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(Characters aged up)
The months following the wedding of Prince Jacaerys and Princess Aelora Velaryon bloomed like winter roses in snow, each day weaving them closer together in ways that would become whispered tales in the great halls of power.
Dawn's first light would find Aelora in her solar, where diamond-paned windows cast prismatic patterns across rich fabrics spread before her. Her needle danced through cloth with the grace of a practiced artist, silver thread catching the morning light like drops of liquid moonlight. Each stitch was a declaration, every pattern a poem written in silk and silver. Her name, 'Aelora', appeared like starlight caught in cloth, hidden in places only lovers would discover - over the heart of a doublet, along the inner hem of a sleeve, beneath the collar where it would rest against Jacaerys's skin.
The ritual of creation became her meditation, her devotion expressed through every careful stitch. She would select threads with meticulous care, each color chosen to complement her husband's dark hair. As she worked, her fingers moving with practiced precision, she would imagine how each garment would embrace him, how her name would rest against his skin like silent kisses throughout his day.
Jacaerys, for his part, treated each piece she crafted as if it were spun from dragon's breath itself. The finest tailors of Dragostone, who had once clothed him in elaborate garments of unmatched quality, found their services no longer required. The prince would wear nothing that hadn't been blessed by Aelora's touch, nothing that didn't bear her secret signatures of love.
Each morning, as rosy-fingered dawn painted the sky in hues of amber and gold, he would dress with reverent care. His fingers would trace the embroidered patterns, seeking out each hidden signature like a treasure hunter discovering precious gems. "Here," he would murmur, finding her name beneath a collar, "and here," discovering another tucked into a sleeve. Each discovery was like finding a secret message meant for his heart alone.
The intimacy of their daily rituals extended beyond cloth and thread. Twice daily, as the sun rose and set, Aelora would tend to Jacaerys's hair with her treasured silver brush. These moments were sacred, their private ceremony of devotion. In their chambers, where the world beyond their doors ceased to exist, she would run her fingers through his silken strands, the brush following in gentle strokes that spoke of tenderness and unspoken promises.
During these cherished moments of grooming, Aelora would count precisely one hundred strokes, each one deliberate and filled with meaning. The silver brush gleamed in the candlelight, its handle worn smooth from years of use. She had added her own touch to this treasured piece - a ribbon in their house colors wound carefully around the handle, and their initials delicately etched into the silver.
"My love," she would murmur, her fingers weaving through his hair like silk through a loom. Jacaerys would often close his eyes in contentment, seated at her feet before the crackling hearth. Sometimes he would hum softly - ancient Valyrian melodies that spoke of dragons and eternal love - while other times they would share the quiet intimacy of comfortable silence.
Around their necks hung the matching lockets, masterworks of the renowned goldsmith. These were not mere ornaments, but rather tokens of their devotion, crafted with such skill that they seemed to capture the very essence of their love. The outer surfaces bore intricate dragon motifs, scales so fine they appeared to ripple in the light. Within each lay a portrait that captured not the rigid formality of court paintings, but the intimate glances shared between lovers.
In Jacaerys's locket, Aelora's lips curved in that secret smile she reserved only for him, her eyes holding a warmth that seemed to transcend the limitations of paint and ivory. In hers, his customary intensity melted into the tender expression none but she ever witnessed. The portraits had been painted with pigments mixed with crushed precious stones - amethyst for the depths of their eyes, diamond dust to capture the luminosity of their hair, gold powder to add warmth to their skin tones.
Their shared chambers became a sanctuary where the weight of royal duty could not intrude. Aelora would often sit by the window, where the light was strongest, working on new garments for Jacaerys. He would join her during these moments, sometimes reading from ancient Valyrian texts, his voice rich and melodious as he shared tales of their ancestors. Other times, he would simply watch her work, mesmerized by the graceful movement of her hands.
The prince had commissioned a special table for her sewing, crafted from ancient weirwood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl dragons that seemed to dance in the changing light. Upon this table, she would lay out her materials like a maestor preparing for a complex ritual - spools of silver thread, needles of various sizes, scissors that gleamed like dragon's teeth, and precious lengths of fabric selected with careful consideration.
Word of their devotion spread through the Red Keep like wildfire, carried on the whispers of servants and the gossip of courtiers. Some spoke of how Prince Jacaerys's eyes would follow Aelora's movements whenever she was in view, how his expression would soften in her presence, how his hand would instinctively seek hers in moments of both triumph and challenge.
During council meetings, Jacaerys positioned his ornate chair precisely so that Aelora remained always in his line of sight. His fingers would often stray to the locket at his throat during particularly challenging discussions, as if drawing strength from her painted likeness within. The older lords would exchange knowing glances, some disapproving, others touched by such obvious devotion.
Their meals together became performances of intimate ritual. Jacaerys insisted on filling Aelora's cup himself, a task traditionally left to servants. His fingers would brush against hers with each pour, their touch lingering like whispered secrets. He would wait for her to take her first sip before touching his own goblet, a habit that became so well-known that servants would hold their breath until the princess had raised her cup to her lips.
"Watch," the kitchen maids would whisper to newly arrived servants, "the prince won't touch his food until the princess has tasted hers. It's their way."
In their private dining chamber, Jacaerys had commissioned a special chair for Aelora, its back carved with intertwining dragons whose tails formed her name in ancient Valyrian script. He would pull this chair out for her himself, regardless of who was present, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder before he took his own seat. The gesture was both protective and possessive, a public declaration of his devotion.
Their evening walks in the castle gardens became legendary among the romantics of the court. As twilight painted the sky in shades of purple and gold, they would stroll among the roses, their fingers intertwined. Jacaerys had ordered the gardens replanted with Aelora's favorite blooms, creating paths of blue roses. The gardeners were instructed to ensure fresh blooms were always available, even in the harshest weather.
"The prince would move mountains to see her smile," observed a master. "In all my years serving the realm, I have never witnessed such complete devotion between husband and wife, let alone among those born to rule."
Jacaerys had commissioned artisans to create a special wardrobe for Aelora's sewing implements, each drawer lined with velvet and labeled in gold leaf. The top drawer held her precious silver threads, arranged by shade and thickness. Below were compartments for her needles, each one blessed by a septon and crafted by the finest smiths in the realm.
In the resplendent halls of the Red Keep, where summer light danced through stained glass windows and perfumed breezes carried the scent of roses from the gardens below, love bloomed between Prince Jacaerys and Princess Aelora Velaryon with an intensity that would become legendary. The months following their wedding unfurled like silk in the warm air, each day weaving them closer in ways that transformed mere political alliance into something far more profound.
In her sun-drenched solar, where gauzy curtains billowed in the afternoon breeze, Aelora would sit at her precious weirwood table.
"A stitch for love," she would whisper, working her needle through the fabric, "a stitch for devotion." Her name appeared in secret places - over the heart of a doublet, along the inner hem of a sleeve, beneath collars where only Jacaerys would know to look. These weren't mere garments but intimate declarations of love, each thread placed with purpose and meaning.
Jacaerys would often speak of their future, his voice soft with tenderness. "My darling," he would murmur as her fingers wove through his hair, "do you know how the sun itself seems dimmer when you're not near?" Such words would have seemed excessive from any other man's lips, but from Jacaerys they flowed as naturally as the tide.
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Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Realm's Delight and heir to the Iron Throne, observed her eldest son's marriage with the shrewd eyes of a dragon.
"A mother's heart wishes for her children's happiness," she remarked to Daemon one evening, her voice carrying that edge of steel that had become her signature. Yet even as she spoke, her eyes followed the couple as they walked through the gardens below, noting how Jacaerys - her serious, dutiful firstborn - smiled more freely than she had ever seen.
During their private family meals, Rhaenyra would study them with the same intensity she applied to battlefield maps. She noticed how Jacaerys, trained from birth to be ever-vigilant of threats, allowed his guard to lower in Aelora's presence. How his shoulders, usually tense with the weight of being heir to the heir, would relax when Aelora's hand found his beneath the table.
"You wear nothing but her handiwork now," Rhaenyra observed one morning, as Jacaerys arrived for their daily conference dressed in a doublet of black and red, clearly bearing Aelora's distinctive needlework. "The court tailors bemoan their loss of patronage."
"Every thread carries her protection," Jacaerys replied, meeting his mother's gaze with the quiet confidence that reminded her so much of herself. "And her love makes me stronger for the tasks ahead."
Jacaerys and Aelora created their own world within the greater tapestry of court life. Their private chambers became a sanctuary adorned with treasures that spoke of their devotion - delicate Myrish lace curtains that Aelora had personally embroidered with diving dragons, ancient Valyrian texts filled with love poems that Jacaerys would read aloud in his rich voice, and the special weirwood table where Aelora crafted her masterpieces.
Their daily rituals became whispered legends throughout the castle. In their private chambers, Aelora would spend hours at her crafting table, weaving protection spells with needle and thread. Each garment she created for Jacaerys contained hidden messages - their names intertwined in Valyrian script, ancient protective runes worked into collars and cuffs, dragons whose scales spelled out promises of eternal devotion.
"Watch how she sews," the handmaidens would whisper to each other. "Each stitch placed with such purpose, such love. They say even the dragons respond differently to the prince when he wears her work."
Indeed, their connection seemed to extend beyond mere human bonds. When Jacaerys flew his dragon, Vermax, the great beast would not take wing until Aelora had pressed her hand to its scales in greeting. The dragon would lower its massive head to receive her touch, steam rising gently from its nostrils in a gesture that made even the most experienced dragon keepers exchange wondering glances.
In their private sanctuary, far from the prying eyes and whispered demands of court, Jacaerys and Aelora had created their own world of passion and tenderness. Their massive bed, draped in silks of deep purple and black, witnessed their most intimate moments - passionate embraces that left them breathless, gentle explorations that lasted until dawn painted the sky in rose and gold.
While the court buzzed with expectations and demands for an heir, their bedchamber remained a haven where such pressures could not intrude. Jacaerys worshipped her body with the devotion of a man who understood that love couldn't be rushed or forced. His hands would trace the curves of her form with reverent care, memorizing every subtle change and response, while his lips mapped constellations across her skin.
"Let them talk," he would whisper against her neck, his voice husky with desire. "Our child will come when the gods will it, my love." His words would dissolve into kisses that made her forget everything beyond their shared warmth.
In these private moments, Aelora found herself falling deeper in love with his patience and understanding. While other lords might have demanded heirs with aggressive urgency, Jacaerys approached their intimacy as something precious to be savored. He took joy in discovering new ways to please her, in learning the secret language of her sighs and movements.
Outside their chambers, courtiers would exchange meaningful glances when Aelora's monthly courses came, but within their private world, such matters held no power to dim their passion. Jacaerys would silence any hints of worry from her lips with kisses that spoke of absolute devotion, reminding her that their love was more than mere duty to the realm.
Their nights belonged only to them. When the last echoes of court whispers faded, Jacaerys would lock their chamber doors with a decisive click that shut out the world. In these moments, Aelora would already be waiting, her silver-gold hair loose around her shoulders, her nightgown a whisper of Myrish lace that she had embroidered herself with dragons and stars.
Even after moons of marriage, Jacaerys still looked at her as if seeing her for the first time - his violet eyes darkening with desire as she reached for him. Their kisses would start slow, tender, but inevitably deepen into something more urgent, more primal. His hands would tangle in her hair, careful even in passion not to pull too hard, while hers would trace the muscles of his back, mapping territories she knew by heart but never tired of exploring.
During their most intimate moments, they spoke to each other in Old Valyrian, words of love and desire that seemed more powerful in the ancient tongue. Jacaerys would whisper "ñuha jorrāelagon" against her skin, each syllable a caress that made her shiver. The way he touched her spoke of ownership and worship both - possessive enough to make her feel cherished, gentle enough to make her feel safe.
When particularly vicious rumors reached their ears - whispers about her supposed barrenness or his perceived weakness in not demanding an heir - Jacaerys would turn their spite into fuel for passion. He would claim her with a fierce tenderness that left no doubt about his devotion, marking her neck just high enough that tomorrow's court gowns wouldn't quite hide it. "Let them see," he would growl softly, "that you are mine and I am yours."
In the afterglow, as moonlight painted their tangled limbs in silver, they would often lie awake, sharing dreams of the future. "Our child will come from love, not duty," he would murmur, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her bare shoulder. "And when they do arrive, they will be the product of such deep devotion that even the dragons will sing."
These private moments strengthened them against the court's pressure. When the masters would hint at fertility treatments, or when ladies of the court would press suggestions of moon tea recipes known to increase conception, Aelora would remember Jacaerys's words, his touch, his absolute faith in their future. She wore his love like armor, meeting probing questions with a serene smile that revealed nothing of their private world.
Their passion often peaked at unexpected moments. Sometimes, after watching Jacaerys command attention in council meetings, Aelora would barely wait for their chamber doors to close before pulling him into a searing kiss. He would respond with equal fervor, lifting her against the wall, his princely composure dissolving into raw desire. The contrast between his public persona and his private passion thrilled her - this side of him belonged to her alone.
During their intimate moments, Jacaerys took particular pleasure in slowly unlacing the gowns she crafted, treating each garment with care even as desire made his hands tremble. "Your beautiful creations," he would murmur against her neck, "but you're more exquisite without them." The gowns would pool at her feet like liquid silk, and he would carry her to their bed as if she were made of Valyrian glass - precious and irreplaceable.
They learned each other's bodies like sacred texts, discovering what made the other gasp and arch and plead. Aelora found that running her nails lightly down his back would make him shudder, while Jacaerys discovered that kissing the sensitive spot behind her ear could reduce her to whimpers. Their lovemaking varied from slow and tender to passionate and urgent, but always with an underlying current of deep connection that made every touch feel like coming home.
On particularly bold nights, they would dare to make love in their private balcony, sheltered by heavy curtains but thrillingly aware of the castle life continuing below. The risk of discovery added a sharp edge to their pleasure. These moments, with the cool night air on their heated skin and the stars as their only witnesses, felt like something out of the songs - but infinitely more real and precious.
After particularly intense encounters, as they lay catching their breath, Jacaerys would often trace the curve of her flat stomach with gentle fingers. "When our child comes," he would say with absolute certainty, "they will be born of pure love, not duty or pressure." These moments would often lead to another round of lovemaking, slower and deeper, as if to prove the truth of his words.
Their bathing ritual became one of their most cherished moments. In their private chambers, a massive copper tub, large enough for them both, would be filled with steaming water scented with exotic oils from Lys. Jacaerys would often return from his duties to find Aelora already submerged, her silver-gold hair floating like moonlight on water. He would shed his princely attire without ceremony, his eyes darkening at her inviting smile.
The water would splash gently as he joined her, pulling her back against his chest. These moments started innocently enough - he would help wash her hair, his strong fingers massaging her scalp until she melted against him. But inevitably, his hands would wander, tracing water droplets down her neck, across her collarbone, lower still until her breathing became uneven and she would turn in his arms, seeking his lips with urgent need.
Sometimes, their passion couldn't wait for the privacy of their chambers. Hidden alcoves in the castle gardens witnessed hurried encounters, where Jacaerys would press her against the cool stone, swallowing her gasps with desperate kisses. The thrill of possible discovery only heightened their desire, though they were always careful to maintain their dignity in public.
In their bed, they discovered endless ways to please each other. Jacaerys took particular pride in using his mouth and hands to bring her to the peak of pleasure multiple times before seeking his own release. He loved watching her come undone beneath him, the way she would cry out his name, her fingers clutching the sheets or his shoulders.
Their most intense moments often came after state functions, where they had spent hours exchanging heated glances across the great hall. By the time they reached their chambers, the built-up tension would explode into passionate encounters that left marks on both their bodies - marks they wore proudly beneath their fine clothes the next day.