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#jacaerys velaryon #targtower

The Forfeit of Hope

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targtower reader

Tags: angst, unreliable narrator, grief & mourning, prisoner of war, power imbalance, manipulation, romantic tension, ambiguous ending

Wordcount: 4,905

Captive on Dragonstone under the supervision of your nephew Jacaerys, you quickly realize the young man hopes to manipulate you to join his side. Your instincts of survival lead you to play into his hand, intending to catch him at his own game.

Jacaerys Masterlist

“How privileged you are, to be passionately clinging to what you love; the forfeit of hope has not destroyed you.”― Louise Glück

Dragonstone was a majestic fortress, and upon seeing it for the first time you understood why it was given to the eldest child upon their coming of age—it was the picture of Targaryen elegance and power, and simply walking its stone floors stole your breath. The high walls and ceiling appeared to be carved into the rock of the volcano, and the windows all bore glass tinted with gray by the ash.

It was warm inside the fortress, and surprisingly comfortable, but you did not have the time nor the mood to enjoy it. Your hands were still bound in front of you, and two kingsguards along with soldiers were escorting you through the maze of hallways, from the shore entrance up to what seemed to be a library or an archive of some sort. 

There, your nephew Jacaerys was apparently waiting for you, wrists crossed on the pommel of his sword. Looking down at you arrogantly, he at least had the decency not to look pleased at your demise, instead simply contemplative. 

“My lady aunt,” he greeted solemnly. “The Queen has gone to Harrenhal to survey her armies’ progress. In the meantime you are under my supervision.”

He fell into step with you, walking at your side as you were escorted further into the fortress and such a gesture surprised you for a moment. However you supposed it was in character for him, as you had grown up to know the young prince to be just and kind. Even though you were now his prisoner, you were still his kin, and it eased you slightly to be treated as such. Violence would have no doubt broken your spirit.

“And where am I to be kept? The jails?” you could not keep the venom from your voice as you spoke, your sorrow making your tongue sharp and impertinent. 

“No,” Jacaerys said, not unkindly. “You are to be kept under close watch in one of the guest rooms.”

Such a promise was kept as you were brought to a narrow corridor that ended in two doors, and you were guided through the one on the left, which led into a small bedroom. You dreaded crossing the threshold of what would be your cell for the foreseeable future, no matter that it was comfortably furnished, it would still hold you prisoner, two guards at the door and the four walls trapping your despair within them.

“Jacaerys,” you called after the shackles were removed from your wrists, and perhaps it was the pain in your tone, or the touch of affection in his name, but your nephew turned. “Is my dragon dead?” you asked in a single breath, and the look on his face said it all.  

In that instant, he did look sorry, and you were almost grateful he was to deal with you, and not your sister or uncle.

As the heavy door closed behind you and was locked soundly, Jacaerys hung his head in regret. For a moment the corridor was silent, and he contemplated the severity of the situation—it had barely seemed real when the words had a read on a letter coming from Rook’s Rest, that your dragon had been shot from the sky and you had been taken alive. Now, Jacaerys could feel the weight of it all on his slim shoulders.

With a sigh he turned to leave, doing his best to ignore your cries of agony as they pierced through the thick wood of the door and resonated under the high stone ceiling.

The day came to a close later than Jacaerys thought he could bear. The hours had dragged painfully since you had been brought to the fortress, and even attending to his studies as temporary steward of Dragonstone in his mother’s absence was not enough to take his mind off you. Despite the late hour, he made way for the room you were held in, suspecting you would not have found sleep either.

He rehearsed a few words in his head as the guard turned the large key into the door, but they vanished as soon as he entered, the guard coming to stand at his back, ready to pull him away and defend him if need be. However you could be no threat in your current state, Jacaerys thought, as you made a pitiful image. 

Curled up at the foot of the bed, staring into the fire, your red-rimmed eyes were seemingly empty. You were still wearing the clothes you had been caught in, a riding attire now torn and burnt in places. The fresh clothes provided for you were still in a neat pile on the pillow, folded into a perfect square you had not touched, much like anything else given as a gesture of good will. 

“I have been told you have refused the food brought to you,” Jacaerys started awkwardly. “It has not been poisoned, if that is your worry.”

“It would be a sort of relief, if it was,” you murmured, still unmoving.

“You are here as a prisoner for the time being, but you could be here as a guest if—” he attempted, then cleared his throat and tried to remember the words he had prepared. “If you declared for my mother.”

“Even if I recognized my sister’s authority, you are asking me to betray my brothers, my mother, my sister…” you said with unbearable sadness, and Jace’s heart constricted. He could barely imagine the devastation of losing one’s dragon, of losing a bond that was much more than a simple connection between creature and rider, but a kindred spirit in the form of a fire-breathing beast. 

“Queen Rhaenyra is also your sister,” Jacaerys attempted to justify, careful to keep his explanation straightforward and to the point. He would not convince you with grand declarations, he knew, but perhaps logic and kindness would make you see the errors of your ways.

“And yet here she is, attempting to steal our brother’s birthright,” you said placidly, and he so deeply wished you would look at him. 

Jacaerys sighed, taking a step forward, a burst of frustration rushing through him as he heard the guard do the same. He wished his order to dismiss him would be heard, but he knew his mother’s command to keep him safe was overriding it before he could even attempt. Still, he knew you would better speak if the two of you were truly alone.

“Please, my aunt, come to your senses and help us put a term to this needless war,” he tried, knowing his desperate plea would likely provoke your anger rather than appeal to your reason.

The blank mask on your face cracked and you chuckled, rather mirthlessly—it was a cold sound, one that turned his stomach but it was better than indifference, he thought, and thus he carried on. “The lords of this realm swore oaths to my mother, naming her the rightful heir,” he pressed.

At that you finally turned your head, looking at him straight on with unbridled fury in your eyes. Jacaerys wished he hadn’t been so hasty or clumsy, but there was no taking his words back. Perhaps your ire was better than your apathy.  

“Those oaths were forfeited the day my mother bore a son, and then she bore two more,” you explained with the certainty of a daughter arguing a point that had been drilled into her since childhood. 

“Oaths are not so easily dismissed,” he insisted, his frustration growing, which only seemed to fuel your anger. 

“No they are not, but oaths do not trump the law,” he cried out. “Do you seriously think your brother would make a better ruler than my mother?”

Jacaerys flinched when you pushed yourself up from your crouching position and stepped off the bed, your bare feet onto the cold stones. He could feel the guard behind him tense, and he gestured for him to stand down. You were unharmed and broken down, your frame shuddering with repressed rage, your graceful features contorted in disdain for him.

“It matters not what I think, the crown does not land on whoever is most suited, but on whoever is the lawful heir,” you spat out, and Jacaerys thought he might have achieved the opposite of what he was seeking, and started regretting having come at all. He had thought he could convince you while you were hurt and vulnerable, but he had underestimated you.

“Tradition is not law,” was his next defense, to which you scoffed.

“Leave me be,” you told him, but he was not ready to admit defeat.

“My aunt—” he tried, to which you answered by rushing to him and shoving him by the shoulders.

He stumbled back into the guard who pulled him by the arm. “If you have come here to torment me, then leave!” you roared, directing your anger to the tray set aside on the table and swiping it—Jacaerys startled once more as it crashed to the floor, the metal of the plate and cup loudly echoing on the stones.

Jacaerys sought wisdom in the comfort of the library, pouring through tomes and hoping to find a glimpse of an answer as to how to reach out to you and make you see reason. Emotions were akin to a dangerous river, tumultuous and muddy, where it was easy to lose oneself, and he desperately wanted for you to accept his outstretched hand. 

Oaths could not be forfeited without causing a rift in the realm, the brewing war was clearly showing, and it seemed to him it was all a matter of personal allegiances than who really was the rightful heir. Some houses had turned their back for the sake of fortune or dragon fire, and now they would have to pay the price. 

Loyalty to one’s family was an oath of its own and he could not fault you for bearing a steadfast love for your mother and siblings. Yet if he had learned one thing flying across the realm and ensuring bent knees, it was that duty had to come before family. The issue was larger than them all, larger than Rhaenyra and Aegon—it came down to the very definition of oaths, honor, and the difference between law and tradition. 

“It troubles you,” Baela remarked in her usual kind wisdom as she found him bent over a large tome, sighing and muttering to himself. 

“Doesn’t it trouble you?” he asked back, leaning into her touch as she put a hand on his shoulder. His cousin’s friendship and steadfastness was his only comfort these days. 

“I cannot allow it to. It is the way of war, Jace,” she soothed, but her words could not pierce the thick skin of his sorrow. He did not answer, instead pushed himself from his seat and carried the book towards the door, determined to try anew. 

“This endeavor of yours is hopeless,” she called at his back, knowing it would not deter him.

“Perhaps, but I cannot give up now,” he threw over his shoulder.

He had allowed you a few days of peace as you had begged, and had not come to visit you even though his mother had come back to the island and come to see you. What would have been said between the two of you was not for him to know, and if he was to win this battle, he had to thread a path his mother was not on. 

Jacaerys had expected to find you in a similar spot than the one you had been in a few evenings prior and he was dismayed to find it true. Curled up at the foot of the bed like a gargoyle on a rempart, you barely turned your gaze to him when he entered. 

“I thought I told you to leave me be. I might be your prisoner but I should be allowed privacy,” you said, your tone flatter but calmer. Perhaps you had exhausted your fury on the queen. 

“I bought you a book,” he offered, putting the tome on the table. “I thought your mind might benefit from the distraction.”

You did not thank him, instead turned to him with an air of quiet devastation. “My dragon—”

“Yes?”

“Did you leave it across the field? For the vultures to—” your breath hitched, and Jace’s heart throbbed at the reminder of what had broken your spirit so. 

“Its remains were brought here, to rest. The dragonkeepers have taken care of it,” he replied, grateful that he could at least guarantee you this gesture of respect. He remained silent as you hung your head and sobbed silently, your shoulders shaking while no sound, not even air came from your parted lips. 

“Why were you out there, knowing Silverwing and Vermithor have been claimed?” he sighed, desperate to point blame somewhere, to make sense of this hopeless situation. 

“I was serving my king!” you cried out, stretching up and rising much as you had done on that other evening, your body seemingly fueled by anger. “Following orders, much like I’m sure you have been doing.”

You would not take his blame, that much was obvious from the contempt and disdain on your face. “Even though your orders cause you to be a traitor to your blood, to your name, but then I should not expect much of the likes of you,” you continued, 

Jacaerys was reminded of your shared childhood, of the rumors and jests that had plagued it, but also of how you never seemed to pay them any mind, treating him like any blood relative. “This isn’t you, this venom, this poison…”

There wasn’t much to say, and thus Jacaerys took his leave of you—perhaps Baela was right and there was truly nothing to gain from his attempts. Perhaps it was a lost cause, and you were doomed to remain forever on either side of a war, never able to cross or even reach across to shake the hand of your perceived enemy. Never before did Jace think of the possibility that one day he would be someone’s enemy, the object of hatred and the reason for their demise, and he loathed how uncomfortable that position was, no matter how righteous.

It seemed surrendering in the face of your hatred was not possible for Jacaerys, and the endeavors did not stop, no matter your venom or your coldness. Night after night your nephew came, no doubt after his days of duty at his mother’s sides, planning battles to come, scheming on how to take the throne from your brother. 

At first you had hoped for a reaction, and the first days of your capture were spent in expectation that rescue would come, but as time passed you realized it would not happen. The island and its fortress was too protected, and one would say impregnable.

Furthermore you were powerless now that your dragon was dead, virtually useless, and surely your brother the king had more pressing matters to attend to but free you. Victory would free you, eventually, and all you had to do was survive until then, and remain healthy and sane.

With that hope and goal in mind, you started to accept the food given to you—you needed a strong body and clear mind in case a chance to escape arose. You could not allow yourself to be the weak one, the defeated one they could lock away and forget. You ate and slept, and made sure to walk in circles within the confines of your room, stretching your sore limbs and ensuring that blood was still flowing through you easily.

Jacaerys praised you for this small act he no doubt thought to be an act of surrender. Every evening the two of you would sit at the fire, reading the books he had brought. He had also given you some parchment and ink, and listened with attention on nights where you shared your writings with him—simple sonnets in High Valyrian, or scenes taken from your childhood.

Still, melancholy had a hold over your heart, although you willed it with all your might to be steadfast.

“Do you believe that if you come every night, I will cave and bend the knee to your mother?” you asked one night when tiredness had weighed heavily over you all day long. Had it been weeks, months, since the beginning of your captivity? You could not tell anymore.

“No. I simply wish to keep you sane,” Jacaerys replied honestly, and you appreciated how lucid he was on the situation. Seated across you on the flimsy carpet, he was pulling a loose thread, his shoulders dropped low with the weight of his preoccupations. “You will lose your mind if you remain alone, trapped here.”

“Alone or not, I am trapped here,” you reminded him, relentless—torturing him so was one of your last pleasures, as sorrow and guilt always wrinkled his graceful features when he was faced with your torments.

“I’m sure mother would allow you out if you requested it, and agreed to her terms.”

You sighed, slightly amazed at how blind he was to who his queen was, and how utterly adoring and thus ignorant he was. “She is not what you think,” you simply said, knowing you could never convince him.

“She is just and fair,” he defended.

“She is as ruthless as any of them,” you continued, knowing full well the path you were threading was a foolish one, and would lead only to ruin, but something in you could not give up.

Jacaerys seemed downcast, and if you could plant even the tiniest seed of doubt in his mind, then you would seize the chance. “Males inherit because it is tradition, not law, you were right in that, but to many lords in Westeros tradition is law. Rhaenyra knew from the start she would have to put our brothers to the sword to claim the throne, they all knew it.”

Jacaerys looked at you with a storm in his eyes, a swirling darkness you could not decipher the meaning of, his long lashes casting shadows over his face. “Aegon had no choice but to seize the crown,” you concluded, hoping it to be the last nail in the coffin.

“He would have been given a chance to declare his allegiance to her,” Jacaerys was quick to reply, as though his defense of his mother was always on the tip of his tongue. “This poison that has been fed to you since childhood.”

“It is the unalterated reality, Jace,” you exclaimed, the use of his name startling him more than your exasperated tone. “The realm would never accept a woman, unless there was not a single male heir.”

“This reasoning is false. You have been poisoned against my mother, and by your own,” he said with barely concealed disgust, and at that you had to scoff. You rose from your seat on the carpet and loomed over him for a second.

“And you have been made blind to the realities of this world!” 

He was quick to jump to his feet, coming face to face with you once more, your anger facing his. “Do you honestly think I suffer from blindness? Do you think I do not see what everyone else does?” he accused.

You could not say if you wished to laugh in his face or cry for his unbearable naivety. “This is nothing against you, Jacaerys,” you cried out, weariness seeping into your skin. “I know you have no choice but to serve your mother, as I have no choice but to serve mine, and my brother.”

This simple phrase seemed to devastate him and kept him silent. “This is the way of the world. The order of things,” you restated. “And there is nothing either of us can do about it. It would be the same were it be you and me grappling for our birthrights.”

Despite your condition, your heart clenched in pity when he spoke again, tears in his voice. “The lords of this realm swore an oath,” he argued once more, clinging to these words as though they were his shield against the injustices of this earth.

“Oaths are words in the wind. Oaths will not keep a monarch on the throne, law and legitimacy will.”

“Do you not care about honor then?” he pushed, and you refused to be diminished in such a way, made to be without dignity or integrity. 

“Was it honor when your mother sent assassins in the night to murder a child in his bed?” you asked, fully knowing the horror it would elicit, but relishing when it did, and Jace’s face contorted in regret.

“This was Daemon, the queen never ordered it,” he ceaselessly defended.

“Do you honestly believe that?” was your only answer, uttered so softly he remained speechless, and you hoped this silence would be the fertile soil in which the seed of doubt would thrive. 

For a long moment Jacaerys said nothing, time stretching like a desperate void between the two of you, and you held your tongue, needing for him to breach the distance once again.

You internally soared when he did, but kept your face placid. “When we were children, mother wished us to be betrothed,” he said, and you wondered what path of thoughts he had taken to reach such a place.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” you murmured.

“Perhaps not,” came the equally exhausted answer.  

“My mother would have never agreed,” you conceded, and the sudden apparition of her face in your mind troubled you, shattered the veil of calm you had forced yourself to wear in your endeavor to weaken Jacaerys. “I will never see my mother again, nor my sister,” came the terrible conclusion, rushing past your lips despite yourself, and bitter tears clouded your eyes.

Your knees gave out and you lowered yourself towards the floor, but your stumbling fall was caught by Jacaerys, his arm coming around you. He knelt with you on the cold stones as a breathless cry left your chest.

“I am sorry,” he said, and his words snapped you out of your temporary hopelessness.

“Unhand me! Unhand me at once!” you cried out, shoving him back harshly, and he fell back onto the carpet, eyes cast down.

“I apologize,” he murmured, shameful, but a vicious anger was coiling in your stomach.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it? To have me weak and defeated so that you could—” you choked, dragging yourself across the floor until your back hit the side of the bed. You suspected you were being unfair in your accusation, but you did not care, not when he seemed so rattled.

“No, I would never!” Jacaerys argued. 

“I see the look in your eyes,” you sneered, and although it was a lie, you hoped there was a drop of truth to it, that in the confines of his heart there laid more affection and guilt than he showed.

“I only strive to protect you!”

You pushed yourself up, clinging to the bedpost, nearly suffocated by the desperate positions both you and Jacaerys found yourselves in. “I do not need your protection! I will remain here until the end of this war, one way or another,” you reminded him, and as always his graceful features collapsed in anguish. “What you want is hopeless, Jacaerys.”

He stood, silent, looking for his words while you gathered your thoughts. You could not understand why he longed for your forgiveness, your absolution, but he did, and you knew it would be your salvation. He thought he was within his right to keep you here, as you were the enemy, and yet he struggled with seeing you captive. Perhaps it would be his downfall, you would make sure of it.

Jacaerys did not come the next night, nor the next, nor for the rest of the week, and such an absence was both a blessing and a curse. You loathed the loneliness and enjoyed the quiet company of your thoughts equally. You had a great deal of thinking to do, but then these days thinking was all you did, and your mind seemed to you a prison like your room, some days.

You read the books your nephew had left for you, hoping to escape in them, only to be thrust back between four walls once you reached the back cover. Writing brought you no relief, your words losing all their meaning once the ink had dried on the page, and the guard behind the door refused to entertain even the most trivial conversation. 

Talking to yourself only served to make you crumble more, to the point that arguing with Jacaerys or even facing your sister again appealed to you, if only for the mercy of having another voice echo yours. On a cold evening where frost was gathering at the window, your inner prayers were answered when he came again, looking both determined and hesitant.

You cried out in the secrecy of your mind when he offered. “Would you like a walk on the beach?”

“Your mother would never allow it,” you replied.

Jacaerys sighed, an admission in itself. “The queen has gone, flown back to the continent. Some air will clear your thoughts, let us go.”

The prospect of breathing air outside of this room overwhelmed you, but you reigned your emotion in and instead allowed yourself to be guided into the corridor. The guard stood down after a stern look and even sterner order, and for a moment you saw a glimpse of Jacaerys you had never seen before. It felt to you the hallway would never end, and you would never reach fresher air, until you did—it opened to a large hall you could not remember ever crossing.

Jacaerys watched as you rediscovered the steps you had taken a few months prior, shaking like a newborn fawn, although you appeared to be strong. He knew some of yourself had collapsed inside your own mind, the four walls of your bedroom suffocating you. 

He could sway you, he knew, if he allowed you to sway him a bit more—it was a game of pull and shove, of giving and taking, and the razor edge he was trodding was dangerous, but it would be worth it in the end. You thought you could see what was inside of his heart, selfish desires he knew you would resist then fulfil, only for the temporary power it would give you. If he let you in, then you would let him in. 

He could not help the burst of joy that erupted beneath his breastbone as you took your first steps onto the gray sands of the beach, your shoes discarded quickly despite the cold, and your toes leaving dents where you walked. The evening was slightly damp, but the moon was stark against the dark canvas of the night. 

Watching you made him dizzy, and for a moment all his preoccupations vanished. He yearned to see such bliss on your face again, desperate to be the one to provide it. He walked by your side as you trotted in the cold sand, breathing in deeply, filling your lungs with the cold air and the smell of the sea. Further down on the beach, quiet waves were hugging the shore.

“Some nights I think I can hear her. I hear her wings in the wind, her song,” you suddenly said, and he did not need to ask who you were referring to. 

“I am sorry,” he replied, and the both of you knew he was sincere. The damp was curling the strands of hair at your temples, and the night was concealing your finer features—you appeared to him shrouded in doubt, in uncertainty. 

“So am I,” you replied, allowing tears to pearl at your eyes and roll down your cheeks. 

Jacaerys reached out, curling his fingers at your jaw, his thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. Stepping closer to you, the warmth of his body unfurled something that had been coiled tight in the pit of your stomach—you could not tell up from down, or right from wrong, and you hated him as much as you yearned for him.

“I would ask again, plead again…” he murmured. “My mother will show you mercy.”

The cold from his lips was soothed by the heat of his mouth when he kissed you, salt on his tongue from your tears, and you could not say who it was meant to comfort. For a few breathless seconds you fought against the rising feeling in your chest, only to fall into him when you needed air, breathing it in at his kiss.

The wind seemed to pick up around you, or perhaps was it the shock of the situation that snapped out of your confusion. Your thoughts appeared clearer, and you seized the opportunity.

Without a word you pulled from him, and slowly, the sand making a muted sound under your knees as you lowered yourself to the ground, you posed yourself as a supplicant.

“Please,” you whispered—and in such a simple word, Jacaerys seemed to find what he was looking for.

No doubt feeling himself merciful, Jacaerys offered you his hand and pulled you from the damp sand. You let him guide you back to the fortress, knowing you would not sleep in your cell that night—in the morning, your fate would be sealed.

Dividers by @zaldritzosrose.

Thank you to @thenameswinter99 for helping me with this fic ♡

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#on writing #helpful tips

Any tips in improving and developing a writing style? I swear, every time I write I feel like a fake-sophisticated wannabe. I know it takes practice, but what other things do you do to continue improving?

Trial and error. Making mistakes and finding out what works for you, and what doesn't.

Beyond that, here is a list of some things I've learned along the way and what helped me become a better writer.

Focusing on what the characters are feeling is more interesting than simply describing their actions.

Changing points of view during a scene can bring some dimension to it and serve to illustrate the feelings or atmosphere you're trying to convey.

Getting a beta reader, someone who will read your story with fresh eyes and a different perspective, and that will point out not only the mistakes, but also what is fine, but still could be improved.

Reading other people's stories and seeing their style is a great tool, especially if you take the time to focus on the effect their writing had on you and how they achieved it.

Reading your own works from some time ago. It's likely that some details will catch your attention, mistakes you could not see before, that sort of things.

Now, for the specific thing you mentioned, which is feeling "falsely sophisticated", here is a couple of random things that popped into my mind.

Metaphors can be great, but don't use too many of them. If you used one to describe some element, wait a couple of paragraphs before you allude to it again, or else it will feel too much.

Use different senses as descriptors. Meaning, when describing something, instead of using a great many adjectives, use the character's senses. What they see, hear, feel, smell, what it reminds them of, etc.

I couldn't tell if my bullet points were helpful so I figured I'd just write a small example under the cut.

Example: describing a room.

Draft: It was the morning. The sun was coming up. It was cold because the window was open. The room was dusty, with curtains and a rug.

Finished paragraph: The morning sun was coming in through the open window, its curtains dancing in the cold breeze. Dust was rising from the old rug, and the pattern reminded her of the carpet in her childhood home.

↳ Here I focused on how the different elements are interacting with one another, what effect the sun and the cold have on the curtains and the rug.

Then instead of describing the rug in detail, I chose to focus on what it reminds the character of, because that's how we perceive things in real life. Also, moving images such as dust rising or curtains blowing are details that breathe life into scenes, rather than flat descriptions.

Using some images like that can make the writing feel sophisticated without being too much, if you don't use them in every single sentence.

I hope this helps, if not my inbox is wide open for any question related to writing ♡

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I remember reading a one-shot of a daughter of vaemond velaryon x aemond targaryen, and she actually removes luke's eyes and omg i cannot find it anymore PLEASE if you know what i'm talking about PLEASE tell me !!

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#fullmetalalchemist #fullmetalalchemistbrotherhood #fm #edwardelric #smut #literallyapieceofart

THE SIGN ON YOUR HEART SAID ITS STILL RESERVED FOR ME

edward elric x f! reader

you remind edward how beautiful you think he is.

smut (ish), 18+, body worship, soft, lots of cuddling, mentions of insecurity and (edward’s) trauma, edward cries during sex lol

inspired by the alchemy

edward has a complicated relationship with love.

he knows he has people he loves, people he holds dear to him. he knows that there are people in his life he'd sacrifice an arm and a leg for, people he'd risk everything to feel their warmth. not all sacrifices came to fruition. but he knew he'd do it.

most around him underestimate the guilt he carries upon his shoulders. the guilt of failure, the guilt of knowing the truth. edward was wracked with the burden of knowledge- the knowledge that he might not be able to reverse his mistakes. its accepting love from others that edward struggles with the most.

edward feels his mothers love far in-between. he feels it when he shovels a warm, nostalgic bowl of stew into his mouth, wondering what exactly made milk of all ingredients taste so good. he feels it when he ties his golden locks into a woven braid, trying to replicate the way his mother's fingers would knit her own auburn locks. she made fixing her hair look like the northern lights. he felt the sensation of love, but more strongly, a burning firey passion as he remembers the embers that erupted from his childhood home. he remembers the orange glint against his brother's armor as he burns down his home and his past, swearing only to return when he is whole once again. edward feels the remnants of her love blow past him as he stares at the rolling green hills of resembool from the train window, heading towards the sunlight. he was never the religious type, but he sometimes thought that his mother was in the sun now, shining down on him and al.

edward feels guilt-laced love from his younger brother, alphonse. he still finds himself waking up in a cold sweat, hearing his younger self plead with the universe to give him his brother back. he'd sacrifice his arm, his soul, he'd give it free if it meant al’s life- and he did. edward tightens his fist as he remembers the day, not a shadow of a doubt in his mind that he'd sacrifice his arm over and over and over again to save his brothers soul. but the same fists that once burned with determination fall apart with grievance, as edward eyes shake with ghostly tears. is it his fault that al is trapped in a suit of armor? is his fault al lost his body? they should have taken me. he thinks. it would be sick for the truth universe to sacrifice his whole body, but taking away his dear younger brother was much more twisted. his eyes stare with promise at alphonse as he rests, promising his soul that he will restore what has been lost. his love for his brother ran deeper than the sea. edward's desire for his limbs back is placed on the backburner, putting alphonse back together is what allows edward to rest with a smile on his face.

edward isn't always sure how to feel your love.

he himself, feels incomplete. but with you, he feels liquid sun being poured into the crevices of the heart he bared to you and only you. beyond just his automail limbs, edward's body was scarred in and out. painful echoes of his past embedded into his skin. stories of loss, determination, and a want to feel complete lingers in his ribs as you kiss his skin, treating him like a delicate masterpiece. he isn't much sure of how to feel, or why he feels good. he was a man of science, a prodigy of alchemy, but your love was a encryption he could not decipher.

he always seems writhe when you touch him, your fingers running across his toned abdomen making him feel heaven-struck. he sighs your name, gold locks lazily thrown over his shoulders as his head dips into the nape of your neck. his metal arm pulls you closer to him, the cool metal contrasting with the searing warmth of your arousal. edward allows his lips to press against your collarbone, nipping at your skin reminding you of his presence. he may not have always accepted your love, but he sure as hell was going to make you feel his. all of it.

you rip a deep groan from his chest as your hands as you straddle his waist, your delicate fingers caressing where the metal met his scarred chest. "edward." your siren voice tears through the gasps and soft moans that filled his bedroom. "relax. its just me."

his golden eyes flicker up at yours, pulling his lips away from your skin. he made sure to leave loving-red marks right across your heart, as if he were writing his name in a special code reserved for you. his eyes are hazy and love-drunk, looking up at you like you're the only thing in this universe that matters. his arms, human and metal, strong and toned, hold you to his waist as if you would be ripped away from him at any moment.

"s-sorry." he heaves, his voice was deep and honeyed, eyes not breaking contact with your bare body for even a second. his voice was apologetic, but he couldn't hide the lust and hunger that formed in his chest and seeped out through his eyes. well, its not like he tried to hide it.

your hand moves up to caress his jawline, pressing your lips to his temple. "give in. let me love you." your voice is gentle, but you mean it as a desperate plea. loving edward was not an option; loving edward was an obligation. loving edward was as essential as the veins that pumped blood through your body. you wouldn't stop loving him, even if you wanted to.

edward's eyes screw shut. "only if you let me love you too."

your lips curve into a smile, and then into an O shape as edward presses his mouth to your chest, kissing your breasts with soft, fervent messages of love. his kisses sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body, only growing more intense as he moves his arm up to cup your breast. he massages the tender flesh, treating you as if you were sacred. each one of his touches, his kisses, and his grasps was his way of giving his soul over to you. right now, edward felt as though it always belonged to you.

his golden eyes watch longingly as you throw your head back, taking the opportunity to kiss your neck. he gladly sinks his teeth in, as if leaving the seal of his love on your skin. edward loved you like it was breathing for him. he hoped that people would see your effervescent beauty, but more importantly the lovebites left on you, and know that edward elric was the one that marked them there. they spelled out 'mine' in a way only edward could decipher it.

your body is buzzing and hot with arousal. you feel the warm feeling start at your chest, slowly moving down your stomach and then to your core. edward hums satisfied against your skin, as if able to feel exactly what you feel right now. the pink tinge on his face suggests a linger of embarrassment. he had never showed this much of himself to anyone. it were as if kissing you and worshipping you distracted himself from his pains, allowing himself to esca[e in the shelter of your touch.

you run your fingers through his golden locks, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as his lips press themself over and over again to your chest. he wants to feel you, all of you, and just you. if his attention wasn't tied to some old book on alchemy, then his mind riddled itself with trauma. his brain spent hours writing equations, deciphering codes, tying all his pains, regrets and wrongdoings into a messy puzzle of hurt. his mind was a labyrinth, a maze that not even he could escape from. you were his refuge, you were his safe place. he worries he's killing the mood by being so nervous, not able to look up at you as he's kissing your chest.

but as you sit atop his lap, kissing his head and whispering a melody of "i love you" and "you're doing so good" you tell him that its okay. that its okay to feel good, that its okay to trust, that its okay to be loved.

you place your hands on his chin and pull his head to face you. you take him in, all of him- his hazy, sunset eyes and his blonde hair messily thrown over his muscular shoulders like a golden waterfall. every contour of his muscles scream at you to love him stronger, the way the scars paint stories over his heart. there was no space left between you two. your skin on his, two souls colliding with one another.

"how do you feel?" your voice is just barely above a whisper, looking deep into his eyes with yours. he cant help but let his eyes wander down, watching the way you fit so perfectly on top of him. the way your breasts are covered in marks, his marks, the way your thighs spread to straddle him, he can feel your wetness on him, the heat of your love radiating just for him to bask in. its almost too much.

"good." edward breathes out, words failing him at this moment. but its enough for you. he is enough for you.

your hands make their way down to his shaft, stroking the length in your hands. edward bites his lip, head moving back as your hands work diligently to pleasure him. you kiss just below his ear, reminding him of your presence. "its okay." you coo.

he takes that as permission, allowing soft moans and grunts to escape his mouth. his voice is raspy yet heavenly, the vulnerability and trust manifesting as pleasure coursing through his veins. he sighs, never feeling this much pleasure in his entire life. slowly, you lower yourself onto his cock, sucking in a deep breath as you feel yourself stretch around him.

"fuck." edward hisses, feeling your warm, tight walls around his length. his grip around your waist tightens, as if still wishing to pull you in closer. you hands travel up to his shoulder blades, digging your nails into the his soft skin while you adjust to his size. the warmth is intoxicating for him, feeling tears bless his eyes at the overwhelming pleasure. he's so embarrassed, feeling a stray tear escape down his cheek. he doesn't think he deserves it. to feel this good, for his incomplete and ravaged body to be granted this much pleasure. for an angel to touch him after the taboos he's committed. edward knows equivalent exchange, and he knows that none of this is good is equivalent to all his wrongdoings.

but that's what love does sometimes, he concludes as you kiss the tear away from his cheek. you don't say a word, but rather you silently tell edward that its okay. fuck, he was starting to love being loved.

the tears cease to stop as you continue to grind on his length, the pleasure overtaking the both of you. your mind is blissfully blank, letting your body speak love to the crevice's of edward's soul. he watched as the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, like the tide of the ocean washing away any painful memories written in the sand. the bed was unmade, the sheets were crinkled, the clocks ticked s time that you two should have been sleeping, but none of it mattered now. the greatest moment of intimacy you and edward ever shared was not when he removed his clothes to bare skin. it was when he allowed you to see him at his lowest moment, letting you witnessed the most unloved parts of his body and his soul. as he slowly unraveled in front of you, feeling his orgasm slowly approach, he worried his imperfections may scare you off.

but you kiss him, kiss his lips so perfectly, you remind him that you'll love him anyway. you'll love him not in despite of his imperfections, but because of his imperfections. it was who he was- edward elric was everything you wanted love to be. and more.

edward tears a groan from his chest as he feels your wet walls clench around him tighter than ever before, unable to hold back his thick release. he hides his face in the crook of your neck, pulling you closer as if to hide. he wonders if it always felt that good.

"s-sorry. i did it to early, shit i-" he rambles, and you can't help but giggle. it was rare when you could witness him so vulnerable. you shush him, pecking his lips and reminding him that its okay.

"you were perfect, ed." you reassure him, your voice cutting through all his worries and doubts. thats all the permission he needs to pull you down onto the bed with him, laying you down on top of him. you know he doesn't like to sleep on his side because of the weight of his arm. he also didn't to be away from your warmth, not even for a moment. he reaches over, pulling the crinkled sheets over both your bodies. a warm hum escapes from his lips, his entire body feeling as blissfully sweet as honey.

"how do you feel?" he checked in with you, his hand travelling up to cup your chin. he studied you, a part of him still being unable to accept the fact that you're real.

"loved." you hum. edward's kissed lips curve into a soft smile at your words.

"good. i want you to feel my love. always." he reminds you as he kisses your temple. even if edward didn't always accept love from others, he'd be damned if he didn't give every ounce of his love to you.

"how do you feel?" you redirect, checking on him. his blonde eyes stare to the ceiling, the gear s in his brain pondering for a moment before pinpointing the right word.

"complete." he concludes, planting one last kiss to your head before letting the two of you drift off into sleep. edward felt complete with you.

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#bronzefury #aemondtargaryenxoc

Bronze Fury Directory

When the only child of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce is brought to King's Landing to meet with the rest of her family, she finds herself caught in a crisis of succession. The Greens battle for her support... and her affections.

Chapter Directory

Ch. 1: Runestone Remembers || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 2: To King's Landing || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 3: The Queen's Quest || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 4: The Crown's Crimes || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 5: Princess of the Bugs || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 6: The Dragon's Pit || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 7: The Pink Dread || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 8: Bastards and Betrothals || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 9: Death of the Dreamers || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 10: Changing Tides || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 11: The Funeral || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 12: Driftmark || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 13: The Sacrifice || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 14: Aemond 'One-Eye' || Chapter Discussion

Ch. 15: The Wedding - Coming soon!

Archive of Our Own

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I want to flow out across the mother of all waters, I want to lose myself on the black and silky currents, yawning, gathering the tall lilies of sleep.

Mary Oliver, from “White Night” in American Primitive

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#youcorepngs #cute idea #support

⋆｡ 3K FOLLOWERS PNG EVENT — [ OPEN ]

hiya, idk if people do events on graphics blogs but i also do for my fandom blogs and i think it's really fun! plus i'd love to engage more with people on this blog and give a big thanks to all the people who have been so sweet about my silly little pngs <33 so i thought i'd do png sets that are curated for you specifically!

to recieve a "you"core png pack, send me an ask with… ✶ your name/alias ✶ four to seven description words ↳ could be an aesthetic, object, color, hobby, fandom, animal, vibe, etc

for example, i would send something like this : "maricore + green, artsy, witchy, & cozy" and make a set like this !

❦ . . thank you thank you!! <333

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vintage heart-shaped lockets

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literally my new obsession

The Sacredness of Tears ♔ Chapter 2

Aegon III Targaryen x Jaehaera Targaryen

Tags: mention of grief/mourning, depression, eventual happy ending

Wordcount: 9,900

Upon the death of her grandmother, Jaehaera found herself contemplating her life and the burden of her past. As the pressure to birth an heir became heavier she reached out to Aegon in her grief, hoping the two of them could, if not heal, then survive together.

Masterlist

Chapter 2 ♔ Deep Contrition

The Red Keep's gardens were drenched in icy rain, a heavy pour that resonated in the enclosed courtyard under Aegon's window. Sitting on the windowsill, a large robe wrapped around his slender frame, he followed the drops running down the carved glass hoping his thoughts would go with them. Instead they remained in his head, plaguing him.

He had spent the remainder of the night replaying the conversation he'd had with Jaehaera in his head. No one had come to disturb him, not even Gaemon, and now that morning was there, it was Viserys who had come. He always knew when to intervene, almost as if he knew Aegon's mind more than himself, and could predict the needs of his older brother.

They used to be inseparable as children, little Viserys running after his elder in adoration, the two of them causing mischief wherever they went. Aegon doted on his younger sibling, taking him under his wing and making sure he never knew a dull moment.

Now it was the other way around, his younger brother serving him, in more ways than one. He served as Hand, as confident and as trusted advisor in matters that went beyond that of politics or ruling.

He cared for his king like a man cared for his sick kin, with endless patience despite his own exhaustion, and Aegon could hardly forgive himself that Viserys had to take on this role. 

"Something's changed," Viserys had announced as he came into the room, but Aegon hadn't replied. Indeed something had changed.

For the first time in their miserable marriage, Jaehaera had taken a stand for herself, and stood up to Aegon and his foul moods. She had asked for the one thing he had always silently refused her, companionship and support, and he found he could not refuse without breaking the vows he had taken on their wedding day.

He had been a child, and so had she, but he had understood what was at stake, and what the ancient words meant. He had sworn before the Gods and his subjects that he would care for Jaehaera, protect her and to the best of his abilities, answer to her needs. The girl had never asked for anything, quite the contrary, as she was often seen fleeing his company before he could even say a word to her, and in time he knew to avoid her as not to cause her distress.

It was easier to pretend she was happier away from him, and now the consequences of his own cowardice were staring him down.

"The queen seems in better spirits lately, and last night at the banquet, she asserted herself in a way I would have never anticipated," Viserys said as he handed Aegon his first cup of tea of the day—something strong and fragrant that he hoped would snap his brother out of his stupor. "She followed you out of the ball room. In other circumstances, one would have thought she was joining you for the night."

Aegon hid his slight smile in his steaming cup—Viserys was a fine diplomat, but often preferred direct talk or action. "She did offer to join me."

"You refused her," Viserys concluded with a careful sip of tea, disappointment clear in his voice. Aegon swallowed his own self-loathing along with the scalding beverage.

"She told me that she is alone, now that her grandmother has passed," Aegon recounted, lowering his cup into the saucer and looking down at the dark liquid. He watched his reflection upon the surface before picking it back up and swirling it, searching for the right words. "She said I'm all she has now. I pity her."

"I'm afraid Alicent Hightower had a hold over her," Viserys remarked, then quickly corrected himself. He came to sit closer to his brother, pulling up an armchair next to the window seat. "Not intentionally, I believe, but she was a reminder of her terrible past."

Viserys waited for an answer, observing Aegon with a careful gaze, his clever eyes in search of a reaction, an emotion, anything that would allow him a glimpse into his brother's dark mind. "As I am," Aegon finally said. "I'm not sure seeking my company is the right course of action."

Viserys put his cup aside and sat forward in his chair, his long hair falling over his shoulders. He was slender as well, with sharper features than Aegon—a prominent nose and a steep brow line, it was said that he looked similar to their ancestor King Jaehaerys, according to the rare drawings and paintings that had been made of the old king.

He was handsome in the way that he exalted calm and intelligence, with silver-gold hair that held a warmth that Aegon's silver-white hair lacked. Aegon had often been told he had a handsome face, smoother and much more agreeably proportioned than his younger brother, but he didn't care for his own appearance, and hated being called anything akin to beautiful. 

So lost in his thoughts that he was, the young king had not noticed his brother's intent gaze and startled when his hand came upon his knee. "You are her husband, and she is correct, you are all she has now. It is only natural she would seek comfort in you."

Aegon swallowed, a strange feeling swirling in his stomach, an uncomfortable warmth that made him slightly nauseous. "You've made a prison out of your guilt, Aegon," Viserys confronted, bluntly as he had done countless times before. "It's time you freed yourself from it."

In the years since he had come back to Westeros, he had tried many times to pull Aegon from the shadows, unsuccessfully. Now he could only hope the young queen would succeed where he had failed—if she had been able to find her way out of the dark woods she had lost herself in for many years, perhaps she could show her husband the way.

Wasn't that the role of women, of wives, according to scripture? To guide men out of their ways and onto the path of wisdom?

"What do you know of guilt?" Aegon accused, as he had just as many times, and Viserys felt it as sharply as a blow to the face.

"I may not know as much as you, but I do know some of it," the younger Targaryen protested, his grip on his elder's knee tightening to the point of pain for them both. "I may have been a child too young to understand the complexities of war, and I may not have seen what you have, but I still watched my family being torn apart and found myself on distant, foreign shores. I was alone for years before I found my way to you again." 

Viserys still vividly remembered the breathless, ecstatic feeling that had taken hold of him as he'd gotten off the ship and set foot on Westeros again, being welcomed by the shaking hold of his last relative.

"You were not alone, you had Larra," Aegon replied bitterly, remembering the first time he set eyes on the young woman, her swollen belly making her clumsy as she curtsied to her brother-in-law.

He had been so surprised at seeing such a young girl so heavily pregnant he had been rude to her, and since then their relationship was strained despite her efforts. He knew deep down the fault was his, and that part of his bitter feelings were envy and jealousy. The marriage between Viserys and Larra seemed to flow easy as a spring stream, and he secretly resented the ease they had with one another, the love that came naturally to them.

"You were not alone either," Viserys reminded him gently, but Aegon pushed it away.

"It's not the same," he protested, and the young Hand knew from his tone and the emotions etched on his handsome features that the conversation was over.

He pushed himself up and picked his cup back gracefully, observing his brother as they sipped their tea in silence. Finally, when the bitterness and frustration seemed to have faded slightly, he attempted one last time to reach out to Aegon.

"You are correct, it is not the same," he conceited, and Aegon looked up at him, his dark eyes even more stormy in the gray light of the rainy morning. "Jaehaera is a Targaryen, our direct cousin, and lived through the same tragedies as we did. You have more in common with her than you allow."

With those words in mind, Aegon instructed Gaemon to organize a dinner between him and Jaehaera. He was ashamed that such an occasion was unheard of, to the point that he had to delegate it. He found himself floundering slightly—what were the rules and customs of dining with a lady, what was she expecting of him in terms of entertainment, what topics of conversations would she enjoy. 

"It's supper with your wife, not an official banquet," Gaemon reminded him as he fussed over what main course shall be served.

"Should we have music?" he proposed, and his friend looked at him in concern.

"Are you this afraid of being alone with her?" he asked, and the question rooted Aegon to the spot for the remainder of the day.

They both knew what the answer was, and it felt slightly ridiculous that he was afraid of being left alone with a woman that had been his wife for the past ten years, but in a way they were starting over. In truth he was terrified at the prospect of having to court her, of her expecting chivalry or romantic gestures from him, as he knew he wouldn't be able to.

Gaemon allowed him a few days after the festivities of little Aegon's second name day, thinking it would also do Jaehaera some good to rest.

However, he found himself certain that a fortnight or more couldn't have prepared him for the slight feeling of panic that took hold of him as Jaehaera stepped into his quarters at supper time on the decided evening, dressed appropriately for dinner and poised as ever. Aegon remembered the way she had reacted to Gaemon complimenting her appearance on the night of the banquet and all his words died on his tongue.

As they sat across from each other, candles and flowers decorating the table, Aegon was grateful he had suggested dinner and not a stroll through the Red Keep's gardens—at least, he had a distraction and something to do with his mouth other than making conversation.

Aegon found himself strangely troubled at the sight of her—she was slender and graceful, thin features that flushed every time his gaze lingered on her face. He didn't dare look at her longer than was necessary not to seem rude, and he hated how inept and unpracticed he was.

A shy smile graced her face when she noticed what was being served for supper and as she commented on it, Aegon secretly cheered Gaemon for finding out what would please her. As they both tucked in to roast duck and parsnips, Aegon grew progressively more anxious.

The more time passed between words, the harder it was to pick up the conversation, and he regretted not organizing a private family dinner beforehand. Surely his brother and his wife would have provided a fluid conversation he could have followed and participated in.

"They told me you visit the sick," Jaehaera suddenly said in a casual tone, but when he looked up he was surprised to see genuine curiosity in her graceful features.

"Pardon me?" Aegon cleared his throat, his fork halfway to his mouth.

"Those who are afflicted by the Winter Fever. The one that took my grandmother," she clarified quietly, pushing her place slightly away from her. Aegon smiled, reminded of how Viserys and he got in trouble for acting in such a way at the dinner table as children, and her lack of appropriate manners was surprisingly refreshing. "They say you go to them and hold their hands as they take their dying breaths."

"I hope to bring comfort to them," he simply said, uncomfortable at how intently she was looking at him.

"Some people say you have healing hands," Jaehaera recounted with a touch of wonder in her voice, and perhaps, sadness.

He loathed being the center of attention and wished nothing more than to fade into the background in this moment, but she wouldn't allow him to. They were alone, with nothing else to say, and Aegon felt flayed open under her gentle gaze.

"Would you have wanted me to visit your grandmother?" he asked before he could think his intentions through, and his heart pounded as he feared his question had been too indelicate for her.

To his mild surprise, she merely shook her head. "I doubt she would have allowed it," she said, her eyes far away as though she was lost in a memory.

Aegon wondered what it would have been like to have an older member of his family by his side this last decade, even one imprisoned. He would have wanted guidance and reassurance from them, but he was painfully aware that it had not been the case for Jaehaera.

It had been reported to him that as a younger girl, she had been frightened of her grandmother, as the dowager queen had become less of a woman and more of a shadow, a bony crone that only spewed tales of grief and hatred.

"My grandmother once instructed me to cut your throat while you slept," Jaehaera suddenly said, pulling him out of his thoughts, and he realized how they'd been lost in the same memories and miserable musings. Viserys was correct, they had more in common than he wished to admit. 

"She hated me, loathed my very existence," Aegon said after a sip of wine, hoping to wash the bitter taste from his mouth. He tasted his next words on his tongue and took a leap of faith, once again praying that he would not give offense. "For what it is worth, I am sorry for the part my family played in your losses."

"So am I," she replied quietly, and they both kept their eyes on their plates, unwilling to hold the other one's gaze.

After a minute of quiet contemplation, she spoke again, and Aegon suddenly realized she had done some preparation ahead of their dinner, asking about him and the company he kept. He flushed under the realization, the warm swirl resurfacing in his stomach.

"I heard Ser Tyland, the Master of Coin, is ill as well," she simply said, and Aegon was grateful the topic was taking the focus away from him.

"He is. I am praying he pulls through," Aegon replied.

"You are fond of him," Jaehaera remarked, as she knew despite their lack of interactions that Aegon wasn't one for empty words. The young man nodded and she felt sad, hoping the man would indeed find his health again, so that Aegon wouldn't lose a man he trusted on his Council.

"He was gracious enough to step down when my brother came of age," Aegon recounted, and Jaehaera remembered how the Keep had been alight with surprise and outrage in equal measure at the decision. "I chose to appoint Viserys as Hand even though Tyland had held the position all throughout my regency, and he thought it was a sound idea."

"He is loyal to you," Jaehaera said, glad her husband had loyal, competent men at his side. She regretted how little she knew of politics, of the ways of ruling a kingdom and what went on in the Red Keep's Council.

"He is loyal to whoever sits on the Iron Throne," Aegon huffed, slightly more bitter than she expected. For a moment she thought she had spoken out of turn, but as she observed him she came to realize that it was simply his way of speaking.

"You do not sit the throne much," she remarked, prompting him and hoping he would open his mind a bit more than he had so far. She knew so little of him, and what she knew came from others or of rare, silent observations on her part, but she would rather learn him from his own words.

"My mother taught me, it is the most dangerous seat in the realm," he said after a while, and even though she had to swallow the lump in her throat, she was grateful he mentioned a childhood memory of his.

"She was right on that account," she said feebly. "I cannot say I have been in the throne room since my infancy."

Silence enveloped them once again, and even though the ghosts of the past were very much present, Jaehaera found herself content in Aegon's company. They would need to learn each other's ways, and they would have to reconcile the horrors of their family, but it didn't seem to her that they were so different after all.

"Some days I wish I could burn it to the ground," Aegon murmured. The flame of a candle reflected in his dark eyes and Jaehaera shivered.

"I share the sentiment."

The night was dark outside, but the room was bright thanks to the numerous candles lit around the bed and at the windows, along with the fire that the maid kept going all through the darkness. The queen was never to be left alone at night, such was the request she had made, and it was obeyed by her ladies and servants, to the letter.

There was always one person at her side, either sleeping at the bottom of her bed where a narrow bed had been put years prior, or knitting in front of the fire. Some ladies did not mind sleeping while the queen was deep in slumbers, others preferred to be awake and alert.

Jaehaera was tended to as if she was a child, in many ways, even though she was a woman a few months past the age of eight and ten.

While her ladies defended her whenever their husbands protested such accommodations, the lords that sat on the king's Council were often critical of them. Worried that keeping her cocooned and shielded as she was, she would remain ignorant of married life, and would never mature in the way that was required of a queen.

Although these days, hope had sparked when the royal couple spent more time together. They had dined together, with and without the Hand, a reasonable number of times, and the queen was seen visiting her husband in his chambers during the day, once or twice.

No night visits however, to the Council's dismay, but most hoped this sudden change was the premise of a reconciliation that would bear fruit. It didn't matter to them if love bloomed between the young sovereigns or not, only if a child came of their union, and the matter was discussed quite often and in unashamed details.

Jaehaera was content with the current state of things, even though she had yet to find a way through Aegon's thick walls—the man seemed to be imprisoned in a jail of his own making, appearing cold and uncaring when in truth, he was plagued with raw emotions that she didn't think men were capable of feeling.

Growing up, she saw the men around her as intimidating figures, still to this day remembering the looming presence of her grandfather Otto Hightower, always in control while emotions were the realm of women. It was both appealing and frightening to her that Aegon seemed as haunted as she was, his emotions simmering below the surface—she could see them swimming in his dark eyes. 

She often went to sleep thinking about it, hoping the night would bring wisdom and her dreams would fabricate a solution, but on this night, they produced something else. It wasn't uncommon for her to have nightmares or night terrors, and she knew them for the illness they were, but as she had fallen into slumber with Aegon on her mind, the young man had followed her to the land of dreams only to be slayed by the monster waiting there.

"My queen?" a feminine voice pulled Jaehaera out of her despair, and she violently startled, rushing out of bed as her stomach rose to her throat.

She fell to her knees on the rug, heaving into a bucket that was often left at her bedside in case the terrors of night proved too much for her. Cradling her braid to her chest, she coughed and heaved as the dream faded from her mind, leaving behind a pounding in her chest and the terrible fear of having seen Aegon battered and bloodied.

"Alana?" she called desperately for her lady-in-waiting.

"No, my queen," came the heavily accented voice, and soon her tear-filled gaze cleared enough for her to recognize her new maidservant, a Dornish girl. "It is Ellara." 

"I need to—" Jaehaera tried, but a sob wracked her frame once more, and the girl had to hold her shoulders as she heaved into the bucket again. When she could speak again, there was only one thing on her mind. "I need to see the king."

"The king? At this hour?" Ellara asked, confused. "My queen, it is the middle of the night, the king sleeps."

"I need to see the king," she wailed, and her cries broke the young servant's heart.

Calling for another girl to take her place, the Dornish girl ran out of the room, uncaring that her feet were bare on the cold stones. Dressed in a nightgown and wrapped in a quilted shawl, she hurried to the other side of the royal wing, grateful when the Kingsguard recognized her as a servant to the queen and allowed her into the alcove that led to the king's chambers.

She knocked on the door once, then a second time more firmly when no answer came, and she was about to turn to the guard for assistance when a male voice beckoned her inside. She was surprised to find the king awake and out of bed as she pushed into the room, as well as another white-haired young man that she recognized as the king's companion. 

"What's the meaning of this?" Gaemon chastised, who had visibly been asleep on one of the settees in front of the fire, and protested to being awakened so sharply.

"The queen woke up in a fit. She is begging to see the king," the girl explained, turning to the king. He was sitting on the ground in front of the hearth, a simple cushion under him and a book open on his lap. 

"Well then, fetch her," Gaemon intervened when Aegon seemed taken aback. 

Aegon knew his wife was plagued by nightmares, as he was, but he had never expected a servant frantically knocking on his door and carrying the request that she wanted to see him. They had gotten along quite well these last few weeks, even though he knew he lacked the warmth and comfort she sought, and a breathless feeling rose in his throat as he heard how she was pleading to see him.

"No, I will go see her," he snapped out of his surprise. "Gaemon, my robe."

His friend helped him into the dark purple robe he often wore, which was thick and warm, and Aegon hurried down the corridor, following the young servant as she rushed back to her mistress. He hesitated for a moment as he approached the door leading to the queen's quarters as he had never been in these rooms—even the guard seemed surprised to see him before he bowed in respect.

As Aegon crossed the threshold, he was met with an unexpected sight: the rooms were lit with numerous candles, as though the darkness was being actively chased away, and Jaehaera was pacing frantically.

"Jaehaera? You asked to see me?" he murmured, careful not to startle her.

"Are you hurt?" she cried out as soon as she saw him, still visibly shaking.

Aegon didn't need to ask what she meant, or why she was wondering whether or not he was hurt—he knew all too well the monsters that lurked in his mind, the bloody sights and painful memories, and he could only guess she shared the same.

"No, I'm quite well," he replied, and a grateful smile graced her tear-streaked face, and she made an aborted movement towards him.

They both watched as her hands hovered in the space between them, and Aegon gladly stepped into them. She sobbed as her hands curled in the fabric of his robe, pushing into his chest.

"There was blood all over you," she whined, and tears came to Aegon's eyes. He shook his head, his words caught in his chest where her hands were frantically gripping his clothes, and in an afterthought he pushed the lapels open, revealing a white linen shirt where the faintest trace of blood would be apparent.

"I'm not hurt, there is no blood," he murmured, avoiding the terrible words he had heard many times, how it was only been a nightmare, how it wasn't real—the blood was real to them, so were the horrors that kept him awake at night and pulled her out of slumber.

The nightmares were real to them, as they had lived them, and kept reliving them as some sort of eternal punishment, an illness that wouldn't heal.

Jaehaera nodded gratefully, dropping her forehead into his chest, and he welcomed her into his arms hesitantly. He was still and stiff under her touch, his own hands hovering awkwardly over her arms, but eventually he leaned into her slowly, as a spooked cat eventually leaned into the hand that rescued it, once it learned there was no danger.

"You're shaking," he whispered. 

Jaehaera followed Aegon silently as he guided them to the fire, keeping a hand on her as he pulled the pillows from the settees onto the rug and took the robe from his own back as a blanket. He guided her to the floor, going to his knees and pulling her along. She went willingly, without a word, and the silent display of trust broke the dam and Aegon could not contain his tears.

He cried silently as she sat between his splayed knees, burying her face in his chest once more, and he rested his chin atop her head. She didn't comment on his tears and he was grateful for it—for once he didn't feel weak, or pitiful, but at peace.

Burrowed into his chest, cradled against his body, Jaehaera found her bones growing lighter despite the shadows that still lurked in the frayed corners of her mind. As the night brought her back into slumber, her quiet breaths fanning over the side of Aegon's neck, he laid them down onto the floor and followed her into a dreamless sleep.

The tentative peace that had bloomed between Aegon and Jaehaera continued to flourish slowly, trust weaving itself in every act and word—it went against every instinct in Aegon's mind and the darkness that lurked like a ill-intentioned councilor advising him to stay away from his wife, lest he tainted her.

Everyone around him was gone, save for his younger brother, and he had been nicknamed the unlucky many years ago, thus persuading him that all those that came close to him eventually met a tragic fate. He had held onto this belief for a long time since childhood, and now that he was a grown man, he still found it excruciating to go against this primal fear.

The Gods had deemed him unlucky, and he still hadn't recovered his trust in them.

In between dinners, the occasional stroll when the weather was pleasant enough and the nights of silent companionship whenever insomnia plagued her and Aegon both, Jaehaera took the time to read and learn about the duties that befell her as queen.

She had occasionally wondered who had taken on her responsibilities since she was not there to fulfill them, and she had been loath to discover that men of the Small Council often decided in her name when in fact, she had never heard of the issue.

Robbed of the little influence she had, the only way she found to recover some of her dignity and power was to visit her dragon more often. Morghul dwelled on the outskirts of the city with the remaining Dragonkeepers, as Aegon had forbidden dragons within the walls and the destruction of the Dragonpit during the war gave him the opportunity for such a ban.

Many dragons had died during the fight for the throne, and now only five remained, Morghul barely escaping the storming of the Pit.

The dragon had remained small, barely large enough for Jaehaera to ride, and with a partially wounded wing that had prevented her from ever attempting to ride him, as she was afraid of hurting the poor creature even more.

"It is unfair that he should be bound to me," Jaehaera lamented one morning as she watched Morghul being fed. "He should be out there, exploring the skies... Not tethered to the ground."

"He will not go far from where you are, my queen," the Dragonkeeper explained in High Valyrian, as tradition bid keepers to do, and that only served to sadden the young woman more.

She had rarely spoken more than a few words of High Valyrian since she was a child, and now the language was partially lost to her. As she watched her winged creature take flight without her, she wondered whether the language could be taught to her again, if she could reclaim her Targaryen heritage before all of it faded into oblivion.

With those thoughts in mind, she came back to the Keep for lunch, hoping she could find support in Aegon in her endeavors to learn what she should have been taught if war hadn't taken it from her. However, as she entered the king's chambers and was greeted warmly by Gaemon, who was joining them for their meal, she instantly noticed a drastic change in Aegon's posture.

Jaehaera's heart kicked like a wild horse in her chest as Aegon's eyes grew darker, with a venom in them she had never seen directed at her. Tears rose to her eyes before she could even comprehend the matter, her hands shaking as they clutched the front of her dress.

"You smell of ash," Aegon accused, his hand tightening on the copper goblet he was holding. "Dragon ash."

"I went to visit—" Jaehaera started, but a mad gesture interrupted her and she startled as the goblet bounced against the opposite wall and clattered on the floor.

She had barely had the time to register what had just happened, that Aegon was grabbing the platter where the goblet had been and throwing it aside as well, causing more echoing noises and distress.

Beside her, Gaemon was looking back and forth between the royal couple, unsure what course of action to take.

"To Hells with these wretched, cursed creatures! You will not got back there ever again, do you understand?!" Aegon roared, his eyes overtaken by black as his pale complexion turned red with fury. 

Behind his furious exterior, utter panic was raging inside Aegon. His distaste of dragons was legendary, and he could not bear to be close to the winged creatures, as all he could not see instead of the Targaryen legacy was the horrific sight of his mother being devoured alive as his uncle laughed maniacally.

As soon as Jaehaera had stepped into the room, the scent of dragon had taken over his senses and triggered his unsurmountable fear—all he could see in his mind's eye was Jaehaera's body, broken and bloodied under the great teeth and claws of a monstrous winged beast. 

Gaemon took a step forward. "Perhaps you should go, my queen."

Silence fell around them and for a long moment nothing could be heard in the room but Aegon's desperate, ragged breaths, and Jaehaera's quiet crying.

"I won't go unless my king sends me away," she suddenly said, her voice trembling but her tone determined, and Gaemon almost startled.

Looking at his wife with pleading eyes, Aegon let himself fall to his knees, a keening cry passing his lips. Jaehaera came to him in unsteady steps and sat on the floor a foot away from him.

They both watched as the spilled red wine stained the trim of her dress, the bright red liquid dampening the fabric and running up the hem as it drank it. Curling a hand around her delicate ankle, Aegon wept for a while.

"There is no escape," he whimpered as he exhausted all his tears, his eyes rendered raw and his lips chapped. Beside him, Jaehaera was holding herself still, clutching to her patience as one would a shield. "There is no escaping any of it."

"Any of what, Aegon?" she prompted softly, her own tears still flowing, silent in the face of Aegon's acute pain.

"There is no escaping the cruel truth," her husband hissed, finally looking up from under the curtain of his hair.

Jaehaera heaved in turn as she understood what truth Aegon was referring to—she had known this conversation was coming, the sole reason for their marriage, for this alliance that the realm desperately needed and the peace that was sealed with their union.

They were a logical match, no matter the circumstances of their marriage, but Jaehaera knew the truth of Targaryen tradition and that would have likely been married to her twin. Aegon would never replace Jaehaerys, in any aspect, and his ghost would always hover over Jaehaera's shoulder.

The truth was indeed cruel, and it was theirs to bear. "Your father killed my mother," Aegon blurted out without warning. "And made me watch it."

Jaehaera sobbed breathlessly, years of guilt and sorrow pouring out of her. "Your father had my brother killed. They made me watch."

"How do we go on from that?" Aegon shook his head, his grip tightening on her ankle, and she didn't know whether she wanted to lean into his touch or flee the room, to clutch at him in despair or spit her anger in his face.

"I lost everything to a conflict that started years before I was even conceived, and now I am expected to rule over the realm that was almost destroyed in the process when I can barely stand my own existence," Aegon continued, sounding like he was about to be sick.

"And I am expected to bear children for this realm, to rebuild a family that murdered itself," Jaehaera hissed, pushing herself up on her knees so that she had the advantage over Aegon. The smell of dragon ash was cloying and Aegon heaved.

"I did not ask for the crown! I do not want it! I did not want to wed you!" he screamed, his voice breaking into a shrill and his throat turning raw.

His words echoed painfully in the silence that followed, and Jaehaera found herself just as stunned as she had been on the day of her grandmother's funeral. She was at a tipping point, she realized, on an edge where the scale was uneven and soon would be collapsing.

She reached for Aegon in desperation, clutching at him so hard he stumbled where he was still kneeling and she cried out, suddenly aware that their fate rested in her hands. She could let Aegon go, accept that they would never find peace and let the fall separate them, or she could bring him down with her to the other side and pray that they would survive it. 

"We were both children. Innocent of any crime, of any wrongdoing," she murmured as she pressed her forehead to his to the point of pain, and Aegon welcomed her. They breathed furiously in each other's face, strands of hair trapped between them as the air grew wet.

"I do not know that we ever were innocent. We were robbed of our innocence in the years that should have been the most tender," Aegon replied, and Jaehaera could only nod in agreement, grinding their foreheads together as he reached up to her, his hands curling around her arms.

Soon the smell of ash faded, and so did the nausea and fury that had taken hold of Aegon. As usual, he was left with a cold heart and a painfully empty feeling—his chest felt hollow like a hearth where the fire had been allowed to burn until there was nothing left.

"I think it's the most honest, most constructive conversation I've ever had with anyone in my entire life," Aegon admitted, shivering as Jaehaera's nose slid along his and her breath fanned over his lips as she spoke.

"Guilt will eat you alive, if you let it," she warned, and whether it was her words or her proximity, Aegon felt the sudden need for air and pulled away slightly. She let him go easily, letting her arms fall at her side—she looked as disheveled as he felt, her eyes rimmed with red and her cheeks flushed pink, her dress tainted with red.

"I've already been wasting away for too many years, Jaehaera. I cannot give you what you want," he replied with utter sorrow. "The unlucky. The broken king. You know what they call me."

"I don't want anything that you cannot give. There is no one on this Gods-forsaken earth that can understand my pain, except you. We both lived through the hardest, cruelest trials, had to endure the cruelest torture..." Jaehaera replied with a teary smile. "If all I have for the rest of my existence is your company, then I will be content. Now if you do not want me, I will go, but please do not cast me away in the hope of saving me. There is no saving me," she confessed, and the breathless feeling in his chest returned, along with the swirls of heat in his stomach—he was usually so numb, it felt like a knife to the abdomen.

"Please allow me one good act in my miserable existence," Aegon replied in a sigh, a self-deprecating smile piercing through his sadness. "Please allow me if only the illusion of saving you."

Aegon did not know where this sudden urge came from, as he had never considered himself a savior, and with it came another urge he was utterly unfamiliar with. Licking his lips, he leaned into her again, pulling her trembling frame by the gentle grip he still had on her arms—the air was still wet and thick, he could not find his breath and as she sighed he surged up, swallowing her breath before she could speak.

He shuddered as she pressed her lips back against his and he shifted until he found the way his mouth naturally slotted with hers, and the knot in his stomach unwound. He found himself even more breathless and he wondered how it was possible to find air while seeking such warmth from another as each press of her mouth stole the very breath from his core until his lungs burned.

“Jaehaera,” he murmured, then swallowed her answering sigh as he pressed his mouth to hers once again.

This time it was her who surged against him, her hands coming up to steady herself on his chest as his fingers curled along the curves of her slim face, his thumbs finding the soft dips behind her ears. He made a sound of longing somewhere between a hum and a groan as he parted his lips on instinct and she opened up beneath him.

He whined as their tongues slid tentatively against one another, and he flushed in embarrassment as he exhaled into her mouth—and yet, she only pressed herself closer, seeking his touch, her tongue prodding his more firmly.

He held on to his composure despite his sudden want, afraid that if lost himself in her, the dam would break and they would both drown. He knew how shy she was, how easily frightened, and he would rather strike himself than hurt her with his eagerness. 

"There might be no escape from our memories, but we can perhaps find refuge in one another," she offered softly as she pulled away, her lips lingering on his warm cheek. Eyes closed, Aegon nodded his hesitant agreement.

The tentative truce between Aegon and Jaehaera indeed served as a refuge for Aegon as the days that followed came with a new tragedy—the death of Lord Tyland Lannister had to be expected, as the man didn't seem to shake the fever that had taken him, yet his passing still came as a shock.

As part of his council of Regents, the man had watched the young king grow up, had advised him and taught him all he could about matters of the realm and how to govern, how to deal with the consequences of a terrible war.

Aegon allowed the more capable man to take his place, Unwin Peake, Lord of Starpike, who had already served him during the Regency. The man was brutal in his convictions and opinions, but he would make a commendable Master of Coin, and would look out for the interests of the realm, Aegon was certain of that. He knew he needed men of assurance and confidence on his council, to speak in his name and carry out the necessary actions to allow the realm to thrive.

On the first morning of his posting as Master of Coin, Unwin Peake arrived with a fully drafted plan of measures and postings to counterbalance the recent losses—the fever had taken quite a few men at court and weakened others, and all needed replacing as soon as possible.

Aegon stayed in the discrete hallway that ran along the Council Chambers, as his presence was extremely rare and therefore never expected, listening to his councilors make their decisions and prepare the report that would be delivered to their king later in the day. They planned for letters to be sent, talked of taxes to be implemented, and soon moved their attention inward, to affairs of the Red Keep.

They called for an additional Maester to be appointed to the Keep, as it was needed, then the matter of the City Watch and the Kingsguard came to attention. Aegon stepped closer and leaned into the wall, listening to his men's proposals until the name uttered by Unwin Peake made his blood run cold.

"I propose Ser Martson Waters as Commander of the Kingsguard," the Lord of Starpike announced more than he truly proposed, utterly sure his idea was the best out of all the options available.

"No," came a sudden, unexpected voice, and they all startled, turning to the arched doorway where King Aegon was standing.

They all stood up in a cacophony of polite greetings and wood scraping on stone. Viserys bore a look of joy at seeing his brother dressed for the day and in attendance of the Council—the young man was not wearing the crown, but didn't need to in order to look regal.

His shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a careful knot at the back of his head, and he wore a black and maroon doublet that complimented his dark eyes. For once, he looked like a man of royal birth and not a scared, sickly boy.

"I made myself perfectly clear once, and I will not do so again," Aegon raised his voice, his eyes set on Lord Unwin, but the man did not look down. "Ser Martson does not have my trust and I will not have him as Commander or anywhere near me."

"Very well, your grace," the man consented with unconcealed reluctance, and all stayed quiet as Aegon stepped further into the room—he had not expected himself to intervene, but upon hearing that cursed name, his instincts had taken over. 

"Might I remind you how this man was present while my uncle murdered my mother, and failed to protect her," he spat out, an acrid venom in his voice that showed in the lines of his face. He looked a decade older than he really was, in these moments, and the sight of it greatly pained Viserys.

"He was serving the man he believed to be king," came the unnecessary reminder.

As Aegon came to stand at the end of the table, Viserys stepped aside and resumed his place at his brother's right side, keeping quiet and observant. He had never seen Aegon stand up to one of the lords in his service before and he was curious to see where the conversation would end.

It seemed that some men had forgotten who was truly king, who held the power to destitute them or even cast them into exile with a mere word, who was the true heir of the dragon and current bearer of the crown. 

They all thought Aegon to be unfit, even though they would never admit it to Viserys' face, and he was eager for his brother to prove them wrong. He knew that deep down, his elder was a good man, with more wisdom in him than most people gave him credit for. 

"Nonetheless, he was a Kingsguard, sworn to protect all members of the royal family. It was his duty to advise my uncle not to murder his kin, and he failed to do so."

"He was pardoned, your grace," came the quiet and respectful reminder from Thaddeus Rowan—the man was perhaps the most apt at dealing with Aegon of all the men around the table, as he had the greatest advantage. It was Lord Rowan who had orchestrated Viserys' return along with Lord Alyn Velaryon, and Aegon allowed him a bit more leeway than he would have otherwise.

"I am not sure it was wise," Aegon replied, visibly ready to move on to another matter, but it seemed Unwin Peake had other plans for the day, or his own ambitions.

"While we are on the topic of wisdom, I have an inquiry. One that I am not sure will be received well, but one I must make nonetheless, if your grace allows," he said with false politeness, and Aegon felt his anger brew under his skin. 

"Go on," he swallowed under Viserys' careful gaze—he was ready to step in, need be.

"While I command Prince Viserys for his character, are you certain it is wise for such a young man to be appointed as your Hand?" he asked, his pointed nose and chin where a slight beard hung turning to the young Hand. While the inquiry was worded politely and was of sound reasoning, it couldn't have been less appropriate, especially in such circumstances. 

"There is no man I trust more than my brother," Aegon replied in a cold tone, the very one that chilled Viserys to the bone when it was directed at him. It was a tone that spoke of contempt, of disgust, and nothing stung more than to be resented by someone who had suffered as much as the young king had.

"Lord Tyland spoke highly of him and I do not doubt he is trustworthy, your grace," the man continued, none the wiser, "but he is barely ten and nine. Surely wisdom cannot come from such a young person."

Before Aegon could snap and unleash his phenomenal fury on the council, as there would surely be collateral damage, Viserys spoke up for himself, coming to his brother's defense and demonstrating his quality as Hand.

"I have seen things with my own eyes than you can only imagine, Lord Unwin, and so has the king. If experience is truly your concern, rather than the mere number of years we have spent on this earth, then rest assured that we are equipped for our roles."

Aegon swallowed his proud smirk and kept a serious, closed-off face. "We simply require guidance and advice, which you are here to provide," he finished his brother's tirade, emboldened by the head start his words gave him.

"And yet you have refused my council when it came to the Kingsguard," Unwin Pike said with an arrogance that quickly eroded what was left of Aegon's patience.

Propping himself up on the table, both palms flat against the old, polished wood, he spoke with a frightening calm. "And that is the difference between your position and mine, Lord Unwin. I am king, and my word is to be obeyed. You are a Lord of the Small Council, appointed at my pleasure, and your word is mere suggestion."

While Aegon made quite an impression upon the men of his council, and spent the rest of the day in the Hand's quarters, Jaehaera attended small duties she had taken upon herself. She might not have a great intellect nor a great character, she still wanted to try and make a difference if she could. She found that in opening herself up to the world, she felt a need to be of service, to be given a chance to prove herself as queen.

She realized with bitterness that she had never truly been given an opportunity to learn, or to demonstrate herself—most had given up hope when she had reached puberty and still, had not shown any interest in the outside world, or even her own husband.

She now understood it had been too easy for ambitious lords to forget about the unstable girl that was their queen and work to serve their own interests instead—with patience, the right guidance and influence that wasn't that of her grandmother, she was now certain she could have grown to be quite the different woman.

But giving a young woman the time of the day was not in the habits of men who had seen the decline of a dynasty and the ensuing war. She was not a mind to be cultured, or a soul to be nursed, she was a mother in the making and her womb was her only advantage.

Jaehaera had no loyalty from any of her husband's courtiers, only pity and resentment for the lack of heir.

Her fear regarding the childless state of her marriage was confirmed when she received a note in the late afternoon from a young servant she did not know, and upon opening the folded parchment, recognized Larra's handwriting—beware of Myrielle Peake, the slanted words warned, and she immediately cast it into the fire.

She let herself in Aegon's chambers for the rest of the afternoon, thinking to herself that he wouldn't mind her presence, and even if he did, she had reason to seek him out. From the balcony she listened to the bustling atmosphere of the Keep, catching on pieces of conversations and waited impatiently for Aegon's return.

He did look weary when he came through the doors, but a tired smile graced his face when he laid eyes upon her.

"I allowed myself in," she said sheepishly, and her husband shrugged. They both stayed quiet as he stepped between a painted screen and discarded his clothes—when he came out, he was dressed in his usual attire, trousers and linens, and a long violet robe that grazed his shins.

"You are welcome here any time of the day. These rooms are a refuge to me, I would be glad for them to be a refuge to you as well," he said once he had changed.

Jaehaera was curled up on a settee, her bare feet resting upon the edge, and for a moment he was strangely captivated by her pale skin and slim ankles. Like him, she was dressed for comfort rather than good impression, and he didn't feel the need to impress her with his attire, which was a relief.

"I was surprised to not find you here," she said softly, resting her chin atop her knees. On the small table in front of her, a tray of tea and cakes had been brought, but he wasn't one for sweets. "Gaemon told me you were visiting the sick."

"This is how I make amends, I suppose," he replied, and she did not need to ask why he was motivated by such an emotion.

"Your contrition is a sad thing, Aegon. There is no need for it," she said with her usual softness, and Aegon wanted to kiss her for it.

"There is a new lord on my Council," Aegon said as he sat on an armchair across from her. He crossed his legs and arms, eager to bury the sudden urge to seek affection from her. "Unwin Peake, the new Master of Coin."

Jaehaera felt herself rooted to the spot as the name registered, and she swallowed her next breath before speaking. "He has a daughter of an appropriate age for marriage."

She had meant her comment to be a simple remark that she could make as she had heard quite a lot about the young lady, freshly arrived to court from the Reach. Her beauty had amazed many lords, and she was hoping to match a good match. Although alliances and matches at court were a matter dealt with by the king, Aegon instantly knew her comment wasn't innocent, and his recent conversations with Viserys came back to the forefront of his mind.

"Jaehaera," he called, not unkindly, but not as softly as he would have liked.

"This man serves his own ambitions, I've heard," Jaehaera continued, as though she took his tone for an accusation and felt the need to defend herself.

"I would not replace you. I took a holy vow and I intend to keep it," the young king reassured, but as his wife refused to look up at him and her cheeks seemed to flush under his scrutiny, he kept on. "Besides, I would not let him of all people sway me."

Jaehaera smiled at that, a secret pull of lips she hid in her knees. "I heard you put him back in his place," she said, slightly muffled.

"Did you, now?"

"Word is going around the castle, and while I'm not usually one for gossip, it was pleasant to hear you stood your ground as king," she tilted her head slightly toward him, warmth in her purple eyes.

"Are you proud?" Aegon asked, and Jaehaera turned to him, startled. She would have never guessed her opinion would matter to her husband in such a way, and she had started to suspect Aegon's ego had been shattered many years ago. Yet she shivered when she saw the dark look in his eyes, the intense way he was looking at her.

"Yes," she replied, breathless, and suddenly all clicked into place; the way some ladies spoke of their husbands, the warmth in their breasts that extended to their wombs.

"Would you stay with me tonight?" he asked, shyness creeping up the back of his neck.

"Yes," she repeated, this time with more confidence.

They forewent dinner for a small tray of cheese, bread and honey, and as the hour grew late and their sporadic conversation more quiet, they made their way to the ground in front of the fire, where Aegon kept pillows and quilts for nights were sleep eluded him and he spent the darkness staring into the fire.

On the nights Jaehaera joined him, he always put an end to their day by a kiss to the forehead—even if they did not sleep, they stayed silent and still, side by side all through the night. But tonight, he found he wasn't motivated by innocent affection.

Instead, the heady feeling of her being proud of him made him warm under his clothes, his skin prickling with anticipation.

She was still flushed and visibly troubled, her eyes following his, and her pink lips parted on a shaky breath as she understood his intention; her fingers curled in the linen of his shirt as he pressed himself closer. She trembled as he kissed her, slotting his mouth over hers with care and precision.

They had barely shared more than hesitant kisses, never at such bold request from Aegon and Jaehaera felt utterly out of sorts, her body suddenly light, floating above their cocoon of pillows and blankets.

She still sighed as sweetly as she had the first time when his tongue danced with hers, and Aegon found he could not be sated by the sound and feel of her. He sighed in return as her front pressed to his gently, and he marveled at how well she fit against him when he curled an arm around her waist.

It wasn't until Aegon pressed against her more firmly and shifted that she realized their gowns were hiding the true nature of his intention.

Her core softened at the feel of him, instinct taking over despite her apprehensions, and a wave of heat washed over her—suddenly all she could feel was his hard chest under her hand, the line of his leg against along hers, and the heated hardness that was growing along the dip of her hip.

It felt foreign and familiar all at once, and she felt a fool for how unexpected the situation was, even though they were husband and wife. 

Against her, Aegon was one line of tension, coiled tight and trembling, and Jaehaera felt almost relieved as he didn't chase her when she pulled back. His dark eyes were blown wide, shiny with unshed tears, and his pink lower lip was wobbling slightly.

"I'm not sure—" Aegon protested weekly, and Jaehaera pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him.

"Aegon," she said softly as he cleared his throat, and the simple sound of his name on her lips calmed his nerves.

"I do not require it of you, no matter what everyone at court thinks or says," he said with more grace than Jaehaera would have anticipated, and he smiled into her hair when she buried her face into his neck and he felt her melt into him.

Over her shoulder, Aegon watched the flames casting shadows on the stones of the hearth, but in their darkness he found no monsters and no nightmares, only the simple assurance that as long as they clung to one another, they would be able to keep the horrors at bay.

Dividers by @saradika

Taglist 1 ♡‬ @darkenchantress @bellameshipper @itscatlien-blog @castellomargot @cardi-bre91 @avengingangelfanfic @malfoytargaryen @mari0302 @iamfandomnerd @diosademuerte @hb8301 @mariannnavao @pasta-rask @chattylurker @svtansdaddyx @its-sam-allgood @amarillys92 @i-mushi @namgification

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✿    ⋯⠀ ⠀›⠀⠀JANE DE LEON  ―   gif pack !

this  is  a  gif  pack  made  for  PUBLIC  USE  .   click  the  SOURCE  LINK  to  be redirected  to  100  gif  pack  of  JANE  DE  LEON  from  SHAKE,  RATTLE  &  ROLL  EXTREME   ,   an  actress  born  and  raised  in  the  philippines  .   please  read  my  rules  to  know  what  YOU  CAN  &  YOU  CAN���T  do  with  my  gifs  .   as  usual   ,   do  not  redistribute  or  claim  it  as  your  own   &   do  not  use  if  you’re  blocked  .   please  LIKE  &  REBLOG  if  using   .   if  you  are  interested  in  commissioning  me   ,   please  check  out  the  commissions  page  for  more  details  .    thank  you   !

cw:  blood   ,   violence   &   weapons   .

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Pomegranate— Sol Rios

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DRIED FLOWERS

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pressed flower pngs