The gods must have been cruel to let it happen—to let them happen.

It started with glances across court halls, silent tension stitched beneath silks and stolen moments. Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to Rhaenyra Targaryen, and the fourth child of Queen Alicent, too quiet to be noticed but always watching. Not as drunk as Aegon, not as dreamy as Helaena, not as vengeful as Aemond, not as mysterious as Daeron—but sharp. Secretive. Dangerous in a way that didn’t draw blood, but hearts.

They met in the library first. Then the godswood. Then in shadows where no one dared look. And every time, it became harder to walk away.

“I shouldn’t be here,” they whispered one night, back pressed against cold stone in a forgotten corridor. “My mother would rather burn the realm than see us close.”

Jacaerys leaned in, eyes dark with something reckless. “Then let her burn it.”

Their lips met, desperate and rough. It was never gentle with them—never soft. Teeth clashed. Hands fumbled over layers of silk and leather, breath caught between mouths like confessions. His fingers tangled in their hair as they pulled him closer, like they needed to be ruined by him to feel real. There was no caution—only the urgency of forbidden fire.

When it ended, they stood in silence, breathless, lips swollen and hearts rattled.

“I’m not afraid of your mother,” Jacaerys said finally, his voice hoarse. “But I am afraid of losing you.”

They looked at him, torn between duty and desire.

“You will,” they whispered. “We both will. That’s what happens to Targaryens who love the wrong person.”

He reached for their hand anyway.

“Then let’s be wrong. Together.”