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astrxq · 1 day ago

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Stage Light, Palace Light .II

jacaerys velaryon x theatre!reader

words: 10.8k

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 :) — [tap here for part 1!]

Through the castle's stained glass windows, the moon cast fractured patterns across Jacaerys's chambers. He sat at his desk, turning the sapphire ring over and over in his hands, watching how the moonlight caught in its facets. The familiar weight of it felt wrong now, tainted by the memory of your fingers pressing it into his palm.

A soft knock at his door made him start, quickly slipping the ring onto his finger. "Enter," he called, his voice rougher than intended.

Lucerys's familiar silhouette appeared in the doorway. "Well, this is new," his brother said lightly, though his eyes were sharp with concern. "You're actually in your chambers at this hour? I had to check twice to make sure I had the right room."

Jacaerys didn't respond, his thumb absently running over the dragon engravings on his ring. Lucerys's casual stance shifted, and he closed the door behind him with deliberate care.

"Jace?" he asked, dropping the teasing tone. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Jacaerys replied automatically, the practiced lie tasting bitter on his tongue. "I'm just tired."

Lucerys crossed the room, settling into the chair across from his brother's desk. "You've been 'just tired' all day. Barely touched your food at dinner. Haven't gone near the stables." He paused, studying Jacaerys's face in the moonlight. "Haven't sneaked out to wherever it is you've been disappearing to for the past months."

Jacaerys's hands stilled on the ring. He seemed to think for a second. “Yeah, just tired.”

“It blew up on your face, didn’t it?”

Jacaerys flinched at his brother's words, his fingers tightening reflexively around the ring. The moonlight caught his profile, highlighting the shadows under his eyes and the tension in his jaw.

"That obvious, was it?" he asked, his voice hollow.

Lucerys leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Only to someone who's been covering for you."

He watched as Jacaerys resumed fidgeting with the ring. In the dim light, it took him a moment to recognize the glint of their house seal on the sapphire ring.

"So that's where it went," Lucerys said softly, letting the door close behind him. "I thought you'd lost it."

Jacaerys didn't look up, his fingers still tracing the dragon engravings. "I did lose it," he said, his voice rough. "She found it."

Lucerys stilled. There was no need to ask who 'she' was – he'd watched his brother sneak out enough nights to guess. "Ah," he said carefully, moving to lean against the window frame.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft scrape of metal against metal as Jacaerys continued to turn the ring.

"She gave it back," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Pressed it into my hand like it was burning her." He let out a bitter laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Told me to go home. To go back where I belong."

Lucerys watched his brother carefully, noting how his shoulders curved inward, how his normally perfect posture had crumbled.

"It was always coming, wasn't it?" Lucerys said softly, though there was sympathy in his voice. "You did lie to her, after all."

"You're not helping," Jacaerys snapped, the words sharper than he'd intended. His hands were white-knuckled around the ring now, the dragon engravings surely leaving marks in his palm.

"I'm not trying to help," Lucerys replied, moving closer to rest a hand on his brother's tense shoulder. "I'm trying to understand. All these months, what did you think would happen?"

Jacaerys shrugged off his brother's touch, standing abruptly. The moonlight caught his face, revealing the raw anguish there. "I didn't think," he admitted, his voice cracking. "I just... I wanted to be near her. To be someone who could be near her."

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "Gods, you should have seen her face when she realized. Like I'd broken something irreparable."

Jacaerys dropped his hands, staring unseeing at the moonlit patterns on his desk. "She called me 'Your Grace' at the end. Like she was trying to remind herself who I really was." His voice turned bitter. "Who I've always been, apparently."

Lucerys was quiet for a long moment, watching his brother's reflection in the glass. "What was she like?" he finally asked. "When you were just Jace to her?"

The question seemed to physically pain Jacaerys. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, his breath fogging the surface.

The raw longing in his voice made Lucerys's chest ache for his brother. "And now?"

"Now she looks at me like I'm exactly what I am," Jacaerys said bitterly. "A liar. A prince. A fool who thought he could have something real in a life built on pretense."

Lucerys watched as his brother's fingers pressed against the window pane, leaving ghostly prints in the condensation. "She taught me her lines sometimes," Jacaerys said, his voice distant. "Said I had a gift for tragedy." A broken laugh escaped him. "I suppose she was right about that."

"Jace..." Lucerys started, but his brother wasn't finished.

"She tried to be so proper about it, so careful. 'My prince' this and 'Your Grace' that, like she was trying to build walls between us with every title." His forehead pressed harder against the window. "I think I preferred it when she was angry."

"Was she?"

"For a moment. But then she just looked... sad." Jacaerys turned suddenly, his eyes bright in the darkness.

"She has this laugh," he continued, "when something genuinely surprises her. Not the polite one she uses for the audience, but this bright, startled sound. And when she's really focused on something, she bites her lower lip, right at the corner..." His voice cracked. "Gods, Luke, what am I supposed to do?"

"You know what you have to do," Lucerys said gently. "What you've always had to do."

Jacaerys's forehead pressed harder against the glass.

"Brother..." Lucerys stepped closer, but Jacaerys waved him off.

"I can still feel her hands," he whispered, staring down at his own trembling fingers. "When she gave the ring back. She was so gentle about it, even then. Like she was afraid of hurting me, after everything I'd done to her." A ragged laugh escaped him. "She even fixed my cloak before sending me away. 'It's not safe for a prince to be out so late,'" he mimicked, his voice cracking on the words.

"You're going to make yourself sick," Lucerys observed quietly, noting how his brother's shoulders shook.

"Maybe I deserve to be," Jacaerys replied, but there was no heat in it, just a bone-deep exhaustion. He slumped back into his chair, the moonlight casting harsh shadows across his face.

Lucerys watched his brother for a long moment, then sighed softly. "I'll tell mother you've caught something," he said, moving to perch on the edge of the desk. "A fever or stomach ailment. Something that'll keep you out of court for a few days at least."

Jacaerys looked up sharply. "You don't have to–"

"Please," Lucerys cut him off with a wry smile. "You look wretched enough that no one would question it. And those tedious trade negotiations with the Iron Bank representatives can survive without you staring miserably into space."

"I wouldn't–"

"You would. You are." Lucerys gestured to where Jacaerys's fingers still worried at the ring. "Besides, I doubt anyone wants to hear your thoughts on maritime tariffs when you're like this. You'd probably accidentally start a war just to have something else to be miserable about."

That earned him a ghost of a smile, though it faded quickly. "The maesters will want to examine me," Jacaerys pointed out.

"Let me handle them." Lucerys waved a dismissive hand. "I'll tell them you've got that stomach bug that's been going around the kitchens. No one wants to get too close to that." He paused, studying his brother's drawn face. "Take a few days, Jace. Get some sleep. Stop turning that ring before you wear through it."

Jacaerys's hands stilled, though he didn't let go of the ring. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don't thank me yet," Lucerys replied, standing. "I'm still going to make you tell me everything about her eventually. When you're ready." He moved toward the door, then paused.

"And Jace? Try to actually sleep, would you? Brooding in moonlight might suit your current mood, but you look terrible."

"Thanks," Jacaerys said dryly, but there was genuine gratitude in his voice.

Once the door closed behind his brother, Jacaerys turned back to the window. The moon had shifted, casting new patterns across his chambers, but he barely noticed. His mind was still in a torch-lit theater, replaying the gentle pressure of your hands as you straightened his cloak one last time.

***

The days blurred together in Jacaerys's chambers, marked only by the rotating cast of concerned visitors. His mother would sweep in each morning, her silks rustling as she pressed a cool hand to his forehead, murmuring about his pallor. The maesters followed with their endless questions and concoctions, puzzling over symptoms they couldn't quite identify. None of them recognized the way his eyes kept straying to the window, to the city beyond where a certain theater's torches would be lighting for the evening performance.

Lucerys was the only one who didn't try to diagnose him, who simply sat in comfortable silence or brought books from the library that went unread. Sometimes he'd catch his brother staring at that sapphire ring and start talking about mundane castle gossip, a transparent but appreciated attempt at distraction.

Meanwhile, across the city, the theater carried on as it always had. You moved through your performances with practiced grace, delivering your lines perfectly, but something felt hollow now.

Each night, your eyes would drift to that shadowed corner where he used to sit, and each night you'd feel foolish for looking. The seat remained empty – not by design, simply by chance – but it felt like a physical presence, a reminder of everything that couldn't be.

Sometimes, during quiet moments between scenes, you'd catch yourself listening for familiar footsteps that never came. Your hand would brush against a dog-eared script, and you'd remember how he'd help you practice, the way his voice would shift with each character. The memory would make you pause, make your chest tight with an emotion you refused to name.

You told yourself it was selfish to miss him, to hope that somehow he'd appear in those shadows again. After all, hadn't you been the one to send him away? Hadn't you been right to do so? But still, each night, your eyes would search the crowd, and each night, that empty seat seemed to mock you with possibilities that could never be.

In his chambers, Jacaerys would press his forehead against the cool glass of his window, knowing that somewhere out there, you were performing. He wondered if you still bit your lip when concentrating on a difficult scene, if you still gestured with your scripts when explaining something passionate. He wondered if you thought of him at all, or if you'd already begun the process of forgetting the false dock worker who'd turned out to be a prince.

The week crawled by, measured in missed performances and untouched meals, in concerned looks and knowing silences. In the end, you were both right – it was impossible, it could never work, it had to end this way. But knowing that didn't stop either of you from searching – him through his window, you through your crowds – for something you knew you wouldn't find.

Lucerys had always been the softer of the brothers – both in appearance and temperament. Where Jacaerys had inherited their father's sharp features and commanding presence, Lucerys's face held a gentler cast, his smile coming easier, his manner more approachable. He was the one who smoothed ruffled feathers at court, who knew all the servants' names, who could talk his way out of trouble with nothing but charm and well-placed sympathy.

And he was also, notably, the one who meddled.

Which was precisely what he was doing now, standing before his mirror and adjusting a dark cloak that was decidedly less fine than his usual attire. His chambers were quiet save for the soft rustle of fabric as he secured the clasp, mentally reviewing the path through the castle that would draw the least attention. He'd spent enough time covering for Jacaerys's excursions to know exactly which guards were amenable to looking the other way, which corridors were least patrolled at this hour.

The Jacaerys he knew would have at least tried to sneak out by now, would have found some excuse to pass by the theater, even if just to torture himself with a glimpse. But instead, he'd spent the week alternating between staring out his window and turning that sapphire ring over and over in his hands, barely eating, barely sleeping.

No, this wouldn't do at all. And if Jacaerys wouldn't go to the theater, well... Lucerys tugged his hood lower, checking his reflection one last time. Someone would have to go in his stead.

After all, what were younger brothers for, if not to meddle in matters of the heart?

From his hidden vantage point in the shadows – the same corner his brother had haunted for months – Lucerys watched you command the stage. It took him less than a minute to understand why Jacaerys had been so thoroughly captivated. You moved with a natural grace that had nothing to do with practiced choreography, your voice carrying to every corner of the room without losing its intimate quality.

Your eyes would drift to this shadowed corner, just for a moment, before you caught yourself and looked away. It was such a small thing, so quick most wouldn't notice, but Lucerys saw how your smile would falter slightly afterward, how your hands would fidget with your scripts in a gesture that seemed born of recent habit.

He recognized the look in your eyes – he'd seen its mirror in Jacaerys's chambers all week. The same careful mask of composure, the same barely concealed longing, the same hurt trying to disguise itself as acceptance.

You nearly missed your cue when you first spotted the cloaked figure, your heart leaping traitorously before you caught the subtle differences – the softer jaw, the way he held himself without that familiar tension. When he shifted and scratched his cheek, revealing features that echoed Jacaerys' but didn't quite match, you knew exactly who had come to your theater.

As the last remnants of the audience filtered out, their conversations fading into the night, you moved through your familiar closing routine. Scripts needed to be gathered, props returned to their places, torches extinguished one by one. It was methodical work, the kind that usually helped quiet your mind after a performance.

But lately, each task seemed to carry its own weight of memory – the way he would help you sort the pages, how he'd lean against that column while you checked the props, his quiet laugh when you'd dramatically recite lines while cleaning.

You were reaching for a fallen script when you felt it – that familiar presence in the shadows. The quality of the silence was wrong, the weight of the presence slightly off. Still, you kept your back turned, your fingers gripping the script too tightly as you spoke.

"You know, for someone raised in a castle, you Targaryens have a terrible habit of lurking in shadows."

There was a soft exhale behind you – not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh – and you knew immediately it wasn't Jacaerys. This breath carried a different cadence, a lighter note.

"Ah," came a voice that was similar to his but softer around the edges, "I suppose some habits run in the family."

You turned then, slowly, to find a figure standing where Jacaerys used to wait. The hood was the same, the stance similar, but everything else was just slightly different – like looking at a familiar painting that had been done by a different hand.

"Prince Lucerys," you said softly, without hesitation.

You'd heard of him at public events, of course – the gentler brother, the one who could charm a crowd with a smile. He looked the same as Jacaerys, only with softened features which made it obvious he was younger.

Your hands fidgeted with the script, an unconscious echo of nervousness. "I assume you're not here to audition."

He pushed back his hood, his smile was apologetic, but his eyes were sharp with assessment.

"No," he agreed, staying where he was as if afraid of spooking you. "Though I must say, I understand now why my brother spent so many nights here. You're quite captivating on stage."

You turned away, busying yourself with straightening already-neat piles of parchment. "If you're here about Jacaerys–"

"He doesn't know I'm here," Lucerys interrupted gently. "In fact, he'd probably be furious if he knew. He's spent the week in his chambers, supposedly ill with some mysterious ailment that has the maesters quite confused."

Your hands stilled on the papers. "I'm sorry to hear he's unwell," you said carefully, your voice steady despite the way your heart clenched. "But I'm not sure what that has to do with me."

"Isn't it obvious?" Lucerys's voice was kind, almost too kind. "He's not sick. He's heartbroken."

You closed your eyes briefly, willing your voice to remain neutral. "That's hardly my concern anymore, Your Grace."

"Please," he said, "if you're going to break my brother's heart, you might as well call me Lucerys."

When you faced him again, Lucerys's expression held none of the accusation you'd feared. Instead, there was something almost sad in his smile, like he was watching a tragedy unfold on stage.

"I didn't–" you started, then stopped, unsure how to finish that sentence. Didn't mean to? Didn't want to? Both felt like lies, and you'd had enough of those lately.

"I know," Lucerys said softly. "Neither did he." He moved closer, but carefully, like approaching a nervous animal. "He's been staring out his window for days, you know. Always in the direction of the theater. Turning that ring over and over until I thought he'd wear a groove in it."

Your throat tightened at the image. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I've never seen my brother like this before." Lucerys's voice was quiet but intent. "He's always been the perfect prince – duty first, propriety above all. Until you." He tilted his head, studying you. "Do you know what he said to me? That you taught him how to laugh. How to be human."

You turned away sharply, but not before he caught the flash of pain across your face. "It doesn't matter what he said. What either of us said. Some things are impossible."

"Impossible?" Lucerys repeated thoughtfully. "Or just difficult?"

"Both," you said firmly, though your voice wavered slightly. "He's a prince, I'm a–"

"A remarkably talented performer who made my brother happier than I've ever seen him," Lucerys interrupted. "Who, if I'm not mistaken, misses him just as much as he misses you."

"That's not fair," you whispered.

"No," he agreed softly. "None of this is fair. But I'm not here to talk about what's fair. I'm here because my brother hasn't eaten properly in days, because he looks at that ring like it's both salvation and torture, because he keeps whispering your lines to himself when he thinks no one can hear."

A bitter laugh escaped you, though it sounded more like a sob. "The night he lost the ring..." You shook your head, turning back to face Lucerys. "He was already pulling away. Even before I found it, he was... distant. Guilty. Like he'd finally remembered who he was, who I..." You swallowed hard. "It was so easy to believe he'd just wanted some fun with a common girl. A story to tell his noble friends about the theater performer he'd charmed."

Lucerys's face softened with understanding. "That's what you thought? That he was just..."

"What else was I supposed to think?" Your voice cracked slightly. "He was withdrawing, making excuses, before he even knew I had the found his ring." Your fingers twisted in your skirts.

"He was scared," Lucerys said quietly. "Not of you finding out, exactly, but of losing you once you did. He'd convinced himself that the moment you knew who he really was, everything would change."

A sad smile crossed his face. "I suppose he was right about that, at least."

"Everything did change," you whispered. "Because everything had been a lie."

"Was it?" Lucerys asked, his voice gentle but challenging.

You pressed your lips together, fighting back the sting in your eyes. "It doesn't matter if they were. A prince can't... we can't..."

"Can't what?" Lucerys pressed. "Can't care for each other? Can't find moments of happiness in each other's company?" He paused, watching you carefully. "Can't love each other?"

The word hung in the air between you, making your chest ache. "Please," you said softly, "don't make this harder than it already is."

Lucerys sighed, running a hand through his hair in a gesture so similar to his brother's that it made your heart clench. He was quiet for a moment, his eyes distant as if working through a puzzle. Then he looked at you with renewed focus.

“What if..." he started, then paused, choosing his words carefully. "What if the castle requested a reading of one of your monologues?"

You stilled, looking at him warily. "What?"

"It wouldn't be unusual," he continued, his voice taking on that careful diplomatic tone you imagined he used in court. "The castle often hosts performers. And that piece you did tonight – the one about the warrior queen – it has historical significance. Educational value." His lips quirked. "The sort of thing that would be entirely appropriate for a royal audience."

"Are you..." You shook your head in disbelief. "Are you trying to orchestrate an official reason for me to..."

"To be in the castle? Where my brother wouldn't have to sneak around in hoods and lies?" Lucerys shrugged, but his eyes were sharp. "It would be completely proper. Above board. Just a performer doing what performers do – sharing stories with those who wish to hear them."

"My prince–"

"Lucerys," he corrected gently.

“Lucerys," you amended, "you can't possibly think that would solve anything. One performance wouldn't change who he is, or who I am, or–"

"No," he agreed. "But it might be a start. A chance to see each other in the light, without pretense." He tilted his head. "Unless you truly don't want to see him again?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with possibility.

***

Lucerys burst into Jacaerys's chambers with more force than necessary, finding his brother surrounded by the usual crowd of concerned maesters. The room smelled of various herbal concoctions, and Jacaerys looked thoroughly miserable as they debated his mysterious symptoms.

"Out," Lucerys commanded, channeling their mother's authoritative tone. "All of you. I need to speak with my brother."

The maesters hesitated, exchanging glances. "My prince, we haven't finished–"

"You've been 'not finished' for a week," Lucerys cut in. "And remarkably, my brother is still alive. Now out." He softened it with a diplomatic smile. "Please. Court matters."

Once the door closed behind the last grumbling maester, Lucerys turned to his brother. Jacaerys was still in bed, looking pale and disheveled, the sapphire ring glinting on his finger.

"Get up," Lucerys said, moving to Jacaerys's wardrobe and pulling out clothes.

"What?"

"Up. Now." Lucerys threw a fresh tunic at his brother's head. "You need to be dressed and presentable in the next quarter hour."

Jacaerys caught the tunic reflexively but didn't move to put it on. "Why?"

"Because," Lucerys said, now rummaging for appropriate boots, "there's going to be a performance in the great hall, and you need to look like a prince instead of a lovesick ghost."

"I'm not attending any performances," Jacaerys said flatly, though something flickered in his eyes at the word.

"Yes, you are." Lucerys threw a pair of boots beside the bed with more force than necessary. "It's a historical piece. Very educational. Mother specifically requested your presence."

"Luke–"

"And," Lucerys continued, now advancing on his brother with determined purpose, "if you don't get out of that bed right now, I will tell mother exactly why you've been 'sick' all week. I'm sure she'd love to hear about your nightly visits to the theater district."

Jacaerys stared at him, a mix of betrayal and confusion crossing his features. "You wouldn't."

"Try me." Lucerys grabbed his brother's arm, physically pulling him up. "Now get dressed. And for gods' sake, do something with your hair. You look like you've been wrestling with ravens."

"Luke, what are you–"

"Twelve minutes," Lucerys interrupted, already heading for the door. "If you're not ready by then, I'm sending the maesters back in. All of them. With their most experimental remedies."

The door closed behind him with a decisive click, leaving Jacaerys standing bewildered in the middle of his chambers, clutching a fresh tunic and wondering what exactly his brother had planned.

Jacaerys stood at the back of the great hall, tugging uncomfortably at his formal attire. The past hour had been a blur of Lucerys's insistent shepherding, servants fussing with his appearance, and his own mounting irritation. Now he lingered in the shadows – a habit he couldn't seem to break – watching as various nobles filtered in.

"Stop fidgeting," Lucerys murmured beside him. "You look like you're attending an execution rather than a performance."

"Maybe I am," Jacaerys muttered back, his fingers absently finding the ring on his hand. "My execution, if Mother realizes I'm not actually sick."

"You'll thank me later."

"Doubtful." Jacaerys leaned against a column, falling into the familiar melancholy that had haunted him all week. Even the grand hall's usual splendor seemed dulled, the afternoon light filtering through the high windows doing nothing to lift his spirits. His mind kept drifting to another performance space, torch-lit and intimate, where—

The great doors opened, and two members of the Kingsguard entered. Jacaerys barely glanced up, used to the ceremonial display of court life. But then he caught a glimpse of who they were escorting, and his whole world tilted on its axis.

You stood between the guards, clutching a script in hands that trembled slightly. You wore your best performance dress, your hair arranged more formally than he'd ever seen it, but you were unmistakably, achingly you. The afternoon sun caught you differently than torchlight had, making you look both familiar and strange, like a dream he'd had too many times to count.

His breath caught audibly, making Lucerys smirk beside him.

"Luke," he whispered, his voice rough with panic and something else entirely, "what did you do?"

But Lucerys just smiled, watching as you were formally announced to the court. Your eyes hadn't found Jacaerys yet, fixed carefully on some middle distance as you followed the guards' lead. But your fingers worried at the corner of your script in that familiar way that made Jacaerys's chest ache.

"Breathe, brother," Lucerys murmured, noting how Jacaerys's hands had gone white-knuckled on his chair's armrests. "She's here to perform the warrior queen's monologue. Very educational. Historical significance and all that."

"I'm going to kill you," Jacaerys breathed, but he couldn't take his eyes off you. You looked so out of place and yet so perfectly right, like a character from one of your plays stepped into reality.

And then you looked up, your eyes finally meeting his across the great hall. The script trembled visibly in your hands for just a moment before you steadied yourself. Something passed between you in that look – recognition, longing, fear, hope – all wrapped in the formal distance required by your surroundings.

Jacaerys forgot to breathe entirely.

"Kill me later," Lucerys said softly, satisfaction clear in his voice.

"For now, just watch. And breathe, for gods' sake, before you actually do need those maesters."

But Jacaerys barely heard him. He was too caught up in the way you held yourself – proud despite your obvious nervousness, every inch the performer even in these overwhelming surroundings. You looked different in the daylight, more vulnerable somehow, but also stronger. The sun caught the subtle tremor in your hands as you opened your script, a gesture he'd seen a hundred times in candlelight.

A hush fell over the hall as you began to speak. Your voice carried differently here than in the theater, the acoustics grander, but the emotion in your words was just as intimate. It was the warrior queen's monologue – the one you'd practiced with him late one night, when he'd read the opposing lines and you'd laughed at his terrible attempts at different voices.

He knew every word, every pause, every subtle shift in your expression. But watching you now, in the harsh light of reality rather than the forgiving shadows of the theater, felt like seeing you for the first time all over again. You weren't just performing for the court – you were commanding the space, making the grand hall feel as intimate as your small stage had been.

His fingers found the ring again, tracing its familiar edges. You reached a particular line – one where you always bit your lip slightly before delivering it – and his breath caught again as you did exactly that, the gesture so achingly familiar it hurt.

"Stop looking at her like that," Lucerys whispered. "People will notice."

"How else am I supposed to look at her?" Jacaerys breathed back, not taking his eyes off you.

"Like a prince watching a performance," Lucerys replied. "Not like a man watching his heart perform in front of the entire court."

But it was too late for that kind of pretense. Because you'd reached the climax of the monologue – the part where your voice always carried a particular kind of raw honesty – and your eyes found his again, just for a moment. In that look was everything: the nights in the theater, the weight of secrets, the gentle press of your fingers returning his ring, the impossible distance between who you both were and who you'd pretended to be.

And Jacaerys knew, with sudden, crushing clarity, that he would never be able to look at you any other way.

Queen Rhaenyra leaned forward slightly in her seat, her eyes bright with genuine interest as your performance drew to a close. The great hall remained silent for a heartbeat after your final words, before breaking into appropriate, measured applause.

"Remarkable," she murmured, her voice carrying that particular tone that made both her sons tense slightly. "To memorize such a lengthy piece..." She turned to Jacaerys, and there was something knowing in her smile that made his stomach drop. "Wouldn't you agree, sweetling?"

Jacaerys forced himself to meet his mother's gaze, though he could feel Lucerys shifting nervously beside him. "Yes," he managed, his voice steadier than he felt.

"The theater district has always produced exceptional talent," Lucerys offered smoothly, but Rhaenyra's attention remained on her eldest son.

"Indeed," she said softly. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth as she watched Jacaerys's fingers unconsciously find his ring again.

He forced himself to meet her gaze, finding not the judgment he feared but something softer, more knowing.

"Mhmm," Rhaenyra hummed, her eyes drifting back to where you stood.

"The court always needs cultural enrichment," she said, rising gracefully. "And that was indeed an... educational performance." Her eyes met his, sharp with understanding. "Perhaps we should arrange more of them."

Your voice carried through the final lines, steady despite the way Jacaerys could see your hands trembling slightly around your script. The court burst into appreciative applause – of course they did, how could they not when you'd made the grand hall feel as intimate as a torch-lit theater? – but he barely heard it over the rushing in his ears.

You dipped into a perfect curtsy, every inch the professional performer. But as you straightened, your eyes found his again, and for a moment the carefully constructed walls of propriety cracked. There was something raw in your expression, something that made his chest ache with recognition.

"Breathe," Lucerys murmured again, nudging him slightly. "The entire court doesn't need to see you looking like you've been struck by lightning."

But how could he breathe when you were there, so close yet impossibly far, being led away by the Kingsguard as formally as you'd entered? Your back was straight, your steps measured, but he knew you well enough to see the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers still worried at the corner of your script.

"I need to–" he started, already half-rising from his seat.

Lucerys caught his arm. "Not yet," he said quietly. "Wait until the court disperses. Unless you want to cause a scene that would make both your positions more difficult?"

Jacaerys sank back down, his fingers finding the ring again. A nervous tick of his.

"Turns out," Lucerys said softly, watching as you disappeared through the great doors, "You’re not the only one who's been miserable this past week." He paused, then added, "She looks at that empty seat in the theater the same way you look out your window, you know."

Jacaerys closed his eyes briefly, the words hitting him like a physical blow.

Lucerys's words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, but they ignited something sharp in Jacaerys. His eyes snapped open, narrowing as he turned to his younger brother, who was still watching the now-closed doors with a smug, self-satisfied expression.

"You went to the theater?" Jacaerys hissed, his voice low and furious.

Lucerys barely spared him a glance, his nonchalant demeanor only fueling Jacaerys's anger. "Someone had to check on her," Lucerys replied, crossing his arms. "You certainly weren't going to."

"You had no right," Jacaerys snapped, keeping his voice low enough to avoid drawing attention but failing to mask the edge of his temper. "You don't get to meddle in this. Do you have any idea–"

"Do you?" Lucerys cut him off, his tone sharper now as he turned to face his brother fully. “I brought her here, didn’t I?”

Jacaerys stiffened, his jaw tightening. "That’s not the point, Luke. You went behind my back–"

"Because you weren’t doing anything!" Lucerys shot back, his voice rising slightly before he checked himself, glancing around the room.

"Luke..."

"She'll be escorted to the eastern solar," Lucerys continued casually, as if he hadn't just shaken his brother's entire world. "To rest after her performance. It's only proper to offer refreshments to our honored performers, after all." He stood, stretching deliberately. "The guard rotation changes in about ten minutes. Just in case you were wondering, though I bet you knew that already."

With that, he left Jacaerys alone with his thoughts, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the great hall as the court slowly emptied around him.

Jacaerys found himself standing outside the eastern solar far too soon and not soon enough. His heart hammered against his ribs as he noted the momentarily empty corridor – Lucerys's timing, no doubt. The same patterns of afternoon light that had caught in your hair during the performance now spilled across the floor at his feet, making patterns that reminded him of torch shadows.

He raised his hand to knock, then hesitated. What could he possibly say? 'I'm sorry' felt inadequate. 'I miss you' felt too raw. 'You were magnificent' felt too formal. All of them felt like poor substitutes for the tangle of emotions in his chest.

Before he could decide, the door opened, and suddenly you were there. You must have heard his footsteps, must have been waiting. You wore the same dress from the performance, but your hair had started to escape its formal arrangement, soft wisps falling around your face in a way that made his fingers itch to brush them back.

For a long moment, you just stared at each other. The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything unsaid.

"My prince," you finally murmured, dropping into a curtsy that felt like a blade between his ribs.

"Don't," he whispered, the word rough in his throat. "Please, not you. Not after..." He gestured helplessly, unable to find words for what he meant. Not after you'd known him as just Jace, not after you'd laughed with him in shadows, not after you'd taught him how to be human instead of just a prince.

You straightened from your curtsy but didn't meet his eyes, your fingers worrying at your script in that achingly familiar way. "I don't know what else to call you anymore."

"My name," he said softly. "Just... just my name. Like before."

Your eyes finally met his, and the raw honesty there made his breath catch.

“How are you?" he asked softly, the question feeling simultaneously inadequate and overwhelming. He wanted to ask so much more – how had your week been, did you still bite your lip when practicing new lines, did you miss him as desperately as he missed you?

You let out a small, bitter laugh. "I'm..." Your fingers traced the edge of your script. "I've been better. The theater feels... different now."

"Different how?" His voice was barely above a whisper, afraid to break whatever fragile moment this was.

"Emptier," you admitted, then seemed to regret the honesty. "Though that's foolish, isn't it? It's not as if we ever sold out performances. One empty seat shouldn't matter."

"But it does," he said quietly, understanding exactly what you meant. His fingers found the ring again, a habit he couldn't seem to break. You noticed the movement, your eyes following it before quickly looking away.

Your eyes lingered on where his fingers traced the ring before you forced them away. "I suppose it does," you said softly. "Though it shouldn't. Just like I shouldn't keep expecting to turn around and find you in the shadows."

"I wanted to come back," he admitted, his voice rough. "Every night this week, I've stood at my window, thinking about how easy it would be to just..."

"Put on a hood and pretend?" There was no bite to your words, just a quiet sadness. "We can't go back to that, Jacaerys. You know we can't”

The sound of his name on your lips made his chest ache. "I know. But I miss..." He paused, struggling to find the right words. "I miss how you'd gesture with your scripts when you were excited about a scene. How you'd laugh when I tried different voices for the characters. How you–“

"Please don't," you whispered, but he continued anyway, the words spilling out like he couldn't stop them.

"How you'd bite your lip right before a difficult line – like you did today, with the warrior queen's speech. How you'd let me help you practice, even though I was terrible at it. How you made me forget about titles and duties and just feel..."

"Real?" you offered quietly, and he nodded, the simple word capturing everything he'd been trying to say.

"You were the most real thing in my life," he said, taking a step closer. "Are. The most real thing."

You didn't step back, but your fingers tightened on your script. "And what good does that do us? Being real doesn't change who you are, or who I am, or what's possible between us."

"Doesn't it?" He was close enough now to see the subtle tremor in your hands, to catch the faint scent of stage powder that always clung to your clothes. "You're here now, in the castle. Properly, formally. No hiding, no lies."

"For one performance," you reminded him gently. "One afternoon of pretending we're not what we are – a prince and a common performer who forgot their places for a while."

"Is that all it was to you?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "Just forgetting our places?"

Your eyes met his, and the honesty there made his heart stutter. "You know it wasn't," you whispered. "But sometimes knowing that makes it worse."

He wanted to reach for you, to brush back those escaped strands of hair, to remember how it felt to be close without the weight of titles between you. But he kept his hands at his sides, one thumb still absently tracing the ring.

"I dream about you," he admitted softly. "About the theater, about your laugh, about... about everything we could have been if I'd just been honest from the start."

"And what would that have changed?" you asked, but your voice wavered slightly. "Would it have made me more suitable? Made the court more accepting? Made any of this possible?"

"Maybe not," he conceded. "But at least it would have been real from the beginning. At least we could have faced it together, instead of..."

"Instead of me finding out from a ring?" The words were quiet but they hit home, making him flinch.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Gods, I'm so sorry. I never meant..."

"I know you didn't," you said softly. "That's what makes it harder. Nothing about this was meant to hurt anyone, and yet..."

You took a shaky breath, taking a small step back. The afternoon light caught the unshed tears in your eyes, making them shine. "And yet here we are," you said softly, "still hurting each other by wanting impossible things."

"They don't have to be impossible," he said, but even he could hear the desperation in his voice. "We could..."

"Could what?" Your smile was gentle but heartbreaking. "Could meet in shadows forever? Could pretend that duty and birth and responsibility don't exist?" You shook your head. "You're a prince, Jacaerys. A good one. The kind who puts his people first, who understands duty, who..." Your voice caught. "Who shouldn't be asked to choose between his birthright and a common girl who performs in torchlight."

"Don't," he whispered, "don't talk about yourself like that."

"Like what? Like the truth?" You gestured to your performance dress, to the grand solar around you. "Look at where we are. Look at how many plans and schemes it took just for me to be here properly, just for one afternoon." Your fingers brushed his sleeve, so lightly he might have imagined it. "You belong in sunlight, my prince. Not hiding in theater shadows."

"I belong with you," he said roughly, but you were already shaking your head.

"No," you said softly. "You belong to your people, to your duty, to your name. And I..." You smiled, though it trembled at the edges. "I belong to my stories, to my stage, to the world we create in torchlight."

He reached for you then, unable to stop himself, but you stepped back. "Please," he whispered, though he wasn't sure what he was begging for.

He caught your wrist just as you were turning away, his touch feather-light. The guards would be returning any moment, but he couldn't let you leave, not yet, not like this.

"Would it be terribly improper," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, "for a theater performer to give the prince a goodbye kiss?"

You stilled, your back still to him, and for a moment he thought you would refuse. But then you turned, slowly, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of longing and resignation that made his chest ache.

“Terribly," you murmured, but you were already reaching for him, your fingers ghosting along his jaw. "Absolutely forbidden."

He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly. "I won't tell if you won't."

Your laugh was soft and broken, but then your lips were on his, gentle and desperate all at once. It was different from your kiss in the town’s shadows – more bitter, more final. He could taste the salt of tears, though he wasn't sure if they were yours or his.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer for just a moment, memorizing the feeling of you against him one last time. Your fingers curled into his formal clothes, and he felt the script press between you, a reminder of everything that separated you.

The kiss ended too soon, both of you aware of the approaching sound of armored footsteps. You pulled back just enough to rest your forehead against his, your breath shaky.

And then you were gone, slipping back into the solar and closing the door between you just as the guards rounded the corner.

Jacaerys touched his fingers to his lips, where he could still taste the bittersweet mix of your kiss and your tears. The guards nodded respectfully as they passed, never knowing that they'd just missed watching a prince's heart break in the afternoon sun.

He turned from the solar, still touching his lips, only to nearly collide with his mother. Her silver hair caught the afternoon light, her expression curious as she steadied him.

"Careful, my love," she said, then peered past him toward the solar door. "Has our performer already left? I wanted to congratulate her personally. That warrior queen monologue was quite moving."

Jacaerys struggled to compose his features, though he knew his mother's sharp eyes missed little. "I believe she's still..." his voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat and tried again. "She's still inside, yes."

His mother's gaze sharpened, taking in his flushed face, the slight redness around his eyes, the way his fingers kept straying to his lips. "Feeling better, I see," she said carefully.

"Much better," he managed, though the words felt like ash in his mouth. "The maesters were very... thorough."

His mother studied him for a long moment, her eyes lingering on where his thumb was absently tracing his ring. Something flickered across her face – understanding, perhaps, or memory – but she simply smiled and patted his cheek.

"I'm glad," she said softly. "Though perhaps you should rest a bit more. You still look... unwell." There was a gentleness in her voice that made his throat tight, a careful kindness in how she didn't mention the obvious tears in his eyes or the tremor in his hands.

"Thank you, Mother," he whispered, grateful for her pretense, for allowing him this small dignity in his heartbreak.

She squeezed his arm once, then moved past him toward the solar door.

Then she was gone, slipping into the solar to congratulate the performer who had so moved the court, leaving Jacaerys alone in the corridor with the ghost of your kiss on his lips and his mother's words echoing in his ears.

He touched his mouth one last time, then forced his hand down to his side. The afternoon sun continued to spill through the windows, indifferent to how it had witnessed both a kiss and a farewell, both a beginning and an end.

Somewhere behind that closed door, you were probably curtsying to his mother, probably hiding your own tears behind proper words and formal gestures. And he would never know, because some moments couldn't last, no matter how desperately you wished they could.

***

The light was fading from Jacaerys's chambers, but he hadn't bothered to light any candles. He sat in his window seat, absently watching his younger brothers play on the floor with their wooden dragons. Aegon was making elaborate swooping noises while Viserys carefully arranged his army of carved soldiers.

The door opened quietly, and their mother's familiar silhouette appeared. Queen Rhaenyra smiled at the sight of her youngest sons sprawled across the floor, their games having thoroughly disrupted the usual order of the chamber.

"Mother!" Viserys called out, abandoning his soldiers to run to her. She caught him easily, pressing a kiss to his dark curls.

"My little dragons," she said warmly, then looked up at where Jacaerys sat, still staring out the window. The same window, she noted, that faced the direction of the theater district. "Jace?"

He turned slightly at his name, though his fingers continued to trace the sapphire ring. "Yes, Mother?"

Rhaenyra studied him for a moment, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. "Walk with me?" she asked softly.

Aegon looked up from his dragons, his young face scrunching in concern. "But Jace was going to tell us about the warrior queen! He promised!"

"Later, little one," Rhaenyra said, giving Jacaerys a meaningful look. "Your brother and I need to discuss some matters of court."

Jacaerys stood slowly, like every movement cost him effort. As he passed his brothers, he ruffled Aegon's hair, managing a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll tell you the story tonight," he promised. "All about the queen who had to choose between her heart and her crown."

Rhaenyra's expression softened at his words, and she held out her arm for him to take. Together, they left the chamber, leaving the younger princes to their games and wooden dragons, unaware of the real dragons that sometimes had to sacrifice their hearts for duty.

Jacaerys walked beside his mother through the sun-dappled corridors, his heart still heavy in his chest. She kept a leisurely pace, her silver hair catching the light as she spoke.

"You know," she said casually, as if discussing the weather, "mothers have a particular talent for knowing when their sons are lying." She cast him a sideways glance. "Even when those sons think themselves quite clever about it."

Jacaerys's steps faltered slightly. "Mother–"

"Your brother, for instance," she continued, her lips quirking in amusement, "is not nearly as accomplished at deception as he believes. He told me so many times that you were ill, I half expected to find you on your deathbed." She paused, her voice softening. "Instead, I found you sneaking out to the theater district nearly every night."

He stopped walking entirely, his face draining of color. "You knew?"

"My love," she said gently, turning to face him, "Did you think the town guards wouldn't recognize you, even in the dark?" Her eyes were kind as she studied his stricken expression. "Though I must admit, I didn't realize quite why you were so drawn to that particular theater until today."

Jacaerys closed his eyes briefly, his fingers fidgeting again. "I never meant to…”

"Lie?" His mother's voice held no accusation, only a soft understanding that somehow made it worse. "No, I don't suppose you did. Sometimes the heart leads us to do foolish things, even with the best intentions."

She reached up, smoothing an errant strand of hair from his face in a motherly gesture that made his throat tight. "Though next time," she added with a hint of wry humor, "perhaps don't make your brother work quite so hard to cover for you. The poor boy nearly tied himself in knots trying to explain your mysterious ailment to the maesters."

Jacaerys felt a flush of shame creep up his neck. "I'll apologize to Luke," he murmured. "I shouldn't have involved him."

"No," Rhaenyra agreed, though her eyes held a glimmer of amusement. "Though I suspect he rather enjoyed the intrigue of it all." She began walking again, drawing him alongside her. "Tell me about her."

The words caught in his throat. He'd spent so many nights watching her on stage, memorizing every gesture, every lilting note of her voice, and yet now he found himself struggling to capture her essence in words.

"She's..." Jacaerys started, then faltered, unsure how to describe the way you made torchlight feel like sunlight, how you could make a cramped theater feel like the grandest hall in the realm. "She's remarkable," he finished softly.

"Yes," Rhaenyra agreed, a small smile playing at her lips. "I rather thought so myself when I spoke with her." She glanced at her son, noting how he tensed at her words. "She was quite composed, you know. Though her cheeks were rather flushed, and her eyes..." She paused delicately. "Well, they matched yours in their redness."

Jacaerys's fingers tightened around his ring. "Did she seem..."

"Heartbroken?" Rhaenyra supplied gently. "Yes. Though she tried admirably to hide it behind proper courtesies and formal words." She squeezed his arm. "She has a strength about her, your performer. Even in grief, she carried herself with dignity."

"She's not mine," Jacaerys whispered, the words raw in his throat.

"No," his mother agreed softly. "Though I suspect she wishes she could be, as much as you wish you could be hers."

She stopped walking, turning to face him fully. "You know, when I went to congratulate her, she was standing by the window, touching her lips." Her eyes held a knowing sadness. "Much like you were when I found you in the corridor.”

Jacaerys felt heat rise to his face, but his mother only smiled.

"She spoke beautifully of the theater," Rhaenyra continued. "Of the magic of stories, of how a simple stage can become a battlefield or a lover's garden or a storm-tossed ship." Her voice softened. "She reminded me rather a lot of myself at that age – so certain that duty and heart could never align, so resigned to choosing between them."

"Did they?" Jacaerys asked quietly. "Align?"

Rhaenyra's smile held centuries of understanding. "Sometimes," she said. "When we're very lucky, or very brave, or both." She reached up to cup his cheek. "The realm needs its stories, my love. Its theaters, its performers, its moments of magic in torchlight." She paused meaningfully. "Perhaps even its princes who understand the value of such things."

Jacaerys stared at his mother, hardly daring to hope he understood her meaning. "Mother?"

"The court does need cultural enrichment," she said carefully. "And it would be a shame to let such talent remain hidden in the lower town, wouldn't it?" Her eyes sparkled with something that looked suspiciously like mischief. "Though perhaps next time, we might arrange it without quite so many elaborate deceptions and mysterious illnesses."

For the first time in days, Jacaerys felt something like hope flutter in his chest. "You mean..."

"I mean that there are many ways to serve the realm," Rhaenyra said softly. "And many ways to honor both duty and heart, if one is clever enough to find them." She squeezed his arm. "Though perhaps we might start with properly introducing your performer to the court, rather than having her sneak in through side doors?"

Jacaerys let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob. "I don't deserve your understanding."

"No," his mother agreed, her eyes twinkling. "But you have it anyway. That's rather the point of being a mother." She began walking again, drawing him alongside her. "Now, tell me more about these performances of hers. I found her warrior queen quite compelling – though I suspect you found all of them equally so?"

As they walked through the fading sunlight, Jacaerys began to tell his mother about torchlit evenings and practiced lines, about the magic of stories and the girl who brought them to life. And if his voice caught sometimes, or if his fingers still worried at his ring, Rhaenyra pretended not to notice, content to let her son's heart begin its slow journey from breaking to healing to, perhaps, hope.

***

The whispers started the moment his horse's hooves touched the cobblestones of the theater district. Faces appeared in windows, merchants paused mid-transaction, and children stopped their games to stare openly at the prince riding through their streets in broad daylight.

No hood this time. No shadows to hide in. The sun caught the sapphire of his ring as he dismounted, the same deep blue as the formal clothes that marked him unmistakably as Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.

The theater looked different in daylight. Smaller, perhaps, though no less beloved. The morning light caught the faded paint of its facade, highlighting worn spots he'd never noticed in the torchlight. The poster from your last performance still clung to the wall, the edges curling slightly in the breeze.

He could hear your voice before he even reached the door – not performing, but running lines to yourself the way you always did during morning rehearsals. The sound made his heart stutter in his chest.

The door was unlocked, as it always was during rehearsal hours. He paused with his hand on the handle, remembering all the times he'd slipped in through the back entrance, hood drawn close. But that wasn't who he was today. Today, he was exactly who he was meant to be.

The hinges creaked – they always had, though the sound seemed louder now – and your voice cut off mid-line.

You stood center stage, script in hand, frozen in the shaft of sunlight that streamed through the high windows. Your practice dress was simpler than your performance attire, your hair loose around your shoulders the way he'd rarely got to see it. The surprise on your face would have been comical if it weren't for the way your hands started trembling.

"My prince," you breathed, already dropping into a curtsy. "I... we weren't expecting..."

He took a step forward, then another, letting the door fall closed behind him. The familiar smell of dust and wood and old velvet wrapped around him like a forgotten embrace.

"I missed morning rehearsals," he said simply.

Your laugh was shaky, uncertain. "You never attended morning rehearsals."

"No," he agreed, moving closer still. The floorboards creaked under his formal boots – so different from the soft shoes he'd worn in his disguise. "But I always wanted to."

You watched him approach, your eyes darting between his face and his clothes, lingering on the way sunlight caught his ring. "The whole district will be talking," you said softly.

"You're causing quite a scene," you murmured, nodding to where the whispers had started up again outside. "The prince, in a common theater..."

"Good," he said simply. "Let them whisper. Let them see." His voice softened. "Let them understand that their prince values more than just swords and politics – that he values stories, and art, and..." He reached up, his fingers ghosting along your cheek. "And the people who bring them to life."

Your breath caught at his touch. "Jace..." The name slipped out before you could stop it, and you immediately pressed your lips together, as if trying to take it back.

"Say it again," he whispered, his voice rough. "Please. Say my name."

You hesitated, your gaze searching his as though you might find some answer hidden in the stormy depths of his eyes. His touch was warm, grounding, and yet it set every nerve alight, a paradox you couldn’t quite reconcile.

“Jace,” you breathed, softer this time, as if the name itself was fragile, something precious you were afraid to break.

His eyes closed briefly, the sound of it a balm to wounds you didn’t even know he carried. When he opened them again, the intensity in his gaze pinned you in place.

“I’ve spent too long as a title, a duty, a shadow. But when you say my name…” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I feel like myself again.”

"I love you," he said simply, his hand still extended. "In shadows and in sunlight, in torchlight and in truth. And I'm done pretending otherwise."

Your hand trembled as you reached for his, your fingers hovering just above his palm. "Your mother..."

"Knows," he said softly. "Has known, apparently, for quite some time." His lips quirked in a small smile. "She thinks the court could use more cultural enrichment."

You stared at him, comprehension dawning slowly. "That's..."

"A way forward," he finished gently. "If you want it. No more shadows, no more hiding. Just... this. You, and me, and your stories. In sunlight."

Your eyes were bright with unshed tears, but your smile – your smile was like watching the sun rise. "You impossible man," you breathed, shaking your head as a laugh escaped, soft and disbelieving. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking of me?��

“I’m asking for everything,” Jace said, his voice steady, though his hand still hovered just short of yours, waiting. “And I’m offering the same.”

Your fingers trembled as they reached for his, but you didn't pull away. "The court won't like it," you whispered, even as your hands intertwined. "A common performer, elevated so high..."

“The court will do as the Queen says,” he said, a grin appearing to cover half of his face.

You laughed softly, though it caught on something that might have been a sob.

"This is the most real thing I've ever done." He glanced around the theater, at the dust motes dancing in the morning light, at the worn stage beneath your feet. "This is me, standing in sunlight, telling you that I love you. That I've loved you since you first made me believe in the magic of stories. That I want to build something with you – something that serves both the realm and our hearts."

Your breath hitched. "You've never said that before," you whispered. "That you love me."

"I was a coward," he admitted, bringing your joined hands to his lips. "Hiding behind a hood, pretending I could keep my heart separate from my duty." His eyes met yours, clear and certain. "I'm not hiding anymore."

The sound of whispers outside grew louder – more people gathering, no doubt, to witness their prince standing in a common theater, holding hands with a performer in the morning light. But for once, you didn't pull away, didn't try to maintain proper distance.

His smile faltered slightly. "I'm sorry," he started, but you shook your head.

"Don't be," you said, squeezing his hand. "We needed that time – those moments in torchlight, when we were just ourselves. It let us..." You paused, searching for words. "It let us build something real, before we had to figure out how to make it fit in the world."

"What happens now?" you asked softly, your free hand coming up to trace the formal embroidery on his sleeve – so different from the plain clothes he'd worn in shadows.

"Now," he said, smiling slightly, "you finish running your lines. And I..." He glanced at the script still clutched in your hand. "I help, badly, the way I always did. Though perhaps this time I won't have to whisper."

You laughed then, real and bright, the sound echoing off the theater's walls. "You were a terrible scene partner."

"I was," he agreed, grinning. "But I made up for it with enthusiasm."

"You did," you said softly, your eyes dropping to his lips for just a moment. "Though I seem to remember you being better at other kinds of performance."

His breath caught as you stepped closer, your fingers trailing up from his embroidered sleeve to the collar of his formal coat. "Oh?" he managed, his voice rougher than before.

"Mhmm," you hummed, rising up on your toes. "Would you like a demonstration?"

The sunlight caught the gold in his eyes as they darkened, his hands tightening on your waist. "I believe," he murmured, "that would be most educational."

You tilted your head, your hand brushing up to cradle his jaw, the stubble beneath your fingertips grounding you. His lips hovered close – so close you could feel the tremor of his exhale against your skin. And then, finally, he leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first, as if he feared breaking you. His lips brushed against yours in a way that sent a shiver through your body, light and careful, but quickly deepened into something fuller, something aching. His mouth opened slightly, inviting you in, and when your tongue slipped past the curve of his lower lip, he groaned low in his throat – a sound that sent a thrill rippling down your spine.

It was wet, eager, yet tender, a dance of give and take, of exploration and familiarity. His hand splayed wide against your back, pressing you closer, as though proximity alone could erase the years spent apart, the careful boundaries you'd both maintained.

Between breaths, his lips barely parted from yours, you murmured, “I love you.”

The words spilled from you like a secret too heavy to carry anymore, your voice trembling with raw honesty. His response was immediate – a sharper pull, his lips chasing yours with urgency, his tongue sweeping against yours in a way that made your knees weaken.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, your foreheads pressed together as his thumb traced lazy circles on your jaw. His eyes searched yours, a soft smile curving his lips despite the heat still pooling in his gaze.

“I take this as a yes?” he murmured, his grin widening when you laughed softly and kissed him once more, just to tell him yes without words.

Outside, the morning sun continued its climb through the sky, painting the theater district in shades of gold. The whispers would spread, the stories would grow, and soon all the realm would know of the prince who chose a performer, who dared to love in sunlight rather than shadow.

But in that moment, standing on your worn stage with his arms around you and the taste of his kiss still on your lips, none of that mattered. You had found your way back to each other, not in the secretive depths of night but in the honest light of day. And this time, neither of you was letting go.

taglist: @smurfelle @elliaze @sillylittlepenguin181818 @lustrz-anna @lovelyteenagebeard @misshale21 @cecestea @n4tsha @inspirationquxxn @rin588 @anoravx @bbubbllejisoo @vividxpages

gc lovelies tags: @benjinotes @earth4angels @xxselenite @eldrith @princessbellecerise @bryscorner @v3laryons @vee-mage @softspiderling @swordgrace @hxtd @divinesolas @housetargaryenloyalist @bucksplum @cregan-starks @fyrewept

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syluss-karaoke-teacher · 2 days ago

Text

Love and Deepspace - Nightly Rendezvous - Part III, Rafayel

Third part is up!! Rafayel and Sylus are my main boos, and I absolutely adored Intertidal Zone and the sensuality of it. This (and Sylus' upcoming one) were written wholly after the cards had dropped, so it's more faithful to the card's plot, but still with my own interpretation and imagination sprinkled in hehe.

Word count: 2248 words

MDNI! Tags and main text under the cut. You have been warned.

NOTE: This fic is only posted on tumblr and on AO3 under the pseud Yuli_Hunter. All other uploads on any other websites are non-authorized. I do not own any part of Love and Deepspace as an IP, but I do own this piece of fanfiction, and you are not allowed to repost it, copy it or otherwise claim it as your own.

That's it, enjoy! ❤️

Tags: reader!MC, fem!reader, PWP, fingering and oral (f!receiving), PIV, what do you mean I'm starting to repeat myself with these tags?

Not beta-read we die like Grandma

~*~*~

The bathroom is quiet, and the water in the tub is warm. After the blazing desert sun you thought you would never want to feel warm again, but the sudden snowfall, along with having to leave Rafayel to his own devices, reversed those thoughts. You sigh and lean your head back against the edge of the bathtub. You are not quite sure how long you have been here. After you woke up in the hotel parking lot the rest of the evening has been a blur. Your thoughts have been occupied by Rafayel so completely that at times you could have sworn you heard his voice in the empty room. The look he gave you before you left… You are sure you could spend an eternity gazing into the beautiful nebulae of his eyes and still not unveil all the mysteries hidden there. Today you would have wanted nothing more than to envelope him in your love so completely that you could have erased whatever sorrow held him captive. Alas…

You shift in place and the water splashes higher on your chest. The goosebumps it causes makes you realize how lukewarm the water has turned. You see that the falling snow has piled up on the windowsill, and decide it’s finally time to leave. But to do what?

You dry yourself with a towel and wrap it around yourself as you step into the bedroom. As you circle the room aimlessly you spot your black cocktail dress from the first night of your trip. It’s laying on the backrest of an armchair, carelessly tossed there after, well… You had tried to make Rafayel feel better on your first night here. You blush a little as you inspect the garment. It’s the only fancier dress you have with you for the trip, and you could have worn it to the art salon as well if not for Rafayel’s insistence to go alone. Seeing that he is yet to come back, your options are either to wrap yourself into a bathrobe, order room service and watch a movie all by your lonesome or use the opportunity to dress nicely for your own sake and eat dinner at the wonderful hotel restaurant. You turn the dress around for a moment longer before making up your mind.

Your push-up bra hangs discarded on the armchair along with the dress, and you slowly ease it and the dress over your still damp skin. Afterwards you go looking for a pair of fresh panties from your suitcase, only to realize that your suitcase isn’t in the walk-in closet where you left it. You frown at the row of men’s shirts hung up in there and idly wonder how Rafayel has packed so much again that he feels the need to spread his outfits into your room too. It wouldn’t surprise you to find his paintbrushes in your makeup box next.

The suitcase isn’t in the bedroom either and at this point your tired brain starts to catch up. You go into the bathroom and stare at the vanity table. Cologne, a silver razor with shaving cream, hair mousse…

“Oh.” No wonder you only found this one dress and bra in the room.

Suddenly there are noises coming from the front door, and you walk towards them without a second thought. As you are almost out of the bedroom you come face to face with Rafayel.

His eyes are upon your face instantly. Before you have a chance to react, he grabs you by your wrist and waist and swirls you around to lean against the wall. He buries his face into your neck, sighing deeply and laying kisses onto your heated skin.

“Rafayel… what are you doing here?” you managed to ask as your mind threatens to go hazy again. You don’t seem to be faring that much better than Rafayel was earlier.

Rafayel pulls back for a moment. He doesn’t say anything, yet the heat in his gaze is enough to make your stomach flip. He pushes his thigh between your legs, and instinctively you grind against it. The action reminds you of your missing underwear and causes a shiver to run along your spine. Your eyes flutter shut, and a small sigh escapes your lips.

That seems to flick a switch in Rafayel, who surges forward with a groan and captures your lips in a searing kiss. It’s demanding yet gentle; it forces every thought, every last shred of your attention onto him. Rafayel circles his arm more tightly around your waist, pulling you fully against his thigh. With his other hand he cradles the back of your head as he licks your lips to ask for entrance.

You were never good at poetry, but for Rafayel you will have to learn some day: there are no ordinary words to describe what he does to you. Only a few moments of kissing and you are left feeling like a teenager again, thighs trembling with need and lungs begging for oxygen as your lover pulls back to admire his work.

“Wh…what are you doing here Rafayel?” you try again, and when Rafayel still won’t answer, you playfully bite his lower lip as he leans in for another kiss. Rafayel groans at the feeling and pushes his hips flush against you. He is rock hard, and it makes you feel a little bit better about your sorry state.

“This is my room. You came in here, not the other way around,” he finally murmurs. He runs a slender finger over his bruised lip before laying his hand on your chest. Slowly he lets his fingers slide down the black fabric of your dress as his eyes are fixed upon yours. Your breath hitches as he reaches the hem of the short skirt and grabs it, then pushes it upwards until your naked pussy is exposed.

“What I meant was… Shouldn’t you be at the even—tahhhh—” your question ends in a moan as Rafayel’s fingertips brush against your slick entrance. He rubs against you with such faint touches that it drives you mad.

“Did you plan on leaving the room like this?” he asks with a hint of jealousy in his voice, and pointedly ignores your own question. You feel yourself clenching over nothing and end up grinding down on Rafayel’s hand. He lets out a playful tsk and releases your cunt before reaching for the zipper of your dress. Once unzipped it takes only a few tugs to undress you and leave you clad in just the push-up bra.

With a pleased hum Rafayel leans down to kiss your breasts as he returns his hand to your core. He cups your sex and slides his index and middle finger inside you. He starts to slowly pump into you as he nuzzles your cleavage that’s rising and falling in tandem with his thrusts.

After leaving a mark of blossoming red onto your left breast Rafayel lifts his head with a lazy smirk. He brings his other hand to your face and presses his thumb in, sliding it back and forth a bit for you to get the gist. Your eyes widen and you whine pitifully before starting to bob the digit in your mouth, wetting it at the same speed he is doing to your cunt.

Rafayel’s eyes are almost black now with how wide his pupils have blown up. His mouth hangs ajar as he uses both of his hands to fill you. The fingers inside you curl against your g-spot and you moan around his thumb. You bring your own hand to circle your clit as you brace yourself for your impending orgasm. Rafayel grasps your chin, forces you to look only at him. You feel yourself racing closer—

Ding-ding!

The intercom on the wall near you suddenly bursts into life. You squeeze your eyes shut, and hear Rafayel cursing softly.

You have a call waiting!

It’s a small wonder Rafayel doesn’t use his Evol to blow up the offending device. The call signal rings again, and you slip Rafayel’s thumb out of your mouth.

“You should answer. It could be important.”

Rafayel turns back to you, and you look at him with the most innocent expression you can muster. You lick your lips and clench around his fingers. Your slick has dripped down to his wrist by now, and you are still infuriatingly close to your orgasm. The blazing annoyance in Rafayel’s eyes is nothing but a turn-on at this point.

Rafayel grits his teeth and pushes the ‘accept call’ button harshly. The intercom crackles to life, and an unknown male voice starts to talk. Rafayel’s hand slips out of you, and it makes you panic for a full two seconds.

“I am busy,” Rafayel barks at the intercom before grabbing your hips with his hands and hoisting you up into his arms. He crosses the short distance to the bed and sits you down onto it, crawling between your legs as the man on the call still asks him questions. You manage to hear the words ‘salon’ and ‘early’, before Rafayel rolls his eyes and dives his head down. You can only hope his friend doesn’t hear the sound you make as Rafayel goes down on you.

Strong hands hold your hips down as Rafayel brings you back to the precipice. His tongue is hot and heavy against your folds and he moans around you like a man starving. You grab his purple hair a bit too forcefully, but that only makes him more determined to please you. It isn’t long before you are bucking your hips futilely in his grasp.

“Raf, I’m so close, I’m—” you try to warn him, but Rafayel merely hums and pushes his tongue into you. Then you are tumbling over the edge, cumming straight into his awaiting mouth.

You chant Rafayel’s name like a prayer as he eases you through the aftershocks. His hands massage your hips, and he kisses the shivering skin of your inner thighs.

As you come to your senses you look at his beautiful visage between your thighs. He stands up slowly from the bed while pressing light kisses up your leg. With a final kiss on your toes he lays your heel on his shoulder and brings his hands to his belt buckle. You lick your lips as he slowly undoes his belt: something about the sure movements of his hands mesmerizes you. Rafayel toes off his shoes and pushes his pants and underwear down. As he does his cock spring free, slapping against his abdomen. The tip of it is flushed angry red and slick with precum. Rafayel hisses and brings his hand down to stroke himself. Despite having just come you feel your arousal simmering to life again as you watch Rafayel pleasure himself. You arch your back to unhook your bra, which has grown uncomfortable, and then move your free leg behind Rafayel’s backside to gently coax him forward.

“Please Raf, my love,” you whisper hoarsely, and hear his breath hitch in response, “I need you.”

You see Rafayel’s chest glow red above his heart. He crawls onto the bed, kneels between your still spread legs and lifts your hips up and over to his lap. He nestles his aching cock between your folds, rubbing up and down as he leans over you.

“That’s my line,” he murmurs and captures your lips into a soft kiss. It’s almost enough to distract you from the sharp intrusion as he suddenly pushes in and buries himself almost to the hilt into your pulsating heat. You moan into the kiss and claw his back as he rocks back and forth. The air between you is hot and heavy. You feel like choking on nothing, and Rafayel steals what little oxygen there is with his kisses. You can do nothing but hold onto him as he sets the pace.

You are a sweaty mess: your hair sticking to your forehead, and you are sure that your face is as red as Rafayel’s dress shirt. Yet, when he pulls back enough to lay his forehead against yours and gaze into your eyes, pure beauty is reflected in them. You can’t turn away, not even with the risk of drowning.

Rafayel turns louder the closer he is. His gasps, groans and whimpers tumble out of his mouth as he quickens his thrusts. He changes his angle ever so slightly until your voice matches his, and when he feels you tightening around his cock, he releases your hip to help you along with his fingers.

“Sing for me, cutie,” he pleads. And when have you been able to deny him anything? You come apart around him, your whines high-pitched and your back arched off the mattress. Splendid colors flash behind your closed eyelids as your orgasm coaxes Rafayel over the edge with you. As he stills inside you so do his moans, and in that silence you swear you can feel him coming straight into your womb with how deep he holds you in place.

You lay like that for a while, Rafayel still inside you, running his hand through your hair as he searches your eyes for an answer to a question you didn’t know needed an answer. He kisses the palm of your hand and the tips of your fingers, and you smile up at him.

“As long as you need. As much as you want.”

So he does.

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