Sara moved through the crowded outskirts of King's Landing, the chaos of the tournament's blood melee preparations unfolding around her. Stalls lined the dirt road, vendors shouting over each other as they peddled their goods to the gathering masses. The smell of roasting meat and freshly baked bread mixed with the less pleasant stench of unwashed bodies and horse dung. She wrinkled her nose but made her way toward a food stand, the hunger gnawing at her stomach winning out over her disgust.
She handed over a few copper stars, taking a warm meat pie wrapped in cloth. The vendor barely glanced at her before moving on to the next eager customer. She took a bite, the savory filling bursting with spices unfamiliar to her northern tongue. The food in King's Landing was unlike anything back home—richer, heavier, seasoned in ways she'd never imagined. It had been one of the only things about this city she found enjoyable.
Everything else? Well, that was another story entirely.
She chewed as she walked, scanning the crowd for Cregan. He'd said he would be near the training tents, likely preparing for the blood melee despite her best efforts to dissuade him. Stubborn fool. If he got himself killed, she'd never forgive him. Her brother was all she had in this world, and she wasn't about to lose him to some ridiculous spectacle put on for the amusement of lords and ladies. King's Landing had been nothing like what she had imagined. She had known it would be different from the North, but she had thought it might be grand, awe-inspiring even. And in some ways, it was—the towering Red Keep, the sprawling streets, the sheer number of people crammed into one place. But the smell was unbearable, the air thick with rot and shit. The people were worse. Everywhere she went, she was watched, scrutinized, leered at. The moment anyone learned what she was—a bastard—their expressions changed. Some were subtle, their gazes lingering just a second too long before turning away. Others sneered openly, their disdain clear. She'd even been kicked out of a tavern once and had been shoved by one of the faithful.
Sara had always known she was different. In the North, there had been tension, mostly from Lady Stark, but outside of the family, she had been treated well enough. She was a Stark by blood, and the North remembered its lord. Here, she was just another stain on a noble house. She knew she had no right to complain. She understood the way the world worked, that her very existence was a reminder of her father's infidelity. But knowing did not make it any easier.
She tore off another bite of the meat pie, her grip on it tightening as she thought about it. At least she had Cregan. For all his gruffness, her brother had never made her feel like she was anything less. He had defended her more times than she could count, beaten people bloody for daring to insult her. He loved her fiercely, and that was why she had spent most of yesterday trying to convince him not to enter the blood melee. He hadn't listened, of course. He never did.
If she couldn't talk sense into him, maybe Jace could.
The thought of Jace made her body warm slightly before she immediately stomped it down. Foolish girl. She wasn't some princess in a story. She was a bastard. No matter how friendly Jace was, no matter how much he had treated her like she was worth something, she knew what she was. He would marry a princess, father kings and queens. She would be lucky to find a match that didn't see her as a fisherman's wife or if she was lucky a blacksmiths wife. Still, she couldn't ignore the way he made her feel—respected, valued. Like she was more than just her name. And maybe, just maybe, that was why she wanted to spend more time around him.
Sara slipped past the guards stationed at the outer perimeter of the blood melee arena, keeping to the shadows as she moved through the growing crowd. She had known this event was dangerous from the start, but after watching Jace limp off the field bruised and bloody from the preliminaries, the full weight of what could happen hit her. The blood melee was worse. It wasn't just men with swords—there were creatures, real beasts that would tear through flesh just as easily as any blade. And Cregan, her stubborn fool of a brother, had decided to throw himself into the madness. She knew her brother capable with a sword, but if Jace who was his better in swordplay had gotten so injured then how could Cregan stay safe. 'Why won't the damn fool listen to me.'
She swallowed her frustration and kept moving. She wasn't here to brood—she needed to find Cregan.
The cages came into view first. Thick iron bars lined the edges of the field, stacked side by side, the animals within pacing or lying in wait. The closer she got, the more her stomach twisted. A massive lion sat still in its cage, its golden eyes fixed on her, its tail flicking lazily against the bars. A bear, bigger than any she had seen in the North, pressed against the metal, letting out a low, guttural huff. A pair of wolves curled in the corners of their enclosures, their ears pinned back, their eyes sharp. Boars, shadowcats, even a lizard-lion—each beast was worse than the last.
Cregan would have to face them. This was madness.
She clenched her fists and strode forward, ready to grab him by the ear and drag him out of here if she had to. But then she saw him standing near the edge of the arena, speaking with Jace, who was accompanied by one of his Kingsguard. Jace's expression was relaxed, but Cregan looked serious, his arms crossed as he listened. Sara hesitated, then exhaled sharply, brushing her hands over her tunic to smooth out any wrinkles. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to fix the strands that had fallen loose. She didn't know why she cared, but the moment she realized what she was doing, she scowled and shook her head.
Foolish. She was here to stop Cregan, not fuss over how she looked in front of Jace.
She stomped forward.
Jace noticed her first, his lips pulling into a smirk. "Uh oh, Cregan, you're in trouble."
Cregan turned, sighed, and muttered, "Sara."
"Don't give me that look," she snapped, marching up to them. "What in the hells do you think you're doing, did you not listen to anything I said, can you not see how dangerous this is?"
Cregan didn't answer fast enough, so she gestured at the cages. A lion let out a deep, rumbling growl as if to drive her point home. She jabbed a finger toward it. "You're the heir to House Stark! You shouldn't be risking your life like this!"
Cregan tilted his head toward Jace. "He was going to enter, and he's second in line to the throne."
Jace raised his hands. "Don't drag me into this—I'm not entering anymore."
Sara exhaled sharply, crossing her arms. "You're both idiots."
Cregan smirked. "That's not new information."
She resisted the urge to smack him. "Cregan, this isn't just a normal fight. There are no rules here. No safety. You think some hedge knight is going to stop and let you yield if you get hurt? You think a bear is going to care that you're a Stark?"
"It's not as bad as you think," Cregan said simply.
Sara turned to Jace, exasperated. "Help me talk some sense into him."
Jace shrugged. "I get it. If I could, I'd still be in."
Sara groaned. "Of course you would."
Cregan placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I'll be fine, Sara."
She clenched her jaw, wanting to argue, but it wouldn't change anything. Cregan had already made up his mind. He pulled her into a quick, tight embrace before she could protest. "I promise," he murmured, then let go and strode off toward the tents.
Sara watched him go, arms still crossed. "Stubborn fool," she muttered.
Jace chuckled beside her. "Similar to someone else I know."
Sara swung her fist into Jace's shoulder without thinking. He barely flinched, though the Kingsguard behind him stiffened, his hand going straight to the hilt of his sword. Jace caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and shot the knight a warning look. The man hesitated before easing his grip, but he still watched Sara with wary eyes.
Jace shoved her away playfully, a smirk on his face. "You worry too much."
Sara groaned, her frustration spilling out. She turned and jabbed her finger toward the lion's cage again, where the massive beast prowled restlessly. "And you expect Cregan to fight that?"
Jace glanced at the lion but didn't look fazed. "Your brother is a skilled warrior. He's not a fool—he knows his limits."
Sara scoffed. "You have far too much faith in him."
Jace placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Trust him."
Sara clenched her jaw, breathing through her frustration, but finally nodded. She knew trying to stop Cregan was pointless. He was as immovable as a mountain when he set his mind to something. But she had to try—because she loved him too much not to.
Jace removed his hand, and they started walking, weaving through the empty arena stands. The tournament grounds were eerily quiet now, a stark contrast to what they would be in a few hours. The blood melee would turn this place into chaos, and if Sara thought about it too much, she'd go mad.
She changed the subject. "How are your injuries?"
Jace flexed his fingers before rolling his shoulders. "I feel good."
Sara shot him a look. "Liar."
Jace just chuckled. "Fine. I feel mostly good."
Sara huffed but let it go. They reached a section of the empty stands, and she climbed up a few steps before plopping down on a bench. Jace sat beside her, stretching his legs out in front of him.
Sara groaned as she scanned the arena. "This entire thing is ridiculous. A melee is one thing, but adding animals into it? It's madness."
Jace grinned. "That's the point."
Sara rolled her eyes. "You and my brother are idiots. Sneaking into the preliminaries like that—what were you thinking?"
Jace shrugged. "I never claimed to be smart."
Sara scoffed. "Clearly."
Silence settled between them for a moment, the tension in her shoulders slowly easing. She rested her elbows on her knees, staring out at the field.
"I'm worried," she admitted quietly. "I don't know what I'd do without Cregan."
Jace turned his head to look at her. He placed a hand on her knee, grounding her. "You won't have to find out. I won't let anything happen to him."
Sara didn't know why, but that promise eased something deep inside her. She wasn't sure if it was the confidence in his voice or the way he looked at her—like his words weren't just empty reassurances. Like he meant every single one of them.
She shifted closer without thinking, pressing her shoulder lightly against his. "Thank you," she murmured.
Jace didn't move away. He didn't seem to mind at all. Jace leaned back, resting his elbows on the bench behind him, exhaling slowly. "You know, you could sit with us in the royal box," he said casually, glancing at Sara out of the corner of his eye.
She scoffed. "Pass. I'd rather not spend the afternoon listening to those cunt uncles of yours."
Jace laughed, his grin widening. "That's fair. I've half a mind not to go there myself."
Sara smirked, but the amusement faded after a moment. She hesitated, tapping her fingers against her knee, then glanced at him. "Would you—" She cut herself off, cleared her throat, and tried again. "Would you like to watch it with me instead?" Her voice was quieter, less sure of itself. She shifted in her seat, her posture suddenly less relaxed.
Jace hesitated, caught off guard by the question.
Because he hesitated, Sara quickly backtracked, waving a hand dismissively. "You don't have to," she said, her voice forced into a nonchalant tone. "Forget I asked."
Jace shook his head. "No—I will." Sara turned to look at him again, her expression uncertain. Jace smiled at her. "I'll need to make an appearance in the royal box first, but after that, I'll find you."
Sara's face lit up for a brief moment before she schooled her features, trying to appear indifferent. "Alright then," she said, shifting her weight and looking out at the empty arena.
Before either of them could say anything else, the Kingsguard behind Jace cleared his throat. "My prince," he said, his tone polite but firm, "the royal party will be expecting you soon."
Jace nodded, standing up and stretching his arms over his head before letting them drop. He turned back to Sara. "I'll see you later, then. Try not to worry too much—enjoy it."
Sara huffed. "I'll try."
Jace grinned, giving her a slight nod before turning on his heel and heading off, the Kingsguard falling in step behind him. Sara watched him go, drumming her fingers against her knee before shaking her head and looking back out at the arena.
___________________________
The sun beat down hard on the tournament grounds, the heat making the packed dirt of the arena dry and cracked. Massive wooden fences had been raised along the perimeter, reinforced with iron bands to ensure that nothing inside got out. Behind the barriers, the cages stood lined up, thick iron bars holding back the beasts that would soon be loosed upon the combatants. Lions paced restlessly, their heavy paws thudding against the wood of their enclosures. A massive brown bear growled low in its throat, sniffing the air as if it could already smell the blood to come. Packs of wolves, starved for days, huddled together, their yellow eyes darting wildly. Other creatures—smaller but no less dangerous—rattled their cages, waiting.
The crowd filled the stands to bursting, the noise of thousands of voices blending into a constant roar. Lords and ladies sat in their designated areas, shaded under canopies of bright silk, their servants waving fans to keep them cool. Below them, the common folk were pressed together, packed tight like cattle. They shouted, cheered, jeered, and laughed, already deep into their cups despite the event not yet beginning. The scent of roasted meats filled the air—sizzling boar on spits, trays of grilled fish pulled fresh from Blackwater Bay, skewers of spiced lamb dripping fat onto open flames. Serving wenches wove through the masses, carrying heavy trays of ale, wine, and cider, their dresses stained from spilled drink and the grasping hands of drunkards.
Merchants took advantage of the competition, calling out their wares from stalls just outside the arena, selling everything from baked pies to cheap trinkets bearing the sigils of great houses. A group of hedge knights stood near one of the entrances, loudly placing wagers on who would survive the melee. A few of them laughed, one of them shaking his head. "None of them. The fucking animals are gonna tear 'em apart."
The nobles had taken their seats on the upper dais, their banners fluttering in the hot wind. The Lannisters sat in gold-trimmed seats, their crimson cloaks bright against the sun. The Tyrells lounged in comfort, their servants tending to them with trays of cool fruit and damp cloths. The Baratheons were among the loudest, their booming laughter cutting through the noise. Even the Dornish—ast least those who had not joined the royal family—resplendent in silks of deep red and gold, had taken their seats.
Above them all, high above the dirt and sweat and blood, sat the royal box. It was the grandest structure in the entire arena, an elevated platform covered in deep purple and black banners, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flapping lazily in the breeze. Long tables groaned under the weight of food—golden platters of honeyed duck, bowls overflowing with ripe summer fruits, wheels of cheese and fresh loaves of bread, cuts of beef swimming in thick sauces. Servants moved constantly, refilling goblets of wine and mead, clearing empty plates before they could pile too high.
Jace stood at the very edge, one hand resting on the railing, the other holding a cup of wine. He had barely touched it. His eyes scanned the arena below, searching the faces of the competitors, picking out the familiar figures. His grip on the cup tightened slightly when he spotted Cregan among them. He couldn't see his face as he was disguised in his mystery knight armour, but he could tell he was focus, he was adjusting the straps of his armor while the others around him paced and fidgeted. Jace exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
Jace took a slow sip of his wine, more out of habit than anything, his eyes flicking back to Cregan one last time before he turned away from the railing. His gaze landed on Aegon, and his irritation flared immediately. His uncle was drinking far more than Alicent had permitted, the silver-haired boy already glassy-eyed as he slouched in his seat, goblet in hand. The wine sloshed as he lifted it to his lips, some of it spilling onto his embroidered tunic. He barely seemed to notice.
A serving girl passed by, and Aegon reached out with a lazy grin, trying to grab her wrist. She twisted away, forced to step back quickly to avoid his grasp, her face tight with discomfort.
"Aegon," Alicent snapped, her voice sharp but low enough not to cause a scene.
"What?" Aegon slurred, turning to his mother with a smirk. "I was just being friendly."
"You've had enough," she said, motioning for a servant to take his cup away.
Aegon huffed but didn't argue. Instead, he let his head fall back against the seat, rolling his eyes. "When is this bloody thing going to start I'm almost falling asleep here."
Jace's grip tightened around his own cup, a sharp pulse of irritation running through him. He had little patience for Aegon on the best of days, but when he was drunk, he was even more unbearable. Nearby, Daeron was wailing in Alicent's lap, the youngest prince clearly distressed by the noise of the crowd. His small fists clenched at the fabric of her dress, his face red and tear-streaked. Alicent bounced him slightly, whispering softly in his ear to soothe him, but the noise of the crowd was relentless, and the child was inconsolable.
"Take him inside," Alicent finally ordered one of the maids, her voice tight with frustration.
A wet nurse stepped forward, carefully lifting Daeron from the queen's arms, cradling him as she hurried toward the shaded entrance of the royal box, where the noise would be more muffled. The moment he was gone, Alicent let out a slow breath, rubbing at her temple.
Jace turned his attention back to the rest of the royal family. His mother was speaking quietly with his father, her expression tight with barely concealed annoyance. She was likely irritated with the whole event, disapproving of the spectacle of the blood melee. Daemon, on the other hand, was at ease, reclining back with a lazy smirk, watching the arena with a glint of amusement in his eyes.
"I wonder how long they'll last," Daemon mused, swirling his wine.
"Some of them will be dead within minutes," Laenor said, shaking his head.
"Some of them?" Daemon chuckled. "Half, at least."
Alicent shot them both a sharp look. "This is barbaric."
Daemon raised a brow. "Yes, and? If I had to watch another boring melee I'd be tempted to set the field alight."
Jace sighed, his irritation mounting. He wanted to be anywhere else. He could already feel the headache forming, his patience running thin with every passing moment. Helaena, sitting nearby, shifted slightly closer to him, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. "Are you worried?" she asked softly.
Jace glanced at her, noting the concern in her violet eyes. "About what?"
"Cregan."
He hesitated, then sighed, looking back at the arena. "He's strong. He knows what he's doing."
Helaena nodded but didn't look convinced. "I don't like this, this can't be safe... how could anyone possible win."
Jace exhaled slowly, watching the arena below. "It's possible no one will win," he admitted, keeping his voice level. "No one really knows how it'll play out. We'll just have to wait and see."
Helaena's brows furrowed, her fingers tightening slightly in her lap. "I don't like it."
Jace didn't blame her. It was a brutal spectacle, even for the standards of Westeros. He turned his head slightly, feeling her gaze lingering on him.
"Is something wrong?" she asked quietly. "You've been off ever since breakfast."
Jace clenched his jaw. He hadn't told her about the betrothal. He didn't know how. The moment he said the words, it would be real, and he wasn't ready for that. Not when he knew it would break her heart. And in truth, he didn't want to say anything until he knew for certain that there was no way out of it.
"I'm okay," he said finally, forcing a small smile. It was weak, and he knew she could see through it, but she didn't press him further.
"Go sit down," he told her, gesturing to her seat. "I'll join you in a moment."
Helaena hesitated, watching him for a second longer before nodding. She turned and made her way back to her seat, slipping down beside Maris Baratheon, who was there at Jace's invitation. The Baratheon girl offered her a polite smile, but Jace barely registered it. He turned on his heel and made his way toward the table of food, grabbing a piece of roasted meat and taking a bite. He chewed slowly, trying to settle the frustration twisting in his gut.
As he reached for a cup of wine, a familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Are you well?"
Jace turned his head slightly, finding his grandfather Corlys standing beside him. The old man's gaze was steady, his arms crossed as he studied Jace carefully. Jace exhaled sharply. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?" he muttered, irritation flaring. "I'm fine."
Corlys remained stoic, unmoved by Jace's sharp tone. "You still walk with a limp," he observed. "I wanted to know if your injuries were still giving you trouble."
Jace blinked, then let out a quiet breath. "Oh." He rubbed a hand across his face. "I'm sorry."
Corlys didn't seem offended. "There's no need for that."
Jace hesitated for a moment before sighing. "My injuries are fine. But my mind is troubled."
Corlys studied him, then put a firm hand on his shoulder. "Then change it."
Jace frowned, confused. "What?"
"It's the mark of a weak man who complains about his circumstances yet continues to exist in them," Corlys said simply.
Jace scoffed. "What if I can't change them?"
Corlys took a sip of his wine before answering. "There's always a choice, even when it doesn't seem like it. The difference between those who shape the world and those who are shaped by it is the will to act."
Jace furrowed his brow. "And if the only choices I have are ones I don't want?"
"Then you make a new path," Corlys said. "The only true failure is giving up."
Jace was quiet for a long moment, turning over the words in his head.
"You've always been smart," Corlys continued. "Smarter than most boys your age. You've seen more, done more. If there's something troubling you, figure out what you need to do to fix it." He paused, taking another drink. "No one else will do it for you."
Jace slowly nodded, some of the frustration in his chest loosening. "I'll think on it."
"Good," Corlys said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder before turning to leave.
Before Jace could fully process the conversation, a sudden shift in the atmosphere of the royal box caught his attention. A herald had stepped forward, his voice carrying through the space.
"Prince Qoren Martell of Dorne and his daughter, Princess Aliandra Martell!"
Jace turned as they walked in. The Prince of Dorne stepped forward, a tall man with broad shoulders and a lean build, his black hair streaked with grey and pulled back tight. He wore a long robe of orange and red silk, the colors of his house, cinched with a gold belt that clinked softly with each step. His face was calm and blank, lined with years under the Dornish sun. But it was his daughter who caught every eye in the royal box.
Jace had not truly looked at her before, he hadn't much cared for women's appearances, he'd only recently started to appreciate them. So being able to inspect the Dornish Princess he could now understand why his Grandfather seemed to think he was doing him a favour by matching them.
Princess Aliandra had a young body just starting to grow into itself. Her skin was a deep tan color from the sun. She was short and thin, but her hips were getting wider. Her chest had small breasts, barely pushing against the tight silk dress she wore. The dress was so thin it showed the outline of her body clearly. Her waist was small, and her legs were long and skinny, visible through the fabric when she walked. Her arms were thin too, with small hands that looked soft and delicate. Her face was beautiful—admittedly one of the most beautiful Jace had ever seen. Her dark eyes were large and sharp, framed by thick lashes. Her cheekbones were high, her nose small and straight, and her lips full and pink against her tanned skin. She smiled slowly, then ran her tongue over her lips, wetting them as she stared at him.
She stepped closer, and Jace smelled a faint spicy scent from her. "My Prince," she said, her voice quiet and teasing, "you look... tense." Her fingers touched the dagger on her hip, resting there like she wanted him to think about her hands moving somewhere else.
Jace barely resisted the urge to sigh.
This was going to be a long day.
Jace forced a polite smile, dipping his head slightly in greeting. "Princess," he said evenly. "It's a pleasure to see you again."
Aliandra's lips curled at the edges, her dark eyes gleaming with something close to amusement. "I should hope so," she murmured, tilting her head just slightly, studying him as if he were something worth devouring. "Though I must admit, you don't sound particularly excited."
Jace kept his expression carefully neutral. "You'll have to forgive me, Princess," he said smoothly. "It's been a long morning."
Aliandra chuckled softly. "I can imagine," she said, trailing a hand over the hilt of her dagger once more. "You must be so very busy with all your duties. I'm sure it must be exhausting." Her eyes flickered downward for the briefest moment before meeting his again. "I do hope you've been getting enough rest."
Jace resisted the urge to sigh, instead keeping his posture composed as she leaned in ever so slightly, making her intent obvious. He could feel the weight of other eyes on him—Helaena, Daella, and Maris all watching, their expressions ranging from displeased to outright irritated.
Before he could think of a response, Viserys spoke, drawing attention back to himself. "Prince Qoren, Princess Aliandra," the King said, his voice warm as he greeted them. "It is an honor to have you both here again?"
Prince Qoren inclined his head, his expression steady, unreadable. "The hospitality of House Targaryen is generous, King Viserys."
Aliandra, standing beside her father, offered a dazzling smile. "We are most grateful for the welcome," she said smoothly. "It is a grand occasion. One I would not miss."
Viserys beamed at that, clearly pleased. "Then allow me to ensure you have the best view of the spectacle." He gestured to two open seats set slightly apart from the others, positioned where the view of the arena was unobstructed. "I have provided seating that will give you the best vantage point. And Jace," he added, turning to his grandson with a warm look, "I'd like you to keep Princess Aliandra company."
Jace barely had time to react before Aliandra seized the opportunity, linking her arm through his and pulling him forward. "I'd love that, Your Grace," she purred before Jace could get a word in.
He considered refusing, but refusing a King's command in front of non-family would only cause unnecessary problems. So, with his forced smile still in place, he allowed himself to be pulled along. Aliandra's hand closed on his arm, pulling him into the seat beside her with a tug that held a moment too long. She slid into her own chair, her thigh brushing his under the table, her warmth pressing through the silk of her dress. Jace kept his back straight, hands resting on his knees, unmoving.
"I missed you after the melee," she said, her voice smooth and low, like a caress against his ear. "I wanted to find you, get a closer look." She tilted her head, dark hair slipping over her shoulder, her face—sharp cheekbones, full lips, piercing eyes—one of the most beautiful he'd ever seen.
Jace lifted his wine, took a sip, and set it down, eyes fixed ahead. "I had things to do," he said, flat.
Her smile curved, subtle and knowing. "Always busy," she murmured, fingers tracing the rim of her cup in a slow, deliberate circle. "You're a hard man to catch, Jace. Makes me curious."
He didn't look at her. "I don't waste time on games."
"Shame," she said, her knee nudging his, light but intentional. "I'm skilled at them." She paused, studying him. "You've been cold since I got here. What's eating at you?"
He stayed silent, jaw tight.
Her eyes sharpened, cutting through him. "Oh," she breathed, lips twitching upward. "It's the betrothal, isn't it?" She leaned closer, her voice a warm whisper near his ear. "You don't like being tied to me."
Jace turned his head, meeting her gaze. "I don't like being tied to anyone by force," he said, voice hard.
Her smile didn't falter, though her eyes flickered with interest. "Strong words," she whispered, her breath grazing his cheek. "I had a hand in it, you know. A woman takes what she wants, Jace—and I want you."
He stared back, expression blank. "You're not getting me."
She laughed softly, a low, throaty sound. "So certain," she said, settling back, sipping her wine. Her tongue slid out, catching a drop on her lip, slow and deliberate. "You're not some fool I can bend with a smile. That's why I'm drawn to you, you are fun."
"I'm not here to entertain you," he said, voice clipped.
"You don't have to try," she replied, her knee pressing against his again, firmer now. "I've watched you—how you think, how you carry yourself. You're sharp, Jace. I'd wager you'd match me anywhere." Her fingers rested on her dagger, thumb stroking the hilt.
He shifted his leg away. "I don't bet on nonsense."
Her lips parted in a sly grin. "No bets, then," she purred, leaning in closer. "Picture it—us alone, no eyes. I'd show you what I can do—slow, deep, until you're needing me." Her voice stayed hushed, her knee sliding back to his thigh.
Jace didn't budge. "Keep your fantasies to yourself," he said, cold.
Her eyes glinted, undeterred. "I'd start gentle," she murmured. "Hands on you, roaming slow, then my mouth—hot, wet, tasting you until you're stiff and restless." Her words were a quiet promise, her gaze locked on his.
He turned his head slightly, voice steady. "I'm not interested."
She didn't pull back, her smile turning wicked. "I'd make you feel it," she said, voice sultry and sure. "I'd ride you, Jace—take you in deep, squeeze you tight until you can't sit there stone-faced." Her hand brushed the table, fingers inching near his, a fleeting touch.
He moved his hand to his knee. "You're wasting your breath," he said, firm.
Her laugh was soft, teasing. "I'd fuck you senseless," she whispered, licking her lips, slow and wet. "Grind on you until you're panting, too spent to push me off." Her thigh pressed harder against his, warm and insistent.
Jace met her stare, unflinching. "Speak all you want," he said. "It's not happening."
She tilted her head, eyes burning with challenge. "Oh, Jace," she breathed, her voice a sultry thread. "You're stubborn—I like that. I'd strip you down, take you in my mouth until your legs shake, then ride you until you're begging me to stop."
"I don't beg," he said, voice like iron. "And you're not my type."
Her breath hitched, just for a second, then she smiled, sly and hungry. "You'd feel me," she promised, her tone dripping with want. "I'd make you hard, make you ache, until you can't think of anything but me."
The crowd roared as the Blood Melee was close to beginning, but her focus stayed on him. "I'll wear you down," she said, her knee still against his. "Step by step, until you're mine."
Jace looked at her, face set. "You'll tire out first," he said, turning his eyes to the arena.
Her grin lingered. "Oh, my prince," she murmured, sipping her wine, her tongue darting out again, "you'll find I have as much stamina as the dragon you ride." The air between them hummed, but Jace kept his gaze forward, refusing to shift or acknowledge her words even as his body betrayed him. He sat rigid, pretending he was unmoved, though the truth gnawed at him—he was a boy just stepping into manhood, and here was this older girl, beautiful beyond reason, whispering filthy things while her leg pressed against his. Heat crawled up his neck, his breeches tightening uncomfortably, but he clamped down on it, locking his jaw. His pride wouldn't let him flinch, and he wouldn't give her the satisfaction—or let Helaena see him falter, knowing it'd sting her worse than a blade.
Aliandra shifted then, leaning in closer, her shoulder brushing his and her hair tickling his arm as she turned her head slightly. Helaena sat there, her pale face tight, scowling down at them while Daella and Maris flanked her, their own glares cutting through the crowd. Aliandra's eyes flicked between them, taking it in, and then a giggle slipped out—soft, throaty, the sound curling around him like smoke. "You've quite the following, Jace," she said, her voice low and teasing, meant just for his ears, as she tilted her head back to him, letting her breath fan across his cheek. "All those sweet girls watching you like hawks—do they think I'll steal you away?"
Jace didn't answer right away, instead turning his head to look at Helaena, catching her eyes across the distance. Her hands were folded in her lap, fingers twisting together, and he could see the worry etched into her frown. He softened his face, letting a small, steady smile pull at his lips—not bright, not forced, just enough to tell her and the others he was still hers. Helaena's shoulders eased a fraction, and Daella stopped whispering to Maris, though their stares lingered. But before he could hold the moment, Aliandra's hand darted out, her fingers wrapping around his chin, turning his face back to her with a gentle but firm tug. She smirked, her dark eyes glinting as she reached for his wine cup, lifting it to her lips and taking a slow sip, her tongue brushing the rim where his mouth had been.
"It's rude to ignore your guest," she said, setting the cup down with a faint clink, her smirk widening as she licked a stray drop from her lip, watching him like she knew exactly what she was doing. Her knee pressed harder against his thigh under the table, and she shifted her weight, letting her hip nudge his side, her dress rustling faintly against him.
"You're annoying," Jace said, keeping his voice flat and his eyes steady before he turned his head back to the field, focusing on the packed dirt and the fighters milling below. He crossed his arms over his chest, locking them there to keep his hands still, refusing to let her see the heat pooling in his gut or the way his pulse kicked up when her scent—spiced and warm—hit him again. She opened her mouth to say something else, probably another taunt, but the horn blared out across the arena, cutting her off.
The crowd roared to life, feet stomping and voices rising, and Jace let out a quiet breath, glad for the reprieve as every eye turned to the sands where the Blood Melee was about to start.
(AN: A bit more character development in this chapter. You'll find the Dornish Princess to be an important character in the future. She'll be the future ruler of Dorne so it's unsurprising. She's a bit of a bitch and pretty manipulative but who knows man maybe that's hot. Anyway the next chapter shall be the long awaited Blood Melee. Hope you liked the chapter.)
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