Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1. Jacaera

“Are you sure?”

Jae stiffened in her seat, her fists balled. They sat opposite one another on the bed, the sheets a tangle between their legs. The nightshift she'd picked was as thin as parchment, revealing more than hiding. 

And yet, despite the ambience and the subject at hand, she had never felt less womanly than she had in that moment. Or less aroused.

“Of course I am,” she forced herself to wheeze regardless, and she hated how high her voice pitched. “What sort of question is that?”

Aegon shrugged. It infuriated her how untroubled he seemed—sprawled against her headboard, half naked, with one knee lazily propped up. He regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, almost as if he relished this little debacle she'd asked him to put up for her. She wanted to scream.

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, you look like your head’s about to burst.” He chuckled.

She grimaced, instinctively pressing her hand to her cheeks. They were hot—scorching hot, the skin moments away from melting. “Magnificent. And now you’re laughing at me.”

He sprang almost straight away, his fingers extending to take her own.

“I’m not, I just… it’s endearing. You’re treating it like an… an academic assignment.” He paused, a perverse sort of smile curving his lips. “The art of fucking.”

He laughed then, high and shrill, and she couldn’t resist rolling her eyes.

“Yes, mock me all you like. Lady Plank doesn’t know anything about the subject.”

He kept giggling like mad, and she resisted the urge to pelt him with a pillow.

-Gods, why did you think this was a good idea?

She'd been perfectly content with letting him just… do things to her. They’d lain together mayhaps a handful of times, and though she’d felt overwhelmed, the experience had been pleasant. Magnificent even. It had only occurred to her after that letting her husband do all the work was not a good thing.

Nothing bored a man more than a wife that just laid there—or at least that’s what she'd heard Lady Merryweather say. But more than that, it felt… queer to be so ignorant on the subject of coupling.

She’d grown accustomed to being the one who had the answers in their relationship, that being outdone seemed unbecoming.

She was a woman grown, and despite being nine and ten, didn’t know anything about congress beyond what the they'd done already. But those were just normal things—her on her back, or her atop him. Boring trysts a wife and husband were supposed to do.

He'd not done boring things.

He'd been philandering since he was four and ten, indulging in perversion with women who knew about pleasure more than she would know in a lifetime. She couldn’t compare to that.

In that respect, she was half a child—and she hated it.

When his laughter finally died, he shook his head. “I’m not laughing because you know nothing about it. I’m laughing because you think fucking is as complex as philosophy, or sums, gods forbid.”

She shrank deeper into herself—Mother have mercy, if she flushed any harder, she would faint.

“Well, it is an art you’re supposed to master,” he laughed again, but she forced herself to barrel past it before she lost her composure.

“You didn’t come into manhood knowing everything about it. Presumably, you had to learn.”

Clearing his throat, he managed a nod. “I did. By doing it, not jotting down notes.”

She squeezed her chemise tighter.

“Pardon me for wanting to be prepared. I shouldn’t have troubled myself at all.”

He shook his head, his laughter as light as music. “Oh, no, keep troubling, please. I had a fantasy like this once. Granted, you were far less coiled, and far more naked than at present, but—”

She arched a brow and pinned him with a glare. “That’s scarce surprising. You could fantasize about a tree, provided that it had the appropriate curves.”

Another laugh.

“Ah, see! Daring and quippy. You have it in you to loosen up.”

Before she knew it, he was untangling himself from his sheets to inch toward her. His hands found her waist—his favorite spot—and pulled her flush against his chest. The warmth of his skin made her sigh, and for a moment, she felt herself uncoil.

“You just think too much about it.”  His lips descended, brushing against the furrow between her brows. Another thing he was fond of doing—so much so that she’d realized just how often she frowned.

With a sigh, her finger curled around a lock of his hair.

“I just… I like to be prepared. For everything.”

He made a face. “Well, you can’t do that—not for everything. Life is unpredictable, and the best course of action is oft just to barrel through it and hope for the best.”

She blinked, holding his gaze. “And this is why your liver is wine-rotted.”

She expected him to be offended. Instead he puckered his lips and hummed.

“Mhm. And it’s also why I can fuck you under the table.”

She shouldn’t have laughed—gods. She shouldn’t have. But the giggle crept out of her all the same.

“Come on, it’s easy. The first perverse thing that comes to your mind.”

She forced a swallow, her cheeks still pulsing. Seven hells, when had breathing become such an exercise?  “Well, I don’t know… it’s mostly just things we’ve done already.”

“And you’ve never thought beyond that?”

“No, because I don’t know where to even go,” she sputtered, trying to still her frantic panting. “Give me a direction at least.”

Groaning, he pulled away, to sink his teeth into his bottom lip.

“Alright, let’s see. What have I done,” his eyes went wide for a bit, almost as if he'd pulled a memory too lewd even for him. “Fuck the seven, I keep forgetting we must start tame. Let’s see… I could tie you up.”

She paused. “What?”

He shrugged. “Yes, take rope to bind your legs and arms. I could even go a step further and stuff a gag into your mouth.”

She pondered for a bit, the image conjuring in her mind. Her, bound and splayed, like some trapped doe. Shudders ripped down her spine.

“Why would you tie me up?”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know, some women like being ordered about. And some men enjoy doing the ordering.”

Jae's eyes went wide, and the image changed. He was there too now, manhandling her, trying to get her to behave. Be his obedient dog and—

She burst out laughing.

“Alright, it’s a perfectly fine desire—” he grumbled but she shook her head.

“Oh, no forgive me—it’s just… you’d be terrible at giving orders. You’re too.. “

His brows shot up.

“Spineless?”

She gasped.

“I was going to say mellow,”  a sheepish smile cracked her lips. “You’re far too unbothered by things. I don’t think being authoritative would suit you.”

“So spineless, but said in a flowery manner.” He exclaimed and she buried her head into her palms.

“No, gods, no. That’s not what I meant. Besides, why would you even want to do that in the first place?”

“I told you, because some men like ordering their women around. Making them beg for it.”

She squinted. “That sounds more like a dog than a woman.”

The way he rolled his eyes, she was convinced he could see the back of his head.

“Alright, fine, then you can tie me up.”

A beat of silence.

“What?”

“Yes, you can tie me up, and order me about.”

Leaning back, she pondered. The images changed—the roles reversed. And a queer feeling started humming in her belly.

“Order you how?”

His brow went up, that slow, mischievous smirk curling the edges of his lips. He liked this notion—far more than the idea of tying her up.

“However you like. I’d be entirely at your mercy.”

She blinked. The heat in her cheeks descended to her neck. Even the papery chemise was feeling too hot all of a sudden.

“So if I demanded you put on girly frocks and run around the Keep singing the Bear and the Maiden Fair—”

He blinked. The smile dropped. She almost bit her tongue.

“Seven hells, Jace… I meant ordering me to fuck you how you like…”

“I’m sorry!” She exclaimed and buried her face into her hands. “It’s just… it seems so silly for me to order you around.”

“Does it? Haven’t you been ordering me about for months?” he scoffed. “’Aegon, do the sums.’ ‘Aegon, hold your tongue, this is a Sept’, ‘Aegon cease trying to dump wine on Lady Merryweather's dress'. You’re practically my master already.”

Her shoulders slumped of their own accord, and she retreated into herself. “Yes, but that’s just obligation. Me, chiding you into doing things you dislike. Which is about the last thing I’d want in… here,”

She gestured vaguely at her bed chamber, her cheeks still pulsing.

Another smirk, as that warm, mischievous fire returned to his expression.

“Well, yes, but the difference now would be that I’d very much want to do whatever you say.”

She stiffened, his hand going to push a curl behind her ear. As was custom, his fingers lingered, trailing the curve of her jaw. They halted just as they reached her lips and then—again—she laughed.

A shrill, girlish giggle that oozed shyness and shame in equal measure.

“Gods, forgive me. I’m a child.”

More grinning, another kiss to her brow. “No. You’re just too sweet to bear. It makes my teeth ache sometimes.”

Blood surged right into her head, and she had to close her eyes to regain sense.

“Funny,” she grumbled, covering his hand with hers. “Would you truly want something like that?”

His brow brushed his widow's peak.

“Oh very much so,” his arm gestured toward her dresser. “You take that twine from your house robe, and bind my wrists with it. Then, you do whatever you want with me.” He paused, sucking in a sharp breath. “You can even strike me, if you’d like.”

That made her smile drop. “Wait, what? Why would I strike you?”

He blinked, the fire in his violet eyes sputtering.

“Well, it’s only if you want—”

Sidling up to him, she draped her arms around him, fingers going to push back the hair from his face.

“I should think it would be counterintuitive to strike someone you love.”

He threw his head back, his smile softer now, more pained.

“Yes, well, it wouldn’t be truly striking, just… a light tap. Completely harmless.”

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip. Without thinking, she leaned in, to plant a kiss into his cheek.

“Regardless, I don’t think I could bear it. I’ve no reason to strike you—even in jest. I’d much prefer kisses.”

A soft breath escaped his mouth. Before she knew it, he'd pulled her flush to himself, burying his face into her curls.

“Of course you would. Because you’re so disgustingly angelic, it’s vexing sometimes.”

She squinted, pulling apart to hold his gaze.

“What, you don’t want the kisses?”

A snort left his lips, high pitched enough for her to mistake it for her own giggle.

“I’d want more than just kisses.”

Smirking, she leaned again, this time brushing his temple. His muscles flexed under her touch, a soft sigh breaking through.

“Hmmm… shall I tell you how witty you are, then? How clever?” her lips trailed up, over his brow and forehead to end up on his right side. “How you’re too brave, too daring for your own good? How much I admire your gumption?”

He was squeezing her now, fingers trailing down her spine with heartbreaking desperation. His breathing had quickened too, sucking in the scent of her hair oil—almost as if it were vital to his survival.

"Iā gaomagon jaelā nyke naejot ivestragon ao avy jorrāelan?"

Veering lower, she came to press her forehead to his.

"Or do you want me to tell you I love you?"

His lips parted, a sound breaking through—a plea, a whimper, she couldn’t tell. His skin was burning under her touch, his grip iron.

She smiled. “Gaoman. Avy jorrāelan. Se ēlī mēre nyke jorrāelagon. Se se mōrī.”

“I do. I love you. The first one I love. And the last.”

Her lips inched closer of their own accord, the kiss no more than a ghosting of her mouth on his. Still, he gripped her like a bear trap, his nails clawing at her chemise hard enough to tear it up. A fierce furrow appeared between his brows, the expression a mixture of complete ecstasy and pain.

His eyes snapped open. Panic surfaced in those purple depths, followed by confusion and a hint of… shame.

“Aegon?” she mumbled, pulling away. “Are you alright?”

His lips parted, soundlessly forming the curse.

“Fuck.”

His gaze flickered down for just a moment. When she followed them she found his small clothes wet. A stain marred the linen, white and sticky.

It wasn’t until he pushed her off to groan that she realize what had happened.

“Wait, did you just—” she began but he barreled right over her.

Flinging the covers off, he moved to get off the bed.

“Not a word.” He snapped and stalked to her solar. The sound of pouring water and rustling fabric came not a moment later and she sank in her seat.

“Wait, but I thought… that cannot happen lest… lest…”

Metal clinked, and not a moment later, he was back, fully naked. He collapsed into the sheets beside her, his hair unfurling around him like a silver crown.  

“No, it shouldn’t. Lest you’re a green boy of two and ten seeing teats for the first time. Or hearing your wife say I love you, apparently.”

She mulled the words over. Then, her lips peeled into a smile so wide, her cheeks hurt.

“Oh, no, that’s… that’s so darling.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbled, rolling over to bury his face into a pillow. “That’s not darling. It’s pitiful. I’m supposed to be teaching you perversions, not blowing because of some damned words.”

Inching closer she came to rest her palms on his back.

“Yes, but I still think it to be lovely. Now I know something that gets you flustered.”

He stilled for a bit, his back muscles going hard under her touch. Then he growled—actually growled—into the pillow, the goose feathers muffling the sound.

“Alright, no. We're not doing this. On your back.” Pushing upright, he blew his hair out of his eyes and pinned her gaze. “You and I are going to fuck rather vigorously now and forget this ever happened.”

“Aegon…”

“No, I won’t hear it. I’m not about to let some blasted words unman me.”

Cocking her head, she regarded him. The petulant curl to his mouth, the way he was resting his hands on his knees. It was posture— manly bravado, that did little to conceal how big his eyes still were. Still crackling with faint traces of dragonfire.

“Should I stop saying it, then?”

His expression dropped. His shoulders sank inward, and he blinked at her.

“No, I… what?”

“Because if your pride is of such value to you… I’d be more than happy to help you preserve it.”

More gaping. “Fuck my pride. It’s always been worthless anyways.”

She smiled again, a slow, knowing thing.

“Good. Then I foresee many ‘I love you’s in your future.”

His lips peeled into a smile so soft, she felt like leaping for joy. That still didn’t stop him from crawling up to attempt to force her down on the bed.

“Good,” he mumbled, his fingers pawing at her chemise in a bid to push it up. “And I foresee plenty of screaming in yours.”

A giggle burst through her mouth, when those devious fingers started tickling.

“Gods, you’re positively vile.”

“Oh yes. Screaming, moaning, begging. So much begging.” He leaned in, his lips hungry against her own. “Now spread your legs.”

She chortled, crawling up to entwine her fingers around his nape. “I take it back. You are adept at giving orders. I’m quaking in my skirts.”

The laugh he gave her was in equal parts mocking as it was daring.

“Oh, just you wait. I’ve only gotten started.”

She giggled, even as his hands seized the band of her small clothes and pulled them off. Her laughter didn’t die even when he started kissing the inside of her thigh, inching ever higher to bury himself right in between.

Only then, did she cease laughing and started moaning. At some point, she begged too. When it got hard to breathe, and she grew so wet, she was certain she would die lest he slipped himself inside her.

The screaming came last. After he'd finally ended the torment with his tongue, and forced her into his lap to give him one of those blasted dragon rides he enjoyed so much. But she didn’t say his name. She didn’t scream obscenities, or lewd expletives like he dared her to. She just said she loved him.

And that undid him worse than even the foulest of perversions.

He drove himself into her hard, his fingers gripping her hips with bruising force. His head collapsed into the crook of her neck, going right back to devouring—sucking up her smell, still starved for that hair oil he was so queerly fixated on.

“Do you still wish to take notes?” he drawled at her after. He'd rested against her chest, his weight a comfort atop her.

It had taken effort to get him to slip out of her, to let her go wash off his seed. It was another fixation he'd developed—lingering inside her long after he'd finished. He'd once jested—crassly, of course—how he'd be content to just stay in her and not come out.

She'd squealed and called him foul after, but she same to understand he wasn’t just craving the physical joining. It was the intimacy. The closeness they’d feel when they were entwined like that.

Jae inhaled, pondering. “Some, I think.”

“Oh? Which ones? How you squeal when I run my tongue through your cunt, or how sweetly you moan when I stick my cock in you?”

She resisted the urge to whack him on the shoulder.

“No. Just how much I love you.”

His muscles went tight again—almost as if the words had physical weight. His arms squeezed harder, his head burrowing into her chest.

“Don’t stop saying it, alright?” he almost wheezed, and it pained her to hear how small his voice had gotten.

Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she pressed a kiss into the top of his head.

“Never,” she smiled.

2. Lucera

“Slow down,” Aemond hissed.

His brows were furrowed in fierce concentration, his lips pressed shut. It was comical how much he was straining. Almost as if he was in the yard, fighting three opponents at once, rather than just her hand.

“Don’t go so fast.” He huffed, and seized her wrist.

Luce couldn’t resist giggling, leaning in to brush her forehead against his.

“Why?” she purred, giving his cock one long, languid stroke. “I thought this was how you liked it. Hard, and fast.”

His belly clenched with each inch moved, the muscles rippling beneath the skin. The sight was mesmerizing. Perverse and intimate all at one. It made warmth bloom in her chest, her heart swelling at the thought that he'd let himself be vulnerable enough to allow her to please him.

As she reached the tip, she let her thumb skate over it gently. A sound left his lips—small, involuntary. His hand lashed to wrap around her throat straight away, his fingers sinking into her skin.

“For someone who claims not to have done anything—you’re far too adept at this.”

Another giggle left her. “No. I just know you well enough to understand what makes you riled.”

She drew close, letting her breath ghost over his lips. However, before he could lean in to kiss her, she pulled away. Her fingers unfurled, allowing his cock to drop—still erect and unsatisfied.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

She shook her head at him, her body giddy with excitement. 

“Sit down. I want to try something.”

A groan left his lips, bursting with impatience.

“Don’t play coy, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Her smile came out in earnest, and she gently coaxed him back toward her bed.

“How do you know? I haven’t even tried it yet.”

“Lucera—” her name came out more like a warning. As if she were some wild mare in need of taming.

She laughed, and forced him down to the edge of her bed.

“Gods. A man grown and you’re still whingeing at me about my perceived lack of knowledge. Have you learned nothing from my High Valyrian?”

“This is different,” he snapped, a petulant quirk to his lips.

She knelt at his side, her finger going to smooth it out before she grew too tempted to kiss it.

“Is it? You’d do well to loosen a bit, raqirazy. You can’t always control everything. And you shouldn’t want to either.”

He grimaced, “Ah yes, so I should just let chaos run me?”

“No, not chaos,” she pouted, going to open the ties of her house robe. “Just me.”

A chortle left his lips, even as his eye drifted low to the neckline of her nightshift. Her sheer, sky blue nightshift.

“So chaos, just made beautiful.”

Despite herself, she smiled.

“Pleased to know you still think me beautiful.”

His annoyance wavered briefly, as he let out a snort.

“Of course you are.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind me doing what I like for a bit.”

He shook his head, even as she pushed the straps of her nightgown down to expose her breasts.

“Gods, wait, what—”

Before he found the wherewithal to squirm, and push her off, she lashed. She propped herself to his knees, and pressed her breasts together, taking his cock right in between.

“Because I’m certain that I know you well enough to gauge that you’ll like what I had in mind.”

She started moving straight away, gliding up and down at a steady pace. All his earlier annoyance vanished. His remaining eye went wide, his arms trembling under the weight of keeping him upright. They gave out not a moment later, as he collapsed onto his elbows, his breath whistling out of him in sharp bursts.

“What are you… why…” he sputtered, his words morphing into a strained grunt.

She smiled and pressed her breasts tighter.

“What? I know how much you like them,” she purred. “I’m certain you’d thought about putting your cock between them at some point.”

His belly clenched, his fingers digging into the sheets.

“I’m just giving your desires flesh.” She smiled and increased her pace again. He was stiff as wood between her breasts, his tip weeping.

The breaths coming out of his mouth grew rabid, his hand pawing blindly at her hair.

“Wait, no, don’t go so fast—”

But it was too late. With a squeeze, she slid down the length of his shaft. A grunt tore from his mouth, as if expelled by force, his body collapsing into a heap of sludge.

The wetness came. A quick, sticky spurt that coated her chest, going all the way to her neck. Unable to stop herself, she giggled.

“See. I told you to trust me.” She exclaimed and let his limp cock slide from her breasts.

His remaining eye snapped open. 

He propped himself back up, flames roaring to life in the depths of his pale eye. He trailed her face, lingering on her smile, the slant of her eyes, before inevitably drifting lower—to regard the mess he'd left on her chest.

The look on his face turned rabid. She quickly fluttered over to her wash basin, eager to clean herself before he grew inflamed enough to assail her again.

“Where did you learn that?” he demanded, and all her previous amusement died.

“Gods, must we do this again? You deflowered me, Aemond. That should be proof enough that I’ve never done anything with another man in my life.”

“Being a maiden just means you never let them stick their cocks in you,” he snarled. “Not that you didn’t let them slip it anywhere else.”

Running a cloth over herself, she turned to face him.

“Yes, of course. Because women cannot be perverse in any way. We're all chaste and pious flowers who faint at the thought of congress.”

His brows went up, that scowl still on his lips.

“So this was all just some lewd fantasy you’d conjured up in your head?”

Turning, she gave him a wicked smirk. “Why yes. If you must know, I’ve had a number of lewd fantasies about you. I have them all the time.”

The scowl faltered. His cheeks erupted pink, the flush spreading all the way from his neck to his widow's peak. Luce couldn’t resist laughing. It was just like in her girlhood—when even the faintest brush of her hand made him redden worse than a beet.

“I didn’t have anyone at Dragonstone,”she began after a moment. “It was just me, the rocks and the endless sea. Not a companion in sight.”

“You had companions,” he shook his head, his hands curling against the sheets. It was amusing to see him like that—naked as his nameday, his cock hanging out, all whilst he tried and failed not to flush like some shy maid. “We've received letters to the Capitol, detailing everything about your legion of admirers.”

She groaned and moved to cover herself. “Admirers. More like riled lickspittles who did little more than vex me.”

Turning, she sidled up toward her window. The city without was a blanket of distant lights, the starless sky like a black lid keeping it all contained. 

“What use did I have of them? All they knew was to prattle about my face and my teats, and promise me things I’d never asked for nor cared to have. That’s not company. That’s worship. And worship is always done at a distance.”

A strangled breath left her lips, and she allowed herself to shudder.

“No, I was alone there. And I much preferred that, if I’m earnest. If I cannot be loved, I might as well fade away in peace.”

A beat of silence passed, punctuated only by her slow, labored breaths. It made her think of Dragonstone. Of the warm bath she'd drawn, the vial of sweetsleep. The potion had tasted bitter going down, but grew sweet once she'd slipped into the trough.

The drowsiness had come quickly. Coaxing her lids shut, forcing her limbs to slacken. It had felt like floating on air, the world around her immaterial.

“Just a little more,” she'd told herself. A little more and it would be over.

She would be at peace—or at least it would be quiet. She'd no longer feel the loneliness, the gnawing ache in her chest, destroying her day in and day out. She'd just feel… nothing. The only relief she could ever hope for.

Hands grasped at her waist. With a swift tug, she was yanked out of the sea, and pressed against solid ground. Breath returned into her lungs anew, chasing away the numbness and the fog of sweetsleep. The ache returned with it. The gnawing sensation that burrowed into her chest like a worm.

She snapped her eyes open, the curse on her tongue. But it wasn’t Maester Gerardys holding her. It was Aemond.

He'd pressed her to his chest, his arms firmly gripping her waist—almost as if he dreaded her escaping. The flush was in his cheeks still, but it lacked the scornful bite it had previously had. He just looked afraid. Oddly… vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and she thought he might cry. Before she could take a closer look at his face, he bent down, to pepper her cheeks with kisses. Her cheeks, her temples, her forehead. Exactly as he had when they’d been children.

Showering his future bride in the love he so ardently felt.

Unable to stop herself, she smiled. She almost asked him whatever for? Death was a pleasant thing. A slow, weightless sleep that stripped away her worries. She wouldn’t have minded drifting into it again. It was far better than living with the ache of being unloved.

Still, she let him pull her close. Press her head flush against his chest, whilst his arms squeezed. His heart raced under her touch, the pulse hammering almost as if it wanted out of his ribs. For some reason that made her smile harder.

It reminded her of him again—of her sweet, little Em whose heart raced so fiercely for her. Who gave her all the love in the world, despite everything and everyone saying he was not allowed.

Luce snuggled into him deeper, relishing the beat of his heart.

And for once, the gnawing ache in her chest ceased aching.

Chapter Text

1. Aemond  

It took the acolyte hours to unearth it.

He stood leaning against the stone pillar in the scriptorium, arms crossed tight against his chest, his boot tapping a tense rhythm against the floor. The air reeked of dust and candlewax and the anxious sweat of the acolyte, who had apologized no fewer than five times in as many minutes.

“They moved all the old tomes to the back, you see,” the boy stammered again, a pale wretch with hair like straw and ink-stained fingers. “When His Grace requested new volumes from Oldtown—well, we needed shelf space, so—”

“But you still have it?” Aemond cut in. If the idiot offered one more excuse, the next thing he asked for would be his head.

The acolyte nodded so rapidly Aemond half-expected his head to tumble clean off his neck.

“Yes, yes, my Prince. We do.”

“Then find it,” he snapped. “Now. Before I lose my patience and pitch you out the window.”

The boy’s face drained of color. He scrambled backward with an inelegant bow, scurrying into the adjoining chamber to resume rifling. Aemond exhaled through his nose. He had little time. He had a scheduled sparring session after, along with a  midday meal with Mother—it would all eat away at the few hours he had to work.

When the acolyte had found the blasted thing, another forty minutes had passed. And Aemond had to rush out of Father's library before he could make do on his threat.

The rest of the day passed like a stone dragged through mud. He moved through his forms in the yard without much thought, scarce registering Ser Criston’s praise or correction. At table with Mother, he gave one word answers to her questions and politely nodded at whatever tale Helaena was whispering to him. When the meal was done and Daeron pulled him to the side to ask him about training together on the morrow, he almost screamed and told him to leave him be.

Regardless, he restrained himself enough to endure a bout of polite conversation, before making up some poor excuse to leave.

It was a relief to be alone. At last.

The moment he stepped into his chambers, he flung off his boots, lit a candle, and cracked open the book—only to freeze, recalling exactly the kind of foe he was facing.

Poetry. The worst sort. Old rhymed stanzas, too obscure to be read easily.

He’d never had a knack for it. He'd prided himself in being adept at most every subject—and those he was not, he'd browbeat himself into practicing until his skill and knowledge were at least acceptable. But not poetry. He'd struggled to deduce the hidden meanings, had even less sense for the rhymes.

And yet, he'd still twisted himself into knots trying to do it, simply because he knew—she loved poetry. Loved the wordplay, the emotion, the cadence. And seeing her smile at something he'd done made all those hours he'd wasted hunched over a book worth it.

Drawing a breath, he started writing. Paused. Then started again.

His pen scratched, smeared, caught on the vellum.

When he finished, dusk had long since bled into night. He held the parchment at arm’s length, frowning at the translation.

The writing was hideous.

A crooked scrawl, ink-blotted and jagged. The turns of phrase were awkward, and the rhymes scarce held together. Not a translation, but a bastardization of Renard’s “Autumn’s Kiss,” that would make even an illiterate laugh.

Aemond groaned, tempted to feed the poetry book to the hearth.

-No, try again on the morrow.

At the very least, he could manage to translate one poem. He wasn’t that daft.

With a sigh, he folded the parchment, and shoved it deep into the pocket of his doublet. Then, after announcing to his attendants that he was retiring for the evening, he locked his front door and slipped into the hidden passage.

He discovered Lucera draped over her writing desk. Her nose was buried in some book, her loose curls spilling over her shoulder in thick waves. She was wearing her nightshift again, that thin, almost sheer silk that fit against her body like a second skin.

A vision. A mirage. A nymph of love and beauty, whose mere presence was enough to gut a man.

“You’re late,” she said without looking up, and he snapped back to his senses. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”

He shut the door and crossed to the main one, checking the lock—already turned. He smiled.

“I was delayed. Forgive me.”

“By what?” she asked, glancing up with a wry smile. “Has your mother dug up another bride for you?”

Her tone was jesting, but the muscle ticking in her jaw betrayed something more pained.

“No. Training.” He groaned. “Then supper. I think I pulled a muscle—went too hard on the offensive.”

“Poor lamb.” Her chair scraped as she rose, fluttering over to him in two quick steps. Her arms encircled him from behind, her chin resting against his back. “You work too hard. Come, let me help. I’ve been told I give excellent back rubs.”

“Do you now,” he snorted, but did not resist her attempts to undo his laces.

He held himself still, every brush of her fingers sending shivers down his spine. The scent of her—orange blossom and juniper—wrapped around him like smoke and when the doublet fell off, he felt as if his entire body had been set aflame.

“What’s this?” she murmured.

Before he could stop her, she bent and scooped the paper from the floor.

It struck him like a slap. The poem. It had fallen out of his pocket.

“It’s nothing. Give it here—” he reached to snatch it from her hand, tearing up the paper with too much force.

But it was too late.

A slow, delighted smile spread across her face.

“That’s Renard, isn’t it?” she pointed at the torn ribbons. “But translated into Valyrian.”

Heat crawled into his cheeks. “It’s not—it’s not good. The phrasing’s wrong. The rhymes are atrocious.”

“Did you do it?”

His breath caught.

She was smiling. Warmly. Others take her, it was too beautiful.

“It… it doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “It’s subpar. I’ll find you another.”

“Or you could write me one,” she quipped, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. “I always liked it when you wrote me things.”

“No.” The refusal was too sharp, too forceful. “I didn’t—I never—”

“Oh? Then name the true poet, so I can thank him properly.”

“They weren’t good,” he snapped, his voice rising. It all assailed him at once—the mortifying shame, the panic, the wretched tightness in his chest. “I hated poetry. I could never write it. I just—I’d steal lines from other works and cobble them together, hoping it’d pass for something legible. It always came out atrocious.”

She laughed.

“It was,” she nodded. “But I loved them best. Even more than the ones from our lessons.”

He gaped at her.

“Why?”

“Because you wrote them,” she stepped closer, her fingers brushing the back of his neck. The feel of her warm skin against his was like a balm and he strained not to shudder. “You hated it. And you were quite bad at it. And still, you tried. For me.”

He swallowed hard. Warmth had bloomed in his chest, hot and sudden, curling around his heart. It was just like that day—under the hearttree, when he'd scrambled to make a ring for her from his belt links and slip it onto her finger.  

Love. In its purest, unadulterated form.

He wanted to say it. Force the words into being, free himself at last.

“I hate you.” He mumbled instead—and cursed himself for his weakness.

She giggled again, a soft, tentative sound that made his teeth ache. Lifting herself to her tiptoes, she pressed a kiss into his mouth. Again, it was the same—that sweet little peck she'd used to give him as a reward for keeping her mischief secret.

“I know,” she whispered, as she reached up to curl her arms around his shoulders.

He held her tighter. Said nothing.

But he hoped—that she could feel how much he burned. Even if he could never bear to show her the flame.

2. Aegon

The knock came just as Aegon was about to leave.

“Come,” he called, breathless as he fumbled with the laces of his doublet, tugging them half-shut. 

The door creaked, a head of brown curls poking in.

“Forgive me. Am I interrupting?”

He jerked upright.

Seven bloody hells. Jace. In his chambers. She never came to his chambers. And yet—there she was, grinning like a fool, eyes wide and glittering.

“Uh… uh, no,” he stammered. “I was just about to—”

“Come see me,” she finished for him, bounding inside like an overeager pup.  “I know. I should’ve waited. I did wait, for a bit. But then I thought, if I catch you before you dress, I wouldn’t have to trouble you to undress again.”

The words hit like a fist to his gut. Undress.

“Oh gods,” she gasped, as if realizing the weight of what she’d said. “Forgive me. I didn’t even ask to come in!”

She spun to leave.

“No! No—” he blurted, flinging a hand out as if to reel her back. “Come, it’s fine.”

He waved her inside with an awkward gesture, his entire body aflame.

“So, uh…” he managed, forcing his tongue to form words. He had to stay coherent. “What did you want to do?”

That same soft smile again, and the pink in her cheeks deepened.

“Oh, I… uh… I finished it.”

He blinked. Only then did he notice the black fabric clutched tight to her chest.

“Oh. Right. The doublet.”

That blasted thing she’d been sewing for him because she'd thought him wroth with her, when the truth had been far more pathetic. He'd just been straining not to blow from the sheer pressure of being near her.

With a nod, she gave him another smile. “I thought you might try it on. See if it fits.”

He arched a brow. “Now?”

The grin faltered. “Oh… oh no, of course not. You… You can do that later. You’re already dressed and—”

His fingers seized his laces immediately

“No, no. It’s fine. I don’t like this one anyway. Green washes out my complexion.”

He tugged off the old doublet—Mother’s latest gift— and tossed it aside. Her eyes went wide for a bit, before her gaze slid to the floor.

Only then did he realize he’d stripped down to just his undershirt. It took biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning.

Sheepishly, she offered up the new garment, and he slipped it on. The silk was soft against his skin—form fitting, the black a stark contrast to his hair.

Threads of yellow and gold ran from his collar and down his breast, the stitches coiling into the crude outline of a dragon. Sunfyre.

“All done?” she chirped, her eyes rising shyly to meet his.

He grunted.

In a blink, she was on him—tugging, adjusting, smoothing seams.

“Right. Let’s see. It seems right,” she murmured, circling him like a tailor. “Is it tight around your shoulders?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Her hand had gone for his bicep, fingers sliding up the curve of his arm like fire consuming oil.

“Uh. No. It’s… fine,” he wheezed.

“Oh good,” she exhaled with a smile. “And your waist?”

She slipped her hands lower, fingers wrapping just around his ribs.

A jolt of heat ran through his chest. Gods. She was so close. The scent of vanilla danced in his nostrils, screaming temptation at him.

Eat. Eat, eat, eat.

“No… no, it's still fine,” he rasped as her fingers moved higher, to lace the front closed.

“Good,” she smiled. “I was afraid I’d need to modify it. It took ages to get the measurements right the first time.”

A sound left his mouth—a grunt, a wheeze, a strained whimper. He couldn’t tell—didn’t care. Words were of no use now. His mind was too addled by the closeness, the softness of her lips—glossed with that infernal grease she always wore. She said it kept them soft.

And gods help him, he wanted to test if that was true.

“I know the embroidery is simple,” she was still babbling. “I tried something more elaborate but the stitches were coming out crooked, so I had to redo them. Its... it’s not much to look at and—"

“No, it’s…” He cleared his throat. “It’s fine. Perfectly fine. As a matter of fact, I prefer simple. Ornate things distract from my face.”

That got a laugh. A warm one. All teeth and sincerity. His teeth were fucking aching.

“Good—oh!” She reached for his shoulder. “There’s some thread sticking out. Do you have scissors? A blade? Anything sharp will do.”

She began searching the chamber, poised to venture deeper. Possibly into his rest area—or worse, his bedchamber.

Where the lewd books were.

Panic surged. “Yes! Here!” he nearly barked, snatching the dagger Ser Gerald insisted he carry for protection 

She smiled, and seized the blade by the hilt.

“Raise your arm—yes, like that. Rest it on my shoulder.”

-Gods.

She stepped in close, slipping under his arm like she belonged there. Her brows furrowed in concentration as she cut the thread, the blade moving deftly in her hand. Then she smoothed the fabric, her palm gliding over his chest.

He hadn’t noticed his hand sinking into her curls until she pulled back and realized he’d been stroking her hair like a man bewitched.

“There. All done,” she exclaimed, still smiling.

His hand fell—even whilst his body screamed to keep it where it was.

“Yes. Now I’m all dapper,” he choked out. “Thank you.”

Her cheeks flushed scarlet. She ducked her head—and he stepped forward without thinking, drawn to her like a moth to flame.

He was grateful that she had opened her arms to receive him. Elsewise, he would have crashed straight into her lips.

He coiled around her like a snake, squeezing her as if he meant for them to mold into one.

It lasted too long—was too intimate. His fingers had skated dangerously low to her hips, his lips inches from her neck.

He couldn’t stop.

She was warm. Soft. The kind of comfort he’d never known he craved. It filled him up, poured through the cracks, made his bones ache with sweetness.

She squirmed, her palms coming to press against his chest. It took effort to pull back, to release her and gather his bearings.

But as if the torture hadn’t been thorough enough—she kissed him. A small, soft thing—just a brush of her lips against his cheekbone. It shattered him.

He turned his face, trying to catch more, to rub himself into her till that smell was in his very bones.

She stepped back. His belly clenched.

“So,” she said, almost too quickly, “shall we go to the gardens? Anya and the others are waiting for us to start breakfast.”

The words dropped like a stone in a quiet pond. There was a world outside this chamber. Other people, not just them.

He wanted to scream.

“Yes, of course,” he mumbled. “I… I just need to take care of something. You go on. I’ll follow in a bit.”

She blinked, her eyes still wide. Doe-like.

“Of course,” she nodded at last. “Don’t tarry.”

She turned to leave, angling herself toward the door. But her hand lingered, going right for his cheek. The touch was light, fleeting enough to be imagined. Still, he leaned into it, extending his arm as she passed to brush her fingers—draw out the moment.

It ended regardless. Her hand broke from his and she slipped out, closing the door to leave him in silence.

It all came crashing down.

His breath stuttered, his heart racing in his chest. His skin burst in flames, and he felt tempted to claw at his face—as if that might somehow stop it from sloughing off.

-Seven hells. You’ll never survive this.

He couldn’t. He’d never been friends with a woman, much less one he loved—wanted—with such vile, aching desperation.

How could he keep still when she was near? When one touch was enough to set him ablaze? The Maiden was punishing him, he was certain. Jace was his wife, his ordained other half.

He was meant to feel all these things for her and yet… he couldn’t act on them at all.

Not without ruining it.

-No one else will make you feel this way.

Loved. Valued. Not a prince nor a fool—but a man. And he would be damned if he spoiled it with his degeneracy.

He slapped his face, trying to force clarity.

-Friendship. Nothing more.

It was all he could have. All he would ever have.

It did not make the ache any easier to bear. Still he grit his teeth and went out the door.

Chapter Text

1. Jacaera

Her book was going strange places.

Anya had assured her it was just an adventure novel she'd sourced from a Lyseni trader who had the fortune of being the only one who owned a copy in the Common Tongue.

Thus far, she was not seeing much adventure. Lest a violent kidnapping of a young Lady constituted an adventure.

“So uh,” across the table from her, Aegon was scowling. “Where’s the abacus again?”

Jae made a face. The heroine was far too enthralled by the pirate captain. It was unseemly. Plump lips and tousled locks meant little when the man was a scoundrel and a thief who had taken her hostage. 

“I don’t know. I thought you had no need of it any longer?”

“Well, yes, that was before the Bee Fucker decided to include a urine tax. Who the fuck taxes piss?”

Sighing, Jae skimmed the following paragraph. Marvelous. Now the pirate captain was touching the girl, and in place of fighting him off, she was flushing.

“It’s used for sanitation in some areas of Flea Bottom.”

A scoff. 

“Ah, must be why it smells so divine. They scrub the cobblestones with piss.”

Her fingers flipped over to the following page with far more force than necessary.

“Earnestly, you’re not going to finish quicker if you continue whining.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, before leaning forward in his seat.

“Why are we doing this in the first place?” he snapped. “I thought you said we were meant to attend a midday meal with some Lady or another.”

“Lady Butterwell, yes,” she nodded and continued skimming. Gods, he'd kissed her. Sequestered her to his cabin and forced his mouth on hers. And she was still not resisting. “But that's after the reports are finished. I suppose I failed to account for how you like to take your time with your sums.”

His jaw gritted. “You know, it would be easier to just call me daft instead of spewing flowery paragraphs that only suggested it.”

Pausing, she shot him a look. "I wasn’t suggesting it. And you’re not daft. You just… have trouble applying yourself.”

His jaw remained gritted, his eyes shooting daggers her way. But his cheeks had gone pink, that odd vulnerability cracking his mask of haughty annoyance.

“I’m going to my chambers,” shoving off the table, he vaulted to his feet.

“Aegon, we've discussed this. You cannot simply abandon your duties—”

“I’m fetching the abacus, you witch,” he barreled over her. “As if I could abandon these blasted contrivances. I retire every bed with night terrors of Beesbury's fucking piss taxes and your voice telling me to do them.”

“Sweet of you to dream of me, husband dear,” she snapped without thought. Why was the pirate captain opening the girl's laces? That wasn’t proper. She was his captive. A maiden of gentle birth.

“If only you were begging me to fuck you, rather than scribble sums, then it would be sweet.”

“What?” she muttered, but he was already slipping out the door.

Jae adjusted in her seat, praying to the gods he ended up returning. The last thing she wished for was to send a search party to fetch him. He'd already brought her sufficient shame during their meeting with the Lyseni garment merchant.

After adjusting her pile of finished reports again, she flipped over to the next page—and froze. The pirate had undressed her fully. Stripped her chemise and small clothes to leave her as naked as her nameday. Immeasurable relief flooded her when the girl actually started fighting back, pushing him off before his hand could slip anywhere untoward.

However, rather than go for the door she… straddled him. Sank her teeth into his bottom lip and bit hard enough to draw blood. The man only laughed and gripped her hips, returning her kiss with equal ferocity.

Jae paused, flipping the book over to regard the covers. They were blank. Anya had insisted that was due to the binder not having the time to add proper decorations or a title. But it was just an adventure book. A silly travel log.

She went back to the page again.

They were kissing now, her hands eagerly pawing at his leather doublet. He was still laughing, calling her crass names. Snooty, stiff and proper.

A little plank of wood he'd have to break.

She paused, her pulse quickening. The girl had finally ripped his clothing off, to leave him bare from the waist up. His own hands were roaming over her, tracing her waist, her hips before going…

-Oh.

This wasn’t an adventure book. No adventure book had descriptions of a man taking his fingers right into a woman’s—she huffed a breath.

-You shouldn’t be reading this.

Anya had been deceived. Plainly, that Lyseni merchant had sold her lewd slop as some sort of jape. Jae should burn it. Burn the book and send some Goldcloak to find him and punish him for his crassness.

The girl was moaning, twisting her hips atop the captain in wild arcs. Gods, was that what it was supposed to look like?

She’d been told that a man would ideally have to prepare his wife before entering her. It was to ease discomfort.

But Aegon hadn’t tried to use his hands—at least not… there. He'd just pawed at her waist before crawling lower to…

-No, that was just him being a degenerate.

No sane man would put his mouth anywhere close to… there. Hands were surely how it was meant to work. Mayhaps if he had tried the hand, it would have been easier.

Mayhaps she would have been able to endure it.

“Will the little Lady let me taste her honey now?”

She gripped the covers tighter.

The captain had pushed her down on his writing bureau, and snapped open his laces.

“Just relax. In and out, no fuss.”

Her legs bucked. She felt warm. Warm and aching and… his breeches had slid down to reveal…

“Seven hells!”

A curtain of red fell on her eyes. The book snapped shut with a deafening thunk. When she turned in her seat, Aegon was at the entrance— abacus in one hand, a scone clutched in the other.

“What? Nothing’s happening, it’s not!” She sputtered out.

-Gods, I’m going to kill her.

Why did Anya insist on putting her through such shameful nonsense?

Aegon grumbled around his bite. “Hmm? I was just saying I’ve stained my doublet.”

She blinked at his chest. The dragon embroidery at the front had a faint red splotch. Strawberry jam.  

“Oh, that’s… that’s fine…”

His brows furrowed. “No, it’s not. Mother just commissioned this blasted thing. She'll pitch a fit. Seeing as you’re so adept at embroidery, are you perchance, also knowledgeable on the subject of stain removal?”

In two quick strides, he was slipping into the seat beside her. His mouth still worked around the scone, eagerly ripping chunks with greasy fingers. They were rather long. Long and surprisingly well groomed for someone who oft didn’t even trouble himself with brushing his hair.

“N—no,” she managed to wheeze. Those blasted covers were looking at her. Judging her.

“Shame. Suppose a thrashing it is,” he rolled his eyes, and stuck his index into his mouth. A slow, suckling sound left his lips, as he worked the last remnants of jam and butter off his skin.

Was that what he had meant to do? Suckle? She couldn’t imagine how it would feel to have someone suckle her… there. A finger mayhaps. She touched herself there regularly whilst washing. It wouldn’t be different. Would it?

“I found the blasted thing.” He gestured at the abacus, mouth still sucking. “It was in my drawer. I cannot believe I’ve got to resort to using a fucking children’s contraption. You earnestly need to cease indulging Beesbury. The sod won’t die if he has to squint at his own piss tax for a bit—Jace?”

She jerked, almost leaping out of her seat. He was gaping at her, mouth still glistening, his blasted fingers raised.

“Are you well?”

She cleared her throat, once again glancing at that blasted book. “Yes, fine. Perfectly fine.”

A scoff left his lips. “Of course you are. I know stiffness comes to you as easily as breathing, but you would do well to relax for a bit.”

Stars burst behind her eyes. He was still suckling, licking his cursed fingers as if they were a sweet. And her body would not stop rippling with tingles.

“Alright, I think we’re finished for the day.”

“What?” he frowned. His lips were swollen—red and sticky and… her toes curled. “I haven't even started this blasted thing.”

“I’ll finish it for you.”

He blinked. “What?”

“We're running late,” pushing out of her seat, she stood, straining to maintain her composure. “If I let you waste more time on sums, we will miss the meal with Lady Butterwell entirely.”

“I frankly don’t see an issue with that—”

“Aegon!”

With a groan, he pushed the parchment away and leaned back into his chair.

“Fine then. We'll be shirking the Bee Fucker's piss taxes.”

“Don’t be absurd. I’ll come and do them later.”

Vaulting to his feet, he smirked. “Of course you will. Someone needs to break you in. Exorcise that woodenness before you burst a vessel.”

Blood rushed right into her head, her cheeks growing hot.

“Let’s go. Now,” she pointed toward the door, refusing to look at those blasted fingers any longer.

As he moved to follow, he halted, a furrow appearing between his brows.

“Your book.”

“What?”

He pointed at the desk. “Aren’t you going to take it with you? Gods, what is this thing any—"

He reached out then, hand extending toward those blank covers. She leapt so fast, she was certain she'd pulled something.

“Yes, yes, I will!” she exclaimed and pressed the covers to her chest. Before he could open his mouth and say anything, she was barreling past him. Halting at the nearest brazier, she dumped the book in it. The flames roared to life, seizing the parchment to devour.

“What the fuck was that for?” he practically squealed behind her.

“It was… frightfully dull. Not worth the trouble.”

He sauntered over, a grimace on his lips.

“I dare not wonder what you would consider dull.”

She paused, regarding his mouth. It was oddly… curved. Thin but well shaped, unreasonably so for a man.

“What?” he grimaced again, his violet eyes going wide.

She was gaping. Gods, she was gaping.

“You have grease on your mouth,” the words practically exploded out of her in one quick burst.

He blinked, “Oh,” before running his fingers over it. His long, perfectly slender fingers.

“Come along,” she practically shoved past him, her heart hammering in her chest. She burst out into the corridor, pace brisk, her hand going to feel her cheeks—to her horror, she discovered them hot.

She was flushing. She knew she was. And he'd likely seen it.

“Seven hells, Jace, will you slow down?” his voice drifted after her, his footsteps keeping pace.

“No, no time to waste! Come along now.” She practically squealed, cursing herself for her daftness.

-No more books from Anya.

In fact, no more books, ever. She already got sufficient crassness from him—she did not need it in written form.

“One of these days, you will burst that fucking vessel!”

Grimacing, she forced her most poised smile.

“I’m still fine!”

Perfectly fine. No pirate captains, snapped laces or long, greasy fingers in sight.

2. Lucera

Men were simple creatures.

It was a thing she'd understood as early as girlhood. Loud, haughty and persistent, they'd twist themselves into knots trying to get her attention.

It was never anything meaningful. Just loud boasting, unfunny japes, or aggressive jostling that sometimes resulted in fights and broken bones. Luce had always thought it silly. They were all nuisances, unwelcomed pests that distracted her from her own doings.

After she'd grown, they'd become outright predators, sniffing after her like wolves chasing sheep. But, if anything, she’d come to understand that for all their aggression, they were easy to work.

All she’d had to do was step out in a cinched gown with a low cut bust, and all the attention was suddenly on her. Polite smiles, gallant bows, a barrage of flattery.

Even the serving boys stopped and gaped, their eyes glazing over with something that was in equal parts perverse as it was dreamy.

If it were not so vile, she would have thought it funny.

She draped herself on the balcony overlooking the training yard. The sun was out today, the rays tracing gentle circles over her skin. The warmth felt heavenly, and despite the attention, she couldn’t resist throwing her head back to soak it all in.

“Good morrow, Princess,” a voice oozed up from below.

Luce sighed, pasted on her best courtly smile, and leaned over the balustrade to regard the latest pest.

“Indeed it is. Positively sweltering.”

“All the warmer for your presence,” the knight grinned, all teeth and no charm.

She fought the urge to recoil. “Is that line rehearsed, or do you just say whatever spills out and pray it lands?”

He bowed with a flourish, until she feared he’d tip forward and crack his skull on the cobblestones.

“You wound me, Princess. I would never dare shower you in just any flattery,” a pause, as he grinned. “Ser Martyn Reyne, at your service. I’m sworn to your Master of Ships.”

She let out a short laugh. “Ah. That explains the hair. I should’ve guessed you were close to a Lannister.”

He straightened with another smug smile, pale eyes raking her in as if she were a roast goose ready to be devoured. “Not only close, but we’re kin. Ser Tyland is cousin to my mother.”

“So you’re a true lion then.”

Though, in truth, he looked more weasel than lion—narrow face, twitchy mouth, and eyes so far apart she half-wondered if he'd swum out of a pond. His beard was a tragedy—barely more than peach fuzz making a valiant attempt to masquerade as moustache.

“Indeed. Roar and all.”

“Hm. Funny. Sounded more like a squeak to me.”

Either he didn’t catch it, or pretended not to. She suspected the latter.

“Seeing as the day’s so fine, might I tempt the Princess with a turn through the gardens? I know all the sweetest paths.”

“I bet you do.” She tilted her head. “But I’m afraid Lady Triss has already claimed that particular honor. And she has a far better sense of direction.”

“A pity.” He clutched his chest as if wounded. “Though I daresay I wouldn’t have minded another fair blossom on my arm.”

“Oh, I’m sure your arms are very occupied.” Her eyes flicked toward a nearby bucket of murky water. A dunk in it would doubtlessly improve his humility. “Alas, I’m a proud beast. I would never stop so low as to compete with another for a man's affection.”

“Rest assured, Princess.” He stepped closer, the leer deepening. “There will be no competition. Your beauty knows no equal.”

“Tragically improvised,” she deadpanned. “Still—best you return to your sparring. I imagine the straw dummies will offer better conversation.”

Just then, someone shouted orders to form ranks.

He heaved a sigh, clearly pained. “Must you cast me off so coldly? Might I at least beg for a token? Your favor would surely bolster me in battle.”

Luce laughed aloud, more amused than she meant to be. “For a training bout? Ser, if a scrap with green boys and puffed-up squires is beyond your mettle, no ribbon of mine will save you.”

The smile cracked. Just slightly. “Well, no, of course not—"

“Then best go on, Ser Reyne. Prove you have teeth beneath all that fuzz. Else I’ll be forced to believe you’re more weasel than lion.”

The mirth drained from his face like wine from a cracked goblet. He gave a stiff bow, devoid of all the earlier theatrics, and muttered a tight “Princess”. Then, he was stalking off, shoulders slumped, and mood plainly soured.

Luce watched him scurry away, doing her best not to laugh too loud.

-Fool.

How was it that none of them ever considered the possibility she'd heard it all before? The bravado, the flattery, the hollow compliments. It was as if they all shared one crass mind, that generated naught save the poorest of quips.

She was about to stalk off to take a stroll about the parapets whilst she waited for Triss when a shadow drew her attention. He slithered out from the smithy, hair straight, doublet immaculately laced, a sword clutched in his right hand.

It was live steel, she could tell. Nothing gleamed as brightly as a sharpened edge. She sighed.

-He's grown so much.

A proper man. She recalled how lanky Aemond had been in boyhood—a wisp of a thing, more limbs than body, who took himself even more seriously than the grown men around him. It was amusing just how hard he'd tried to be good at everything, even when he plainly despised it.

A little grandfather in a child's body.

He was still grandfatherly. He scowled whilst others laughed, kept to himself whilst the rest congregated in small groups. He'd never been one to socialize, and given the unwelcoming way he carried himself, she wagered he'd kept up the habit.

Her chest ached. She longed to creep up behind him, and steal a kiss into his cheek like she used to. She wondered if he would flush the same, if he would stammer and scold her for being so improper in public.

She couldn’t imagine him flushing like that now. All strong and serious, with that blasted jaw she was certain would cut her if she dared touch it.

She'd wanted to touch it. She recalled how he'd corralled her in that tower chamber, eye wide, breath hot. The moonlight filtering through the window had made him look magnificent—a god of war and wrath, ready to strike her down for her insolence.

It almost didn’t matter that he'd had a blade to her throat. She'd just wanted him to kiss her— love her, as a man grown, not just as a little boy.

It wouldn’t be chaste now. It would be raw, lewd, passionate. He'd slip his hand down her waist to cup her backside, whilst the other one went for her breasts.

She'd not caught him gaping at them. Whilst the others had seemingly taken to treating her chest as her face, he'd not looked—not even once. It vexed her. He'd used to tell her she was so lovely, it was disgusting sometimes. Surely, those sentiments had not vanished just because his love had turned to hate.

Her hand went to toy with the chain around her neck, fingers skimming dangerously close to her bust. She could feel eyes land on her at once— to ravish and consume in equal measure.

All eyes save his.

He kept his attention stubbornly affixed to his blade, vigorously running a wet cloth over the edge.

“I just want you to love me,” she could hear herself whisper, as he hiked up her skirts. “Make me your wife… your woman. Like we promised.”

And he'd kiss her harder, press her closer, just as enthralled as he used to be.

-He's not enthralled. Just hateful.

She sighed, tears coming to blur her vision.

“Princess!” a voice sounded. Like a rabbit, Triss Massey leapt out of the keep, all pretty skirts, and perfectly pressed brown curls. “Gods, forgive me for tarrying. The breakfast with my aunt ran late.”

“It’s alright, Triss,” she began, leaning in to brush her lips against the girl's cheek. “I was just basking in the sun.”

“Oh yes, it’s quite lovely, is it not? Perfect for a stroll and some iced—has something happened?”

She blinked, as Triss’ attention drifted over the balustrade.

The yard was gaping up. Still hungrily following each little twirl of her finger. She sighed.

“Oh no, just the standard peacocking. Nothing of import.”

A furious flush assailed the other girl's cheeks.

“Ah, well… I… you’ll forgive me, but this is most certainly not what I would call ‘standard'.”

Luce choked out a laugh. “Good. Trust, it’s by far the last thing you’d want for yourself. There's nothing more exhausting than fending off the attentions of men you are not the least bit interested in.”

“I shall take your word for it,” with a wistful sigh, Triss took her under her arm, and began her descent down the steps into the yard proper. “Though I would not object to some attention.”

“Trust, it's not worth it. It’s rather like being offered every dish but the one you desire.”

A giggle left Triss’ lips, as she squeezed her hand tighter.

“And is there a dish the Princess desires at present?”

She gritted her teeth, reminding herself not to give in and look—she'd put herself through sufficient heartache already.

“None that would wish to have me as the sampler.”

A gasp, as Triss halted just in front of the entrance to the servant’s mess hall.

“Impossible! You… you’re a vision! What man would dare refuse?”

Luce shot her a look. “Very possible. Which makes it all the crueler.”

Her brows knitted together.

“Oh, well that’s most unfortunate. I’m certain we could do something to change his—oh!”

A loud crash sounded behind them. They both jerked in tandem, a figure collapsing near their feet. 

Luce was somewhat bemused to find her Reyne weasel sprawled in the dirt, loud moans playing on his lips. A shadow was stalking him, twirling his sword in murderous anticipation.

“Up!” Aemond practically snarled, his remaining eye alight. “Get up, you daft fuck. Now.”

The Reyne weasel scrambled in the dirt, rushing to raise his arm. “No, no, I yield my Prince! I yield!”

Luce expected a torrent of chortles to follow his proclamations—cowardice was seldom taken well amongst menfolk, even when it was not cowardice at all.

However, it seemed all the gathered had decided that yielding was the sensible thing to do in this instance, and were keeping their mouths shut. Luce wanted to laugh.

“Gods. Your half uncle is quite the… enthusiastic fighter,” Triss grimaced beside her.

Aemond had spat at Ser Weasel, mumbling something she was certain was ‘spineless cunt’. Then, as if he'd not proven himself sufficiently, he rounded on his companions, demanding to know which of them was up next.

“I think someone ought to remind him that this is training, not actual combat.”

Luce giggled again. “Trust, sweetling, that won’t help much. He values his pride more than he does restraint.”

Ser Weasel's friends had shrunk into themselves, stammering silent refusals.

Aemond chortled, disgust oozing off him like perfume.

He lobbed another round of “spineless cunts" at them, before whirling on his heel to regard the rest of the yard.

“All of you. No decent fighter in sight!” he snarled, before making a lap around the grounds—almost as if marking his territory.

A laugh burst from her lips, sharp and sudden. But then he looked at her—not just a brief, fleeting glance either. But an earnest look. Full of fury, passion, wanting.

Base, animal wanting.

“Oh gods,” Triss squeaked beside her, scrambling to hide her face. “Is he looking at us? I feel ill.”

“Yes, ill…” she mumbled, and it was a miracle she could still speak.

Her body had gone stiff, ripples of fire skating all over her skin. She instantly imagined herself sauntering over to him to offer him a kiss.

“For your stunning display of martial prowess.”

His jaw had gritted, his neck muscles taunt under his skin. Almost as if he was holding back—from striking her, gutting her.

Or from dragging her inside the castle so he could tear up her skirt and shove his cock—

“Come Princess,” Triss hand was gentle on her own. It still felt like she had violently wrenched her out of some fever dream. “We best go.”

She hummed in agreement, forcing her legs to move.

She hadn’t consciously decided to adjust her necklace. The pendant had just lodged itself between her breasts again, and she scrambled to pull it out before it began to chafe her skin.

She saw it then. His eye dipping lower. To ogle, consume, inhale. He wasn’t as enraptured as the others had been. Just insistent. Focused—a man who knew what he desired and had the gumption to pursue it.

“Tell me you still love me,” she whispered to him in her mind, desperate and aching all over.

“I never stopped.”

With another smile, she followed Triss away, the heat of his gaze still searing her skin long after they departed.

Chapter Text

1. Jacaera

It was remarkable how clumsy spirits made her.

“Ow!” She hissed, her hand jerking. The blade she'd used to cut the peach had carved straight through the pit to skate across her palm.

Jae let the fruit fall to the table and tried to shake her hand out. It wasn’t too terrible. Just a little cut. But then she felt something warm trickle between her fingers, and the pain came sharply into focus. Hot and pulsing—and growing in intensity.

Hissing, she used the napkin she’d been given with her meal to try and wipe off the juice and blood. Her belly lurched when she noticed just how angry the cut was. Small, but gushing blood, the flesh cleaved open at a slightly crooked angle.

The blade had bitten deep.

Dazed, she tried to suckle the blood up, grimacing when the metallic tang hit her tongue. She was so distracted she scarce noticed someone slipping into the seat across from her.

“Seven hells, I left you alone for five minutes, and you already caused a mess? What happened?” Aegon smirked, his wide, violet eyes taking her in.

The eyes were about the only marker of his Valyrian heritage. His hair was tucked neatly under a trader's cap, whilst his simple wool rags marked him as no more than a common merchant. Still, he stood out amid the roaring tavern crowd, a strikingly handsome man with a jovial smile that simply demanded attention.

“Nothing! I…” she practically sputtered. Gods, she was bleeding. The last thing she should be thinking about was how handsome Aegon was. “I just… I cut myself. I think this peach is overripe,” she grimaced, shooting the offending fruit a glare.

A chortle left his lips, and he slunk back in his chair.

“Well I suppose it’s my doing. Should have known not to let you near blades when you’re munted.”

Jae let out an indignant scoff. “First of all, that is not a proper word. Second of all—”

“—you’re not munted. Because Lady Plank is perfectly capable of handling her spirits, right?”

“Yes, I am, if you must know. I’ve not collapsed, nor have I stolen beeswax candles to eat.” She exclaimed, even as a fresh wave of heat rushed to assail her cheeks.

The wretch must have seen it, because he let out another laugh.

“Mhm, don’t forget trying to leap into the fountain near the Street of Sisters.”

“You made that up. There isn’t enough wine to ever make me stoop so low.”

“Hm, not wine. Just two cups of hippocrass. Come here.”

She was about to protest more, when he motioned for her hand. On reflex, she removed the napkin she'd pressed to the wound, to extend it his way for inspection.

A hiss whistled through his teeth when he spotted the cut, all his earlier amusement dispersing.

“Ah, seven hells, that’s deep. We'll need to wrap it up.”

“What?” she sputtered but he was already calling for the tavern wench.

A mousy girl in faded green tatters shuffled forward and mumbled a quick ‘What will it be?’ under her breath.

“You’ve got brandy?” Aegon asked.

She nodded. “Aye. Few casks in the back. Ye'll be wantin’ the good one, the one from Sunspea—”

“No, give me the worst slop you’ve got.”

Both she and the girl mumbled ‘what?’ at the same time.

Aegon merely took another sip of his rum and nodded. “You heard me. The worst slop you’ve got. Oh, and some clean linens.”

The girl squinted at him before her eyes dropped to Jae's hand. “This is not a Maester's parlor.”

“I’ll pay you double,” he tossed two silver dragons onto the table. The girl's apprehension cleared in a flash, and she snatched the coin into her pouch.

After she'd scampered off, Jae grimaced. “What are you doing?”

“Tending to your cut. If you keep that exposed,” he pointed at the wound, “it will corrupt. And then Orwylle will have to saw your hand off.”

Her muscles tensed. “No, he won’t! It’s just a silly little cut.”

“That hurts and is bleeding everywhere.” Next, he pointed at the droplets stamping the table—as if to prove his point, another lance of pain ripped up her arm. Gods, it really did hurt. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m not fond of taking blood with my drink. I’m not a Qohori.”

With that, the tavern wench returned, and set down a clay flute and a bundle of brown rags. Aegon scrunched his nose at them.

“Well… they seem clean. Let’s pray they actually are.”

Before she could blink, he'd inched over his chair, to sidle right next to her.

“Hand,” he demanded and Jae was too stunned to do anything except turn, let him slot his knee in between her legs and offer him her palm.

“Wait, do you know what you’re doing?”

“Most of the time? Absolutely not. Now? Vaguely,” he paused, violet eyes flicking up at her. “This will hurt. A lot.”

“What? No, I—ow!” Jae yelped and tried to violently jerk out of his grasp.

He held her in place, and kept pouring, the amber liquid dripping between her fingers. Her flesh screamed in protest, muscles twitching with abandon.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Aegon chuckled, scrambling to clear off excess blood with one of the clean rags. “Almost done, almost done.”

“That hurts!” She winced when he pressed the cloth against it.

“I told you it would.”

“Yes, but this is more than a lot.”

“Need to clean it out to stop it from corrupting. Orwylle would have done the same to you.”

“Yes, but he wouldn’t have used… whatever that is.” She pointed at the cursed clay flute.

“Brandy. And no, most likely not. But seeing as the Red Bull doesn't stock any Citadel-approved concoctions.”

He discarded the blood-soaked rag, before picking up another to loop it around her hand. She squirmed at first, each brush of the linen against her open flesh sending more pain to ripple up her arms. But then she refocused on his fingers—long and slender, weaving the cloth gently around her palm before fastening a knot to it to keep it in place.

“There, all done. You survived.”

Jae regarded the makeshift compress.

“You’ve done this before?”

With a shrug, he tossed the bloody rag into his empty plate.

“A few times. It’s useful to know how to patch up wounds when you’re prone to getting into scraps.”

Jae blinked. She surveyed him from head to toe—the loose wools, the slouched shoulders, full lips quirked into a smile. And she couldn’t resist frowning.

“What?” he squinted.

“Nothing. It’s just… I cannot imagine you getting into scraps.”

His smile dropped. “Why? Because I’m an incompetent craven? I know I don’t train like Aemond, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to fight.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. It’s just… I don’t see a reason why you'd get into scraps,” she paused, letting a small smile bloom on her lips. “How could anyone be wroth with you?”

He paused, his brows furrowing. “No? Come now, Jace. I can be a right cunt when I’m munted. You know that.”

A rush of color came to assail his cheeks. She immediately pivoted back to that evening—when he'd barged into her chamber, to scream at her about meddling in his affairs. He'd smashed one of her figurines, pinned her to a wall and grabbed her neck. But she'd not felt threatened. Not even once—though he had tried to kiss her, touch her, stripped her smallclothes to stick his c—

“Yes, but… you’re disarming. Even if you do end up insulting someone, you could just jape your way out of it.”

Another smile, as his flush deepened. His eyes grew soft, mellow, the color of blooming wisterias. It would look lovely on paper, she realized. She cursed herself for not having any parchment to sketch—or for thinking about drawing him at all.

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’ve been in a number of scraps. Over drunk nonsense of course, but I did. And I did not manage to jape my way out of it. In fact—my crass tongue earned me a number of black eyes.”

She squirmed in her seat. “Then it's fortunate you know how to tend to yourself.”

He scoffed. “Bruises are easy. Just put something cold on it and it should be fine.”

“I should hope you would also visit a Maester.”

The levity bled from his features..“I did. But I started avoiding it when I realized there was little use in that. All he'd do is tend to my wounds and tell my Mother about them so she could scream at me for being reckless. Neither would ask me if I was well, or why I’d gotten into the scrap in the first place.”

She paused, balling her good hand into a fist. His tone was raw, half a step away from a rasp—bursting with meaning. She tried to recall their youth. How he'd always get himself into mischief, cause a ruckus the Queen would then have to mend and profusely apologize for. Mother had called him a wastrel.

An unruly boy who lacked manners, restraint and common decency alike. And Jae had agreed. Not once had it crossed her mind to ask why a Prince of three and ten, a pampered scion of the ruling dynasty would even feel the need to creep out of the Keep to drink and fight with common vagabonds.

“Why then?” she blurted before she'd even realized. “Why get into scraps?”

The question seemed to stump him too. He cleared his throat, the frown carving black lines on his forehead.

“Ah… well. Hitting things is oft a distraction from the daily miseries of life. Why do you think Aemond spends every morning whacking away at the yard.”

“Why drink then, if you can just fight to forget?” she blurted out again, and felt her belly twist. Why was she asking all these invasive questions? It was scarce proper—and he plainly did not wish to speak about them.

Another pained smile, as he sank his teeth into his bottom lip.

“Yes… it doesn’t always make you forget. But it does draw attention. Or at least it should. If there is anyone around to care.”

His voice dropped again, his gaze flickering down to his boots. It clicked in an instant—she couldn’t remember a single time Viserys had reprimanded him on his behavior.

He'd laughed and blustered, and half heartedly reminded him to reign in his vices. But he'd never gotten angry over them. Never sat him down to speak to him, man to man, and see why he was behaving like that.

He'd just shunt it all aside in favor of Mother's latest concern.

“I’m sorry,” she practically spewed out. Her fingers crawled across the table, to entwine her good hand with his. It horrified her to find it cold—cold and shaking.

“They should have asked,” she continued, and it took effort to swallow back the heat crawling up into her eyes.

Another soft smile, this one devoid of any bluster, any bravado. Just barely maintained restraint.

“Ah well… Ser Gerald did. Which is why I avoid scraps as much as I can now.”

“Good. I should hope you would continue to do so. I wouldn’t like for you to get hurt.”

More tense smiling. His eyes were wide—wide and glassy.

“Yes, of course. You regrettably lack my Maestering skills. So treating my wounds would be rather inconvenient.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, his neck muscles straining with the effort of maintaining the smile.

Jae squeezed his hand harder.

“That’s not what I meant.”

The smile dropped. He inhaled sharply. 

“I know… Others take you, I know.”

A beat of silence, as he began squirming in his seat. 

“So uh, how do you mean to repay me?” he quipped, though his voice was still airy, eyes still wide. “Because Maestering services do not come free. I expect compensation in—”

She leaned forward. Her hand had scarce brushed against his shoulders to coax him forward that he was falling. Burrowing into her shoulder, his arm coming to encase her waist.

“Alright, that will do,” he breathed against her neck, and goosepimples licked her flesh.

His grip was forceful, desperate. As if he had nothing else to keep him afloat save her body, no other anchor to tether him to port. Jae closed her eyes and squeezed back.

It wouldn’t be enough, she knew—nothing could erase the ache of an uncaring family, an absent father, an unforgiving Mother. But she hoped it helped. Even a little.

“I will compensate you too, don’t fret,” she tried to smile, but her lips faltered partway.

“Oh?” he mumbled against her skin—and those goosepimples slid all the way down to the base of her spine. “I don’t accept coin, just so you know. I’ve already got sufficient gold, thank you.”

She chortled. “How about a pie?”

“Hmm,” he murmured, as he rubbed his forehead against her shoulder—still eating her smell. For once, it didn’t trouble her in the slightest. “I’m not particularly hungry so I suppose we'll have to share.”

This time, when she smiled, it was earnest.

“You? Share food? However will you manage?”

Another squeeze, another deep inhale. “For you, I will.”

A burst of warmth spread through her chest, hot and sudden. She gently wiggled out of his grasp, painfully aware of the tension in his muscles, the hesitant way he pulled back—he didn’t want to let go. And gods help her, neither did she.

“That’s… wonderful,” her voice wobbled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, Jace,” he rasped and her name sounded like a declaration of love.

A smile bloomed on his lips—earnest, vulnerable. His eyes did that thing. Erupted into a vibrant violet, almost as if someone had lit them with an inner flame. They roamed over her face with startling urgency, eager to consume, to possess. But beneath the hunger, she glimpsed softness. An almost reverent adoration, the kind a worshiper reserved for their God.

Her belly coiled.

-It’s nothing.

She was imagining it. He always looked at her like that. It was just how he was like. Affectionate, uninhibited, full of passion. He didn’t want anything from her. Why would he want anything from Lady Plank?

Heat rushed into her cheeks when she noticed their hands were still entwined—his thumb skating over her knuckles, almost as if he was trying to commit each rise and slope to memory. His leg was still wedged between her own, and if she inched even a bit closer, she could straddle him.

-Pull away.

They were in public. It wasn’t proper to be so close where everyone could see. It wasn’t proper to be so close, period. 

She stayed locked. Still clutching his hand. Still flushing, her heart still fluttering strangely against her ribs.

-We're friends. It’s natural.

Friends and kin and… husband and wife. 

Jae smiled, and raised her hand to call for that pie.

2.  Lucera

It was hard.

Luce had never been one for eating much, so her maids had grown accustomed to bringing her small portions for her meals. Worse still, she preferred custard desserts over fruit ones. Therefore, asking for an entire tray of braised lamb and potatoes, peaches with honey for dessert and Arbor Gold to wash it all down was too excessive not to arouse suspicion.

So she got creative.

Pilfered a plate of peaches for an ‘afternoon nibble', and asked Ilana to prepare an extra portion because Joy had pleaded with her to share some lamb roast with her. 

Her maid had arched a brow when Luce had told her how much meat she would need. But she was able to easily attribute it to Joy's growing body and growing appetite.

In the end, the food was too little—or at least not sufficient to feed a man grown who spent half the day swinging a sword in the yard.

But, she still thought it enough for one shared supper together.

Come nightfall, she dismissed her maids early, instructing them to pick up her plates come the morrow, because she wished to rest right after eating. Then, the moment they left, she set to work.

Undressing, taking a cloth to wash, rubbing oils into her skin and hair. She didn’t redress. He misliked when she bundled herself in elaborate gowns for their meetings.

“Everyone gets to see you all bedight,” he'd whispered to her one evening, when she'd greeted him bundled in a red and black gown. The thing had a plunging neckline, far worse than any other dress she owned, and whilst he appreciated the sight, he still dismissed it.

“And I suppose you’d prefer to see me in ways no one else would?” she'd purred, draping herself around his shoulders.

His answer was a long, lingering kiss on her lips, the kind that made her flush and shudder all at once.

She'd complied, of course. Dressing herself in only her night shifts or house robe, her hair loose, cheeks unpowdered. As bare as she could be—just for his enjoyment.

She picked a sapphire blue one today. The color would have customarily struck her as distasteful, but he seemed queerly fond of seeing her wear it. He never explained why—though she suspected he liked seeing a shade that had become such an intrinsic part of him on her. Almost as if she was a part of him by extension.

Once everything was sat, she went to wait by the dragon tapestry just at the entrance to her bed chamber. The minutes ticked by slowly, the candles bleeding wax into their sconces like melting ice.

She was about to go to the dining area to reset the table, when the latch clicked open.

She practically launched herself at Aemond, colliding with his chest in a flurry of hair and silk.

He reacted faster than she thought possible—arms extending to catch her, before folding her against him.

“Good evening,” she murmured into his neck. Gods, did she love the way he smelled. Leather, ash and smoke—things that spoke of fire, strength, raw passion.

“Hmm,” his voice reverberated through his chest and right into hers. “it’s certainly good now. To what do I owe the welcome?”

Pulling away, she came to regard him.

“Must I have a reason to be happy to see you?”

The corners of his mouth kicked into a ghost of a smile.

“I should hope not. But I also know that grin well enough to understand you’re plotting something.”

She fluttered her lashes. “Only a surprise.”

“A devious one, I take it.”

She pulled away fully then, to cross her arms on her chest and give her most theatrical pout.

“I’m offended, raqirazy. Not everything I do is devious.”

His lone eye lingered on her face, her lips—before slowly dipping lower. To ogle, consume, possess.

“That’s what you think.”

With a smile, she leaned in, to pinch his nose. The move startled him, and that stern façade cracked for just a moment.

“I think that’s just your mind. For all your valiant efforts toward pious restraint, you’re very prone to sinning.”

The mask shattered fully, as red bloomed across his marbled cheeks. Luce leapt and planted a kiss into both of them, taking care to linger on the scar.

“But fortunately for you, I don’t just have sins planned. Rather, I've got something more… domestic.”

Taking his hand, she slowly led him to her chamber. The candles had burned down almost to their base, casting a low, mellow light on the table. It looked lovely—like something out of an enchanted painting. She hoped that would be enough to make up for the food being cold.

“What’s this?” he mumbled.

“Supper,” she began. “I know it’s a touch late, but… I had hoped we could eat together. Like we used to.”

Another hum, as his eye lingered on the peach tray—neatly arranged and swimming in pools of honey.

“If I recall, we weren’t exactly sharing meals. You were just teasing me with peaches.”

A chortle burst from her lips. “As if you minded. Sometimes, I think you smeared honey on your face on purpose. So that you could have the excuse of asking me to help lick it off you.”

Craning his head, he took her eyes hostage. “Would you lick it now?”

Warmth flooded her belly, hot and relentless. Rising to her tiptoes, she went and trailed her tongue just at the corner of his mouth, before taking his bottom lip into a kiss.

“Gladly. But you must smear some on yourself first.”

His breath hitched, and he did the thing—shut his eye and furrowed his brow, almost as if he was straining to hold himself back. Still, he let her guide him to the table, another soft smile curling his lips as he regarded the spread.

And Luce struggled not to burst into a fit of manic giggles.

“I also have wine,” she began, going over to pick the standard off her writing bureau to pour. “I couldn’t take that much. I was never fond of drinking, so asking for a full pitcher would have doubtlessly roused suspicion.”

Without turning, she extended him his cup, whilst she busied herself with pouring her own. She could feel his fingers brush against her own—yet when she released the cup, a soft thunk sounded behind her.

Luce leapt, turning to see what had occurred. The cup lay on the floor, wine soaking slowly into her carpet. Aemond stood across from her, hand flexing around empty air, a look of horror on his face.

“Fuck,” he hissed, and she resisted the urge to smile. “I missed.”

“It’s alright, it’s just a mishap. I’ll have Ilana scrub the carpet come the morrow—”

“No!” he exploded at her, his voice hoarse. Luce staggered. “I shouldn’t have fucking missed.”

She sputtered, shrinking into herself. His remaining eye had gone wide, the heat in his cheeks turning scarlet.

“Em… Em, it’s alright. It happens to everyone.”

“I shouldn’t!” He exploded again, and turned around to pace—almost as if he was a caged animal. “Not this, not—”

A garbled sound swallowed his words. A growl, a curse, she couldn’t tell. Pausing, he seized the backrest of her chair, to sink his nails deep into the wood.

“I can’t perceive depth well,” he forced out, almost as if each word hurt to vocalize. “I have to… I have to focus twice as hard on my surroundings to gauge the distance… otherwise, I drop things, I stumble, I hit myself. I can’t even fucking read for long without my head hurting.”

Terror raked its claws across her chest. She let out a labored breath, and crossed her arms.

“Em, I… I’m sorry. That’s not your fault.”

“No, its fucking not!” he hissed, snapping to look at her. The love was gone. As was the tenderness, the giddy, passionate delight. All that remained was hatred. Cold, unyielding resentment.

“Yes,” she breathed, something hot sliding down her cheeks. “It’s mine. All mine.”

With a shaky breath, she tried to straighten.

“Regardless, you shouldn’t strain yourself too much. Your body will compensate for a lack of a limb by putting more pressure on the other. If you strain your other eye too hard you risk blindness.”

“I know that,” he snapped, turning to regard her fully. “Orwylle's warned me about it enough already.”

She gave a shaky nod, forcing swallow, after swallow. It didn’t make the lump go away.

“Good. You can also drink lavender and clove tea. It should help with the.. the headaches, and relax you if you’ve strained too hard.”

He squinted at her. “How do you know this?”

Another swallow, as she forced her lips to peel into a smile.

“It’s the first thing I asked Maester Gerardys when I got to Dragonstone. How does one live with just one eye.”

A beat of silence. He regarded her, jaw tight, cheeks still flushed. And she felt as if she might burst.

“Right then,” she sniffled, and rushed right toward the set table. “I should have this cleared up. Ilana will take it come the morrow, but..  I can’t keep it uncovered. It might… it might spoil, and... and—"

Her voice shattered then, and she inhaled breath. Her gut twisted itself into a knot so fearsome, it felt as if she was being gored from the inside. Tears were streaming down her cheeks—and yet, she couldn’t bring herself to feel shame. Just wretched, unbearable guilt.

She turned, intent on dumping the plates somewhere—through the window, on the floor. A hand landed on her shoulder. She paused, blubbering like some mewling babe.

-Stop it. You’ve no right to cry.

She had done this to him, and yet she had the gall to weep about it? It was disgusting. It was egregious.

-You should have taken the Strangler in place of nightshade.

That way, she could have die in absolute, writhing agony— exactly as she deserved.

The hand slid down her forearm, then snaked around her waist. She didn’t protest when he embraced her from behind, though she tried to. Pawing at his fingers, desperate to push him off, yet somehow, always pulling him closer.

“Don’t. I want to eat it,” he whispered into her ear, his voice as soft as a summer breeze.

Luce shook her head, a fresh round of tears coming to slide down her cheeks to drip between her breasts.

“No, you don’t have to. I’ll throw it away, I’ll—”

Side-stepping her, he came to face her head on, his arms never leaving her waist.

“I want to,” he declared, the words half a command. Then again, much softer. “I want to.”

She sniffled harder, struggling to hold his gaze. When his hand came to cup her cheek, she seized him by the wrist. To scream at him not to touch her, not to look at her. To demand he strike her, insult her, take a blade and plunge it right into her heart.

Instead, she inhaled sharply, and forced herself to nod.

She didn’t tease him. Neither did she lick the honey off his lips as promised. She just sniffled in her seat, while he ate, the silence around them deafening.

And when it was done, they embraced, and she cried into his shoulder so hard, she thought she might choke.

None of it made it any better.

Chapter Text

1.  Aemond

Lucera had agreed to it without thought.

When he'd told her what he'd wanted, he'd expected her to tease him, push back or outright refuse, her haughtiness preventing her from being placed under his mercy.

Instead, she'd just smiled— coyly, shyly—and pulled loose her robe. It slid down her shoulders like water droplets, to expose her naked skin to the low candle flame. Then, she’d just laid on the bed, with her arms raised above her head, waiting for his instruction.

The sight had left him stumped—mesmerized. But the blood rushing between his legs stopped him from questioning it further, and he scrambled to bind her wrists.

Not once did she utter a word of protest, or say she'd changed her mind.

Fuck.

Heundressed in silence. Stripped his doublet, boots and breeches, folding them into a peat pile on the chair. All the while, his fingers shook, his heart slamming against his ribs as if it wanted out.  

He tried to calm himself. He'd done this before. Bound Essie countless times during his visits. And yet… none of them had made him feels so addled. So close to losing control. 

After he was fully bare, he sat at the edge of the bed, straining to still his breathing. She lifted her legs almost on reflex, parting her knees in a silent invitation. He hadn’t even realized he was crawling till he found himself sat between them, his hands going to cup her thighs.

His cock stirred, the coil in his belly tightening. Fuck.

“Aren’t you afraid?” He practically expelled. He leaned forward, to trail his hand down her cheek, and over her lips, shuddering when she craned her head to catch his fingers with her lips. “To be at my mercy? I could do whatever I like to you.”

Her laugh tickled his skin.  

“I already gave you leave to whatever you like to me,” Her voice was soft, hazy. “Kiss me how you like, touch me how you like. Fuck me to your hearts content,” she paused, her brown eyes taking his hostage. “You may even kill me if you wish to.”

His hand jerked, and it took everything he had in him to continue his trek down her jaw and to her neck.

“You’re not afraid I would? Charge you your due?”

Another smile, another hum. She was burning under his fingertips, a red flush coloring her pale skin. The sight was so lovely, it was disgusting.

He wanted more.

“You’d be within your rights to,” she murmured. Her belly did a little quiver when he slid down to cup her left breast. Gods, why had the Maiden insisted on giving her tits like that? Too big, too round, with two perfect little nipples, as pink as the sweetest peaches. It was like they were designed to torment just him. “Besides, I’m not afraid of dying. Not when I’ll live on.”

“How?” he was panting now, those breaths he was struggling to control managing to slip through his clenched teeth.

“Our souls are the same. Even if my body passed, I’ll live on. Inside you.”

“Haunt me, you mean,” he rasped, his fingers skidding to her belly, to cup her navel.

Her eyes snapped open, the flush making the brown burn like lit kindling.

“Haunt you, torment you, love you from beyond. Till the end of time.”

His belly spasmed, just as he reached her hip. Of course she would speak so poetically, turn even the gloom of death into something aching and beautiful. Foolish words, he told himself—words better suited to a lovesick bard than a Princess.

But she had always understood love better than him. Freely expressed her passion, in written words, soft touches, sweet kisses.

And it seared through him all the same, setting his blood alight, making every vein sing with longing.

“Good,” he declared. “I want you with me. Till the end of time.”

With that, he plunged, trailing his fingers between her nether lips to make her moan. She got wet quickly. Each stroke and flick saw her body contort like some dancer, playing to his tune. Whimpers played on her lips, soft and subdued, and a part of him wished he'd had the wherewithal to take her into the passages.

He hated the fact she forced herself to keep her voice low whenever they were in her chambers, for fear of being discovered. He wanted her to hear her moan, scream and mewl. Repeat his name like a prayer, beg him to love her, want her, fuck her. Just him, and no one else. 

He dared graze her entrance, relishing the way her belly spasmed, how her legs fell further open.

He hadn’t realized he'd plunged till she contracted around him, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip to cage the moan.

Fuck, was she womanly. Soft and shapely, and so perfectly curved. There wasn’t a woman alive who was more beautiful, and if the gods had given him a chance to sculpt his perfect maiden, she would not come close to the she-dragon before him.

“Oh, I’m going to—oh—” she mewled, her brows scrunching into a furrow. Her back arched, her hips rolling with each stroke of his thumb.

He couldn’t even breathe anymore. He felt weak, helpless, his cock erect to painful hardness. All he wanted was to go inside her.  Feel her contract around his him, have her pleasure coat his shaft.

Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to pull his fingers out of her. Control. He needed control. He wasn’t an animal.

She jerked up then, her eyes alight with fire.

“I didn’t say you could do that.” He managed, and he had no notion how his voice stayed even.

A laugh bubbled out of her lips. “Of course. I should have known this is why you wanted to tie me up. Your obsessive need for control.”

He tensed, the proclamation ringing far too true for comfort.

“Yes. I want you to beg for it. Cry, and plead and whine at me to fuck you.”

Another laugh, this one tinged with a hint of wickedness.

“Naturally. Let’s see if you manage to make me do it.”

He lashed, giving her thigh a quick smack. She jerked in surprise, a little gasp leaving her lips. Still, she didn’t stop smiling—calling the challenge.

He plunged again. Once, twice, thrice. Each time, he drove his fingers inside her till she was about to go over, but withdrew just before she could. Her frustration grew with each turn, the little furrow of pleasure between her brows slowly growing into annoyance every time he denied her her peak.

By the fourth turn, she looked spent—hair tangled, flushed red, her breaths coming out in ragged gasps.

Slick was dripping out of her in rivulets, staining the inside of her thighs—simply begging for release.

“Beg for it.” he demanded, more a growl than a command. Gods, his cock was going to burst. It was only sheer will that saw him hold back, kept him from spilling his seed all over her belly.

He didn’t just want to be inside her. He needed it. But not before he broke her.

“Others take you,” she mewled, her legs shaking.

“Do it. Or I’ll leave you like this for the rest of the night.”

Her response was another laugh. Loud, shrill, defiant. Fuck, was she a cunt. Obstinate to the bone. He loved her for it.

“Oh, I’m not worried about myself. Are you certain you’ll last for the rest of the night?” she craned her head, her eyes raking over his body.

Naturally, she lingered on his cock—stiff and weeping, betraying his arousal. He cursed himself for the weakness of his flesh.

“I know you want it,” she purred, and her legs inched further open.

The sight was intoxicating. Practically singing to his soul.

“To come inside me and feel it. Feel how warm… and tight… and wet I am,”

She held his gaze, her hips inching ever closer to his own.

“You’re a fucking cunt.”

“And you love me for it.”

Her legs bucked.

Before he even realized, she'd clamped them around his waist to pull him down. He collapsed atop her, catching himself on his hands, his entire body aflame.

Her smile deepened. He cursed.

“You’re a witch. You think this will break me?”

She pursed her lips, her legs hooking around his hips in a bid to hold him in place.

“No reason for you to break if you already want it. You just have to let go.”

His fingers balled into fists. Her face was inches from his own, her lips glistening with spit. Calling for him. Begging him to come. Fuck.

“Not until you beg first,” he snarled, even as his cock twitched.

He could feel her wetness—her slick cunt pressed against his groin, taunting him. All he had to do was inch up. Inch up and he would be inside her. Right where he belonged.

Another smile, as she raised her head up. Her smell assailed him. Oranges, and juniper. The sweet scent of her sex, the warmth of her breath. His muscles spasmed. He wanted it.

Fuck, he wanted it.

“Come inside me,” she purred, her lips almost pressing against his own. “And make me.”

A curtain of red fell on his remaining eye. Before he even realized, he’d pried her off him, and positioned himself to her entrance. And when he plunged, the world vanished.

The chamber, the keep, his family, duty everything. It was just his cock and her cunt, her warm embrace, her slick on his skin. He just drove into her, mad, possessed, seeking nothing but release. Release, pleasure, absolute annihilation.

At some point, he could have sworn she'd cried out. Moaned Ñuha raqirazy before clenching around him, her muscles contracting to painful degrees. It destroyed him. Bid him to drive into her faster, harder, till her pleasure drew out his own.

He nestled himself inside her to the hilt, his body out of control. He shook and panted till the last of his seed had spilled and he was left utterly drained. Only then, did he collapse, seeking sanctuary in the soft crook of her neck.

It took hours for his clarity to return. Mayhaps days. When he finally found the wherewithal to form words, he found her smiling.

“You’re vile, you know that?”

A little minx who refused to give him anything, even the luxury of control.

“No,” she purred, shifting under him. “I just want you. And I want you to desire me in turn. Freely, without restraint.”

Lifting himself up, he came to regard her. The slant of her eyes, the fullness of her lips. Of course he desired her. Violently, passionately, to the point where it frightened him just how little he could control himself when in her presence.

It was vile. A weakness that made him feel like a slave, entirely at her mercy.

A soft smile quirked her lips, as lovely as it was gentle. He pulled loose the knot on her restraints and helped her wiggle her wrists free. It delighted him when she immediately came to cup his face, run her fingers over his jaw, his lips—almost as if she was tracing them, committing them to memory.

He'd liked her mercy. Even as a boy, running after her had brought him nothing but delight. Days wasted bickering under the heart tree, laughing and sharing treats. He'd never felt freer than when he was with her, and though he knew it was wrong, that her mercy had hurt him as well, he could never stop craving it.

“I hate you,” he murmured, though a different word was chorusing in his mind. A word that made her an indelible part of him, one he would carry till death—and even beyond.

And she seemed to understand.

“I know,” she whispered, and leaned in to give him a kiss.

2. Aegon

Love was pain. 

For all the poetic waffling Ser Gerald had done about it, most of the time, Aegon felt positively wretched. 

He scarce slept, ate poorly. He'd toss and turn each night beneath the covers, thinking about every single thing he and Jace had done that day, replaying every touch, every smile, every cursed breath. 

Some days, he felt mellow. Content with her proximity, the chaste little caresses. They’d soothe the ache in his chest, scratch that itch deep in his soul only she could reach. 

Other days, those same little brushes drove him mad. 

He'd squirm when she'd hold his hand, stiffen when she got too close. His fingers would lock, warring with the desperate desire to hold tighter, crawl up higher—to brush her shoulder, then her breastbone and cup her neck. 

She had a lovely neck. Slender and elegant, as ladylike as the rest of her. He'd hyperfixate on it, filled with thoughts of touching it, kissing it, licking that smell of sugar right off her skin till his blood burned. 

He tried to get himself to stop. It was a fucking neck. A body part with a specific function that had nothing to do with arousal. To fixate on it like that was obscene. 

So he'd force himself to avoid looking at it, to focus on other parts of her. But that didn’t help either, because he'd then start fixating on those other parts, and would be right back to where he'd started. 

In the end, he concluded that it didn’t matter. He would love whatever bits he looked at because they were attached to her, and she was… well. She was everything. 

So, he came up with a plan. A survival guide of sorts. He'd wake each morn, and down a cup of wine. Not good wine though. Dornish slop, rancid enough to scorch his throat whilst going down. While it was strong, it didn’t mellow him like Arbor gold did. Instead, it sat in his gut, heavy and unpleasant, forcing him to keep calm and focused. 

Then, he'd spend the morning thinking about vile things. Mother's lectures, Aemond’s sanctimonious smirking. Ugly boils, rotten fish, pox ridden Dornish whores that smelled worse than a pigsty—all those awful things that spoiled his mood and filled him with bitter displeasure. 

So by the time he actually dressed and got to Jace's quarters, he was at least coherent enough to resist confessing it all.  

She'd ruin his preparation rather quickly though. When he'd smell that cursed hair oil, see her eyes light up when they met his, a quarter of his hard work would be undone. 

Another quarter would vanish if she embraced him, or took his hand. And if she was charitable enough to give him a kiss on the cheek, well… the entire thing would be catapulted into oblivion.

His mind would fog then. The stupid burning would sear his veins, and the words would lodge themselves at the back of his throat, fighting to break through. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

So fucking much. Too fucking much.

“It’s not natural,” he'd told Ser Gerald one morning. “It’s just… excessive. It feels like something’s dying in me over and over again, and I can’t stop it.”

The wretch had only laughed and kept oiling his sword. 

“I believe this is why poets oft use the adverb ‘madly' to describe being in love.”

“Well, the poets can go fuck themselves,” he snorted. “This is vile. And I cannot stand it.”

With a sigh, the old man forced himself upright, wincing when his knees snapped in place with an audible pop. 

“You know, it’s rather amusing. You have the fortitude to come up with all these elaborate ways of controlling yourself around her… but you’re somehow unable to simply sit her down and tell her how you feel?” 

A groan left his lips. “Controlling myself around her doesn’t do anyone any harm.”

“Except the harm you’re dealing yourself. All this pining is like to see your head burst. And something else too, but I’d rather not employ your verbiage.”

He grimaced. “Better a burst cock than a split heart. The first one I’d survive at least, if barely. The second one...”

The old man gave him a look—the look, that told him he knew he was being a difficult little shit for no cause whatsoever. Still, Aegon refused to yield. 

“If you say so,” he chirped, before he began retreating back into the keep. 

“I do! So best not bring it up again!”

Even though he knew he would—because Aegon would not be able to cease whining about her till he was cold in his grave. 

The absolute depth of his madness came not a day later. They’d played a game of chase about the gardens. It was supposed to be a group activity, but her Ladies seemed too tired for the exercise and Amory and Sedric had long ago learned not to come between him and Jace for any reason. 

So, he'd needled her into just playing on their own. Chasing her around the rose bushes, cornering her near an oak tree. The little fiend had refused to surrender, forcing him to corral her into the grass so he could tickle her into submission. 

It was divine. Despite being close, he'd never gotten the chance to have her under him like that—red faced and squirming, laughter playing on her lips like the merriest of songs. 

His mind had instantly leapt to perversions; her being naked, her legs spread, begging him to kiss her, touch her, fuck her till she cried his name, and the world around them fell away. 

He thanked the Mother above she'd found the fortitude to push him off— a moment longer and his cock would have been halfway in her. 

He was certain it would go away, once they rejoined company, and he put chaste distance between them. But she refused to back away. She practically sat herself in his lap, one arm draped over his shoulder, while her fingers strummed against his bicep, teasing his skin till he felt as if he would burst. 

When night fell, and he went to her chamber to play their customary game of dice, he felt as if his mind had unraveled. He couldn’t focus at all, losing toss after toss, all while she smiled, and teased him about being down on his luck—still flush, still pretty, and still completely unaware of just how much he was dying for her. 

He got possessed then. His skin burned, his breath caught in his lungs, his eyes unable to do anything but watch her brush out her hair whilst she readied herself for bed. 

He hadn’t realize he'd moved till he was halfway across the chamber. Gods, he didn’t even want to fuck her, just… hold her. Press her to him and inhale her cursed smell, whisper to her how he wanted—he wanted—in Valyrian, seeing as he was too craven to say it in Common. 

But then she turned; blinked at him, all wide-eyed and startled and he was horrified to see he'd actually been desperate enough to reach out and grab her shoulder. 

“Aegon?” she murmured, a furrow between her brows. “What is it? Is everything alright?”

He gaped, his tongue too thick for words. 

“No. I’m dying. I want you, I need you, I love you, and I can’t, I just can’t anymore… just love me back, please, love me back.”

“Yes, forgive me,” he practically expelled, his hand dropping like a felled log. “I uh… I thought you had something… on your shoulder.”

“Oh,” she grimaced, shifting to regard her shoulder. He realized then—she'd stripped. Shrugged out of her house robe to leave herself in just her nightgown. Her pale blue, perfectly sheer nightgown. Fuck the Seven. 

“But you don’t… it was just… a trick of the light. Forgive me.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” she said, a soft smile curling her lips. “Better safe than to wake with a spider crawling over my face.”

Slipping past him, she went for her sleeping area. He forced a swallow. 

“Right then. I’ll be off,” he practically expelled out. His fingers brushed against the armrest of her chair, feeling the silken house robe brush his pads. Jace paused at her threshold, her eyes wide. 

“Oh… alright. But… it’s a touch late, no? You could… just stay here if you’d like.”

The words struck him in the gut. He balled his hands into fists. 

“No, no, it’s fine. You should rest. You’ve had enough nonsense for one day.”

“You had enough of me drooling after you.”

Because he was certain that the moment he hit her pillows, he'd crush her close and tell her everything in between frantic kisses. 

For a moment, she just stared. Wide-eyed and flush, her big doe eyes holding him hostage. Almost as if she was disappointed. But that was just the trick of the light. A moment later, she nodded and let her lips peel into a soft smile. 

“Alright then. We'll see each other on the morrow.”

“Yes... yes we will.”

She slipped deeper into the dimness of her sleeping area, her figure bleeding into the shadows. When she turned her back to him to go for her bed, he almost flung himself at the door, shutting it behind him with a loud thud. 

“My Prince?” Ser Erryk grimaced at him the moment he was in the corridor. His pale eyes flitted to his hand, to regard the thing dangling from his fingers. A tie. The tie from Jace’s house robe. He grimaced. 

“Not a fucking word.” Aegon snapped and barged past him. 

Gods, he was a freak. Not only was he unable to control himself enough to give her space, he'd now resorted to stealing pieces of her clothing. 

When he got to his chamber, he practically screamed at the maids to get out. He came to hover beside the hearth, hand trained up, to dangle the silk just above the flames. 

This wasn’t right—in fact, it was disgusting. He'd promised himself he would be more than just a degenerate with perversions on his mind. Still, the fabric had felt soft on his skin. Supple, just like Jace's skin. That magnificent, decadent skin he wasn’t allowed to touch—nor would ever be. 

With a reluctant groan, he pulled back. When he brought the thing to his nostrils, he was disappointed to find some of the smoke had soaked into the fabric. But, the underlying scent was still there. 

Vanilla and sugar. A piece of Jace, a tiny sliver he could hold onto to keep himself from going mad. 

Plopping onto his arse, he draped the thing around his neck. He kept waiting for the madness to come—the arousal, the perverse fantasies of Jace coming in to strip for him, before spreading her legs to invite him inside. 

His mind stayed silent. Still buzzing with thoughts of her, but different ones. Her embraces, her kisses. The way she'd entwine her fingers with his and lean in to whisper how he was doing fine. 

How he was fine—broken, stupid and perverse as he was. 

Pressing his face into his hands, he inhaled. This was a disaster. A complete slip of  control. Still, he counted himself fortunate. At least he'd not declared his love for her or actually attempted to get between her legs. Come the morrow, he could still go to her and sit by her side, feigning that the world wasn’t falling apart, or that loving her was slowly destroying his senses. But for now…

He lifted the tie to his nose, inhaling with rabid zeal. 

“Could you love me?” Imaginary Aegon asked, full of hope. Hope, desire, longing. 

Jace leaned in, all flush and smiling, her brown eyes burning with mellow fire. 

“Of course I could. I already do.”