Work Text:
Your eyes whispered, "Have we met?"
'Cross the room your silhouette
Starts to make its way to me
The playful conversation starts
All I can say is, it was enchanting to meet you
— Enchanted (Taylor Swift)
ᯓᡣ𐭩
The wrought-iron gates of Velaryon House loomed before him, a stark silhouette against the pulsating glow of the ball within. From the great stone maw of the entrance hall spilled a symphony of sin—the soaring crescendo of a waltz, the shimmering cascade of thoughtless laughter, the incessant, murmuring tide of a hundred calculated conversations.
But to Jacaerys Velaryon, it was not music but a clamour, not a merriment but simply a marketplace. It made his very soul itch for the silent, forgiving companionship of a stretched canvas, for the soft, granular kiss of charcoal dust on his fingertips, for the world that existed only in the gradients of shadow and light he commanded.
Alas, his studio was miles away. And he was here. Though he was, undoubtedly, fashionably and quite intentionally late.
Squaring shoulders that longed to slump, he ascended the steps. The footmen, liveried in sea-green and silver, recognized the second son of the house and swung the doors open without declaration. It was a small mercy, one that expired the moment he crossed the threshold.
He had taken no more than three steps into the relative gloom of the vestibule when they materialised beside a potted monstera of formidable size—his mother and his elder brother, a pair of impeccably dressed sentinels blocking his path to the glittering arena beyond.
"Mother. Brother," Jacaerys managed, his voice rough, his throat still scorched from the indifferent embrace of Dornish Red.
"Dearest, Jace." The voice was warmth spun through with steel, the very tone that had steered their fractured family into safe harbour after his father’s passing. Rhaenyra Velaryon, the Dowager Viscountess, was a vision in amethyst silk, her gown a deliberate echo of the legendary Amethyst Empress of Yi Ti. Every line of her posture spoke of dignified command, and her smile was a beautiful, unyielding thing that did not quite reach her assessing eyes.
Beside her, Baelon Velaryon, the Viscount, stood as if his spine had been fused with marble. He was attired as the god Poseidon, with a polished miniature of a trident emblematic at his side. His expression was a masterpiece of long-suffering exasperation. "Brother. We had begun to fear you'd been set upon by highwaymen. Or, more likely, that you'd found a more interesting patch of wall to contemplate."
"My most sincere apologies," Jace offered, forcing a veneer of contrition over his weariness. "A matter of light proved inescapable. The moon upon my way here was particularly compelling tonight."
"Oh? Is it a full moon already?" Baelon inquired, his dry tone implying the celestial bodies themselves conspired to inconvenience him.
"It is, brother," Jacaerys confirmed, a faint, irrepressible smile touching his lips.
Rhaenyra reached out, her gloved hand brushing a nonexistent speck of lint from his midnight-blue lapel. It was a gesture of maternal affection that also served to subtly corner him. "Well, dearests, the only light that matters tonight is the glitter of the chandeliers upon a debutante's smile. And Jacaerys, though you are late enough to be remarked upon, but believe not so late as to be forgiven."
"Mother, we have spoken of this," Jacaerys sighed, the argument well-worn and tired. He turned a pleading look to Baelon, who merely shrugged, the motion stiff. "Brother, please."
"Do not drag me into this, I pray you. I have fulfilled my duty to the lineage most satisfactorily." His gaze sought and found his wife across the room where the Viscountess, Alyssa Velaryon, stood as a vision in seafoam green as the nymph Amphitrite, already smiling at his attention. "And now, I have a beautiful wife to whom I may now devote my entire attention." With a final, meaningful look at Jace, Baelon retreated into the throng.
Jacaerys watched him go, rolling his eyes with a force that would have been deemed ungentlemanly had anyone seen.
Rhaenyra's laugh was a soft, knowing sound. "Come, my dear." She linked her arm through his, a velvet-clad trap, and began a slow promenade along the periphery of the ballroom. "There is no shame in seeking a companion for the journey, Jace. Look at your sister Saera—she has married a Duke and now dances with a radiance that speaks of true affection. Or maybe, look to our dear Luke, who cannot seem to let Rhaena beyond his sight. Even your brother Baelon, for all his bluster, is now a man transformed by love."
"But the young ladies of the Ton are a chorus singing the same tedious song, Mother," Jacaerys protested, his eyes scanning the crowd as if seeking an escape route. "And I have listened to every verse. Yet, none stir anything within me but a desire for solitude."
"Then you must listen with a more charitable ear. Consider the Baratheon girl, Lady Myrcella. I heard she has very decisive features. A strong profile of all the Earl's daughter."
"A testament to her formidable lineage, no doubt," Jace murmured, unable to suppress the cynical edge.
Rhaenyra's sigh was a low, weary instrument. "Do not be a glib, dearest. This is not one of your bohemian salons where you may haunt the corners and speak only in metaphors. Your presence is a requirement. Your participation, an expectation. We are, as part of society, required to be seen as much as we need to be inside. We can't afford for any of us to be seen as detached, or the spear of scandal will pinned on us."
"Yet, I am present. Here. Tonight." he insisted, though the words felt hollow even to him. "Is my mere physical subscription to this spectacle not sufficient?"
"How about the Hightower girl? Lady Helaena. Her father is a second son, brother to the Earl of Old Town. But I heard she has a singular interest in natural philosophy. Butterflies, I believe. Surely a man of your artistic sensitivity could find common ground in the beauty of nature’s designs?"
"We spoke for twenty minutes last week at the Soirée Botanique. The entirety of the conversation concerned the mating habits of the death's-head hawkmoth. In meticulous detail, nonetheless." He shuddered theatrically. "Mother, I beg you.."
"Then you must broaden your circle," she said, her tone final. "It is my ball, afterall. Ours. So if not for the sake of securing your own future, then you must perform your duties as a member of this household. Civility is the very least you owe our guests.”
"You are truly immovable on this point?"
"I am."
"Then I am truly trapped," he said, the resignation in his voice laced with a faint, tragic humour.
Rhaenyra paused, her grip on his arm tightening slightly. "Might I remind you, dearest, that your father, my Laenor," she said, her voice softening into a more potent weapon, "—he adored a ball. He lived for this music, this laughter. He believed in the magic of connection. And I know, in my heart, he would wish for you to find your own joy. To find your place. So yes, even if you feel trapped, one still must begins with a simple introduction. Perhaps then, a dance. How is that sound, dearest?"
The mention of his father, the jovial, kind-hearted Lord Laenor, lost too soon to a sudden fever, was a masterstroke. Suddenly, Jace felt the familiar, gentle pressure settle around him, more constricting than any cravat expertly tied by his valet. He looked past his mother into the swirling maelstrom of silk and superfine, a kaleidoscope of smiling masks that hid ambitions as sharp as knives. Duty was a mantle he had never asked for, yet its weight was inescapable, woven into the very fibre of his name.
"Very well," he conceded, the fight leaving him in a quiet, defeated exhale. "An introduction. But I make no promises of enthusiasm, nor of a second conversation."
Rhaenyra's smile bloomed into something genuine and victorious. She patted his cheek. "That is all I ask. Now, go. Lady Margaery Tyrell is near the lemonade fountain. She is the season's reigning rose, most prominent. A conversation with her is always a prudent beginning."
With a gentle but inexorable push, she propelled him from the shaded banks of familial negotiation into the dazzling, deafening glare of the marriage mart.
The interview with Lady Margaery, daughter of the Earl of Highgarden, began with promise. She was indeed lovely, with clever eyes and a smile that seemed to hold a dozen secrets. They discussed art; she professed a admiration for Turner's seascapes, which he found pleasantly surprising. For a fleeting moment, he dared to hope. Then, leaning in conspiratorially, she had murmured, "Of course, a true appreciation for grandeur is so essential, do you not find so? I have always felt my spirit suited to a courtly setting. To inspire, to guide, to reign, if it possibly, as it were." The blatant ambition, so clumsily veiled, extinguished his spark of interest instantly. He excused himself with a bow so precise it was an insult.
In a desperate bid for refuge, he then flung himself upon the mercy of Miss Taena Merryweather, second daughter of Baron Longtable, asking for a dance with a spontaneity that bordered on panic. But it was a disaster. His mind, still recoiling from Lady Margaery's monarchical aspirations, could not coordinate with his feet. He spent the entire set in a clumsy, apologetic minuet over her slippers, her pained smiles etching themselves into his humiliation.
Retreating to the refreshment table, he was waylaid by Miss Jaehaera Tully, whose discourse on the comparative virtues of cross-stitch versus tambour work was delivered with an enthusiasm that felt like a personal assault. At least, to him. Though, he still nodded, uttered vague noises of assent, and felt a piece of his soul wither and die.
When he was finally, blessedly alone, he found a glass of ratafia in his hand. It taste too sweet, but a safe alternative to the fortifying brandy he craved. Then, a familiar touch landed on his shoulder.
"Brother, why does the dance floor seem to mourn your absence?" It was Saera Stark, his sister, now the Duchess of Winterfell, resplendent in a mermaid's guise of iridescent silver and blue.
Beside her, a mountain of a man in a humorously matching costume stood grinning. Cregan Stark, Duke of Winterfell and one of Jace's oldest friends, clapped him on the back. "Aye, and here I thought you were a cut of rather dashing figure out there. At least, for a man who seems to dance with his four left feet."
"You are both a tonic for my already bruised spirits, Your Graces." Jace fired back, though a genuine smile broke through. "But I am adrift, dear sister. Miserable, might I add. Not a single lady I have encountered tonight has stirred anything within me but a profound desire for deafness and a strong drink."
"Not even the season's Bright Diamond?" Saera teased, her eyes sparkling.
"Her Majesty has yet to bestow the title, my love," Cregan corrected gently, ever the stickler. "Though it is clear that Lady Margaery is the Brightest Rising Rose of them all."
"Well, thank you for the clarification, Your Grace," Jace said, raising his glass to his friend. The shared laughter was a brief, warm balm. After he a moment, he wished to flee, searching for absolute solitude. "Now, please excuse me. I would not dream of darkening your radiant evening with my grumbles. And I am certain my dear old friend here is eager to monopolise his beautiful wife. In that case, have a good evening, Sister, Brother." He slipped away with a bow, feeling their tender, concerned smiles follow him.
A few paces on, he nearly collided with another couple. And it was Lucerys Velaryon, his younger brother, who was swashbuckling as a pirate, with his wife Rhaena Velaryon—the sharp-penned Lady Whistledown herself—beside him as his fierce, bejewelled counterpart.
"You look flushed, Jace," Luke observed. "How many glasses of that Dornish fire have you downed?"
"Are you quite well, Jacaerys?" Rhaena's concern was softer, more intuitive.
"Perfectly, sister." he insisted, the word too quick. "Though merely.. suffocating. Slowly and with great ceremony."
"You know the terrace is empty, don't you?" Rhaena suggested, lowering her voice. "A few minutes of air. Your mother would understand."
"Seconded. You have the look of a man about to swim for it." Luke nodded. "And I am sure mother would rather occupied with Rhaenys and Visenya's presence."
Jace shook his head, a stubborn set to his jaw. "No, no, no. If I vanish now, she will still materialise from the potted ferns. I am resolved, and I shall circulate once more. Perhaps the fates have saved a unique specimen for the eleventh hour. Though, I confess, I hold no hope."
"Well, on second thoughts," Luke said, a grin spreading wide, "...persevere. We could do with another wedding this season. To keep things lively between our family."
"Ha, ha. Funny, Luke." Jacaerys dryly replied to his laughing brother.
"Either way, I wish you luck, Jacaerys," Rhaena said sincerely, her gaze knowing as she lured Luke to lead her away.
Alone again, Jacaerys turned and let his gaze sweep across the ballroom, a general surveying a battlefield of pastel silks and simpering smiles. It was a study in monotony, a grand, glittering exercise in predictable beauty.
And then he saw her.
Across the expanse of polished floor, near the great arch that led to the conservatory, a splash of vivid, defiant colour. A lady stood alone, her attention seemingly captured by the intricate ice sculpture of a swan that had cost his mother a small fortune. Her gown was not the fashionable delicate muslin but a richer, older style of silk, with the colour of fresh blood or deepest rubies—a true, daring vermillion. It was sprinkled with what looked like thousands of tiny jet beads, catching the light like dark stars. Her mask was of the same hue, and tucked into its side was a single, perfect red camellia.
But it was not the dress that arrested him.
It was her utter stillness amidst the whirl. It was the slight, appreciative curve of her lips as she studied the sculpture, a smile of genuine, unperformative interest. It was an air not of desperation to be seen, but of quiet contentment in observing. And to Jacaerys who witnessed an evening of shrill avarice and dull pretence, she looked like a sip of cold clear water in a desert.
Without conscious thought, his feet began to move.
He wove through the crowd, his path a straight, unwavering line towards her. The chatter of suitors, the rustle of skirts, now all faded into a distant hum. The only thing that moved was the space between them. And with every step, he feel them closing.
When he arrived before her, for a moment, he simply just looked. Because her eyes, visible above the mask, were a striking shade of lilac. It was uncommon and captivating. And unknowingly, he seemed to lost between those two oceans. As if he was pulled from a pleasant reverie, and dropped to the tranquilled sea.
When he managed to bring back his few conciousness, he bowed right away. And then, he decided to shoot his chances. "My Lady. Would you do me the very great honour of granting me the next dance?"
She blinked, those remarkable eyes widening in genuine surprise. Her hand fluttered instinctively behind her back, then returned empty. But a faint, charming blush coloured her cheeks above the mask. "Forgive me, My Lord, but I seem to have... misplaced my dance card." Her voice was not the high, fluting tone of the debutante, but lower, melodious, and laced with a warmth that felt like sunshine.
Instead of disappointment, a surge of pure, unadulterated joy shot through him: an obstacle, or a mystery, something real nonetheless.
Soon a smile, the first true one of the evening, blossomed on his lips. "A grievous loss for the gentlemen here. Then, if I may be so bold, might I claim the privilege of simply watching the dance with you instead?" He gestured to the space beside her, facing the dance floor.
Her surprise melted into an expression of amused curiosity. "Of course, My Lord. Though I fear I shall be poor company for a gentleman undoubtedly eager to partake."
"Oh I assure you, the prospect is my keenest wish of the evening." He took his place beside her, close enough to catch the faint scent of lemon and winter roses. "If you don't mind me asking, have you danced at all tonight?"
"Not a single step," she confessed, her eyes twinkling, her lips smiling ever so softly. “A shame my card proved so elusive, is it not?"
He took a half-step closer, drawn by an invisible cord. His smile matched hers. "Indeed," he said, his voice dropping, meant for her alone. "For if it were present, I should be compelled to beg your favour for every set remaining."
She laughed then, a sound of pure, unfettered delight, her gloved hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, a pretty line, Sir! Do you keep a store of them, ready to deploy upon unsuspecting ladies?"
He leaned in, his own laughter mingling with hers. "If by 'unsuspecting ladies' you mean only the one before me now, then yes, absolutely."
"I did not realise I constituted a plurality," she retorted, her smile mischievous. In her mirth, her hand gestured, and he caught a glimpse of ivory tucked into her glove.
She did have a card, he realized, she had only hidden it. The discovery thrilled him. This was a game. A wonderful, mutual game.
He closed the small distance between them entirely. The scent of her, the vivid intelligence in her eyes, was intoxicating. "Spend more time with me, My Lady," he said, the plea utterly sincere beneath its playful veneer. "And perhaps your presence will come to feel like the entirety of the world to me."
She held his gaze, the laughter in her eyes softening into something warmer, more profound. Then she glanced away, a flicker of something else—awareness, perhaps caution—crossing her features. "You proposed a dance you cannot have. Tell me, what is your alternative, My Lord?"
"Gazing, perhaps. At the stars." he said simply. "My sister had convinientlt told me that the terrace is just there." He nodded towards the open doors. "And on my journey here, I noted the moon was exceptionally bright. So, I should like, very much love, to see if the stars dare to compete in your company."
"Alone, My Lord?" The question was not coy, but genuinely cautious.
"We could easily seek your chaperone if you like," he offered immediately, his honour engaged.
Unexpectedly, she looked swiftly over her shoulder, a quick, searching scan of the nearby crowd. A subtle urgency tightened her posture. When she turned back, her lilac eyes held a sudden, compelling plea. "I shall trust to your honour," she said, the words rushed. "Please, lead on."
He did not offer his arm as he smile brighter and wider than before. He simply took her hand, the believes that swerling in his heart came from a place of trust he had not yet understood where.
When his fingers closed around hers, and he felt a jolt, a tangible current that seemed to arc up his arm and straight into his chest. But suprisingly, even for Jacaerys, is that she did not pull away. She led him led her through the press of bodies, a path opening before them as if by magic. After few moments, he realised they were both laughing. And that was a soft, shared sound of conspiracy and escape.
The noise of the ball fell away as they stepped onto the wide, moon-washed terrace. The air was cool and sweet, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine from the gardens below. She released his hand and moved to the stone balustrade, breathing deeply as she looked up.
"Oh," she breathed, the sound full of wonder. "It is even more magnificent from here."
He came to stand a pace behind her, content to watch her watch the sky. Her neck was elegant, her profile against the indigo night a study in serene beauty. "Were the 'mamas' truly so terrifying you found terrace more captivating than the balls?" he asked, smiling.
She turned, her vermillion skirts swirling. "No! Not at all. They seem.. dedicated. I think, in another life, I should quite like to know them."
"Then you, My Lady, possess a charity of spirit I have long since lost," he said, leaning against the balustrade beside her. "Forgive my impertinence, but is this your first season? Your wonder seems... freshly minted."
A wicked, delightful smile played on her lips. "Are you interrogating me already, My Lord? Attempting to piece together the mystery of the lady in these Vermillion dress?"
"With every fibre of my being," he confessed happily, abandoning all pretence. "Is it not blindingly obvious? From the moment I saw you by that absurd swan, my sole purpose has been to know you."
"And here I believed your purpose was astronomical," she teased, gesturing grandly at the heavens. But her gaze lingered on him, warm and approving.
A comfortable silence settled between them, filled only by the distant music and the whisper of the wind. She looked back to the sky, her expression softening into pure reverence. Then, she began to closed her eyes, lifting her face to the gentle breeze as if letting it cleanse her. When she opened them, her eyes still fixed on the constellations, she murmured, "It is breathtaking, is it not?"
Jacaerys had not looked at the sky once. Unable to taking off of her. "Yes, quite," he said, his voice low. "... Breathtaking."
She turned to him, finding his gaze steadfastly upon her. She laughed, a soft, breathy sound. "Silly you. Look at the stars, not at me." She reached out, and her fingertips, feather-light, pressed against his cheek to turn his head upward. "Are they not glorious?"
The touch was electric. And it shattered his remaining restraint. He caught her hand, holding it against his face, and turned his head back to look directly into her lilac eyes. "Yes, indeed," he repeated, the word thick with meaning. "Glorious."
The air between them crackled, heavy with unspoken words and a pull so potent it felt like gravity. Her lips parted slightly. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, then flew back to his, wide and unsure. He saw the conflict there—the yearning mirroring his own, crashing against the wall of propriety.
During those moment, he wanted to close the distance, to kiss her until the world dissolved. But he was a gentleman. And she was a lady. And here, in the open, or anywhere else, it was unthinkable.
"Will you not tell me your name?" he begged, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist where her glove ended. "The masquerade my mother's so desperately crafted is in spirit, but here, now... it is just us. Please. Or else, how am I to find you tomorrow? To call upon you? To... know you?"
For a heart-stopping moment, he saw raw emotion flood her eyes—a poignant mix of hope and a sadness so deep it stole his breath. It was the look of someone touching something beautiful they knew they must release. Then, as if a veil fell, it was gone, replaced by her earlier playful defiance. "Oh? Your mother? Ah, so you are a Velaryon. I had wondered."
"I thought the brown curled hair rather gave it away," he quipped, his heart aching from the glimpse of her sorrow.
"A common enough feature in these halls tonight, especially with your brothers and sisters and in-laws in presence," she shrugged. "But please, you must compliment your mother for me. This evening.. it is something from a dream... for me. Tell her, she has created magic."
"I shall," he promised, drinking in the sight of her, memorising the curve of her cheek, the exact shade of her eyes.
She took a small step back, towards the glowing windows of the ballroom. "Then it has been a pleasure, Mr. Velaryon."
"Wait!" The word was torn from him.
Ding. Ding. Dong.
Ding. Ding. Dong.
Ding. Ding. Dong.
The great clock in the hall began to chime midnight.
A wave of relief washed over him. "Thank God," he murmured.
"What is it?" she asked, already half-turned to leave.
"The hour! The magic expires at midnight. The disguises are meant to fall." He seized her hand again, his grip urgent but gentle. "Now, you must tell me. Please,"
"Wait... wait!" she cried, but her voice was panicked, not teasing. Her eyes darted towards the ballroom doors, then back to him, filled with a frantic calculus. He saw the decision flash across her face—not one of hope, but of bittersweet finality.
Then, with a swiftness that stunned him, she moved. Not away, but toward him. Her hands rose, framing his face, cool satin against his skin. She rose on her toes, and her lips met his.
The kiss was not the practised artifice of a society coquette. It was soft, achingly sincere, one meeting gift and a farewell all at once. It tasted of lemon and sweetness and a hint of desperation like the black sand of Dragonstone. It was over almost as soon as it began, but alas, it branded itself upon him, a searing imprint of warmth and forbidden promise.
As she pulled away, her eyes were glistening. Then, she offered a smile of heartbreaking gratitude. "I shall never forget this night," she whispered, the words a vow. "Thank you, Jacaerys Velaryon."
She try to fled.
And his body reacted before his mind.
As she turned, his hand, still holding hers, tightened.
Like fate, her slim, satin glove slipped off effortlessly, remaining in his grasp as she vanished into the shadowy corridor leading back to the ballroom.
In the silence she left him, he stood frozen. The cold stone of the balustrade at his back, the warmth of her kiss still burning on his lips. Slowly, dazedly, he raised his hand to his mouth, chasing the ghost of her. Ever since her, he realized, that the world had narrowed to the frantic beating of his own heart and the faint, fading scent of winter roses.
Then he looked down. In his hand lay the stolen glove, a whisper of vermillion silk. It was simple, unadorned by lace. But there, on the inner cuff, finely embroidered in thread a shade darker, were two initials: B.W.
He brought the silk to his lips, closing his eyes. The Lady in Vermillion was gone, he thought. But Jacaerys Velaryon was found awake, alive, and utterly, irrevocably enchanted. And he knew, with every fervent beat of his heart, that the chase for her heart had only just begun.