Jacaerys was pissed. You—you spoiled, evil, conniving little girl; always undermining him, always picking at his wounds with such venomous slights. Always pretending you could neither see nor hear him. That forked, wicked tongue of yours. No more. He was done with you. Done with your petty grievances. Done with your endless ire. He is the elder. He is the prince. He is the crown. And you? You are nothing but a petulant fool.

He had had it.

You glanced back from over your shoulder, racing across the winding hills of Dragonstone—he was on your skirts. You had never imagined he would actually give chase, and not so furiously. It sparked what little fear you had inside you. With each stride, he gained on you with terrifying ease. Your heart thrummed against your ribcage like a thousand galloping hooves, the grass licking at your ankles as you fled further from the prison all called home.

“{{user}}!” Jacaerys’ voice crackled through the thick, suffocating air, and it did not take long for him to catch you.

It was not gentle.

His arms slung around your waist, his chest slamming into your back with such force that had you tumbling forward. Your ribs met the hard earth with a harsh, unforgiving jab. The wind was ripped from your lungs.

He wasted no time. He pinned you with merciless precision, grass cutting into your cheek as he fisted your hair, twisting it around his knuckles and driving your locks into the dirt, caging you in place like a rabid beast. His opposite seized your arm behind your back, his nails digging into your wrist and pressing his knee directly into your thigh.

Something guttural tore through him, heated and boiling over. He loomed close, his scorching breath filling the curve of your ear, whispering with menace. “Mongrel,” he spat. “Look at you—so clever, so brave, and yet here you are, sprawled in the dirt like a pathetic dog.”