned over to whisper, "First time here, is it? I've never seen you before."

Her eyes lingered on his face, curiosity flickering in their depths. Jacaerys stiffened under her gaze, instinctively lowering his head further beneath the shadow of his hood. The pulse in his neck thundered like a drum, a visceral beat of fear and adrenaline. He was no stranger to being watched, scrutinized, even admired – but here, recognition would shatter his carefully crafted disguise, and the freedom he craved would slip through his fingers.

"Just passing through," he murmured, his voice deliberately roughened to obscure its natural timbre. He shifted slightly, angling his body away from her.

The voice rang out again, this time closer, from somewhere behind the curtains near where Jacaerys sat. The makeshift backstage setup was rudimentary – little more than patched fabric stretched over a wooden frame – but it served its purpose, kind of. Your tone, laced with exasperation, carried through the thin barrier with startling clarity.

"Thomas, I am not stepping out there until you find it. The last thing we need is another improvised death scene where you pantomime being stabbed. The audience already thinks we’re a comedy troupe."

"That's their leading lady. Always keeps them on their toes, that one." the lady next to Jacaerys whispered again, a grin on her face as if she was used to this.

Before he could respond, the curtain rose, and you stepped onto the stage. The lantern light caught you perfectly, illuminating your face as you launched into your first lines. You played a merchant's daughter, clever and quick-witted, running circles around your would-be suitors.

Jacaerys forgot to breathe.

It wasn't the kind of beauty that graced the castle halls. Your dress was simple, a plain brown fabric that had seen better days, cinched at the waist with a leather belt that had clearly been mended more than once. Your hair, pulled back in a practical braid, had several strands that had escaped to frame your face, giving you an appealingly disheveled look that spoke of hours of rehearsal.

But gods, you were magnificent.

A small scar marked your right cheek, barely visible in the flickering lantern light. Rather than marring your features, it seemed to enhance them, adding character to a face that radiated vitality. Your movements were precise yet natural, commanding the cramped stage as if it were a grand palace hall.

The other actors, though competent, seemed to orbit around you like planets around a sun. Even when you weren't speaking, Jacaerys found his eyes drawn to you – the subtle reactions playing across your face, the way you listened and responded to your fellow performers with an authenticity that made the scripted dialogue feel spontaneous.

The play unfolded before him, each scene weaving together with light-hearted jest. Whenever you spoke, delivering witty lines to your partners, Jacaerys found himself smiling in spite of himself. You were effortlessly charming.

In the quieter moments, when your character would stand still, caught in moments of contemplation or while others delivered their lines, Jacaerys’ gaze drifted to the fine details that made you so different from any actor he’d seen in his life. The way the flickering candlelight danced in your eyes, the way your lips curled just so when you were amused – everything felt significant. There was no mask, no role to hide behind. You were raw, real, and utterly captivating.

The final scene came far too quickly. As the audience erupted in applause, Jacaerys found himself on his feet with the rest, though his eyes never left your form. You took your bow with a flourish, laughing as someone from the crowd tossed a wildflower onto the stage. You caught it with practiced ease, tucking it behind your ear as you exchanged playful glances with your fellow performers.

The crowd began to disperse, but Jacaerys remained rooted to his spot, wrestling with an unfamiliar impulse. The logical part of his mind urged him to leave, to return to the castle before his absence was noticed. Yet something stronger held him there, watching as the other actors filtered off stage, leaving you to gather props with the same casual grace you'd shown during the performance.

"Wonderful show tonight, wasn't it?" The woman beside him spoke again, but this time Jacaerys barely registered her words. You had moved to the edge of the stage, sitting down with your legs dangling over the side, somehow making even this simple action seem like part of a performance.

The flower had slipped slightly askew in your hair, and you reached up to adjust it, humming a tune he didn't recognize. In that moment, illuminated by the dying lantern light, you looked more royal than any of the nobles he'd grown up with.

"Thomas!" you called out, your voice carrying that same warm authority he'd heard earlier. "I know you're hiding back there with that dagger. Bring it here before you lose it again."

A gangly young man emerged from behind the curtain, sheepishly holding the prop weapon. "I wasn't hiding, I was... organizing."

Your laugh echoed through the now-empty theater, rich and genuine. "Is that what we're calling it now? Come here, let's go over that scene again while it's fresh. Your timing was a bit off in the second act."

Jacaerys watched as you worked with your fellow actor, demonstrating the proper way to fall after being stabbed. Your patience was evident, even as you teased Thomas about his dramatic tendencies. This wasn't the carefully cultivated refinement of the court – this was something real, something alive.

He should leave. He knew he should leave. Instead, he found himself moving closer to the stage, drawn by some force he couldn't name. The hood of his cloak still shadowed his features, but he could see you more clearly now – the way your hands moved as you spoke, the slight crinkle at the corners of your eyes when you smiled.

You noticed him then, your eyes meeting his across the dimly lit space. "Can I help you?" you asked, your head tilting slightly in curiosity. "If you're looking for the manager, he's already left for the night."

Jacaerys opened his mouth to respond, but for perhaps the first time in his life, words failed him. He, who had been trained in rhetoric and diplomacy since childhood, found himself speechless in the presence of a common theater actor.

You studied his silence for a moment, your eyes softening with understanding – or rather, what you thought was understanding. Wiping your hands on your worn costume, you hopped down from the stage with an actor's grace.

"You haven't eaten today, have you?" Your voice was gentle, free of pity but full of kindness. Before Jacaerys could respond, you were already reaching into a small pouch tied at your waist. "The baker on Mare's Street – you know the one with the blue door? – he's usually still open at this hour. Sometimes he sells yesterday's bread for a few coppers."

The irony of the situation struck Jacaerys like a physical blow as you pressed two golden coins into his palm. Your callused fingers brushed against his softer ones, and he felt the warmth of your touch even as shame and wonder warred in his chest. These coins – they probably represented a week's earnings for you, maybe more.

"I..." he started, his voice catching. The weight of the coins in his hand felt heavier than any crown. "I don’t need this."

"Don't," you cut him off, your smile crooked but kind. "The crowds have been generous." You gestured around the empty theater, pride evident in your voice despite the building's humble appearance. "And I know what it's like to go hungry. Take it."

Jacaerys stood frozen, the coins burning in his palm like hot coals. He, who could buy this entire theater with a wave of his hand, found himself humbled by your simple act of generosity. The elaborate rings he'd left behind in his chambers could have fed your entire troupe for a year, yet here you were, sharing what little you had with a stranger.

Thomas watched from the stage, absently twirling the prop dagger. "She won't take no for an answer," he offered helpfully. "Trust me, I've tried."

You shot Thomas a look that was half-exasperation, half-affection.

You had misinterpreted his hesitation, mistaking it for embarrassment. "No shame in it," you said softly, your voice lowering as if to shield him from imaginary judgment. "Everyone needs a little help sometimes. Just promise me you’ll pay it forward when you can."

For a moment, Jacaerys considered revealing himself – telling you who he was, explaining that he didn’t need the money, that he could give you a hundredfold what you had just offered him. But the thought died as quickly as it came. What would that accomplish? To shatter this fragile, unguarded moment with the weight of his identity?

Instead, he closed his fingers around the coins and inclined his head, the shadows of his hood concealing the turmoil in his expression. "Thank you," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Your smile widened, relief washing over your face. "Good. Now go, before the baker closes." You turned back toward the stage, your attention already shifting to the scattered props and costumes. It was as if the encounter hadn’t marked you the way it had him, as if kindness were simply a part of who you were, given without expectation or burden.

Jacaerys lingered for a moment longer, watching you move through the theater, humming that same tune under your breath. He tucked the coins into his pocket, their weight a reminder of the strange, magnetic pull you had over him.

As he stepped back into the cobblestone streets, the sounds of the city washed over him once more – the distant murmur of the ocean, the laughter spilling from nearby taverns, the clatter of hooves on stone. Yet the memory of your voice, your smile, and your unassuming grace lingered like an echo in his chest.

For the first time in years, Jacaerys Velaryon felt small. Not in a way that diminished him, but in a way that reminded him of how vast the world truly was, and how much of it he had yet to understand.

And as he walked away from the theater, he knew one thing for certain: he would be back.

***

The Maester's voice droned on about the Conquest of Dorne, but Jacaerys barely heard him. His fingers traced the edges of the golden coins in his pocket, worn smooth from hours of anxious handling. The metal had warmed to his skin, yet still carried the weight of your kindness. He could almost smell the copper on his hands, though these were gold – a reminder of how thoroughly his mind had been occupied by that night at the theater.

His younger brothers sat attentively at the long table, Lucerys dutifully taking notes while Joffrey's eyes widened at tales of battle and dragon fire. Jacaerys envied their simple absorption in the lesson. His own thoughts kept drifting to the weathered wooden stage, the flickering lanterns, and your laugh as you demonstrated the proper way to die dramatically.

"Prince Jacaerys?" The Maester's voice cut through his reverie. "Perhaps you'd care to share your thoughts on Prince Qoren Martell's strategy?"

Jacaerys straightened, his hand instinctively withdrawing from his pocket. "My apologies, Maester. I was..." He trailed off, unable to find a suitable excuse.

Lucerys shot him a curious glance. His brother had always been observant – too observant, sometimes. These past few days, Jacaerys had caught him watching with barely concealed concern, noting his distraction during meals and council meetings.

The coins felt heavier than ever. At nearly twenty years old, here he was, a prince of the realm, plotting like a green boy to sneak out to a common theater. The absurdity of it wasn't lost on him. He'd heard countless tales of young nobles who slipped away from their duties – to visit brothels, to gamble in fighting pits, to engage in all manner of sordid adventures. Yet here he sat, fingers stained with the phantom scent of copper, heart racing at the mere thought of watching another play.

But it wasn't just any play, was it? It was you. The way you commanded that humble stage, the genuine warmth in your voice when you'd pressed those coins into his hand, believing him to be nothing more than a hungry stranger. The memory of your kindness burned brighter than any shame he might feel about his age or station.

"Prince Jacaerys?" The Maester prompted again, more gently this time.

"Forgive me," Jacaerys managed, forcing his attention back to the present. "The heat of the day has made me rather distracted."

Joffrey snickered behind his hand, but fell silent at Lucerys's sharp look. The Maester sighed and returned to his lecture, pointing to a map of Dorne's treacherous mountain passes.

As the lesson continued, Jacaerys's mind wandered to the logistics of another escape. The guard rotations would be the same, but he'd need to be more careful – his absence had been noted last time, though thankfully not reported. The thought sent a flutter of anxiety through his chest. What would people say if they knew? A prince, skulking around in common clothes, watching street performances like some love-struck peasant boy.

Love-struck. The word appeared unbidden in his thoughts, and he nearly dropped the coins he'd been fidgeting with. No, that wasn't it at all. He was simply... intrigued. Fascinated by the authenticity of common theater, by the raw talent he'd witnessed. By your smile, your laugh, the way you'd shown such kindness to a stranger...

Lucerys kicked him under the table, and Jacaerys realized the Maester had asked another question. As he scrambled to appear engaged in the lesson, his brother's knowing look told him he wasn't fooling anyone – at least not Lucerys.

The coins clinked softly in his pocket as he shifted in his seat. He would go back, he knew that much. The risk, the anxiety, the potential embarrassment if he were caught – none of it mattered. Not when weighed against the possibility of seeing you perform again, of existing for a few precious hours in that world where he was just another face in the crowd, where kindness was given freely without the weight of politics and duty.

Besides, he thought with a hint of his usual wry humor, there were far worse rebellions for a prince to engage in than a secret appreciation for the theater. Even if that appreciation had more to do with a certain performer than the performances themselves.

After the lesson, Jacaerys retreated to his chambers, hoping to find solitude with his thoughts. His rooms in the Stone Drum tower offered a commanding view of the castle grounds and the sea beyond, though today he barely noticed the beauty. The salt breeze that whistled through the arrow slits carried the familiar scent of home, mingling with the ever-present smoke from the volcano.

He'd barely settled into his favorite chair – a sturdy piece of oak and leather positioned perfectly to catch the evening light – when the door burst open without ceremony. Only one person would dare enter his chambers so boldly.

"Don't you knock anymore, Luke?" Jacaerys asked, not bothering to look up from the correspondence he'd hastily grabbed to appear occupied.

"When have I ever knocked?" Lucerys's footsteps were light across the Myrish carpet, practiced and graceful from years of dancing lessons. The bed creaked as he threw himself across it, a habit he'd had since childhood that no amount of etiquette training had broken.

The familiar scene might have been comforting if not for the tension Jacaerys could feel radiating from his younger brother. Lucerys had that particular quality of false casualness that always preceded his most determined interrogations. It was a talent he'd inherited from their mother – the ability to appear perfectly relaxed while preparing to strike.

The room itself seemed to hold its breath. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows, casting long shadows across the stone floors and illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. The walls were lined with books and maps, carefully curated over years of study, while a half-empty glass of wine sat forgotten on a side table from the night before.

Jacaerys shifted in his chair, acutely aware of the coins in his pocket. They seemed to weigh heavier under his brother's watchful gaze, though he knew Lucerys couldn't possibly see them. Yet something in the way those violet eyes tracked his movements made him wonder if perhaps they did.

"You've been strange lately," Lucerys said, lounging across Jacaerys's bed as if it were his own. The evening light caught his hair, making him look younger than his fifteen years. "More distracted than usual."

Jacaerys didn't look up from the letter he was pretending to read. "Have I?"

"Don't play fool, Jace. It doesn't suit you." Lucerys rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hands. "Even Joff noticed, and he hardly notices anything beyond his own reflection these days."

"Perhaps I'm simply tired of being interrogated by my little brother."

"Perhaps you're simply avoiding the question." Lucerys's violet eyes narrowed slightly. "You disappeared the other night."

Jacaerys's fingers tightened imperceptibly on the parchment. "Did I?"

"I covered for you with Mother. Told her you had a headache and retired early." Lucerys paused, watching his brother's face carefully. "You're welcome, by the way."

"Thank you," Jacaerys said stiffly, still not meeting his brother's gaze.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sound of dragons calling to each other across the evening sky. Finally, Lucerys sighed dramatically.

"I need to borrow some coins," he said, his tone deliberately casual. "There's a book I want the Maester to fetch from the town."

"Another one? Didn't you just get three new volumes last moon?"

"This one's different. It's about Valyrian steel manipulation. I think I found a reference to–"

"Fine," Jacaerys interrupted, rising from his chair. "Let me get my–"

"Why not just give me the ones you've been playing with in your pocket all week?"

Jacaerys froze, his hand halfway to the door. Lucerys's voice had lost its casual edge, taking on an accusatory tone that made him sound unnervingly like their mother.

"Those are..." Jacaerys started, then stopped, unsure how to continue.

"Those are what, exactly?" Lucerys sat up, all pretense of relaxation gone. "You never carry coins, Jace. You hate dealing with money – you always have servants handle it. Yet suddenly you're constantly fiddling with coins in your pocket like some nervous merchant?"

"It's nothing."

"Nothing?" Lucerys's eyebrows rose. "Nothing has you sneaking out at night? Nothing has you daydreaming through lessons? Nothing has you jumping like a guilty septa every time someone mentions where you were that evening?"

"Luke–"

"What kind of trouble are you in, Jace?" Real concern crept into Lucerys's voice now. "Whatever it is, I can help. You know I can keep a secret."

Jacaerys turned to face his brother, seeing the genuine worry in his eyes. For a moment, he was tempted to tell him everything – about the theater, about you, about the strange mix of shame and wonder he felt every time he touched those coins you'd given him. But the words stuck in his throat.

"I'm not in any trouble," he said finally. "And the coins... they're just coins. Nothing more."

Lucerys studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You're lying," he said simply. "You've never been good at it, not with me." He stood up from the bed, straightening his doublet with precise movements. "Keep your secrets, then. But whatever it is – whoever it is – I hope they're worth all this deception."

He moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. "And Jace? Next time you decide to disappear for an evening, give me some warning. I can only improvise so many headaches before Mother starts calling for the Grand Maester."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Jacaerys alone with his thoughts and the weight of those two gold coins that somehow felt heavier than any crown.

***

The evening guard rotations were meant to be predictable – that was the entire point of having them. Yet tonight, as Jacaerys crept through the servants' corridors of Dragonstone, it seemed the gods themselves conspired against him. Twice he'd had to duck into alcoves as guards passed by, their torchlight casting long shadows against the stone walls.

His heart nearly stopped when he heard the telltale sound of armor approaching from both directions. The corridor stretched before and behind him, offering no immediate escape. For a desperate moment, he considered scaling the wall – the ancient Valyrian stone had enough notches and grooves to make it possible. But the sound of boots was growing closer.

Then he saw it – a tapestry, ancient and dusty, depicting some long-forgotten battle. Without hesitation, he slipped behind it, pressing himself against the cold stone. The space was cramped, barely wide enough for him to stand sideways. Dust tickled his nose, and he fought the urge to sneeze as the guards converged directly in front of his hiding spot.

"Could've sworn I heard something," one guard muttered.

"Probably just those bloody rats again," the other replied. "This part of the castle's full of them."

Jacaerys held his breath as their shadows, distorted by torchlight, played across the tapestry. He could smell the oil from their lamps, hear the creak of their leather boots. One guard stopped so close that Jacaerys could have reached out and touched his armor through the fabric.

"Speaking of rats," the first guard continued, "did you hear about what happened in the kitchens? That new scullery maid..."

Jacaerys silently prayed to any god who might be listening as the guards lingered, exchanging gossip. His legs were beginning to cramp from standing so still, and the dust was becoming unbearable. Just when he thought he couldn't maintain his position any longer, they finally moved on.

He waited until their footsteps had faded completely before emerging, brushing centuries of dust from his clothes. His plain cloak was now grey with it, which actually worked in his favor – he looked even more like a common traveler now.

The rest of his escape proved easier. He knew which door hinges needed oil and avoided them, which stairs would creak under his weight and stepped around them. Years of childhood exploration had taught him every secret of these halls, though he'd never imagined using that knowledge quite like this.

When he finally emerged into the cool night air, the sea breeze hit him like a physical relief. What he didn't know was that his brother Lucerys was watching from the high window of his chambers, violet eyes tracking his progress through the darkness, a mixture of concern and curiosity playing across his young face.

The moon hung low over the water, painting a silver path across the waves. In the distance, he could hear the familiar sounds of the port city coming alive for the evening – and somewhere in that maze of streets, a small theater where you would be performing.

He touched the coins in his pocket, the ones you'd given him last time. He'd brought others tonight, determined to somehow repay your kindness without revealing his identity. The irony of a prince sneaking around with coins in his pockets wasn't lost on him.

As he made his way down the winding path toward the city, a shadow passed overhead – one of the dragons, doing their evening patrol. Jacaerys instinctively ducked into a doorway, though he knew they wouldn't betray his presence. Still, his heart raced until the beating of massive wings faded into the distance.

The closer he got to the theater district, the lighter his steps became. He could already hear distant music floating on the breeze, and somewhere ahead, he knew you were preparing for tonight's performance.

The older man at the entrance didn’t even look up as Jacaerys approached, the hood of his cloak pulled low to shadow his face. The flickering lantern by the door barely illuminated the man’s lined face as he grunted, extending a weathered hand.

"Same as always," the man rasped, his voice rough from years of smoke and salt air.

Jacaerys fished out the coins, the faint clink of silver ringing in the quiet. He handed them over without a word, and the man nodded, stepping aside to let him pass. As the heavy wooden door creaked open, the prince slipped inside, his heart already beating faster.

The theater was dimmer tonight. Fewer torches lined the walls, their flames casting long, flickering shadows across the worn wooden seats. The air carried a faint tang of old wood and wax, mixed with the distant murmur of the sparse audience. He moved with practiced ease, weaving through the rows until he found a shadowed corner near the back. His seat creaked faintly as he settled into it, but no one turned to look.

The hush of the room enveloped him like a comforting shroud. His eyes flicked to the small stage, where the performers were beginning to gather. The dim lighting softened the edges of the set, turning painted backdrops into ghostly outlines. And then he saw you.

You stepped into view, adjusting the folds of your simple costume as you moved to your mark. The faintest smile touched your lips, a fleeting expression meant more for yourself than anyone watching. Your presence lit up the stage, even in the muted glow of the flickering torches. Jacaerys leaned forward, his pulse quickening as he took in every detail: the curve of your fingers as you gestured, the spark in your eyes as you exchanged a glance with another actor.

Tonight’s performance was different from the last. The script was lighter, the words flowing with the cadence of humor and quick wit. You played your part flawlessly, your voice carrying through the small space with an easy confidence that drew even the most distracted onlooker. Jacaerys barely noticed the few other patrons scattered through the seats; his attention was solely on you.

Your dress was different tonight, though it bore the same signs of wear and age. This one reached your feet, its faded fabric swaying gently as you moved. It suited the story, the hem brushing the stage with a quiet grace. Your hair was loose now, no longer bound in the practical braid he'd seen last time. Strands of it framed your face, falling forward every time you turned sharply or crossed the stage with purpose.

At one point, you turned toward the audience, delivering a line with a playful smirk. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, your gaze seemed to land on him. He stiffened, holding his breath, but you moved on without hesitation, leaving him unsure if you'd truly noticed him or if it was just his imagination.

When the final act concluded and the sparse audience began to applaud, Jacaerys hesitated. His hands itched to join them, but he knew better than to draw attention to himself. Instead, he waited, watching as you took a modest bow before disappearing behind the curtain.

The theater began to empty, the soft murmur of voices and shuffling feet filling the space. Jacaerys lingered, his heart warring with his head. He could leave now, slip away unnoticed into the night, or he could stay – just a little longer.

From the shadows near the edge of the stage, Jacaerys could hear muffled voices – the actors congratulating one another, the rustle of costumes being adjusted, the clink of props being gathered and stored. Somewhere amidst it all was you.

He leaned against a post, his cloak wrapped tightly around him as if it could render him invisible. The cool night air from a nearby window mingled with the lingering warmth of the torches, creating a strange mix of chill and comfort. He should leave. The longer he stayed, the greater the risk of being recognized – not that anyone in this district would expect a prince of the realm to be skulking in a dusty theater. Still, his responsibilities weighed on his shoulders like a chain, one he was all too eager to shed tonight.

Then, like a moth drawn to light, his gaze caught movement through a gap in the curtains. You. You were speaking to someone, your laughter soft and genuine, a sound that cut through the noise like the first note of a song. He could see the way your hair fell loose from its pins, the slight flush to your cheeks from the exertion of the performance. You looked radiant, even in the simplicity of your stage attire.

As if sensing his presence, you turned. For a brief moment, your eyes locked with his through the narrow slit in the curtain. Surprise flickered across your face, followed quickly by recognition. The corner of your lips tugged upward in a small, knowing smile, and Jacaerys felt his stomach tighten.

Before he could retreat, you excused yourself from the conversation and slipped through the curtain, moving toward him with an easy grace that belied the exhaustion of the evening.

"You’re here again," you said softly, stopping just short of him. The dim light caught the shine in your eyes, the curve of your smile. "Should I be flattered or concerned?"

"Flattered. I would hope."

Your voice dropped lower, conspiratorial. "Did you eat today? I know times are hard, but there are better ways to spend an evening than hiding in theaters."

The irony of your worry made his chest tight. Here you were, in your worn costume, with props held together by determination and twine, concerned about whether he had enough to eat. He reached into his pocket, fingers closing around the coins.

"Actually," he said, extending his hand, "I came to return these. And..." he pulled out more coins from his other pocket, "to properly pay for my attendance. Both times."

Your eyes widened slightly at the amount – more than fair payment for theater tickets, though far less than what he wished he could give without raising suspicion. "That's..." you started, then paused, frowning. "Where did you...?"

"I found work," he said quickly, the lie bitter on his tongue. "On the docks." It was a safe claim – the port was always hiring, and the work explained away any calluses on his hands from sword training.

You hesitated, then slowly accepted the coins, your fingers brushing his palm. "Well then," you said, a smile playing at your lips, "I suppose I should thank you for your patronage, good sir." You gave an exaggerated curtsy, a playful mockery of court manners that made him both laugh and wince internally.

You straightened from your playful curtsy, tilting your head as your eyes lingered on his face. In the dim light, his features were shadowed, but there was no mistaking the sharpness of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his dark hair fell against his forehead. A fleeting thought escaped your lips before you could catch it.

"You’re quite handsome, you know," you said, your voice softer now, almost teasing but not unkind.

The words hung in the air like a spark between them, igniting an unexpected tension that made Jacaerys’s breath hitch. Instinct took over, and he immediately pulled his hood up, the shadow swallowing his face once more. His heart thundered in his chest, panic surging through him like a wave crashing against the shore. How could he have been so careless? The longer you looked at him, the greater the chance you might recognize him, or worse, ask questions he couldn’t answer.

You blinked, misinterpreting his reaction as shyness. "Oh," you said quickly, holding up a hand. "I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It was just a passing thought, nothing more."

Jacaerys kept his face tilted downward, the faint light from the torches barely illuminating the shadowed planes of his features. Beneath the cover of his hood, his thoughts churned.

You stepped back slightly, giving him space, though your brow furrowed as you studied him. "I have a habit of speaking my mind. It gets me into trouble more often than not."

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe. You didn’t know. Of course, you didn’t. If you had recognized him as the prince of Dragonstone, you wouldn’t be standing here so casually, holding his coins like a simple dockworker had handed them to you. Relief trickled in, slow but steady, easing the sharp edge of his panic.

Still, he couldn’t let his guard down. Not here, not now. You hadn’t recognized him but that didn’t mean your peers would be the same. He tightened his grip on the edge of his hood, fingers curling into the fabric as he found his voice. "It’s... nothing to apologize for," he said quietly, his tone measured. "You speak with honesty. That’s rare."

Your brow arched, a small, playful smile tugging at your lips. "Is it? I thought honesty was common among sailors and dockworkers."

His heart leapt, but he forced a soft chuckle. "Only when it suits them."

You laughed, the sound light and easy, cutting through the weight in his chest like a blade through mist. For a moment, the tension eased, and he let himself glance up, just enough to catch the way the dim torchlight softened the sharp lines of your face. You seemed so at ease, as if this exchange was just another fleeting moment in your day, not a conversation with a man balancing precariously on the edge of his secret.

"Well," you said, your tone shifting to something softer, almost kind, "if you ever get tired of dishonest company, you know where to find me."

The simplicity of your words sent a jolt through him, a strange mix of warmth and dread. How could you offer such openness to a stranger? Did you have any idea what danger such kindness could invite? He wanted to tell you to be more careful, to guard yourself better, but that would only draw suspicion, and he couldn’t afford that.

Instead, he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture.

Your words were casual, cheerful, as if you weren’t fully aware of the effect they had on him. Jacaerys’s stomach twisted. Did you truly mean it, or was this simply how you treated everyone who lingered after your performances? Perhaps it was common for men to approach you, hoping for a moment of your time, an exchange of pleasantries, or something more daring. Maybe to you, this was nothing special, just another fleeting interaction with someone who found themselves enthralled by your charm.

He tried to gauge your meaning, but your expression revealed nothing beyond a playful warmth. It struck him that this could be a game for you, a kindness you extended to strangers who sought solace in the illusion of knowing you. If that were the case, you had mastered the art of making people feel seen. And yet, a selfish part of him hoped it wasn’t a performance, at least not entirely.

He forced himself to nod again, the words catching in his throat before he could offer any kind of response.

You told him your name, tilting your head. The torchlight caught the playful glint in your eyes.

You moved closer, fingers playing delicately with the edge of his hood. The fabric shifted just enough to let more torchlight spill across his features and for you to get a proper look at him. "You still haven't told me your name," you said. The torchlight caught the glint in your eyes, warm and inviting. "And I'd love to share a cup of wine with you before tomorrow's show, if you'd join me? Unless dock work calls, of course."

Jacaerys's throat went dry at your proximity, at the casual way you breached the careful distance he'd maintained. Your fingers were still toying with his hood, and he could smell the faint traces of stage powder and candlesmoke that clung to your costume.

"I..." he started, then faltered. Even a false name felt dangerous on his tongue, another lie to add to the growing pile between you. But your expectant gaze and gentle smile made refusal equally impossible. "Jace," he finally said, offering the shortened version of his name – common enough among smallfolk to pass unremarked, yet not entirely a lie.

"The wine?" you prompted with a gentle laugh, noticing his distraction. Your fingers still lingered at the edge of his hood, and this close, he could see the faint smudge of stage paint at the corner of your eye, oddly endearing in the torchlight.

"Yes," he said quickly, perhaps too quickly.

You laughed softly, the sound warm and light, brushing away his unease.

"Good," you said simply, your fingers finally leaving his hood. The absence of your touch left the fabric cool against his skin, but his heartbeat remained a thunderous rhythm in his ears. "I’ll look forward to it, then."

Your words carried a quiet sincerity, and Jacaerys felt a flicker of hope, foolish and persistent, take root. Perhaps you wanted his company, not as some starstruck admirer but as something more. If you’d thought of him as just another man enchanted by your beauty, you might have waved him off with a kind but distant smile, not offered him a seat at your table.

The thought made his chest tighten. He shouldn’t entertain it, couldn’t afford to. But as you stepped back, leaving a space between you that felt far larger than it was, he found himself reluctant to let the moment end.

"Tomorrow, then," you said with a final, teasing glance. And with that, you turned, your departure as graceful as your presence.

***

Jacaerys woke to a sharp sting across his cheek, followed by the sound of laughter – bright, mischievous, and unmistakable. His eyes flew open to find Aegon, his younger brother, perched on his chest, tiny hands poised for another smack. Aegon’s face was a mix of innocence and triumph, his silver curls bouncing as he giggled.

"Wake up," Aegon crowed, his small hand descending toward Jacaerys's face once more, giving him a small and playful smack on his eyebrow.

Jacaerys caught the little hand mid-swing, his reflexes slower than usual thanks to the late night before.

"Enough, you little dragon," Jacaerys groaned, though he couldn't help but smile as he gently moved Aegon off his chest. The morning sun was already high – much higher than he usually allowed himself to sleep. His body felt heavy with fatigue, memories of dusty tapestries and your smile still lingering in his mind.

"You're late for breakfast," came another voice from next to the bed. Lucerys stood there, arms crossed, violet eyes sharp with knowing. "Again."

Jacaerys sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. Aegon took the opportunity to climb onto his back, small arms wrapping around his neck. "I was tired," he said carefully, avoiding his brother's gaze.

"Tired from sneaking out again?" Lucery's voice was quiet enough that Aegon couldn't hear, but the accusation was clear. "I saw you, you know. Last night."

Jacaerys's stomach dropped, but before he could respond, Aegon tugged at his hair. "Play with me!" the little prince demanded, blissfully unaware of the tension between his older brothers. "You promised yesterday!"

"In a moment, brother." Jacaerys said softly. To Lucerys, he added, "Close the door."

Lucerys did, but remained standing, his young face serious beyond his years. Aegon whined, squirming on Jacaerys’s back like a restless hatchling trying to get his brother’s attention.

"Soon," Jacaerys murmured, reaching back to ruffle Aegon’s curls gently. He glanced at Lucerys, whose gaze was sharp, scrutinizing, and far too perceptive for his age.

"Out with it, Luke," Jacaerys said with a sigh, shifting Aegon to sit in his lap. The youngest boy immediately busied himself by fiddling with the ties on Jacaerys’s tunic, humming some nonsense tune.

Lucerys’s arms stayed crossed, his jaw tight. "Where did you go?"

Jacaerys hesitated, trying to gauge how much Lucerys might already know. "For a walk," he said, the words feeling hollow even as he spoke them.

"A walk," Lucerys repeated, his voice flat. "Through the city, past the gates, and to the docks? Alone? At night?"

Jacaerys stiffened, his fingers stilling where they had been untangling Aegon’s small fists from the ties of his tunic. He met Lucerys’s piercing gaze and held it, though his stomach churned. Lucerys was clever, sharper than most realized, and there was no denying the skepticism etched into his younger brother’s face.

"Yes," Jacaerys said finally, his tone low but steady. "A walk."

Lucerys huffed, shaking his head. "You’re a terrible liar, you know that?"

"A walk," Lucerys repeated, incredulous. His sharp eyes narrowed as if daring Jacaerys to stick to the flimsy excuse.

Aegon, oblivious to the rising tension, suddenly perked up, his tiny voice lilting into a sing-song melody. "Liar, liar, pants on fire!" he chanted, his hands clapping against Jacaerys’s chest for emphasis. "Hanging from a dragon’s spire!"

Jacaerys groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as Aegon’s giggles filled the room. "Aegon," he muttered, exasperated, "you’re not helping."

Lucerys’s lips twitched, though he tried to keep his expression serious. "Even Aegon can tell you’re lying," he said, gesturing to the wriggling boy in Jacaerys’s lap. "And he’s four."

Jacaerys shifted uncomfortably, his grip tightening slightly on Aegon to keep the boy from sliding off. "It’s not your concern," he said, his voice low.

"It is when it could get you hurt," Lucerys countered, stepping closer. His voice softened, though the worry in his expression remained. "I’m not a fool, Jace. You’re sneaking out for a reason. If something’s wrong…"

"Nothing’s wrong," Jacaerys cut in, sharper than he intended. Aegon stilled at the change in his tone, glancing up at him with wide, curious eyes.

Lucerys’s brows furrowed, his concern deepening. "Then why the secrecy? Have you gabled? You owe coins?"

Jacaerys barked a sharp laugh, the sound bitter. "Gambled?" he repeated, his tone tinged with incredulity. "Do you truly think I’d risk Mother’s wrath for something so foolish?"

Lucerys raised a skeptical brow, undeterred. "You’re sneaking out past the gates, Jace. It’s not exactly the behavior of someone who cares much for avoiding wrath."

Jacaerys sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. He shifted Aegon in his lap again, the boy’s small hands still clutching his tunic as if sensing the weight of the moment

Lucerys crossed his arms, his expression still clouded with doubt, but he said nothing further. The room settled into a tense silence, broken only by Aegon’s happy hums as he tugged at Jacaerys’s tunic ties once more.

Jacaerys offered Lucerys a faint, conciliatory smile. "You’ve said your piece, brother. Now let it rest. I’ll be more careful."

Lucerys hesitated, then gave a short nod. "See that you are," he muttered, though the edge in his voice had dulled. Without another word, he turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.

That same night, Jacaerys’ chest beat with expectation. He pressed his ear against the cool wood of his chamber door, straining to hear the rhythmic clink of the guards’ boots in the corridor. It had taken longer than usual for the keep to settle tonight, and his patience had worn thin as he waited for silence to fall. Finally, the sound of footsteps faded, leaving only the faint whisper of wind through the stone halls.

Pulling his hood over his head, he slipped through the door, moving as quietly as he could manage. The shadows seemed to stretch and shift around him as he made his way down the dim corridor, his heart thudding in his chest.

But his stealth came to an abrupt end as he rounded a corner and collided with someone who immediately called his name.

"Jace," Baela, his cousin, yelped.

His hood slipped back slightly, revealing his startled face as Baela peered up at him with narrowed eyes. She crossed her arms, her expression teetering between curiosity and suspicion.

"I…" he stammered, grasping for an excuse, "I was just going to feed Vermax. I forgot earlier."

"Dressed like that? You look like you’re about to rob a merchant," Baela quipped, her brows arching as she gestured toward his cloak. Her voice was low, but the teasing edge carried clearly in the quiet corridor.

Jacaerys tugged at his hood, trying to steady himself. "It’s cold out," he said, forcing a casual shrug.

She stared at him for a long moment, the corners of her mouth twitching as though she were fighting a smirk. "You’ve always been a terrible liar," she finally said, stepping closer. Her voice softened slightly, concern flickering behind her sharp words.

Jacaerys’s lips twitched into a crooked smile, though it lacked conviction. "And what about you? What are you doing wandering the halls past curfew?"

Her laugh rang out softly, the sound light and unbothered. "Nice try, cousin," she said, shaking her head. "But I don’t need excuses. Her Grace sent me to fetch you."

Jacaerys’s smirk faltered, his stomach sinking slightly. "Mother?" he repeated, attempting to mask his unease.

Baela nodded, her expression turning sly. "She’s been asking after you. Something about wondering if you’d finally gotten a decent night’s rest for once." Her gaze swept over his cloaked form again, pointedly lingering on his shadowy attire. "Though I imagine she’ll have a lot more questions if she sees you like this."

Jacaerys tugged his hood back fully, a small scowl forming. "Fine. You’ve made your point."

Baela grinned, pleased with herself. "Good. Let’s not keep her waiting, then." She stepped aside, gesturing down the hallway with a flourish.

As they began walking together, she shot him a sideways glance. "By the way, you might want to come up with a better excuse than feeding Vermax. She’ll see through that faster than I did."

He groaned softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Thank you for the vote of confidence."

The candles in the council chamber had burned low, their dim flames casting long, flickering shadows across the walls. Jacaerys sat stiffly in his chair, his hood abandoned and his shoulders tense as he stared down at the polished wood of the table. His mother’s voice was firm and commanding, carrying over the murmurs of her council, but the words barely registered in his mind.

He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm against his knee. The hours dragged on, the droning voices blending into a monotone hum that seemed to sap the energy from the room. Every so often, he risked a glance toward the doors, his heart sinking as the night stretched on without reprieve.

He had planned it all so carefully; waiting for the guards’ change, ensuring his cloak was in place, and rehearsing his path through the darkened halls. Yet here he was, trapped in the suffocating formality of duty, the weight of the room pressing heavily on his chest.

Finally, his mother’s voice broke through his thoughts, a sharp and decisive tone signaling the meeting’s end. The council members began to rise, exchanging pleasantries and nods as they shuffled out. Jacaerys stood quickly, hoping to slip away unnoticed.

But as he stepped into the corridor and caught sight of the sky through a narrow window, his heart sank. The stars had already begun to fade, the first light of dawn creeping over the horizon. His plan, so meticulously crafted, was ruined.

He exhaled sharply, leaning back against the cold stone wall. Frustration bubbled up inside him, clawing at his chest. He had waited too long, his opportunity stolen by endless discussions he hadn’t even bothered to follow.

The streets of the town would be stirring soon, no longer cloaked in shadow, and the risk of sneaking out now was far too great. With a defeated sigh, Jacaerys pushed away from the wall and started toward his chambers. Perhaps tomorrow night, he told himself, though the thought did little to soothe the restless ache in his chest.

***

The days crawled by like honey in winter, thick and slow. Jacaerys moved through them in a fog of distraction, his mind constantly wandering to the small theater and its worn stage. During his lessons, he found himself staring out windows, counting the hours until nightfall only to be trapped again by some new duty or obligation. His writing grew sloppy, earning sharp looks from his tutors, but he couldn't focus on their corrections when all he could think about was you, waiting in vain that night.

Had you looked for him in the shadows of the wings? Had you saved him a proper seat, as promised, only to find it empty? The thought of your disappointment twisted in his gut like a knife.

Each evening brought fresh torment. A dinner with visiting nobles that stretched late into the night. An urgent meeting about grain stores that couldn't wait until morning. Evening dragon training that left him too exhausted to even consider the treacherous path down to the town. Always something, always another reason he couldn't slip away.

Lucerys watched him with knowing eyes, catching his restless glances toward the windows, his distracted responses at meals. But his brother said nothing more, perhaps satisfied that whatever had drawn Jacaerys into the night had been successfully thwarted by duty.

By the fourth night, Jacaerys lay awake in his bed, imagining what you might think of him. Just another unreliable patron, perhaps. Or worse – had you worried about him? Did you think something had happened to the shy dock worker who couldn't take a compliment? The thought of you being concerned for his welfare, when he was perfectly safe in his castle chamber, made him feel sick with guilt.

On the sixth night, he nearly made it. He'd gotten as far as the servants' corridor before Aegon's crying echoed through the halls – nightmares again. Jacaerys had frozen, torn between his escape and his brother's distress. In the end, duty won out. He spent the night in Aegon's chamber, telling stories until the little prince fell asleep against his shoulder.

A week. A whole week had passed, and he hadn't seen your performance, hadn't heard your voice, hadn't stood in the comforting shadows of the wings. The theater district felt like a dream now, something he'd imagined in a moment of wild fancy. Only the memory of your gentle teasing, the phantom touch of your hand on his shoulder, reminded him it had been real.

The worst part was not knowing if you'd even noticed his absence. Were you wondering about the strange young man who'd promised to return? Or had you already forgotten him, just another face in the crowd of your admirers? He wasn't sure which possibility hurt.

Each night as he lay in bed, he made plans for the next evening, plotting new routes through the castle, calculating guard rotations, imagining what he'd say when he finally saw you again. And each night, something interfered – some duty he couldn't ignore, some obligation he couldn't escape.

But even as he told himself this, he knew he'd try again. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the night after. Eventually, the gods would grant him another chance to slip away, to return to that magical space where titles didn't matter and stories came alive in the torch-lit dark.

Until then, he could only hope you'd understand – though of course, you couldn't. Not really. Not without knowing the truth, which he could never tell.

"A king should know his people." The words had come out smoother than Jacaerys expected, rehearsed as they were in front of his mirror countless times. His mother had looked up from her scrolls, one eyebrow arched in that way that always made him feel transparent.

"And you came to this revelation... suddenly?" she'd asked, her violet eyes sharp with curiosity.

"Grandsire always says the best lessons come from the docks," he'd pressed on, forcing his voice to remain steady. "The trade, the people, the..." he'd gestured vaguely, "...the whole of it."

Now, standing on those very docks in clothes that itched in places he didn't know clothes could itch, Jacaerys wondered if he'd oversold the enthusiasm. The fish merchant before him was eyeing him suspiciously as he fumbled with the copper coins in his hand.

"Bit soft for dock work, aren't you?" the merchant asked, his weathered face creasing with doubt.

Jacaerys cleared his throat, remembering to roughen his accent. "Eager to learn," he managed, trying not to wince at the overwhelming smell of fish that clung to everything, including, now, himself.

He straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with a sleeve that probably made him smell worse. The theater district was visible from here, the colorful banners hanging limp in the afternoon heat. Just a few more hours, he told himself. A few more crates, a few more lectures from his grandsireabout proper cargo distribution, and then...

"Oy! Less dreaming, more lifting!" The dock master's voice cut through his thoughts. Jacaerys quickly returned to his task, though he couldn't help but smile. For once, his fancy education was useless – here, he was just another pair of hands, exactly as he'd wanted.

He adjusted his hood, making sure his telltale hair remained hidden. One more crate. One more hour. One more step closer to seeing you again, this time with a legitimate excuse for his presence in this part of town. Sometimes, he mused as he hefted another load of fish, even princes had to get their hands dirty to keep their secrets safe.

The familiar scent of dust and candlesmoke filled his lungs as he entered the theater, though now it mingled with the lingering smell of fish that clung to his clothes. This time, as promised what felt like ages ago, he took a proper seat. His hands fidgeted in his lap throughout the performance, hyper-aware of every moment you looked toward the audience.

Only once did your eyes meet his, a brief flicker of recognition crossing your face before you looked away, continuing your lines without pause. The dismissal stung more than he'd expected, though he knew he deserved it.

When the performance ended and the sparse crowd began to filter out, Jacaerys remained in his seat, watching as you sat at the edge of the stage. Papers were scattered around you, tomorrow's dialogues that you mouthed silently to yourself, completely absorbed in your work. The torchlight caught the furrow of concentration between your brows, the slight movement of your lips as you memorized your lines.

His heart quickened as he approached the stage, his boots scuffing against the floor to announce his presence. You didn't look up.

"That was beautiful," he said softly, his voice rough from a day of salt air and hauling cargo.

You turned a page, still not looking at him. "Thank you for your patronage," you said, your tone formal, distant – nothing like the warm teasing he remembered.

"I..." he started, then faltered. What could he say? That he'd been trapped in council meetings? That his princely duties had kept him away? "I'm sorry about last week."

"Mm," you hummed noncommittally, marking something on your script with decisive strokes. "No need to apologize. You paid for your seat, same as anyone else."

The coldness in your voice made him wince.

"I wanted to come," he said, the truth of it aching in his chest. "I tried, but…"

"The docks must have been very busy," you cut in, finally looking up at him. Your eyes were sharp, none of their usual warmth present.

"I went there, you know," you said, your voice soft but edged with hurt. "After you didn't show. I thought perhaps you'd been caught up in work, or..." You let out a small, bitter laugh. "But it was quiet. Dead empty by the time I got there."

Jacaerys felt the blood drain from his face. Of course you'd gone to look for him – your kindness hadn't been an act. While he'd been trapped in that endless council meeting, you'd been worried enough to search for him.

"If you weren't interested in sharing wine with me, or..." you paused, a faint flush coloring your cheeks, "whatever it might have led to, you could have simply said so. I'm an actor – I can handle rejection without requiring elaborate excuses about dock work."

The mention of wine caught him off guard. His chest tightened with the realization of what he'd missed, what could have been if duty hadn't intervened.

"That's not..." he started, his voice hoarse. "I did want... I mean, I do want..." The words tangled on his tongue, princely eloquence deserting him entirely.

You gathered your papers with sharp, efficient movements. "Save it," you said, though there was more weariness than anger in your tone now. "I've played this scene before, though usually with better dialogue."

"Please," he said, taking a step closer to the stage. "Let me explain."

You stood, clutching your scripts to your chest like a shield. "Explain what?"

The question hit him like a physical blow. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, the truth lodged painfully in his throat. He couldn't tell you – couldn't risk your safety, your career, everything you'd built here. But oh, how he wanted to.

"I'm someone who finds magic in your performances," he said finally, the words barely above a whisper. "Someone who would have given anything to be here that night, to share that wine with you, to..." he trailed off, seeing the way your expression hardened at his evasion.

"Pretty words," you said, your voice flat.

"Wait," he called as you turned to leave. "I'll pay you. For private readings."

You paused, one eyebrow rising slightly. "Private readings?"

"Monologues, scenes, whatever you're working on." His words came faster now, desperate to keep you from walking away. "I meant what I said. Let me prove it."

You studied him for a long moment, your scripts still held tight against your chest. "You have coin for private readings?" Your tone was skeptical, though something else flickered in your expression – curiosity, perhaps.

"Name your price."

A small crease appeared between your brows as you considered him. "Why?"

"Because I want to understand," he said softly. "How you make people believe in the stories you tell. And I want to know you."

You were quiet for so long he thought you'd refuse. Then, slowly, you set your scripts down. "Three copper stars per hour," you said finally. "And you show up when you say you will, or the arrangement ends."

His heart leaped. "Done."

"Tomorrow evening then," you said, your tone still guarded but no longer cold. "After the last performance."

He nodded, relief flooding through him. "I'll be here," he promised, and this time, he'd make sure nothing – not even his mother's councils – would stop him.

You pulled the last torch from its bracket, extinguishing it with practiced efficiency. The theater fell into deeper shadow, lit only by a single remaining flame near the stage. Jacaerys watched as you moved through your closing routine, straightening props and gathering scattered programs.

"Help me with these chairs?" you asked, your tone lighter now than during your earlier conversation. He rushed to assist, eager to prove his reliability.

The scrape of wood against wood filled the quiet space as you worked together. When the last chair was properly placed, you pulled a ring of keys from your pocket.

"I usually stay late," you said, twirling the thick keys between your fingers. "Practice keeps the stories fresh, and it gives overeager admirers time to clear out." Your eyes sparkled with meaning in the low light. "Though some are more persistent than others."

Before Jacaerys could respond, you stepped closer. His breath caught as your hand reached for his hood, pulling it back just enough to see his face properly in the dim light.

"There you are," you murmured, studying him with renewed interest. "I was beginning to think you lived in that hood."

He stayed perfectly still, heart thundering as you examined him. Your fingers lingered near his jaw, not quite touching.

"Tomorrow then?" you asked, your voice taking on a teasing lilt. "Unless you plan to stand me up again?"

"I won't," he promised, his voice rougher than intended.

You smiled, stepping back. "We'll see." You moved toward the door, keys jingling. "Good night."

The way you said it – playful, almost knowing – made his pulse quicken. But you were already gone, leaving him alone in the theater's shadows, the ghost of your almost-touch burning on his skin.

***

Jacaerys stunk of fish. He was sure he had scales stuck under his fingernails from messily cleaning the slippery creatures in the early morning chill. The sea air clung to him, sharp and salty, mingling unpleasantly with the damp sweat on his brow. He cursed under his breath as he scrubbed his hands in the frigid water of a wooden basin, but no amount of scrubbing seemed to erase the stubborn scent.

The bath water had grown cold, but Jacaerys barely noticed. His muscles ached from hauling cargo, though the hot water had helped ease the worst of it. He scrubbed his skin again, determined to remove every trace of fish and salt. The scent had clung to him stubbornly, refusing to yield to even the strongest soaps.

He was nearly dozing, head tipped back against the copper rim, when a knock startled him fully awake.

"Decent?" Lucerys's voice called through the door.

"Give me a moment," Jacaerys sighed, reaching for a clean cloth. He'd barely finished dressing when Lucerys entered, expression already set in familiar lines of concern.

"The docks?" Lucerys asked, leaning against the doorframe. "Really?"

Jacaerys ran the cloth through his damp hair. "Grandsire was pleased."

"Grandsire would be pleased if you learned to juggle fish," Lucerys countered. "But that's not why you're doing it."

"Luke–"

"Just..." Lucerys paused, his young face serious. "Promise me you're not in trouble."

Jacaerys met his brother's worried gaze. "I promise. But I need you to keep this secret."

"Which part? The sneaking out or the fish-hauling?"

"Both."

Lucerys studied him for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Fine. But if you get caught–"

"I won't."

Jacaerys caught a whiff of soap from his sleeve. No trace of fish remained. He heaved a sigh, tossing the towel onto the nearest chair. "Fine." He paused, pinning his younger brother with a level look. "But you have to swear not to tell anyone. If you breathe a word, I’ll tell the septa you swore foolishly."

Lucerys’s face flushed a deep red. "You wouldn’t."

"Oh, I absolutely would," Jacaerys said with mock gravity. "So, do we have a deal?"

Lucerys hesitated, then huffed. "Fine. But if this is something stupid, I’m going straight to Mother."

"It’s not stupid," Jacaerys said, though the faintest smile tugged at his lips. He leaned in conspiratorially. "I met someone. In town."

Lucerys blinked. "What?"

"I met someone," he repeated. "She doesn’t know who I am. At least, not yet. She just thinks I’m a dockhand."

Lucerys stared at him like he’d grown a second head. "And this… someone… doesn’t recognize you as the prince? At all?"

Jacaerys shrugged. but the motion was stiff, his gaze skittering away from Lucerys's penetrating stare. "I… may not have been entirely honest with her," he admitted, voice dropping.

Lucerys’s eyes narrowed.

Jacaerys sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "I told her I was just a dockhand. A commoner."

For a moment, Lucerys just stared at him, his mouth slightly open in disbelief. "You lied to her? Does she even know your name?"

"Of course, she does," Jacaerys muttered. "Just not my full name."

Lucerys's expression darkened, and his hands curled into fists at his sides. "Are you insane? What were you thinking?"

"I don’t know!" Jacaerys snapped, his frustration boiling over. He began pacing the small room, his words tumbling out in a rush. "I don’t know why I did it. She was just so... kind. So wistful. So beautiful. She spoke to me like I was just another person, Luke, not a prince or a pawn in some court game. It was different. She’s different."

Lucerys’s face twisted in a snarl. "You’re a fool. This is reckless, Jace, even for you."

"Then don’t say anything," Jacaerys bit back, his tone hard. "You swore, remember?"

Lucerys hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. He shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. "Fine. But when this blows up in your face – and it will – don’t come crying to me."

Jacaerys didn’t reply, his silence heavy. For the first time, the faint scent of soap felt cloying instead of clean, and the weight of his choices pressed down on him, harder than any fish-laden barrel ever had.

All of his worries about the conversation with Lucerys – the bitter taste in his mouth and the tight pit of guilt in his stomach – melted away the moment he sneaked past the guards. The relief was instant, the tension draining from his shoulders as he let his hood fall lower over his face. He could barely contain the smile tugging at the corners of his lips, excitement bubbling up inside him.

He kept his hand firmly clutching his hood, not wanting to risk it slipping, though it wasn’t as if anyone would recognize him in the shadows. It was his little rebellion, this secret. The life he could steal away from his royal duties for just a few precious hours.

As he neared the theatre house, the muffled sounds of commotion and laughter leaked from the building’s walls, the excitement from inside spilling out into the night air. He could feel his pulse quicken, and without hesitation, he paid the man at the door – just as he had the other times.

He made his way through the narrow hallway, finally arriving at his usual spot – the seats tucked away behind a makeshift curtained backstage.

Jacaerys settled into the seat, adjusting the folds of his cloak. He exhaled slowly, leaning back, the first moments of peace he'd had all day flooding over him.

Then, as he shifted his weight, a hand rested lightly on his arm, squeezing just enough to send a thrill through his spine. His breath hitched as he turned toward the sound of his name, barely a whisper on your lips.

"Jace."

You were already painted for the play, your face a canvas of vibrant colors and delicate lines. The artistry of your makeup only accentuated your natural beauty, your eyes sparkling under the soft light. His heart skipped a beat, and for a long moment, he forgot how to breathe.

You were radiant, more than he could have ever imagined, and his mouth went dry. He gaped, unable to stop his gaze from lingering on you – your delicate features, the way your lips were painted, the playful yet mysterious expression in your eyes. He had seen you countless times before, but tonight, in the flickering shadows of the theatre, you felt otherworldly.

When your fingers brushed lightly against his arm again, the moment snapped back into reality. Your voice, soft and warm, stirred him from his daze. "Jace," you repeated, a gentle laugh in your tone, as if you were amused by the surprise in his eyes. "I need your help."

His mouth went dry, and he nodded quickly, standing up a bit too hastily.

"Come on," you coaxed, giving him a small, teasing look. "It won’t take long."

His mind was in chaos – his pulse still hammering in his ears, the lingering warmth of your touch on his sleeve – yet he couldn’t deny the pull of your invitation. Without another thought, he stood up, following you as you made your way past the curtains into the backstage area.

You smiled, a glimmer of mischief crossing your face. "Follow me," you said.

You led him backstage, the familiar scent of the theatre – of wood, ink, and the remnants of makeup – filling his senses as you guided him past the cluttered dressing rooms and hastily thrown-together props. The atmosphere back here was markedly different from the grandness of the performance, and Jacaerys couldn’t help but feel a sense of intimacy in the narrow hallways, the noise of the crowd just a distant hum.

When you stopped in front of a small mirror framed with tattered curtains, you turned to him, your hands moving through your hair with a practiced grace. You sat down, and reached for a string cord to tie your hair. You handed it to him.

He obeyed without thinking, though his hands were clammy and his chest tight with anticipation. "What... what do you need me to do?"

"I can’t get the braid right," you explained softly, your voice a gentle hum. "I always get tangled in the strands. It’s easier when someone else does it."

He nodded, trying to keep his breath steady, though his heart pounded in his chest. His hands were still – stiff at his sides.

Jacaerys hesitated, his hands feeling strangely foreign as they hovered over the delicate strands of your hair. He had grown up surrounded by brothers, never once considering that there would come a time when he'd need to braid someone’s hair. His mind scrambled for any kind of memory, any sort of knowledge about how to do this, but all he could recall were fleeting moments when he’d seen Baela and Rhaena’s handmaidens working deftly with their hair, and he’d never paid attention, too busy with other things.

His throat went dry, and he cleared it, trying to find his voice. You were looking at him expectantly.

You let out a light laugh, as if to ease the tension. "I’ve seen dockmen tie knots for the boats – braiding is not too different, right?" You gave him a playful, knowing look. "It’s just like that. Easy enough, I’m sure."

He could almost hear his own thoughts racing, trying to latch onto something that would help him make this moment less awkward. But the only thing that came to mind was the idea of knots. The docks. Boats. He felt completely out of his element.

He shifted uncomfortably, his hands still suspended in the air, and then, in a voice that was a little too thick with nerves, he answered, "I’ve never worked as a docksman for boats. Not really my thing."

Not really a lie, he comforted himself, he hadn’t worked with boat knots.

"I’m more on the cleaning-up side. Fish guts, mostly." He winced at the thought, but there was no hiding the truth in his words.

The image of him, his hands deep in fish guts, made you laugh softly, the sound light and musical. "Ah," you said, with a playful wink. "Well, at least you're used to working with your hands."

Jacaerys’s cheeks flushed at the implication, and he let out a sheepish breath. It wasn’t exactly the image he wanted to project, but there was something about your teasing that made it harder to feel embarrassed. He felt a strange warmth flood through him at the lightheartedness in your voice.

"I guess so," he mumbled, leaning closer to your hair, trying to focus on the task at hand. His fingers shook slightly as they brushed the strands, the delicate texture of your hair catching him off guard.

Your smile softened, and you tilted your head, making it easier for him to reach the strands you wanted braided. "It’s alright. I’m not picky," you assured him, your voice softening. "I just need it out of the way, you know?"

Jacaerys took a deep breath, trying to steady his trembling fingers. Your hair was silk against his hands – hands that just hours ago had been covered in fish scales and sea salt. He separated the strands carefully, remembering distantly how his mother's handmaidens would work, their movements quick and assured where his were hesitant. He pretended to know what he was doing.

"Like this?" he asked softly, attempting to weave the sections together. The result was clumsy, uneven, nothing like the elegant styles he'd seen at court.

You hummed encouragement, your eyes meeting his in the mirror. "Perfect," you said, though it clearly wasn't. "You have gentle hands for someone who handles fish all day."

He nearly dropped the strands at that, his chest tightening at the compliment. If you only knew how those hands had gripped dragon reins, had wielded training swords, had signed royal documents...

"I..." he started, then swallowed hard. "Thank you."

Your lips curved into a knowing smile. "You're blushing."

"It's warm back here," he muttered, focusing intently on the braid to hide his reddening cheeks.

"Mmhmm," you teased. "Nothing to do with being alone with an actress in her dressing room, then?"

His fingers fumbled, and the braid began to unravel. "I should start over," he said quickly, carefully undoing his messy work.

You laughed softly, the sound sending warmth spreading through his chest. "Take your time. The crowd's still filing in." You relaxed slightly, letting your head tilt back. "Tell me about your day? Did you catch anything interesting in those fish guts of yours?"

Jacaerys bit back a smile, grateful for the simple question even as guilt pricked at his conscience. "Nothing but the usual," he said, trying again with the braid. "Though there was one fish bigger than any I'd seen before. Nearly pulled me into the water when we hauled it in."

It wasn't entirely a lie – he had seen such a fish today, though he hadn't been the one to catch it. The dock workers had called him over to see it, proud of their unusual catch.

"I'm sure you handled it masterfully," you said, your eyes sparkling with mischief in the mirror. "My brave fishmonger."

His heart skipped at the possessive note in your voice, even as shame coiled in his stomach at the deception. He focused on the braid, his movements becoming more confident as he found a rhythm.

"There," he said finally, securing the end with the cord you'd given him. It wasn't perfect – nowhere near the intricate styles of court – but it would hold your hair back for the performance.

You turned your head, examining his work in the mirror. "Not bad at all," you said, reaching back to touch it gently. Your fingers brushed against his as you did, sending a jolt through his entire body. "You might have missed your call. Perhaps you should leave the fish guts behind and become a lady's hairdresser instead."

He laughed despite himself, the sound slightly strained. "I think I'll stick to the docks."

"Pity," you said, standing and turning to face him. In the small space, you were suddenly very close, close enough that he could see the individual brushstrokes of stage paint on your cheeks. "I rather enjoyed having you play with my hair."

Before he could respond, a voice called your name from beyond the curtain. "Five minutes!"

"Duty calls," you sighed, though you didn't move away immediately. "Will you watch tonight?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Good." You reached up, adjusting his hood slightly where it had slipped. "Try not to hide too much in those shadows of yours. I like seeing your face."

Then you were gone, sweeping past the curtain toward the stage, leaving Jacaerys alone with the lingering warmth of your presence and the phantom sensation of your hair between his fingers.

He touched his hood where your hand had been, his heart thundering in his chest. Every lie, every deception felt heavier now, weighted with something more than just guilt. But he couldn't think about that – not now, not when you were about to perform, not when you'd looked at him like that.

Taking a shaky breath, he made his way back to his seat, already knowing he wouldn't see a moment of the play. His mind would be too full of your smile in the mirror, your teasing words, and the way you'd called him yours, even if it was just in jest.

True to his prediction, Jacaerys barely registered the play. His mind kept drifting back to the dressing room, to your fingers brushing his, to the way you'd called him with that teasing lilt in your voice. Even now, hours later, his hands still tingled with the memory of your hair between his fingers.

The last patrons were filling out, their chatter fading into the night. You were moving about the stage, gathering props with practiced efficiency, but your movements seemed slower than usual, more deliberate. Every so often, your eyes would drift to where he sat, still in his shadowed corner.

His braid had held throughout your performance, though a few strands had escaped to frame your face. It made him oddly proud, seeing his handiwork survive your dramatic gestures and quick turns.

"Are you going to help," you called out without looking up, teasing tone "or just watch me work?"

Jacaerys started, realizing he'd been caught staring. He rose quickly, making his way to the stage. "What do you need?"

You glanced at him, a smile playing at your lips. "These need to go back to the prop room," you said, gesturing to a collection of wooden swords and painted shields. "Think your dock-strengthened arms can handle it?"

He gathered the props, careful not to let his familiarity with real weapons show in how he handled them. "I think I can manage."

You led him through the backstage area again, but this time there was no bustling energy, no rushed preparations. Just quiet, broken only by your footsteps and the occasional creak of old wood.

"Your braid is holding up well," he said softly as you walked.

"Mmm," you hummed, reaching back to touch it. "Perhaps I should keep you around. My own personal hairdresser who smells of fish."

"I don't smell of fish anymore," he protested, though he couldn't help but smile.

"No," you agreed, stopping at the prop room door. "You smell of soap. Too much soap, actually." You turned to face him, eyes glinting in the dim light. "Almost as if someone very deliberately tried to wash away the scent of honest work."

Jacaerys's heart stuttered. "I..."

"Careful with those," you said, nodding to the props in his arms, effectively cutting off his fumbling response. "Some of them are older than both of us combined."

The prop room was smaller than he'd imagined, cramped with shelves of costumes and worn set pieces. As he carefully placed the wooden swords in their designated spot, he was acutely aware of your presence behind him, of how the small space seemed to shrink further.

"You're different," you said suddenly.

He froze, his back still to you. "What do you mean?"

"From the other dock workers who come here." Your voice was thoughtful. "They watch the plays, sure, but not like you do. You watch like someone who understands the stories we're telling. Like someone who's read them before."

Jacaerys turned slowly, his throat tight. You were leaning against the doorframe, effectively blocking his exit, though he doubted that was your intention.

"Maybe I just like stories," he managed.

"Maybe," you agreed, but your eyes were sharp, searching. "Where do you live?" you asked, still blocking the doorway with casual grace. "For the readings. If you were serious about wanting them."

"I was," he said quickly – too quickly perhaps. "I am serious."

You tilted your head, studying him. "Then where? The dock district isn't far. We could use your home, if you'd prefer privacy for practice."

Jacaerys's mind raced. The thought of you anywhere near the castle made his chest tight with panic. "My home isn't... suitable," he said carefully.

"Not suitable?" Your eyebrow arched. "What, do you live with a dozen rowdy sailors?"

"It's..." he hesitated, searching for a plausible excuse. "Messy. Very messy. And small." The lie felt clumsy on his tongue.

"Messy," you repeated, and something in your tone made him nervous. "You know, for someone who claims to love stories, you're not very good at telling them."

His heart skipped. "I'm not lying."

"No?" You stepped closer, and in the cramped space of the prop room, there was nowhere for him to retreat. He swallowed hard. "The stage," he blurted out.

You paused. "What?"

"For the readings," he clarified, seizing the chance to change topics. "We could use the stage. You're here late anyway, closing up. It would be perfect – good acoustics, proper space to move..." He trailed off, watching your expression shift from suspicion to consideration.

"The stage," you mused, and he could see you warming to the idea. "It would be fitting, I suppose. Though you'd have to help me close up properly first."

"Of course," he agreed quickly, relief flooding through him. "Whatever you need."

You studied him for another long moment, and he fought the urge to pull his hood lower. Finally, you smiled – that warm, teasing smile that made his chest ache.

The stage felt different in the near-darkness, with only two torches casting long shadows across the worn boards. You sat cross-legged at its edge, a small, leather-bound book in your hands. Jacaerys noticed how carefully you held it, as if it were something precious.

"I brought something," you said, running your fingers along the book's spine. "It's... well, it's not exactly high literature." You laughed softly, almost self-consciously. "I found it while cleaning my shelves. I used to read it constantly when I was younger."

Jacaerys settled beside you, leaving just enough space between you to be proper, but close enough to see the way the torchlight caught the slight flush in your cheeks.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A story about a merchant's daughter who stows away on a trading ship," you said, opening the book with practiced care. "She disguises herself as a cabin boy to see the world." You paused, glancing at him. "It's rather juvenile, I suppose. I should have brought something more sophisticated for this, but..."

"No," Jacaerys said quickly. "I'd like to hear it."

He shifted closer, not wanting to miss a single word. The playfulness, the teasing from earlier, seemed to vanish in this quieter space, replaced by something more vulnerable, more raw.

You opened the book, and the soft rustling of the pages filled the silence as your voice began to weave through the room. The story was indeed simple, a tale of youthful adventure and impossible dreams, but there was a certain magic in the way you read. You held onto the book with only one hand as you recited the lines playfully, moving around the stage like you owned it.

Your eyes flickered to his occasionally, perhaps searching for something in his expression, but he could never meet your gaze for long. His mind, far too preoccupied, ran with the warmth of your presence, the flutter of your fingers near his, the way you’d laughed at his earlier attempts with your hair. The way he wanted so badly to be someone else, someone worthy of what you had to offer.

As the story ended, you closed the book with a soft thud, letting the silence settle between you like a blanket.

Jacaerys hadn't moved from where he sat, leaning back on his hands with his gaze fixed on the stage floor as if still lost in the tale you'd shared.

With a playful grin, you shifted onto your stomach, then rolled onto your back, draping yourself along the edge of the stage. Your head tipped over the side, hair cascading down in a curtain toward the floor, and your upside-down gaze caught his.

"You look like you're a thousand leagues away," you teased, your voice laced with amusement. "Did I lose you in the second chapter, or are you still picturing the cabin boy's grand escape?"

Jacaerys blinked, startled from his thoughts, and his eyes softened as they met yours. Upside down, his lips curled into a shy smile, and the torchlight caught the faintest trace of color in his cheeks.

"I was thinking about how well you told it."

You arched a brow, toying idly with the braid he'd clumsily woven earlier. "Well, I am an actress. Storytelling comes with the territory."

"Not just that," he said, his gaze flicking briefly to your hands as you played with the braid, then back to your face. "Your voice – it's... suited for poetry. Or recitals. You make the words feel alive."

Your playful grin softened into something more genuine as you watched him. Upside down or not, you could see the sincerity in his expression, the way his admiration seemed almost reluctant, as though he was revealing more than he meant to.

"That's high praise from a dockhand," you teased lightly, though your voice carried a touch of gratitude. "Should I add 'poetry readings' to our stage practices?"

He chuckled, the sound soft and genuine. "If anyone could make a dockhand appreciate poetry, it would be you."

You laughed at that, the sound ringing through the empty theater, and you shifted upright, pulling your braid over your shoulder and inspecting it. "Have you got any sisters?"

"Brothers," he corrected.

"Ah," you said, twisting the end of the braid between your fingers as you gave him a thoughtful look. "That explains it, then. No sisters to pester you into learning how to braid properly."

Jacaerys huffed a quiet laugh, his lips twitching into a wry smile. "I suppose not. Though I’m beginning to think I’ve missed out on an essential skill."

You tilted your head, feigning seriousness. "Absolutely. A man who can braid hair is a rare treasure."

He shook his head, his smile growing as he leaned back on his hands. "I’ll keep that in mind. Though I doubt my brothers would agree."

"Probably not," you said with a laugh, leaning forward slightly, your elbows propped on your knees. "How many brothers do you have, then? Enough to form a little troupe of your own?"

"Four," he replied, his expression softening as he spoke of them.

A beat of silence.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked, his voice hesitant, as though testing the waters for something delicate.

You turned slightly, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. "Of course. What's on your mind?"

He hesitated again, his gaze flicking to the ground before meeting yours. "I... I hope this doesn’t offend you," he started, his tone cautious, "but I was wondering... How is it that you can read? I mean, it’s not... common, for someone who's not of noble blood."

His words hung in the air, and you could see the uncertainty in his expression, as though he feared he'd crossed some invisible line.

You gave him a reassuring smile, one that carried no offense.

"It’s a fair question," you said, your tone light and easy. "I wasn’t born into nobility, if that's what you're thinking. But I was fortunate enough to grow up in a place where books were more than just decoration."

Jacaerys looked at you, still uncertain but with a glimmer of intrigue in his eyes. "I didn’t mean to–"

"You didn’t offend me," you interrupted gently, stepping closer to him. "Where I grew up, stories mattered. Not just noble ones, but those passed down through the workers, the farmers, the people. And the only way to keep them alive was to read." You paused, your expression softening as you thought back. "Books were a window to something bigger. So, I made sure to learn."

His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, it seemed like he was seeing you in a different light, as if you were a story he hadn't yet fully understood. "I admire that," he said quietly, a note of genuine respect in his voice. "It’s rare to find someone who values stories that way."

You shrugged, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "I suppose it helps to have a bit of stubbornness in you, too." You gave him a teasing look. "Besides, there are some things that can’t be learned without a little persistence."

He chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing. "True enough," he said, his smile soft and unguarded. "Maybe I should learn a few things from you."

You returned his smile, warmth filling your chest as you looked at him, a connection lingering between you that felt both unspoken and understood. "I think you'd be a quick study," you said, stepping back with a final glance.

You smiled. Jacaerys was sure he could get used to it.

***

The sun was high and merciless when you found him at the docks, his face smudged with dirt and hands glistening with fish scales. You weaved through the busy workers with practiced ease, though Jacaerys noticed how eyes followed your progress – dock hands, merchants, even his grandfather's guards trying to be discrete in their observation of their prince.

His heart thundered as you approached, but your smile was as bright as ever, seemingly oblivious to the attention surrounding him. "There's my favorite fishmonger," you called out cheerfully.

Jacaerys relaxed slightly, though he couldn't help glancing around to gauge if anyone had heard. But you didn't seem to notice anything amiss about the way conversations had hushed, about how people kept stealing glances in their direction.

"Let me wash up," he said quickly, already moving toward a water barrel. As he scrubbed the fish scales from his hands, you leaned against a nearby post, watching the bustling dock activity with interest.

"I brought the books I mentioned," he said, drying his hands on his rough-spun shirt. "From that old section of town I told you about."

"The one where the castle's maesters get their volumes?" Your eyes lit up with curiosity. "I still can't believe you found such a place. Have you seen them there? The maesters? Or..." you paused, a different kind of interest crossing your face, "any of the royal family?"

His throat went dry. "I... try to keep to myself when I'm there."

"I've only heard whispers," you continued, unaware of his panic. "Especially about the heir – Prince Jacaerys." You laughed softly, a slight flush coloring your cheeks. "The way some speak of him, you'd think he was something out of a story. Beautiful beyond belief, they say. Dark hair like moonlight, eyes like amethysts." You rolled your eyes. "It seems rather far-fetched, doesn't it? No one can be that lovely."

He nearly choked on air, but you didn't notice, too caught up in your thoughts.

Jacaerys was grateful for the dirt still smudged on his face – it helped hide his burning cheeks. "Perhaps they exaggerate," he managed.

"Oh, certainly," you agreed, a snort coming out of your throat. You looked at his messily washed hands. "You must think of me to be a gossip…"

"Not at all," Jacaerys said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Though I'm surprised you pay attention to such rumors."

You shrugged, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Well, when half your audience consists of castle servants and dock workers, you hear things. Apparently, this prince is quite the scholar too – languages, history, dragon lore." You nudged his arm playfully. "Nothing like my simple fishmonger who can barely get through a scene without stumbling over the big words."

He made a sound of protest that came out more strangled than intended. "I don't stumble that much."

"Oh? What about last night's reading? 'Inexorable' had you tangled for a good minute."

"The light was poor," he muttered, though his lips twitched with suppressed amusement at the irony. He'd learned that word at six, but deliberately mispronouncing it had made you laugh so beautifully.

"Of course," you agreed, your tone teasing. "Just like how the light was poor when you couldn't read 'magnanimous.' And 'perpetuity.' And–"

"Yes, yes," he cut in, unable to hold back a smile. "We can't all be as learned as Prince Jacaerys."

You laughed, the sound drawing more attention from the dock workers. "Gods, can you imagine? Teaching theatre to a prince?" You struck an exaggerated noble pose. "'No, Your Highness, you're holding the script all wrong. More feeling in the death scene, if it please Your Grace!'"

Jacaerys nearly bit through his tongue trying not to react. "You'd probably make him practice until he got it right," he said, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Naturally. Crown or no crown, proper dramatic timing waits for no man." You grinned, then glanced at the sun's position. "Speaking of timing, I should go. Rehearsal soon." You started to turn, then paused. "You'll be there tonight?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Good. And try to wash your face properly before you come. You've got a smudge right..." you reached out, thumb brushing his cheek. The touch sent warmth spreading across his skin, and he had to resist the urge to lean into it. "There. Though I suppose a little dirt suits you. Makes you look more..." you searched for the word, "authentic."

You shifted the books to one arm, reaching into a hidden pocket of your dress with your free hand.

Jacaerys expected you to pull out the coins he'd given you for lessons. Instead, you produced a small wrapped pastry, slightly squashed but still warm.

"The baker's wife likes our performances," you explained, offering it to him. "She gives us treats sometimes, when we have good shows. This one's honey and apple – I thought you might be hungry, working all day in the sun."

The simple kindness of the gesture made his chest tight. Here you were, sharing what little you had with someone you thought was a common dock worker, while he played at poverty with a prince's purse.

"You don't have to–" he started, but you pressed the pastry into his hands.

"Take it," you insisted. "You're too thin for someone who carries fish all day." Your eyes sparkled with mischief.

As you walked away, weaving through the crowd with natural grace, Jacaerys touched the spot where your thumb had been. He caught sight of his grandsire watching from the harbor master's office, one eyebrow raised in obvious amusement.

Well, at least someone was enjoying this.

The theater felt smaller at night, more intimate with just the two of you seated on the stage's edge, legs dangling over the side. You held one of his poetry books in your lap, fingers tracing the gilded edges with obvious reverence

"This binding," you murmured, "it's beautiful. Are you sure you found this in some old bookshop?" You glanced at him sideways. "It looks more like something from the castle library."

Jacaerys's heart skipped, but he kept his voice steady. "The old quarter has its secrets."

You hummed thoughtfully, opening to a marked page. "Listen to this one: 'The sea at dawn holds secrets in her depths, while dragons dance on clouds of morning light...'" You paused, looking up at him. "It's about Dragonstone, isn't it? The way the dragons patrol at sunrise?"

"You've seen them?" he asked carefully

"Everyone has. They're hard to miss." You smiled, turning back to the book. "Though I've never seen them quite like this poet describes. 'Dancing on clouds' – it makes them sound almost gentle."

"They can be," Jacaerys said without thinking. "When they want to be."

You raised an eyebrow. "Speaking from experience, are you?"

He coughed, quickly backtracking. "I just mean... from what I've observed. From the docks."

"Mm." You returned to the poem, but there was something knowing in your smile that made him nervous. "'While sailors dream of distant shores unknown, their vessels rock in harbor's gentle sway...'" Your voice softened on the words. "It's lovely. Sad, though. All that longing for something just out of reach."

Jacaerys watched your profile in the torchlight, the way your lips moved slightly as you read silently ahead. "Do you ever feel that way?" he asked quietly. "Longing for something distant?"

You were quiet for a moment, fingers still running along the page's edge. "Sometimes," you admitted. "When I'm performing, I can be anyone, go anywhere. But when the play ends..." You shrugged, trying to keep your tone light. "Well, we can't all be princes and princesses, can we?"

The irony of your words made his chest ache. "Would you want to be?" he asked, genuinely curious. "A princess?"

You laughed, the sound echoing in the empty theater. "Gods, maybe. But I prefer my freedom, limited as it might be." You bumped his shoulder playfully. "Though I wouldn't mind access to a library like this. Where did you say you found these books again?"

"I didn't," he said, managing a small smile. "Trade secret."

"Secretive dock worker," you teased, turning another page. "With your mysterious books and your perfect manners and your..." you trailed off, something catching your attention in the text. "Oh, this is beautiful. 'In silence dwells the truth we dare not speak, while hearts beat poetry in darkened halls...'"

"What's this?" you asked, tilting the book to catch the torchlight. Your finger traced elegant script in the margin – notes in High Valyrian that Jacaerys instantly recognized as his own. His stomach dropped.

"I didn't know you read High Valyrian."

"I don't," he said too quickly. "Those notes were already there when I got the book."

You hummed thoughtfully, studying the writing. "Strange. The ink looks fresh." Your eyes met his, curious and sharp. "And these appear throughout the book, always in the same hand. Whoever owned it before must have loved poetry deeply."

Jacaerys shifted uncomfortably. Those notes were his thoughts on meter and metaphor, written late at night in his chamber. He'd forgotten they were there.

"Most dock workers I know can barely read the Common Tongue," you continued, your tone deliberately casual. "Let alone write scholarly notes in High Valyrian."

"Lucky find, I suppose," he managed, voice tight.

You traced another annotation with your finger. "Very lucky." There was something in your voice – not quite an accusation, but close. His heart hammered. "We should practice the next scene," he said, reaching for the book.

You let him take it, but your eyes lingered on his face. "Yes," you said softly. "We should."

The weight of unasked questions hung between you for the rest of the evening.

Jacaerys barely heard the words, too caught up in watching how the torchlight played across your face, how your voice gave life to verses he'd read a hundred times before. This was dangerous, he knew. Every moment he spent with you only made the truth harder to hide, harder to deny.

But as you read on, your voice painting pictures in the darkness, he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Here," Jacaerys said, reaching for the coins in his pocket, but you placed your hand over his, stoppin

"Don't," you said softly. The warmth of your touch made his breath catch. "You've been paying for almost a month now."

"But the readings–"

"Have been the highlight of my evenings," you finished, your fingers still resting lightly on his. "I would have done this for free from the start, if you hadn't been so insistent."

He stared at your joined hands, his pulse quickening. "I don't want to take advantage–"

"Of what?" You laughed, the sound low and warm in the quiet theater. "Of the pleasure of my company?" Your thumb brushed across his knuckles, deliberate and gentle. "Of sharing beautiful words in an empty theater?"

"I–" he started, but you cut him off again.

"If you try to pay me," you said, leaning closer, "I might actually be upset." Your eyes sparkled in the torchlight as you tilted your head. You reached two fingers to grab his chin, tilting it towards you. "You wouldn't make me sad, would you?"

The teasing lilt in your voice made his stomach flip. "No," he managed.

"Good." You squeezed his hand once before letting go, but you didn't move away. "Because I've grown quite fond of our evenings together."

Your smile was warm, inviting, and for a moment he let himself forget about the deception, about the weight of his true identity.

"As have I," he said softly, meaning it more than you could know.

You carefully closed the poetry book, but kept it in your lap, your fingers tracing the ornate cover. "Tomorrow, then? Unless you have some urgent dock business to attend to?"

The gentle mockery in your tone made him smile despite himself. "Tomorrow," he agreed, even as his conscience whispered warnings about how dangerous this was becoming.

But as you rose to leave, the book cradled against your chest like something precious, he knew he'd keep coming back, keep risking discovery, just to share these moments with you in the torch-lit dark.

***

The weeks had blurred together, each day measured not by council meetings or lessons but by the hours until he could return to the theater. His excuses about dock work had become routine, practiced, though perhaps too easily offered. Even Lucerys had stopped giving him suspicious looks, accepting his absences with a shrug.

Tonight, he barely waited for his mother to conclude the court session before excusing himself, the formalities of his royal duties quickly discarded in favor of a more pressing engagement. As soon as he reached his chambers, the ornate rings on his fingers were removed with haste, their weight clinking together softly as he shoved them into his pocket. His movements were hurried, a far cry from his usual careful precision, as he threw on the coarse cloak he kept for these clandestine outings. With a quick, practiced motion, he ruffled his hair, ensuring he looked less like a prince and more like any other man seeking anonymity.

But when he reached the theater, you weren't in your usual place. Instead, you stood outside, leaning against the wall with an expectant smile and a coat that was far too thin to fight off the bite of the cold night. The chill painted your cheeks a soft pink, and your arms were crossed, whether for warmth or simply to chastise him, he couldn't tell.

"I thought we might walk tonight," you said, pushing off from the wall. "The air's too sweet to waste indoors."

His heart jumped. The streets would be busy, the lighting better, the chances of being recognized exponentially higher. But you were already moving, glancing back at him with that teasing smile he couldn't resist.

The rings felt heavy in his pocket as he fell into step beside you, his hood pulled low against the evening light.

You led him past the rows of market stalls just beginning to close for the night, past a group of minstrels tuning their instruments, and into a quieter part of the city where the cobblestones glistened faintly with frost. He adjusted his hood every time the two of you walked past people. The hum of the crowd faded, replaced by the soft crunch of your footsteps and the occasional laugh or song drifting from a nearby tavern.

"You're quiet tonight," you said after a while, casting him a sideways glance. Your voice was light, teasing, but he caught the question beneath it.

Jace’s lips parted, then closed again as he fumbled for an answer. "Just... tired," he managed, though the weight of the word didn’t begin to encompass the whirlwind of thoughts battering his mind.

You hummed softly, unconvinced, but didn’t press. Instead, you slowed your pace, falling into step beside him. The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, but charged with something unspoken.

"Tell me about your day?" you said, turning to look at him.

Jacaerys hesitated, his fingers brushing against the rings in his pocket. "Fish," he said finally, managing a small smile. "Lots of fish."

You laughed, the sound bright in the cool evening air. "How descriptive. No wonder you need help with readings." You bumped your shoulder against his playfully. "Come now, surely you can do better than that. What kind of fish? Any particularly memorable ones? Anything fun?"

Your eyes sparkled with mischief. "Or did you spend the whole day swooning over thoughts of our next reading session?"

Heat crept up his neck, and he was grateful for the hood's shadows. "The fish weren't very talkative today," he said, trying to match your playful tone. "Though one did give me a rather judgmental look."

"Ah, a critic!" You clasped your hands dramatically. "Was it worse than my reaction to your first attempt at that love sonnet?"

"Nothing could be worse than that," he groaned, remembering how you'd barely contained your laughter at his overly stiff delivery.

"You've improved," you said, your voice softening. "Though you still hold yourself like you're expecting someone to paint your portrait at any moment."

His heart stuttered. "I do not–"

"Yes, you do." You reached up suddenly, tugging at his hood. "Just like now, all proper and–"

He caught your wrist gently, his pulse racing. "Don't."

Instead of pulling away, you let your hand rest in his grip. "Sorry," you asked softly. "What are you hiding under there, my mysterious fishmonger? A second head?"

"Hey," you said gently, turning your hand in his grip until your fingers intertwined. "I'm not really trying to pry. Whatever your secrets are..." You squeezed his hand. "They're yours to keep."

The simple acceptance in your voice made his chest ache. He wanted to tell you everything – about the councils, the lessons, the suffocating weight of duty. Instead, he just held your hand tighter, letting you lead him through the quiet streets.

"Though," you added after a moment, your tone lightening, "if you are hiding a second head under there, I do think I deserve to know. As your reading instructor, of course. It would explain your trouble with dialogue – having to coordinate two mouths and all."

The tension broke, and he found himself laughing despite everything. "Just the one head, I'm afraid."

"Pity. Think of the dramatic possibilities." You swung your joined hands between you like children might. "We could do all those twin soliloquies from the classical plays."

"You're ridiculous," he said fondly.

"Mm, and yet you keep coming back." You glanced at him, your smile soft in the dim light. "Must be my charming personality. Or perhaps you've fallen madly in love with my collection of dusty books."

His heart skipped at the word 'love', though he managed to keep his voice steady. "The books are very dusty."

"A key feature," you agreed solemnly. "I select them specifically for their dust content." You paused at a corner, turning to face him fully. "Speaking of which, I found another one I think you'll like. Unless you're tired of stories about people pretending to be something they're not?"

The irony wasn't lost on him, but your knowing smile held no judgment, only warmth. "Never," he said softly.

A group of late-night revelers passed nearby, their loud laughter breaking the moment. Jacaerys instinctively pulled back, his hand falling from your waist, but you kept your fingers firmly laced with his.

"So skittish," you teased, though there was a question in your eyes. "Always ready to disappear into those shadows of yours."

"Not always," he protested, squeezing your hand.

"No?" You tilted your head, studying what little you could see of his face. "Prove it. Stay in the light with me, just for a moment."

His heart raced. "I..."

"Not the hood," you added quickly, seeing his tension. "Just... stay. Here. With me." You stepped closer again, your free hand finding its way back to his chest. "Unless you have somewhere more important to be?"

The weight of his rings seemed to burn in his pocket, but Jacaerys could only focus on the warmth of your touch, the hope in your expression. "No," he said softly. "Nowhere more important than this."

"You're standing very close," you murmured, though you made no move to step away. Your joined hands were warm despite the night's chill, and your free hand still rested against his chest, surely feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

"Am I?" Jacaerys managed, his voice rougher than intended. The moonlight caught in your hair, turning the loose strands to silver, and he fought the urge to brush them back from your face.

You hummed, a smile playing at your lips. "Quite close. Almost improper for a simple dock worker." Your fingers traced an idle pattern on his chest. "What would people think?"

"Let them think what they will," he said softly, surprising himself with his boldness.

Your smile widened. "My, my. And here I thought you were shy." You tilted your face up to his, though his hood still cast shadows between you. "Are you going to kiss me? Or shall we stand here all night, scandalizing the good people of the town?"

Jacaerys's breath caught. The rings in his pocket seemed to grow heavier, a reminder of everything he was risking. But you were so close, your eyes bright with invitation, and he found himself leaning forward despite every warning his conscience screamed.

He laughed softly, the tension breaking just enough for him to find his courage. "Scandalizing the town sounds like a fine way to spend the night," he murmured, and closed the distance between you.

The kiss was gentle, tentative – everything a first kiss should be. Your lips were soft against his, and you tasted faintly of the mint leaves you chewed before performances. Your hand slid up to cup his jaw, careful not to disturb his hood, and he marveled at how you could be so mindful of his secrets even in this moment.

Your lips moved against his with a softness that stole his breath. You tilted your head slightly, drawing him closer, and the touch of your hand against his chest lingered, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his tunic. The kiss stretched on, slow and unhurried, filled with unspoken promises and a warmth that made the chill of the evening irrelevant.

Jacaerys felt your breath against his skin, the faintest sigh escaping as you pulled him closer, and something in his chest tightened, equal parts exhilaration and disbelief. His thumb grazed the back of your hand where your fingers remained intertwined with his, the subtle motion grounding him even as his heart thundered.

When you finally pulled back, your smile was radiant. "Well," you said, slightly breathless, "I suppose that's one way to keep warm."

He laughed, resting his forehead against yours. "Is that all it was? A practical measure against the cold?"

"Mmm, perhaps not." Your fingers traced his jaw, light as a whisper. "I might need another demonstration to be sure."

This time when he kissed you, there was nothing tentative about it. His free hand found your waist, drawing you closer as your fingers curled into his cloak. This kiss was different – deeper, hungrier. Your mouth opened under his with a soft gasp that made his head spin. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you flush against him as your fingers slid into his hair beneath the hood, careful even in your passion not to disturb his disguise.

The taste of mint was stronger now, mixed with something uniquely you that made his heart race. Your tongue brushed his, tentative at first, then with growing confidence as he responded in kind. The world narrowed to just this – the press of your body against his, the quiet sound you made when his teeth grazed your bottom lip, the way your fingers tightened in his hair.

The kiss turned messy, desperate, months of tension finally breaking. Your back hit the wall beside you, though neither of you remembered moving. His hood cast both your faces in shadow, creating a private world where titles and duties couldn't reach. Your joined hands finally separated, allowing you to grab fistfuls of his cloak while his freed hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that contrasted with the heat of your kiss.

A door slammed nearby, startling you apart. A group of merchants passed by, paying them no mind, but Jacaerys's heart raced for entirely different reasons now. The reality of the situation crashed back over him – who he was, who you thought he was, all the lies between you.

But you just smiled, squeezing his hand. He exhaled a laugh, hand running over his face to try to hide away his flushing.

You fell silent, you just looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity. His thumb brushing over your cheek and your fingers running along his jawline.

You squeezed his hand once before letting go. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Always," he promised, meaning it more than you could know.

Your smile turned playful again. "Good. I have a particularly flowery sonnet picked out, just for you."

He groaned, but his chest felt light despite the lateness of the hour. "Cruel woman."

"You love it," you called after him as he started to walk away.

He did. Gods help him, he really did.

The soft clink of metal against stone barely registered at first, lost in the echo of retreating footsteps and the lingering warmth of his kiss. But something made you turn, some instinct drawing your eyes to the ground where moonlight caught on gold as he walked away.

The ring laid there, innocent and damning all at once. Your fingers trembled slightly as you picked it up, its weight surprisingly substantial for such a delicate thing. In the dim light, you could make out the craftsmanship – the kind of detail that spoke of master artisans, of wealth beyond anything you'd ever known. The sapphire caught the moonlight, seeming to glow from within, while intricate patterns wrapped around the band like elegant whispers of another world.

This was no dock worker's trinket. No simple sailor's keepsake.

Your mind raced backward through every interaction, every careful movement, every measured word. The way he held himself, even in commoner's clothes. The educated lilt to his speech that he tried so hard to hide. His intimate knowledge of the stories you performed, stories that most dock workers wouldn't have heard, let alone read.

The pieces clicked into place with devastating clarity. The careful way he kept his hood low, how he stiffened when anyone walked too close. His mysterious absences. The books, his lack of knowledge about the dock, the annotations on the stories.

You touched your lips, still tingling from his kiss. A prince. You'd kissed a prince. You'd teased him, mocked his posture, made him read love poetry in funny voices. You'd casually touched his hand, brushed his hair, pulled at his hood...

Horror and hysteria warred in your chest. How many times had you called him 'my brave fishmonger'? How many times had you laughed at his 'dock worker' stories, knowing they rang false but never imagining the truth could be quite so... impossible?

The ring felt suddenly heavy in your palm, its presence undeniable proof of a reality you weren't sure you were ready to face. You closed your fingers around the ring, its edges pressing into your skin.

The practical part of your mind whispered that you should forget this, drop the ring in the harbor and pretend you'd never seen it. The curious part wanted to confront him, to demand answers to questions you weren't sure you had the right to ask.

But mostly, you remembered the way he looked at you when you performed, like you were creating magic with mere words. The way he laughed, free and unguarded, when you teased him. The gentle touch of his hands as he helped you stack chairs after performances.

Prince or not, those moments had been real. Hadn't they?

You slipped the ring into your pocket, its weight a constant reminder of the choice you now faced. Tomorrow, he would come again, hood low and stance careful, playing at being a simple dock worker. And you would have to decide – pretend you knew nothing, confront him with the truth, or...

Your fingers brushed the ring through your pocket. Your mind rushing through all the possible outcomes.

***

Jacaerys tore through his chambers like a storm, upending cushions and emptying drawers with increasing desperation. The morning sun streamed through his windows, highlighting the chaos he'd created – clothes strewn across chairs, books scattered on the floor, his bed linens tangled from his frantic searching.

"Seven hells," he muttered, running his hands through his already disheveled hair. He'd checked his pockets three times, retraced his steps through the castle twice, and even gone back to the servant's corridor he'd used for his return.

A knock at his door made him freeze.

"Jace?" Lucerys's voice carried through the wood. "Are you ready for breakfast? Mother's asking–"

Jacaerys yanked the door open, startling his younger brother. "Where is it?" he demanded.

Lucerys blinked at him, then at the disaster behind him. "Where's what?"

"My ring." Jacaerys grabbed his brother's shoulders. "The sapphire one. Did you take it? As some sort of lesson about sneaking out?”

"What? No!" Lucerys shrugged off his grip, indignation clear on his young face. "Why would I–" He stopped, taking in Jacaerys's wild appearance. "Gods, you really lost it?"

"I didn't lose it," Jacaerys snapped, though panic was clawing at his chest. "I just... misplaced it."

"Mother's ring?" Lucerys's eyes widened. "The one she gave you for your nameday?"

Jacaerys slumped against the doorframe. "Yes," he whispered.

"Well, when did you last have it?" Lucerys asked, his anger shifting to concern.

Jacaerys's mind raced back through the previous night. He'd removed it before leaving, along with his other rings. He'd put them in his pocket, not wanting to leave them in his chambers where they might be discovered. Then...

The blood drained from his face as realization struck. The walk through the city. Your hand in his. The way he'd moved so quickly when those revelers passed...

"Jace?" Lucerys's voice seemed to come from far away. "You look like you're going to be sick."

"I have to go," Jacaerys said abruptly, pushing past his brother.

"Go? Go where? What about breakfast? Mother's expecting–"

"Cover for me," Jacaerys called over his shoulder, already halfway down the corridor. "Please, Luke."

He took the steps two at a time, his mind spinning with possibilities, each worse than the last. If someone had found it, if they recognized the craftsmanship, if word got back to the castle...

But worse than all of that was the thought that you might have found it. You, with your sharp eyes and sharper wit. You, who'd already noticed so many inconsistencies in his story.

The ring would confirm every suspicion, answer every question he'd deflected. And then what? Would you hate him for the deception? Would you understand why he'd lied? Would you...

He burst out of the castle, not even bothering with his usual careful exit routes. He had to find that ring. Had to get to the theater before everything he'd built these past weeks came crashing down around him.

Behind him, Lucerys watched from a window, shaking his head as his brother disappeared into the morning crowd. "Idiot," he muttered, though there was fondness in his voice. Then he turned to head to breakfast, already composing excuses for their mother.

The morning sun was merciless, offering far too much light as Jacaerys retraced your path from the night before. His hood was pulled so low he could barely see, but he couldn't risk being recognized – not now, not like this. His hands trembled as he searched, checking every crack between the cobblestones, every shadow where something might have rolled.

The street looked different in daylight. What had been intimate and magical in the evening was now harsh and exposed. Dock workers rushed past him, giving odd looks to the hooded figure crawling along the ground. He ignored them, focusing on each step, each possible spot where the ring might have fallen.

Here – this was where you'd taken his hand. He'd adjusted his hood then, his other hand brushing against his pocket. Had it fallen here? He ran his fingers along the edges of the stones, feeling for any glint of metal, any catch of sapphire against the morning light.

And there – that corner was where you'd pulled him close, where he'd nearly forgotten himself entirely. The memory of your touch made his chest ache, but he pushed it aside, focusing on his desperate search. His knees were dirty now, his fine clothes beneath the rough cloak covered in street dust, but he didn't care.

A group of children ran past, nearly bowling him over. He steadied himself against a wall, the same wall where you'd stood so close, where you'd offered him a kiss... He shook his head. He couldn't think about that now.

"Come on," he muttered, dropping to his knees again to check beneath a merchant's stall. "Where are you?"

The ring had to be here somewhere. It couldn't have just vanished. Unless... unless someone had already found it. Unless it was already being examined by curious hands, its royal craftsmanship raising questions he couldn't answer.

Or worse – what if you had found it? What if you were holding it right now, finally understanding every lie, every evasion, every careful deflection? The thought made him feel sick.

He'd been so careful for weeks, maintaining his disguise, watching his words. And now, because he'd been distracted by your smile, by the warmth of your hand in his, by the promise of a kiss... everything could come crashing down because of a single ring.

The irony wasn't lost on him. A prince of the realm, crawling through the streets like a beggar, searching for proof of the very identity he'd been trying to hide. If his mother could see him now...

But he couldn't stop. Not until he'd searched every inch of your path together, not until he was certain. Even as the morning grew warmer and the streets more crowded, he kept looking, his desperation mounting with each passing moment.

The ring wasn't just jewelry – it was a symbol of everything he stood to lose. His mother's trust, his carefully constructed freedom, and most importantly, your smile. Your teasing voice. Your gentle acceptance of his secrets, even when you knew he was hiding something.

Would you be so understanding when you discovered just how much he'd hidden? When you realized every moment between you had been built on lies?

The sun climbed higher, and still he searched, his heart growing heavier with each empty corner, each unremarkable shadow. Somewhere in this maze of streets lay the truth he'd been trying to keep hidden, just waiting to be discovered.

And somewhere, perhaps, you were already finding it.

The walk back to the castle felt endless. Each step seemed to echo with accusations, with imagined scenarios of you finding the ring, recognizing its royal craftsmanship, realizing every word he'd spoken had been wrapped in lies. His stomach churned with a sickness that had nothing to do with the morning's frantic searching.

He could see it all too clearly – if you’d found it – you, holding the sapphire ring up to the light, watching it catch the same way your eyes did when you smiled. Would you recognize the dragon motifs worked into the gold? Would you remember the stories you'd performed of ancient Valyrian princes and their deceptions? Would you hate him for becoming one of those characters you portrayed with such devastating accuracy?

The thought of your warm teasing turning cold, of your gentle touches becoming withdrawn, made him physically ill. He'd seen how you looked at the nobles who sometimes attended your performances – with a careful distance, a practiced deference that never reached your eyes. The thought of you looking at him that way, with that same calculated restraint, was unbearable.

But worse than the anger he imagined was the hurt he knew would follow. You, who had shared your stories, your laughter, your quiet moments after performances. You, who had trusted him enough to walk the nighttime streets hand in hand, to offer...

He pressed his palm against his mouth, remembering how close you'd been, how your lips had almost... If you found that ring now, would you think he'd been playing with you? Some bored noble amusing himself with a common theater performer?

The reality was so much worse – and so much simpler. He'd fallen in love with you. Completely, irrevocably, despite every reason he shouldn't. Despite knowing it could never last. Despite the weight of duty and tradition that hung around his neck like an iron chain.

As he slipped back into his chambers through the servant's passage, his head pounded with questions he couldn't answer. Should he go to the theater tonight, try to explain if you'd found it? Should he stay away, let you hate him from a distance rather than see the moment trust turned to betrayal in your eyes?

He collapsed onto his bed, still unmade from his morning's desperate search, and stared at the ceiling. The sapphire ring had been his mother's gift, a symbol of the responsibility he bore, the legacy he was meant to uphold. How fitting that he should lose it on the same night he'd kissed you, almost pretended he could be someone else entirely.

The worst part was knowing that even now, with everything threatening to unravel, he couldn't regret the moments he'd spent with you. The way you'd corrected his posture during readings, your hands gentle on his shoulders. The stories you'd shared in whispers after the other performers had gone. The sound of your laugh when he'd fumbled a particularly dramatic line.

He pressed his hands against his eyes until he saw stars, trying to block out the memory of your smile, your teasing voice, the way you'd looked at him in the dim light of the street. But it was no use. Every moment played behind his eyelids like one of your performances – perfect, haunting, and now possibly lost forever.

The theater felt different tonight. Every shadow seemed to hold potential danger, every glance from you a possible revelation. Jacaerys lingered in the doorway longer than usual, his feet refusing to carry him forward until you looked up from your scripts and smiled.

"There you are," you called out, but even your familiar warmth couldn't ease the knot in his stomach. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost."

He forced himself to move closer, though he kept more distance between you than usual. His eyes darted to your hands as you shuffled your papers – no sapphire ring glinting in the torchlight. But that didn't mean anything. You could have it tucked away somewhere, waiting for the right moment to confront him.

"Are you alright?" you asked, your smile fading slightly as you noticed his tension. "You look... haunted."

"I'm fine," he said too quickly, his voice rougher than intended. "Just tired."

You set your scripts aside, studying him with that perceptive gaze he usually found endearing but now filled him with dread. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"

The words hit too close to home, making him flinch. You noticed – of course you noticed – and stood, moving toward him with concern written across your features.

"Hey," you said softly, reaching for his hand. He pulled back before you could touch him, immediately regretting the action when hurt flashed in your eyes.

"Sorry," he muttered, tugging his hood lower. "I just... I shouldn't be here."

"Why not?" Your voice was gentle, patient, though he could hear the confusion beneath it.

"Because..." Jacaerys's voice caught. You were still watching him, concern etched in every line of your face, and it was unbearable. The candlelight caught in your hair, reminding him of how it had felt between his fingers, how natural it had been to be close to you. Now every inch between you felt like a chasm.

"Because of last night?" you asked softly when he didn't continue. Your hands fidgeted with your scripts, a nervous gesture he'd never seen from you before. "If I made you uncomfortable, with the... I mean, when I..."

"No," he said quickly, the word escaping before he could stop it. The thought of you blaming yourself made his chest ache. "No, it's not that. It's..." He gestured helplessly, the movement sharp with frustration. "It's complicated."

You let out a soft, bitter laugh that made him freeze. "Complicated," you repeated, the word falling heavy between you. "Is that what princes call it?"

The blood drained from his face. You reached into a pocket of your dress and pulled out something that caught the torchlight – a sapphire ring, its dragon engravings unmistakable even from where he stood.

"You dropped it," you said, your voice steady but quiet. "Last night. Before you ran away." Your lips quirked in a sad smile. "Though I suppose 'running away' isn't quite accurate when you're returning to a castle."

Jacaerys couldn't breathe. His eyes were fixed on the ring, on your fingers curled loosely around it, offering it back to him like an accusation wrapped in gentleness.

The memory of last night – your lips soft against his, your hands tangled in his cloak, the way he'd pulled you closer despite every warning voice in his head – crashed over him like a wave.

"I didn't recognize it at first," you continued, your voice steady though your hands trembled slightly. "Just thought it was another prop that needed returning. But then I saw the seal." Your eyes met his, sharp with hurt and understanding. "House Targaryen. Rather expensive accessory for a dock worker, wouldn't you say?"

“How long have you known?" he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Known for certain? Since last night." You turned the ring over in your palm, watching how it caught the torchlight. "Suspected? Longer. You're not as good at pretending as you think you are, my prince."

The title made him flinch. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Now there was an edge to your voice, though your hands remained gentle with his ring.

"Don't call me that," Jacaerys whispered, the words rough in his throat.

You let out a soft, hollow laugh. "My apologies, Your Grace. How terribly remiss of me." Your voice was gentle, almost sweet, but he could hear the hurt beneath it. "I've been quite ill-mannered, haven't I? All those times I teased you, touched you..." You took a step closer, still holding out the ring. "Made you braid my hair with those royal hands of yours."

"Please," he started, but you continued as if he hadn't spoken.

"I should have known, really. The way you moved, the way you spoke..." Your eyes searched what little of his face was visible under the hood. "Tell me, my prince, did you get what you wanted? A nice distraction from all those tiresome duties? Some common girl to pass the time with?"

"That's not–" He reached for you without thinking, stopping only when you took a deliberate step back.

"Not what?" Your voice was still soft, still controlled, but your eyes blazed. "Not what you intended? Then what did you intend, Jacaerys? When you sat in my shadows night after night, when you held my hand in the street, when you–" Your voice caught. "When you kissed me back?"

The sound of his full name on your lips made him feel like he was drowning. "I never meant to deceive you."

"No?" You were close enough now that he could see the slight tremor in your hands, still cradling his ring. "Then what did you mean to do? Slum with the common folk for a while? See how the other half lives?"

"I meant to see you," he said, the truth finally breaking free. "Just you. Only you."

You stilled, something flickering in your expression. "And now? Now that I know who you really are? Will you disappear back to your castle, back to your real life?"

"I don't want to."

"But you will." It wasn't a question. You held out the ring again, your fingers steady now. "Take it. Go back to where you belong."

He didn't move to take it. "What if I belong here?"

Your expression softened for just a moment before hardening again. "In the shadows? In lies? That's not belonging, my prince. That's hiding."

The title felt like a physical blow each time you used it. "Stop calling me that."

"Why?" You stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the familiar scent of stage powder and candlesmoke. "Isn't that what you are? What you've always been, even when you were pretending to be my..." You trailed off, swallowing hard. "What were you pretending to be, exactly? My friend? My suitor?"

"I wasn't pretending with you," he whispered. "Not about the things that mattered."

Your eyes met his, and for a moment he saw all the hurt and longing he felt reflected back at him. "Everything about you was a pretense," you said softly. "Even this moment, even now, you're still hiding under that hood."

Slowly, with trembling hands, he pushed back his hood, as if that could make the situation better. The torchlight caught the brown of his hair, the sharp velvet of his eyes that spoke of centuries of dynasty. He looked ethereal, otherworldly – and utterly miserable.

"Not everything," he said, "Not how I feel about you. Not the way I..." His voice cracked. "Not the way I dream about you when I should be focusing on state affairs."

You looked away, your jaw tight. "Pretty words from a silver tongue. Is that what they teach you in the castle, how to break hearts eloquently?"

"They taught me to be proper, and distant, and cold," he said, taking a step closer. "You taught me to laugh. To feel. To be human." His fingers brushed yours where they still held the ring, and you didn't pull away. "Please look at me."

When you did, your eyes were bright with unshed tears. "What do you want from me, Jacaerys? What could you possibly want that's worth all these lies?"

"Everything," he whispered. "Nothing. Just... just to stay. To keep watching you perform. To help you practice your lines. To..." He swallowed hard. "To be the person I am when I'm with you."

The admission struck him like a physical blow. "Please," he said, though he wasn't sure what he was begging for.

"Go home," you said softly, stepping back. "Go back to your castle, your duties, your real life. We both know you have to."

"And if I refuse?"

“We both know you won’t do that”

A bitter laugh escaped him. "You're right. Of course you're right." His fingers closed around the ring, the metal digging into his palm. "I've never refused anything in my life. The perfect, obedient prince."

You shook your head, he didn’t understand how – even when upset – you could look so gentle. “Go home, Jacaerys.”

"Don't," he whispered, catching your hand before you could pull it back completely. "Don't talk about us like we're already over."

"Aren't we?" Your fingers were trembling in his grip. "Tell me truly, my prince – what future did you imagine for us? Secret meetings in the shadows forever? Or did you think you could somehow present a common theater performer to your royal family as a suitable match?"

The title still felt like a blade between his ribs, but he couldn't deny the truth in your words. The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything he couldn't promise.

"That's what I thought," you said softly, gently extracting your hand from his. But your fingers lingered against his palm for a moment too long, betraying the steadiness of your voice. "It's not safe for a prince to be out so late."

Jacaerys looked like he might be sick, his face ashen in the torchlight. He swayed slightly where he stood, as if the weight of his title had suddenly become too heavy to bear. The ring in his palm seemed to mock him, its sapphire catching the light like a teardrop.

"I can't–" he started, his voice breaking. His free hand clenched and unclenched at his side, a nervous gesture you'd seen a hundred times before but never understood until now. "I don't want to leave like this."

"There's no good way to leave," you said, your voice gentle despite everything. You reached up, straightening his cloak with careful hands – one last touch, one final moment of tenderness. "Go home, Jacaerys. Before the guards notice you're missing."

He caught your wrist as you withdrew, not roughly but with a desperate urgency that made your heart ache. "Please," he whispered, though what he was begging for, neither of you knew. His eyes were fever-bright, almost wild, like a trapped animal seeking escape.

"You have to go," you murmured, carefully untangling yourself from his grip. You pressed the ring more firmly into his palm, closing his fingers around it. The touch of his skin against yours felt like a brand. "Your Grace."

The formal address seemed to physically pain him. He stumbled back a step, clutching the ring like a lifeline, looking so lost and young that for a moment you almost reached for him again. But you kept your hands at your sides, watching as he pulled his hood back up with shaking fingers.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words barely audible. "I'm so sorry."

You didn't respond, couldn't respond, as he turned and fled into the shadows of the theater. The sound of his footsteps faded away, leaving you alone with the guttering torches and the ghost of everything that could never be.

[tap here for part 2!]

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