Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jamie’s POV:

The car rolled to a stop outside the Daynes’ summer home. Jamie stepped out with his lone duffel bag, the ocean breeze meeting him before his boots hit the gravel. Moonlight spilled over the waves, turning them silver, and for a moment he could almost hear Jon’s laughter in the distance. The soundless memory tugged a smile out of him.

He sighed and started up the path to the door. No lights glowed in the windows, though that didn’t mean Arthur was asleep. He tapped his knuckles against the door, sharp and loud, then glanced back toward the water.

Gods, he hoped he didn’t look like a cub begging for a den.

The thought made him grimace. He hitched the duffel higher on his shoulder, straightened his spine, and schooled his face into something that didn’t scream wounded.

It didn’t take long before Jamie heard steps on the other side of the door, the clink of locks, and then it swung open.

Arthur stood there in his work attire, hair tousled from bedhead, though he didn’t look like he’d just woken up.

Jamie flashed a smile. “Got room for a new roommate?”

“You know where the guest bedroom is,” Arthur said softly. His tone wasn’t pitying, but it didn’t ignore the fact Jamie was trying to hide his wounds, either. He stepped aside, letting him in.

The house felt open yet warm. Cozy, even. He’d never really thought of houses as cozy. The Targaryen place was more of a family home than a cozy one, and the Lannister estates, whether in Lannisport or here, had never felt that way. Not since—

“You hungry?” Arthur asked, shutting the door and locking it.

“No,” Jamie said, smirking faintly. “But you got anything to make me forget what day it is?”

Arthur’s mouth curved in the barest smile. “Do I have the stuff for you.” He turned toward the kitchen. “Make yourself at home.”

“Yeah…” Jamie murmured, “Home.” The word sat foreign on his tongue, edged with bitterness.

Jamie set his duffel bag by the kitchen and hopped up onto the counter. He watched as Arthur opened the cabinet above the sink, pulling down a bottle. The kitchen was smaller than the Targaryen's’ but somehow warmer, purple-and-white towels neatly hung, a few stickers on the oven and fridge that didn’t match but felt lived-in.

Arthur poured two glasses of whiskey and crossed over, handing one to Jamie before leaning against the opposite counter.

Jamie took his and knocked back half in one go, the burn crawling down his throat. Arthur only sipped.

“Rough night?” Jamie asked.

Arthur exhaled through his nose. “Yeah… rough day?”

Jamie stared into the amber in his glass. “Yeah.”

They stayed in silence, listening to the ocean waves crash against the shore nearby. Jamie finished his glass, and without a word, Arthur handed him the bottle. Without thinking, Jamie took long swigs until half the bottle was gone. His head spun, light and heavy all at once.

Arthur took their empty glasses and moved to the sink. “You know Jon’s coming back tomorrow? He’s moving in with Rhaegar and setting up his tattoo shop.” He turned on the faucet, washing the glasses with steady hands.

Jamie stared at the whiskey bottle, watching the liquid swirl as he tilted it. A small smile tugged at his lips, and his heart felt lighter. “Maybe I’ll pay a neighborly visit.”

“Jamie, they live on the other side of King’s Landing.” Arthur set the glasses on the drying rack without looking up.

Jamie smirked. “Well, he’ll need help moving, won’t he?” He hopped off the counter, stretching. “I’m going to bed.”

“Goodnight.” Arthur dried his hands quietly. He said nothing about the bottle, so Jamie assumed he could take it with him.

Jamie sat on the edge of the guest bed, the empty whiskey bottle resting loosely in his hand. The room was quiet, too quiet, but his mind buzzed with the weight of their conversation.

He thought about Jon. Not the words exactly, but the way Jon looked at him, the hesitation and something else beneath it. There was a kind of vulnerability there that Jamie hadn’t expected, something fragile, yet stubborn.

Jamie wasn’t ready to unravel it all tonight. Some things were better left alone for now, like the steady pull of the tides outside his window.

So, he let the silence stretch out, letting his thoughts drift back to Jon’s laughter, his quiet strength. Maybe tomorrow would bring clarity. Maybe not.

For now, Jamie just sat there, waiting, hoping, and holding onto the small flicker of something he wasn’t ready to name.

Chapter Text

Jon’s POV:

He parked the moving truck beside Rhaegar’s home, now his home too. A smile tugged at his lips when he spotted the greenhouse being rebuilt, a sign of life and renewal. He laughed softly and reached over to pat Ghost’s head. “You ready to see it him again, boy?”

Ghost sat in the passenger seat, tail flickering with excitement, eyes bright with curiosity. Jon didn’t expect to feel homesick leaving King’s Landing, but packing his things had stirred something he hadn’t anticipated. Still, he missed this place more than he realized, the horses grazing in the fields, the garden tending itself under the sun, and the soft music of his father playing while Jon lost himself in his sketchbook.

Just then, he heard the rumble of his uncle’s truck pulling up, Arya’s laughter carrying on the breeze.

The front door swung open, and his father, Arthur, Arianne, and Jamie stepped outside.

Jon’s gaze flickered between them: Arthur, calm and steady as ever; his father, eyes bright with the same excitement Jon felt; Arianne, smiling broadly and running toward the car; and Jamie, wearing that familiar, charming smirk.

He hopped out of the moving truck and hugged Arianne as she jumped into his arms. He lifted her up and squeezed tight.

“Welcome baaaaack!! How I’ve missed your quiet presence in that damned office!” Arianne laughed.

Jon chuckled. “Wow, that bad, huh?” He gently set her back down.

Ghost jumped out of the truck and ran past them like they didn’t matter, full speed toward Rhaegar, tackling him down.

Rhaegar fell with a laugh. “Oh gods!”

Arthur raised an eyebrow but smiled, standing back to watch the chaos.

Jon smiled. “Well, good to know he missed him.”

Jamie wrapped an arm around Jon’s shoulders from the side. He was casual about it, but Jon caught the glint of happiness in his eyes. “Good to see you again, Snowflake. Was afraid King’s Landing scared you away forever.”

Arianne giggled. “Yeah… because that’s what you were afraid of.”

Jamie rolled his eyes.

“YOU STOLE MY GUMMY WORMS!!” Arya yelled from the moving truck, holding up the empty bag like hard evidence.

“You left them on the counter! Not my fault!” Jon huffed, hearing the truck’s door close behind him.

Jamie sneered, “Didn’t take you for a thief.”

“Again, they were just lying there! No one else touched them. Not. My. Fault.” Jon laughed.

Arthur walked past, ruffling Jon’s hair. “Welcome back.” He smiled and headed to the back to help with the moving.

Jon smiled back. “Thanks, Arthur.”

Arya hopped down from the truck, clutching the empty gummy worm bag. “You owe me more gummy worms!”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine!”

Arianne giggled, “And who’s this?”

“This is one of my cousins, Arya. She’s helping move but also looking for colleges here,” Jon nodded.

“Ooo, college,” Jamie laughed, letting go of Jon. The warmth between them faded as he walked behind the truck. “I remember nothing of my time there.”

Arianne rolled her eyes. “Old man can’t remember anything.”

“I’m only in my mid-thirties! Barely!” Jamie snapped.

“In any case,” Arianne smiled, ignoring Jamie, “So what are you thinking of doing?”

Arya glanced at Jon, then back at Arianne. “Marine biologist.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely choice! I know the perfect university for that, maybe I can get you in, if you want. If not, there are plenty of others specializing in marine life.”

“Really?” Arya’s eyes widened. She looked at Jon again.

Jon chuckled. “We can go look if Arianne’s up for it.”

“Of course I am!” She giggled. “Well, I’m heading inside to finish lunch. If you want, you can come with me and let the boys do all the heavy lifting.” She booped Jon’s nose. “My family sends their warmest regards and got you a bottle of our finest wine as a welcome home gift.”

“Wow, I feel so special.” Jon smiled.

Arya groaned, “Gods… are you two dating?”

“Huh?” Jon furrowed his brow but suddenly felt eyes burning holes in his back.

Arianne laughed. “Oh no! He doesn’t like peaches; he’s interested in gold.” She teased, then left.

Arya looked confused but quietly followed her. “Gold…?”

Jon felt the burn fade from his chest, replaced by a flutter he couldn’t quite name. Part of him wanted to glance over his shoulder, but another part wanted to hold onto the suspense, like savoring the first page of a book he’d been waiting years to read.

Then Ghost appeared, barreling toward them with his tongue lolling, tail sweeping side to side in frantic joy.

“Well,” came the familiar voice, warm and teasing, “Do I finally have room to say hello?”

Jon looked up, and every step forward felt instinctive. Before he knew it, he was wrapping his arms around his father, clinging like he could anchor them both in place. He buried his face into Rhaegar’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of pine and something faintly smoky, the smell that had always meant home. Rhaegar’s arms came around him in return, strong and certain.

“Hope you didn’t miss us too much,” Jon murmured against him.

“Gods, you’d think it’s been years, the way Ghost acted,” Rhaegar said with a laugh, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Welcome home.”

Jon pulled back just enough to look at him. There was still weight on those shoulders, the kind that never fully went away, but so much of it had lifted. He looked… lighter. Better. Stronger. His hair had grown longer since Jon had last seen him, brushed neatly, catching the light like spun silver.

“You look good,” Jon said quietly.

“Yeah? And you look like your curls have gotten wilder,” Rhaegar countered, twirling one around his finger with a grin.

Jon groaned. “I accidentally boxed up my hair products. Now they’re wild and—ugh!”

“So,” Rhaegar said, deadpan, “find the hair products as quickly as possible?”

“Yes,” Jon laughed.

They fell into step together, heading toward the others. The day had only just begun, but Jon already knew, this was the part worth coming home for.

They’d managed to get all the larger objects into the house, along with a few boxes into Jon’s room. Half the moving truck was filled with his tattoo equipment and other shop supplies, so the boxes had to be separated after everything got mixed together. No one seemed to mind, and maybe they were taking longer than they should have.

Ned and Arthur handled most of the heavy lifting, working together surprisingly well.

Rhaegar stood near the doorway, sorting through the boxes while Jon passed them over.

Jamie ferried the ones bound for the other rooms.

When Arianne finally called them for lunch, the table was already set, dishes laid out in the center.

Jon smiled as he stepped inside. “Smells really good in here.”

Rhaegar took his usual seat, Jon sliding into the chair beside him. “Lovely as always,” Rhaegar said.

Ned, Arya, and Arianne sat on Jon’s side of the table; Arthur and Jamie took the other. Jamie ended up directly across from Arya, which didn’t seem like a problem at first, until Jon noticed the way they were looking at each other.

Arya stared at Jamie like he’d personally insulted her entire bloodline.

Jamie stared back like a cat deciding whether to swat at a toy.

The tension wasn’t hostile, exactly. More like… inexplicable, unspoken beef that had materialized out of nowhere.

Arya was first to speak between the beef, “You know… you looked older than you are.”

Jamie narrowed his eyes. “Tsk. And you look like you just came out of a dumpster.”

“At least I’m not drooling over someone who wasn’t even born when you started losing your hair.” Arya took a casual bite of her food.

Arthur chuckled, hiding his face behind his glass.

Jamie shot a glare at him before turning back to Arya. “Bold words from someone who still needs a step stool to reach the top shelf.”

Rhaegar smiled. “Are you beefing with a child?”

Jamie looked at him. “She fucking started it!”

Arianne burst out laughing.

Jon leaned back, looking between the two. “Whoa… this lunch is turning into a full-on roasting match?”

Arthur took a deep breath. “My money’s on Arya.”

Arianne giggled. “Same here!”

Jamie scoffed. “Oh, thanks, guys! I love the support on my side.”

Jon laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll put my money on you.”

Jamie flashed him a smile. “Well, I’ve got someone.”

Rhaegar hummed softly. “Of course you would.”

Jon turned his head. “What was that?”

Rhaegar glanced at him, face unreadable. “Hm? I didn’t say anything.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “N-no… no, you said something.”

His father met his gaze steadily. “Jon, I didn’t say anything.”

“No… no! You’re gaslighting me!”

Jon looked baffled. He truly couldn’t tell with his father, but he had a feeling.

He heard his uncle huff out a small laugh.

Jon quickly glanced at Rhaegar, then back again. “You are gaslighting me!!”

“Damnit, Stark!” Rhaegar laughed.

Ned chuckled, “I’m sorry… gods.”

Laughter filled the table, warm and inviting. Jon absolutely loved seeing them together, especially his uncle and father, considering their rough start.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Jamie watching him, a real smile across his lips, sitting casually but confident. Jon felt a flutter in his stomach, wanting to capture that look, to see it more often. Perhaps it was selfish to think so, especially since he wasn’t even sure what he felt.

The day continued, with the last of the boxes being moved into the house. Jon sat on the front porch, opening one box to find where his hair products had ended up. “I really should have named these better than just ‘tattoo shop’ and ‘home,’” he groaned.

Ghost padded over and lay down beside him, huffing softly as his tail flickered.

“Hey, bud.” Jon reached over and petted his head.

“Jamie, where the fuck is your shirt?” Arthur called from somewhere near the moving truck.

Jon looked up, innocently curious, only to be met with Jamie, indeed shirtless. The sun hit him just right, making the sweat gleam on his golden tan skin. His hair was tied back in a ponytail, lying neatly over his shoulder. Jon tried to pry his eyes away and focus back on the box, but his gaze kept flickering back.

Gods, how does he manage to look so effortless even like this? Jon thought, cheeks warming. Stop staring, it’s not like you don’t see him all the time.

“It’s hot out here,” Jamie said casually.

Arthur chuckled. “It’s not that hot.” He sounded like he knew more than he was letting on.

Jon glanced at Ghost, feeling his ears burn. The judgment in the dog’s eyes said it all.

Even Ghost’s on to me.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jon muttered, returning to rummage through the box.

“Hey,” Jamie said, voice smooth and warm. “Need to check this one? I think I hear your hair products in it.”

Jon chuckled, pushing the box in front of him aside. Afraid to look up and embarrass himself, he whispered, “Sure.”

Jamie knelt beside him, setting another box down. The scent of cedar and rosemary wafted from him, relaxing Jon instantly.

He always smells good, Jon thought, heart skipping. Why does that make me so nervous?

“You going to open it?” Jamie whispered.

Jon’s cheeks flushed as he quietly began to lift the lid.

Inside the box were all his hair products, his facial creams, absolutely everything he’d been missing. Jon gasped, “Yes, it is!”

So happy and surprised, he didn’t think twice before pulling Jamie into a quick, grateful hug. “Thank you, thank you! I finally get to take a proper shower and not feel gross!”

Jamie laughed, returning the hug with ease. “Least I can do, since you bet money on me.”

Jon chuckled, stepping back slightly, cheeks warming as he caught a faint pink dusting Jamie’s own cheeks. “Still… thanks…”

Jamie shrugged nonchalantly, trying to hide the flush. “No problem at all.”

Jon turned back to the box, a smile firmly planted on his face, the little moment lingering warmly in the air.

“Do you get hot easily out here?” Jon teased, glancing back at Jamie, who leaned back on his hands.

Jamie met his gaze, smirking with that familiar confidence. “Only when a certain person is around. Then it gets really hot.”

Jon chuckled, shaking his head.

Maybe this—this easy laughter, this quiet understanding—is exactly what I’ve been waiting for.

Chapter Text

Jon’s POV:

Jon stood beside Arthur and Uncle Ned, gazing across the empty shop space. It was larger than he’d expected, the bare floor echoing with possibility, and a little bit of uncertainty. Cozy wasn’t a word that came to mind just yet, but it was a start. Having a place to call his own felt like a small victory.

“I suppose we can put the sofa against the window, table in the middle, chairs off to the side for now. The tattoo equipment will go in the room to the right, and everything else can just be set behind the counter,” Jon said, outlining his plan.

Arthur smiled warmly. “We can always rearrange it if you don’t like how it feels.”

Ned nodded quietly, a reassuring presence beside them.

Jon chuckled, the weight of the empty room lifting just a little. “Alright then. Let’s get to work.”

Since the others weren’t here yet; Arya and Arianne had decided to sleep in, refusing to get up early for anything; For Jamie he had no clue but Arthur said he was doing something; Rhaegar was ready, but decided to stay behind with the ladies and Ghost.

The three of them worked together, moving the larger objects inside and arranging the shop. Jon set down a box by the counter just as laughter echoed through the room.

Arianne giggled, “Oh, I can’t wait until you’re staying in King’s Landing! It’s going to be so much fun!”

Arya laughed, taking a sip of her smoothie while balancing the drink holder filled with other cups.

Rhaegar walked in, carrying bags of food. “We got food, gentlemen.”

Ghost waltzed right in like he owned the place, sniffing and exploring the new territory.

Jon chuckled. “Part of the girl squad, I take it?”

Rhaegar smiled, setting the bags on the table. “Maybe.”

Jon helped unpack the food—burgers, fries, sushi, and a few other things.

Rhaegar divided the dishes carefully. Jon quickly noticed that his and Rhaegar’s orders matched: burgers, curly fries, and milkshakes.

He grabbed his vanilla shake with a grin. “Vanilla still wins.”

Rhaegar scoffed. “Please. Chocolate is clearly superior.”

They both laughed, settling onto the couch and chairs with the others.

Jamie entered with a brown bag. “Sorry I’m late! But who doesn’t like a fashionably late entrance?”

Arthur rolled his eyes while eating sushi. “Me. Sit down and eat your food. You’re carrying more boxes in here.”

Jamie huffed, setting the bag down by the counter before dropping to the floor beside Jon.

Jon tilted his head, looking down at him. “What did you get?”

Jamie smirked up at him. “Worried?”

“Nope,” Jon said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Curious, on the other hand.”

The look stayed a little longer, and Jon felt that same flutter in his stomach. But also seeing the soften look in Jamie’s eyes, how much more relaxed he looked compared to coming inside. Then he made himself look away, before it became possibly too obvious.

They all sat together, eating.

Arianne chatted with Arya about college.

Arthur, Ned, and Rhaegar were deep in a conversation far too boring for Jon to follow.

Jamie, however, was quiet, twirling his pasta, his shoulder pressed against Jon’s leg, a steady, comforting warmth.

Jon leaned down a little. “Didn’t take you for a pasta person,” he murmured.

Jamie smirked. “What? Pasta’s classy.”

“Also takes forever.” Jon took a sip of his milkshake.

“Touché. Want a bite?”

“Not from your fork.” Jon smirked.

“I don’t have diseases,” Jamie scoffed.

Jon laughed. “I’m messing with you, Goldilocks.”

“You’re such an ass.” Jamie pinched his leg.

“Ow!” Jon flicked his forehead, earning a quick swat at his hand.

Jon only grinned. He couldn’t remember the last time teasing someone felt this easy, or maybe it had never been easy at all.

“Now give me a bite, and I’ll let you try my burger,” He said with a mock huff.

Ghost padded over after his exploration, settling by Rhaegar’s feet for a scratch on the head.

“Whatever you want, Snowflake.” Jamie speared a bit of pasta and held it out, his smirk softening just enough to make Jon notice.

Jon leaned down, took a bite, and hummed as he chewed. “Pretty good… not sure it works as casual food, though.”

He offered Jaime a piece of burger in return. Jamie took it, their fingers brushing briefly before he leaned back with a satisfied nod. “You’re right, burger wins for casual. Still sticking with my pasta, though.”

“That’s fair.” Jon chuckled, taking a bite of his burger again.

When they finished eating and tossed the trash, everyone drifted back to work. Arthur immediately put Jamie on box duty, while Jon retreated to his studio to start unpacking. He arranged his art supplies on the counters, lining them up neatly.

From the other rooms came echoes of laughter, teasing, and clinking boxes. The sound warmed him. That void inside him wasn’t gone, but it was smaller now, patched over with moments like this.

A knock broke through his thoughts. “May I come in?” Arianne’s voice.

Jon smiled over his shoulder. “Of course. What’s up?”

She stepped in, pulling a box of markers from under her arm and handing it to him. “I talked with Ned. He says I can take Arya to the university, if you’ll come with us.”

Jon set the markers beside the others. “Of course I’ll go. When?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Perfect.”

Arianne giggled. “Wonderful! Also, I still want to be your first client here, so… whenever you’re ready, I’m ready.”

Jon leaned against the counter, letting his mind shift gears. “Got something in mind?”

“I do. I want the sun from my family sigil, realistic, right in the middle of my chest. With heat designs wrapping around my breasts.”

Jon nodded, already picturing it. “Okay. I’ll start sketching ideas. Anything else you want added?”

“That’s it!” She grinned. “Pleasure doing business.” With a wink, she turned and left.

Jon was still smiling when he noticed someone in the doorway. Jamie. He leaned there with a brown bag in one hand, shoulder propped against the frame like he’d been standing there for a while. His gaze was steady, too steady, like he was memorizing something.

Jon’s stomach did a strange little flip. He wasn’t sure if it was the look, the silence, or the faint curve of Jamie’s mouth that made it happen.

“Oh—hey,” Jon said, his voice sounding more abrupt than he meant.

“Hey,” Jamie replied easily, finally moving. He stepped inside and closed the door with a quiet click, the sound oddly loud in the small room.

Jon began to fidget with the rings on his fingers, sitting up straighter. “Something wrong?” He asked softly as Jamie came over and set down the brown bag.

“Not at all.” Jamie didn’t meet his eyes, though he stood just in front of him. “Figured I’d get you a welcome home gift…” He reached in and pulled out a couple of boxes of chocolates.

Jon’s eyes widened. These exact brands were expensive, but oh, so delicious. His gaze lingered on Jamie’s hand as it dipped back into the bag, pausing just a moment, hesitation perhaps, before he pulled out a small dragon plushie.

Jon gasped, picking it up gently. “This is… so cute!” The plushie was tiny, grey with golden eyes, almost lifelike in its detail. He looked up, catching Jamie’s eyes for a brief second before they darted away, and a warmth spread through him.

He looked at the chocolates and then back at the dragon plushie. Was this why Jamie had been gone so long? He was picking out these exact things for him? These weren’t just random grab-and-go items, these were particular, thoughtful, chosen with him in mind.

“Thank you…” he whispered softly, holding the dragon close. “I love her.”

Jamie raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his composure, but Jon caught the faint curve of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Her?” Jamie asked, though his voice had softened slightly.

“Yeah!” Jon lifted up the plushie. “I’ll name her Goldie.”

“Goldie?” Jamie huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “It’s a pretty name.”

Jon’s smile widened. “Glad you like it.”

For a moment, they just stood there. Jon felt a flutter in his chest, realizing how much it meant that Jamie had thought of all this. Somehow, even after being gone for so long, Jamie had found a way to make him feel noticed, cared for, and at home all at once. Jamie’s eyes lingered on him, the tiniest flicker of pride and affection hidden behind his usual calm exterior.

Jon set Goldie down on the edge of his workspace, and she seemed to stare right at him, small and fierce, like she was already guarding him.

Chapter Text

Jon’s POV:

The sun was high, casting a warm glow over the cobblestone path leading to the university’s main building. Leaves danced lightly in the ocean breeze, and banners hung proudly above, a silver seahorse on a teal field. Students lounged on benches or hurried to their classes, voices echoing softly across the courtyard. In the center, a fountain spat water from the mouths of carved seahorses, sparkling in the sunlight.

Jon slipped his hands into his pockets, glancing around. “Was this place built by the Velaryons?” He asked as they passed the fountain.

Arya’s eyes were wide with awe. “It’s incredible… I can’t believe this is real.”

Arianne giggled, practically bouncing as she walked. “It is! They love their marine biology. Corlys Velaryon and his wife, Rhaenys Targaryen, founded this place.”

The trio stepped inside. Blues, silvers, and whites filled the halls, from the banners hanging high to the polished floors below. Fish tanks lined the walls, alongside awards and framed photos, decorating every corner of the sprawling space. Jon’s eyes roamed over it all, marveling quietly. He had never gone to college, this world wasn’t made for him, but he could see it easily belonging to his cousins. He felt a swell of pride for Arya, watching her try to maintain composure while bouncing with excitement, unable to hide her joy.

As they walked around, Jon wondered if Jamie would have liked this place, seeing the marine life in the fish tanks, feeling the ocean breeze outside.

Arianne smiled, watching Arya’s excitement as they took their time exploring. “What did your siblings go to college for?”

Arya stood in front of a large statue of a sperm whale in the opening room, eyes wide with admiration. “Robb went to be a lawyer like Papa, so he’s at Winterfell all the time. Sansa went for cosmetology in Highgarden and visits when she can. Theon’s studying engineering, there’s a program for it at Winterfell too. Lucky Robb and Theon, bleh, they disgust me with their couple love.”

Arianne laughed. “Couple love?”

Jon smiled, leaning back slightly. “Oh yeah. Robb is super touchy, and Theon is when he wants a bit of something.” He laughed softly.

“Reminds me of my uncle and aunt.” Arianne smiled, looking up at the statue.

“Yeah, similar to that. Just not as smooth.” Jon winked.

They continued up the stairs, weaving between students rushing past. Arianne led the way but kept a slow pace so Arya could linger at each display.

“College wasn’t for you?” Arianne asked, pausing by a tall window while Arya pressed closer to the small sea life exhibit nearby.

Jon leaned against the wall opposite her. “Nah. I started apprenticing around Arya’s age.”

“Ooo, a prodigy,” She teased.

“Not quite,” He said with a shrug. “What about you? University, or straight into the family business?”

Arianne’s smile tilted. “Family business. Ours is mostly wine-making. My father and uncle taught me, still do, actually. I’m not head of the family, my father is, but since he can’t come to King’s Landing, I handle the work here.”

Jon smiled. “You’re good at it, being a businesswoman.”

“Aw, thank you. And you’re good at tattoos. I saw what you did for Rhaegar, it’s beautiful.” Her voice softened.

“Thanks,” Jon said quietly.

Arya came over. “You two done being friendly?”

Arianne laughed. “Careful, your piece of gold might get jealous.” She stepped away from the window. “Come on! There’s someone I want you to meet.”

The two girls started down the hallway.

Jon shook his head and glanced back to the window, watching the waves crash against the rocks. Sunlight laced gold through the blue, reminding him of—

“Come on, Jon!” Arya’s voice rang out.

He blinked, the thought scattering, and looked over with a small smile. “Coming.”

The office was cool from the ocean breeze, the balcony window thrown wide so the sound of waves drifted in. Photos of a family lined the walls, silver-white hair, violet eyes, and skin ranging from pale to sun-kissed. A banner with a sea horse hung behind the desk, its blue and silver echoed throughout the décor.

“Ah! Arianne Martell, so good to see you again, my dear!” An older man’s voice rang out, warm and booming. “And who are these two?”

Jon’s eyes went to him instantly.

The man rose from behind his desk as if the entire room belonged to him, older, with short-cropped silver-white hair, sharp plum-colored eyes, and neatly kept facial hair. Broad-shouldered and tall, he carried himself with a kind of restless confidence, more ruggedly handsome than pretty, more open and wild than calm and composed.

Arianne beamed, Arya at her side. “This is Jon, Rhaegar’s son. And this is Arya Stark, she’s interested in marine biology. Jon, Arya, this is Monford Velaryon, head of the university and his family.”

Monford spread his arms in mock grandeur. “Head of the family, master of the seas, occasional headache to my relatives, you give me too much credit, my dear.” He laughed, unguarded and bright. “Well, aren’t I lucky today? A Snow and a Stark.” His gaze landed on Jon. “And I hear you’ve saved us from the clutches of Littlefinger and Robert, my gratitude is endless.” Then, with a sweeping turn toward Arya: “But! That is not why you’re here. Miss Stark, I hear you love the sea. Please—sit! Let’s talk.”

“So, what brings a Stark to the sea?” Monford asked, his voice kind but tinged with excitement.

Jon nudged his cousin’s leg gently, noticing her stiffen slightly under Monford’s eager gaze.

Arya smiled faintly at him before answering, “Hmph. A wolf doesn’t always stay on land, you know.”

Monford chuckled warmly. “Oh… I like this one already. Brave and clever.”

Jon stayed quiet; this wasn’t his place to talk unless he had to. He was here to support Arya and make sure she understood what was happening. It was good to have Arianne with them too, someone who knew the university and Monford, along with the finer details that could get lost on them. But something told Jon he wouldn’t have to worry about any political complications from Monford.

Monford leaned back in his chair. “Well, I hate being stuck in this office all day! I’m sure Arianne has shown you the public areas, but I’d like to take you to see what’s available for the students, and we can talk more as we go.” He clapped his hands, a big smile on his face. “And Jon! Gods, you sit as quietly as your father!”

Jon chuckled but said nothing. He knew it wasn’t an insult, just playful banter.

For the next hour and a half, they wandered through the student library and exhibits. Monford enthusiastically showed Arya the tanks, awards, and research projects. Arya was just as animated, talking non-stop about the marine life and asking questions that Monford happily answered. The two seemed completely in their own world, and Jon found himself smiling quietly at the sight.

Jon and Arianne walked together, teasing the other two lightly and snapping photos of Arya. As he glanced at the tanks filled with shimmering fish, Jon’s mind briefly wandered, he imagined Jamie here, taking in the calm, the patterns in the water. He could almost see Jamie smiling at the delicate movements, perhaps even critiquing the symmetry in his usual teasing way. The thought made him grin, a little warmth spreading through his chest.

At the end of their tour, Monford handed Arya his card. “Here! You’re still in high school, and unfortunately, fall is arriving quickly. But if you want, and can convince your father, call me over spring. I’ll take you on one of my projects over the summer. And if you’re still interested in marine biology when you graduate, I’d be happy to have you at my university, Miss Stark.”

Arya took it, smiling brightly. “Thank you for today.”

“Of course! Always lovely to see young passion. And you, Jon! I hope to see more of you around. I have the unfortunate news of being stuck in that office in place of Robert.”

“At least it won’t be full of annoying insults,” Jon chuckled, thinking briefly of how different that meeting room will be now.

Stepping outside into the sun, Jon felt the ocean breeze brush against his face. He ran his fingers through his hair, now finally soft and as tamed as his curls could be. The laughter of students echoed through the courtyard, mingling with the rhythm of the ocean waves.

He looked over at Arya, who was animatedly talking to Arianne, waving her arms with wide, excited eyes. Jon smiled, chest swelling with pride. It reminded him of himself when he became an apprentice to Varros, a Lyseni tattoo artist who had moved to Winterfell. Gods, he had worked so hard to earn a sliver of Varros’s respect, mastering Lyseni tattoos before gradually expanding to other styles. He had been fortunate, supported by his mother, family, and friends, while Varros quietly encouraged him to perfect his craft.

Jon’s gaze returned to Arya, imagining her own journey. He could see Monford as her Varros, louder, certainly, but with the same kind of passion and care. She would thrive here.

“I’m hungry. Are you two?” Jon asked softly.

Arya beamed. “Yeah!”

Arianne giggled. “Then let’s go get some food! I know a great place for Dornish fare. You like Dornish food?”

“No idea!” Arya replied, and Jon chuckled, shaking his head as he fell into step behind them.

Yeah, he thought, she would be amazing here.

Chapter Text

Jamie’s POV:

Jamie paced the guest bedroom, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure if he should ask Jon to hang out. He didn’t want to bother him at the studio, but he also didn’t want to push too much. He groaned, rubbing his hands over his face.

“If you keep pacing like that, I might have to replace the floor when you fall through it,” Arthur’s voice came from the doorway, calm and steady.

“Did I wake you?” Jamie asked softly, stopping mid-step and placing his hands on his hips.

“No,” Arthur shook his head. “What’s on your mind?”

“I… um, do you think Jon would be okay if I asked him to hang out? Maybe explore a bit of King’s Landing?” Jamie said, trying to sound casual, but his stomach twisted at the thought of a refusal. He pictured Jon’s faint smile, the way he’d tilt his head curiously.

Would he even want to go?

“I think he’ll be fine, Jamie.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to pressure him, or—”

“Jamie. He’s okay. And I’m sure he’d like to spend some time out in the city.”

“The city… yes. Right.” Jamie exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

They stood there for a moment, quiet, just staring at one another.

“Are you going to text him, or…?” Arthur tilted his head.

Outside the café, Jamie paced along the sidewalk, hands fidgeting in his jacket pockets. This wasn’t a date, it was just a walk, just coffee, just… showing Jon around King’s Landing. That was all.

So why did his stomach feel like it was staging a revolt?

He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothed his collar, and told himself again: Not a date. Just hanging out.

But what if he made Jon uncomfortable?

The thought pulled him straight back to that day with Renly, the way Jon’s jaw had locked, shoulders stiff, eyes silently begging for an out. The way he’d still tried to keep himself composed.

Jamie’s chest tightened. What if he did that? What if he accidentally made Jon feel unsafe?

“I shouldn’t have done this…” He muttered, glancing at the café door. His pulse ticked faster. He could call Jon right now, claim he’d suddenly gotten sick, and leave before he arrived.

“Maybe I can still—” Jamie reached for his phone.

“Can what?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin. Turning, he found Jon standing a few feet away, hands tucked in his leather jacket, curls shifting in the breeze.

“Can… check the time,” Jamie said quickly, pulling his hand back from his phone.

Jon tilted his head. “The time? Got somewhere to be?”

“Yeah! Er—no! I mean yes, I was checking the time, but no, I don’t have anywhere to be.” He forced a smile, praying Jon wouldn’t see through his distress. Though, knowing Jon, he probably already had.

Jon hummed, clearly amused. “Shall we go in? For the coffee?”

“Yes. Coffee. Just us and coffee.”

“Coffee and us,” Jon echoed, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

Jamie stepped inside, warmth rushing over his face along with the rich scent of coffee and sugar. He scanned the room until his eyes landed on an open table near the window.

“This one?” Jon asked, nodding toward it like he’d read Jamie’s mind.

“Y-yeah. Good lighting.” Jamie cleared his throat and followed him over.

Jon smirked faintly as they sat. “Right. Lighting. For the coffee, I assume?”

Heat crept up Jamie’s ears. The sunlight caught in Jon’s curls, giving them a soft glow, and Jamie’s stomach gave a traitorous flutter. “Yep. Coffee.”

Jon picked up the menu. “You come here often?” He scanned the page, but his eyes kept flicking back up to Jamie.

“Sometimes,” Jamie said, pausing. “When I want a nice coffee.”

Jon studied him, not probing, just quietly present. The kind of look that made Jamie want to fidget and stay still all at once. He nodded slowly. “I get that. Any recommendations?”

Jamie looked down quickly, not trusting himself to meet that gaze for long. “Uh, everything. Not everything, I mean, I haven’t tried everything, just—”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Jon said, voice soft enough to make Jamie wonder if he meant more than coffee.

This was not a date.

This was just them hanging out. For coffee.

Jamie set his menu down. “You like black coffee?”

Jon let out a small laugh. “I’m not my father. I have taste buds.”

“Ooo, fair enough. The man does burn his bacon.”

“Right? Like… where’d the bacon go now? Just a piece of charcoal now!”

They laughed together, and Jamie couldn’t help but watch how Jon’s grey eyes lit up. He swallowed hard.

“You going to order something super fancy and complicated?” Jon teased, leaning on his forearms.

Jamie puffed out in mock offense. “What do you take me for?”

Jon raised an eyebrow.

“Ouch. Alright, fair enough! I just like my simple iced coffees.”

When they got their coffees, Jon had a latte while Jamie opted for his iced coffee. They sat in silence, and it didn’t feel uncomfortable, but it made Jamie nervous. Normally, he could yap away endlessly. Now, he feared saying something stupid and making Jon recoil.

He took a sip of his iced coffee and nearly choked when Jon asked, “I take you for a man who cares more than he lets on.”

Jamie swallowed hard. “Pardon?”

Jon smiled faintly. “You have a big heart, Jamie. Maybe you have a hard time showing it, but I see it.” He took a sip of his latte.

Jamie stared at him. He couldn’t believe what he’d heard. No one had ever said things like that to him with meaning. Compliments came often enough, sure, money tossed at him to get something, but they were always empty, full of tricks. With Jon, they felt real and warm, like he meant them.

Sometimes, he wasn’t sure if he could handle it.

But he felt the back of his neck burning, his ears too.

“Thanks…” he said softly.

Jon tilted his head slightly, just enough to meet Jamie’s gaze. “I mean it. And not just because you’re… well, you.” He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s good to see someone really cares about more than just appearances.”

Jamie blinked, unsure if he should laugh or melt right there. Instead, he nodded, letting the words settle. They sipped their drinks in companionable silence, the café around them fading to a gentle background hum.

Jamie paid for their coffees, and together they stepped out into the street. They fell into stride, Jamie keeping just a step ahead but adjusting to match Jon’s slower pace.

The market wasn’t far, and Jamie was almost eager to get there, partly for the sweet treats, partly for the chance to see Jon’s face when he found something he liked. The air was thick with the mingled scents of fresh bread, roasting nuts, and spices, layered over the hum of voices and the occasional bark of a vendor calling out prices.

“There’s a lot of people here,” Jon said, glancing around. “Way more than Winterfell.”

Jamie moved a little closer so they wouldn’t lose each other in the press of bodies. “Yeah. Winterfell felt more like a breath of fresh air compared to this.”

“Did you like Winterfell?” Jon’s voice was quieter now.

“I did,” Jamie said after a beat. “I just… wish I’d spent more time outside.” His mouth pulled into a brief grimace. The truth was, he’d wasted too much of it in bars and in beds, chasing distractions that now felt hollow.

Jon looked up at him, “Maybe next time we can do something fun together in Winterfell.”

Jamie smiled softly, “That would be nice…yeah.” He nodded.

They wandered further into the market until a stall caught Jon’s eye, a bright display of Lys silks, rugs, jars of powdered dyes, and glittering jewelry.

Jon gasped, his eyes going wide with curiosity. The sound made something flip in Jamie’s chest; he allowed himself a quiet smile, as if he’d just won a small victory.

Jon went straight to the silks, brushing his fingers over them. “They’re so pretty… and the rugs!”

Jamie bit back a laugh, though the smile stayed. “Didn’t take you for someone who liked things from Lys.”

“They have the best dyes,” Jon said quickly. “Especially for tattoos. The process is hard, but gods, the results are beautiful.” He had already moved to the table of dyes, examining each jar like it was a rare treasure.

“You can make Lysene tattoos?” Jamie asked, trailing him.

“Yeah. I don’t do it often , not many people ask for them. But I try to work the techniques into my own style. Whenever I get to use my own style, that is.” His voice was alive now, hands moving as he spoke.

Jamie watched him, almost forgetting to breathe. Seeing Jon talk about his craft like this was… something else. The quiet man from the coffee shop was gone, replaced by someone fierce with passion.

“Did you use that kind of technique on Rhaegar’s tattoo?” Jamie asked.

“Yep. He didn’t care about the style, so I just did mine.” Jon’s gaze had already moved on, his fingers ghosting over the rugs.

Jamie caught a glitter from the corner of his eye on one of the tables in the jewelry section. Reds, golds, silvers, emeralds, all pieces that screamed wealth and opulence, the sort his sister would adore to flaunt. He cringed at the thought and swatted it from his mind.

Then something smaller, simpler, caught his attention. Amid all the sparkle, it looked almost lost. He glanced at Jon, who was animatedly negotiating the price of the rugs, eyes shining with triumph. Stepping to the side, Jamie leaned closer to the table.

It was a braided leather tie, adorned with a small sapphire gemstone dangling delicately, a piece made to tie hair back. The gem caught the sunlight, subtle but mesmerizing. Something about it was so understated, so real, that Jamie felt his chest tighten.

He picked it up gently, as if holding a fragile treasure, and returned to Jon, who looked like he had just conquered an entire war.

“What did you do?” Jamie asked, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Got some rugs for my shop… and maybe for home,” Jon replied casually. “Hopefully dad won’t be surprised by the amount…”

Jamie chuckled. “How many did you get?”

Jon shrugged. “Only a handful…”

Jamie’s mouth went slightly agape. “A handful??”

“Hey… what you got in your hand?” Jon asked, noticing the sapphire tie.

“Oh, no. We’re definitely coming back to that topic,” Jamie said, shaking his head, laughing softly.

“Close your eyes,” He added suddenly.

“Close my eyes?” Jon raised an eyebrow, curiosity lighting his features.

“Well… do you trust me?” Jamie asked, heart hammering.

Jon didn’t hesitate. He closed his eyes, and Jamie felt a rush of warmth and something sharper too, nervous anticipation tightening in his chest.

Jamie walked up behind Jon, moving carefully, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. He gently lifted Jon’s curls, the soft lavender scent brushing past him. A laugh threatened to escape as he tied Jon’s hair into a bun, it felt oddly intimate, almost like a private joke only they shared.

When he was done, he stepped back and lifted a hand mirror to Jon’s face. “Okay… open!”

Jon blinked, tilting his head to catch the light on the sapphire. A faint flush dusted his cheeks, and a small smile tugged at his lips. “It’s cute. Is this… for me?”

Jamie nodded, voice soft. “Yeah. Simple, rustic… and I think the blue suits you perfectly.” He watched the gemstone catch the light, tiny flecks of blue sparkling across Jon’s face and neck.

Jon tilted his head slightly, his hand reaching back to trace the braid down to the gemstone. He touched it delicately, as if afraid it would shatter in that moment. “It really… does look good,” He whispered softly.

Jamie felt a warmth bloom in his chest as he watched. “You do…” He whispered back.

Jon’s eyes flickered to his, the faint pink flush still lingering. “Thank you, Jamie,” He said shyly.

A gentle smile tugged at Jamie’s lips. “Anytime,” He replied quietly, almost afraid to break the soft, delicate moment. For just a heartbeat, the world around them seemed to fade, the crowds’ chatter dimmed, the noise of the market stilled.

Jamie realized that it was these small moments he wanted to hold onto, to keep locked up, delicate and warm in memory.

Jon smiled softly. “Shall we continue on?”

“Yeah…” Jamie nodded, reluctant to look away from the sight but knowing he shouldn’t linger. His ears burned as he glanced aside, setting the mirror down and paying for the jewelry.

They melted back into the current of the crowd, shoulders brushing now and then. The market was still a bustling, jostling sea of voices and movement, but somehow Jamie didn’t feel the old anxiety of losing Jon in it. Not with him close enough to reach for.

Jon chuckled, tapping a hand against Jamie’s chest. “Look who’s at the pastry stand.”

Jamie tilted his head, following Jon’s point.

Off to the side of a busy stall stood Arthur and Rhaegar. Arthur held two bulging brown paper bags stamped with the vendor’s logo — an orchid nestled behind his ear, while Rhaegar was halfway through a chocolate croissant, trying, and failing, not to laugh. Arthur was watching him with that certain look that said he knew exactly what was going on.

Jamie didn’t remember Arthur ever leaving around the time he did. In fact, he thought he’d left the old star at the summer house.

“Shall we say a quick hello?” Jamie asked with a smirk.

Jon matched it. “Yeah. And I want some pastries, they look delicious~”

Jamie laughed. “Of course you do.”

They wove through the press of people toward the stall. Arthur spotted them first, his smile tilting slyly. “Hey, you two. I see you made it to the coffee shop.” His gaze flicked to Jamie, and his smirk deepened.

Jamie felt the back of his neck heat. “O-of course I made it!”

“Uh-huh.”

“When did you even leave the house?” Jamie asked quickly.

Arthur shrugged. “When you did. Or were you so nervous you didn’t notice?”

Jon grinned. “Nervous?”

Clearing his throat, Jamie crossed his arms. “That’s a lot of bags you’ve got there.”

Arthur chuckled. “Half of it’s not making it home.” He shot a look at Rhaegar.

Rhaegar, already biting into a different pastry, the croissant long gone, he blinked. “Huh?”

Jon’s eyes widened. “How many have you eaten?”

“An appropriate amount,” Rhaegar replied smoothly.

“Try seven,” Arthur cut in. “Seven pastries. And two cups of hot chocolate.”

Jon’s jaw dropped as Jamie burst out laughing.

“What! How?” Jon looked genuinely baffled.

Rhaegar was trying not to laugh outright.

Arthur arched a brow. “Where do you think you got your sweet tooth from?”

Jon shook his head, still baffled by what he’d just witnessed. Jamie was still chuckling as he placed their order.

A few minutes later, they stepped back into the sea of people. Jamie carried the brown paper bag in one hand; Jon stayed close at his side. A few loose curls had slipped free from Jon’s braid, brushing against his cheek in the breeze. Jamie’s fingers twitched with the urge to tuck them back, but he stopped himself, unwilling to cross that line.

Jon looked at ease, shoulders loose, eyes wandering from stall to stall, snacking on a few powdered donut holes and holding the bag close like it was treasure. Then his gaze flicked to Jamie, a crooked smile forming. “What? I got something on my face?”

“Maybe a bit of glaze on your cheek,” Jamie teased.

“Oh, fuck.” Jon laughed, then held out a donut hole in offering. Jamie didn’t bother to reach for it, he leaned down and took it straight from Jon’s fingers without hesitation.

Jon blinked, then huffed a small laugh through his nose, eyes dropping to the bag in his hands.

The day drifted on as they wandered through the market, silks, pastries, trinkets, the hum of the crowd around them. Jamie felt lighter with each step, sneaking glances at Jon whenever he thought the younger man wasn’t looking.

They stepped into the open square, where the sun hung low, painting the cobblestones gold.

Jon tilted his head, smiling as he held the brown bag of trinkets and empty pastry wrappers. “Thanks for today. I really had fun.”

Jamie handed him the bag, their fingers brushing deliberately this time. He felt a small, warm jolt where their skin met. “I’m glad. I wanted you to enjoy it.”

Jon’s eyes flicked up, catching Jamie’s, and the corner of his lips tugged into a mischievous little grin. “Same time next week?” Jamie tried to make it sound casual, but his voice wavered slightly.

Jon’s smile broadened, a playful sparkle in his gaze. “I’d like that very much.”

Jamie felt heat rise to his ears, a flutter in his chest he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to hide. “Wonderful…” He managed, smiling, trying to steady his voice.

“Goodnight, Jamie.” Jon waved, taking a few steps away, but his gaze lingered just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“Goodnight, Jon…” Jamie whispered to the fading sunlight, watching him leave. His fingers itched to reach out again, just once more, but he let it go. The warmth of Jon’s smile and the memory of the day stayed with him, a quiet, delicious ache that made him grin all the way to the house.

This wasn’t a date, he reminded himself, and next week’s wouldn’t be either.

Yet somehow, it felt like it had been.

Chapter Text

Jamie’s POV:

It was only yesterday since the not-coffee-date, and Jamie still carried that warmth like a secret drug. He moved through the guest bedroom quietly, tidying what little he had brought with him, though even small tasks felt weightless compared to the memory of Jon’s smile, his laugh.

Did he still even have a job?
He wasn’t sure. His father might have fired him already, or perhaps Rhaegar had intervened. None of it mattered right now.

The sharp ring of the doorbell made his chest tighten. He frowned. Jon? Surely not, he should be at the shop, finishing the last touches before opening. Arthur was out, probably accompanying Rhaegar. So who…?

Jamie made his way downstairs, unlocking the door as he went.

His heart dropped when he saw her. Standing there, framed in the sunlight, was his sister. Her sly smile never faltered.

“Cersei…” Jamie said, his voice low.

“Hello, dear brother. May I come in?” Her tone was smooth, sweet as honey, but Jamie had learned long ago that it meant nothing but her getting what she wanted.

“No. We can stay out here.” He stepped onto the porch, shutting the door behind him. This wasn’t his home, it was the Daynes’. He wouldn’t disrespect them like that, not while Arthur wasn’t around.

Cersei’s eye twitched, just slightly, but enough for Jamie to notice. He had spent a lifetime learning her tells, and even the smallest gesture screamed danger.

“You know father is still upset with you?” She spoke calmly, each word measured. “But you… if you apologize and—”

“I’m not doing what he wants,” Jamie snapped, chest tight, fists clenching at his sides.

Cersei didn’t seem surprised, only amused. A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “Yes… your new company keeping you occupied?”

Jamie stiffened. He shouldn’t have been shocked, but the fact that she knew — already? That cut sharper than any blade. He didn’t deny it, nor did he confirm it, only let a carefully neutral expression settle over his features.

She let out a soft laugh, edged with something sharper than sweetness. “He’s quite a looker… you know.”

Jamie felt his mouth go dry.

“Of course you do. You’ve been doting on him. But I wondered who else would love to do that… someone closer to his age?” Cersei tilted her head, letting her long curls slip off her shoulder.

Jamie’s stomach twisted in uncomfortable knots. His jaw clenched as he gripped the doorframe.

“Just be careful, dear brother… wouldn’t want your intentions to be misread.” She smiled, practiced and effortless, taking a step back.

Cersei was gone in the blink of an eye, or had he been staring at the ground for so long that she quietly slipped away? He stepped back inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. The world fell silent, even the ocean outside seemed to hold its breath.

He made his way back to the guest bedroom, eyes falling on his clothes laid out neatly on the bed and his duffel bag resting at the side. He sank to the floor, letting his fingers run through his hair, his breath shallow and uneven.

Had he been too forward? Too obvious? Did Jon even see him the way he wanted?

The questions churned, a knot twisting in his stomach, a quiet ache echoing in his chest. Every small doubt Cersei planted now felt magnified, crawling along his nerves and settling there.

He closed his eyes, imagining Jon’s face, the small smile, the soft laugh. Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe Jon didn’t notice. But the thought of losing that warmth made his chest tighten.

Chapter Text

Jon’s POV:

He set down the last of his Lys rugs in the office, placing them neatly on the small table beside his old coffee maker. It wasn’t anything like Winterfell, but this space was his, and he liked the thought of making it cozy. His.

He absentmindedly touched the leather braid Jamie had given him two days ago. His cheeks warmed, his stomach fluttered. It was a simple piece, but he adored it, wearing it every day since.

The sharp jingle of the doorbell snapped him out of his reverie. Who could it be? The doors were locked, the sign said closed. His chest tightened as he moved toward the front, rounding the corner cautiously.

Renly stood there, eyes fixed on Jon like he was sizing him up. Ghost sitting rigid by the counter. Jon’s body froze, a chill running straight down his spine. He could handle Robert. Stannis didn’t sound like he’d be a problem. But Renly? That was something else entirely, and he didn’t want to be anywhere near him.

Renly’s charming smile didn’t help. It was the kind of smile that should have been disarming, but instead it made Jon feel… sick.

“I see you’re making yourself at home here,” Renly said, stepping just inside. He paused, letting his gaze linger on Jon’s workspace a fraction too long. “Just wanted to come in and see how you’re doing.”

Ghost growled low, his fur bristling. Renly stopped mid-step, raising his hands in a mock gesture of peace. “Ah, the dog. Interesting creature.”

Jon swallowed, gripping the corner edge of the wall, his heart pounding. Every instinct screamed at him to run.

Renly’s smile deepened, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You know… sometimes older doesn’t mean better.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed, a cold prickle crawling down his neck. He shouldn’t be surprised someone was watching him after the news, but of all people, he hadn’t wanted it to be Renly. “What do you mean?”

Renly’s smirk widened. “I don’t think you fully understand who you’re… spending time with. Maybe you should ask the local brothels about their… certain golden-red regular.”

“Why are you telling me that?” Jon asked, jaw tight, Ghost’s tail flicking slowly, ears pinned low as he watched every move Renly made.

“Because I care about your best interests! Don’t want your feelings getting hurt… especially by someone who only has flings.” Renly chuckled, hands in his pockets, his tone dripping with mock concern. “Bye-bye! See you again soon.”

With that, he left the shop, striding down the sidewalk as if he owned the world, leaving a trail of unease in his wake.

Jon felt his heart pounding against his chest, his palms slick with sweat. He stumbled into the studio, catching himself at the doorway. The room tilted, though he stood straight. Eyes darting, he grabbed Goldie.

Cold hands.

Hot breath against his neck.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it…” Renly’s voice echoed.

Jon slid down to the floor, pressing his back against the cabinets, curling into a ball. Goldie pressed tightly against his chest, a lifeline. He shut his eyes.

Golden ocean waves of hair.

Laughter filling the shop.

The scent of rosemary and cedar.

Ghost pressed against his legs, a steady reminder of the present. He drew slow, deep breaths, counting each heartbeat and picturing the beach.

The water.

The ease of laughter.

The warmth.

He opened his eyes to the dim light, the sound of his own breathing filling the room.

The beach faded. The cabinets were still cold against his back.

He didn’t move. He didn’t call for anyone. And no one came.

Chapter Text

Jon POV:

Stepping inside the house, Jon felt the warmth wrap around him, yet a cold chill ran down his spine. The smell of dinner made his stomach growl, though he didn’t feel he could eat. He shrugged off his coat and hung it on the rack. Ghost padded inside, curious about their new space still.

“Jon!” Rhaegar’s voice, light and soft, came from the kitchen, the click of plates echoing. Footsteps followed, quick and gentle, eyes searching Jon’s. “How was your day?”

Jon’s mouth went dry, remembering Renly somehow managing to slip into his shop when it had been locked. He forced a smile. “Fine,” He said, too casual even to himself.

Rhaegar tilted his head slightly. “Dinner’s ready. You hungry?” His voice softened, like it had back in Winterfell.

The tears came then, stinging his eyes. He didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to talk.

“No… I’m tired. I’ll be in my room.” His words tumbled out too fast, his nod jerky.

Rhaegar shifted, the start of a question on his lips, footsteps following as if to close the space between them.

Jon bolted up the stairs, shutting the door before his father’s voice, or his worry, could catch him.

His back hit the wood as he leaned against it, chest heaving, fingers trembling around the knob. He stayed there until the burn in his throat turned into a sob he couldn’t swallow. Only then did he push himself toward the bed, collapsing onto the cool sheets as if they might put out the fire still racing beneath his skin.

In a frantic motion, he reached into his pocket and felt the soft shape of Goldie. He yanked her out, pressing the stuffed dragon tight against his chest, holding on like she could keep him from falling apart. His body shook uncontrollably, but the small weight in his arms grounded him, however slightly. He let himself imagine the warmth of the beach, the ease of laughter, the memory of safety, just enough to keep from slipping completely.

But even as he tried to calm, his muscles stiffened, he could almost feel Renly’s weight against his legs, deliberate, knowing exactly what he was doing.

“No… he’s not here. He’s not here,” Jon whispered, forcing the memory back, pushing it out of his mind.

Instead, he clung to something different. The memory of Jamie’s hug: warm, secure, almost protective. He let his attention settle on the soft sounds drifting from below, the quiet movements of Rhaegar in the kitchen, the faint clink of silverware, the low hum of the television.

Only then did he allow himself to breathe. He was home. His father was home. Ghost was downstairs. And he had Goldie in his arms.

Chapter Text

Jamie’s POV:

He stood at Jon’s bedroom door, hesitant to knock or even step inside. His hand rested on the knob, listening. Silence beyond, except for the low hum of the television, the distant gurgle of water from the kitchen, and Ghost panting quietly at his side.

A shadow had been pressing on his mind since his sister came two days ago, and now his chest ached, twisting in knots he couldn’t ease. He hadn’t slept a wink last night, tossing and turning as his sister’s words echoed in his mind.

Ghost let out a small whine, pawing at Jamie’s leg as if urging him to get on with it.

Jamie huffed under his breath. “I’m going, I’m going…” he whispered. It felt odd, talking to a dog, he never had before. His father always said dogs were for hunting or showing, never for companionship. And yet, the quiet weight of Ghost’s presence steadied him more than he expected.

He shook his head, pushing Tywin’s voice far from his mind. He was here for one thing, and one thing only, to make sure Jon was okay.

He knocked softly before turning the knob and stepping inside. The room was dim, curtains drawn tight against the daylight. It smelled faintly of lavender and oil paints. On the far edge of the bed lay Jon, still in the same clothes from—what Jamie assumed was two days ago, curled protectively around something. He didn’t stir, but Jamie knew he wasn’t asleep.

“Hey…” Jamie said quietly, stepping further in. Ghost padded behind him, and Jamie shut the door, muting the distant TV sounds from downstairs.

Jon made no reply, only tightened his hold on whatever he clutched, his back still turned.

Ghost jumped up onto the bed and pressed himself against Jon’s back, his red eyes flicking to Jamie as if urging him forward.

But what could Jamie do? He might be in his mid-thirties, but he had no idea how to handle this. He’d never had the chance to learn, never wanted to. Yet now, he wished desperately that he knew how.

Awkwardly, he made his way to Jon’s side of the bed. “Just came here to check up on you,” he said softly.

It was then he noticed what Jon was clutching. The dragon stuffie, the one Jamie had given him. Goldie, as Jon had named her. Her golden eyes peeked shyly from Jon’s chest. Jon’s grip on her was fierce, like if he let go, she might vanish.

Jamie’s chest ached at the sight, tightening until it was hard to swallow.

Jon’s face was hidden away by his hair, his curls wild and free. But Jaime could still see those grey eyes staring at him, rimmed in red as though he’d been crying. No one knew what had happened, maybe not even Jon himself. Perhaps it was just one of those days; but Jamie’s heart twisted in an uncomfortable knot, it felt something deeper than just that.

He stood there, feeling like a fool, his hands useless at his sides. Should he sit? Should he say something? What could he do?

A twitch of movement caught his eye. Jon’s hand loosened its grip on Goldie, the stuffed dragon slipping from his hold. Slowly, hesitantly, his fingers reached outward, toward Jamie, or just into the empty air. Did it matter? Did Jon want comfort, or was he only reaching into the emptiness? Jamie couldn’t tell. And maybe Jon couldn’t either.

Carefully, Jaimie lowered himself onto the floor, close enough that Jon could feel his presence but not so near as to corner him. He laid his hand on the bed, close enough to feel Jon’s warmth, far enough to give him room.

Jon’s hand inched forward, his fingers stretching… then curling back in halfway, retreating. The want was there, Jamie could see it, but the what-ifs pulled him back.

And that was all right.

Jamie stayed where he was, silent and steady, lending presence instead of words. Strange, how silence could feel so whole here, when usually he filled it with chatter to keep his own demons away. But beside Jon, with his quiet warmth, with Ghost’s steady breathing — Jamie found peace.

Perhaps this was enough.

Maybe it didn’t need to be more than this. Not for Jon. Not yet.

He closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of their breathing, letting the knot in his own chest loosen. Maybe Jon wasn’t the only one who needed this. Maybe Jamie had been reaching, too.

Chapter Text

Jamie’s POV:

The sunlight pooled through the sliver in the curtains, lying gently across the wooden floor and creeping up toward the bed. Jamie stood in the doorway, hand gripping the frame as if the quiet peace inside might be ripped from him at any moment. Jon was still sprawled across the blankets, his breathing slow and steady, Goldie tucked under his chin. Ghost stretched long at his side, a pale shadow.

Jamie thought about staying, just ignoring the world outside. His father didn’t want him, not really. What was the point of going? He could stay here, make sure Jon ate breakfast, make sure he was feeling better. It was easier here. Quieter.

A creak of floorboards broke the thought. Jamie looked over his shoulder. Rhaegar stood by the stairs, dressed already for the meeting. There were no words spoken. There didn’t need to be. Jamie understood: it was time to go. Perhaps he still had a place in that world, perhaps not. Either way, the pain would be the same. With or without Robert, his father would still be there.

Jamie and Rhaegar were the first to arrive. The meeting room felt too large, too still, with only the two of them inside. The silence hadn’t started here, it had followed them from the car. Not awkward, exactly, but heavy, giving Jamie too much room for his thoughts. Sometimes he wondered if he even deserved this man’s quiet kindness, not after what Jamie had done to his father.

With Arthur, things were lighter. They joked, messed around, teased. With Tywin, there was only unease, the sharp instinct to shrink away. With Rhaegar, it was something else entirely, measured, steady, harder to define. The contrast between all three pressed on him until he felt exhausted before the day had even begun.

He sighed, eyes falling to the long table. Where was he meant to sit now? Certainly not by his father. Somewhere different, then.

Rhaegar, at the sideboard, poured himself coffee. “Sit by Arthur,” He said softly, as though plucking the thought right from Jamie’s head.

Jamie gave a quiet scoff. “Do I even still have a job?”

“You were kicked out of home, Jamie. Not out of work.” Rhaegar glanced at him.

Jamie shook his head. “He’ll find a way. To put me on the street, to make me less than everyone else.” He looked down, unable to meet Rhaegar’s gaze. For a moment he felt small, like he was a boy again, looking up to men like Rhaegar and Arthur.

Silence stretched before Rhaegar answered. “Jon was right,” He said. “You do more than Robert ever did. More than your father, too. You work hard, Jamie. Don’t let him twist things until you can’t see that.”

Jamie didn’t answer, but Rhaegar’s words weighed on him, pressing into the memory of when Jon had said the same.

Jon closed his sketchbook gently. No dramatic slam. Just a quiet, deliberate motion.

“What is it that you do here again?” He asked, rubbing his chin, voice calm, almost curious.

Robert blinked. “Pardon?”

The room went still. All eyes shifted.

“It’s a simple question,” Jon said, evenly. “Because all I’ve seen since I got here is you belittling people. You act like some kind of titan, like you’ve never done anything wrong. Like you built this empire with your own two hands. But I’ve seen Jamie, actually seen him, do more work in a day than you have across all these meetings combined.”

He remembered how sure Jon had sounded, how easily he had cut through Robert’s words like they were nothing.

Jamie sat beside Arthur’s chair, the quiet turning of pages and Rhaegar’s steady sip of coffee filling the stillness.

That memory stayed with him. No one had ever defended him like that, not with such calm precision, not without some hidden price attached. Jon hadn’t wanted anything. He had spoken up simply because he thought it was right.

Because that was Jon.

Gentle but firm, watchful and precise.

It was that warmth, the rare gift of being defended, that gave Jamie the strength to face today. His gaze strayed to the chair off to the side, where Jon had sat before. It looked out of place, empty. The room had felt different with him in it. Safer.

He basked in the warmth and the quiet, letting it settle like a shield around him. But when he blinked, the room had filled. Arthur was beside him now, quiet, shoulders carrying their own tired weight, but he still gave Jaime a small, steady smile. Across the table, his father didn’t even spare him a glance as he pulled folders from his case. Not anger. Not even acknowledgment. Just nothing. The absence pressed sharper than words might have. Beside Tywin sat Monford Velaryon, all brightness and noise, his laughter spilling easily as he leaned toward another. Jamie noticed absently that Arianne wasn’t here.

Jamie took a steady breath. He could do this. The city would not crumble under his watch, not under his father’s name, but his.

As always, he gathered the ledgers, the paperwork, the routes. His side of the table was stacked the highest, sheets spread like a fortress between him and the others. Already his notebook was filling with neat lines of schedules, his pen gliding smooth against the paper. By habit, his free hand reached for a strand of hair, twirling it without thought.

The meeting blurred. Time slipped past in quiet scratching of pens and murmured voices. Jamie barely noticed until his father’s voice cut across the air. This time, it was not to the group. Not to Rhaegar. Not about Jon. It was for him.

“You should consider cutting your hair,” Tywin said, eyes never leaving his papers. “You could be mistaken for Cersei.”

The table went silent. The air grew colder, sharper, as though the words themselves had iced the room.

The words struck like a lash, but Jamie didn’t lift his head. His pen pressed harder into the page, each line of his schedule growing darker, tighter. Routes, shipments, timings, anything to anchor him, anything to keep his chest from burning. His father’s voice still lingered in the silence, sharp as ever, but then, Jon’s voice cut through the memory of it. Calm, certain, unwavering. He remembered how easily Jon had stood against Robert here, how sure he’d sounded, how he’d spoken as if Jamie were worth defending. The thought steadied his hand. He set his jaw, lowered his gaze, and kept writing.

The pen’s pressure lightened as he thought of Jon’s calming presence, his soft smiles, the sapphire glint of the jewel catching the sunlight. It grounded him, giving a quiet strength against his father’s words.

Perhaps Jon was at his studio by now, working on Arianne’s design. Jamie imagined him there, focused and precise, completely absorbed in the art. He wished he could be close enough to watch, to see the steady patience in Jon’s hands. Still, just knowing Jon existed in that quiet, deliberate space put his heart at ease, and maybe, he thought, that meant his own day could be calm, too.

Chapter Text

Jon’s POV:

The day was bright, but Jon felt none of its warmth. His boots struck the pavement in steady rhythm, Ghost padding silent at his side. His father and Jamie had left for the meeting long before, and Jon had skipped breakfast, his stomach too tight to bother.

A protein bar at the shop would do.

The tattoo parlor greeted him with its usual hum, faint ink-scent, the low whir of the machines at rest. Yet it felt older somehow, colder, as though the walls still remembered Renly’s intrusion. Jon couldn’t shake the thought of him showing up again, slipping in with that smirk, finding ways to needle him until his patience frayed. Was he even safe here anymore?

He sighed, tugging open the cabinet and unwrapping a protein bar. Ghost was already prowling the space, white fur brushing against chair legs, nose low to the floor as though testing the room’s arrangement, making sure nothing was out of place. The sight steadied Jon a little, Ghost was watchful, even when he wasn’t.

Jon finished his protein bar and tossed the wrapper away. He washed his hands and began setting up his workspace: wiping down the seat with antiseptic, lining up ink caps, prepping the machine, and setting out wipes. Snacks and drinks waited on the counter.

The front door’s bell rang.

It should have been a good sign.

But Jon’s body tensed, breath caught in his chest. What if it was Renly again? Could he handle another encounter so soon?

He glanced over to Goldie, seeing her perched up against a water bottle. Her golden eyes sparkling in the rooms light.

“Oh, hi Ghost!” Arianne’s voice rang out, light and playful as ever.

The tension slipped from his shoulders, and Jon let the breath out slowly in relief. He stepped out of the studio and found her in the doorway, bright as always in orange and yellow, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail. She grinned wide at him while petting Ghost’s head.

“Hey! Look at you, up and running in business! I love the sign outside, nothing flashy, but cute and welcoming. Hearthmark is such a lovely sentiment.”

Jon chuckled. “Thanks… now to just make the place look that way, too.” He glanced around the nearly bare shop, furniture scarce.

“And that’s why we’re going to go furniture shopping!” Arianne declared.

“I have to save up for that,” Jon said, shaking his head. “I’m not made of money.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll invest in you. A tattoo for furniture! Or… why don’t you ask your dad? I’m sure he’d be more than willing to.”

Jon frowned. He hated the thought. Even though Rhaegar’s words rang in his head, ‘My money is your money. Our money.’ Jon couldn’t bear the idea of seeming like he was using him. But investing? That, he could get behind.

“No, I’m not gonna ask him,” Jon said firmly. Then, after a pause: “But if you want to trade a tattoo for some furniture… yeah. I can get behind that.”

They went through all the paperwork, confirming that Arianne liked what he had drawn. She’d even asked to switch the style, not realistic, but Jon’s own. His work leaned toward Lysene influence: flashes of color, fine-lined details, but twisted into something distinctly his.

Arianne stood in front of the body mirror, shirt off as she fixed the medical tapes across her breasts. Jon kept his eyes on Ghost, who was chewing a bone near the door. It wasn’t discomfort, it was respect.

“So, what made you want a sun?” Jon asked, keeping his tone easy. “I get that it’s your family’s sigil, but is there something more behind it?”

Arianne let out a small sigh. “I love my family. They’ve helped me through some thick and thin things in my life. I’m not proud of everything I’ve done, but they didn’t care. They just saw me—daughter, sister, niece—someone who needed help. They didn’t judge. They didn’t ask too many questions.”

Jon frowned faintly, listening. He understood. It was how he felt with Rhaegar, and more confusingly, how he was beginning to feel with Jamie. Those emerald eyes never seemed to judge him, only to look at him with a softness Jon couldn’t quite name.

“Yeah,” He said quietly. “I understand.”

There was a beat of quiet. Then Arianne suddenly spun around with a bright grin.

“Look! My nips are covered!” Shw announced, her voice teasing and playful.

Jon blinked, then rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward despite himself. Her laughter broke through the heaviness in his chest.

“Are you done, princess? Shall we get started on the stencil? I’d prefer if you laid down while I put it on.”

She dropped onto the chair, still smiling. “Will it be cold?”

“Maybe,” Jon said, smirking as he reached for the stencil.

Jon rose from his stool, brow furrowed as he hovered the stencil over her chest, jaw set in concentration.

“You stare any harder, Jon, and I might burst into flames,” Arianne teased.

He huffed, not looking up. “Just making sure it’s right. Needs to line up clean, make the shape stand out.”

She grinned. “You’re the only man I know who could say that and still sound professional.”

Jon glanced at her, searching her dark eyes for a trace of mockery. “Is that… a compliment?”

“Yep. Keep being you.” She flashed him a bright smile.

A quiet chuckle slipped from him before he pressed the stencil against her skin. When he peeled it away, the sun lay centered between her breasts, its flames curling outward, some dipping toward her stomach, others flaring up toward her collarbone, a border of fire framing her.

Jon’s lips curved faintly. “Perfect.” He set the stencil aside and pulled on fresh gloves. “Now, if you feel dizzy, lightheaded, need a break, tell me. Doesn’t matter how many. If you want to stop for today, we stop.”

“Is it just the outline you’re planning for today?” Arianne asked, watching him move with an amused tilt to her head.

“Yeah,” Jon replied, settling back on his stool. “Got to let it heal before I touch color.”

“Well then, you’re the professional.” She laughed, stretching back against the chair. “Onwards!”

Jon’s smile was small but genuine as he angled the machine in his hand. The buzz of the needle filled the room.

The first sting made her jolt. Jon pulled back instantly, killing the buzz of the machine. His gaze lifted to hers, steady and soft.

“You okay?”

“Yes, sorry. Never had a needle dig in like that.” She forced a smile, though he caught the flicker of nerves in her eyes. “I’m okay. Keep going.”

Jon’s mouth curved faintly. “I’m right here, alright?” His tone was quiet, never patronizing, only steady. That was what mattered to him. Too many artists treated people like canvases instead of human beings. He never wanted to be that.

Arianne nodded. No words, just a small look of trust.

The buzz filled the air again. Jon set his free hand lightly on her shoulder as he angled the needle, grounding her. The tension in her body eased under his touch. He dipped into her skin once more, felt her flinch, and then relax.

Jon had completed the entire top part of the tattoo’s outline before letting out a soft sigh, the needle buzzing to a stop. “Okay… break time.” He set down his machine.

Arianne groaned as she sat up carefully. “I see why people can get addicted to these things. The pain’s… kind of nice after a while.”

Jon rubbed his shoulders, sore from the work. He grabbed two water bottles and some trail mix, handing one bottle and the snacks to Arianne.

“Thanks!” She said, taking the bottle immediately and sipping. “You… don’t have tattoos. Why?”

Jon shrugged. “I never wanted one myself. I just like making them for other people.”

“I suppose that’s fair.” Arianne smiled, opening the bag of trail mix. “Ooo, you got the good one with the yogurts!” She squealed happily.

Ghost’s ears perked up, and he padded over, hoping for a share.

They settled into a comfortable silence. Arianne munched on her trail mix, tossing a few pieces to Ghost, while Jon finished his water bottle, thoughts flickering briefly to customers and how he’d manage to get furniture without dragging everyone along again. But as his gaze lingered on Ghost’s wagging tail, he found his mind drifting to Jamie—how steady he’d been, how his presence had quietly grounded Jon. He shook the thought away, letting the worries fade for the moment.

“So… how’s Jamie?” Arianne asked, leaning back casually.

Jon frowned, cheeks warming. “W-what?”

“You two went out, right?” She teased, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“I-it was just… we had coffee and walked around the market…” Jon’s gaze darted away, ears burning.

“Mhmmm. Right,” She said, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “And the moon is just a rock in the sky.”

Jon huffed a soft laugh, glancing at Ghost, who wagged his tail knowingly. The quiet, teasing moment grounded him more than he expected, and for a fleeting second, he wished Jamie were here too, just to share the ease, the quiet warmth of feeling seen.

By the time they finished, the sun had sunk low but hadn’t yet touched the horizon.

Arianne groaned as she tugged her shirt back on, stretching. “Gods, that did not feel like a couple of hours. It felt like an entire day!”

Jon chuckled, trailing after her toward the door. Outside, people strolled along the sidewalks, a few glancing up at the shop’s new sign with idle curiosity. Ghost lapped noisily from his water bowl behind the counter.

“Well, at least the outline’s done. I call that a win,” Jon said.

Arianne stuck her tongue out at him, then laughed. “Thanks, Jon. I’m glad I waited for this long to do it with you.”

“Of course… just make sure you take care of it while it heals. I better see no infections,” He said, crossing his arms with mock sternness.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Snow. I’ll be responsible.” She stepped to the front door, pausing to glance back over her shoulder with a wicked grin. “Tomorrow we’re going shopping. You can bring your piece of gold with us too!”

Jon’s face heated instantly. He looked away. “Bye, Ari…”

“Bye-bye! Bye, Ghost!” She sang, slipping out the door and leaving behind the echo of her laughter.

Silence filled the shop again, heavy where her voice had been. The air felt cooler, the shadows longer, as if she had carried the warmth with her when she left. Ghost gave a soft whine and padded back to Jon’s side, nudging against his leg until Jon absently rested a hand on his fur.

Jon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. The outline on Arianne’s skin was finished, but his own thoughts still felt like half-drawn lines, unfinished shapes he didn’t know how to ink in. He wondered if Jamie would really want to come with him tomorrow, or if it was foolish to even ask. Coffee and the market had been one thing… this felt different.

Almost too much to risk.

Chapter Text

Jon’s POV:

Jon paced back and forth in his room, fingers twisting his rings in nervous habit. He knew he was overthinking, but the thought of Jamie rejecting him made his stomach knot.

Ghost lay on the bed, tail flicking side to side, eyes sharp and almost judgmental, as if silently measuring Jon’s anxiety.

“Jon?” Rhaegar’s soft voice drifted down the hallway. His footsteps were quiet but purposeful, closing the distance with calm certainty.

Jon bit his bottom lip, unsure if he should flee or hide. “Yeah?”

Rhaegar paused at the doorway, taking in Jon’s tense posture. There was no judgment in his gaze, only gentle concern. “Want some tea before you leave?”

Jon nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah… please.” He stared at the floor, too afraid that looking up might spill everything he wasn’t ready to share.

For a moment, Rhaegar simply lingered, patient and unhurried, and Jon felt the weight of his watchful presence. Somehow, it made him both safer and more exposed at the same time.

Then Rhaegar stepped away, leaving the quiet behind, and Jon’s heart raced, yet felt a flicker of steadiness he hadn’t expected.

Jon’s eyes drifted to his phone, resting neatly by Ghost’s paw. The black screen seemed to call to him, daring him to type. Ghost let out a small huff and nudged the device closer.

Jon groaned. “Fine… I’ll text him. And if he can’t… it’s okay. He’s probably busy. It’s fine if he says no.”

His fingers hovered over the screen like it might explode. He drew a shaky breath and whispered, “It’s okay if he says no…” again, as though saying it twice might make it true.

The sun’s glow caught him almost off guard, making him blink at how bright it was. He reached up to his hair, lightly touching the bun and feeling the leather braid Jamie had bought him. A faint flush warmed his cheeks at the memory.

Jon blinked, catching the mirror in front of him and noticing the sapphire dangling by his ear. Tilting his head, he watched the blue hues glint in the sunlight. “It’s… cute. Is this for me?” He whispered.

Jamie nodded softly. “Yeah. Simple, rustic… I thought the blue suits you perfectly.”

Jon traced the braid down to the gemstone delicately, afraid it might shatter in that moment. “It really… does look good,” he said, almost in disbelief.

“You do,” Jamie whispered back.

Jon’s eyes flicked up to meet his, and he felt a warmth spread through his chest, the kind that made the world feel still and quiet. For a moment, the noise of the market dimmed, and he savored the small, shy moment. He didn’t want it to end, but he carried it with him as he turned back, appreciating the simple gift of feeling seen.

He let the memory’s warmth ease some of his anxiety, taking a few deep, steady breaths. In the distance, he could see the sunlight glinting off waves of blonde hair.

Jamie had come.

Jon had known he would—after all, he’d received the simple reply: “Sure.”

And yet, his chest still twisted with a mix of relief and nerves.

When he finally reached Jamie and Arianne, he offered a small, hesitant smile. “Hey…”

Arianne laughed, enveloping him in a quick, tight hug. “Yay! Shopping tiiiime!~ And you did bring your piece of gold,” She teased, winking as she stepped back.

Jon felt his cheeks heat. “Arianne—!”

Jamie smirked, emerald eyes catching the sunlight. “Well, I’ve certainly been called worse,” He said with a small chuckle. “Shall we?”

Jon’s heart thumped in his ears. He wanted to disappear, unable to meet Jamie’s gaze, but he could feel the weight of those emerald eyes on him, steady and knowing.

When they stepped inside, Jon couldn’t help but stare. The place was enormous, far larger than any furniture store in Winterfell, and every corner seemed crammed with something new, polished tables, bright fabrics, chairs carved in styles he didn’t recognize. His eyes widened despite himself.

Arianne giggled, slipping Ghost’s leash from his hand with a mischievous glint. “You and Jamie go look around for furniture you want. Ghost and I will find him a throne fit for a king.” She scratched the dog’s head, cooing, “Isn’t that right?”

Jon opened his mouth to refuse. The thought of being alone with Jamie, of handling that in his current state, twisted his stomach. But the words tangled on his tongue, and what came out instead was, “Sounds good.”

“Wonderful!” Arianne’s laughter rang through the building, echoing as she strolled off with Ghost trotting happily beside her.

Silence stretched for a breath before Jamie’s voice slipped in, low and warm. “So… shall we start with the Lys style? Since you already have their rugs.” A faint smirk tugged at his mouth, but his tone was soft, teasing without bite.

Jon blinked, caught off guard. “I do like the Lys style…” He mumbled.

Jamie chuckled, not mocking but genuinely amused. “By the excitement you had getting those rugs, I’d say you more than like it.”

Heat climbed the back of Jon’s neck. Jamie had remembered that? Out of everything, that? The simplicity of it, that someone noticed, cared enough to recall, made his chest tighten, his heart beating faster than it should.

Jamie walked down one of the aisles, moving with that same easy confidence, every step purposeful. His golden hair caught the light, bouncing slightly with each stride.

Jon trailed beside him, stealing glances he hoped went unnoticed. He caught details he shouldn’t, like the faint shadow of stubble on Jamie’s jaw. It startled him. He hadn’t thought Jamie could grow a beard, but the thought lodged in his chest before he could stop it: he’d look good with one.

Jamie’s eyes slid toward him, catching him mid-stare. A smirk tugged at his lips. “Something wrong, Snow?”

The words slipped out before Jon could stop them, low and unguarded. “You’d look good with a beard.”

Heat flooded his face instantly. Why did I say that? His mind dragged him back to that moment by the market mirror, the sapphire glinting in his hair, the way Jamie’s gaze had rested on him like he was something fragile and precious. He’d barely survived being on the receiving end of that look, now here he was, caught staring back.

Silence stretched for half a heartbeat. Jon’s face burned, horror flooding him at his own boldness. But Jamie’s smirk only deepened, his green eyes glinting. “Careful,” he murmured, voice warm with amusement. “Keep saying things like that, and I might start believing you.”

Jon wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

Later, they wandered into the section lined with couches and sofas. Jon lingered, scanning between sturdy Northern builds and the sleeker, patterned pieces from Lys. He wanted something that felt like home, yet fit this new place.

Turning a corner, he found Jamie standing over a Northern-style couch: soft gray fabric, spruce wood frame. Jamie was bent over the price tag, hair slipping loose despite being tied back, expression sharp with thought. The sight almost made Jon laugh.

“What are you looking at?” Jon asked.

“Price tag,” Jamie said without looking up. “Making sure you don’t get ripped off.” Then he lifted his head, smirk tugging at his mouth as the tag slipped free of his fingers. “It’s a good one.”

Jon glanced again at the couch. “…Yeah.”

Jamie chuckled and dropped into the cushions like he owned them, sprawling a long leg over the armrest. Confidence radiated from him, as if even the furniture bent itself around him.

Jon tried not to stare. He failed.

“Come on,” Jamie smirked, patting the empty space beside him. “Don’t be shy.”

Jon hesitated. But he couldn’t very well judge the couch without sitting, could he? So he lowered himself onto the cushion, only for it to dip more than expected, pulling him closer. His shoulder brushed Jamie’s, warmth bleeding through the fabric of their shirts.

The air was thick with cedar and rosemary, Jamie’s scent, sharp and grounding. Jon swallowed, pulse hammering in his ears. He couldn’t bring himself to move away.

Jamie tilted his head, studying Jon with that lazy, assessing glance of his. “So? What do you think of it?” he asked, tone light.

Jon blinked, caught off guard. “W-what?” His voice came out softer than he meant.

“The couch.” Jaime’s lips curved, amusement flickering in his eyes.

Heat rushed to Jon’s face. He dropped his gaze quickly, scrambling for words. “O-oh, uh… it’s pretty comfy. Nice.”

Jamie raised an eyebrow, fingertips tapping lazily against the armrest. “That’s it? ‘Nice?’” He chuckled, amused by Jon’s simplicity. “I was expecting a rousing speech on the craftsmanship. Suppose I’ll have to cover that too.”

Jon glanced at him, fiddling with his rings. “I’m not good with speeches. But you… you make them interesting.” His voice was soft, almost reluctant. He knew Jamie could talk circles around anything, stretch nothing into a story. And honestly, Jon kind of liked it. It distracted him in a good way.

The lazy amusement in Jamie’s voice made Jon’s chest tighten. “Don’t worry, I won’t yap your ear off too much.”

Jon didn’t know what else to say. Part of him feared if he opened his mouth, the moment would shatter. He didn’t want it to, not yet. Maybe it was selfish, but Jamie didn’t seem to mind.

Jamie leaned back against the cushion, stretching out like a cat. His leg brushed against Jon’s and stayed there, deliberate in its ease, like testing the waters.

Jon didn’t move. He didn’t feel unsafe or cornered, if anything, he felt his shoulders loosen, the restless fidgeting of his fingers stilling at last.

Before either of them could speak, Arianne’s voice rang out, heels clicking against the tile with Ghost padding beside her. “Oh boys!~ I do hope you’ve found something, for I have found something delightful.”

Jamie stretched like a cat, his leg slipping away from Jon’s, though the warmth lingered stubbornly. He draped his head back over the arm of the couch. “Is it a mirror of your reflection?”

Jon pushed to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his pants.

Arianne swept toward them with a sly smile, Ghost keeping pace with a tail that swayed like he was in on the joke. His red eyes flicked between Jon and Jamie, far too knowing. “Oh Jamie… if there were a mirror, you’d spend hours marveling at yourself. Or perhaps a… special interest?”

Heat crept up the back of Jon’s neck. He cleared his throat. “So… what did you find?”

With a flourish, Arianne held up a picture frame. It was simple, black wood, sturdy but unfussy, with a placeholder photo tucked inside. “These! Dozens of them. Imagine your tattoo photos lined up along a wall, your own gallery, your own lure for new clients.”

Jon frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I already put up my drawings.”

“Drawings, yes,” Arianne countered, tilting the frame so the light caught. “But not your tattoos. You need to stand out here, Jon. Winterfell was a home field, you had years to build trust. King’s Landing won’t wait for you to catch up.”

Jamie glanced over, lazy but steady. “You could start with Rhaegar’s. Arianne’s. Ones that already mean something. Fill the rest soon enough.”

Jon hesitated. The idea sat heavy: his work, pinned to walls for strangers to judge. Still, Arianne was right. He didn’t have the luxury of time anymore. “…Okay. I’ll start putting some up.”

Arianne clapped her hands, bright with triumph. “Perfect! I’ll start curating your collection. And Ghost has found himself a throne for your shop: very regal, very on brand.”

Ghost gave a low, pleased huff, as if confirming it.

Jon chuckled, “Uh huh.”

Arianne’s eyes flicked to the couch, then back to him with a smirk, like she’d just caught a secret. “Find a comfy couch?”

Jon swallowed. “Huh?” His gaze darted to the couch—and to Jamie, already looking at him. He turned away fast, heat pricking his neck. “Yeah… mhm.”

“Mhm? Riiiight.” She giggled and turned, Ghost trotting at her heels. “We’ll get that couch too. Now go look at some chairs and lamps!” Her voice carried as she disappeared down the aisle, heels clicking until they faded.

Jon sighed then smacked right into a solid chest. He stumbled back with a yelp, nearly landing on his ass. Jamie looked down at him with a crooked smirk.

“Didn’t mean to spook you,” He said, voice low.

“Spook? Please. More like… unexpected. Solid wall of chest in my face!”

Jamie arched a brow. “Solid, huh?”

Jon spun around fast, ears burning. “L-let’s look at the lamps.” He cleared his throat, marching off toward the display.

Behind him came the quiet huff of laughter, like Jamie had enjoyed every second.

The lamp section had everything, big ones, small ones, regal, simple, chandeliers, wall lights. A far bigger selection than anything he’d ever seen in Winterfell. It was almost overwhelming. His fingers fidgeted against the bands on his rings.

“You alright?” Jamie asked softly, keeping pace beside him.

Jon glanced over. “Yeah… just a lot of stuff. I’m not used to it. But I’m okay.” He nodded, steering his eyes toward the simpler pieces. He didn’t need anything grand. They were just lamps. But he wanted something with a warm glow.

They walked quietly, Jon intent on his search. He almost forgot Jamie was there until a click filled the silence. One of the lamps flickered on, warm light spilling across the aisle.

It was exactly what Jon had been looking for: simple black metal frame, a grey shade, steady glow. But what caught him wasn’t the lamp, it was how the glow touched Jamie. His golden hair burned like fire in the light, his green eyes softened from sharpness to warmth. The glow carved the lines of his face: cheekbones, jaw, the faint gold stubble along his chin.

Jon felt his heart fluttered at the sight, and a part of him wanted to keep that image of Jamie in a photo. Almost like a secret he could look at whenever he wanted. He looked away, swallowing down hard.

“It’s a good lamp,” Jamie said, voice low, amused—like he’d caught Jon staring.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Jon whispered.

Jamie scoffed. “‘Fine,’ he says.”

Jon rolled his eyes and reached to switch the light off, only to meet Jamie’s hand doing the same. They both froze mid-movement, hands brushing, lingering against each other. Jon’s eyes widened, but he didn’t pull away.

Jamie’s hand was warm. Soft. He didn’t press closer, didn’t retreat either, as if waiting for Jon to choose.

The scent of rosemary and cedar wrapped around him. Jamie’s quiet breath filled the space between them. Jon realized he wasn’t afraid of Jamie, not of this, he was more afraid of how much he liked it. Of how patient Jamie was.

For a moment it felt like time held still. Then Jon moved. Carefully, deliberately, he slid his hand past Jamie’s to click the lamp off. The warm glow vanished, but the heat of Jamie’s touch lingered in the dark, refusing to fade.

Jon’s hand fell to his side as Jamie slid his into his pocket. Neither of them moved down the aisle. For a moment they just stood there, caught in the stillness, like breaking it would mean losing something unnamed.

Jon risked a glance upward, only to find Jamie already watching him. No smirk, no teasing spark. Just a quiet, steady look that made Jon’s mouth go dry.

“Oh boys, did you find a lamp yet?~” Arianne’s voice rang out, heels clicking over tile.

Jon blinked hard and looked away. “Yeah. A lamp.” His voice came out softer than he meant.

Arianne swept up with Ghost trotting happily beside her, her eyes flicking between them. She didn’t say anything about what she might have noticed, just smiled knowingly. “Wonderful! Well, I found matching seats for your couch. Which, by the way, you’re getting two couches. Trust me. It’ll look cozy.”

Jon frowned. “Two?”

“Mhm.” She breezed past him before he could argue. “Also some shelves, and real plants, since you like them so much. It’ll make this place lively with all those… monotone colors.”

Jon crossed his arms. “I have rugs. They add color.”

“Mmm, yes. Tiny splashes.”

“They’re bright.”

Arianne giggled, already turning back toward the next aisle. “If you say so.”

Jon scoffed but felt the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself.

Behind him, he caught the faintest sound of Jamie exhaling a laugh.

By the time they reached the register, Jon realized Arianne had piled far more into the cart than he thought. She called them essentials while he protested that this was a lot more than fair for a tattoo. He didn’t win. He gave up, letting her do as she wished.

As they left the store, Jon glanced back and caught Jamie lingering near the movers. He was watching with that serious look, hands on his hips, making sure nothing got dropped or scuffed. For that, Jon was oddly grateful. He found himself staring longer than he meant to, even chuckling under his breath before turning away.

Ghost pranced ahead, leash in Jon’s hand. The warmth of what happened lingered. So did the fear—fear of just how much he liked it.

Chapter Text

Jon’s POV:

“Jon! Can you come downstairs when you have a chance?” Rhaegar’s voice carried up from below.

“I’ll be there in a minute!” Jon called from the office. He had been sketching all day, letting his thoughts wander along with the pencil. Today’s drawings were all mini portraits of Jamie: different angles, plays of light and shadow, hints of gold and red in his hair. He brushed a fingertip over the sketches, a flicker of warmth in his chest. Closing the sketchbook, he set it aside.

Coming downstairs, Jon found Rhaegar smiling in the living room, the scent of pine filling the space and wrapping around him like a quiet comfort. Seeing his father lighter and happier made Jon chuckle to himself. Perhaps it had something to do with a certain Dornish man spending he was spending more time with?

“What’s that look for?” Rhaegar asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“Nothing at all,” Jon said, a faint grin tugging at his lips. Ghost snored on his dog bed, probably dreaming of treats.

“I don’t believe you,” Rhaegar muttered.

“What? Can’t I enjoy seeing my father smile more these days?” Jon crossed his arms, pretending to look innocent.

“I’m… smiling more?” Rhaegar’s face turned red, deeper than Jon expected.

Jon couldn’t hold it in. He laughed, clutching his stomach as amusement bubbled over. “Yeah! Maybe because a…” He swayed dramatically side to side, “Certain Star has been coming around the house more?”

Rhaegar froze, eyes wide, crimson climbing to the tips of his ears. “I… have no idea what you’re talking about…”

Jon doubled over, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Rhaegar’s flustered expression only made it worse, and Jon’s smile stretched wider, full of warmth and mischief.

When Jon finally caught his breath and his laughter subsided, he draped an arm over his father’s shoulders. “Sure you don’t,” He teased, a grin tugging at his lips. “Definitely not spending more time with a certain Star.” He chuckled softly. “As long as you’re happy.”

Rhaegar groaned, rubbing a hand over his face before looking back at Jon. His cheeks were still tinged with red, but a soft smile played on his lips. “Thank you,” He whispered. “Should I… ask about a certain piece of gold?” He raised an eyebrow, teasing lightly.

Jon’s cheeks flamed. He groaned, trying to look anywhere but at Rhaegar.

“Well,” Rhaegar said with a small chuckle, “You certainly seem happier.” He reached out and gently brushed a few curls from Jon’s forehead.

“Do I…?” Jon asked, uncertain.

Rhaegar smirked. “I mean, you did get excited when he invited you for coffee. You practically threw your clothes everywhere in your room.”

Jon groaned again, hiding a sheepish grin. “Fuck… yeah, I did.”

“So…” Jon glanced at him again. “What’s up? You did call me down here.”

Rhaegar smiled. “Oh right!” He pulled a blindfold from his pocket. “I need you to wear this.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Jon shrugged. “Okay.” He closed his eyes, trusting his father completely.

When Rhaegar tied the blindfold over his eyes, he guided Jon slowly and carefully outside. The breeze brushed his face, horses whinnied in the distance, and birds chirped nearby. He had no idea where they were going, he was just holding his father’s hand, letting him lead the way.

Finally, they stopped. Jon smelled fresh soil and felt the coolness of a building.
Rhaegar removed the blindfold. “Surprise! It’s all done.”

Jon blinked a few times before taking it all in. The greenhouse was massive, bigger than the other one. Tables were lined with new tools, pots of every size, bags of soil, and packets of seeds. “This…this is huge,” He murmured, almost in disbelief.

Rhaegar chuckled beside him. “Figured you’d need space. You can fill it however you want.”

Jon’s eyes flicked to his father. “The chemicals… you’re not getting sick being in here?” He remembered how Rhaegar had struggled before.

Rhaegar shook his head. “Nope. That was the old, and them being mixed that bothered me. Here? I’m fine. Though I won’t linger long enough to test that theory.”

Jon laughed, turning back to the greenhouse. It was beautiful, larger, brighter, and ready for him to make his mark. He felt spoiled, overwhelmed by the kindness: Jamie buying sweets, Arianne with furniture, Rhaegar building this space. He didn’t feel he deserved any of it, yet they gave it freely.

Tears pricked his eyes. He hugged Rhaegar tightly, burying his face in his chest. “Thank you…” He mumbled.

Rhaegar stroked Jon’s hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “I know you’ll grow beautiful things here. And Elia… she would be proud to watch.” He whispered softly.

They lingered in the greenhouse a while longer before Rhaegar, in his quiet fatherly way, reminded Jon not to stay out too late.

Left on his own, Jon felt like a child in a candy shop. He’d never thought of himself as a gardener. He admired plants and flowers, sure, but growing them? That had never crossed his mind. Yet ever since he’d first seen the old greenhouse, something in him had stirred. Maybe this was how he could keep Elia’s memory alive, through something she had loved so deeply. He would never know her, but this could bring him closer.

On the worktable lay Elia’s booklet, clearly brought here by Rhaegar. Jon picked it up, smiling softly. “But I can be close to her this way,” He murmured, as if confessing a secret. “I hope you’ll like what I plant in here.”

He turned to the seeds, rows upon rows, more than he knew what to do with. Roses. Orchids. Peppers. Cucumbers. Cacti. Ferns. Strawberries. Even lemon seeds. His chest tightened as he imagined his father in the shop, choosing each one by hand. That was Rhaegar: deliberate, careful, thinking of him.

Jon let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Oh my fuck… orchids first, then. That’s your favorite. I’ll make them beautiful.”

He opened the booklet, flipping straight to the orchids.

He knelt in the soil, packet of orchid seeds in hand, already imagining the blooms. So lost in the thought of it, he didn’t hear the soft footsteps approaching the greenhouse door.

Chapter Text

Jamie’s POV:

Jamie slipped quietly into the greenhouse, his eyes lifting to take in the sheer size of it. Rhaegar hadn’t spared any expense, glass stretched high above him, sunlight spilling down across rows of polished tables and neat stacks of tools. Bigger than the last one, certainly, but he could already picture Jon filling it, softening the space until it felt like home.

He spotted him then, kneeling over a set of pots, curls falling forward as he studied them.

“Flower beds!” Jon’s voice burst out with sudden excitement, carrying clear across the glassy chamber. He hadn’t noticed Jamie.

Jamie lingered in the doorway, watching as Jon sprang to his feet and jogged into a smaller room off to the side.

“I could use one of these for the orchids. They’re perfect!” His voice softened, joy spilling through every word. He was humming now, light and tuneful, while the air filled with the scent of lavender and fresh soil.

Jamie leaned against the wall, arms crossed, just listening. The sound of Jon moving about, the small tune, the unguarded happiness, it was almost like music.

When Jon finally reappeared, he froze, eyes widening. “How long have you been there!?” His curls were loose, a little wild, his cheeks touched with color.

Jamie felt something warm uncurl in his chest at the sight. He shrugged casually. “For as long as you’ve been in that room.”

He didn’t add that he hadn’t wanted to interrupt, that seeing Jon so unguarded felt like a gift. So he only smiled instead.

“Wish you said something. Then I wouldn’t have looked like some dumbass.”

Jamie walked over, smiling a little. “You were happy…” He said softly.

Jon didn’t meet his gaze, his curls falling forward as if to hide him. His fingers worried at the edge of a seed packet, too restless to keep still.

“What are you planting?” Jamie motioned to the flower bed in the other room.

“Oh, some orchids. They’re Dad’s favorite, so I might as well surprise him with them. And don’t tell him!” Jon shot him a glare sharp enough to freeze over the seven hells. “It’s a surprise.”

Jamie chuckled, though there was a flicker of nerves in his chest. He still wasn’t sure how dangerous Jon’s temper really was, but the seriousness in his tone was enough. “Alright, my lips are sealed. Need any help?” He was already rolling up his sleeves.

“Huh? Oh no, I couldn’t ask you to do that!” Jon shook his head immediately.

“You’re not asking—I’m offering.” Jaime’s voice gentled, steady. He watched Jon hesitate, weighing him, before finally nodding.

“Okay… thanks. But don’t get upset if your precious Lannister boots get messy.”

Jamie’s mouth tugged into a grin. “Just tell me what to do.”

Jon gave orders like it was second nature. He wasn’t demanding or undermining anyone; he guided gently, helping whenever Jamie hesitated, making him feel needed and capable. Every so often, Jamie stole a glance, watching how alive Jon seemed, how relaxed his shoulders were, how freely he moved. He was happy here, as if the world’s worries didn’t exist. Then it hit him: this was Jon’s safe space.

Jamie looked down at the bag of soil in his hands, noticing the mud clinging to his boots. A small smile tugged at his lips. He was allowed to be here. Allowed to see Jon. Allowed to share this quiet corner of the world with him. It felt like the greatest gift he could ever be given.

“Need a hand with that?” Jamie asked softly, nodding toward a pot Jon was balancing.

Jon glanced up, startled for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah… maybe.”

Jamie stepped closer, careful not to crowd him. He took the bag from Jon’s hands, tipping the soil gently into the pot while Jon held it steady. Their fingers brushed briefly, warmth lingering longer than it should have, and Jamie let it. He watched Jon’s curls fall across his forehead as he concentrated, completely unaware of the subtle electricity between them.

“There,” Jamie said finally, stepping back a bit, “That should do it.”

Jon straightened, brushing his hands on his apron, and Jamie instinctively reached to smooth a stray curl from Jon’s eyes. Jon froze, just for a heartbeat, then smiled. A small, shy thing that made Jamie’s chest tighten.

Jamie took a breath, letting himself soak in the moment. He watched Jon place the seed carefully, pat the soil gently, then step back to admire it. Every little movement was so deliberate, so alive. Seeing Jon like this, free, untethered by worry or fear, made Jamie feel like he could protect the entire world, or at least protect this one small piece of it.

If seeing him this free meant planting a hundred orchids, then he would do it without a second thought. And maybe, just maybe, he’d stay right here a little longer to help him.

When he arrived at Arthur’s place, sundown had settled over the streets. Jamie felt lighter than he had all day. The warm glow from the kitchen spilled into the room, and he moved closer, curious. There was Arthur, hunched over a bowl of cereal, lost in thought.

Jamie didn’t speak immediately, he knew Arthur didn’t need noise, just presence. He peered over his shoulder, noticing the cereal had gone soggy. Gently, he lifted the bowl. “I’m starving. Pizza sound good?”

No response. Jamie moved toward the sink, keeping his voice soft and calm. “I’ll get pepperoni. Classic choice.”

He continued to talk, quietly, letting his words drift through the kitchen like gentle sunlight. Each small remark was a tether to the present, drawing Arthur back from wherever his mind had wandered. He’d seen the lows, the sudden shadows, the days that felt too heavy, and he knew Arthur didn’t have to bear them alone. Not tonight. Rhaegar was there. And so was Jamie.

Throughout dinner, he kept the conversation flowing, subtle and patient, until Arthur had eaten a single slice… and then half of another. Jamie allowed himself a quiet smile: progress, small and almost imperceptible, but real.

“Good,” He said, patting Arthur’s shoulder. As he rose to head upstairs, a soft voice stopped him:

“Thank you.”

Jamie paused, savoring the quiet warmth of that single word, the way it lingered in the room, steady and honest. In that moment, nothing else mattered.

Jamie finished his nightly routine—shower, sweatpants, and a tank top. Out of habit, he wiped away the fog on the bathroom mirror, his shaving kit laid out. But as he did the last swipe, he paused.

His stubble was growing, and soon it would be a full beard. He brushed his fingers over it, feeling the roughness. He had never let it grow before… but Jon’s low, unguarded voice echoed in his mind:

“You’d look good in a beard.”

Would he? He’d always shaved before the stubble became noticeable. His sister had practically forced him to keep clean-shaven when they were younger. “We’re twins. You’re part of me, and I’m not going to have you look like a washed-up, homeless man! Shave it.”

He blinked, thinking of the freedom he never really had. The only defiance had been in his hair… everything else was always measured, controlled. But the way Jon had looked at him… it had been different. Seen.

He swallowed hard and set the shaving kit aside. Not tonight. Maybe, just maybe, he’d let it grow and see for himself. Maybe he really would look good…. with a beard.

Chapter Text

Jamie’s POV:

The cart squeaked in the distance, and it was driving Jamie mad. He swore whoever was pushing it had chosen that broken wheel on purpose, just to torment him. He groaned and rubbed his face.

Arthur chuckled under his breath. “Come on. I need more soap.” He nudged their own cart forward, steady as ever, weaving down the aisle.

Jamie followed, still vaguely irritated by the squeak, though less by the cart now, and more by how ordinary this all felt. He wasn’t used to this. His father never bothered with things like this. He had people to handle the errands. Long lists handed down, stacks of money exchanged, everything done without ever setting foot in a place like this.

Walking the aisles with Arthur, under harsh lights and the faint hum of the air vents, felt… different. Normal.

“It’s a big store,” Jamie said, glancing around.

“One of the bigger ones in King’s Landing,” Arthur replied with a nod.

“Do you do this every month?” Jamie asked. There were families moving past them—children tugging at sleeves, teenagers laughing too loudly, couples arguing quietly over brands of bread. He hadn’t realized how much life filled places like this.

“Twice, if I can,” Arthur said, voice soft.

Jamie let his eyes wander to the shelves, then back to the crowd. He wondered suddenly if Jon came here too, if he was one of the people who did this every week without thinking about it. The thought lodged strangely in his chest.

When they reached the personal care aisle, Jamie was hit by a jumble of scents, cheap fruit sprays clashing with rich colognes, sharp soaps mixed with floral shampoos. He stared at the shelves stacked with endless bottles, colors and labels blurring together. It was overwhelming, yet strangely… pleasant.

He nearly collided with Arthur, snapping out of his daze just in time to rub his nose. “Seven hells, sorry!” He’d forgotten, for a moment, how solid Arthur really was.

Arthur chuckled. “Don’t worry. Everyone crashes into someone, or rams the cart into their legs at least once. It’s part of the experience.”

Jamie raised a brow. “Crashing a cart into someone’s legs?”

“Hurts like hell,” Arthur said simply, dropping a bar of soap into the cart. He glanced back at Jamie. “You need anything? Soap? Shampoo?” He hesitated, then added with a knowing smile, “Shaving cream?”

“Shaving cream?” Jamie frowned.

Arthur gave him a look. “You usually shave your stubble before it shows. I figured you forgot to pack your kit. But—” His tone softened, “If you’re trying something new, that’s nice.”

Jamie felt the tips of his ears burn, thinking if the low and soft way Jon had spoken at the furniture store. He cleared his throat, “Right. Yeah. I wanted to try something new!” He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Never saw myself in a beard before, hopefully it won’t be too terrible.”

Arthur smiled, knowingly. “I’m sure a certain snowflake knows good taste.” He turned around and pushed the cart at a steady pace, “Come on we have more things to get.”

But he did wonder, if Jon was right.

Would he look good like he said he would?

Would he look different than his sister?

Would Jon actually like it?

Jamie lingered for a moment as Arthur compared brands, his gaze snagging on the rows of bottles, the faint reflection of his own face warped in the plastic. He dragged his thumb along his jaw, imagining the rough shadow that would grow in if he let it.

Different.

Not Cersei’s twin.

His own man.

And if Jon liked it, well, that was just a bonus.

Chapter Text

Jamie POV:

Today was Sunday, which meant another coffee-not-a-date with Jon. Jamie hadn’t expected to wake up to a text from him, but there it was waiting on his phone, making sure they were still on. He reread it twice before replying, more relieved than he’d admit. Jon still wanted to go. He still wanted this weekly ritual.

Jamie was rummaging through his drawers, shoving aside clothes he barely folded. He wanted to look nice today, nicer than usual but not overdone. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Except maybe Jon.

It’s not a date, he reminded himself. It’s just coffee. Just a hangout.

Still, his hand lingered on a crimson red polo longer than it should have.

A soft but steady knock broke his thoughts.

“Come in!” Jamie called, tugging the shirt free.

Arthur stepped inside. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, wearing the same clothes from yesterday’s shopping trip. Not just tired. Worn, as if sleep hadn’t reached him at all.

“Hey,” Arthur cleared his throat.

“Hey,” Jamie echoed, softening his tone. He reached for a pair of pants. “You need something?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. I forgot to print some papers out. The tab’s open on my computer, just drop them on Monford’s desk when you’re done.” Arthur rubbed at his temple, still not meeting Jamie’s eyes.

“Yeah, of course.” Jamie nodded quickly. “I’ll get it done first.”

Arthur’s gaze drifted to the clothes in Jamie’s hands. “Going somewhere?”

“Coffee with Jon,” Jamie said lightly.

Arthur hummed, then gave a small, barely audible chuckle. “Have fun. And thanks.” He stepped away from the door, closing it gently behind him.

Jamie slipped his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering for a moment before he sent a text to Rhaegar. Something subtle, nothing dramatic, just enough to make sure Arthur wouldn’t be left alone in that state for long. It was the sort of thing Jon would have noticed, Jamie realized. The thought made his chest feel strangely warm.

The council building was the same as always—rows of suits and business-casual strutting around like they had a stick wedged somewhere unpleasant. Jamie almost laughed at the thought but kept it to himself. He leaned against the printer, waiting for the pages to crawl out one by one, and pulled out his phone.

Jamie: ‘Might be a little late, Snowflake. Printing boring papers for Arthur.’

The reply came quicker than expected.

Jon: ‘Take your time. I’ll probably snag some snacks while I wait.’

Jamie: ‘Don’t eat them out of stock. I’d like at least one cake pop.’

Jon: ‘You snooze, you lose. I don’t make the rules, Goldilocks.’

Jamie chuckled, ears burning. He hadn’t thought Jon would lean into banter like this—not with him. Sure, he’d joined the others in a few jokes at the bar back in Winterfell, but this felt different. It wasn’t just passing chatter—it was playful. Warm. Like Jon actually wanted to make him laugh.

And gods, it was working.

“Jamie Lannister!” Monford’s voice boomed as he stepped into the cramped printing room. His cheer always filled the space, as if he never learned how to walk in quietly.

Jamie slid his phone back into his pocket like a kid caught with candy.

“Oh, hey, you old sea horse,” He smirked, though his ears were already burning.

Monford gave him a once-over, grin widening. “Got a date today?”

Jamie scoffed, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “It’s not a date. Just… coffee with Jon.”

“Mm-hm.” Monford dragged out the hum, far too amused. “That’s why you’re dressed like you actually folded your laundry for once.”

Jamie bit back a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.” But the smile broke through anyway, and he ducked his gaze to the floor, betraying himself.

The printer whirred out another slow sheet, and Monford chuckled. “Not a date. Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

“Those papers are for you, by the way.” Jamie motioned lazily at the printer.

“For me?” Monford raised a brow. “I never asked you for papers.”

“Not me. Arthur. He stayed up late and asked me to run them off, he’s exhausted.” Jamie kept his tone even, not bothering to mention what he really thought Arthur had been doing last night. That wasn’t his secret to share.

“Well, alright then. You can head off to your… not-a-date.”

Jamie rolled his eyes, muttering, “It’s not a date.”

After handing Monford the stack of paperwork, Jamie slipped out, each step bringing him closer to that flicker of joy, though the nerves tangled tighter in his chest. He still couldn’t believe Jon wanted to keep this going, week after week. Was this what it would be like from now on?

His fingers brushed the braid in his hair. He rarely bothered with it, usually just left it down, or tied back in a loose ponytail. But today he’d braided it, paired with the green earrings. Would Jon notice? Would he like it? Or should he have just left things plain?

He groaned softly, dragging a hand across his face. Stop overthinking. It wasn’t as if it would harm Jon. But gods, he wanted Jon to notice him. To really see him.

“Jamie.”

The cold, clipped voice shattered his thoughts. Every hair at the back of his neck stood on end. He froze, then turned, pulse sinking like a stone.

“Hello, Father…” He mumbled.

Tywin stood tall, briefcase in hand, polished and severe, the perfect image of what a Lannister should be. At least, in his father’s eyes.

His father’s gaze dragged from Jamie’s shoes up to his pants, his shirt, his earrings, the braid in his hair, finally settling on the stubble along his jaw. A slow inventory, measured and cold.

“And who,” Tywin said at last, “Are you trying to impress?”

The mockery in his tone made Jamie’s throat tighten. He forced out, “No one.” Too quick. Too defensive.

Tywin’s head tilted, just slightly. “Is that so? Not a certain… Snowflake you’ve been hounding around?”

The nickname landed like ice water. Jamie’s jaw locked. He hated the sound of it in his father’s mouth. Hated how easily it stripped the warmth from something that had felt light, secret, his. His silence was answer enough, and Tywin knew it.

“You are a Lannister. Not a Dayne. Not a Targaryen. And certainly not a Snow. Remember that.”

He walked away, briefcase in hand, every step precise, final. But the cold remained, seeping into Jamie’s bones, lingering long after the click of polished shoes had faded.

Jamie swallowed hard and pushed out of the council building. Each step carried him nearer to Jon, nearer to warmth, to coffee, to something real. Still, his father’s words clung to him like frost. Snowflake. The way Tywin had said it, sharp and knowing, made his skin crawl.

He flexed his fingers, forcing steady breaths. He wouldn’t let his father’s coldness seep into this day. Not when Jon was waiting. Not today.

Chapter Text

Jon’s POV:

Jon sat at the same table they had claimed last week, fingers drumming lightly against the wood as he tried to calm the flutter in his chest. Maybe he’d tried a little too hard today, tried to impress. The watch gleamed a touch too brightly, but Jamie had complimented it before, and that thought made him smile, quiet and private.

Nearly forty-seven minutes later, Jamie appeared, the familiar scent of cedar and rosemary trailing behind him. Jon immediately noticed he wasn’t himself: jaw tight, shoulders stiff, movements just a little too careful. Distracted, maybe even startled.

Jamie’s eyes met his, and only then did his shoulders ease slightly.

Jon offered a small smile and a casual wave. “Hey,” He said, voice gentle. “Come on over.”

When Jamie sat down across from him, he didn’t look Jon in the eye. His mouth opened once, twice, before pressing shut again like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. Like he wasn’t sure how to let them out.

Jon smiled faintly and pushed back his chair. He reached out, giving Jamie’s shoulder a light pat. “I’ll get us some coffee and sweets,” He said, gentle but certain, before heading toward the counter.

He could feel those emerald eyes on his back the whole way. It didn’t unsettle him, didn’t make him self-conscious. He only understood, Jamie wasn’t in the right headspace, something had happened. And if Jon could help it, he’d brighten his day.

Jon returned with their drinks and set them down, sliding an iced coffee across the table, this one with caramel and chocolate drizzle. He added a plate between them: two slices of warm apple pie and a few cake pops. A little extra sweetness, a little extra care.

Jamie stared at the spread, throat bobbing as he swallowed.

Jon didn’t press him. If Jamie didn’t feel like talking, then Jon would. He pulled his latte closer, the steam brushing against his chin, and said lightly, “You know my mom used to prank me every now and then? Harmless stuff, but it kept me on my toes.”

He took a sip before continuing. “One time she swapped the sugar for salt. I didn’t know any better, couldn’t tell the difference between them. So I poured it into my cereal—and I poured a lot. When I took a bite…” He pulled a face of disgust, shaking his head. “Gods, it was awful. And all I heard was my mother laughing so hard in the doorway.”

The memory warmed him. It didn’t hurt anymore to think of her, not like it used to. Those moments weren’t poisoned by grief now, they were just good. Pure joy. Pure warmth.

Jamie laughed, soft and genuine, and Jon looked up at once. That smile, that light in his eyes, it was the first he’d seen all morning. The tension in Jamie’s shoulders eased, and Jon felt a quiet pride bloom in his chest.

“I can see it now, brooding over your cereal. Glaring at it like it just offended you.” Jamie smirked and took a sip of his iced coffee. His eyes lit with surprise at how much the extra caramel and chocolate sweetened it. “I’m shocked you didn’t spit it out.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I had to keep some dignity.”

“Dignity?” Jamie arched a brow, the smirk widening. “Right. With milk dripping down your chin, all messy.”

Jon snorted and turned his head away. “You weren’t even there!”

“But I can see it,” Jamie chuckled.

“You’re insufferable,” Jon said softly, almost fondly, as though he wanted Jamie to know it wasn’t really an insult.

Jamie laughed again, and Jon watched how much lighter he looked. The storm above his head was gone, for now, at least. Jon couldn’t help but stare at the way the light caught Jamie’s face, softening the sharpness of his jaw. The golden stubble along his cheeks was growing in, and Jon wondered absently if one day he might see him with a full beard.

Jon nudged a fork toward him. “Eat up before it gets cold,” He said softly.

Jamie took it, flashing a small but genuine smile. “Thanks…” Whether that thanks was for the fork, the sweets, or simply for Jon trying to ease the heaviness off his shoulders, Jon didn’t know. But as he sat across from him, listening to the quiet clink of cutlery and the gentle hum of the café, he felt something unfamiliar but steady settle in his chest, not just comfort, but the beginning of belonging. Maybe, he thought, he could get used to this—sharing small, ordinary moments with someone who made the world feel a little less heavy.

Chapter Text

Jon’s POV:

It had been three days since the coffee-not-a-date. The days that followed were softer, quieter. Nothing dramatic, just little messages passed between them, mostly Jon starting the thread, but Jamie always answered.

Day One

Jon: ‘Hey, I was thinking this image should be shared with the world.’

[He’d attached a photo of Ghost covered in flour, the bag tipped by his paws. The wolf looked absurdly proud of himself, tongue lolling from the side, while Rhaegar stood in the background with arms crossed, every inch the father who’d caught a child raiding the sweets.]

Jamie: ‘Pfft, it definitely should. That dog’s a menace. You know he tried to trip me when we were moving your stuff into the house?’

Jon: ‘What?’

Jamie: ‘Yeah! And he had that smug look, like he knew exactly what he was doing.’

Day Two

Jon: ‘You think food tastes better when someone else makes it?’

[Attached photo of Rhaegar at the stove, Ghost planted at his feet, ears perked like he was waiting for scraps.]

Jamie: ‘All the time. Especially if it’s a real meal. Bonus points when you don’t have to do the dishes.’

Jon: ‘Right? I swear Ghost is plotting to steal my plate if I look away.’

Jamie: ‘He probably is.’

[Pause.]

Jamie: ‘But he’d still share with you. He’s loyal.’

Jon: ‘Loyal, yeah.’

Day Three

Jamie: ‘You ever get the feeling the whole world’s too loud?’

The message came in just past nine, late enough that Jon had been half-ready for bed, Ghost sprawled across his legs. He stared at it a moment, surprised Jamie had reached out first.

Jon: ‘Yeah. All the time.’

Jamie: ‘Same. Coffee shops are about the only place I can stand the noise. Feels… different there.‘

Jon hesitated, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Jon: ‘Maybe it’s not the coffee shops.’

Jamie: ‘What do you mean?’

Jon: ‘Maybe it’s who you’re with.’

For a long moment, there was nothing. Jon thought maybe he’d pushed too far, too soon. But then:

Jamie: ‘…Maybe you’re right.’

The small, quiet acknowledgment settled in Jon’s chest, a warmth he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. By Thursday, that gentle nudge had grown into a burst of energy he hadn’t felt in years. Cooking, baking, tending the greenhouse, every task seemed to pull him further into life, reconnecting him with pieces of himself he thought were lost. Even preparing tattoos for others, guided by Arianne’s gentle encouragement, gave him a quiet sense of purpose and pride.

And tonight, he would start with a simple dinner for everyone, a small gesture of warmth, connection, and maybe, just maybe, a little joy.

It was noon, and Jon had already plunged into his whirlwind of cooking and baking. He wanted tonight’s dinner to be perfect, a small slice of joy for everyone gathered. His apron was snug, hair tied in a tight bun with the leather braid draping a sapphire down his back, and soft classical music filled the living room.

He barely noticed Rhaegar until a shadow at the doorway caught his eye. Leaning against the frame with arms folded, his father looked content, a small, knowing smile dancing across his face. Watching him, it felt like Jon was witnessing something sacred.

“Hey,” Jon said softly.

“Hey,” Rhaegar replied, his voice low, almost reverent.

“Did you need something?”

“Not at all,” Rhaegar whispered. “I just… like watching you. Seeing you so alive.”

Jon’s gaze swept over him. He wore the deep scarlet polo Jon had given him that first night at Winterfell.

“You kept that…” Jon murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Of course I did.”

Then his eyes caught the glimmer of the rings that hung like a necklace. Their quiet unity felt comforting against the deep scarlet of the polo. He lingered on the sapphire ring a moment longer, his mother’s ring, an itch at the back of his mind that he pushed away. Not yet, he realized. He didn’t quite understand it, not fully.

Jon turned back to face the counter. “You look good,” He whispered.

“Thank you. Do you need any help?” Rhaegar asked softly.

“No,” Jon shook his head, carefully pouring the dry ingredients into a mixing bowl. “I don’t want to get the rings dirty.”

He heard Rhaegar’s soft, precise footsteps draw closer. “I can always take them off,” Rhaegar offered.

“I… don’t want you to,” Jon said quietly. It wouldn’t feel right for the rings to be off, not now. He wanted them to stay, catching the light, glimmering together.

Rhaegar chuckled, brushing a gentle kiss across Jon’s forehead as he stirred the mixture. “Okay. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right here.”

Jon’s heart thudded in his chest, warm and steady. He felt the quiet weight of Rhaegar’s presence behind him, a calm tether he hadn’t realized he needed until this very moment. Even as he focused on the mixing bowl, he couldn’t help but smile faintly, thinking that maybe, just maybe, these ordinary moments were becoming his favorite kind of extraordinary.

The day continued with Jon bustling about the kitchen, pulling out every appliance he could find. Rhaegar stayed close, a steady presence, Ghost resting at his feet.

The first guests arrived, Arianne and Monford, voices bright and energetic as they stepped inside.

Arianne practically ran to the kitchen, the soft jingles of her jewelry echoing with each step. “Jon! It smells amazing in here!” She hugged his side carefully, smiling up at him. Her perfume was light, sweet, and comforting.

Jon chuckled, brushing back a stray lock of hair. “Hey Ari. You look gorgeous. Loving the heart-shaped neckline, very fitting for the occasion.”

“Thank you! Just bought it for tonight!” She let him go, still smiling brightly.

Monford set down a brown bag on the table with a grin. “Hello, my cousins!!”

Rhaegar lifted his teacup, Ghost’s head resting in his lap. “We are very distant cousins,” He teased, a small glint in his eyes.

“But still cousins nonetheless!” Monford shot back, undeterred, flashing a toothy grin.

Jon shook his head, smiling at the pair. 

The kitchen was alive with warmth and chatter, a gentle chaos that felt both exciting and grounding. Jon felt a quiet happiness settle in him, grateful for this little circle of people, and for the calm presence of Rhaegar beside him.

It wasn’t long before the others began to arrive.

Gerald came in third, broad smile stretching across his face as he lifted his hands high. “Hello! I’m here for visits!”

Rhaegar hummed in greeting, sipping his tea. “How’s home in Oldtown?”

“Wonderful! The wife is happy, children being children, and the grandkids—absolute little devils.” Gerald laughed, carefree and booming.

Monford snorted. “How bad could grandchildren really be?”

“Hey! Your spawn still has some years before he’s married off. He’s in high school. Be thankful you don’t have devils running around trying to undo your whole house.”

Monford laughed, shaking his head. “Then I’ll be thankful for a few more years of grandchild-free living.”

Their laughter filled the room, voices overlapping in that chaotic, warm way that reminded Jon of Winterfell. He could almost hear his mother’s laugh weaving through the noise, before the sickness changed everything. He hoped, when he visited again… maybe some of that warmth would return.

Gerald finally sat down at the table, catching Jon’s gaze with a softer smile. “This one looks more alive. That’s good, I’m glad to see you better, Jon.”

Jon glanced over, a little warmth swelling in his chest. “Thanks. Good to see you too.”

Jon was just about finished with dinner when Arthur and Jamie finally arrived—the last guests he’d invited over. Their entrance was so quiet that Jon barely registered they were there until Arianne exclaimed with a bright smile,

“Look who finally joined us!”

Jamie scoffed as he strode past the table. “Please. Fashionably late is always the best.”

Arthur only chuckled, and from the corner of his eye Jon caught the tender look exchanged between him and Rhaegar.

Then Jamie was beside him before Jon even realized it. Jon smiled, setting the main dish on the stove. “Oh, hey.”

“Hey.” Jamie's gaze drifted over the crowded counters. “Smells incredible in here… Want me to set the table?”

Jon shook his head. “Oh, no, you can go sit and relax. I’m almost done.”

“I know I can.” Jamie leaned closer, nudging Jon’s shoulder with his own. “But I’m offering.”

Before Jon could reply, Jamie was already grabbing plates to set on the table. Jon just stood there for a moment, almost dumbfounded. But it warmed his heart, left him steadier somehow. He turned back to the ovens, pulling out the last of the food.

When everything was finally arranged and everyone had taken their places, Jon gestured toward the spread. “Go on, dig in.”

And they did. The table filled quickly with warmth and laughter, voices overlapping, plates being passed, the kind of noise that seeped into Jon’s bones and made him feel at home.

Jon had taken the end seat, Jaime to his right, Arianne to his left. His father sat opposite him at the other end, Arthur at his right, Gerald at his left, and Monford squeezed happily between Arianne and Gerald.

Arianne leaned in with a smile, her bracelets clinking softly. “This is delicious. Careful, Jon, I might start asking you to cook at my parties. You’ll put my caterers to shame.”

Jon smiled faintly. “I’ll think about it.”

She giggled, taking another bite.

Monford was already digging bottles of wine out of his brown bag. “Think about it? Boy, you could make a fortune!”

Arthur lifted a brow. “I thought alcohol was banned in this house?”

Jon hummed, setting down the serving spoon. “It is,” He admitted. “But today’s a nice occasion, so it’s fine. I asked Monford to bring it.”

Arianne tilted her head, frowning playfully. “Why is it banned?”

Rhaegar took a quick sip of water, shoulders shaking with a quiet laugh. “Because I was never any good at holding my drink.”

Jamie grinned, lifting his glass as if in salute. “That’s putting it mildly. One glass in and you were already quoting half the history of Westeros.”

Arthur chuckled. “Or composing some dreadful song on the spot.”

Gerald clapped the table. “And don’t forget that time you fell asleep in the stables!”

The laughter swelled around the table, warm and easy. Rhaegar leaned back, smiling openly. “Exactly why the ban exists,” He said, though his eyes were bright with amusement.

This made Jon smile, proud of his father for how far he’d come, growing, healing, laughing so openly at the table. It felt good to see, to catch those quiet, tender glances Rhaegar shared with Arthur. Jon chuckled softly and looked away, only to find Jamie already watching him.

Jamie smiled, a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks, and winked before turning back to his plate.

Jon rolled his eyes, though a grin tugged at his lips as he nudged Jaime’s leg with a light kick beneath the table.

Jamie tapped his foot back, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

Gerald and Monford traded story after story, the two loudest talkers at the table. Arianne and Jamie slipped in sly remarks, teasing jokes. Arthur kept correcting details, only to laugh when told to shut up. And through it all, Jon and Rhaegar were the quiet listeners.

But Jon was never idle; he kept watch, making sure glasses were refilled, empty dishes cleared, food carried back to the sink. He was quiet but attentive, and it made him feel good, tending to others in the glow of such joy and warmth.

When dessert came, Jon set down two bowls of his baked apples drizzled with honey and cinnamon—one for Jamie, one for himself.

“You made it again,” Jamie said softly, looking at him with a tenderness that made Jon’s stomach flip.

“You said you wanted it again,” Jon answered, clearing his throat as he remembered that lunch during the at-home meeting.

Jamie cleared his own throat, grinning as if to lighten the mood. “You should definitely give me the recipe for this.” His eyes lingered on Jon a moment longer, and Jon found himself staring back, curious.

Jon huffed a quiet laugh. “If I told you,” he said with the faintest smirk, “I’d have to kill you.”

Jamie chuckled. “Right. Okay. Maybe not worth the risk. Still—” he scooped another bite “—I’d like more at some point.”

Jon arched a brow, amused. “We’ll see.”

When the last of the plates were washed and set to dry, Jon dropped back into his seat. “Alright, Arthur, show time.”

That earned him a table of confused looks. Even Rhaegar arched a brow at Arthur, sipping his wine with curiosity.

Arthur only smirked as he pulled two Uno decks from his pockets and set them on the table. “Time to break friendships~” He cracked the deck open and began to shuffle with practiced ease.

Jamie chuckled. “My favorite pastime.”

Monford gasped in delight. “I call being ref!”

Gerald groaned. “Thank the gods. You cheat out your ass every time we play.”

Monford pressed a hand to his chest as though wounded. “I have never cheated at Uno in my life.” He paused, then dramatically produced a whistle from his pocket.

Jamie leaned back in his chair, eyeing it. “Where the fuck did you get that?”

“You don’t ask a magician how he does his tricks!” Monford tied the whistle around his neck with exaggerated care. “RULES: Don’t cheat… too much. No throwing hands. And no crying when you lose!”

Jon frowned. “Why is there a no-crying rule?”

Arianne giggled. “You’d be surprised. Luckily, none of us cry.”

Arthur groaned like he already had a list in mind. He dealt the cards in neat piles, the stack forming quickly at the center.

Jon sat back, eyeing the scene with a half-smile. Seven hells, what have I unleashed?

Monford smirked, “Youngest to Oldest! Go!”

Gerald groaned, “One hell of a time to be ancient…”

“Careful, White Bull, I’m close behind you,” Arthur chuckled, looking over his cards.

Jon hummed and set down a red card first. “Wow… first time being here. Should I go to the kids’ table?”

Jamie snorted, shaking his head. “Please no, don’t leave me alone with them.” His tone was light, but the quick glance he shot Jon was softer than the words.

As the game went on, Jon and Jamie fell into step without needing to speak. A glance, a raised brow, the faintest twitch of a smile and a plan was set.

“Alliances are forming, ladies and gentlemen!” Monford bellowed, blowing his whistle like a madman.

Arianne leaned back with a smirk. “And here I thought I had a chance.”

Jon’s ears warmed. He knew it was more than just Uno, though he’d never admit it. Instead, he slid another card onto the pile, pretending his heart wasn’t beating too fast.

Laughter, betrayals, alliances and sly remarks filled the table, until Monford pulled out a red card, his whistle shrilling for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Cheater!” He declared.

“No fair! You looked!” Arianne whined.

He flung the red card at her, whistle shrieking again like a war horn.

Arthur groaned, rubbing his temple. “Blow that thing in my ear one more time, Valeryon, and—”

Monford slowly craned his neck, locking eyes with him. The table went silent.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Whistle blast.

Arthur shot to his feet. Monford yelped and bolted for the living room, Arthur right on his heels. The sound of the whistle trailed off, fainter and fainter, until it was mercifully snuffed out.

Jon bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing and bit a little harder when he saw his father peeking at Arthur’s cards.

Rhaegar’s sly smirk told Jon everything. He picked up a card, and though Jon couldn’t see what he did, he knew his father had just switched a card from Arthur’s deck on the table.

Jamie quickly covered his mouth to stifle a laugh.

Arianne gasped softly, wide-eyed.

Gerald, oblivious, stared at his own cards, plotting his next move.

Rhaegar motioned for silence, a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes.

Arthur came back with a calmer, happier demeanor. He slid into his seat and picked up his cards, giving no hint that one had been swapped. Monford returned as well, hair a little tousled, looking more annoyed than anything else.

Arianne grinned. “Where’s the whistle?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Monford muttered, arms crossed, shooting a glare at Arthur.

Jon glanced at Jamie, who was doing his best to suppress a smile. His emerald eyes were focused on the table, but then they flickered to Jon for a brief, fleeting moment. That glance alone made Jon’s chest warm, a quiet, private joy blooming inside him amid the laughter and chaos around the table.

The game continued. Gerald had amassed so many cards that he’d decided to forfeit, now content with snacking on popcorn and watching the chaos unfold. Monford, ever the playful referee, tossed red and yellow cards at anyone within reach, carefully avoiding Arthur.

Jon nudged Jamie's leg under the table, a quiet signal. Jamie’s eyes flicked up, curiosity sparking. Jon raised an eyebrow once… then twice… before giving a subtle wink. Jamie raised one eyebrow in return, a twitch at the corner of his lips betraying his amusement. Together, they silently plotted Arianne’s downfall.

Before they could execute their scheme, Rhaegar dropped a +4 on Arthur.

Arthur slammed his cards down. “I knew one of my cards was gone! It was you!! You!” He pointed at Rhaegar, who was laughing uncontrollably.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Rhaegar grinned, tears glinting in the corners of his eyes from laughter.

Jon couldn’t help it, he laughed too. The pure joy of seeing his father so openly happy was contagious. Jamie’s laughter followed, soft and warm, then gradually, the whole table joined in.

“You all knew!? Ugh!” Arthur threw up his hands, but the wide grin on his face betrayed his amusement.

When the laughter began to die down, Jon nudged Jamie’s leg, the signal. Time to set their plan in motion. With precise timing and careful card play, they utterly destroyed Arianne.

“The betrayal!” Arianne gasped, tossing her cards on the table with dramatic flair.

“Join the party, princess,” Gerald laughed, offering her some popcorn, which she accepted with a playful grin.

Jon stifled a laugh, noticing Jamie hiding his smirk behind his cards. Their eyes met across the table, and in that quiet, unspoken exchange, they both burst into laughter again. How they managed to communicate so perfectly without a word, Jon didn’t understand, but he liked it. Liked it far more than he probably should.

Their legs brushed under the table, a lingering warmth spreading through him. It wasn’t just the game or the victory, it was the tiny, shared moments, the secret connection they were cultivating amid the chaos of friends and family.

By the end of the game, there were no winners, cards scattered across the table, laughter echoing through the room. The warmth of family filled the space, and Jon felt completely at ease. He admired each person here.

Arianne’s playful remarks,

Monford’s booming voice,

Gerald’s carefree laughter,

Rhaegar’s soft, stifled giggles,

Arthur’s blunt yet funny jokes,

And Jamie’s bright, mischievous smiles.

Real. Warm. Authentic.

Home. This was home.

Jon laughed again, clutching his stomach. This—this was his best idea yet. Perhaps they could do more of these family get-togethers. Twice a month, maybe? He didn’t know yet, but it felt like the perfect start to a new tradition. A tradition of family.

The night ended on the porch, Jon saying his goodbyes to the guests. It was late, and they all needed to go home for one reason or another.

His father stepped closer, pressing a soft, warm kiss to Jon’s forehead. Pride and comfort radiated from the gesture. Jon watched the two older lovers descend the porch stairs, walking along the cobbled path to the horses. Rhaegar looked lighter somehow, leaning closer to Arthur. If Jon had his phone, he might have snapped a photo to remember their quiet joy but he didn’t, and the thought made him twinge with a little sadness.

“So,” Jamie’s voice cut through the night, slick but warm. He leaned against the railing, eyes scanning the stars. “That was fun… thanks for inviting me.”

Jon smiled, brushing against the railing beside him. Their shoulders touched, subtle and grounding. “Don’t thank me. You’re part of the family,” he said, casual yet genuine.

Jamie scoffed softly, almost a whisper. “Family…”

Jon nudged his shoulder gently against Jamie's. “Can’t choose the family you’re born into,” He murmured. He knew the shadows that lingered around Jamie’s father, the rest hidden behind carefully guarded walls. Still, he felt the weight of that pain, and he wanted nothing more than to ease it. “But you can choose the ones you want around you.”

Jamie tilted his head, emerald eyes catching the moonlight. His smile was small, soft, but there was something in it, something unspoken that made Jon’s chest tighten. “I like being around you…” He murmured, barely audible.

The world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of them under the stars. Heat climbed Jon’s chest, his stomach fluttering. “I like… I like this,” He whispered back, voice low.

They lingered there, silent, studying one another. Jon traced every detail of Jamie’s face, the golden strands of hair brushing his cheek, the faint dusting of stubble, the way his eyes shifted in the light. Finally, Jamie’s gaze drifted away, settling on the night sky.

Jon’s hand brushed against something warm, Jamie’s hand, just slightly, the contact almost accidental. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let the warmth linger, letting himself savor the closeness.

Soft. Quiet. Electric.

Jon didn’t need words. He didn’t need anything defined yet. Just this—just being here, feeling this, was enough.

Chapter Text

Jon POV:

The day after the dinner party felt quieter somehow. Almost empty. Jon couldn’t quite place it. He wasn’t missing his father, that he knew for certain, but a warmth lingered on the edge of his thoughts, unspoken and unclaimed.

He adjusted one of his new chairs, appreciating how the space was coming together. Simple, cozy, exactly as he wanted it. The shop finally felt like his own, a place where he could create tattoos that meant something: art with soul, with life, with story. Not just ink on skin, but something that carried meaning for the person who wore it.

A small list of clients waited patiently, people who trusted him with their stories. The thought made him smile. Patiently, he would bring each vision to life.

The front doorbell rang, and Ghost barked sharply, claws clicking against the concrete.

“Hi, Ghost!” Arianne’s voice chimed, light and playful.

Jon turned and smiled. “Hey, Ari! Ready to start on the coloring today?”

She nodded eagerly. “So ready! So excited!” She scratched behind Ghost’s ear, and the dog leaned into her hand with obvious delight.

Jon set her up at the chair, pouring the colors into their little caps. Soft music floated from the speakers, filling the quiet space. The needle buzzed to life, and he started at the top of her healed tattoo on the upper chest. The outline had settled perfectly, a little pink at the edges, but otherwise smooth. He felt a swell of pride.

He began filling in the fiery wisps of the sun, layering yellows, oranges, and reds into her skin. As he worked, his thoughts drifted toward the kind of warmth he longed for—not just belonging, not just being seen, but warmth that lingered in touches, in quiet moments, in the simple act of being close.

But how could he reach that? How could he even be worthy of it?

Would anyone see him that way?

The thought twisted uncomfortably in his chest. Memories of cold hands, false promises, traps set for someone like him, surfaced unbidden. Was this warmth just another illusion? Another risk?

He focused on the full sun nestled between Arianne’s breasts, brushing each stroke carefully. He traced her story, her family, her life, coloring it into permanence.

And then his thoughts drifted. No. His story wasn’t all pain. There were moments of light, fleeting but real—time with the Starks, his mother, Rhaegar, his newfound family, and… Jamie. Those golden ocean waves. The thought made his stomach flutter, chest tighten.

He wanted that warmth, too. But could he ever hold onto it? Could he survive reaching for it without being burned?

The needle buzzed steadily, grounding him back to the present. Arianne’s laughter, her story unfolding beneath his hands, the living color—he returned to them, but the thought lingered, soft and persistent, like a tide brushing the shore of his heart.

Arianne’s voice broke through. “You okay?”

Jon lifted the needle from her skin, looking up. “Huh?”

“Normally you hum or mumble something about colors,” she said softly. “At least you did last time. And your brow’s furrowed like you’re trying to navigate a war.” She smiled a little.

“Ah…” Jon sighed, stopping the machine. He rolled away, grabbed two bottles of water and some trail mix, and rolled back, handing them to her. “Yeah… I guess so. A certain type of war?”

Arianne sat up, taking the water and trail mix. “Do tell.”

“Well…” He opened his bottle, took a careful sip, and stared down at it. “I… want something. I’m not sure how to name it. But I want it. Yet I’m afraid.”

“It’s okay to be afraid, you know,” she said softly.

“Is it?” Jon muttered, frowning. “I don’t want to get burned like I was before…”

“Is that Jon talking, or the small voice in your head full of doubt?” she asked, leaning closer.

Jon hesitated. He realized he’d been letting the past shape the future in his mind, fearing pain before it even arrived. The world could be cruel, but he didn’t have to make it harder on himself. He took a deep breath, untangling the knot in his chest.

“In fear comes bravery,” Arianne said quietly, catching his gaze. “And sometimes bravery is just… reaching out anyway.”

Jon blinked, letting her words settle. Warmth bloomed in his chest, a small spark of courage he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. “Yeah… maybe it is worth the risk,” he whispered, a tentative smile tugging at his lips.

After their snack break, Jon replaced his gloves and the needle buzzed to life. He worked on the last bit of her tattoo, the fire wisps underneath, carving life into the flames, shaping them to feel warm and welcoming. For a moment, his thoughts drifted to Jaime; the warmth of last night on the porch, the unspoken look, hands lingering just close enough. Not quite touching, but close enough to reach out at any moment.

That warmth. That was what he wanted.

What he was afraid of wanting.

But… the risk was worth it, right? Even if it was just the smallest gesture. Even if it was only reaching out.

Chapter Text

Jamie POV:

Jamie rubbed a hand over his stubble, feeling its slight roughness. A small comfort. A reminder of Jon, of his warmth, his quiet smiles, the soft joy in his laughter. The memory made his shoulders relax, just enough to not feel suffocating.

Today was already shaping up to be terrible. He’d woken late, and he knew exactly what awaited him at work. Tywin’s scolding. Stern, sharp, unyielding.

Jaime adjusted the collar of his shirt, squared his shoulders, and approached his father’s office. Before he could knock, a cold voice called from within.

“Come in.”

He stepped inside. The office smelled faintly of wine, a sharp, clinging scent that made his stomach twist. The walls were lined with books, ledgers, and folders stacked in meticulous disorder. Everywhere he looked there was evidence of his father’s control, order imposed on chaos. Jamie felt small, exposed, like he didn’t belong.

He tried to steady his breathing, but the comfort he carried from Jon’s warmth lingered stubbornly in his chest. A faint glow he wasn’t ready to let go of, not even here. It made him feel alive… and foolishly hopeful.

“Father, I’m sorry that I—”

“I don’t need apologies,” Tywin cut him off, voice like a blade. “I need results. Or are you too busy chasing that Snow boy?”

Jamie’s jaw tightened. “I’ve been doing my work. Nothing’s out of order, nothing is—”

“Until it is,” Tywin snapped, finally lifting his gaze from the screen. His eyes pinned Jamie in place. “Until you slip. Until you waste what little discipline you have.”

Sweat prickled at the back of Jamie’s neck. His palms were damp, fists curling uselessly at his sides. He hated this, hated how small he felt, how easily Jon was reduced to nothing more than a distraction in his father’s mouth.

Tywin’s stare was unyielding. “Do you really think that boy has any interest in you? You may carry my name, but I know my son. He does not settle. He never has.”

“That’s not true…” Jamie’s voice barely carried, so soft he doubted it had reached his father at all.

Tywin didn’t miss a beat. “You’ve slept with more men and women than I care to count. I’m surprised you don’t leave bastards behind like Robert.”

“I’m nothing like Robert,” Jamie whispered, heat rising in his chest of anger or shame, he couldn’t tell.

“The only difference,” Tywin said, cold and certain, “Is the sigil on your chest. A stag or a lion. Nothing else.”

“Now,” his father’s eyes flicked back to the glowing screen, dismissive. “Fetch me the papers I just printed.”

Jamie’s mouth went dry. He managed a stiff nod before turning and slipping from the office. The hallway stretched before him, too long, too bright, every step dragging like iron weights. His breathing rasped in his chest, uneven, loud in his ears.

Was his father right?

Did Jon not see him that way? Was he only fooling himself?

What if he hurt him?

Jamie pressed a hand against the wall, leaning into it, the cool plaster steady beneath his palm. He shut his eyes, tried to force his breaths slower. He didn’t know how to be a partner. He never had. All he’d ever been was reckless, selfish, a body in someone else’s bed.

But then… Jon.

Jon’s quiet smiles. The warmth of his laughter, rare but real. The lingering touches, soft as breath. The way his words made Jamie’s chest feel lighter, steadier. Those moments had meant something, he was sure of it.

Could he be better for Jon? He wanted to be. More than anything, he wanted to be someone Jon could lean on. Someone who made him feel safe.

His eyes opened, the world no longer spinning slow and suffocating but sharp and clear again. It would be a risk, reaching out, but it would be worth it.

Even if it was only to try.

Chapter Text

Jamie POV:

The morning did not start well. His head throbbed from the wine he’d nursed all night, and the stubble on his jaw itched as he dragged himself out of the guest room. He prayed he hadn’t woken Arthur with his tossing or worse, that Arthur had been awake all along. Jami wasn’t sure which would be worse.

At the council building, the sunlight stabbed through freshly polished windows, bouncing off the stone until it made his headache worse. He pressed on anyway, boots echoing in the vast, cold hall. When he was a boy, this place had felt like a marvel, marble halls filled with voices that could move kingdoms. Now it felt empty, dreary, a husk of itself.

He sighed, running fingers through his golden hair, and set his course for his small office. Ledgers waited for him, and Rhaegar had asked for his help sorting through numbers for the Targaryen family business. A busy day, yes, but tomorrow—tomorrow would be better. Coffee with Jon. Not a date, he reminded himself, but his chest felt lighter all the same.

He leaned against the wall while waiting for the elevator, thumb rubbing his chin as his thoughts wandered. What should he wear tomorrow? Jon hadn’t seemed to mind that he dressed a little sharper than usual—if anything, he thought Jon had dressed up too. Hair pulled back with that leather strap threaded with a sapphire, though a few curls escaped, soft and free. And that silver watch—plain, really, but Jon made it look like something more.

Jamie caught himself humming under his breath, a quiet, stupid little sound of contentment.

Laughter pulled him out of it. A cluster of interns came spilling out of a side corridor, their voices hushed but carrying in the sterile hallway. He didn’t think much of it, just some silly joke, until one voice drifted clearer than the rest.

“You think that Jon Snow’s ever going to inherit the Targaryen business?”

Another snorted. “Please. He’s an artist, not a businessman. He’s lucky he can even balance a sketchbook.”

A third chimed in, lower but sharper, the words slicing cleaner for their restraint. “He’s only around because Rhaegar’s got no family left. Otherwise, nobody would give him the time of day.”

Jamie’s stomach dropped. He stood straighter, jaw tightening, though he didn’t move to stop them. His first instinct was heat, anger, the kind that made his blood prickle at his skin. But beneath it was something colder, worse: the thought of Jon hearing those words, of Jon believing them.

The elevator dinged. Jamie stepped inside quickly, pressing the button harder than necessary. His reflection in the polished metal doors looked back at him, tired eyes, golden hair mussed.

He wished he’d never heard a damn thing.

In his office, Jamie slammed the door harder than intended and sank into his chair with a heavy sigh. His mind raced. Mockeries didn’t just happen… they spread when someone wanted gossip to float.

But Jon hadn’t set foot in this building since his visit months ago, before he officially moved here. So where had these whispers come from? Did Rhaegar know? If he did, would he shut it down? Could anyone really stop this?

Jamie shook his head and turned on his computer, trying to focus on work. The screen updated, numbers and spreadsheets blurring past, but his thoughts refused to settle.

What if Jon heard these things? Would he believe them? Would he think they’re right? That he’s just a stupid artist?

“Stupid artist…” Jamie muttered under his breath, anger boiling in his chest. “He’s not stupid… he’s amazing with art.”

Leaning back, he closed his eyes for a moment. The urge to protect Jon, to shield him from this, was nearly suffocating. It only made him wish the day would end faster, so tomorrow he could show Jon he wasn’t anything stupid.

Jamie tapped his fingers against his desk, staring at his office door like he could burn it down. He wanted to march straight into Rhaegar’s office and demand that the rumors be stopped. He could do it if he wanted to. But what if acting too quickly only gave them more teeth?

What if Rhaegar already knew? What if he didn’t care? What if he thought there was even a grain of truth in the whispers?

The thought made Jamie’s head spin. He buried his face in his hands, taking deep, shaky breaths. No. Rhaegar wouldn’t ever think that.

Still, his mind wouldn’t quiet. And what about Jon? Would he hear this? Would he believe them? Would he think the words were true? The very idea made Jamie clench his jaw. Jon wasn’t stupid. Jon wasn’t some naïve boy. He was brilliant, warm, alive and Jamie couldn’t bear the thought of anyone trying to convince him otherwise.

Perhaps it was wiser to wait, to see if the gossip faded on its own. He’d tell Rhaegar if it got out of hand, but not yet. Not right now.

Chapter Text

Jon POV:

Jon walked down the streets of King’s Landing, Ghost a few paces ahead, leash in hand. The sun glinted off the stone buildings, and the city felt alive—the shouts of vendors, the scent of spices and street food, the mix of perfumes and smoke, it was overwhelming, but it was beginning to feel like home.

He had looked forward to this morning all week. Tomorrow, their little coffee ritual. The thought made his chest warm and tight at the same time. Perhaps a little fear, but the risk felt worth it.

Then someone bumped into him.

“Oh, sor—”

“—Move out of the way, charity case!” A woman spat, twisting her face in disgust. Like he was nothing.

Jon froze. Ghost stopped as well, glancing up at him. “Pardon?” He asked, voice tighter than he intended.

“You heard me!” The woman snapped, striding away. A few people nearby snickered, casting quick, curious glances in his direction. Whispered murmurs brushed past him like a cold wind.

His stomach clenched. His chest tightened. Was this about him? Was this what they really thought? A charity case? His mind raced back to the old fears, the doubts he had spent so long burying. He clenched his free hand, trying to steady his breathing. Ghost nudged him, a small, grounding presence at his side, but it didn’t stop the ache in his chest.

Jon shook his head, forcing his thoughts away. Focus. He could not let this ruin tomorrow. Not when he had something to look forward to. Not when he had the warmth he’d started to crave. But still… the sting lingered, and he felt the pull to retreat, to disappear into the quiet safety of his sketches.

Dinner that night he spent alone. His father was with Arthur, and oddly, that felt like the only mercy of the day. It meant Rhaegar was finally doing something for himself, or at least learning to want to, and it meant Jon didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t want to speak of what he’d heard. Not yet. Not when the words still clung like thorns, snagging his every thought at work and on his walks.

So he hid in the greenhouse. The air was damp and rich with soil, faintly sweet with the lingering perfume of flowers. The glass roof held in the warmth of the lamps, wrapping him in a hush broken only by Ghost’s breathing.

He bent over the orchids he had planted a week ago. The soil looked bare, lifeless. But he knew life stirred beneath, too small to see. Orchids took patience, they would not show progress for weeks, not months.

He told himself he could wait. That he would wait. He wanted to see them bloom: strong, beautiful, alive.

But doubt gnawed.

Was he giving them enough love?

Enough warmth?

Enough of himself?

Jon’s chest tightened. It wasn’t orchids he saw in the soil anymore—it was something else. Himself, maybe. Something buried and invisible, uncertain if it would ever be allowed to grow.

What if the whispers were true?

What if his father thought him a burden?

What if Jaime did too?

Was it all just pity, every kindness he’d been given?

The thought made his breath catch, sharp and uneven. He pushed back from the pots, unable to look at the soil any longer. Instead, he drifted to the front of the greenhouse. Ghost lay there, watchful and steady. Jon lowered himself beside him, gaze climbing to the stars through the glass above.

The world outside still glittered, though he felt smaller than ever beneath it.

If orchids took years to bloom, how long until he did?

Chapter Text

Jon pov:

It was finally Sunday, a day he had held onto all week. The sky was overcast, the sun hidden behind heavy grey clouds, but Jon carried his own small light. Coffee and sweets. Quiet conversation. A warmth he could almost see if he closed his eyes—golden waves breaking through the dark.

The people in the streets whispered as he passed. He ignored them, or tried to. Let them talk. Today was not theirs. Today was his.

But before he could go to the café, he had to stop by the shop. He’d left behind one of his sketchbooks, the one that mattered most—pages of things he rarely showed anyone, not even his father. Unlocking the front door, he slipped inside. The sign was turned, the lights off. No customers would disturb him. Just a quick stop, grab the book, and then… the day he’d been waiting for.

He stepped into his studio, scanning the counters and shelves. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, steady and calm. The familiar scents of ink and pencil shavings clung to the air—comforting, grounding, his space.

Then his eyes caught the grey sketchbook on the worktable. Relief sparked, small but real. He reached for it, fingers brushing over the worn spine as if it were a prize reclaimed. A smile tugged at his lips.

And then—

The bell over the front door rang.

Jon turned, still holding the sketchbook. “Sorry, I’m not doing walk-ins today, but—”

“Oh, I’m not here for a walk-in.”

Renly’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

Jon froze in the doorway of his studio, the warmth in his chest extinguished in an instant. A chill slid down his spine. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. Renly stood at the front, framed by the glass door he hadn’t bothered to close. His posture was casual, but his smirk carried a weight of arrogance. He was blocking the only way out.

“What?” Renly tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Not happy to see me again?”

Jon’s mouth went dry. He tightened his hold on the sketchbook as if it could shield him. “What… what do you want?”

“I thought I’d check in on you.” Renly pushed off the doorframe, each step slow, deliberate.

Jon’s throat tightened. He had nowhere to go—pinned in the doorway of his studio, the shadow stretching larger with every step Renly took. His heart pounded, loud and uneven, drowning out the quiet hum of the shop.

“I’m… I’m fine,” Jon said, his voice lower than he meant it to be.

Renly glanced around, feigning casual interest. “It’s a nice place you’ve built here. Cozy. Warm.” His gaze slid back, sharp now. “Expensive.”

Jon’s breath hitched. His eyes flickered toward the new furniture—Arianne’s trade for ink. A tattoo for tables and chairs. A fair deal, wasn’t it? Or had it been pity?

In the space of a blink, Renly was suddenly there. Close. Too close. Warmth pressed against Jon but not the kind that comforted—it smothered. His curls stirred with Renly’s breath, sour with cologne and sweet wine. Jon’s stomach churned.

He should have moved. He should have run. But he froze, old instincts caging him where he stood.

Renly leaned down, lips brushing the air near Jon’s ear. His voice was a low, poisoned whisper.

“Do you really think a man like that could ever settle down for a charity case?”

Chapter Text

Jamie POV:

Jamie had been staring at his phone for twenty minutes.

He sat hunched on his bed, the device clutched like it was the last tether keeping him steady. His thumb hovered, shifted, stilled, then hovered again. He couldn’t stop rereading the same line.

Jon: ‘I can’t make it today.’

Short. Simple. So Jon. But beneath those blunt words was a weight Jaime couldn’t shake, pressing down on his chest until his ribs ached.

His stomach twisted in knots, his heart thudding like it was trying to climb its way out. Something was wrong. He could feel it, even through the screen.

But what was he supposed to say?

Was this his fault?

Had Jon finally realized he could do better than Jamie?

The silence on the other end of the phone was louder than anything Jamie could think to type back.

He typed a message. Deleted it.

Typed again. Deleted again.

By the fifth time, frustration burned in his chest, and he tossed the phone onto the bed. Running a hand through his hair, he bit down hard on his lip. His thoughts tangled in knots.

Should he reach out? Ask if Jon was all right?

Would that be too much—too pushy?

Would Jon think him desperate?

But he was desperate. For warmth. For lavender. For dark curls that haunted him even in silence.

Then—

The doorbell rang. Loud. Jarring. Dragging him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Jamie groaned, pushing himself up. He was alone here—no one else to answer it.

When he opened the door, his sister stood waiting. Her smile curved just shy of a smirk, sharp and knowing. She knew something. She always knew. And the smugness in her eyes was enough to make his stomach sink.

“What do you want?” Jamie snapped, his voice flat, his shoulders tight.

Cersei laughed, short and brittle. “What? Can’t a sister visit her brother?”

“Not unless you want something.” Jamie’s frown deepened.

“I came to see how your… fascination with the northern boy is.”

Cersei’s voice was soft, hands folded neatly in front of her. She stood as if the world — and Jamie — belonged to her.

His jaw tightened. “If you came here to berate me, or him… then you can leave.”

She scoffed, eyes flashing. “Dear brother. I’m only trying to make sure you don’t get hurt.” Her gaze swept over him, deliberate, dissecting.

He was dressed better than casual, just shy of formal — clothes chosen for someone, not himself. And when her sharp green eyes lingered on the shadow of stubble along his jaw, her lips curved.

“And I see you’re changing…”

“Go away, Cersei,” Jamie whispered.

But she stepped closer, perfume curling sweet and suffocating, a predator’s warmth pressed too near. Her smile was bright, pretty, merciless.

“He canceled, didn’t he?” Her voice dipped to a whisper, a razor wrapped in silk. “Did you really think that sweet boy would ever fall for you? For a man who can’t keep his bed empty?” She tilted her head, watching the words land.

The cut was precise, cold, and cruel. Jamie’s scowl was sharp enough to tremble.

“Did Father set you up to this? Did he tell you to come belittle me like a child? I am not yours. I am not his. Leave me — and Jon — alone!”

He turned, slammed the door with a crack that shook the frame. His chest heaved, anger and anguish crashing in his ribs. He pressed his palms to his face, wishing he could cry, or scream, or both.

But her voice still echoed.

She was right.

Who would ever love a man who had slept his way through half the country?

Chapter Text

Jamie’s POV:

It had been two days since Sunday.

Two days of silence.

Two days with his father’s words carved into him, his sister’s venom still in his ears.

Two days without lavender. Without warmth.

Arthur tried—always trying—sliding plates across the table, setting down cups he never touched. Jamie couldn’t stand to look at them. Couldn’t stand to look at himself.

The ache wouldn’t stop. It gnawed. It grew.

He’d pushed too far.

Reached too high.

And for what?

He wasn’t enough. Not the right kind of man. Never was. Never would be.

Was the risk worth it?

The ache in his chest said otherwise.

Something was wrong with Jon.

And gods help him, maybe it was his fault.

Had he pushed too hard? Scared Jon off their daily texts, their weekly coffees, that quiet ease they’d built?

Jamie groaned, shoving his face into the pillow like that could smother the thought.

A knock. The door creaked open. Slow, heavy steps across the floor. The click of porcelain on wood.

“Drink some tea, at least,” Arthur said.

“I don’t want it…” Jamie muttered.

“You need to drink something if you won’t eat.” Quiet, firm, patient in that infuriating way of his.

Jamie finally turned his head. Arthur looked like hell—hair mussed, eyes heavy—but the suit said he’d already gone to work and come back. Always reliable. Always here.

“Do you think I could ever change?” Jamie whispered. “To be… good enough for him?”

Arthur’s jaw worked, a twitch of muscle betraying thought. But he said nothing.

Jamie swallowed, forcing the words out. “I want to be. I want to be a good man for him. Better than I am. But I feel like I’m failing.”

Arthur’s reply was immediate. “Then don’t.”

The words cracked something open. Tears stung before Jaime could stop them. Simple. Blunt. And heavier than any vow he’d ever made.

Later that night, a half-empty bottle of alcohol rested in his hand. He had drunk too much already, and the burn bloomed in his chest and throat. He felt gross. He knew this wasn’t the way to deal with his problems, yet here he was, trying to drown them anyway.

He took another swig. The liquid scorched his throat, a sharp reminder that some pain couldn’t be numbed. Still, he clung to the hope it might.

Staring at the ceiling, he saw Jon’s smile, heard his laugh from that dinner party. So free. So untethered from burdens he carried so heavily. How he wished Jon would share them with him. How he longed to hear that laughter again, just once more.

So he reached out, grabbing his phone.

The screen lit up, the same message from Sunday staring back at him. Still unread on his end, though Jon would know it had been seen.

He typed. Paused. Erased. Typed again.

This time he didn’t stop. In a moment of weakness—or courage—he hit send.

The sound of the message leaving made his stomach twist. Regret struck instantly. His hand hovered over the phone, thumb aching to snatch the words back, but there was no undoing it.

He set it down, pressing the heel of his palm to his eyes as tears burned sharp behind them.

Minutes crawled past. Then—

bing.

He froze.

Chapter Text

Jon:

Jon lay in bed, motionless for two days. He hadn’t spoken to his father—or anyone else. He was slipping back into old habits, closing himself off from the world and the people who cared about him.

The room felt colder than it should, the blankets tossed aside where Ghost nestled quietly. His father had tried, quietly, steadily, to ease some of the storm inside him. That presence mattered. Rhaegar was always there. Always steady.

But this time, it wasn’t his father’s care that stung. It was Jamie. The words that now haunted him: sharp, cruel, impossible to shake. And above all, Renly’s venom lingered, echoing in his mind: Do you really think a man like that could ever settle down for a charity case?

The words burned through him, a pain he had never known before. Tears welled, heart aching in a way he couldn’t name, leaving him hollow and trembling under the weight of doubt and hurt.

Jon grabbed a pillow and buried his face in it.

It wasn’t his father’s steady presence he thought of, it was the warmth, the smell of cedar and rosemary, the comfort he longed for.

He had that warmth… and yet he pushed it away.

What was he to do?

Had he pushed Jamie too far out of reach?

Could he reach out now, and would Jamie even answer?

The message he’d sent sat on his phone, unanswered. He knew Jamie had seen it. And that knowledge twisted in his chest like a knife.

Jon felt the light, the warmth, being snuffed out.

And it was his fault. His fault for not reaching out more.

Tears threatened, his grip on the pillow tightening. He wasn’t just sad, he was angry. Angry at himself, that he couldn’t give enough of himself to Jamie because he was too afraid.

Ghost whimpered, climbing onto the bed. The dip of weight, the quiet warmth pressed against him, soothed the sharpest bite in his chest, dulled the festering anger for a moment.

“Why can’t I just be enough…? Am I not?” Jon whispered. To who, he didn’t know. The room. The gods. He didn’t want anyone to hear it—because if someone close agreed, it would break him beyond repair.

And then—

Bing.

The sound cut through the silence like a blade.

Jon lifted his head, eyes burning. He wiped at them with the heel of his hand and fumbled for his phone. The screen lit bright in the dark, blurring with tears.

Jamie: ‘Have I done something to make you pull away? Please, tell me… I don’t want to make you pull away…’

Jamie:

He hadn’t expected Jon to answer. Not after the silence since Sunday. He’d told himself it was over, that he’d never hear from him again.

But he did.

And now Jamie was here, sitting at the market square fountain in the dead of night. The rush of water filled the air, mingling with the scattered chatter of late-night stalls. A cool autumn wind cut through his clothes, sharp against his skin.

He trailed his fingers through the fountain’s surface, breaking the reflection into fragile ripples. Every ring in the water felt like the minutes passing, heavy, endless. His chest thudded with each one, heartbeats pounding so loud it seemed they might drown out the world.

Then a shadow fell across the fountain’s edge, blotting out the silver shine of the water. Jamie’s hand stilled, droplets slipping from his fingers back into the pool.

He looked up. Jon stood only a few paces away. The moonlight crowned his dark curls in silver, but his shoulders were hunched, his body folded inward like he was bracing against more than the cold. He looked as if he’d been in bed for days, and only now had dragged himself out to breathe.

Jamie swallowed hard. His voice barely carried.

“You came…”

Jon’s gaze flicked down, then back up, his voice a quiet mumble.

“So did you…”

He crossed the distance and sat beside Jamie on the stone edge. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but they were close enough that Jamie felt the heat radiating between them, enough to still the tremor in his hand.

Jon’s voice was fragile, almost breaking. “You didn’t do anything wrong…”

Jamie’s damp hand pressed against the fountain’s edge, as if steadying himself. Relief flickered, that he wasn’t the reason Jon had withdrawn but it curdled quickly into worry. Why then? What had made him retreat? The rumors? Something worse? His breath snagged in his throat.

Jon’s face stayed hidden, dark curls shadowing his expression. His voice, though, carried the weight of tears. “Renly came… twice, since I’ve been here. I thought I could handle it. Thought I could face him alone. But I couldn’t. His words—” Jon’s shoulders trembled, his fists tightening in his lap. “His words made me doubt everything…”

Jamie’s hands curled into fists of his own.

Renly.

Of course it was him.

How could he have thought otherwise? How could he have doubted Jon instead of seeing it?

“I thought I pushed too much,” Jamie whispered hoarsely, guilt tightening his chest. “I’m so sorry I didn’t reach for you…”

Jon shook his head. “Not at all… I just wanted—” His breath faltered, shaky. He looked at Jamie, his lashes damp with tears. Everything was laid bare in his eyes: fear, pain, doubt. “I didn’t want you to see everything Renly said about me being true…” The tears caught the moonlight as he tried to bite them back, but Jamie saw.

“Don’t.” The word came sharper than he meant, so he softened his voice, steady and low. “Don’t let his poison stick. He doesn’t know you. Not like I do.”

And he meant it. Every word. He knew Jon’s creativity, his gentleness, his stubborn strength, the way he forgave more easily than anyone should have to. Renly couldn’t touch that.

Jon blinked at him, something fragile flickering in his gaze: hope, maybe, mixed with disbelief. His hand shifted, just an inch closer. A reach. Hesitant, but wanting.

Jamie’s chest tightened. He didn’t grab. Didn’t force. He simply moved his hand close enough that Jon would know it was there, waiting. It had to be Jon’s choice. Always.

“Do you… mean that?” Jon whispered, voice trembling.

“With everything in me,” Jamie said without hesitation.

The fountain’s rush filled the silence. Cool autumn air pressed around them, sharp with night. For a long heartbeat Jon only breathed, chest rising and falling too quickly. And then, his fingers slid into Jamie’s, their hands intertwining.

The warmth spread through Jamie’s arm, steadying him, grounding him. Jon’s shoulders sagged, some of the weight finally easing. Not all of it. But enough.

Jon let out a soft exhale, eyes half-closing. The warmth of Jamie’s hand felt safe, almost lulling. Like maybe, just maybe, he could fall asleep right here and not feel alone.

Jon:

They walked in silence, not awkward, not strained, something warmer, quieter. Understanding. Their hands stayed linked as if letting go meant slipping back into the dark they’d just crawled out of. Jon didn’t mind. He leaned into it, greedy for it. This was something he wanted, something he’d missed without knowing how badly until now.

He almost felt foolish for how much Jamie’s last message had twisted his heart. Foolish, and yet… looking at him now, Jon could see battles behind his eyes too, shadows Jamie carried alone.

The market hummed around them, softer than in daylight but still alive. The scent of roasted peanuts mingled with the sharper bite of firewood smoke and the wet musk of dogs darting under stalls. Lanterns glowed overhead, washing the cobblestones in orange and red, and Jon thought the streets had borrowed warmth from some gentler world.

Jon felt Jamie gently squeeze his hand, his jaw tight as though holding words he wasn’t sure he could release. Jon squeezed back, steady, telling him without speaking: you’re safe with me.

A sigh escaped Jaime. “My sister came… the day of our weekly ritual. And again, just recently. I…” He raked his fingers through his hair, frustration etched in the motion.

Jon leaned closer, letting their shoulders brush, lending his warmth. He stayed quiet, listening. Not pressing, not judging—just steady, solid, here.

Jamie’s voice dipped. “I’ve been staying with Arthur since my father kicked me out. And since then, she’s shown up twice. You’ve met her, you only need one time to know how she is.” He swallowed hard. “She says she’s trying to protect me. But really… she just wants to chain me.”

His eyes lifted to Jon’s, and in their stormy green depths Jon saw something too familiar: doubt, venom, the kind of hurt words that carve deeper than knives. He wanted to chase those clouds away.

“Do you think I’m any better of a man?” Jamie whispered.

They stopped walking. The question hung between them, fragile as glass.

Jon felt like he’d been stabbed straight through the heart. He never imagined Jamie, of all people, could voice the same doubts that haunted him: being unworthy, unwanted, never enough. He had seen the cracks in Jamie’s armor before, but not like this. Not shadows that ran so close to his own, so deep they could drown a man.

How could Jamie not see himself? Not see the man he truly was? If Jamie could not believe it, then Jon would. And with that realization came a fierce, protective anger — quiet but unyielding.

He brushed his thumb across Jamie’s knuckles. “You are better than what you see yourself. Better than what you let yourself believe.” His voice was a hushed whisper, like something sacred.

The world seemed to fall away, slowing until it was only the two of them at the center of it. Jon’s voice cracked, but he pressed on, firm despite the tremor. “You are not what they say you are. Not your sister. Not your father. Not Robert. I’ve seen how hard you work. I’ve seen you. Every time I’m with you, I see who you are.”

Heat pricked his eyes, tears threatening to fall. It hurt, gods, it hurt, to hear Jamie doubt himself. The ache cut deeper than Jon’s own self-doubt ever had. He never wanted to see Jamie this way. He wanted to hear his laughter, see his easy smile, feel that warmth of cedar and rosemary that had become his light.

“Please don’t ask me that question,” Jon whispered, raw and pleading. “Because to me… you already are that man.”

For a heartbeat there was silence, Jamie stared at him in disbelief. His opened once and then twice, but no sound came. Jon could see the storm in his emerald green eyes, the way it slowly began to calm and be replaced with something softer. Hope.

“Do you really believe that…?” He asked softly, barely audible.

Jon nodded once, firm, and confident with his answer.

Jamie let out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. It was fragile like glass. He had blinked hard and too quickly, like he was keeping back a flood. “Gods Jon… no one has ever said that to me. Not like that.” His voice cracked and he looked away. “I don’t know what to do with it…”

Jon squeezed his hand, “You don’t have to do anything with it, yet.” He leaned in closer, “I will believe it for you. Until one day you can see for yourself.” He whispered.

Jamie looked back at him, his gaze soft and full of hope. He may not have believed what Jon said was true, not yet. But Jon would be here every step of the way. And for once… tonight they did not have to walk alone in their fears and doubts. Tonight they could walk together in warmth and peace, a shared and quiet strength.

Jamie leaned his shoulder against Jon’s, a subtle weight, steady and grounding. Jon didn’t move away he only leaned back, the two of them carrying each other through the silence.

Their hands remained linked, shoulders pressed together, as if to say: I see you. I’m not leaving. The world would come for them again, Jon knew, but not tonight. Tonight, they had this: warmth in the cold, light in the dark.

Chapter Text

Jon:

The house was warmer than usual tonight, on purpose. It was movie night, something Rhaegar had suggested starting on a weekly basis, and Jon liked the idea. Just the two of them, spending time together. They hadn’t had many quiet moments since Jon arrived, and he realized how much he missed them.

He set down their mugs of hot chocolate, the rich scent mingling with the buttery aroma of popcorn from the kitchen. The faint hum of the microwave completed the cozy background. Sliding onto the couch, he sank into the blankets piled high, feeling the comfort settle around him.

Ghost was already curled up in his dog bed, a chew toy by his front paws. He wore his own red-and-grey silk pajamas, a gift from Rhaegar, though Jon couldn’t remember when he’d received them. He let out a quiet chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Rhaegar asked, sliding onto the couch with a big bowl of popcorn.

“You really bought him his own PJs?” Jon said, shaking his head. Rhaegar’s silks gleamed red in the soft light, as neat as ever.

“He kept stealing mine,” Rhaegar said with a smile. “Hasn’t needed to since he got his own.”

Jon rolled his eyes, laughing softly, and rested his head on his father’s shoulder. The scent of pine and warmth of the blankets settled around him, if only for a moment, and he let himself forget the venomous words and rumors waiting beyond these walls.

The movie started, and Jon set the remote down, his voice barely above a whisper. “How… how do you stand up for yourself?”

His father glanced at him, a soft, knowing look in his eyes. “Well…” Rhaegar offered a handful of popcorn, which Jon accepted, letting the warm, buttery kernels fill the quiet between them. “It’s when you truly believe in yourself. Do you believe the rumors? Do you believe what people say about you? You might not fully believe in yourself yet, but you can believe enough to defend yourself. That alone, fear and all, makes people back down.” He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Jon’s head.

Jon closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in. He thought of all the times he’d frozen, doubts and rumors crowding his mind. And now, here, with the comforting scent of pine and the warmth of Rhaegar’s shoulder beneath his head, the fear felt smaller, quieter. “Have you… been feeling better?” He asked, his voice soft.

“Most days… yeah,” Rhaegar said, his gaze on the flickering screen. “Some days, not so much. But that’s life, isn’t it? Ups and downs. The people around you make all the difference.”

Jon let a small smile tug at his lips, leaning closer. “Liiike a certain Dornish man I know?”

Rhaegar huffed, though his lips quirked into a reluctant smile. “Yes…”

Jon chuckled, letting himself melt a little into the warmth of the couch, the popcorn, the quiet company, and the gentle reassurance that even when the world felt heavy, he wasn’t carrying it alone.

The rest of the night passed in quiet comfort with his father and Ghost. Movies flickered across the screen, popcorn and sweets scattered on the coffee table, mugs of hot chocolate warming their hands. Jon closed his eyes, letting the warmth settle in his chest, the soft weight of blankets, Rhaegar’s steady presence. He was home. He was safe. And he could be safe in his own space too, his tattoo shop, his rules, his sanctuary. No one should be able to make him feel small there. Not even Renly. He didn’t need to believe in himself completely, not yet. He had others who did. Jamie. Rhaegar. Arthur. They believed in him. And for tonight, that was enough to fuel the fire inside.

Chapter Text

Jon:

The day had started cold, the fall breeze biting through his clothes. It was nothing like Winterfell, but Jon didn’t mind, he’d always liked the chill. Besides, the season meant pumpkin spice would soon make its return, and that was something he could admit he was looking forward to.

Ghost tugged impatiently at the leash as they made their way to the shop, eager for a faster pace. Jon thumbed out a quick text.

Jon: ‘We still on for our weekly coffee…?’

The reply came almost instantly.

Jamie: ‘Only if you feel ready for it.’

Jon smiled faintly, typing back. ‘I am ready.’

Jamie: ‘Then I’ll see you Sunday, Snowflake.’

Jon shook his head, but the small smile lingered.

The shop was alive with a soft hum, music low, steady, something Jon liked to work to. He felt good today. Better than most, even. The steady trickle of emails and walk-ins had grown, people asking about his artwork, his tattoos. He hadn’t worked up the nerve to hang his photos on the walls yet, but he would. In time. For now, it was enough to know people were interested, enough to fill the calendar with names.

He flipped through that calendar now, neat handwriting marking healing times and open slots. He’d only booked one client today, on purpose. This one was different. Important enough that Jon wanted his whole attention on it.

He was humming along to the beat when the bell over the door rang. He glanced up and saw Arthur.

“Hey, big guy,” Jon said softly, a smile tugging at his lips.

Arthur’s gaze wandered the shop, taking it all in before settling on him. He looked tired, dark shadows clung under his eyes but he still managed a faint smile. “Hey, Jon. Place looks really nice.”

Jon’s chest warmed at the words. “You can thank Arianne for that one. I traded her a tattoo for the furniture.” He grabbed the contract packet from under the counter.

Arthur huffed a small laugh, stepping closer. “And I’m guessing more than half of this stuff was her idea?”

Jon chuckled, sliding the papers in front of him with a pen. “You are absolutely right.”

Arthur picked up the pen but lingered, scanning the pages. Jon caught the tired way he rolled his shoulders, the slight drag in his movements. For a moment, Jon almost asked if he was sleeping enough, if something was weighing heavier than usual. But he kept quiet. Arthur wasn’t like Renly, there was no performance here, no venom. Just weariness. And Jon respected that.

Instead, he said gently, “Take your time. No rush.”

Jon pulled a sketchbook from beneath the counter, the one he’d made just for Arthur—his name written across the cover in neat purple ink. The pages were filled with hours of work, sketches shaped by instinct more than words, because Arthur was a quiet man. Whatever shadows haunted him, he didn’t share them easily. But Jon had tried to follow the pull of his gut, sketching until something felt right.

“I hope you like it,” Jon said softly.

Arthur’s smile was faint, a little weary. “I’m sure I will. It’s you doing it.” He signed the last page of the contract with a sigh, sliding the pen back across the counter.

Jon tucked the papers into a folder and returned the pen to its holder. “You don’t even want to see it?”

Arthur shook his head, gaze drifting for just a moment. “Not until you’re done with it. Don’t worry, I’ll have Rhaegar handle the ointment.” He offered another small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Jon hummed, wanting to press, but he let the urge fade. If this was how Arthur wanted to carry it, he would respect that. Whatever burdens he bore, Jon could at least be there in the act of creation, and his father would be there when the sting set in.

“I’ll make it perfect,” Jon promised.

“I know you will.” Arthur’s voice softened, almost fond. “You’re just like your father in that way. Perfect with his music.”

By the time they finished, it was late. The outline had taken longer than Jon expected but he wanted it perfect, a reflection of Arthur’s pain and his world, just as Rhaegar’s had been.

Jon was cleaning up the studio when the bell over the door jingled. Ghost growled low, his hackles rising as he planted himself between Jon and the lounge.

Jon’s stomach twisted. He knew who it was before he even saw him.

Each step toward the doorway felt heavier than the last, his pulse hammering. And then he saw him. Renly. Standing there, smirking, eyes locked on Ghost, until they landed on Jon.

“Hello, Jon,” Renly said smoothly. “I see you’re gaining quite a few customers.”

Those honeyed words made his skin crawl. Jon knew it was a trap. Renly thrived on fear and doubt, picking at insecurities until his prey faltered. Nothing like Robert — or maybe exactly like him.

Fear coiled in Jon’s stomach as Renly took a deliberate step forward, as if he owned the shop. Ghost growled low, pressing himself against Jon’s legs, a warning in the deep rumble. For the first time in a long while, Jon wasn’t alone he had his companion, his safe space, and that was enough to steady him.

Jon took a slow breath, letting the anger rise and mix with the fear. He wouldn’t shrink. He wouldn’t falter. His hands clenched into fists, and he held Renly’s gaze without blinking.

“Leave, Elk. You’re not welcome here,” Jon said, his voice firm, steady.

Renly’s smirk faltered, replaced by a sharp, incredulous glare. “Elk? Maybe you didn’t see correctly, it’s stag.”

Jon let a small, bitter laugh escape. “You’re no elegant stag,” he shot back, teeth gritted, “Just a drooling, crazy elk. Like Robert.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and unyielding. Renly’s face darkened, and for a moment, Jon saw the predator falter. Ghost’s tail thumped against the floor, and Jon realized something he hadn’t before: he didn’t need to cower. Not here, not now. Not ever again.

Renly’s lips pressed into a thin line, his smirk gone, replaced by a flicker of irritation. He stared at Jon for a long moment, weighing whether it was worth continuing the battle. Finally, he scoffed, let out a forced laugh, and turned toward the door.

“You’ll regret that, Pup,” Renly muttered over his shoulder before leaving.

Jon felt a surprising lightness, his breath coming quicker now that Renly was gone. He leaned against the doorway and slowly sank to the floor, hands still trembling, but a laugh slipped from him despite the lingering tension.

He had done it. After all these years, he had finally stood his ground.

Tears stung his eyes, and he wished he could tell his mother he’d done it. Ghost pressed against him, licking his face, drawing another laugh from Jon. He buried his face in the fur, the grounding presence steadying him.

And despite the victory, he longed for more: for the comforting scent of cedar and rosemary to wrap around him, leaving nothing but warmth. He let out a choked sob, holding Ghost close, letting the moment, and the relief, sink in.

Chapter Text

Jamie:

Tonight, Jamie was going to a bar with Monford and Arthur. A small drink, nothing more. He hadn’t stepped into one since Winterfell, and he hadn’t been out with friends in longer than he cared to admit. It felt like a sliver of normalcy. Except this time, he wouldn’t be drunk, and he wouldn’t be warming someone else’s bed after.

He leaned back against the car seat, eyes on the blur of passing streetlights. No music played, just the low hum of the engine and the soft rhythm of Arthur’s breathing beside him. The night pressed cold and dark against the windows, the sky a thick blanket of cloud that swallowed stars and moon alike.

“You doing alright?” Arthur asked, voice quiet from the driver’s seat.

Jamie glanced over. The weight of sleepless nights clung under Arthur’s eyes, in the tired set of his shoulders. The man carried his silence like armor, but Jamie wondered if maybe a drink and company would ease it some.

“Sort of,” Jamie admitted. “You?”

“Sort of,” Arthur echoed with a small nod.

At the bar, they claimed a table tucked far from the bustle. Monford was already there, grinning wide as he raised his mug.

“You two finally made it! Thought I’d be drinking alone,” He boomed, tossing his head back with a laugh before taking a long gulp of ale.

Arthur eased into the seat beside him, mouth twitching faintly. “Someone was busy texting his boyfriend.”

Heat flared instantly across Jamie’s face. He dropped into the chair across from them, glaring. “Boyfriend? Me and Jon are just friends…”

Monford smirked, all teeth. “Riiight. And those coffee dates? Definitely not dates.”

Jamie swallowed, ears burning hotter, and turned his gaze to the table. “Just get me a glass of wine, you sea prick.”

Monford’s laugh rolled like thunder. “Aye, and you’ll need more than one if you keep blushing like that.”

As the night wore on, Jamie felt the tightness in his chest begin to ease, the knots of his father’s shadow and his own restless thoughts slowly untangling. The wine buzzed warm in his veins, and laughter came easier—real laughter, not the polite kind. Monford’s booming voice, Arthur’s dry barbs, the clink of mugs. Just the three of them, drinking, trading stories, sharing jokes.

So this was life, wasn’t it? Friends. Family. Safety. A place where he could be himself without fear.

“Well, well. Jamie Lannister,” a voice purred at his side, one he’d heard more times than he cared to count.

He turned. Red hair, sun-bright eyes, the same practiced smile that once would’ve hooked him without effort. Once, he’d have smirked back, let the night spiral where it always did. But tonight, she was only a face in the crowd. No spark. No temptation.

“It’s been a while,” she leaned close, perfume thick in the air.

Jamie lifted his glass, unbothered, and said flatly, “I’m not interested.”

Her brows arched, teasing. “Playing hard to get this time?”

His gaze slid away, steady. Dark curls, a quiet laugh, that’s where his mind went. “No. I’m interested in someone else. And I’m not ruining it. So pass it along. Jamie Lannister’s off the list.”

She blinked, surprised but not offended, then let out a soft laugh. “Didn’t think I’d ever hear that.” With a shrug, she melted back into the crowd, leaving him with his wine and the quiet certainty in his chest.

Monford leaned in with a grin, whispering, “So… secret boyfriend?”

Arthur chuckled low, shaking his head. “Yeah, let’s go with that. Still in the closet.”

Jamie rolled his eyes, though the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him. “I can hear you idiots.”

Their laughter spilled across the table, warm and unforced, folding Jamie into it like he’d always belonged.

He rubbed at his jaw, feeling the coarse stubble thickening there. Strange, how something so small could remind him of who he was becoming. Of who he was finally allowed to be.

He’d always been surrounded by love, Arthur and Rhaegar, who had never asked him to be anyone else. Elia and Ashara, who had treated him like their own, the way his mother once had. He just hadn’t seen it, not really. Not until Jon. Jon had tilted the world just enough for him to notice the truth.

That he was, and had always been, enough.

Chapter Text

Jamie:

Jamie sat in his office, fingers steady on the keyboard as he finished compiling the latest trade reports. The steady rhythm of the keys was oddly satisfying, the numbers slotting neatly into place. A map, a few clean graphs, something simple but useful, something Rhaegar would appreciate.

The scent of fresh paper and sharpened pencils lingered in the room, grounding him. Outside, the low chatter of interns drifted through the half-open door, laughter spilling over now and then. Jamie tried to block it out, mostly for their sake. If he heard one more whispered rumor about Jon, he wasn’t sure he’d keep his temper in check.

He leaned back after the final click of the mouse, stretching his fingers before cracking his knuckles with a small sigh. Months ago, he would never have gone to such lengths. The numbers had always mattered—trade routes, percentages, profits—those had to be perfect. That was the job. But graphs, maps, extra details? He’d once thought them unnecessary. Rhaegar had trusted him enough to jot the figures down, and that was enough.

But now? Now he wanted more than “enough.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him. He was being different.

No, he corrected himself. He wasn’t being different. He was being himself. This was who he had always wanted to be: someone who cared, someone who wanted to build and improve, not just keep things afloat. Someone who wanted to do more for the city than balance its books.

Gathering his folders, Jamie rose from his chair. He still needed to stop by the printer before the meeting, and there, inevitably, he would face his father’s barbs. But today…today he wouldn’t sit there and take them.

Not a disappointment.

Not just a Lannister.

He was Jamie. And he would better the city the right way.

In the meeting room, Jamie took his usual seat beside Arthur. It had become his spot since the day he’d been cast out of his father’s house. At first, it was simply where he felt safest, shielded by Arthur’s steady presence, close enough to Rhaegar to draw strength. But somewhere along the way, it had started to feel like something else. Like family. Like where he belonged.

“Wow, Jamie~ look at you!” Arianne gasped the moment she noticed him, her grin wicked and warm all at once. “I’m loving the beard.” She leaned back, the low neckline of her dress revealing the Martell sigil inked over her skin, a burning sun, lovingly detailed with rich borders and careful coloring. Jon’s work, and beautiful.

Jamie couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks.”

He shuffled his papers into order, sliding the neat stack of graphs toward Rhaegar and offering extras down the table. A few chairs still sat empty, but that didn’t matter, he was ready. For once, he didn’t feel like an imposter. He felt prepared, almost proud, especially when he caught the approving glances from Rhaegar and Arthur.

The door opened, and with it came a chill that seeped straight into his bones. Only one man could drag the warmth out of a room so completely.

Tywin Lannister.

His father’s gaze cut toward him: measuring, weighing, already finding him wanting. The same look Jamie had known since boyhood. Failure. Disappointment.

Jamie inhaled slowly, setting his papers into a neat stack. His hands didn’t tremble. His shoulders stayed square. And when Arthur leaned ever so slightly closer, when Rhaegar’s steady glance brushed his way, he felt anchored. Safe.

Not today.

“Hello, Father,” Jaime said, light and casual, as if greeting any other man.

Tywin hummed in acknowledgment, nothing more. A sound too thin to mean approval, too measured to be dismissal. Once, that would’ve cut. Now, Jaime only sat a little straighter. Let his father keep his silence; Jaime had his own family at this table. The ones who cared.

A courtesy given, nothing owed.

It didn’t even take a minute. Tywin sat, cast one glance across the table, and spoke in that cold, unwavering tone.

“Graphs and charts. Decorative, yet unnecessary. I trust you know your own numbers and routes. That is, after all, your job for the city.” He didn’t bother to look up, only unlatched his briefcase with a snap.

Jamie’s gaze flicked toward him, steady. “I do. But I didn’t make them for me. I made them for everyone, so we’re all on the same page.”

That made Tywin glance up at last, his eyes sharp and assessing.

“Not everyone views the world the way you do,” Jamie said casually, turning back to shuffle his papers as if the conversation were already over.

The meeting droned on, as dull as always, but Jamie found he wasn’t flaunting his boredom this time. No slouched posture, no leg slung over the chair arm. Just a pen turning idly between his fingers as he listened.

From the corner came hushed whispers, the soft rustle of interns flipping through his graphs. Relief in their voices, like they finally understood what was being discussed. Guilt pricked at him for never thinking to do it sooner but at least now, he was making a change. He’d keep doing it.

Monford groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. “These interns are annoying. Is this what Gerald meant when he said his grandkids are demons?”

Rhaegar’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “They’re learning, Monford. You were an intern once, weren’t you?”

“Yes! And I was probably annoying as fuck,” Monford huffed.

“Mm,” Tywin hummed, smooth as a blade. “They need discipline.” His gaze slid to Jamie without pause. “I’m surprised you’ve finally found yours.”

The words sank into the room like ice water. Jamie clenched his jaw, heat rising sharp and fast. But no, that was how Tywin won. He wanted a flare of temper, wanted him to snap and look the fool.

Instead, Jaime drew a slow breath, steady. His voice came out level, firm.

“I’ve always had it. I just stopped letting you chain it to something I wasn’t.”

The silence that followed was heavier than Tywin’s words. Arthur leaned back, faint approval in his eyes. Rhaegar’s glance flickered like quiet pride. Even the interns stilled, their whispers cut short.

For once, Jamie hadn’t just endured his father’s barb. He’d answered it.

The meeting wound down slower than Jamie would have liked, but for once, he didn’t just sit and endure. He rose from his chair midway through, wheeling the tall whiteboard to the front for the interns who still looked half-lost. He uncapped the markers—blue, green, red—and began sketching out routes and percentages in bold strokes. The colors caught their eyes, pulled them in, and the whispers quieted as they leaned forward, listening.

Numbers and routes were one thing, but when Jamie traced them across the map with lines of blue and marked the key trades in red, they weren’t just numbers anymore. They were currents, living veins that carried the city’s lifeblood. And for the first time, he felt like he was doing more than his job. He was helping them understand it, weaving them into the work. This wasn’t just about logistics, it was about keeping the city afloat together. Something he’d been too blind, too beaten down to see before now.

When the meeting finally adjourned at a reasonable hour, Arthur clapped a steady hand against his back, murmuring quiet approval before slipping out early. Jamie gathered his folders, sliding the colorful markers back into place, the faint ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. He thought about asking Rhaegar for a ride home, maybe even talking through some of the ideas sparking in his head. If Rhaegar was up for it, of course.

He didn’t get far.

“Do you really think that boy is good for you?” The voice slid in sharp and low, close enough to scrape bone.

Jamie stilled, papers tight in his grip. Tywin Lannister no longer sat across the table but stood at his side, tall and immovable, shadow stretching long across the polished floor. His presence pressed down like it always had, designed to make Jamie small.

Tywin’s gaze flicked to the scattered graphs and maps with cold disdain before returning to his son. “You truly believe this… softness won’t make you into something you shouldn’t be?”

“Softness?” Jamie repeated. He hated it when his father dragged Jon down. Ever since the first meeting Jon had been in, Tywin had spoken of him like a mangy dog. “What does that have to do with anything?” His voice sharpened, the edges of his anger slipping through, but he held it back from breaking.

Tywin studied him with that same cold detachment, looking down at him as though Jamie were still a boy fumbling with math problems. “That boy has nothing for him when he’s older. An artist doesn’t live. They survive.”

“You’re right about one thing. Jon hasn’t lived yet, he’s been surviving. Not because he’s an artist but because people like you crush his mentality every chance you get.” Jamie took a step forward, fists tightening at his sides. His eyes burned into Tywin’s, daring him to dismiss it. “Don’t you ever insult him again. Not in front of me. Keep him out of your mouth.”

Silence. For the briefest moment, something flickered in Tywin’s eyes—hard to place, a glimmer of surprise, maybe even recognition but then it was gone, replaced with the same cool mask. He said nothing.

Jamie stepped back, gathered his things with shaking hands, and left before the silence could choke him. His heart thundered, a burning heat climbing the back of his neck.

He made it into his office before his legs gave out, the door slamming shut behind him. He dropped to his knees, folders scattering across the floor, and finally exhaled the breath he’d been holding since that conference room. A sob tore loose as he covered his mouth, his body shuddering with the release.

He had done it. He had stood up, not just endured, not lashed out blindly, but answered. Defended. Chosen his ground and held it.

Tears pricked hot at his eyes. He wished his mother were here. Maybe she would have been proud to see him finding himself, finally unafraid. Maybe she would have smiled at the man he was trying to be.

The world outside his office went on, a dull hum he no longer cared about. Relief pressed heavy in his chest. Hope, even. Maybe he would be okay.

Chapter Text

Jamie

Today was Sunday, which meant the weekly ritual of coffee with Jon. Jamie had been looking forward to it all week, and gods, he prayed nothing would get in the way, he might actually lose his mind if it did. He wanted to tell Jon about his work, about facing his father, about how—strange as it sounded—Jon had made him feel inspired, steadier, more himself. He wanted to hear about Jon’s days, his work, how he’d been feeling. All of it.

He drew a long breath and turned toward the mirror. The reflection staring back wasn’t the same man who had first arrived here: tail tucked, and duffel bag slung over his shoulder. This man looked different. He looked like himself. The real Jamie.

He’d dressed nicer than usual, careful not to overdo it. It wasn’t a date but it mattered all the same. His hair was brushed smooth, falling neatly into place. A pair of green gemstone earrings caught the light. His beard had filled in since the last time Jon had seen him, framing his jaw with a quiet boldness. Jamie tilted his head, almost smiling. He wondered if Jon would like it. He thought he would.

His phone chimed.

Jon: ‘Better not be too late, Goldilocks.’

The message was paired with a photo of the coffee shop, an empty chair across from him waiting.

A smirk tugged at Jamie’s lips. His reply was quick: ‘You’re just early, Snowflake. Besides, arriving fashionably late is my specialty.’

Jon: ‘Your specialty is being here.’

The words made Jamie swallow hard. Maybe he was reading too much into it. Maybe not. Either way, his heart had started to beat faster.

He typed back, fingers steady despite the rush in his chest: ‘I won’t make you wait too long then.‘

Shoving his phone into his pocket, Jamie let out a quiet huff, half nerves half laughter, and grabbed his keys.

The closer Jamie got to the coffee shop, the sharper his nerves spiked. It always happened before seeing Jon face-to-face like this. And yet, every time, it turned out to be the best part of his week. It didn’t need to be some grand adventure through the markets, it was enough to simply sit across from Jon, talking.

He drew a steadying breath as he pushed open the door. Warm air rolled over him, chasing away the bite of cold from outside. His eyes swept the room until they found him—Jon, already waiting in their usual spot.

And already watching him.

Jon’s mouth was slightly parted, his eyes lit with a brightness Jamie had never seen before, something that sparked and caught in Jamie’s chest. Heat flared up the back of his neck, and he had to clear his throat as he made his way over.

“Hey there, Snowflake,” Jamie said, sliding into the seat across from him.

The light streaming through the window touched Jon’s hair, turning the dark curls into a soft halo. Even tied back with that leather strap, the one with the sapphire gemstone Jamie always noticed, Jon still managed to steal his breath. His heart flipped every time.

Jon’s lips curved, his eyes still fixed on him. “I was right…” He chuckled low, leaning back in his chair. “You do look good with a beard.”

The way he said it, soft but sure, made Jamie’s pulse hammer against his ribs.

Jamie smirked. “So that means I should keep it?”

Jon shrugged, casual on the surface. “If you want to. Your choice. But…” His lips twitched. “It does look good.”

“Then what about me cutting my hair?”

“NO!” Jon shot forward, the word ringing louder than he meant. Heads turned. His face went red as he coughed into his fist, trying to reel it back. “I mean, do what you want. It’s your hair.”

Jamie burst out laughing, clutching his stomach. Gods, Jon made it too easy. He’d caught those lingering glances often enough, the way Jon’s gaze always drifted back to his hair. He only wanted to tease him, to nudge him into admitting what Jamie already knew.

He leaned in a little, voice softer now. “I’ll keep them both. Just like they are.”

Jon’s eyes flicked back to his, and this time his expression gentled into something else, something that looked a lot like relief.

“I wanted to go somewhere today,” Jon said softly. “Take our coffees and sweets to go.”

Jamie nodded. “You got an idea where you want to go?”

Jon’s lips quirked up. “That’s a surprise.”

They left the coffee shop, drinks and small bags of goodies in hand, walking side by side, close enough to brush shoulders. The warmth was welcome, especially as the cold crept in. Jamie wasn’t used to it, but Jon seemed to thrive in it, his presence almost radiating heat.

He had no clue where Jon was taking them. They wandered down streets Jamie didn’t know existed, through alleys he thought would lead nowhere interesting. Eventually, they entered a drab building, climbed flight after flight of stairs, and reached the roof.

When the door opened, they were met with a garden that seemed to have escaped any attempt at control. Wild vines, lush roses, tulips, orchids, and thick bushes crowded the space, overflowing in color and life. Jamie paused in the doorway, taking it all in.

“Wow…” He whispered.

Jon looked at him, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “Good spot?”

Jon

“Yeah.” Jamie nodded with a small laugh. “How did you find this?”

“Well, I may have gotten lost in the crowd,” Jon admitted with a chuckle, leading Jamie to an old, worn bench tucked into the greenery. It creaked faintly under their weight, but held firm enough.

Jon hummed as he unwrapped a cake pop from his bag, the sweetness already comforting. The quiet warmth of Jamie’s presence beside him was even more so. After the last few days being here, with him, felt like breathing again.

He glanced up. Jamie was busy unwrapping his own pastry, but something about him felt different. The light around him seemed sharper, steadier. Maybe it was the beard, but Jon didn’t think that was it.

Jamie caught him staring and smirked. “May I help you?”

Jon’s cheeks grew warm. He glanced away quickly. “Well, uh… how have the past couple of days been? You seem… different. Not just the beard.”

“Oh. Well…” Jamie took a sip of his coffee, eyes drifting over the wild garden. His voice softened. “I’ve been feeling more like myself lately. Like I’m starting to figure out who I am.”

Jon kept his gaze on him, steady and attentive.

“I printed out graphs for the interns, made things easier to follow. Even broke out the whiteboard with colorful pens.” Jamie let out a self-conscious laugh. “It sounds silly, but… I enjoyed it. More than I expected. I wanted to do more than just be enough. I wanted to help. And it felt… good.”

Jon’s lips curved into a smile. He gently nudged Jamie’s shoulder, drawing emerald eyes to his. “That means you’re starting to love your job, Jamie. You’re finding purpose in it.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper.

Jamie’s answering smile was small, but real. “Yeah. I guess so.” A pause, then his voice dipped. “On a different note… I finally stood up to my father. And I didn’t blow up in anger like I usually do. I didn’t let him get under my skin. I didn’t just endure his insults. I actually defended myself. It felt good but… also terrifying.”

Jon’s chest tightened, a surge of pride and joy rising at once. No wonder Jamie looked different, he was changing, step by step, into someone freer, someone stronger. And Jon admired him for it.

“I get that,” Jon said, nodding slowly. His shoulder leaned into Jamie’s, a steady weight of reassurance. “But that’s really good, Jamie. You did really good.”

Jamie

Those words hit harder than Jamie expected. He leaned into the warmth, looking back toward the riot of flowers. Just a moment, just enough time to breathe, to blink away the heat stinging at his eyes. He didn’t want to cry. Not now. There was no need.

When he looked back, Jon was working on his second cake pop, though his grey eyes never once left Jamie.

“You feel different,” Jamie said softly. “In a good way.”

Jon’s gaze flicked toward the garden, then returned to him. “Yeah… I’ve felt a surge of energy working again. Like when I first started learning to tattoo. Couldn’t wait for the next design, couldn’t wait to try again. But now it’s real. On people.” He chuckled under his breath.

Jamie smiled faintly, taking a bite of his donut. “Guess we’re both being productive lately.”

Jon nodded, sipping his coffee. “That, and standing up to people. Renly came by again. I… I felt ready for it this time. Like I wanted to stand up for myself. Because it’s my shop. My work. My place. It wasn’t easy, with him looming around, but… I managed. He left after I insulted him and told him to go.”

Jamie’s jaw tightened instantly, a spark of anger flaring. Gods, how he hated Renly, hated the way he hovered like a vulture over Jon. But then he caught the look in Jon’s eyes. Not defeat. Not fear. Pride. True confidence, shining steady.

His anger softened into a smile. “Wish I could’ve been there to see it. And his stupid face when you told him off.” He chuckled, then lowered his voice. “That’s awesome, Jon.”

Jon shifted closer, resting his head against Jamie’s shoulder. The sudden weight made Jamie’s heart thunder, but then he felt the quiet exhale, the way Jon’s whole body eased. Relaxing. Trusting.

Safe.

Jamie swallowed hard, hardly daring to move, afraid the moment would vanish if he breathed too loudly. But it didn’t. Jon stayed right there, and for once in his life, Jamie realized he could be someone’s safe place.

Jon

Jon rested his head on Jamie’s shoulder, letting the steady rise and fall of his breath soothe him. The smell of cedar and rosemary engulfing him like a blanket. The warmth pressed into his side, solid and anchoring, made him feel safe. Not just in this overgrown rooftop garden, but because it was Jamie. Wherever he was, he knew that comfort would follow.

Jamie’s words echoed in his chest, heavier than he expected. That look, anger melting into pride, made Jon feel like he wasn’t just standing up to Renly. He was standing up to his whole past. And Jamie had seen it. That thought made him feel like maybe, step by step, he could take on the world.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. Time blurred until, when he finally opened his eyes again, the sun had lowered into a wash of oranges, purples, and pinks. Their sweets were gone, coffee cups empty. The city moved on below them—horns, bells, crowds—but up here it didn’t matter. Up here it felt like their own little world.

Jon turned his head. Jamie was watching the sunset, the dying light casting his hair into molten gold, his eyes sparking like emerald fire. Jon’s chest tightened. Slowly, cautiously, he let his hand drift down. His fingertips brushed Jamie’s, hesitated, then curled. He threaded their fingers together, the warmth and roughness of his palm making Jon’s breath catch.

Jamie chuckled low, the sound rumbling through him. “Careful, Snowflake… I’ll start thinking these are dates.”

Jon’s lips twitched, a smirk threatening, but he held it back. He leaned a little closer, voice quiet, meant only for him.

“Maybe they are.”

Chapter Text

‘The orchid does not rush to bloom. Its beauty is in the waiting.’

Jon

The greenhouse buzzed with quiet life. In one corner, rows of tomatoes and strawberries pushed their way up through the soil. Roses stretched from another bed, their leaves catching what light they could. Each had their own place, each growing at their own pace. It would take months for the fruit to ripen from seed, but Jon didn’t mind. The waiting felt worth it. He was already imagining the day he could fold them into his cooking, something made with his own hands, his own care.

Was this how Elia had felt? That quiet thrill of creating life, of tending something fragile until it was strong enough to nourish others? He smiled faintly, warmed by the thought. He hoped he was doing right by her. By his siblings. By his aunt and uncle. He hoped, wherever they were, they could see him and feel proud.

His gaze drifted to the far bed, the orchids. These were different. They would not bloom in weeks or months. They demanded years, patience stretched thin and tested. But he was willing to wait. When the day finally came, when those stubborn buds opened into color, he would show his father. Look. I didn’t give up on them.

He crouched beside them, brushing a fingertip against the damp soil.

“Take your time, little ones,” He whispered. “I can wait for you to bloom.”

He rose and moved along to check the other beds, the smell of fresh soil easing the tightness in his chest. It had been a few weeks since the garden on the roof, since that sunset with Jamie. In the time since, something had shifted between them. More hand-holding, more hugs, touches that lingered a little longer than before. Nothing spoken, nothing declared, but the coffee rituals felt like dates now.

Neither of them had said it aloud. Perhaps Jamie was as wary as Jon, both of them waiting, both of them afraid. Or perhaps Jamie was simply giving him space, letting him set the pace.

Jon drew in a deep breath, exhaling slowly into the warmth of the greenhouse. Even with his nerves, he thought he could live with this feeling. Growth took time. Some things came quickly, others would take years. And both were worth the wait.

He made his way toward the front door, passing his tools, the soil, the shovels, the gloves laid neatly in their place. Each carried the memory of his tending, his careful work, the quiet devotion it took to coax life out of fragile stems. It was worth the risk of scraped hands, of thorns, of failure. And so too, he thought, was this.

The fear didn’t vanish because he chose to keep walking. It lingered in the corners of his chest: the doubts, the restless nights of turning over the same questions, was he enough? Had he given enough of himself? Would he ever?

But with Jamie, he realized, he didn’t need to give everything away at once. Not with the man who made him feel safe simply by standing at his side, who steadied him after long days when the world felt too heavy to hold alone.

He opened the door, pausing for a moment to glance back at the bed of orchids, pale buds still closed tight.

Perhaps Jamie was his orchid.

Something that asked for patience. Something that demanded time, steadiness, care. It would not bloom quickly, and it would not bloom easily but when it did, it would be breathtaking. He didn’t need to rush. The pace they had was good. They were still healing. Still learning how to grow.

And that would be enough.

Jon stepped out, closing the door behind him. The greenhouse hummed softly in his absence, alive with its quiet work of growing, waiting for the moment he would return with water and song.

Chapter Text

Jon

It was midday, yet Jon found himself wandering the halls, drawn toward the bedrooms of his family. Each door he passed felt like a quiet visit, and as he walked, he hummed the song his mother and father used to sing, a melody stitched into his bones.

In Rhaenys’s room, he left a sketch he had made: a little princess with a dog at her side. Something simple, something joyful, as he imagined she might have liked it.

For Aegon, he lit a small vanilla-scented candle, setting it carefully on the desk. Its flame wavered in the still air, gentle and steady, like the brother he wished he’d known.

Daenerys’s crib came next. By the horses earlier that morning, Jon had plucked a single flower. He set it there, bright against the blanket, as though offering her a piece of the outside world she never had the chance to see.

Elia’s bedside table held his next gift, a plate of cookies he had baked earlier. He smiled faintly as he arranged them, remembering how warmth and sweetness had always been spoken of her.

Lastly, he stepped into the green room, Viserys. It was cluttered with unfinished canvases and half-empty medicine bottles, the air unsettled in a way that made Jon’s chest tighten. No peace lingered here. He wondered if that was how his uncle’s last days had been: restless, uneasy, without rest.

His gaze caught on a canvas, a wash of red streaked with gold. The background unfinished, the meaning uncertain. Jon narrowed his eyes, almost seeing what Viserys had been trying to reach for. Anger, perhaps. Or grief.

He sighed softly and turned toward the bed. From his pocket, he pulled out one of his old pens, worn down, the kind that clicked through different colors. There was only a little ink left inside, but he set it carefully on the pillow.

“I hope you like it,” He murmured, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

The smile lingered only a moment before fading, and with it, he stepped quietly from the room, his father’s song still echoing under his breath.

Jon’s feet carried him to his father’s office, the door open as it usually was. Inside, Ghost sat by the window, tongue lolling, ears twitching at every sound outside. The steady rhythm of his panting, mixed with the soft clack of keys on the keyboard, filled the room with a strange kind of comfort.

Quietly, Jon moved behind Rhaegar’s chair and slipped his arms around him, resting his chin on his father’s shoulder. On the screen, lines of an email scrolled by, ordinary and mundane.

“Something wrong?” Rhaegar asked, his voice low.

Jon hummed a soft no.

So they stayed like that: Rhaegar answering emails, Jon holding on, silence stretching easy between them. By the third message sent, Jon finally whispered, “Do you think they watch us…?”

The typing stopped. Rhaegar’s hands stilled, and his lilac eyes turned toward Jon, concern there, yes, but understanding too.

“I like to think,” he said gently, “They’ve grown up together. With your mother. And they’re all having a blast without us.”

Jon smiled faintly. The idea did sound nice. Sometimes he wondered what life might have been like if they had all lived together. Would he and Aegon have been best of friends? Teased endlessly by their older sister? It still felt strange to think of them as his siblings. Not in the way he thought of Robb and the others, but by blood. And he would never get to meet them.

Rhaegar’s hands stilled on the desk, his gaze settling on Jon. “I like to think Lyanna and Elia would have been friends. Opposites in many ways, but together… quite the duo. The kitchen always a mess. You and Daenerys running about with flour in your hair. Aegon and Rhaenys licking spoons. Viserys tossing in too many chocolate chips—and sneaking half of them for himself.” A soft smile tugged at his lips. “That’s the world I like to imagine. And maybe, somewhere, they’re doing just that. Without us in the picture.”

Jon let the words sink in. Gods, it did sound nice. He wished it could be true. But life hadn’t gone that way. Life had gone here. He took a slow breath and whispered, “I like to think you’re scolding all of us for making a mess with paint. But you can’t keep a straight face, because it’s all over us instead of the walls.”

Rhaegar chuckled, low and warm. “I wouldn’t have been able to keep a straight face,” He admitted, leaning his head gently against Jon’s. “What’s the matter?”

Jon looked at him fully. “What made you love Mom and Elia?” He whispered. “How did you end up in love?” The words slipped out like a secret.

Rhaegar blinked, startled but he didn’t dismiss the question. He drew in a long breath, gathering the words. “I married Elia because our fathers arranged it. But I fell in love with her because of her kindness. How calm she was. She never thought ill of anyone. She adored children. I fell in love with that.”

He leaned back into the chair, into Jon’s embrace, and gently took one of his hands. “Your mother… I loved her freedom. She didn’t care what others thought. She would argue, stand her ground. She looked at the world as if it was meant to be explored, not just endured.”

His voice grew quieter. “I loved them both for different reasons. And I made a mistake. I should have gone about it differently or not at all. But my mistake led me here. To you. Love is the death of duty. Duty is the death of love. I realized that too late.”

Jon felt his throat burn. “But they’re gone,” He whispered, eyes stinging. “That doesn’t feel like a fair trade.”

“Jon.” Rhaegar’s tone was firm but gentle. He squeezed his hand. “Maybe if I had done things differently, you’d all be dead anyway. We don’t know. And I won’t speculate. Because I have you. My son, alive. I get to watch you grow, to move through the world, to fall in love, perhaps. That is better than imagining everyone dead. Isn’t it?”

The words broke something loose. Jon sobbed, shaking his head, because it didn’t feel fair. On the small chance everyone might have lived, wasn’t that worth the risk? But his father was right. They would never know. And this way, at least, one life was spared. He had to believe he was living enough for all of them. Enough for the living. Enough for the dead.

Rhaegar shifted his chair, tugging Jon gently into his lap. Jon curled in without resistance, burying his face in his father’s chest, clutching at his shirt as if to anchor himself. The sobs tore through him until nothing was left.

He missed his mother.

He missed the siblings he’d never know.

He missed the aunt and uncle he’d never see grow into themselves.

He missed the woman who had given him her love of flowers.

Chapter Text

Jon

It was late, and sleep wouldn’t come. He didn’t want to disturb anyone—not his father, not Jamie—so if rest wouldn’t have him, he might as well be productive. Pushing himself out of bed, he left behind the warmth of the blankets and Ghost, who huffed once at the loss before settling back into sleep.

The door stood half-open, and Jon eased it closed just enough so the light wouldn’t spill into the hall. He padded softly to the sofa by the window and switched on the lamp. A warm orange glow filled the corner of the room, gentle, like firelight.

His sketchbook already lay there, alongside his pouch of pencils and pens. He pulled it onto his lap and flipped it open. This one was different, it was filled with Jamie. Pages of him, from the beach, from passing moments, from memory. Half the book gone to the same subject, and Jon had no intention of ever showing it to anyone. It was his secret diary, only the words were lines and shading instead of ink.

Normally, sketching Jamie untied the knots in his stomach, lightened the weight on his shoulders. Tonight, he reached for a pencil, pressed the tip to paper, and let the shape of Jaime return beneath his hand. The familiar sound of graphite scratching against the page filled the silence, steady and soft, and Jon felt something inside him ease.

But as the graphite grazed across the blank page, Jon realized he wasn’t drawing Jamie. Not his jawline, not his soft eyes. Instead, petals began to take shape: soft, delicate, layered.

He didn’t know how to navigate the world of romance. Fear told him he’d make mistakes, ruin lives, ruin himself. But perhaps that was just his overthinking speaking, the voice that always dragged him too far. There was no reason to leap straight to disaster.

The petals curved into an orchid bloom. He drew the stem next: strong, but bent in a gentle arc.

Jon set the pencil down, leaning back slightly as his eyes wandered from the page. The little bowl of rings on the table beside him caught the lamplight, a small glimmer in the quiet. Almost without thinking, he reached for it. His fingers brushed past cold metal until they found leather. He drew it out: a braided strap with a single, small sapphire gemstone.

The moonlight caught it, making the stone shine. His lips quirked up a bit. It was similar to his mother’s ring—the way he used to hold it up to the light as a boy, marveling at how a precious stone could reflect. Her ring… the sapphire, heart-shaped…

Jon’s eyes widened. He had never realized it until now. He had something precious, like his mother had with Rhaegar. Something that said everything without being too much.

He turned the strap over once in his hand, then carefully set it down across his knee. The weight lingered even when he let go, a quiet reminder pressed close.

The risk was worth it, wasn’t it? To try. To experience dates, touches, and someday more. He didn’t need to give everything away at once. Jamie never pushed, and maybe he didn’t want to rush either. Maybe, for once, they were both content with something soft. Warm. Safe. A place to grow, at their own pace, toward the other milestones waiting down the road.

Jon picked up the pencil again and finished the flower, then let his hand move outward. Trees rose behind it, tall as the ones in Frostbloom. Snow fell in careful strokes, drifting slowly, piling around the orchid as though tucking it into a nest of white.

But they weren’t in a relationship yet. That had to be said, confirmed. And Jon knew it would probably fall to him, because Jamie never moved without certainty that Jon was ready. That kind of patience made Jon feel… seen. Safe.

He reached for his colored pencils, filling in the orchid with quiet precision, blowing away flecks of graphite as he went. The memory came unbidden: Jamie sitting in his room that day. He hadn’t overstepped, hadn’t pried, he had simply stayed. Present. Solid. Jon had almost reached for him. Almost. But fear had held him back, whispering rejection.

Then the morning after: sunlight spilling across the floor, Jamie framed in the doorway, one hand gripping the wood as if he might vanish if Jon made a sudden move. Jon had wanted to speak, to offer him the chair by the bed, to reach out in any way at all. But the words had tangled, each thought warning him he might break something fragile. So he stayed still, pretending to sleep.

And even now, he wondered, what might have happened if he hadn’t?

Jon slipped his colored pencils back into the pouch and studied the drawing in its completion.

An orchid flower bloomed across the page, its soft golden petals rising from a slender green stem. Against the snowy backdrop of the woods, it seemed to glow faintly, the snowfall drifting down to touch its petals. Not to harm, only to hold.

He let out a long breath.

Jamie was always his light in the dark. Jon thought of him when the weight became too much to carry, whether he should text, whether he should call. More often than not, fear stilled his hand. But Jamie remained in his thoughts all the same: his laugh, his smile, the cedar and rosemary that clung to him whenever he was near.

Winter’s Light, Jon thought, and a faint smile tugged at his mouth. He closed the sketchbook, settling into the pull of sleep.

Chapter Text

Jamie

The knife shaved thin curls of wood, each strip falling to the floor at Jamie’s feet. The grain was soft, easy to cut through, and he let the blade move without a plan, trusting his hands to find the shape before his mind did. Something would come of it. Something always did.

The ocean breeze swept across the balcony, cool against his skin, carrying the salt and the sound of waves breaking against rock. Better than sitting inside, stewing. Out here, the world moved, the air shifted, and he could almost imagine he was creating more than just the small figure forming in his hands.

Perhaps this was how his mother had felt when she knitted, making something out of nothing. The thought unsettled him, not because it was painful but because it was distant. The memories were blurred, half-faded, her face more outline than detail. Red and gold dresses without the features to fill them. At some point in his youth, he had simply… stopped remembering. His father and sister had ensured there was no space for grief, no room to miss her properly. And so her image had unraveled in silence.

He paused in his carving, lifting his head toward the sea. The sun stretched across the water, scattering itself in restless gold. He let out a long breath.

Would she have liked him?

His eyes fell to the wood again, and for a moment he thought of Jon, head bent over his sketchbook, pencil whispering across the page, creating with the same quiet devotion Jamie was learning now. He wondered if Jon knew how much Jamie saw in that: the patience, the care, the way he made something real out of empty space.

It had been a couple of weeks since the roof garden. Since then, he and Jon had been more—more handholding, longer touches, each moment softened with warmth that lingered even after it ended. Yet still, nothing had been spoken aloud. Nothing was confirmed.

Jamie was waiting. Not just because fear kept him still, but because he wanted this to last. He wanted to savor it, to move at their pace and no one else’s. No expectations. No weight but their own choosing.

Just the two of them. And that, for now, was enough.

He glanced back at the half-formed carving in his hands, pressing the knife against the grain and shaving off another curl of wood. He wasn’t good at it, he’d only started recently, but it gave him something to do besides drink. Something to keep his hands busy, his mind steady.

The sofa in Jon’s shop was too comfortable, the kind you could sink into and forget the world. Jamie sat there now, stretched out, the scent of ink and lavender faint in the air.

From behind the counter, Jon looked up. “Something wrong?”

“Huh?” Jamie blinked at him, confused. He hadn’t thought he gave anything away. But this was Jon. Jon saw the little things.

“Is something upsetting you?” Jon asked, setting down the stack of folders in his hands. His dark eyes never left Jamie’s

Jamie smirked faintly. “I don’t think I could hide anything from you.”

“Deflecting with humor.” Jon’s frown was soft but firm.

“It’s not that serious…”

“If it’s worth deflecting, then it’s serious to you,” Jon said, his voice lowering as he rounded the counter. He dropped down beside Jamie, leaning his head against his shoulder. “So it matters to me.”

Heat climbed Jamie’s neck. He turned his face away, inhaling the lavender clinging to Jon’s hair. “It’s going to sound dumb.”

“Nothing’s dumb.”

He hesitated, “I’m… trying to stop drinking. I figured I should find a hobby instead, but I don’t know what. I’ve never really done anything just for myself before.”

Jon tilted his head, his nose brushing against Jamie’s neck. Their closeness made the world fall away until it was only them.

“Then maybe that’s the point,” Jon said softly. “You get to try things until you find something you like.”

Jamie laughed under his breath, half self-conscious. “That doesn’t exactly make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t meant to.” Jon shifted to look at him fully, dark eyes steady. “You’ve never had the chance to do anything just for yourself. It was always your father, your sister, someone else deciding. Now you get to explore. If you don’t like something, you stop. You’ll find something eventually. And it’s okay to fail. You think I was any good tattooing fake skin on my first try?”

Jamie bit his lip. “Would it be bad if I said I thought you could do it first try?”

Jon chuckled and leaned his head back against Jamie’s shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jamie paused, studying the piece of wood in his hands. It didn’t look like much yet, shaved thin at the bottom, rough and uneven at the top. But he didn’t see failure in it. As ugly as it might seem now, it was only unfinished. A work in progress, waiting to become something more.

He lifted his gaze to the ocean, the waves restless as the sun dipped lower. His mind drifted to Jon, short text messages, unexpected visits at work, the occasional baked goods Jon would quietly press into his hands.

Those small things were the best of it. Enough on their own. They weren’t rushing, and Jamie didn’t want to. Still, whenever Jon chose to make it official, Jamie knew he was ready. And selfishly, he couldn’t wait for that day. Because then Jon would be his, and he would be Jon’s.

Never in his life had he thought excitement like this could belong to him.

But it was worth it, wasn’t it?