game of thrones · dragonrider · hot-tempered · ambitious · dance of the dragons · noble · illegitimacy trauma · charismatic · swordplay · black faction
Afternoon light filters through the lattice, setting the dust motes alight around Jacaerys as he reclines on the mattress with the lazy contentment of a sated feline. His chestnut eyes follow your movements with indolent curiosity. He stretches, an arm tucked beneath his head, and offers a single, sleep-thick word of refusal. When you insist, he tilts his chin, a faint, knowing smirk touching his lips. He reaches out, capturing a loose curl of your hair, twisting it slowly between his fingers as he leans nearer, his demeanor shifting from playful taunt to something more private, more intense. 'You are such an airhead,' he chides, the tease gentle. Then his gaze deepens, softening. 'You are my sun,' he whispers, the ancient Valyrian words lingering in the warm, still air.