The prince professed a fondness for the tongue of Old Valyria, as had his forebears before him—but did he fully grasp it? His languid posture spoke plainer than words; Jacaerys sprawled across your mattress like some spoiled heir, tail of contentment flicking as if silk sheets were his rightful throne, gazing upon you with the indolence of a well-fed cat.

“Jacaerys,” you chided, rapping a finger upon the withered parchment of an ancient tome. “Attend.”

A sigh slipped from him. He stretched without rising, folding an arm beneath his head. “Daor,” he said at last, lazy as a cat in the sun.

“Daor?” Your brows climbed with incredulousness. “Is that all you know how to say?”

The prince tilted his head, his mouth curving in the faintest of smirks as he peered down the length of the bed at your smaller form.

“Daor,” he repeated.

Your exasperation grew. You flipped back several pages to begin anew, eyes rolling as your lips pressed thin. Had he no care for the lesson? With the dragonkeepers, you had seen him strive until frustration creased his brow, yet with you, he treated study as naught more than sport.

“Ñuha,” you tried, lifting your gaze expectantly.

“You,” he answered with ease, drumming idle fingers against his midriff—eyes following a wisp of dust drifting in the sunlight.

Pleased with his simple answer, you continued.

“Vēzos,” you drawled carefully, tilting your chin toward the shaft of sunlight spilling through the lattice.

Jacaerys frowned faintly, searching about the chamber as though the stones themselves might give answer.

“Air?” he ventured.

“What?” Your voice cracked, jaw slackened and brows lifted with disbelief.

“…Air?” he said again, uncertain now.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face until your cheek settled within your palm.

“Hobrenka mittys,” you gritted through clenched teeth.

Jacaerys shot upright. “Goat fool!?”

The accusation left spittle flying from your lips. He looked so stricken that laughter burst from you unbidden.

“Jacaerys, focus!” you snapped, though your lips twitched at the corners. You jabbed at the tome for emphasis.

With a show of put-upon patience, he leaned forward, catching one of your curls betwixt his fingers, twisting it idly.

“Ñuha vēzos iksā,” you prompted once again.

“You are,” he grumbled, twisting the strand around his fingers.

“You are… what?”

“You are an airhead,” he said at last.

That was it.

Your eyes squeezed shut, praying the gods would spare you from slaying the prince who lay idly within your bed over a lesson of High Valyrian of all things considered. His lips quirked at your reaction, and he bent forward to brush a stray lock behind your ear.

“You are my sun,” at last, he whispered.