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Times of war bared a striking resemblance to fog in the early hours of morning.
Personified impending doom and uncertainty as the sun peered over the horizon, hidden in a thick veil of condensation. The acrid scent of petrichor lingers in the air, heavy and pungent, mixing with the already burgeoning sense of foreboding surrounding Dragonstone. Instead of waking to the warm reassurance of sunlight piercing through open windows, the fortress is blanketed in an ominous unrest, unforgiving and constant.
Baela is perched on the end of the bed, her skirts fanned around her. Pensive, she was, as she makes the comparison. The implication resided in how every day was not guaranteed, offering no hint of reprieve or solace. For days, weeks, months she had been on high alert, never once letting her guard down, frequently peering over her shoulder and overtly aware of whom entered her space.
Regardless of her attempts to rein in her growing fears, they only blossomed and bloomed, breeding nothing but apprehension and increasing her abundant anxieties. Through the thick brume, she was rendered unable to decipher familiar shapes and posts. Baela pondered how the fog could be used in a cunning stealth attack, that if the Greens so willed it, they could use it to their advantage and storm the fortress.
No matter how often she squinted through darkness and haze, she could see nothing of import. Just like the war, there were no clear answers as to how it would conclude or if it would end at all. Negotiations were removed from the table, no truce in sight, and a simultaneous and seemingly endless feud that may persist for centuries; she curses how stubborn her lineage was, adamant to be right and succeed, caring more for the latter than healing the crumbling realm.
"—I fear the consequences of my mother's actions," Jacaerys shares, his boots heavy like bass as he steadily paces back and forth, his hands wringing as he goes, his expression sharp and stern, jaw clenching and releasing, "whilst war wages, we are here doing nothing but waiting for our demise and—"
Her fingers are curling into the knitted blanket, bunching the material and finding solace as she clenches her fists, "The Queen is fighting with the goodness of the realm in mind and does not wish to stoop to the Greens' level."
The brunet pauses in his stride, his hands still wringing nervously, the corner of his mouth downturned, "there is no need for morality in the midst of war, there is only fire and blood, a means to an end."
Baela cannot wholeheartedly disagree with him, not truly. Her stomach churns as she considers what the future may hold. How the skies will be permanently clouded, shrouded in simmers of ash and flame, "war requires many strategies and forms of sacrifice. Those we cannot, and will not, fully comprehend until completion."
His hands tremble, shoulders quivering all the same. One hand slides over the other in a feeble attempt to halt the movement, but alas, it continues and so he propels forward and resumes his prior pace, "my mother means well, this I know, but her heart is too soft for the madness beyond these walls and on the frontlines. The armies are out there, dying for the Crown, while we are craven and sheltered in place, tails tucked between our legs."
It was not her place to question The Queen and her judgment, for she had never possessed such a pertinent responsibility before. Understanding the weight of her position was difficult given her outer perspective and lack of experience, especially when it came to her choices and actions. Frankly, Baela much preferred staying in her place and did not wish to pass judgment on situations she could never truly understand.
Regardless of what Rhaenyra did, it would result in the death of hundreds, if not thousands. Smallfolk, armies, alliances and enemies alike.
There was no way around it.
Hundreds have died already, and many more would join them, fighting tooth and nail for their Queen. But to what end? How many more would needlessly suffer? When would the pillaging seize? And with the inevitable conclusion of the war, what would even be left in its wake? Burnt forests and greenery, reduced to ash and soot, billows of black smoke filling the air and choking the smallfolk, too far in the distance to affect her as she roams the castle for a better look, situated far from the immediate destruction and doom.
"I would rather a soft heart in command than that of stone and rancor," her retort is firm and earnest, urging him to find reason in her words.
Dark eyes are locked on his form, noting how rigid he stands, how his jaw is fixed taut; and try as he might to stop it, his shoulders are quaking and his bottom lip twitches. Part of her wants to stand and guide him into an embrace, to console him and offer mindless reassurances, that all would be well, that all would work in their favor, but she knows better than to make false promises.
Jacaerys must feel the heat of her gaze and readily shifts to face her. His countenance barely conceals the maelstrom of emotion he experiences, present in the furrow of his brow, the weariness in whiskey eyes, the thin line of his lip. As if he received a blow to the sternum, the man is rendered immobile, teetering back on his heel, sucking in a breath between his teeth. He bows his head and like a curtain, his countenance is hidden, his hands forming tight fists at his sides.
"I am afraid."
The sound of his voice slices through the deafening silence with such vehemence that she swears she can feel the force of it; like a powerful gust had swept the room, she rocks backward and catches herself, palms flat on the blanket for support. That was not like him in the slightest. Not her courageous, strong boy who had always overcome the darkest and most threatening of adversities.
His mouth opens once more to release a wavering, "I am afraid to lose another whom I hold dear. My brothers... My mother.." He sucks in a shaky breath, one that does little to quell the trepidation that fills him. His hands are fisting at the sides of his tunic, his head weakly rising and falling as he peers in her direction, "I cannot lose you, Baela."
Her flesh pimples as an involuntary shiver wracks her form. Instinctively, she squirms in her seated position and runs her hands up and down her sleeves. The friction does little to replicate the calming embrace of a loved one, but the self-soothing gesture does manage to calm her frenetic heart. He does not look at her again, and she was relieved, really, because she could not bare it. If he were to look at her now, her heart may clamor out of her chest, breaking slender ribs in its frenzied escape, bleeding and raw as it pleads for him to take it delicately in hand.
She visibly startles when he steels himself, shooting another glance her way. His eyes are wide and glassy, softening at the sight of her. The revelation was not a new one, yet it felt as much. In prior discussions, the two had only exchanged vague confessions, never once professing anything more than affectionate sentiments and lingering gazes.
But now, as he looks at her with an unwavering adoration, like his own heart may very well come out tumbling, she was rendered breathless and unable to find her words.
"—and now you see, it is about more than garnering futile approval," Jacaerys rasps, tone taking on a desperate edge as he takes a tentative step forward, staring pointedly at her as he nears, "it is about protecting all that I love, even if it is from themselves." His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, ivory teeth burying into the bitten skin there, "I am no fool. I know you do not need protecting. You are strong and smart and capable, but I—" he exhales forcibly through his nostrils, "I wish to do something to inspire an end to this fruitless war. I desire nothing more than to exist in a peaceful realm with you by my side and if I must defy my mother's authority, then I will do so, so long as I have a future with you."
With each passing word, his timbre lowers and his trembling grows, his footfalls muted as he closes the distance between them. His hands are reaching for hers, and she meets him halfway, reveling in the warmth of his palms flush on her own. He suckles on his bottom lip and she can't help but find a resemblance to when they were children—his bad habit of nibbling on his bottom lip leaving faint teeth marks, the skin always thoroughly bitten and chewed.
Even now there was a boyish charm about him, how his holds his breath, his face painting a dark scarlet and rising to the tips of his ears. His fingers are sliding between her own and squeezing. Jacaerys was oblivious that he was her lifeline and kept her from falling into the dark depths of melancholy. Taking an experimental step closer, he eases into her space, his eyes following the movement of her thighs as she parts them, inviting him to fill the empty space.
"You have yet to say a word," whispers the brunet, mortified by the potential of unreciprocated feelings, that he was completely and utterly alone and besotted.
Truthfully, she does not trust what may slip out. Feelings were a complex phenomenon, complicated and difficult to articulate properly. In her early teen years, she regrettably admits to reading romantic poetry. Fragrant words that rhymed and compared love to nurturing a flower. That it must be watered gradually and given nourishment to thrive. That love took patience and understanding, lest the petals darken and wither. But as Baela lifts her head and loosens her fingers around his to find the front of his tunic, his grim expression swiftly changes to a hopeful one.
As she tilts her head back, Jacaerys takes initiative and bends at the knee, his hand cradling her cheek. Just as she opens her mouth to vocalize her feelings, he was there and swallowing her sentiments with a chaste peck. Her lashes flutter at the brief contact, relishing in how her entire body hums in pleasure, eager for more of the pleasant sensation. Second-guessing himself, Jacaerys is poised to retreat, but Baela is grasping firmly at his tunic, tugging him down for another kiss.
The sound that erupts from his throat is akin to a purr, humming against her bottom lip as she kisses him. He doesn't quite know what to do with his hands yet, but Baela does not mind, oddly endeared by his perspired palms sliding from her face to grace her neck and splaying over her shoulders, gently pressing her down.
Down, down, down she goes as she descends upon the mattress, supporting her weight with her elbows. Jacaerys follows her, refusing to detach for even a second, his teeth catching her lower lip and nibbling, much to her elation. He manages to splutter a dazed, "—m'sorry—" in between increasingly fervent pecks.
Baela is not bothered by that, no, never that. However, she is frustrated by the persistent heat making itself known between her thighs. She had read plenty of books and had been educated by Maesters early in adolescence, but there were no in-depth studies on female arousal and how to properly sate lust of the flesh. All she knows is that when he prods at the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue, the pressure there heightens and vaguely resembles her rocketing heartbeat. She throbs, throbs, throbs. But for what in particular?
She has the general knowledge, but does not know how to execute the act, nor was she privy to the extent of what was unfolding.
His tongue is curious and seeking as he explores her cavern. She had fantasized about what it would be like to kiss him like this—and it mirrored those reveries and exceeded expectations, every bit as wet and filthy as she imagined. Her body reacts in kind, her thighs open and receiving as he tests the waters, his hips passing over hers. He elicits a strained hiss and repeats the action once more, but instead of retreating, he presses his hips down and revels in the friction of his breeches rubbing against the layers of her skirts.
Quite frankly, she was envious of how he finds relief by shamelessly rutting against her. Her mouth stutters and he pauses thoughtfully, regaining his breath and a semblance of composure, his lips ghosting over her own, "is this alright?" He sounds unsure of himself as he speaks, his lashes fluttering profusely as he stares at her glossy mouth. She nods her head slowly, but he seems displeased, "I need to hear you."
Her toes are curling in her boots and she suddenly wishes she could kick the damned things off. She can feel his uneven breathing tickling her lips and actively resists the urge to surge forward. Deciding to play coy (as per her readings) Baela is canting her head, imploring and coy, "are you concerned with maintaining your chastity?"
Sensing the mockery in her tone, Jacaerys quirks his lips, requiring great effort to not kiss her senseless, "I have long dreamed of our wedding night," confesses the brunet as he shifts his hips, hoping that she could somehow feel him, firm and at the ready, "the very thought of taking your maidenhead has consumed me nightly for as long as I can remember. Long before our betrothal, even."
There it goes again, the pulsing of her cunt. She allows her head to fall back on the blanket and stares up at him in awe, tempted to twist one of his curls around her finger, "are you not the least bit embarrassed by this admission?"
Considerate of his weight above her, Jacaerys makes to shift, but in a swift movement, her legs are encircling his waist to keep him locked in place. He clenches his lids painfully closed and mumbles something to himself, along the lines of "please, not now, may the God's grant me this one mercy." Baela finds wry amusement in how he reprimands himself, her legs tightening around his middle, his hands falling to either side of her head.
He coins her a reproachful look, lacking any real heat, his lips twitching upward despite his predicament. He rests his weight upon her, earning a grunt as she adjusts to the abrupt addition. Her surprise quickly diminishes when he finds the bottom of her mass of skirts, teasingly slipping his hands beneath. His blunt nails scrape along her pale blue chemise, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin garment. He buries his face within her neck and places an open-mouthed kiss to where her pulse is the strongest.
"You are naughty," there was something teeming in his timbre that has her lifting her hips, searching for his, "I fully intended to take this slow," another kiss to her pulse, tender and sweet, "but I ought to even the playing field."
She does not need to ruminate on what he means. In seconds, all rational thought evades her as he ventures up the curve of her calf, over her knee, and with a trembling hand, her feverish cunt. Squeaking out a pathetic, "Jace!" Baela is digging the back of her head into the mattress and writhing against him already, like—like one of the whores in the Streets of Silk, pleading for pleasure beyond her imaginings.
Baela finds that the latter is more than capable of bringing her the pleasure she was yearning for. His fingers move at a tantalizing pace, testing and teasing, intrigued and enraptured by her bodily response. The way he watches her with an intense concentration is enough to have her lids clenching closed, and despite his displeased whine, they remain that way. His breathing hitches as he trails a finger over her mound, hovering lightly over her clitoris, and descending over her slit.
He looks for her approval, desiring reassurance that he was doing well, and Baela whimpers. His lips part to release a shuddered breath, swallowing thickly as he continues. Nimble fingers press between her soaked folds and survey the warmth radiating there, his gaze pointed and observant, sweeping over her features for signs of discomfort. He must not find any because as Baela opens her mouth to tell him to seize his games, his forefinger is dipping just inside of her.
The way she clenches around the digit leaves him blinking back what appeared to be tears—why were his eyes glassy as if he were on the cusp of the rapture, why did he seem as if he may very well ascend, why was he—
No longer focused on her intrusive thoughts, Baela is gasping sharply as he tests the limitations of her body, the finger coaxing her open around him. Her mouth parts in a silent sigh and Jacaerys looks relieved, a thin bead of perspiration trickling from his brow.
"—that's a good girl," he appraises as he sinks in deeper, careful and attentive as she tightens around him, "if it is too much, please, I need to know. The thought of hurting you, especially like this, I cannot bear it—"
Baela shushes him, one hand grasping at the blanket, while the other soothes his jaw, her lips turning up in what she hopes is a reassuring smile, "you needn't worry," she promises, her hips twitching as he curls his finger inward, her lashes fluttering at the sensation it brings, "I trust you, Jace. You will not hurt me, just as I would not hurt you."
He chokes out a mirthful laugh and rests his head hers, nodding softly. He tests the movement of his thumb now and remembers the sensitive bud he had heard so much about, brushing over her neglected clitoris, humming his satisfaction as her body tenses:
"In my dreams, I touched you just here, just like this, and when I awoke, the sheets were drenched in wasted seed," he moves at a tantalizing pace as he slides an additional finger inside of her, bringing his fingers apart and together again. She squeaks his name and Jacaerys curls his fingers, grunting into her throat, "I vowed that when we wed, I would no longer waste my seed, that I would fill you up and—and I would stay there, stay here, keeping you stuffed 'til the morrow."
Her back arches into the awaiting contours of his body and—and Baela really needs to wise up and do something about the layers of clothing keeping the two separate because as he works her open, fluid and gaining finesse, the coil in her abdomen is steadily tightening, threatening to unfurl, and—and she doesn't want that, she isn't ready for it. She wants to feel him come undone alongside her, like she had envisioned, not with all of this unforgiving distance.
Jacaerys is rutting against her again and it was torturous. She cannot feel it and thus she cannot properly enjoy it. Her mouth is barren of moisture and her thoughts are consumed in heavy fog, but she fights through it for some clarity, pleading a pained, "I need more. I need you. This is not enough, please, Jacaerys," and Gods, her heart skips several beats at the way he lights up, his hands immediately going to work.
Baela wishes it was appropriate for a lady to wear breeches, that tradition was cast aside. Working at the laces of her dress was a headache, but Jacaerys takes over, swatting at her hands and blindly working at the fastenings there, peppering her with kisses as he completes his task, eagerly working to slide the damned thing over her head and onto the floor in a haphazard heap. Her lips are kiss-bitten and bruised by the time he escapes his tunic and kicks off his boots, his lips gracing her knee as he aids her out of hers.
Her body is pulsing fervently when he climbs over her once again, his breeches loosened, the strings dangling just over her abdomen. He was covered in a thin sheen of perspiration, but Gods, he had never looked more beautiful. His hair clinging to his forehead, his cheeks are tinged scarlet, his rigid cockhead lurking over the waistband and —
Oh, the head is red, angry from lack of stimulation, twitching as he nuzzles the side of her neck, inhaling her intoxicating scent.
"—can I touch it?" She winces at her verbiage, but Jacaerys grunts in return, nodding vigorously, practically begging for it.
Her fingers are featherlight, dragging over the faint lines of his abdomen, descending lower toward the feathery hair at his navel, and as she reaches his cock, the man stiffens and holds his breath, his forearms shaking as he sustains his posture. He tries to maintain eye contact, he really does, and she appraises him for it, but he can't, not when her hand finally encases the sensitive head and squeezes. It dribbles prettily with a clear pearlescence, capturing her rapt attention and makes her want to bring her fingers to her mouth and taste, pondering if it would be as sweet as he was.
Her other hand loosens the strings further until she can move the material over his sharp hip bones, excited to have better access to his weeping cock, "how do you usually . . ?" Her voice trails off suggestively and Jacaerys has to murmur his mantra again, praying to the Gods to prolong this, that he desperately needed to release his seed inside of her, not her palm.
Jacaerys wraps his hand around hers and guides it from tip to base and back in a fluid movement, "I like it like this. Just—a bit tighter, fucking hell, yes, like that—"
He struggles to breathe as she gains a better handle of her task. Her fingers tighten around his cock and uses his precum as lubricant, coating him in his own fluids, arousal growing as the walls echo with the wet and lascivious slide. His brows are furrowing in the center of his forehead and he shakes his head, his chest rapidly rising and falling, his hips angling toward her small fist, chasing the high that narrowly evades him. When her hand twists on the upstroke, he nearly chokes.
Jacaerys utilizes his last remnants of good sense to peel her hand away, an apologetic expression on his countenance, "I'm already so close," he seems hesitant to share the information, "and I may not be able to satisfy you properly, and for that, I am sorry."
Baela smooths the frown from his mouth and he nips at the flesh of her thumb, his eyes like warm honey, "we've a lifetime to take each other apart and put each other back together," bypassing her nerves, her conviction is blatant, forcing her body to remain lax as he takes his cue.
"Put your hands here," Jacaerys guides her hands to his shoulders, "if you are in pain, you need only squeeze. Hold onto me tightly. I've got you."
Suddenly feeling exposed despite her prolonged state of nakedness, Baela is turning her head to the side, averting her gaze and shutting her lids as she anticipates the initial stretch of his cockhead. One of his hands grasps at the sheets for leverage, while the other guides his cock to her opening, gently working over her folds and coating the head in her fluids. He buries his face in her neck again, his teeth sinking into smooth flesh and earning a low hiss. He moves his hips forward, carefully easing into the snug heat of her cunt, moving slow and deliberate.
He releases a string of curses she hadn't known him to use. She doesn't linger on it long, finding herself distracted by the wetness dripping onto her throat. One of her hands abandons his shoulders to soothe him, his hair a disheveled and damp mess atop his head. He releases a sob that threatens to shatter her heart into millions of tiny fractals and she wants to tell him that it's okay, that all would be well, but her words die on her lips as he releases a grunt, shifting his hips forward to nestle home.
Her nails create tiny crescents in his shoulders and scalp, but Jacaerys is too grateful to complain, honored to wear those mementos. Silvery ringlets cling to her neck and forehead, catching at her bottom lip and tickling the side of his face. Her breathing is heavy and labored as she adjusts to the pleasure-filled pain of his impossibly swelling cock. His lashes are fluttering against her throat, his tears cool and soothing to her heated skin, his lips ardent and relentless as he kisses her.
"I need to move, Baela," urges the brunet, dire in his need to bed her thoroughly, "but only when you say."
Baela embraces the dull ache, knowing it would soon diminish, and swivels her hips, nodding weakly, "take me," she pleads with reckless abandon, "make me yours."
There was a grace in how he moves, his carnal instincts consuming him and taking over. How he fluidly rolls his hips, sending his cock sliding in to the hilt and back, withdrawing until just the head remains, then snapping forward. His trembling body is an avid learner, honing in on how her cunt clenches around him, the way her nails scrape down his spine as he bottoms out. As erratic as his movements are, she attempts to feebly match his pace. Baela raises her hips as he slams in, her heels finding purchase in the back of his muscular calves as she grinds up and against his pelvis.
One of his hands slides beneath her to knead at her bottom, angling her hips as he discovers a new angle, more delicious than the last. And Gods, she was already in the throes and wanting nothing more than to give in to the euphoria that dangles before her; it was just within her clutches but narrowly escapes, only to forcibly return and have her vision pulsate, white-hot and blinding, colliding with her as she clings to his forearms, his shoulder blades, the sides of his smooth neck, the back of his head, tugging, yanking, pulling.
"That's it," Jacaerys moans openly now, no longer bashful and sheepish, panting against her mouth as he encourages her over the edge, "I want to feel you, to see you come undone. Want to see your face as I fill you with my seed. Please, Baela, please."
Her eyes are blown wide as he takes apart, seam by seam, ravenous as he grasps at any exposed flesh he can find, caressing amorously, his eye never wandering, his thrusts slow and deep, more measured and pointed. She wants him in ways she cannot describe and with words that have yet to be invented. She has a litany of regards, but she finds it challenging to voice them as her body abruptly tenses, clenching unbearably tight around him.
He battles the resistance, his lashes fluttering as delirium threatens to overtake him. She loves him, with all that she has, with all that she was, and the words are on the tip of her tongue, dying to be revealed, but as she opens her mouth, the only sound that emanates is a moan, high and keen, her nails buried deep in his back as she reaches her peak. Her body writhes, her head digs into the mattress, her toes are curled into the back of his calves, and Gods, Baela swears she no longer belongs to this world.
She was so far gone, flittering above her body and headed for the ceiling. The only thing that keeps her anchored is the comforting weight of Jacaerys' body, warm and present, diligently rolling his hips, chasing after her with a renewed sense of vigor. All too soon his eyes are glassy and bright, gasping sharply as his body stiffens, releasing in thin, pearlescent ropes. He buries to the hilt and rocks shallowly as seed spills, staining her inner thighs and the blankets as he thoroughly spends his cock.
His cock twitches weakly, sensitivity an afterthought as he rides through it, trying his best not to collapse atop her. Her thighs quake as she slides them onto the mattress, her toes curling inward, her eyes hazy as she gazes up at him. She can feel the pressure of him settled inside of her, still and unmoving, his arms threatening to give out. She blinks as a droplet of sweat falls onto her cheek, and maybe, just maybe, it was a symptom of unyielding bliss, but the corner of her lips turn up, her lids fluttering to a sated close.
And Jacaerys, as much as he wants to stay locked in place, reluctantly slides out of her. He uses the remnants of his strength to roll to the side of her, blindly grasping for her, towing her up to join him. Baela obliges effortlessly, an arm slinging over his sweat-slicked chest, her head nestled in the crook of his neck. Her body still experiences faint shakes and aftershocks, but she cares very little if she should be concerned, just that she was there beside him, that she had finally given him her all.
The room settles into a comfortable silence, save for the sound of even breathing. Jacaerys rests on the mattress with one arm tucked beneath his head while the other envelopes her. His expression is pensive, deep in thought, but he does not initially share them, just stares, unwavering, at the ceiling. His fingers stroke over the pimpled flesh of her arm, his lips pecking the crown of her head with lingering kisses, his lips twisting into a frown.
Baela heard nary a thing about how to navigate post-coital conversation, and so she does the next best thing, sitting up slightly and leaning on her forearm, her eyes scanning over his expression. There was a deep melancholy in the furrow of his brow, the tears in his lashes resembling dew in the morning. And she worries incessantly that he must harbor regrets, that she wasn't good, that he shouldn't have gone through with it and—
"I am more afraid than ever."
When the dam breaks and his body wracks with sobs, Baela can do nothing but feebly attempt to console him. Her arms envelope him and she whispers sweet-nothings and makes a myriad of empty promises: that she would protect him from the war, that she would always be there by his side, standing proud, that one day soon, her belly would be swollen with his babe, that there was a happy ending to be found amidst the mayhem.
Jacaerys Velaryon trusts Baela Targaryen with his heart and soul, but he can't shake the foreboding that mercilessly gnaws at him, threatening to pierce through him like an arrow slices through flesh.