Panda's Backpack

Cooked. Ate. Devoured. Work of art. Masterpiece. I mean, what more can I say or want?

Twin Flames

Gwayne Hightower x female reader

As King's Landing awaits the arrival of Gwayne Hightower and his army, you recall your first impressions of the lover you last saw years ago

2.4k words Warnings: gets a little smutty so 18+, bit of angst but eventual fluff Notes: So...this will eventually have another part, but I've already let it run away from me so here, enjoy part one! Reader is from House Tarly but isn't described physically, I've noodled around with timelines and book plot (please forgive me), and no hate to Samantha Tarly but she made a convenient plot device. (Also, if you saw me add a missing 500 words to this approx 16 hours after I originally posted it, no you didn’t.) As always, please let me know what you think and thanks for reading!

Gently, you untangle the Dowager Queen’s auburn curls with a fine silver comb, preparing to arrange her hair in a complex pattern of braids for the day. A well-rehearsed dance now, after serving her these past four years.

As you help her fasten her necklace there’s a knock at the door, and a serving girl brings Alicent a small scroll of paper. “Just arrived with an outrider, your Grace,” she explains, bobbing into a curtsey before leaving. It’s secured with dark green wax, unmistakably a Hightower seal.

Alicent snaps it open and unfurls the message with a frantic urgency, eyes darting across it while she touches her hand to the seven pointed star pendant resting on her chest.

A small smile twitches across her face, her eyes meeting yours in the looking glass in front of her. “My brother sends word that he will arrive later today,” she says with a hint of relief. It’s the news you had expected and hoped for, but your nerves stirred. So long since you had seen him last.

“Excellent news, your Grace,” you reply, and smile encouragingly despite your sudden apprehension.

She reads the rest of the message. “He says he will be ready to leave here tomorrow once he and his host have rested a night.”

“So soon?” you ask, unable to stop yourself.

“Such are the times we find ourselves in,” she replies, clearly resigned to a short reunion with her brother. “Would you deliver this message to Ser Criston? He’ll need to prepare for tomorrow."

“Of course, your Grace.” You take the scroll from her outstretched hand and curtsey. Outside in the corridor, you chance a look at the fragment of parchment. Yes, it’s written in his hand. You briefly trace the familiar script with your fingers before making your way to the Kingsguard’s quarters.

The rest of the day is spent restlessly, pacing the castle’s halls in between your duties to the Dowager Queen, while avoiding Ser Criston Cole’s soldiers as they prepare to leave for Harrenhal. The sun starts to set, the Red Keep bathed in orange and then pink light.

After a small supper with Alicent, you finally settle in a window seat, watching the men prepare in the courtyard below for their departure. All turns quiet once or twice as Vhagar’s monstrous wings beat overheard and her shadow covers the Keep, although her presence seems to bring little security or comfort now.

Agitated, your mind runs to memories of another time.

…

You remember arriving in Oldtown for your sister’s wedding, the strange Hightower and its flaming beacon, the smell of the sea and din of the harbour. Samantha Tarly’s betrothal to Ormund Hightower was a great achievement, though he was a widower and she was barely older than his children. It mattered little to her, the prestige of marrying into one of Westeros’ oldest and richest houses quite enough to sweeten the deal.  

“There’s no need to be jealous, sister,” she whispered to you in the carriage as you approached the Hightower, “one day I shall find you almost as impressive a match.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” you replied, “I would prefer to know more about my husband than his name before I marry him.” Delighted by your reply, she laughed prettily and muttered, “so particular,” fanning herself to combat the smell of salt and fish from the markets.

The wedding was solemn, but the feast afterwards was lavish, and you quietly observed your sister and her new husband while speeches were made and toasts were drunk to the couple. The role of highborn wife suited Samantha, who preened and giggled under the attention.

After the feast there was dancing, and you dutifully took to the floor with your brother, then your new good-brother and his eldest son, and after that a score of eligible lordlings that Samantha sent your way. With each you made a little small talk about your journey and the festivities, and your new position in your sister’s household, but none secured a second dance.

Taking a moment to breathe after dancing with a lord older than your father, you took a cup of wine and attempted to disappear against a wide marble pillar. You pressed your back to it, feeling the cold smoothness beneath your hand, and wondered how much longer the celebration would go on.

“My Lady,” came a voice beside you, and you stifled a sigh before you turned to find a man about your age with copper hair and distinctive dark green clothes. “We have not been introduced- Gwayne Hightower, Lord Ormund’s cousin,” he offered with a shallow bow and a tight smile on his fine- featured face.

“Delighted,” you answered, studying his high cheekbones and full mouth, “you are Lord Otto’s son? And the Queen’s brother?”

“The very same,” he affirmed, “I hear you will be staying with us in Oldtown.”

“Indeed, I think the intention is that I help Lady Samantha to establish herself here with her new husband and step-children.”

Both of you looked towards where the children were gathered, the younger ones pinching each other and squabbling while Lyonel, the oldest, yawned. Gwayne snorted.

“Is something amusing, Ser?” you questioned.

“Not at all,” he said, taking a sip of his own wine, “I only wonder how suitable you will be as a nursemaid, you hardly look accustomed to wiping noses.”

In hindsight you blamed your fatigue and the challenges of the day, but his comment made you bristle. “I am not here to be their servant, Ser, and I do not think you know me well enough to assume what I am accustomed to.”

Your skin prickled as he looked you up and down, eyes half lidded. Dark eyes- were they brown? Or deep blue?

“Quite right, my apologies. I look forward to knowing you better in the coming weeks then, my Lady,” he replied, the final words laced with sarcasm.

“And I you, Ser,” you returned sharply, before he dismissed himself with another brief smile and a nod.

A few times that night, while you were caught in dances with men you later couldn't recall the names of, you saw him watching you across the room with a haughty expression, bordering on a smirk. You tried to ignore him and the unbidden butterflies inside you, and hoped you would have little to do with him in the approaching days.

…

You were not so lucky. The first weeks in Oldtown flew, so much to learn and see and do. But each time you accompanied Samantha and Ormund on a tour of the Starry Sept, or the Maester’s Citadel, or the city’s harbour, Gwayne was your assigned escort. He offered you his arm each time with the same arrogant smile.

You spoke a little, remarking on the architecture or the books or the goods arriving from far off ports. Every time he seemed surprised, as if he had expected you to be too ill-educated or provincial to understand such things. It exasperated you.

“You know, Horn Hill is not some country backwater, Ser,” you retorted once when he had near congratulated you on having heard of the cities across the Narrow Sea.

“Of course,” he answered smugly, “I have heard there is even a library there.” You silently ground your teeth to hold your tongue.

Returning late one evening from the city, you bid goodnight to your sister and began to climb the stairs to bed, eager to be away from Gwayne’s enormous ego for a few hours before tomorrow’s fresh ordeal. Ormund had other plans.

“It is late, Gwayne, see my good-sister safely to her room,” he commanded, dismissing your protests with a wave of his hand. So, you and Gwayne made your way to your chamber in uncomfortable silence, the click of your shoes and swish of your skirts the only sounds.

At your door, you opened it with relief to find the fire and candles lit for your return. You turned to dismiss Gwayne, but he simply stared at you, half amused, from the open door. “You have done your duty, Ser, you may go,” you said, but he continued to stare, infuriating as ever.

You removed your gloves, throwing them down onto your vanity impatiently. “I have no love for intrigues, if you have something to say to me then please, speak plainly.”

“You know, ever since our first conversation, I have hardly stopped thinking about you,” he said lazily.

“What?”

“You were beautiful, so I approached you that night to hear you laugh and see you blush at my flirting, but it was not so. You are not impressed or intimidated by me, and that both irritates and interests me. I want to understand you. And I still think you are beautiful, even though I have not yet been able to make you smile. Is that plain enough for you, my Lady?”

“I…am not accustomed to such attention,” you answered. You had no cutting reply this time.

“I am accustomed to attention,” he admitted, “but it is always such empty flattery that it bores me. I have no fear of that with you. There, now we understand a little more about one another.”

Then he reached out, his hand gently touched your cheek and then cradled your jaw. His eyes, you saw clearly then, were deepest, sapphire blue. And his lips, you discovered, were as soft as they looked, fitting perfectly against yours.

“And now we know a little more, still,” he muttered, hardly breaking the kiss. Three more times, he kissed you chastely, you answering more confidently each time. Finally, his tongue swept along your bottom lip and you met it instinctively with yours.

Holding your face with both hands, he angled the kiss to deepen it further, while your arms found their place around his neck. Only the sound of footsteps in the hall broke you apart, both breathless and with reddened lips. “Goodnight then, my Lady,” he said, loud enough for the passing servant to hear, “until tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow”, you agreed, still a little stunned as he lifted your hand to his lips for a parting kiss. For the first time, you blushed and smiled for him.

…

From then, your life in Oldtown was quite different to anything you had known before.

His condescending manner softened a little after his confession and attaining a kiss, and you did not react so sharply to his taunts. He didn’t feel the need to respond in kind to your occasional barbs, and you found yourself clenching your fists less in his presence. He sought your individual company, and you found yourself often and willingly accepting his invitations.

You took your own tours of the city’s historic wonders and cosmopolitan delights, enjoying a little more freedom without your sister there to tut at things she considered improper. Honey cakes and exotic fruits from the market were enjoyed afterwards in the Hightower’s library- a place you were sure Samantha would never venture- and sugar and sweet juice were kissed from your lips.

As often as you could, you accompanied the boy children to their lessons with their sword master, feigning interest in embroidery or a book while the object of your attention was across the training yard. You committed to memory the way his shirt would cling to his back with sweat while he trained with his fellow knights, the glint of steel in contrast to the red gold of his hair. Winks and smirks sent your way on those afternoons inevitably left you flushing red and pressing your thighs together.

Once you had followed him at a distance back to the armory where he would leave his sword to be sharpened and change his clothes. He heard you behind him as you leant against the stone wall inside. “What is it you think about when you come to watch me train? I’ll wager you couldn’t tell me what’s happening in that book,” he guessed, accurately, raising an eyebrow.

Perhaps the sun or the sight of his open shirt had gone to your head, but you felt bold. Reaching out, you toyed with its cotton ties. “I think, mostly, of where I wish you would touch me,” you smile sweetly, satisfied at his intake of breath, “and where I would like to touch you, and how. And the book is a romance, if you must know.”

“I have had similar thoughts,” he whispered, leaning towards you, “we really should share our ideas with each other more often.” An inch from closing the gap, a sudden clatter at the armory door made you jump apart.

“If only I didn’t always feel we were being watched here,” you muttered wistfully.

He smiled his usual smile, one that made him look like he was enjoying a private joke. “I may have a solution for that. Tell me, do you ride horses at Horn Hill or is it donkeys?” He chuckles as you roll your eyes, and tap him on the chest with your book, “fetch your riding boots, sweet, I will meet you at the stables.”

You can almost recall the smell of the tall grasses in the wide open plains of the Reach where you and Gwayne spent afternoons racing on horseback. You think of seeking shade under a glade of trees on the bank of the Honeywine and dismounting to let your horses drink. His hands on your waist, the rough scrape of bark on your back and the taste of his tongue.

He pulled away from your lips, his nose still brushing yours before his mouth ran down your neck to the collar of your dress. “Have you any idea what sweet, slow torment it is to see you astride that beast,” he whispered, breath hot on your skin, “to watch your thighs gripping the saddle while you race away from me?”

“Then look away, my Lord,” you replied, as if his words didn’t send heat between your legs and make you tremble.

His head snapped up and he sighed roughly while you laughed at him. His teeth captured your bottom lip as punishment before he claimed your lips again with his and pressed his body into yours.

…

Too soon, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones breaks you from your reverie.

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH 🌈

This needs to be spoken of more 😭 Like seriously

This is totally unrelated to a lot of what I post about on here so feel free to ignore this. But I don’t think we talk enough about how abusers have caught onto the fact they can manipulate minors mental health issues to their benefit. I’m seeing so many children being affected, and literally being the definition of groomed because their abuser who they see as a friend is holding suicide over their head. We need to teach kids that, yes suicide awareness is important. Depression and topics of mental health is important. But there ARE people out there that will use your compassion and kindness to abuse you. They’ll dangle their life and mental health over you in order to control you. What’s worse is a lot of children nowadays are dealing with severe mental health problems, abusers have caught onto this “I’ll be there to help you no matter what damage you may cause me.” attitude. They’re preying on the fact these kids genuinely want to help someone who might be feeling as awful and hopeless as they are.

Adults shouldn’t be venting to you about hugely adult and personal life issues, they shouldn’t be using you like a therapist. If you ever feel like you’re scared to leave them alone for long periods, they get aggravated or massively moody if you don’t reply immediately, if they start treating you like just another adult in their life, or if they keep you up all night on their social media’s to talk and it’s becoming an every-night thing. Run. You’re being taken advantage of. It feels like you’re helping a friend in the moment, but if they were really your friend they would get help and not put so much pressure onto you. This is what’s so infuriating about those “internet safety” articles aimed at parents. None of them mention things like this.

The Prince - Chapter Four

A/N: Hello friends! This chapter is one of my favorites, full of angst and longing (my favorite things to write). I got to write from Rhaenyra's perspective, too, which was a new challenge. Please let me know what you think and if you'd like to be tagged! Thank you for all your support of my writing! It's been so long since I've been invested in a story and part of that is due to your encouragements. <3

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader Word Count: 3.8k Synopsis: Things come to a head, as a tense argument breaks out in the Dragonpit. Jace reaches out to his mother for help.

Tag List: @rinisfruity14, @gaiaea, @rexorangecounty

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

The next few days pass in a blur. Jace is embarrassed; you rejected him. But more than anything he is frustrated. You didn’t reject him because you don’t share the same feelings, you did so because there is not a chance for the two of you to be together. Jace can’t change the fact that he is a prince, and even if he wasn’t betrothed to Baela, you are still titleless.

The truth of what you said in the gardens settles within him. So few got to marry for love. But his intentions have still not changed. He will keep fighting for you, he will find a way to change the current situation.

He spends the next few days staying away from you, shielding his pride, and coming up with a plan.

When he arrives at his mother’s door, a few nights after the garden, he doesn’t even realize he has come there, until he is knocking on the door. He is let in right away, and he finds his mother dining alone, smiling at something Elinda says.

“Mother,” he says. He cannot remember the last time he came to his mother’s chambers like this, upset and unexpected. His mother looks up with a smile, at the sound of his voice, but it falls when she sees his face.

“Jace?” she asks, standing up, “What is it?”

“I request an audience with the queen,” he says, straightening his spine, hoping to emphasize the severity of his arrival. A hesitant smile breaks across his mother’s face, and she lets out a chuckle.

“What is this?” she asks.

“Please,” he says. Something in her face changes at his look. She gives a curt nod to the maids, and they scurry out of the room. Once they are gone, Rhaenyra leans against her dining table, looking at him with curious eyes.

“You have the floor, Jace,” she says. He takes a breath, giving himself one second before he throws his entire life into disarray.

“I want to end my betrothal with Baela,” he says.

Rhaeynra knows Jace completely. He is part of her, after all. Her first son, her rock in so many ways during the war. But sitting at the head of her table the next day, watching her son speak with Baela, she is seeing someone new.

Jace has had a hard life. He’s seen so much heartbreak – chief among them, the loss of his brother. But through it all, he has always been a prince. Strong when he needs to be, with a kind heart, and a devotion to duty. She has never known him to bock at responsibility, in fact, he often seeks out more. He is the example of a perfect prince, a perfect son.

She chides herself for not realizing sooner that something has changed with him.

She remembers vividly the day he came back from the North, so many years ago. Just that short trip had made him grow up so much. She had foolishly assumed it was only due to the loss of his brother, that had flung him into adulthood. But he had grown on that trip, excelled with the lords and ladies he met with, brokered deals for her, and apparently, had fallen in love.

There were thralls of guests at her table, but Rhaenyra didn’t pay them any mind. She barely even looked at Daemon next to her, or Joffrey on her right. All night, her eyes were on Jace, and his were on you.

Rhaenyra didn’t know much about you. You arrived in King’s Landing about two months back. When Jeyne Arryn had requested you to take ward here, Rhaenyra had thought little of it, so entrenched in the war. Even when you had arrived, she didn’t think much of it. There were so many faces coming and going in the Red Keep, you were just another one, albeit a beautiful one.

She knew that you were close with her younger boys, and Rhanea, too. She had seen Jace spending time with you, but she hadn’t noticed his feelings. She sees them now, though.

You are a beacon for Jace. Every move you make, whether it’s to laugh at your tablemates, or simply flicking your long hair over your shoulder, Jace’s eyes follow. And to Rhaenyra’s surprise, your eyes search for him just as often. A few times, your gazes collide, and a blush forms on your cheeks.

She thinks back to Jace’s words in her chambers. She had been completely blindsided. They had grown apart, now that he was older, and the war was over. They had begun to explore separate paths. But she thinks, even if they had been as close as they used to be, she still might have missedthe change.

“I want to end my betrothal to Baela,” he says. Rhaenyra looks at him, speechlessly, shaking her head to make sure she heard him correctly.

“What?” she asks.

“I want to end my betrothal.”

“Where is this coming from?”

“I have fallen in love,” he answers. She studies his face, as if she hasn’t seen him until now.

“With whom?” she asks quietly.

“Y/N Arryn.”

She believes him now. She had been worried, when he told her, that he was being compelled by lust. But watching him now, it was true love in his eyes. And beneath that, lay a sadness she knew all too well.

Rhaenyra wants him to have everything. He deserves everything. But he is a prince, and he has a duty to his country to marry well and produce noble heirs.

If it had been another highborn lady he was betrothed to, the choice might have been easier. But this was Baela. Rhaenyra loves her, and she knows Jace does, too. Just – not in the way he feels for you.

“What would we tell Baela?” she asks.

“I- I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “But it’s killing me, not to be with Y/N.” Rhaenyra frowns at her son, cupping his cheek gently with her hand.

“I made a promise to Rhaenys years ago, that I would wed our families together.”

“I know,” Jace says, his voice hollow.

She searchs his face for a long moment. She wants to tell him no. There is no way it would work out, but he had already seen so much heartbreak in his life. And she knew the pain of an arranged marriage.

So, she hadn’t told him no. She told him she had to think about it. But she saw, it wasn’t going to be an easy answer, either way.

The next morning, Jace finds you reading in a corner of the castle, alone. It is the first morning you’ve spent in so long without Rhaena at your side, talking over suitors, or meeting with those suitors themselves.

Seeing Jace, at first, makes you blush, remembering the night in the garden. But then you settle when you realize how much you’ve missed him. He has become one of your closest friends here, regardless of the feelings you have grown for him, and not seeing him the last few days had hurt.

“Good morning, My Prince,” you say as he sits across from you.

“No one is here,” he says with a frown, “You can call me Jace.”

“Why are you up so early, Jace?” you ask. He gives you a soft smile and sighs, hopefully letting out the tension in his shoulders.

“I couldn’t sleep. I thought I might see Vermax, go for a ride,” he says.

“Is it tiring to ride a dragon?” you ask.

“It can be, I suppose. Although Vermax is gentle, when he wants to be.” His eyes flick to yours, and for some reason, you get the sense you aren’t just talking about his dragon anymore.

“It’s hard to imagine a creature of that size being gentle,” you say, closing your book.

“You should come see for yourself,” he says simply.

“What?”

“Come with me to the dragon pit. I’m sure Vermax would love to meet you,” he says with a smile.

“I don’t desire being burnt alive,” you say quietly, leaning in conspiratorially. Jace laughs softly, the dimple in his cheek prominent.

“Vermax would never hurt you if you’re with me,” he says. “I promise.”

“Well, I did come to King’s Landing to further my education. Feels wrong to come all this way and not see its dragons up close.”

The entire walk down to the pit, you are anxious. Your heart thuds and your breathing is shallow. You are starting to regret your agreement in coming down when Jace grabs your hand for one second and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re safe, Y/N,” he says as he guides you into the entrance of the Dragonpit. The look in his eyes makes it easier to believe him.

The pit is dark, even at the first light of morning. The temperature is at least ten degrees warmer, and there are sounds you can’t begin to distinguish coming from somewhere deep. Jace leads you to a long platform that looks over a slope. Glancing down at it, you see the tread of giant clawed feet. You take in a quivering breath as Jace greets one of the dragon handlers and requests that Vermax be brought out.

“Doing alright?” he asks, coming to your side.

“Yes,” you say, in an unconvincing manner.

“Vermax is on the smaller size,” he says lowly, “Although I wouldn’t repeat that to him.”

“Even small dragons are massive,” you say. Jace looks at you with a smile, opening his mouth to say something, when you hear a sound coming from the dark entrance to the pit. You move behind Jace out of instinct, as a very large green dragon walks towards you. Jace laughs to himself.

“You’re alright,” he says softly as the beast comes to a stop. Vermax turns his attention to Jace and lets out a breath of steam. You grasp onto Jace’s shoulders, momentarily terrified.

“Hello to you, too,” Jace says with a laugh. You sigh when you realize the steam must have been a sign of affection.

Vermax moves his massive head closer to the two of you, close enough that Jace can pat his snout. You want to shrink behind Jace, want to run, but you know that quick movements around a dragon are not wise.

With his other hand, Jace reaches behind himself, and grabs hold of yours. He doesn’t let it go.

“Do you want to say hello?” he asks, and you aren’t sure if he’s talking to you or the dragon. Vermax’s eyes look to you then, and a shiver of fear races over you. “I promise, he’s scarier than he looks.” Vermax chuffs in response to Jace.

Slowly, you move to Jace’s side, dropping his hand for only a moment to switch which one you’re holding. You give yourself a moment to relax before meeting Vermax’s eyeline.

“Okay, now slowly raise out your hand,” he says. You do as he says, your limb shaking at the movement. Vermax’s snout, which is a good five times larger than your hand, sniffs at the palm. You wait with bated breath, until he nudges against it, and lets you rest your hand on him. You let out a sigh, relaxing as Jace smiles.

Now that you’re this close and settled, you realize that Vermax isn’t entirely green. There are spikes of orange-red that run down his neck. The contrast is striking.

“Oh,” you say with a sigh, “He is beautiful.”

“I’m in love with you,” Jace says in response. You whip your head to him so quickly, something in Vermax’s demeanor changes. Jace tenses and puts out a hand to the creature, at the same moment, pulling you back a step. It’s only a second, and then Vermax eases. Jace turns back to you and reads your wide, sad eyes.

“Whatever you’re going to say,” he says, “Don’t. It’s going to hurt me, and Vermax won’t like that.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you say, whisper soft. Jace shrugs.

“I don’t either.”

“We talked about this in the garden, it’s not something—” You stop when Vermax shifts again. Another breath of steam washes over the two of you, but this one somehow feels warmer, deadlier. Jace sweeps you behind him, holding you close to his back.

“Y/N is our friend,” he says to the beast, his words firm. “Our friend,” he says, and this time, chances a glance back at you at the word, friend.

“Maybe I should go,” you say. You realize you are still holding onto him, and then how much you don’t want to let go.

“He’ll settle,” Jace says, his hand covering yours, resting on his shoulder.

“Yes, but will I?” you ask, making him let out a tut of laughter.

“Alright. I’ll be back in a moment,” he says to Vermax. The dragon trills in response. Jace takes your hand and guides you back towards the Keep. “Don’t worry, everyone feels like this when they meet a dragon for the first time.”

“He really is beautiful,” you say, “In the most terrifying way possible.”

“Vermax is well tempered,” he says, “Be grateful you never saw Vhagar.”

“The stories were horrifying enough,” you say as you come to a stop outside the door to the castle. Your hand is still in Jace’s, the Dragonpit far behind you. You drop it, trying to do so indiscreetly, but Jace notices the absence and sighs.

“You were going to kiss me, you know. Back in your chambers,” he says. You stutter over a response, shaking your head in disbelief.

“There was one moment, yes,” you say, “But then I came to my senses.”

“No, Brigitta walked in,” he says, stepping closer to you. “That’s why you didn’t. And now, you can't even hold my hand.” He gestures around the empty space. “No one else is here!” he shouts. Below, Vermax calls out in response.

“You don’t get it,” you say softly, trying to keep your frustrations at bay.

“What don’t I get?” he asks.

“Do you know what I risk, just being alone with you? You are our crown prince, Jace, there is very little you can do to damage your reputation. If one person gets the wrong impression about us, if we give in to this feeling—” You stop when he moves closer still, his eyes alighting. 

“I would be ruined,” you say. “It wouldn’t matter that you are the prince. I would be tainted goods.” He snarls at the description.

“Y/N,” he starts, but you reach for his hand, stopping him.

“Jace,” you say breathlessly. “I wish there was a way but—”

“What if there was?”

“There’s not.”

“I asked my mother to end my engagement.”

“You what?!” you ask much too loudly, stepping back from him.

“I assumed you’d be pleased,” he says, hurt etched into his features.

“What did she say?”

“She is considering it,” he says. You sigh, leaning against the rocky cave wall. “There are a lot of moving pieces.”

“Of course there are. You and your family just went through so much grief to assure your mother’s claim to the throne. Why risk any of it again?”

“Because I love you,” he says plainly.

“We shouldn’t even be discussing this. We need to forget this; you need to forget me.”

“You act like it is so easy,” he says, approaching you again, “Tell me, have I confused your feelings for my own?”

“No,” you say quietly. “It’s not easy, at all. But what makes it harder is the fact that you keep bringing it up. You keep giving me hope,” you say, meeting his eyes. His are wide and nearly pull you in with the affection you find there.

“But there is hope.”

“Your mother is not going to cut Baela out like that,” you say, “And even if she did, I am no queen.” He looks at you sadly, like he wants to argue.

“You would make a good queen, Y/N,” he says delicately. You scoff. “Don’t you think I’ll be a good king?” he asks.

“Of course I do.”

“Then you know that I wouldn’t make the wrong woman queen.” He moves closer, taking your hands in his. He studies the way your hands fit into his, before speaking. “But even if my mother doesn’t agree, who is to say we have to be married? That we have to fight our feelings?”

“You’re suggesting I become your whore,” you say, face paling as you pull away from him.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says, reaching for your hand. You stay just out of his reach. “You would be taken care of—”

“Think of what you are saying,” you spit, “I would be an outcast. I would be your whore, and Baela your lady wife. Any children I bore you would be bastards. Is that what you want?” you ask. You think there might be tears forming in his eyes.

“Of course not,” he says firmly.

“As much as I wish things could be different, Jace, I just don’t foresee them changing. But you wound me, every time you get my hopes up.”

“You are not the only injured party, Y/N” he says. “What would you have me do?”

“Let me find someone else,” you say quietly. “Let me do what I came here to do and then I’ll be gone.”

“And I’ll just have to watch you with someone else?” he asks in disgust.

“Is that not what you just suggested I do with Baela?” you ask. He groans, gripping the railing along the walkway tightly.

“So, let’s say I agree to let you find someone else.”

“Let me?” you ask incredulously.

“That I stop fighting for you,” he corrects with a roll of his eyes, facing you again. “What if my mother changes her mind?”

“She won’t.”

“What if she does?”

“By then, it won’t matter to you anymore!” you exclaim.

“What?” he asks, brow furrowing.

“These feelings will die, if we let them. You’ve had this crush for so long, you think that our story must end with us together, but it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Y/N,” he says with a shake of his head.

“Let’s just call this what it is – an attraction that we danced around for too long.”

“Do you think me so foolhardy? That I would confuse lust with love?” he asks, taking your face in his hands, so you can’t turn away from him. “I am not that boy you met in the Vale years ago.”

“I know,” you say, putting your hands around his wrists.

“I have laid with women before.”

“Jace.”

“I have even thought I was in love,’ he says. “But never, did I feel anything close to this.” You close your eyes with a sigh, leaning into his palm. His thumb brushes your cheek as he frowns at you. You are speechless. You believe him, want to believe that his hopes can come true, too, but the logical part inside of you is more insistent than your heart.

“I just—” you start, sighing when his face falls. “Jace,” you say smally. He pulls away from you, retreating. “I think we need some time apart, to figure things out.” You are certain there are tears in his eyes now. He bites the inside of his lip and nods.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t be,” he says.

“Jace,” you say, “We have to try.”

“Okay,” he says with a shrug. He looks so broken, you don’t want to leave him there, but you know there is nothing you can say right now to make him whole. You slip out the entrance, and it’s not until you get to your chambers that you let your own tears fall.

You are filled with so much anger. Anger at your father for fucking up your life in the first place. Anger at Lord Yorbert for arranging your initial betrothal. Anger that Lord Blacktyde left you so cautious about your next match. And anger that no matter how much you know you need to stay away from Jace, you can’t seem to.

You think you know the reason why, but you aren’t ready to face it yet.

Jace spends most of the day flying. The fresh air and altitude seem to clear his head a little. The moment in the Dragonpit never fully leaves his mind. He wants to do what you ask, because of the pain on your face, the pain he could practically feel himself.

But he loves you and doesn’t want to be apart from you. He thinks he might go see his mother when he lands, plea to her again. He needs advice at least on how to navigate this next bit.

When he gets to the Dragonpit, though, his mother is already waiting for him. He dismounts and moves hurriedly towards her.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, breathlessly.

“There is trouble in the Iron Islands,” she says. “It seems skirmishes have been breaking out since my ascendence.”

“Ser Tyland?”

“He’s there now, fighting for what he claims is Lannister territory.”

“You want me to go lend our assistance?” he asks. She searches his face, a sad smile on her own.

“It will be dangerous.”

“I assume so,” he jokes, making her laugh to herself. “I’ll be careful,” he adds.

“I know you will.”

“I’ll leave tonight,” he says, “There’s just something I need to do first.” She examines his eyes, like she knows what he has to do, but she doesn’t argue. She just nods and leans in to kiss his forehead.

“Thank you, Jace.”

Night has fallen over the keep, and it is improper for him to go to your chambers this late, but he wants to see you before he goes. He must. The hallway is empty, save for one guard posted at your door.

“Your Highness,” he says, standing up straight. Jace knocks on the door and your maid, Brigitta, comes to answer it a full two minutes later. She does not look surprised to see him.

“Your Highness,” she says in greeting, curtseying as the door shuts behind her.

“I need to speak with Y/N,” he says. The color drains from Brigitta’s face.

“I’m sorry, My Prince, Lady Y/N does not wish to see you,” she says, whisper soft. Embarrassment floods his cheeks at the uncomfortable looks the guard and Brigitta give him. He isn’t sure why he is shocked at this answer, you had said that you needed space.

For one horrible second, he thinks about ignoring your request and ordering his way into the room. But he knows that would just make you angry.

“Very well,” he says with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Brigitta says again.

“Don’t be. Can I request a favor?”

stop making fanfics about characters raping and sexually assaulting y/n, you are fucking disgusting people who romanticize a serious crime that happens every day to children and women

"but that's just reading dark romance" that's not a dark romance, that's just the stuff of a horrible fetish, IF YOU HAVE A RAPE FETISH, GO SEEK FOR FUCKING PSYCHIATRIST HELP!!!!!!!!!!

comfort

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i'm not my age. i don't fit my body. it's too big for me, this all happened too fast i'm still a child. i never had a chance, i just need more time.

I don't know much about Friday Night Fever but Taki is amazing, and this is canon according to the creator.