Chapter Text
It all started with a stolen kiss, born out of his innocent curiosity with the figure sleeping in front of him. Jacaerys observed the tranquility on Aegon’s face, a rarity on his usually mischievous nature. Aegon looked like his aunt, Helaena, with more pronounced features as a man. He was still unusually beautiful, though.
The library quieted down, a pause on the moment. Only the rustles of book pages turned by the afternoon wind filtered through. He leaned down, pouting his lips to briefly meet Aegon’s lips.
There were no sparks of fire, no burning desire, no passionate feelings between two lovers like the one where his nanny read to him. Jacaerys felt embarrassment afterward, watching Aegon flutter his eyes open like a confused deer.
There were no knights and princesses in that library, only the two young boys accidentally encountering each other.
“Jace, I found it!” He jumped at the sound of his younger brother’s voice.
Lucerys always pops up at the wrong time. He still loves his brother for all his wrongs. They always have each other’s back, they are one half of the other. Jacaerys is grateful to have him as his brother.
They left the library together, with Lucerys’ books in tow. He couldn’t resist a brief glance back at his uncle, still with a dumbfounded look on his face.
Jacaerys hoped with all his secret stash of sweets under his pillow that Aegon never found out.
“Where…” he croaks. Every breath he takes is a painful struggle, the air stabbing through his lungs.
His blurry sight fails to focus on the man in front of him, “...my prince!” There is something familiar about his bearings, the edges of his figures moved too agitatedly. His mind does not recognize the man even if it goes a mile a minute.
“My brothers…where are they?”
Instead of answering, the man hurries out to step away from him, his voice becomes distant as he goes out of the room. It sounds like a call to alert someone else. Jacaerys fails to recognize the large man who reappears with the person from before. His stance is like one of a knight, though with his age and weight, he does not resemble one.
“My prince, you have woken up,” the old knight calls, “Her Grace, Queen Rhaenyra, has journeyed to King’s Landing.”
“My brothers? How are they?” Jacaerys manages to recognize the man who had run to get the knight once his sight manages to focus. It is Grand Maester Gerardys. He stands beside the large man, his hands clasped in front of him. They both hesitate, before the Grand Maester speaks, “Prince Joffrey and Prince Aegon the Younger are safe, by your mother’s side.”
“And Viserys?” He dreads the answer. When both men refuse to look at him, he suspects the fate that has befallen his youngest brother.
“He is lost to the sea.”
His breath becomes uneven, gurgling back his sobs. There are no tears streaming down his face, not when his limbs are burning. An unbearable pain rose in his right shoulder like it was being torn apart from the rest of his body. Grand Maester Gerardys runs to his makeshift workplace by the table, moving every concoction before finding the right one. He returns to Jacaerys sight with a bottle at hand.
The concoction brings him slight relief from the pain. He chooses to throw himself into the welcoming embrace of sleep.
Baela is one of the only people left in Dragonstone. She is less dedicated when it comes to caring for the sick, preferring the glory of flying and the rush of fighting like her father, Daemon. Regardless, Jacaerys is grateful for her attention and kindness when receiving him back for so long. She is a familiar face amongst the strangers left on the island.
She takes one look at his emaciated body with a bandage wrapped over the healing wound in his right shoulder, then gives him a welcoming hug. Free of judgment for his failures to keep his siblings safe.
“Your survival had not been expected, Jace,” Baela tells him as she pushes his wheelchair along the outer periphery of the castle. The volcanic island is as barren as he remembers, offering nothing of a blooming garden only its jagged rocks and the sea. She had begged Gerardys to take him on a walk. For fresh air, she reasoned. That succeeded.
The birds squawk above them, flying past to land on the island’s beach down the stony step.
“What of my mother?” Jacaerys wants to turn his head to look at her. However, his head creaks in protest, his strength has not yet returned to him. “Has she been told of my recovery?”
Jacaerys was initially presumed dead after the Battle of the Gullet along with his younger brother, Viserys. A witness told of a stray crossbow shooting him down while Vermax hovered too low.
The Queen, saddened by his supposed death, grew determined to take back King’s Landing from the greens. Only after she had departed along with their dragons that Jacaerys’ body washed ashore. He was found weak and near-death, drifting afloat on a piece broken from a ship. A crossbow was stuck in his wound, assumed to belong to the enemy.
“She is waiting for you to recover enough to join her in King’s Landing,” Baela stops at the flight of stairs leading to the beach. She looks to him for confirmation, “are you…”
“No, I don’t think so,” he looks down at his legs, still wobbly when he walks.
Baela thinks of something to steer the conversation away, “I will fly you to her on Moondancer. You need not sail in a ship and make yourself seasick.”
Jacaerys does not need to ask about his own dragon to know that Vermax is no longer alive. The bond that he has with him is cut off. His mind is still reeling from the loss, sometimes trying to call his dragon to find none responding to him.
“Rhaena has a clutch of eggs in her stead,” she suspects of his prolonged silence as a cue to continue talking, “she wouldn’t mind sharing them with you.”
He smiles at her, but the pitying look in her eyes branches his thoughts further away deeper into his doubts. Jacaerys is a Targaryen with no dragon. He is useless in the middle of the raging war. His mother will have no need for him anymore, not with people already calling doubts about his heritage. She already has a trueborn Targaryen as her heir, one that no one doubts. No matter how much Jacaerys loves his younger brother, he still wishes to be born with the color of the Dragon.
A Strong bastard he is. Unfit to for the throne. Unfit to rule.
“Have you heard from Rhaena?” Jacaerys distracts himself.
“Yes, the Vale has been kind to her. She told me of knights jousting for and lords serenading her.”
“That seems to be her heaven.”
Baela pushes his wheelchair for another round before descending back to the dimness of their ancestral home. They walk aimlessly to wait for dinnertime to arrive.
Upon arriving near his chamber, there is a nagging thought in his mind. He knows he shouldn’t have brought it up, not with their wounds closing and victory at bay. His mother is triumphant in taking King’s Landing. Jacaerys should have let it go, but he wants nothing more than to reminisce and stay in the comfort of his past.
“Baela,” his voice is unfamiliarly childish. He does not know what overcomes him, “can you take me to his chamber?”
“It is his favorite toy,” Jacaerys says, picking up a model ship made of wood and painted with Velaryon’s colors. The creak of his wheelchair stops as they pass by the threshold to a room. It is dusty and untouched as if no one has been here for a while.
Rhaenyra insisted on the room be kept clean and in its initial state when Lucerys was still alive. Jacaerys knew of her visit at night to this chamber. He had sought the same comfort before every action he was about to carry whenever his nerves failed him.
Baela only whispers back, “yes.” Her hand rubs his gaunt shoulders to bring him some comfort, avoiding pressing on his wound.
For him, it is Laenor and Ser Harwin. For Baela, it is her mother, Laena.
They have both lost someone so young, even before the war.
Lucerys. Rhaenys. Viserys II.
He was about to join them, but by a stroke of luck, he did not.
Jacaerys does not know how much loss he can take. He prays day and night for his mother and brothers’ safety. Once before breaking his fast and the other before Gerardys administers to him a dose of milk of the poppy.
“The Queen wishes for you to stay in Dragonstone,” Grand Maester Gerardys looks down at the letter in his lap. It was delivered by a messenger two moons into his recuperation.
“Did she state the reason?” Other than the lack of greenery and other living beings on the rocky island, it is the lack of communication from the outside world that unnerved him. While he was young, living in Dragonstone was a change for the better. Cut off from the rest of the mainland means the talks of illegitimacy stopped for a while, confined to a bubble belonging to bad memories of his childhood in King’s Landing. In truth, the rumors never stopped, but they were sheltered from the wider nobility of Westeros.
Dragonstone is a paradox, safety of isolation yet loneliness of solitude.
“Turbulence…” Jacaerys holds his breath as the man continues, “...it seems that there is some trouble and riots by the small folks of King’s Landing.”
“I can help,” he offers. The Maester narrows his eyes pointedly at his open wound as if scolding him.
“No, you can’t,” Baela says what is on Gerardys’ mind, command on her tone, “stay put.”
He has made progress, not fast enough to him, but sufficient to start walking again. Baela promises to take him down the narrow stony step down to the beach with Moondancer waiting at the helm once he is able to run. Gerardys disapproves, citing his disagreement with his patient being taken on a dragon ride.
“It is safer here,” the Maester emphasized, putting more force as he apply a new bandage. Jacaerys winces at a particularly strong pressure.
“What about my brothers? What about them? Shouldn’t they be safer here?”
“My father is with them, along with dozens of the Queensguards and Gold Cloaks.”
“Have you heard from him?” She shakes her head, he reaches out to clasp her hand weakly.
“Yes, what the lady said is true,” Gerardys passes on the letter to his lap, finishing the redress of his wound, “it is better for you to focus on your recovery. Any sailing or dragon-riding will not help your case, my prince.”
He leaves Jacaerys with Baela, excusing himself for another matter. When she is about to leave too, Jacaerys grabs her arm, “they don’t need me anymore, do they?”
“Jace…” she frowns, “no…no, of course, they still do. What makes you think that way?”
A lot of things. He says none of them, letting go of her arm to allow her to exit his chamber.
Jacaerys has a fitful sleep that night, waking up to find the rain pouring harder outside. Even if it is difficult to stand, he still does. His legs carried him to the front of Lucerys’ chamber. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees a shadowy figure moving in the dark. He stills, his fingers itched to grab the hilt of his sword that is no longer there.
Before he gets a chance to follow the shadow, a presence behind him touches the back of his shoulder, “Prince Jacaerys.”
“Ser Alfred Broome,” he recognizes the man as one of the senior knights who had served his grandsire.
“Shall I escort you to your room?”
“No need, I can find my own way, Ser,” he observes the man’s sullen face soured, “have a good night.”
“To you, as well.” The knight leaves him alone. When he is sure of his solitude, Jacaerys opens the door to his younger brother’s room.
It is quite different in the dark. He reaches around for something at the place where Lucerys always hides his precious belongings. One of the loose floorboards under his bed is just an arm-reach away. None asides from them know. He manages with great difficulty to pry it open. His hand pulls around something cold, cutting his palm on it as he tugs it towards him.
Jacaerys hisses. Then, finally, he finds the handle of the dagger, only wrapped around by a piece of leather. The old metal dagger is not the sharpest, but it is wet with his blood. Recognition dawns on him as he analyzes it closely.
It is not something he would expect to discover in Lucerys’ stash. It used to be his dagger, the one he pulls on Aemond the night his uncle claims Vhagar. Lucerys slashes Aemond’s eye with it in an attempt to defend him. He wonders about the reasons why Lucerys decided to keep it, opting to be haunted by his action through the dagger.
If it were him, he would have tossed it into the sea.
Still, even with its age, it is usable. Jacaerys pockets it, going back to his own room after returning the floorboard to its place.
He needs a new sword.
His request for a new sword is granted immediately. As promised, Baela walks him to the beach where Moondancer hovers nearby.
“I want to practice, too,” Baela eyes his new sword with envy. Jacaerys hands it over to her, letting a few swings before he asks, “why don’t you ask for a new one then?”
“They will only just laugh,” she concentrates on getting her posture right. It seems that she had observed knights during practice.
“At you? An alpha?”
“A female alpha,” she frowns, “being an alpha is not enough for your mother to not get her throne usurped. It is not enough for me to be allowed to practice swordsmanship.”
They ponder at her rants, the cause of this war. A female alpha is a rarity, the same way male omega is. More often, women present as an omega or beta, while men an alpha or beta.
Their rare existence is feared, only vaguely understood by those who are not close-minded. With the war, the followers of Faith of the Seven who are loyal to the greens have been against them. Pushing the narrative of their presentation as something that goes against nature.
He jumps at the opportunity to be useful, “I can teach you the basics.”
They practice swinging the new sword in the sand. Her muscles burn at the end of it, but her spirit is high.
“Keep it,” he refuses to take his own sword back. Baela thanks him silently as they departed.
“How did you cut yourself, my prince?” Gerardys seems to have more wrinkles every time he attends to Jacaerys. The Maester sighs as he applies ointment to the new cut, chastising him to be careful.
He nods his head in silence throughout his lecture. Once when he was a child, any lecture sounded like incessant nagging. Now, it is a thing he cherishes, a sign of someone who cares for him.
“I will be fine.”
“Wine, my prince?” A servant pours wine from a bronze jug into an empty goblet near him. The table is filled with raucous laughter and celebratory toasts. Baela sits to his left, while Gerardys watches on with wary eyes as the affable knight on his right offer Jacaerys the full goblet.
The castellan of Rhaenyra’s choosing is a loyal knight who has served her well. Ser Robert Quince insists on a celebration upon hearing about the Queen’s successful conquest and her heir’s miraculous survival. A small modest feast.
The knight pats his shoulder, wincing in apology as Jacaerys cough when his right shoulder is rattled. Still, Ser Robert’s good-natured disposition makes it difficult for him to refuse. As the Prince of Dragonstone, his attendance will boost up the morale of the men left on the island.
Gerardys inserts himself into the conversation, making his presence aware next to Baela, “it is better to hold off the liquor for a while, my prince. The wounds have not yet healed.”
Ser Robert huffs something about ruining the fun under his breath. Declining the wine, Jacaerys laughs politely at the two. He has recovered enough for the past three moons, gaining enough weight as well as strength to walk again. The wound in his right shoulder has dulled into a slight ache, though it still needs to be remedied daily.
When the feast is at its height, Baela pulls him near and whispers, “follow me.”
They enter her chamber together. She has her dragon riding gear ready, as well as her sword hidden under the dress she wore to the feast.
“Turn around.”
“Why?”
Baela lifts up her dress halfway at her knee, showing the hidden sword underneath, “because I am about to change, that’s why.”
“Oh,” his cheeks burn, “we are betrothed, you know.” He still turns around to face the door.
A few rustles later, then Baela taps his shoulder, “I’m done.”
She leads him down through narrow passageways, out to the open air. The sea is unusually calm. The night sky is dotted with stars, one has an unusually fast movement. A golden speck in the dark.
“What you said…about us being betrothed,” Baela faces him, “do you want to…” She gestures her hand around her. He is confused.
“...kiss. Do you want to kiss me?”
“Oh,” he nods, shyly, “yes, if you are willing.” Her boldness is a mirror of Daemon.
It is brief and chaste. Their lips touched. He remembers his first kiss with another Targaryen, a blurry memory surfacing just as quickly as it is gone.
Quietness takes over as they separate, looking at anywhere but each other. More awkwardness than tenderness.
“That is…great,” she clasps one hand to her mouth, shaking her head while having her eyes closed. As if in thought.
“Don’t lie to me, Baela,” Jacaerys cuts her, chiding her harmlessly. He knows the signs of her lying, “you probably have had better.”
She does not refute him, reassuring him, “we will have a lifetime.” He agrees. Her whistle calls Moondancer upon them. The young she-dragon perches itself on top of the stone railings.
Behind them, torches flare. Faint sounds of sword clanking could be heard. Grand Maester Gerardys shows up from the shadow, no torch in sight. He heaves a warning, “my prince, my lady. You must flee!”
The rattling footsteps made by suits of armor grow louder. Baela readies her sword, even though she only got it days ago, “this is my home, I want to fight.”
“My lady, fight if you must, but what about the prince?” Gerardys sighs, used to arguing with Baela’s resoluteness. They both talk as if he weren’t there.
“I want to stay too,” Jacaerys speaks up. After giving Baela his new sword, he got another one just as quickly. However, he left it back in his chamber, unassuming of the surprise attack.
“It seems to be Aegon the Usurper.” Gerardys stares at Baela, communicating with her through that one line. She understands the situation, her feet move to drag him to mount Moondancer. There is no hesitation in her movement.
“What about the Maester?” He looks at the old man, shaking his head to tell them to go without him.
“Moondancer is not large enough to mount three. She has never been mounted by two.” Baela pulls him forcefully towards her. The green dragon flaps its wings. At first, struggling to gain ground before finally managing to hover low near the sea. Behind them, the Grand Maester’s figure soon grows smaller.
There is a screeching sound of a dragon from afar. The dotted gold on the sky becomes bigger as it comes near. However, Moondancer is faster, the pale of her scales almost blending with the blue of the sea. Jacaerys turns around to watch the castle, unable to look away.
“Baela, can we turn around and fight?”
She steers them toward the nearest land, instead.
“Not when there are two on Moondancer,” she whistles for her dragon to go faster, “naejot, Moondancer!”
Once the she-dragon hits the ground, Baela hurls him off, almost throwing him. Then, she prepares for a takeoff.
“Baela,” he pleads, hating the sound of his desperation, “take me with you. I can fight…I know how to fight. I am the Prince of Dragonstone, it is my duty to keep hold of it.”
Moondancer nudges him further inland with her snout, Baela sharpens her gaze at him, “no. You have no dragon.”
“It is still helpful for me to–”
“Jace, you are her heir,” she cuts off, “by fighting back, you are risking death and captive. Your mother does not want to risk losing any more of her children, let alone you. Aegon will use that against her."
“I want to help!” His shout is washed away by the night wind, beating against his trembling voice.
“Stop being stubborn! You are making things worse!” Her words stung as if she was blaming him for everything else. He knows that is not what she meant, but everything has been wrong lately. Jacaerys is tired of the endless fighting and death, of winnings and failures, of bastards and legitimate heirs. Baela shouts over Moondancer’s beating wings, “make your way back to your mother. I will see you when the time comes.”
She leaves him alone with the attire on his back, Lucerys’ dagger in one hand. He has not even brought money. Baela chooses to not hear anything from him as she pulls her dragon to the edge of the cliff.
Jacaerys is alone, staring at the sea. Once again saved from certain danger. Once again unable to do anything but stare as Moondancer takes to the sky.