Chapter Text
Everyone in the brothel cheered when Aegon guzzled the last drop of a gargantuan tankard of beer. Myranda, who was generally agreed to be the comeliest whore in the establishment, quickly sat on his lap before any of the other girls could claim it. “A new record, my prince!” she declared.
Aegon batted her hands away when she tried to undo his breeches. “No time for that, I’m afraid. I have an early start on the morrow.”
Myranda pursed her lips as she tangled her fingers in his hair. “The Velaryons are coming to the city, aren’t they? What is she like, your future wife?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know, never met her.” Jacaera Velaryon had still been inside her mother’s belly when Rhaenyra stormed off to Driftmark sixteen years ago, after she was stripped of her status as heir. Aegon had been two at the time so his memory was almost non-existent, but he distantly remembered a very pregnant Rhaenyra and a very pregnant Alicent screaming at each other while the king feebly beseeched them both to calm down.
“They say she’s beautiful,” Myranda said casually.
“Ha. They always say that about princesses.” Aegon knew there was some truth to the rumors, though. Last year he received a portrait of his betrothed. Painters often depicted their subjects in flattering lights, so it surprised no one that she looked stunning in her portrait. Aegon had also met Jacaera’s parents, who occasionally visited King’s Landing for some reason or other. Rhaenyra and Laenor were both indisputably attractive. The odds of them creating good-looking children were quite favorable.
But what did it matter? Even if Jacaera Velaryon were cross-eyed and snaggletoothed, Aegon had no choice but to marry her. That had been his fate ever since she slipped cockless out of her mother’s womb, and Viserys tried to reconcile with his darling Rhaenyra by promising the crown he’d taken from her to her daughter instead.
If Aegon’s future wife was pretty, then at least the business of making heirs would be enjoyable. Small mercies.
Myranda seemed pleased by Aegon’s disinterest in the topic. “After you meet her, you must tell me what she’s really like.” She caressed his face. “Highborn women don’t know how to pleasure men. They just lie there praying to the Mother. When you finish your duty with her, I’ll be here waiting for you, my prince.”
Aegon was woken the next morning by servants stomping around his room. He was unceremoniously thrown headfirst into the steaming bathtub, where he was thoroughly scrubbed clean of any stench of the Street of Silk. Once he was toweled dry, the servants stuffed him into a silk and velvet outfit in Targaryen red and black, then one of them started brushing his hair.
The queen strode into the room while Aegon tiredly gnawed on a breakfast of bread and cheese. “You look presentable,” Alicent said by way of greeting.
“Good morrow to you too, Mother,” Aegon muttered.
She dismissed the servants, took the brush, and began running it through his hair. Her hands were surprisingly gentle. Aegon wondered how often she did this for the king, though Viserys didn’t have much hair left on his head. After the servants departed and left them in privacy, she resumed speaking. “Aegon, it is crucial that you make an excellent first impression in front of the Velaryons today.”
“Too late for that. I’m sure they’ve already heard about my wastrel ways.” He hissed when Alicent painfully rapped the hairbrush against his head.
“Don’t jest. This is an important matter of state. If you mortally offend the Velaryons, they could still call off the wedding. You have been allowed the carefree youth of a prince, but now it is time for you to act like a man of responsibility and dignity.”
Aegon suppressed a sigh. Truly, he should have been born a second son who could run amok around the city to his heart’s content. Aemond would’ve been better at enduring the burdens of the heir. But the gods liked to play their jokes, so it was Aegon who was destined to cut his arse bloody on the throne’s rusted blades one day.
Alicent gripped his chin in her hand and forced him to look at her. Her expression was deadly serious. “Aegon, this marriage concerns more than just you.”
“I know, I know. It’s a matter of state—”
“It isn’t just that,” Alicent snapped. She took a calming breath. “This is the first time you are meeting Princess Jacaera. No doubt she is even more nervous than you.”
“She’ll be the future queen. What is there to be nervous about?” Aegon grumbled, although the prospect of a crown certainly didn’t excite him.
“Being the queen isn’t the same as being happy.” Alicent blinked, as if realizing she’d said too much, then hurriedly continued, “In a few days, she will place her life into the hands of a man she does not know. You are her husband and future king, and she will be beholden to you in every way. You must be good to her, Aegon. A kind husband can mean the world to a frightened young bride.”
Aegon stared at his mother. Her words lingered uncomfortably in the air, reminding him of the aspects of his parents’ marriage that he didn’t know—and didn’t want to know—about. Old memories unwillingly resurfaced: his mother, younger than he was now, silently returning to her bedroom where he was feigning sleep in her big bed. Her hair was disheveled, her face was stained with tear tracks, and her legs were stiff as she hobbled to the privy.
He shunted the dreary memories aside. “Fine. I’ll try,” he conceded. “I’ll be charming. I’ll charm the smallclothes off her if that’s what you want.”
He would be sweet. He would be kind. He would give his wife at least one orgasm every time they fucked. That was more than anyone expected of him, the eternal family disappointment.
On his way to the throne room, Aegon was accosted by Otto for yet another lecture. Like Alicent, his grandfather prated about the importance of impressing the Velaryons, although Otto seemed more concerned about Corlys’s favor than his granddaughter’s. Then, nearing the conclusion of his sermon, Otto smacked the small of Aegon’s back to stop him from slouching. “Don’t look so sullen, Aegon. You act as if this is a hardship.”
“I’m being farmed out like a royal stud horse. Forgive me if I’m not jumping for joy.”
Otto was unmoved. “This is the way of things. We marry for the advantage of our house, not for personal preference. You should be grateful. I secured the most desirable bride in the realm for you. If it weren’t for me, you would be married to Helaena.”
“Helaena?” Aegon felt nauseated. “What—? Why—?”
“There was a time when the king considered reinstating Rhaenyra as his heir. He wanted to betroth you to Helaena so you would pose less of a threat. Fortunately, I convinced him to stay the course and betroth you to Jacaera as a way of mollifying Rhaenyra. So next time you feel like whining about your life as a spoiled prince, think about the alternatives and show some fucking gratitude.” Otto roughly shoved Aegon toward the doors of the throne room.
Most of the court stood in the massive hall, waiting for Rhaenyra and the Velaryons to make their grand entrance. Aegon took his place immediately to the right of the Iron Throne, where Viserys sat with his crown and Blackfyre. Aegon glanced at him several times, but his father never looked back, too intent on the doors through which his favorite child would soon enter.
Helaena patted Aegon’s forearm, a single feather-light touch, and beamed at him. “Your face glows like the sun when you smile, Aegon.”
“I’m not smiling.” Aegon was never in a smiling mood after speaking with Otto.
From Helaena’s other side, Aemond cut in, “You’re going to terrify your bride if you keep glowering ike that.”
“Not everyone is as craven as you, Aemond.”
Helaena deftly stepped out of the way just before the two brothers began swatting each other. Their skirmish caught Alicent’s attention while she was straightening Daeron’s doublet. She paused and glared at her elder sons. “Behave,” she ordered with all her queenly authority. “If you insist on acting like children, then I will punish you like children.”
The image of Alicent trying to confiscate her adult sons’ playthings or, gods forbid, spank them, flitted through Aegon’s mind. He exchanged a look with Aemond, who was clearly imagining the same thing, and they both turned away from each other as they tried not to snicker.
Aegon almost jumped when the doors abruptly opened. The herald announced, “Lord Corlys of House Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark. His lady wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. Their son and heir, Ser Laenor Velaryon, and his wife, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.”
The four of them swept majestically into the throne room. There was a distinct lack of Rhaenyra and Laenor’s three daughters. They were also missing the twin girls whom Daemon had dropped off at Driftmark after his wife’s death. The Rogue Prince was now somewhere in the Disputed Lands, committing arson with his dragon.
Viserys greeted the guests with appropriate formality. Once that was done, he smiled hopefully at his eldest daughter and voiced the question on all the courtiers’ minds. “Where might your daughters be, Rhaenyra? We are all eager to see them.”
As far as Aegon was aware, the last time Viserys saw his granddaughters was nine years ago, after the birth of the third one, Jofferina or some other awful name of that sort. The king’s deteriorating health discouraged him from making the short trip to Driftmark, as did Rhaenyra and the Velaryons’ frigid reception whenever he visited.
“I apologize for their tardiness, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra said coolly. “They wished to tidy up their appearances after being on dragonback all morning. They will arrive shortly.”
Aegon held back a groan. He had hoped to get this meeting over with quickly. He just wanted to know whether he would find his future wife tolerable. Was that so much to ask?
“You have already met Aegon, of course,” Viserys said unenthusiastically, and suddenly Aegon was the center of attention. He could feel Alicent, Otto, and Aemond staring at him: Don’t fuck this up.
Rhaenyra’s icy eyes swept over Aegon. “Brother, it has been a while since we last met.”
“Indeed.” Aegon cast his mind around for something else to say. Something courteous and false. Nobody ever spoke the truth at court. “How good it is to see you on this joyous occasion, Sister.”
Rhaenyra smiled brittlely.
Tense silence fell between them. Aegon fought the urge to giggle mockingly, not because he was amused, but because he wanted to see how much it would offend Rhaenyra. She was like an ice sculpture, but surely even she would melt once her temper ignited.
Before chaos could ensue, Laenor stepped forward and addressed Aemond. “How fares Vhagar, my prince?”
“She is well,” Aemond said with equal politeness. After Laena Velaryon died, Vhagar took off from Driftmark to roam around Crackclaw Point, terrorizing the local livestock. Aemond, twelve at the time, disappeared for several days. Search parties were scouring the Crownlands for him when Vhagar unexpectedly landed outside the Red Keep with her new rider, knocking down a few walls and turrets in the process.
They passed the next few minutes with awkward small talk while the crowd grew restless. Aegon began to wonder whether his bride had decided to run away rather than marry him. Just as the thought crossed his mind, the doors opened again, and the herald resumed his announcements. “Lady Baela and Lady Rhaena of House Targaryen. Princess Lucera and Princess Joffrida of House Velaryon…”
Joffrida! That was her name. Mildly better than Jofferina, but not by much.
Aegon dismissed the grim nine-year-old girl in favor of examining her older sister and cousins. They were all very comely, which made him optimistic that his bride was as lovely as promised. Baela walked with a swagger and boots that were more suitable for the training yard than court, while Rhaena swanned forward in an outfit that was tasteful despite the absurd amount of pink she’d crammed into it. Lucera, who was generally assumed to be Laenor’s heir, wore enough blue and green to make any Velaryon proud, and she had a spectacular set of teats that even a blind man could admire.
As Aegon fidgeted and looked to the side, he realized, to his shock and glee, that Aemond had also noticed that particular attribute of Lucera’s. At least, Aegon presumed that was why his staid brother was suddenly red in the face as his eyes tracked the girl like a hunting hawk. When Aemond noticed Aegon staring at him, Aegon pointedly glanced down below Aemond’s belt. Aemond scowled and made a hand gesture that meant he was going to beat up Aegon next time they were in the training yard.
“…and Princess Jacaera Velaryon, the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”
Aegon’s head swiveled around as his bride finally entered the room. She stood in the doorway, resplendent in a gown of gold and pink. Sunfyre’s colors made her glow like the rising sun. The gown was form-fitting to her tall and slender frame, which Aegon appreciated as he wondered how long her legs were beneath her skirts. Black hair tumbled down her back in elegant waves, speckled with white pearls and gold seashells like she was a mermaid the Velaryons had plucked from the sea. She glided toward the throne with effortless grace, and once he got a better look at her face, his head emptied of all thoughts except one:
The artist who painted her portrait was a damned liar.
She was even more beautiful in person. Her portrait seemed ugly now. Really, they ought to execute the painter for doing her such a disservice. Worse than treason.
She looked remarkably like her grandmother, but Rhaenys’s regal features were rough-hewn stone compared to her granddaughter, who had a face so exquisite that the Smith himself must have sculpted it. As Aegon drank in the lines and curves of his bride’s nose, cheekbones, lips, eyebrows, his fingers twitched with the yearning to draw. Odd, that. Other than the occasional drunken doodle, he hadn’t drawn in years.
She neatly curtsied at the foot of the throne. “Your Grace,” she said in a voice that was both sweet and strong.
“My dear, how good it is to see you!” Viserys’s face was filled with more happiness than he had ever shown to Aegon. “You were just a child when I last saw you, and now here you are, a woman grown.” The king continued fawning over his eldest granddaughter for at least a minute before he remembered there was another purpose to the meeting, and the entire court was watching. “Ah, yes. Here is your bridegroom, my eldest son Aegon. I don’t believe you’ve met.”
Jacaera Velaryon turned her eyes, the same rich shade as Tyroshi purple, toward Aegon. His mouth went dry while she studied him. A terrible thought occurred to him: he had fretted about whether he would find her appealing, but what if she didn’t like him? He wasn’t tall like Aemond (at least he wasn’t shorter than her, though it was a close thing, thank the gods). His hair was cut short rather than hanging long and loose over his shoulders like that of most other Valyrian men. He straightened, hoping his nervousness didn’t show on his face.
After a moment, she smiled, and he stopped breathing. He could tell when smiles were false and admiration was feigned, from whores and ladies and councilors alike. Her smile was real. The corners of her eyes crinkled, and her mouth stretched into a wide curve that was less than perfect, but real.
She likes me, he thought dizzily.
He offered a smile of his own, just as genuine. Somewhere beside him, Helaena clapped and squealed softly, ignoring their mother’s shushes.
“I am pleased to meet you, my prince.” Jacaera extended her hand. Aegon did his best not to fumble as he pressed a courtly kiss to its back. Her skin was soft and smelled like roses. He held her hand for a moment too long, but she didn’t complain. On the contrary, her smile grew.
For the first time in his life, Aegon found himself feeling grateful toward Otto Hightower.
During the week of feasts and jousts preceding the wedding, Aegon was frequently seated beside Jacaera. Despite their proximity, he felt as if he never had any time with her. Lords and ladies constantly streamed through the royal tourney box to offer felicitations and scrutinize the couple. Aegon scarcely had a spare second to say anything to his bride, and the deafening cheers in the arena drowned out any intimate conversation they might try to have. He settled for observing her as she graciously greeted the well-wishers, calling them by name and asking personal questions (“Your son enjoys squiring for Lord Darklyn, I hope?”), even though she was meeting half of them for the first time.
She already looked and held herself like a queen. Possessive pride burned in his chest whenever he spied a knight or lordling enviously admiring her. They could look all they wanted, but he was the only man who would ever have her.
Aegon had no interest in the courtiers trying to curry his favor. He much preferred getting drunk on the imported wines being served in the box. But oftentimes, while he was searching for the nearest servant to refill his cup, Jacaera distracted him with a question that obliged him to join the conversation. They weren’t difficult questions—“Can you describe your bond with Sunfyre? What do you enjoy about the city? Where in the Seven Kingdoms would you like to visit one day?”—and Aegon was able to come up with somewhat intelligent responses that satisfied their visitors.
On the second day, he realized she was purposely stopping him from overindulging. When the latest visitors departed from the box, he turned to her and braced his hands on her armrests, caging her against her chair. To an outsider, it looked as if he were trying to kiss her. He could sense their families glaring in suspicion and alarm, but they were reluctant to cause a scene while he and Jacaera sat in full view of the entire arena.
“You’re trying to control me,” he accused in a low voice.
She didn’t cower. “I don’t know what you mean, my prince.”
His bride was an awful liar. Pink crept into her cheeks, and her eyes darted away from his. When he leaned closer, he was delighted to see the blush deepen. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that every time I try to get a damn drink, you pull me in to answer some banal question.”
She took a breath. He let his eyes drop to her heaving bosom, uncaring if she noticed. He hoped she noticed. Her breasts weren’t as large as her sister’s, but they were marvelously firm and perky. He looked forward to being acquainted with them on their wedding night. “No, it isn’t a coincidence. But is it truly so terrible?” she retorted. “All of our visitors have been impressed with you, and you seem to be enjoying yourself even without a surfeit of wine.”
“Are you claiming to do this for my sake?”
“I am to be your wife. Your reputation and behavior affect me as well. And I admit that I would prefer my husband to be sober more often than not.”
He smiled bitterly. “You’ve heard the rumors, then. You’re to marry a drunk whoremonger. But you’ll get to be the queen, so you’re willing to suffer for it.” He grazed a finger along her cheek. Her eyelashes fluttered. “I promise it won’t be all bad. I can make you feel very good.”
Her pupils dilated. He was near enough to breathe in her rose perfume. He had the urge to drag his tongue along her slender throat and see how quickly her pulse thumped beneath her delicate skin, see whether she tasted as delectable as she smelled. But if he did that, no doubt at least a dozen Targaryens, Velaryons, and Hightowers would swoop in to tear him off her.
She spoke barely above a whisper. They were so close that he caught every word. “I’m glad to hear that, my prince. If you’re willing to put some work into this marriage, then so am I. I want us to be happy.”
Liar, he thought. But when he searched her face, he found only earnestness, and he remembered she was an awful liar.
She wanted to be happy. With him. Despite the rumors she’d heard. Despite his crude words just now.
Bewildered, he released her armrests and sat back in his own chair. He unabashedly ogled her as she smoothed her skirts and smiled demurely at their observers, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, though her blush continued to stain her cheeks. When a servant finally wandered over to pour wine, Aegon waved him away, too busy trying to puzzle out his soon-to-be-wife’s motives.
Outside of tourney events, Aegon had no more luck stealing Jacaera away for a private moment. If she wasn’t sitting beside him in the arena, then she was surrounded by her sisters and cousins, who would remain at court after the wedding as her companions. Whenever he hovered on the threshold of the solar they were in, one of them inevitably spotted him and nudged Jacaera. Then they would all gawk at him for a few seconds before bursting into giggles (except Joff; Aegon didn’t think the dour girl had ever giggled in her life), while Jacaera tried to shush them.
“Why do women always gather in herds?” Aegon grumbled, standing with his brothers at a garden party that Alicent had forced all her children to attend. Jacaera sat with her sisters and cousins amid a cluster of ladies vying for her favor.
“They’re rather like sheep,” Aemond agreed. He rarely agreed with Aegon. What a remarkable occasion.
“Pretty sheep.” Aegon glanced again at Jacaera as he tried not to drain his cup too quickly. The wine was cloyingly sweet and not very strong.
Daeron finished chewing his cake, swallowed, and said, “Why don’t you two just ask to speak with Jace and Luce alone?”
“I have no desire to speak with Lucera alone,” Aemond replied while Aegon snorted and said, “You can’t just ask that sort of thing.”
“Why not? I often ask to speak with Joff alone, and she always says yes. Her sisters and cousins are really nice about it.” Daeron waved at Helaena, who was about to pass them by. “You agree, don’t you, Hel?”
“They are a loveliness of ladybugs,” Helaena said happily. “And they ask about you two a lot.”
Aegon and Aemond stared at her. “They do? What do they ask about?” Aegon demanded.
“Well…everything, I suppose. Your interests, your habits, your personalities, what I think are your worst qualities…”
“And you just tell them everything about us?” Aemond asked incredulously.
Helaena blinked. “Why wouldn’t I? They say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’” She waved farewell and skipped toward the Velaryon girls while her brothers sputtered behind her.
“Traitor,” Aegon muttered. Aemond grunted in agreement again. Twice in the same conversation! Truly a day for the history books.
When the morning of the wedding dawned, Aegon’s frustration was at an all-time high. He knew next to nothing about his bride, whose courtly mask hadn’t slipped aside from that one time during the tourney. In contrast, Jacaera apparently knew everything about him, thanks to Helaena’s treachery.
As he donned his wedding garb, he realized another reason for his frustration. In the week since the Velaryons came to King’s Landing, he hadn’t found release even once. The festivities ended so late at night that he had no time or energy to think about going to the Street of Silk. Usually it was part of his daily routine, like eating three meals and flying on Sunfyre.
He comforted himself with the reminder that he would definitely be getting it wet tonight. It was expected of him. His duty, even. For once, it was a duty he relished. Putting heirs in his pretty bride would be no hardship, and he was determined for her to enjoy it just as much, if not more. He fully intended to tear off her courtly mask along with her gown and smallclothes. He might not know her now, but he would know every inch of her before the night was over. Not even she could keep her mask on while she was writhing on his cock and fingers.
Aegon felt himself harden at the mental image. He subtly adjusted his breeches while servants scurried around the room. It was too late to take himself in hand before the ceremony. He would just have to wait for the evening.
“Are you enjoying the feast, Husband?” Jacaera smiled innocently, as if she didn’t know she was the reason Aegon had been half-hard ever since he saw her walking toward the altar on Laenor’s arm.
“Not really.” He was too busy trying to distract himself from how her Essosi-inspired gown bared a lot more skin than he had expected and hoped for. This meant thinking about very un-titillating thoughts, like Viserys’s rotten breath and Otto’s unshakeable dedication to his daily cup of prune juice.
Her smile faltered. It lasted less than the blink of an eye, but he caught it. She hesitated, then rested her hand on top of his where it lay on the table. “Is there anything I can do to improve your enjoyment of the night?”
Yes, just bend over the table and lift your skirts for me like a good girl, he wanted to say. It was on the tip of his tongue, and he had to bite down hard to stop the words from tumbling out.
He was definitely not going to last until the bedding.
The musicians prepared to play another song. A brilliant and terrible idea occurred to him. He stood, pulling her up beside him. “Shall we dance?” He’d already taken a turn with her when they opened up the dancing for the evening, but that was a formal dance where every arm and leg movement was strictly choreographed. He recognized the notes of the next song, which was supposed to accompany a much more intimate dance.
She barely had time to stammer, “Y-Yes, of course, my prince,” before he tugged her behind him to the floor where other couples were gathering. On their way, they passed Aemond in awkward conversation with Lucera. Another brilliantly terrible idea struck Aegon.
Aegon grabbed his brother’s shoulder, yanked him down, and hissed in his ear, “Ask her to dance, now. I need a distraction.”
Aemond hated it when Aegon tried to tell him what to do. Usually he was petty enough to say no on principle, but Aegon knew his brother really wanted to dance with Lucera. Without arguing—only a brief annoyed glare at Aegon—Aemond turned and asked stiffly, “Would you like to dance, Princess Lucera?”
Aegon led his wife to the opposite side of the dance floor. As he expected, most of their family’s and the guests’ attention fell upon Aemond and Lucera. Everybody loved gossiping about potential couples and betrothals. Aegon knew that Otto had been mulling over how to continue mending House Velaryon’s shaky ties to the Crown. Giving them a prince for their heiress was one way to secure their loyalty for another generation or two.
The dance began. It required Aegon to twirl his bride and rest his hand upon her waist at times. If he pulled her close after each twirl so he could skim his nose along her neck, if he let his hand drop a tad too low on her hip, she had no reaction other than a rapidly spreading blush. It was quite fun, but he would have even more fun if he could see how far down her blush went.
He waited for the circle of dancers to rotate. When he and Jacaera were near the doors, he glanced at the high table to ensure their family was still watching Aemond and Lucera. Once that was confirmed, he grabbed Jacaera’s hand and fled with her out of the room before anyone could stop them.
“My prince, the feast isn’t over,” she protested. She struggled to keep pace with him in her heavy skirts, so he slowed down. “We still need to participate in—”
“The bedding? So all the other men in attendance can rip off your clothes? No. That’s my prerogative, dearest wife.” When she didn’t respond, he glanced back. Her face was bright red, but she looked neither unhappy nor terrified. Just nervous. He could work with nervous.
He decided to go to her chambers rather than his. She’d only been living in them for a week, but the familiarity would hopefully soothe her. Besides, he had some…accessories lying around his bed that might alarm her. He was willing to wait for a bit before introducing them to her.
When they arrived, he locked the door so nobody could interrupt. Then he turned to his bride, who wrung her hands as she stood in the middle of her solar. “I, um, require a moment of preparation,” she said.
He took several steps toward her. “That’s my job.”
She swallowed. “So I’ve been told. But I would greatly appreciate it if you could spare me just a few minutes. Please.”
Aegon felt like he was about to explode out of his breeches. But she was so tense, he knew that bedding her now would be like bedding a statue, and that would be unpleasant for them both. In the back of his mind, a voice that sounded like his mother’s admonished him: Be kind.
Then another voice, this one sounding like his wife’s: I want us to be happy.
“Of course,” he said, trying not to sigh. “I’ll just…wait here, then.”
She darted into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. He removed his uncomfortable shoes as he surveyed the solar, trying to glean clues about his new wife. Everything was organized and sorted in its place. Vases of fresh roses were placed around the room. A basket of embroidery rested near the couch; on top lay a half-finished handkerchief with a pattern of dragons and seahorses. A knitted sea green shawl was draped over the back of a chair.
He wandered over to the bookshelf and examined its contents. He recognized quite a few titles that were also on Aemond’s shelf, histories and essay collections and philosophical treatises. Was it just for show, or did his wife actually read them? Aegon removed one book and observed that the pages were crinkled.
Then he noticed a smaller book tucked in the back. Intrigued, he took it out and read the title. “Septa Lucinda?” he muttered. What was this, some septa’s diary? Why would Jacaera bother hiding that? Aegon cracked open the book and read a random sentence on the page.
He plunged his manhood into her throbbing flower, and they emitted simultaneous cries of heavenly pleasure—
“What are you doing!”
Aegon looked up. Jacaera stood in the open bedroom doorway, mortified and indignant.
She hurried forward. “That’s mine! You have no business snooping around my things.”
When she made a grab for the book, he instinctively held it behind him, like a game of keep-away. As she tried to get around him so she could reach it, she pressed against him, and he became keenly aware of how little clothing she was wearing. Gone was her elaborate wedding gown. Now she was clad in a silk robe so thin, he could see and feel that she wore nothing underneath it.
Aegon threw the book across the room. When Jacaera turned to watch it soar through the air, he wrapped his arms around her and slung her bodily over his shoulder. Despite her height, she wasn’t heavy at all, and he had no trouble carrying her into the bedroom while she flailed in surprise.
He deposited her on the bed, limbs akimbo, but resisted the urge to immediately climb on top of her. She sat up, eyes wide as she brushed her tousled hair back from her face. The hem of her robe rode up, exposing a tantalizing expanse of her knees and thighs.
For a long moment, he simply looked at her. She had wiped off her cosmetics—not much, just a dab of lip paint and powder—and combed her hair so it flowed over her shoulders. Although he hadn’t had the privilege of taking off her gown, she’d removed her courtly mask by herself. Her paper-thin robe was insufficient armor to conceal the anxiety written all over her face.
Aegon had never lain with a maiden before, but he was aware that fucking was a nerve-inducing process for ladies, especially the first time. He knew enough about his prim, proper wife to be confident that she had never been in such intimate contact with a man before.
He’d promised to make her feel very good. He couldn’t do that if she was stiffer than an oak tree.
He stretched his arms to either side of him, forming a T. “I could use a little help.”
Jacaera surreptitiously tugged her hem down. “Help with what?”
“Taking my clothes off.”
She blushed again. The skin around her collarbone and bosom reddened beneath the translucent silk. “I’m sure you’re capable, my prince.”
He let a sultry smile crawl up his mouth. “It’s more fun this way. Trust me.”
Her nose scrunched. He would bet money that she was contemplating whether she could, in fact, trust him. Then she rose from the bed and gingerly approached.
As she stood toe to toe with him, she slowly reached for the collar of his doublet. Her knuckle brushed his throat when her finger slipped the first button out of its hole. It took all his self-control to remain still as she undid every button, and her hands slid lower and lower down his abdomen. When she reached the last button below his navel, it was impossible for her to ignore the bulge in his breeches.
Every instinct in his body demanded that he take her into his arms right now, but he didn’t want to spook her. She was doing so well. “Do you know what that is, Wife?”
“Of course I do, Husband.” Her hands trembled as they lingered near his waist. “My mother showed me diagrams.”
He couldn’t help laughing, and her shoulders relaxed as a smile crossed her face. “What sort of diagrams?” he asked.
“Very boring, scholarly ones. I think the Citadel uses them to teach maesters about healing.”
He shrugged off the doublet. She was much less nervous now, so he dared to guide her hands underneath his linen shirt. “What did you learn from them?”
She helped tug the shirt over his head. “I learned that if you are…stiff…that means you like me.”
He didn’t have to guide her hands again. They went of their own volition to the front of his breeches. “I like you very much,” he rasped, trying not to thrust against her hands.
She met his gaze as her fingers loosened the buttons of his breeches. “I like you too.”
His patience ran out. He hastily shed his breeches and braies, uncaring if any seams ripped, then steered her toward the bed until she fell back on the mattress. Kneeling between her sprawled legs, he peeled aside her robe so she lay bare beneath him. Every inch of her skin was an even bronze, except for the tips of her breasts, which were as pink as the roses she loved so much. Between her legs was a thatch of black hair, neat and groomed like the rest of her.
As he debated whether to kiss her teats or cunt first, a third option occurred to him. He rarely kissed whores on the mouth. Whores needed no sweet words or seduction, only payment. But now he dearly wanted to kiss his wife’s mouth, so he pressed his lips to hers.
He had kissed her during the wedding ceremony, a chaste peck that he would’ve been willing to give his grandmother, if he had one. This was different. Jacaera seemed startled when he nipped her bottom lip, and he took advantage of her surprise to slip his tongue into her mouth. But she was a quick learner, and it wasn’t long before she tangled her tongue with his, tentatively at first, then eagerly.
When they broke apart to catch their breaths, he finally set his sights on the breasts that had teased him all week. They fit perfectly in his hands. He swirled his thumbs around her nipples, and she squirmed delightfully, and squirmed even more when he lowered his head to lick and bite them.
After he finished memorizing the taste and feel of her teats, his fingers moved to stroke her cunt, which was very, very damp. “Do you ever touch yourself?” he asked curiously.
She shook her head, but she didn’t meet his eyes.
“I think you’re lying to me.” His fingers found her pearl, and she let out a breathless cry as he toyed with it. “You’ve played with this before, haven’t you?”
She clamped her hands over her mouth to cover a moan when he found a rhythm and pattern that was undeniably to her liking. “We’re not supposed to,” she panted.
He smiled wickedly as his fingers slipped into her folds. “I won’t tell anyone—but only if you let me hear you when you come.”
“It’s unseemly,” she argued.
He withdrew his hand. “I suppose that means you want me to stop.”
She remained silent, but her furious, frustrated glare spoke volumes.
He drew teasing circles against the soft flesh of her inner thighs. “Hands down, pretty girl. You can use them to play with your teats instead. I won’t complain.”
Alas, she only lowered her hands to the mattress and clenched the sheets. But it was a compromise he was willing to live with. He enjoyed her startled yelp when, without warning, he draped her legs over his shoulders and buried his face in her cunt.
The gasps and moans she made when she climaxed were music to his ears. It almost made him orgasm then and there. He decided it was past time to fuck his wife. He was kind to her, he’d made her happy. Now it was his turn. He crawled up her body and kissed her again, giving her a taste of herself, while his hips settled between her thighs.
Her breathing stuttered when he entered her. Her walls instinctively tried to resist his intrusion, but a few butterfly kisses to her face helped relax her. He resisted the urge to roughly plunge inside, instead slowly working his way deeper and deeper until he couldn’t go any further. She was warm and snug around him. For some reason, it felt different than fucking a whore, even though the process was the same. Because she was a maiden? Because she was his wife? Because she belonged to him and only him?
He looked down at her, taking in her confused expression. At least she wasn’t in pain. “Question?” he asked tensely, desperately wanting to move.
“I thought it was supposed to hurt more,” she admitted. Her hips shifted, and he cursed under his breath at the agonizingly wonderful friction the movement generated.
“Only if the man doesn’t know what he’s doing.” He began to thrust. Her hands flew up to grip his shoulders. She gasped out pleased little ohs with every thrust. She seemed embarrassed by the noises, but they encouraged him to continue. “I’m not good at a lot of things, but I’m very good at this.”
Her eyelashes fluttered as she gazed up at him. “How lucky I am to have you for a husband, then,” she whispered.
He froze, scouring her face. She held his stare, unblinking. His bride was an awful liar—and she wasn’t lying now.
I want us to be happy.
When the realization settled in, that she really did think she was lucky to have him, his orgasm followed in a matter of seconds. Fortunately, she had no frame of reference for how long a man was supposed to last, so she didn’t even know there was something for him to be embarrassed about.
Anyway, he made up for it a few minutes later, once he recovered and pounced on her again.
Aegon was disoriented when he woke up. He definitely wasn’t in his room, and the featherbed was too plush to belong in a brothel. Then he caught a whiff of rose perfume, and he instantly remembered where he was.
The sheets beside him were warm but empty. He lifted his head, searching for his wife, and found her sitting in front of her vanity. As she combed her hair, she stared into space with a faint smile on her lips. When she glimpsed him awake in the mirror, her smile widened and she turned around. “Good morrow, Husband.” Her eyes sparkled with genuine happiness.
Happiness. For…him? Well, he did give her quite a few orgasms last night.
He continued studying her in silence, curious about her natural state. She had yet to don her fashionable gowns and jewels. She was wearing a robe, but it wasn’t the delightful silk scrap from last night. Her current robe was made of thick velvet and reached her ankles, warm and comfortable. Her hair was neat but loose, hanging freely down her back. Her face was washed and unadorned, and somehow it was even more beautiful than yesterday.
The silence dragged on too long. Her smile flickered with trepidation. “Is something wrong, my prince?”
No, everything is perfect, I have everything that I never knew I wanted and now I don’t know what to do with myself, he almost said. But that was too vulnerable to utter to a wife he had only known for a week. “Yes. I’m cold and alone in this bed.” He raised his hand and crooked a beckoning finger. “Come here, pretty girl.”
She gladly obeyed. Without prompting, she slipped off her velvet robe, the only thing she wore, before joining him under the covers.
The next few weeks were a hazy blur of contentment. Their days were busy with entertaining wedding guests before the lords and ladies returned to their far-flung keeps. Their nights, however, were just for the two of them. As soon as they were able to excuse themselves from suppers and parties, Aegon and Jacaera ran hand-in-hand to her chambers for several hours of marital bliss. He often fell asleep there, and even though they were her chambers, she never complained or hinted that she might want him to leave.
One morning, a servant delivered a curt message to Aegon while he lazed in Jacaera’s bed. The king expected his heir to attend a Small Council meeting that day.
Aegon glared at the paper in his hand, an unpleasant reminder that he had duties other than coming inside his wife. Then he realized there was little time remaining before the meeting. “Shit.” He surged up from the bed and searched for his clothes where he’d dropped them on the floor last night. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
Jacaera looked up from the letter she was writing. “What’s wrong?”
“Small Council meeting. I’m going to be late.”
His wife leapt into action. She ensured his doublet was buttoned correctly, dusted off and sprinkled his garments with something refreshing and lemony, scrubbed his face with a washcloth, and brushed his hair. Less than five minutes later, he looked respectably princely. Interminably grateful, he kissed her soundly on the mouth before rushing out of the room.
Everyone except the king was already in the Small Council chamber. Lord Beesbury, Grand Maester Orwyle, Ser Tyland, Ironrod, Ser Harrold, Larys Strong, and his grandfather, who pursed his lips disapprovingly at Aegon’s tardiness. Aegon barely had time to catch his breath and take a sip of wine before the king was announced, and they all stood for his arrival.
As Viserys tottered to his chair, he smiled at Beesbury and Harrold but ignored everyone else, including Aegon. Once the king was seated, Otto started on the first agenda item. While his grandfather droned on about taxes, Aegon tried to pay attention. Really, he did. But taxes were so damn boring.
Aegon made a half-hearted attempt at taking notes, which rapidly devolved to doodling. He began with a caricature of Otto, whose Hand of the King pin was extending the middle finger. Then he made a crude sketch of Ironrod which emphasized his eponymous asset. Then, as he was about to draw the king, a more appealing image popped into Aegon’s mind.
He started with her eyes, almond-shaped and dark. Then her nose, which scrunched when she laughed, when she was thinking, when she wanted to say something unkind about a courtier they were gossiping about but was forcing herself to keep quiet. Her lips, so very pretty, especially when they were wrapped around his cock. All the perfect lines of her face, the first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning.
Gods, he wanted her so badly, right now. What manner of witchcraft had she cast upon him?
“Aegon!” The shout of his name was accompanied by a loud smack on the table. He jumped and gaped at the king, who was glaring at him. “Have you not been paying any attention?”
“Of course I have,” Aegon said reflexively, as if he were a student being lectured by the maesters. He hastily hid his doodles under another sheet of paper.
“Don’t lie to me, boy.” Viserys heaved himself up from his chair, grabbed his cane, and thumped towards Aegon. Aegon gulped when his father grabbed the papers and shuffled through them until he reached the doodles. Viserys’s lip curled in disgust. He crumpled the sheet of drawings into a ball and threw it at Aegon’s face. “A disappointment, as always.” Shaking his head, Viserys hobbled toward the exit.
As he crossed the threshold, he uttered one final remark, audible to everyone:
“Rhaenyra would have done better.”
Aegon sat frozen and silent. He stared at the table, not meeting any of the councilors’ eyes. Otto adjourned the meeting, and the other lords shuffled out of the room, muttering to each other.
When only grandfather and grandson remained, Otto sighed wearily. “Really, Aegon?”
Aegon said nothing.
“You could at least pretend to care. It would be a marked improvement over what you’re doing now, which is absolutely nothing.” Then Otto left the room too.
Aegon wasn’t sure how long he continued sitting there. It could have been several minutes or several hours. Finally, he stood on shaky legs and staggered out of the room. Slinking through the corridors, eyes burning with hot wetness, he pondered the quickest way to get wretchedly drunk. Or fucked. Or both. In the past, he would have headed straight for the Street of Silk, where the whores welcomed anyone with enough coin to pay them to pretend to care.
You could at least pretend to care.
He didn’t want pretense. He wanted something real. And he wouldn’t find that anywhere in the city.
It didn’t surprise him when he ended up back at his wife’s chambers. Without knocking, he opened the door and lurched inside. She was busy with her correspondence, but she stood when she saw him. “How was the meeting, Husband? Is something amiss?”
He stared hollowly at her, trying to figure out what he wanted. Sex? Sex always made him feel better. If he asked, she would spread her legs without question, and she would make him feel so very good with that perfect cunt of hers. But the request teetered on his tongue, refusing to come out.
When he began to sway on his feet, she hurriedly wrapped her arms around him to steady him. He instinctively hugged her back, refusing to let go even when he was stabilized.
After they stood unmoving for several moments, she asked softly, “Do you want to lie down?”
He nodded. This time, he let her unwind his arms from around her. Then she took his hand and led him to the bedroom. She gently pushed him down to sit on the edge of the bed before kneeling to take off his boots. She removed the rest of his outerwear, leaving him in his shirt and braies. Then she toed off her slippers, sat down beside him, and tugged him down until they were both lying on the pillows.
She didn’t say anything. She just combed her fingers through his hair. Even when his shoulders shook and he began to cry, she continued the soothing rhythm against his scalp, periodically pressing light kisses to his forehead.
“I’m no good.” He barely recognized his own voice, full of tears and self-loathing. “Everyone knows it. It shouldn’t be me. Literally anyone else would be better. But the king squirted me out first, and I have a cock, so it has to be me.”
She stopped stroking his hair so she could cup her hands around his face. She gazed steadily at him. “What exactly happened at the meeting?”
“Grandsire was talking. I got bored. I drew on my notes. Father caught me and dressed me down in front of everyone. Nothing new, honestly. I’ve always hated these meetings.” Embarrassment burned through him. No doubt she thought he was pathetic. He was pathetic, crying like a child after a stern lecture.
There was no visible judgment in her face. Her nose scrunched. She was thinking. “Is there anything you do like about the meetings?”
“No,” he said. Then he considered it some more. “Well. I like…that it makes me feel important. That I mean something. But that feeling always goes away fast when people start asking me questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Opinions on this or that law. What I remember about so-and-so lord. If I have any new policy ideas. Boring shit.”
“Do you want to do better?”
He thought about it. It was easier to not care, and he was hardened to the disdain—mostly.
…No. No, he wasn’t hardened at all. He was accustomed to it, but it still hurt. “I’ve been trying my whole life to do better. I just can’t. It doesn’t come naturally to me. I can’t.”
She smiled encouragingly. “That was before. But now you have me.” She dabbed a handkerchief on his face, wiping away his tears. “I can help you learn these things, but you have to promise you’ll try. You don’t have to be perfect, or even good. You just have to try. Do we have an agreement, Aegon?”
Aegon.
It was the first time she’d called him by name. Not “Husband,” not “my prince.”
Aegon.
A strange warmth suffused his chest. His heart stopped. The air left his lungs. Butterflies swarmed in his stomach. The sensation was terrifying and wonderful all at once. He didn’t know what to make of it.
But he did know that he couldn’t say no to his wife. “Yes. We have an agreement.”
Her eyes lit up with excitement. She rose from the bed. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried out of the room then came back just as quickly, bearing a tray with bread, nuts, and fruit. “Here. You haven’t eaten anything today. You’ll feel better after a few bites.” She set the tray on his lap before leaving again.
He didn’t realized how hungry he was until he aimlessly popped the first grape into his mouth. When she returned several minutes later, he had already consumed half the tray’s contents. Jacaera staggered beneath a tall stack of hefty tomes, notebooks, and papers. Aegon sprang up to take the burden from her, then set it down on the mattress.
They sat back down on the bed. He watched her arrange the books and papers into small piles. “What would you like to start with, my prince?” she asked. “I recommend urban planning and infrastructure, since you—”
“Aegon.”
“Pardon?”
His mouth was dry. Somehow, this was the most nerve-wracking thing he’d ever done. A simple request, one that he wouldn’t hesitate to demand of anyone else. “I want you to call me Aegon.”
She blinked, surprised. Then she beamed and said, “I shall, Aegon. But you must call me Jace, like my family and friends do.”
In the week before their wedding, he’d called her “Princess.” Since then, he’d been calling her “Wife”—unless they were in bed, then he called her “pretty girl.” Now he tested this new privilege in his mouth. “Jace,” he murmured, drawing out that sweet and simple syllable.
Her ever-present blush reappeared. She blushed easily, and he loved to see it.
He glanced at the pile of books she’d pointed to earlier. “I didn’t know you were interested in urban…stuff.”
“I have many interests.” She picked up a notebook and opened it. Its pages were filled with her tidy handwriting. She looked down, bashful all of a sudden. “I know it isn’t my place, but I have a lot of ideas for projects to bring before the Small Council. I would greatly appreciate it if you gave them serious consideration. If you decide they have no merit, I won’t be offended…”
His wife was adorable when she rambled. And, he realized, she was much, much more studious and diligent than he would ever be. All the desired qualities of an heir which he lacked, she possessed in spades. But she was a woman, so there was no throne or crown for her. She had to settle for being married to him.
And, greedy and selfish man that he was, he was glad for it.
When I am king, he thought, watching her gesticulate as she spoke, I will build a throne next to mine just for you, more beautiful and comfortable than the iron death trap. I will demand statues in your likeness and ships named in your honor. I will rain dragonfire upon anyone who offends you. The whole world will know that you are first among women, and they will know that you are mine.
“Aegon?” She closed her notebook. “Are you listening?”
In fact, he was. “Wooden hovels covered in soot are fire hazards. Makes sense to me.” He moved across the bed so he could lay his head on her lap. He smiled up at her as she resumed combing her fingers through his hair. “I’m always listening to you, Jace.”
Notes:
Author's behind-the-scenes commentary on this chapter here. Warning: potential spoilers for future chapters, so I advise you not to read the commentary during your first reading of the fic.
All that Aegon content in the new trailers got me good 🥰. I’m going to try to focus on Compromise now, but I will come back to this fic when the Aegon urge strikes again (which will probably be soon lol).
I’m undecided whether I want to keep this fic in just Aegon’s POV or if I want to slip Jace’s POV in there. I know how I want this fic to end, but I’m willing to hear suggestions for smaller details and scenes along the way.
Kudos and comments are always welcome, and I’m on Tumblr @presidenthades.
Chapter 2: She is mine
Summary:
Marriage is a duty, but her husband shows her there can be pleasure in it too.
Notes:
I know I said I was going to focus on Compromise, but I saw that The Golds hit 1,000 kudos 🎉 so I decided to celebrate by updating this fic.
Smut alert for this chapter, in case the summary didn't tip you off.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As soon as she was born, Jacaera knew she would marry Aegon Targaryen one day. Her lessons were designed to shape her into a queen consort who would bring more pride to House Velaryon than even Queen Alyssa. She tried to learn everything she could about her future husband without actually meeting him. Ships and visitors regularly traveled between Driftmark and King’s Landing, and with them came plentiful rumors of the wanton prince.
He shirks his studies. He’s rude to courtiers. He and his brother are always smacking each other around.
As the prince matured, so did his interests.
He drinks like a thirsty Dornishman in the desert. He sleeps more on the Street of Silk than in the castle. There were so many vulgar screams that night, his brother stormed into his room and threatened to geld him if he didn’t immediately kick out all three whores in his bed.
“At least your husband will be experienced,” Lucera said, trying to be optimistic on her sister’s behalf.
Rhaenyra was more pragmatic. “It is better to know his true nature beforehand, so you don’t set your expectations too high.”
Jacaera’s mother had suffered much disappointment in life. Rhaenyra lost her mother, lost her best friend, lost her crown. Mayhaps she had lost her love too. Several years ago, when Aunt Laena died and Prince Daemon came to Driftmark, Rhaenyra was the happiest that Jacaera had ever seen her. But then Daemon left again, and her mother spent several moons forlornly drifting around High Tide like a grieving ghost.
One night, Rhaenyra came to Jacaera’s room and crawled into bed with her daughter. “Never fall in love, my darling,” she murmured. “It just gives men another way to hurt you.”
Jacaera allowed her mother to pull her in for a cuddle. “You love Father.”
“I love him, but I’m not in love with him. The first will warm you, the second will burn you.” Rhaenyra sighed as she stroked her fingers through Jacaera’s hair. “I should consider myself fortunate. I have my husband’s respect and friendship. That is the best we women can hope for in a marriage.”
In the weeks leading up to Jacaera’s wedding, Rhaenyra grew grimmer and grimmer. One day, she sat Jacaera down and took out the anatomical diagrams she’d last shown her when Jacaera flowered. Despite Jacaera’s protests that she knew how procreation occurred, Rhaenyra tersely explained the act again.
“Although I hope he will be kind, I would be remiss in my duty as your mother if I didn’t warn you about the possibilities. The first time will probably hurt, but there are oils you can use to lessen the pain. At the very least, he will need to penetrate you with his phallus to consummate the marriage during the wedding night. Afterwards, he will only need to repeat the act a few times each moon.” Her mother looked ruefully at her. “But you are so very beautiful. I fear he will be loath to leave you in peace. And until you conceive, the queen and Hand will instruct him to direct his attentions toward you instead of his whores.”
Jacaera left the conversation feeling more apprehensive than ever. She had heard from other ladies that their husbands only lay with them once a week, a straightforward process that lasted ten minutes, and the men departed as soon as they were done. That didn’t sound so arduous. But her mother warned that Aegon possessed lusty appetites, and it was likely he would want Jacaera every night for several hours until the novelty wore off. If he put a child in her quickly, mayhaps that would grant her a reprieve.
Rhaenys, who seemed to always know everything that happened in her castle, found Jacaera soon after. Once her grandmother coaxed out the gist of her conversation with Rhaenyra, Rhaenys smiled reassuringly. “Your mother was right to prepare you for the worst. But now I will tell you how to make the best of it. In my experience, lovemaking has always been enjoyable.”
Jacaera’s hands twitched with the urge to cover her ears. “Please, Grandmother, I don’t need to hear this.”
“You are aware that your grandfather and I had two children together?” Rhaenys laughed as Jacaera groaned. Then, growing serious, Rhaenys took her granddaughter’s hand. “Men act like they are all pride and arrogance, but it is an act. Deep down, they yearn for sweet words and welcoming arms. Prince Aegon is no different.” She lowered her voice to an almost inaudible whisper. “Carve out a place for yourself in his heart. When you have his love and trust, that will be the only throne you ever need.”
Jacaera was anxious on her wedding night, despite Helaena’s encouraging promises. (“You’ll be happy! You always are when you’re together.”) Baela had been telling her the entire week that if Jacaera wasn’t careful, Aegon would probably pull her into the nearest alcove and prematurely deflower her. When her new husband whisked her out of their wedding feast several hours early, she feared that Baela was correct and he would force himself upon her as soon as he found a bed.
She scarcely believed it when he allowed her a moment to herself, but she gratefully accepted the generous offer. As she removed her wedding gown with shaky hands, she wondered what he would do if she tried to lock him out of the bedroom. Break down the door? No one would blame him. She was his wife now. He had a right to her body whenever he wanted, and they were expected to consummate the marriage tonight. If she failed to do that, then she failed her life’s purpose.
She glared at herself in the mirror. “You aren’t a craven,” she told her reflection. “You know your duty.”
She put on the flimsy silk robe that Rhaena made for her, the only armor she had, and opened the door. Belatedly, she realized she’d forgotten to apply the oils that her mother gave her. But before she could turn back around, she saw what her new husband was holding—was reading.
“What are you doing!” she demanded.
For a moment, she forgot to be afraid. She rushed toward him, furious about his snooping. He had a right to her body, but not to her bookshelf! And she had hidden Septa Lucinda very well, which meant he must have moved her belongings around to find it. That was abominably rude behavior.
When she tried to seize the book, he threw it.
He threw it.
Didn’t he know how expensive books were? If she wanted to replace that copy of Septa Lucinda, she would need to pay a small fortune to a specific Lysene merchant who only came to Driftmark a few times a year. She opened her mouth to berate him, then squeaked in surprise when he slung her over his shoulder, like an ironborn raider kidnapping a village girl. He carried her into the bedroom, where he deposited her on the mattress.
Gulping nervously, she expected him to immediately leap on her and claim his rights. His eyes darkened as he drank in the sight of her near-naked body. The robe was so thin, she might as well not be wearing anything. There was a bulge in his breeches which meant he was aroused, and she suspected it would be even bigger once he took it out. How was that supposed to fit inside her? No wonder her mother said it would hurt. No wonder the other ladies could only endure it once a week. No wonder—
“I could use a little help.” He stretched out his arms on either side of him, like a tree.
“Help with what?” she asked, trying to cover herself better with the robe. It was a futile effort. If she tugged down the hem to cover her knees, her neckline exposed the tops of her breasts. Why did Rhaena make it so short? Their grandfather was rich. They could afford more silk.
“Taking my clothes off.”
“I’m sure you’re capable, my prince.” Should she call a servant to assist him? No, there was a heated look in his eyes that he had directed at her many times. Baela said that look meant he was thinking about what Jacaera looked like naked, and what he wanted to do to her while she was naked. But that didn’t explain why he wanted her to take off his clothes. It would be faster if he did it himself.
“It’s more fun this way. Trust me.” His mouth curled into a sensuous smile. It made her stomach twist in oddly pleasant knots. It generated the same feeling as when she reached between her legs at night, when she first saw him and realized how beautiful he was, when they danced earlier and he held her closer than was appropriate.
He wanted her to touch him.
Nobody warned her about this. They warned her that he would touch her, that his hungry hands would fondle every part of her, neck and breasts and legs. Her hands never came into the equation. She had imagined she would merely keep them by her sides and clench the sheets to anchor herself while he invaded her body like a battering ram.
He stood there, waiting.
If she heeded his request, then it would buy her a few extra moments before the inevitable. So she tentatively approached, half-convinced it was a trap. But he kept his arms outstretched while she unbuttoned his doublet, revealing his pale skin and thin linen shirt. Her heart thumped as her hands glided over his chest, feeling all his hard angles where she had soft curves. Her husband was undeniably beautiful, and she’d always had a weakness for beautiful things.
With every button she undid, her nerves also slipped away. She could feel the strain of his muscles as he refrained from touching her. It emboldened her to know that he had a semblance of self-control, that he wasn’t a mindless beast who would savagely rut her before leaving her to fend for herself.
As her hands neared his bulge, she felt more curiosity than fear. She dared to lay her hands against the front of his breeches. Warm and hard like the rest of him. It wasn’t so terrifying now that she practically held it in her palms.
She met his gaze, and she saw her own desire reflected in his eyes. When he lowered her to the bed and stripped the robe from her, she forgot why she had ever been afraid.
Hours later, they lay beside each other in a sweaty, sticky mess between the sheets. He curled against her back, his limbs coiling possessively around her as he laved hot, wet, gentle kisses on her shoulder. “You are going to be the death of me,” he murmured. “And I will die a happy man.”
She stroked her fingers along the back of one of his hands. “I pray that day will be many, many years from now. So far, marriage has been much to my liking, and I would like to continue enjoying it for a while.”
He hummed as she felt him harden against her hip. “‘Marriage’ is an interesting nickname for my cock.”
She giggled as he nudged her legs apart, then sighed contentedly when he filled her again. Her eyes fluttered closed as he began languidly thrusting, and his hand slid down her belly to her thighs. If this first night was the worst part of marriage, then she would be the happiest wife who ever lived.
They didn’t emerge from their marital chambers until noon. Jacaera tried to ignore the knowing looks at the luncheon that the king was hosting for the Velaryons. Nobody commented anything lewd, but it mortified her that her family was aware of what she and her husband had been doing all night and morning.
Her mother took her aside to a quiet corner of the room. Jacaera felt her new husband’s gaze follow them.
“You are well, Jace? He didn’t mistreat you?” Rhaenyra’s hands hovered over her daughter’s arms, as if she wanted to pull up her sleeves and check for bruises.
“No, he did not. I am…” Jacaera struggled to find the right words. Happy? That seemed too strong and permanent after just one night. Satisfied? Not strong enough, and uncouth besides. “I am…pleased with him. He is kind, just as you hoped.”
Rhaenyra gawked in disbelief. Her eyes slid toward Aegon, who was muttering to his brothers as they stood around the table. “You are?” She stared at Jacaera, like there was something in her that she no longer recognized. “Then…I am glad.” Rhaenyra smiled weakly as she tucked a lock of Jacaera’s hair behind her ear. “But remember to be careful, my darling. Men already have so much power over us. Don’t give them any more.”
“I’ll be careful,” Jacaera promised. She hadn’t expected to enjoy bedding her husband so much, but she would not let the physical pleasure overwhelm her better judgment.
It was the middle of the afternoon. Jacaera was bent over the table, skirts bunched around her waist, while Aegon diligently fucked and fingered her from behind. He had been teasing her for a while, bringing her close to a climax but never letting her reach it. She whined softly against the wooden table, and he chuckled in her ear as he continued his ministrations. The ball of tension in her stomach coiled ever tighter.
Then came a knock on the door.
“Ignore them,” he muttered.
She wanted to obey. She really did. She was so close again, and mayhaps he would finally let her come this time. If she came while he was inside her, that always drove him wild. She secretly liked it when he handled her a little rougher—
There was another knock. “Jace, are you there?” Lucera called from the other side.
Jacaera let out a gasp, which turned into a moan when her husband thrust again. “I forgot! She and I made plans to meet today.”
“Then I’ll make it quick.” He adjusted his fingers to an angle around her pearl, which never failed to make her peak.
“She might—oh—hear us—oh—”
“Let her hear you.” He thrust deeper, and she let out a choked cry. “She might be getting married soon herself. It’ll be educational for her.”
Despite her best efforts to remain silent, he managed to coax an absolutely indecent moan out of her throat when she came. Her walls tightened around him, and he cursed loudly as he gripped her hips and viciously pounded into her. She desperately clung to the edges of the shuddering table until he spilled into her with another blasphemous oath that was surely audible in the corridor.
She was still trying to catch her breath when he helped her stand up, flipped her skirts back down, and kissed her deeply on the mouth. “My pretty girl makes such pretty sounds,” he crooned, then gave her a chaste peck on the lips. He tucked himself into his breeches, which he was still in the process of buttoning when he opened the door.
Lucera’s eyes were wide, and her mouth was open in shock.
“Hello, Sister,” Aegon greeted cheerfully. He slipped past her and whistled as he sauntered away.
For a moment, the two sisters just stared at each other from across the room.
Lucera found her voice first. “Uh…good afternoon?” Then she burst into giggles, and Jacaera covered her blushing face.
After Jacaera cleaned herself in the privy, they went to the couch in the solar. Lucera suspiciously eyed the furniture before carefully sitting down on the edge of the cushion. “Is there a reason you couldn’t wait for the bed? It’s right there.”
“We were, um, caught in the moment.” Jacaera refused to look at her sister as she poured them cups of pomegranate juice.
Lucera’s fingers fidgeted on her lap. “Do you…like it? He doesn’t leave you alone very often. It seems exhausting.”
“My husband is enthusiastic.” Jacaera raised her cup to her mouth, clearing her throat. “As am I. It does tire me, but I find the act…rewarding.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Baela always says that good sex goes a long way in a marriage. Not that she would know anything about marriage, but she has a point, doesn’t she?”
“Indeed. It is imperative for conceiving heirs.” Jacaera resisted the urge to rest a hand on her belly. She had missed her last moon blood. It was too early to know, and it was best to wait a few more weeks before raising any hopes. But she’d never missed her moon blood before, and her husband had spilled enough seed in her to keep her grandfather’s entire fleet afloat.
Lucera clasped her sister’s hand. “I think Aegon really likes you. Not just because of the sex. Aem—Prince Aemond says his brother acts differently now. Better. Aegon used to go to the Street of Silk all the time, but now he only leaves the castle to visit Sunfyre or go shopping in the city.”
Jacaera tried not to feel too giddy. She deftly redirected the conversation toward her sister. “Aemond, is it?” she teased. “Do we need to tell Grandsire to prepare his coffers for another wedding soon? He might have to go on a tenth voyage and bring back another score of ships laden with spices.”
Lucera’s cheeks pinked as she scoffed. “Please don’t jest about that. You have no idea how uncomfortable it is listening to the Hand sing his grandson’s praises. It’s like he’s trying to auction off Aem—Prince Aemond, and he wants our house to be the highest bidders…”
The morning began like any other. Jacaera usually awoke before her husband, and she spent the solitary hours taking care of her hygiene and grooming. A wash was always necessary after their nightly activities. Then she applied a rose cream to keep her skin soft and sweet-smelling, which she knew Aegon appreciated. Oftentimes a second wash was required, after he awoke and pulled her back into bed for another round of sex.
She was composing a letter to Lady Lannister when a servant delivered a message, which she dutifully passed on to Aegon, who was drowsing in bed. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him unfold the note and glare at it. Then his entire body jerked in surprise, and he sprang up naked in search of his clothes. “Small Council meeting. I’m going to be late,” he explained, and she rushed to help him get ready.
After he departed, she felt strangely bereft. Part of her longed to follow him, but she knew she wasn’t welcome in the Small Council chamber. A prince’s wife had no place there. She would just have to hope that Aegon would be willing to share some of their discussion.
Jacaera summoned a maid to change the sheets, as well as bring up a tray of light foods in case Aegon was hungry when he came back. Then she kept herself busy for the next hour, finishing her letter to Lady Lannister and starting another to Lady Tyrell.
She almost spilled ink all over the paper when Aegon stumbled into the room without warning. “Is something amiss?” she asked, though she knew as soon as she saw his face that the answer was yes. His eyes shone with unshed tears, and he clenched his jaw so hard that she feared he might crack a tooth.
He stared at her, desperately, wildly, hungrily, like he wanted to devour her alive. It frightened her a little, and she braced herself for the possibility he would push her to the floor and take her right there. Then he started to sway, threatening to fall. She hastened forward to steady him. He wrapped his arms around her, and she half-expected him to tear off her clothes.
But he just hugged her.
She stood there, uncertain what to do while his face pressed against her shoulder. She could feel his entire body trembling. Then she scolded herself for her stupidity. He was clearly upset. He wanted comfort. She could give that to him, easily.
She led him to bed and undressed him, then joined him where he sprawled on top of the covers. She petted his hair and kissed his forehead, like she did when her sisters and cousins were devastated. He began to cry, and she thought about her father, the only other man she had ever witnessed crying. Laenor was a sensitive soul but he felt obligated to appear stoic, as was expected of a powerful lord and knight. When he inevitably cracked under the pressure, everything came crashing down like a house built on weak foundations. Aegon seemed cut from the same cloth.
As her husband blurted out everything that happened at the meeting, Jacaera felt a pang of envy in her chest. He had the privilege of being in the Small Council chamber, and he hated it. But she reminded herself that Lucera was similar to what Aegon described. Her sister struggled to focus on her studies too, even though she wanted to be good at them. Their family had helped Lucera figure out other ways to learn, but no one helped Aegon.
She could help him. She’d been told she was good at teaching. And mayhaps all her notebooks, filled with her idle scribblings about outdated laws and unfavorable trade deals, would finally be of use.
Aegon unquestioningly accepted her proposition to tutor him. She was so excited that she immediately began rambling about infrastructure improvements to Flea Bottom. She felt foolish, but he gazed devotedly at her like she was the most important thing in the world.
It made her feel quite powerful.
Despite their promising start, Jacaera soon realized that Aegon’s attention span was abysmally short. He obediently listened to her for the first five minutes of each lesson, but then he would be distracted by a bird flying past the window or an ant crawling on the table. When he realized he’d gotten distracted, he looked so frustrated with himself that she hadn’t the heart to chastise him. Chastising wouldn’t help, anyway. It was evident that Aegon responded much better to praise and incentives, rather than criticism and punishment.
Then one night, as he was licking her cunt with single-minded determination, she had an epiphany.
Before their next lesson, Jacaera carefully chose her outfit, hopeful that her plan would work. Even if it didn’t, at least they would have fun while trying. She sat down with Aegon, lectured for exactly four minutes, then asked, “Do you understand why the Reach sends us grain via the Mander and Blackwater rather than the roseroad?”
“Boats don’t eat, but mules are hungry bastards who’ll eat all the grain that’s meant for us humans.”
“Good.” She conspicuously bent over to take off her right slipper and set it on the floor, then sat up again. Aegon looked puzzled, clearly wondering why she was taking off only one shoe. “Then do you understand why White Harbor is so important to the North?”
“Merchants would rather sail there than travel overland to Winterfell. And the sea won’t freeze in the winter. Probably.”
“Good.” She took off her other shoe. Aegon straightened in his chair, suspicion and excitement lighting up his face. “How else could White Harbor be useful during winter?”
“Roads are frozen and snowed in, but White Harbor can still receive grain shipments, and then the Manderlys can send grain down the White Knife to Winterfell, where many of the smallfolk wait out the winter. But the rivers could freeze, so the Northerners try to stockpile everything they can before the cold sets in,” he said quickly.
“Good.” She peeled off one stocking.
“I think that answer merits both stockings,” he said hopefully.
“Hm…I agree.” Before she could remove the other stocking, he got down on his knees and tried to take it off for her. She used her foot to lightly push against his chest. “No, Aegon. You can’t touch—yet.”
It was a thrilling game, and she forced herself to focus on the lesson rather than the erection he was shamelessly displaying in his breeches. She methodically removed her earrings and necklace, despite his protests that she could keep them on and skip ahead. He groaned when he realized her gown was in multiple pieces, and she rejected his argument that it should count as one garment.
Finally, after many layers were shed, she was clad in only her shift. He smirked smugly as he gave one last correct answer and leaned forward expectantly. She rose from her chair, elated by their success and eager to give him his reward. “Go lie on the bed, Aegon.”
He rapidly stripped naked before reclining on the pillows. He greedily watched her slip the straps over her shoulders so her loose shift fell to the floor, leaving her entirely bare. She stepped out of the puddle of fabric and approached the bed, where she climbed up and straddled his hips.
“You did very well.” She lifted herself up and let herself hover over his cock. “Should we have lessons like this more often?”
“Yes. Fuck yes. I’ll read whatever books you want.” His fingers twitched on the mattress. “Can I touch you yet?”
She grabbed his hands and placed them on her breasts. He squeezed them as she sank down on him, and they sighed in unison.
“Fuck,” he moaned when she rocked her hips, taking him deeper. “Where were you when I was in the schoolroom?”
“On an island in the sea…” She lowered her head so she could gently kiss his mouth. “…waiting for the day my prince would take me away.” If only they had met earlier. If only she had always known that he would worship her like this. If only…
He wrapped her hair around his hands, careful not to tug painfully. “Gods.” He sighed against her mouth as his hips met hers, thrust for thrust. “I should’ve stolen you from the Velaryons years ago. I’m never giving you back.”
Shortly before the next Small Council meeting, Aegon showed Jacaera one of the castle’s secret tunnels, which would allow her to eavesdrop on the session. “No one will know you’re here,” he assured her when she fretted. “And I’ll feel better knowing you’re watching me.” He winked then shut the tunnel entrance. She watched through the holes in the wall as he sat in his seat. As heir, he ought to sit closer to the king, but his chair was at the far end of the table.
Jacaera frowned at her dim surroundings. Anyone who found their way into the network of secret tunnels would be able to spy on important matters of the realm. Even though she enjoyed this opportunity to listen in, it would be wise to seal off this portion from outside access. She would need to discuss the security risk with Aegon later.
Above her line of sight, she noticed some words scratched into the wall. She stood on her toes to read the years-old graffiti.
Otto Hightower likes to shove quills up his arse.
She let out a startled laugh just as Tyland Lannister and Larys Strong entered the Small Council chamber. Too late, she clapped a hand over her mouth. Fortunately, neither man seemed to notice the sound, as they were surprised by Aegon’s early arrival.
The remaining chairs at the table gradually filled. The king’s chair remained empty, but Otto began the meeting nonetheless. As the Hand discussed a recent spate of merchant wagons causing accidents in the city, Jacaera wished she had brought something to take notes with. She glanced at Aegon and was dismayed to see him restlessly tapping his quill on the table instead of using it to write.
Aegon’s eyes flickered in her direction. When Otto paused to take a breath, Aegon cut in, “Why not build raised walkways for pedestrians?”
All the councilors stared at him. Aegon never participated in Small Council sessions if he could help it.
Otto was the first to shake off his surprise. “Please elaborate, Prince Aegon.”
Aegon cleared his throat. His eyes flickered toward Jacaera again. “Well, a wagon is always going to win against someone on foot. Seven know I’ve almost been run over a few times while I was minding my own business. If there’s a place just for pedestrians to walk, they won’t even be in the same place as wagons. And if the walkways are raised, like in some of the Free Cities, then people won’t need to step in sewage in the streets. I’m no maester, but it’s probably better for their health if they aren’t wading through shit all the time.”
Jacaera grinned, resisting the temptation to clap her hands. She was very glad she had taken the time to explain Valyrian urban design to Aegon.
“These walkways would be a great expense,” Lord Beesbury said. “The materials, the labor, and we would need to close the streets during construction.”
Aegon’s hands flexed against the table as he thought. “Whenever a wagon causes an accident, levy a high fine on the driver. We can use that income to pay for construction, and it’ll encourage drivers to be more careful. And isn’t there a fee for every vehicle that enters the city? We can increase that too.”
“People will complain about the increase,” Larys said softly.
“People always complain,” Aegon replied. “Most people who can afford a wagon can also afford the fee. They’re usually merchants, aren’t they? The majority of people are pedestrians who will be glad for the walkways. As for closing the streets, we could close off half a street at a time and have gold cloaks direct traffic each way. It’ll be better than shutting down the entire street.”
The room was silent as the councilors continued to stare at Aegon. Jacaera watched her husband rapidly tap his foot under the table.
Finally, Lord Beesbury said, “I believe it is a feasible plan, but I will need to calculate some estimates for the budget.”
“Or,” Otto said, “mayhaps Prince Aegon can create a formal project proposal and present it at the next meeting.”
“Uh, yes. Of course. I will do that,” Aegon said hurriedly, sitting up straight.
The rest of the meeting was less eventful. Aegon spoke a few more times. Although he didn’t suggest any more projects, his comments received approving nods.
When they finished discussing all agenda items, Otto dismissed the other councilors and waited for them to depart. He didn’t smile, but there was a pleased glint in his eyes. “That was a surprising performance from you, Aegon. I hope you intend to repeat it.”
“Yes. I hope so too. I mean, I will.”
As Otto left the room, he patted Aegon’s shoulder, just once.
After the door closed behind his grandfather, Aegon shot up from his chair and sprinted toward Jacaera. He opened the secret entrance, yanked her out of the tunnel, and kissed her so hard that his teeth almost cut into her lip.
“You did so well,” she said breathlessly as one of his hands roved downward to grope her bottom.
“I have an excellent tutor. She is very thorough.” He lifted her then seated her on the edge of the table, where the king’s chair was.
She started when he rucked up her skirts to her waist. “Here, Aegon?”
“I’m afraid I’ve become accustomed to being rewarded after performing well.” He stepped between her legs, and she felt his hardness rub against her. “I fear that if we try to return to your chambers, I’ll just press you against the nearest wall and take you in the corridor.”
“Oh…I…yes, alright.” She had also become accustomed to bedding her husband after he performed well. She would never admit it aloud, but watching him speak confidently and intelligently was rather arousing.
He pushed her down so her back lay on the table, and he hoisted up her legs so she was practically folded in half. She’d never realized how flexible she was, or the innumerable positions in which two people could copulate, until Aegon decided to educate her. She barely needed any preparation before he pushed inside her. Keeping his hips still, he skillfully unlaced the front of her bodice then buried his face against her exposed breasts. Only then did he begin to move.
Eyes closed, her head fell back against the table while she enjoyed the familiar rhythm of his rutting. “Aegon,” she sighed happily as he took her nipple between his lips. He responded with a content hum that vibrated through her breast to the rest of her body. Wanting to see the expression of pleasure on his face, she opened her eyes again.
From her upside-down perspective, she saw someone standing in the doorway.
“Aegon!” she shrieked.
It was a shriek of horror, not pleasure. He looked up and realized what she had seen. In a flash, he pulled out of her, swept her onto the floor, and stood in front of her to shield her disheveled form. “What the fuck are you doing?” Aegon snarled at the intruder while Jacaera hurriedly covered her breasts and legs.
“I-I’m so sorry, my prince,” Larys Strong stammered. “If I knew what was happening, I would never—”
“Get out!”
Larys obeyed, moving quickly for someone with a clubfoot.
Jacaera tried not to cry as she fumbled with her laces. “He saw me, Aegon. He saw me. I don’t—I can’t—”
Aegon cupped her face in his hands and pressed his nose against hers. “I will ensure he casts it from his memory immediately. And he will never speak of it to anyone.”
The certainty in his voice helped reassure her, although she was still tense as they returned to her chambers. She vowed to never have sex outside of their rooms again, no matter how desperate they were. Even now, part of her expected one of the councilors to walk through her door, which Aegon had locked behind them.
They had been interrupted before he could find release, so she expected Aegon to lead her to the bedroom and resume where they left off. Instead, he flopped down on the couch and pulled her on top of him, hugging her like a child hugged his favorite stuffed toy. As she played with his hair and breathed in the scent of his marjoram bath oils, he asked quietly, “Did I really do well? You aren’t just saying that?”
She lifted her head so their gazes met. “I meant it. I didn’t even think about the sewage issue until you mentioned it. I’m so proud of you, Aegon.”
A boyish grin spread across his face. Her heart beat a little faster at the sight. “Unfortunately, now I have to create a project proposal,” he said. “I don’t even know what a project proposal is supposed to look like.”
“I would be happy to help,” she said hopefully, already thinking about the books she needed to borrow from the library. “And if you don’t mind the extra assistance, I can ask Luce to do the budget calculations. She’s very good with sums.”
“Please. Please help me.” His grip tightened on her. “I only pretend to know what I’m doing. You have all the brains in this marriage.”
Another moon passed without bloodstains on Jacaera’s smallclothes and sheets. She was debating whether to visit the maester when a servant arrived with an invitation to take tea with the queen. Jacaera had sat down to dine and converse with the queen before, but those past instances were in a group setting with her mother, grandmother, sisters, and cousins. Rhaenyra and Rhaenys had already returned to Driftmark with their husbands, and the queen’s invitation indicated that they would be meeting alone.
Aegon seemed unconcerned. “My mother already likes you more than she likes me. She’s always reminding me to make sure you’re taken care of. And she’s been dying for a daughter who talks about normal things instead of bugs.”
The queen dressed conservatively, so Jacaera chose a gown with a modest cut. It was made of red brocade and had silver trimmings, a blend of Targaryen and Velaryon colors. The brocade had been part of a large shipment of fabric that the queen sent to Driftmark before the wedding, a gift to her future good-daughter.
When Jacaera arrived at the queen’s apartments, Alicent warmly greeted her and complimented her gown. “I apologize for not having the tea ready,” Alicent said as they sat on a couch beside the sunny windows. “There must be a delay in the kitchens.”
“It is no trouble, Your Grace. Thank you for inviting me here today.”
Alicent’s hands fidgeted in her lap. The skin around her nails was raw. She also wore Targaryen colors, but her gown was predominantly black. Jacaera had noticed that the queen frequently wore black, as if in perpetual mourning. Inexplicably, Jacaera was reminded of Rhaenyra’s wardrobe, every garment in some shade of blue. The only exception was a single off-the-shoulder gown, red as the Targaryen sigil. Sometimes Jacaera caught her mother holding the gown in front of herself as she smiled sadly at the mirror, but Rhaenyra never wore it.
“You look well.” The queen’s voice lilted up at the end with a hint of questioning.
“I am well,” Jacaera confirmed. “Moving to the Red Keep has been a great change, and I admit I have lost my way a few times. But everyone has been welcoming, and there is never a dull moment in the capital.”
The queen nodded. “It must be quite an adjustment after spending your entire life at Driftmark. I have only ever heard good things about High Tide.” Her voice became a smidgen quieter. “Has your mother been happy there?”
While the Velaryon women were in King’s Landing for the wedding, the queen had been very solicitous of Rhaenyra, who was infallibly polite but distant in return. It was no secret that the two women used to be bosom friends before Alicent married Rhaenyra’s father, before Alicent’s son was given Rhaenyra’s crown. Rhaenyra seldom spoke of the queen, but it was apparent that Rhaenyra had often been in the queen’s thoughts the past sixteen years.
“My mother finds purpose and fulfillment at Driftmark,” Jacaera said, speaking the truth yet avoiding the question. “She helps my grandmother run the keep, and she enjoys tending to the dragons. Before the wedding, she often took my sisters, cousins, and me to Spicetown. We would walk around asking the merchants and sailors about their travels, then she would buy us sticky sweet cakes made with a spiced wine from Sothoryos.”
A sheen appeared in the queen’s eyes as she smiled faintly, relaxing into a distant memory. “She always wanted to fly across the world on dragonback while eating cake.” She shook her head and sat up straight again. “I am glad you had such a content childhood, although I do wish you could have visited court sooner. We all would have enjoyed making your acquaintance earlier.”
Jacaera remembered the king visiting High Tide after Joff’s birth and requesting that Rhaenyra formally present all her daughters at court. Rhaenys had been in favor of accepting, insisting that Jacaera needed to establish a presence at the court where she would one day be the foremost lady. But the other Velaryons rejected Viserys’s invitation. “Every time we send our women to that cesspit, the Targaryens shame them. I will not surrender another daughter of our house until I absolutely must,” Corlys declared.
At the time, Jacaera was disappointed not to experience the grandeur of the royal court, but also relieved that she did not yet need to meet her betrothed, who had been surrounded by unflattering rumors from a young age. But now she knew Aegon, and she rued her family’s reticence. “I regret all the time that I missed with my husband because of my absence,” she said to the queen. “Fortunately, we will have a lifetime together, gods willing.”
Alicent shifted in her seat. “My son—”
The door flew open, bouncing against the wall with a bang. Jacaera and the queen jumped as a maid plodded into the room with a tea tray. Ser Criston, who was standing guard in the corridor, glared at the girl as he reached over to shut the door.
Alicent also glared at the maid, who blanched and almost dropped the tray. She caught it at the last second, but several biscuits fell to the floor. Sighing, Alicent turned back to Jacaera and said, “I apologize again. Myranda is new. I will ensure she is properly trained before she serves future guests.”
“That’s alright. We all have bad days occasionally.” Jacaera smiled at Myranda the maid, who looked surly as she set down the tray.
“You are gracious, my dear.” Alicent cleared her throat. “As I was saying, my son is quite taken with you. He assures me that he has been treating you as befits a princess. But if he ever fails to treat you with utmost respect and dignity, I hope you will inform me so I can set him to rights.”
Heat filled Jacaera’s cheeks as her good-mother’s words unwittingly conjured a memory from just the other day. Aegon had lured Jacaera to his room with the promise of some pretty trinkets he’d commissioned just for her, and she always loved the little gifts he lavished upon her. When she realized what exactly those trinkets were and their purpose, she should have left immediately, as a proper lady ought.
But she stayed.
“Bracelets fit for a princess,” her husband cooed as he wrapped gold manacles padded with silk around her wrists and ankles, stretching her limbs across the bed. “We can trade places later to keep things fair. But for now, I have a few more trinkets for you. You’ll like them, I promise…”
Alicent looked at her with concern, unaware of the lewd images playing in Jacaera’s mind. “Your cheeks are flushed, dear. Is it too warm in this room? Myranda, open a window.”
Myranda had been standing to the side, ogling them both. Most servants kept their heads down and their hands busy until they were directly addressed, but Jacaera had never liked scolding servants so she said nothing. At the queen’s order, Myranda hurried to the nearest window and fumbled with the latch.
“When you are finished with that, Myranda, you may go. I will pour the tea,” Alicent said, reaching for the teapot.
Myranda spun around, eyes wide. She stretched her hands forward then hastily dropped them to her sides.
Alicent poured a cup. She started to hand it to Jacaera but then frowned at its contents. “The tea is almost cold! How long were you dawdling in the corridor, Myranda?” Alicent brought the cup to her nose and sniffed. Then she blinked, furrowed her brow, and sniffed again, more carefully. Gasping in realization, she turned furiously toward Myranda. “You brought us moon tea?”
Myranda let out a strangled cry and bolted for the door.
Alicent leapt to her feet, dropping the teacup. “Criston, stop her!”
The Kingsguard tackled the maid before she could take two steps into the corridor. “It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!” Myranda shrieked with her face smashed against the stone tiles while Criston bellowed for more guards.
Jacaera remained frozen on the couch, staring at the dark liquid pooling between the porcelain shards on the floor. Moon tea? Despite its name, it wasn’t similar to real tea at all. No respectable cook would mistakenly use it.
The moon tea was served to them intentionally.
Served to me, she realized. The tea was meant for me. The queen was nearing the end of her childbearing years while Jacaera was just beginning them. If the queen bore another child, they would be far down the line of succession. If Jacaera bore a child, they would be Aegon’s heir apparent, mayhaps a future king. House Targaryen had many enemies who would want to intervene in the line of succession.
A quarter-hour later, Jacaera was still trying to comprehend what happened when Aegon hurtled into the queen’s apartments, sweaty from the training yard. He beelined for Jacaera on the couch. His hands were dirty when they cupped her face, but she didn’t care. “Tell me you aren’t hurt,” he demanded.
She rested her hand against one of his. “I’m fine. I didn’t even touch the tea.”
He swiped a thumb over her bottom lip to verify she hadn’t consumed a drop. “They said someone tried to poison you.”
“It wasn’t poison. It was moon tea. Even if I drank it, I would have been fine. Or…well…” Jacaera glanced at the Grand Maester, who was investigating the teapot and muttering to the queen and Ser Criston. Everyone had insisted that Orwyle examine Jacaera, even though she really didn’t eat or drink anything.
Oh, how she wished she didn’t have to tell Aegon this way…
“Or what?” Aegon asked anxiously.
She took a breath, steeling herself. This had always been her duty. She had prepared for this exact moment for years, ever since she was old enough to understand the purpose of marriage. “The Grand Maester believes I am pregnant. He advises waiting a few more weeks before making an announcement, but he is confident in his diagnosis.” She smiled shakily when Aegon’s eyes widened. “I didn’t drink any tea, I promise. Your child is well.”
He didn’t say anything. He just stared at her.
She resisted the urge to wring her hands. He couldn’t possibly be unhappy, could he? Every man wanted heirs, and they had conceived quickly. He should be overjoyed.
“Our child,” he finally said.
“Pardon?” she replied, confused.
“Not mine. Ours.” He gestured awkwardly at her belly. “You’re the one doing all the work. As usual.”
Affection filled her chest, warming her. “I appreciate the sentiment, Aegon. But it is your heir I might be carrying. You’re allowed to be pleased that we have fulfilled our duty.”
He stared at her again. No tears filled his eyes, but for some reason he looked like he wanted to cry.
“Have I done something wrong, Aegon?” she asked hesitantly. Surely this was a good thing. He had no cause for sadness.
“No. Not at all.” His face darkened as he looked away from her. “You’ve done everything that was expected of you,” he said, a touch bitterly.
A new regimen was immediately implemented to protect Jacaera—or rather, the child that was growing inside her. The preparation of all her meals was strictly monitored, from the moment the ingredients arrived at the Red Keep, and tasters tried every dish before she could eat them. She was also discouraged from public outings, apparently for fear she might be assaulted in the castle corridors. It seemed ludicrous, but if something did happen to her unborn child because she insisted on strolling through the gardens, she couldn’t live with herself.
So Jacaera agreed to confine herself to Maegor’s Holdfast. The keep within a keep was sizable, and she had multiple courtyards where she could take her exercise. She no longer spent time with the various ladies she had been befriending, but she still visited with her sisters, her cousins, Helaena, and the queen. Aemond and Daeron, at their mother’s behest, made an effort to join the women for meals and walks, but Jacaera knew it wasn’t her company they sought. Although her social circle was smaller, she kept herself busy with researching and assembling Aegon’s Small Council proposals.
She tried to keep her spirits high, but it was difficult. In the days after the moon tea incident, there was a distance between her and Aegon. He no longer clung to her during every spare moment, and although he continued to sleep in her bed at night, he didn’t initiate any sex. When she got dressed in the morning, she felt him watching her, but he always looked away when she turned around.
Jacaera was fairly certain it was the pregnancy that had changed things. She just couldn’t figure out why. Did he think the child wasn’t his? Surely he knew that was a preposterous prospect. She would never be an adulterer, and she spent so many of her waking hours with Aegon that it would be nearly impossible for her to find a lover—not that she wished for one. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but fear held her back. She had no idea what his answer would be, and she was afraid she wouldn’t like it.
One night, she finished supping with her sisters and cousins on a lackluster meal. The strict monitoring of her food and drink had greatly reduced the variety in her diet to a few core dishes. She was increasingly nauseated of late, so she usually wasn’t able to keep down anything heavier than fruit and bread anyway, but she still daydreamed about the spicy seafood stew that High Tide’s cooks made.
Jacaera was getting ready for bed when Aegon suddenly entered the room. “They finished questioning the maid,” he said.
She put down her comb and gave him her full attention. She’d been aware that Myranda was being held in the dungeons, and she tried not to think about what was being done to the girl. “Did they learn anything?”
“She changed her story a lot, but Larys Strong believes she was hired by a brothel proprietor called Mysaria, the White Worm. The king sent gold cloaks to her establishment, but she had already disappeared.”
Jacaera frowned. “Why would a brothel proprietor want to give me moon tea?”
“Mysaria used to be Daemon’s paramour.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle. Aegon’s eyes followed the movement. “Prince Daemon? But…why would he…?” She trailed off, perplexed.
Prince Daemon had not been at Driftmark long for his wife’s funeral, and most of his time was spent with Rhaenyra. But he was perfectly pleasant to Jacaera and her sisters, and despite his grief, he was willing to tell stories about his past adventures when they asked.
“My grandfather thinks Daemon is acting out of bitterness, because my brothers and I have pushed him so far down the line of succession. My father refuses to believe it.” Aegon’s expression was unreadable as he idly twisted his signet ring.
Jacaera stood, clasping her hands together. “I’ve been thinking about that day. The entire incident was… It doesn’t make sense.”
He gazed seriously at her. “What doesn’t make sense?”
She scrunched her nose. Aegon’s mouth quirked up. She wrung her hands as she rambled, “If Prince Daemon, or anyone else for that matter, wanted to sabotage your bloodline, it would be more effective to put actual poison in the teapot or send an assassin. That might have harmed your mother too, and if I were seriously harmed or killed, it certainly would have damaged my house’s relationship with yours. Moon tea is harmless in comparison. It’s so early that I would have no resulting health issues, and we could simply conceive another child in a few moons. Moreover, the culprit hired a terrible catspaw. As soon as Myranda entered the room, your mother and I noticed her unusual behavior. She was so inept that your mother refused to let her pour the tea. If someone has the temerity to send a catspaw against the royal family, surely they would spend the extra coin to hire someone competent. But of all the servants they could have bribed, they chose her. Why?”
Aegon’s left eye twitched. “Why her,” he muttered under his breath.
“Did Lord Larys say anything else about Myranda? Where did she come from? Does she have a history with the royal family? Your mother said she was new—” She broke off as she was wrapped in a crushing hug.
He buried his face against the soft skin of her neck where it met her shoulder. His chest pressed against hers as he exhaled sharply. She instinctively wrapped her arms around him too, clutching his shoulder blades. Aegon loved touching her, any place and any way, but embraces like this were somehow more intimate than their bedroom activities. He seemed more exposed now, fully-clothed, than he ever was while stark naked.
“No more talk of catspaws and poison,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t want to think about it.”
“Then I won’t speak another word of it.” She tucked away her conspiracy theories. Mayhaps she could speculate with her sisters and cousins another time.
He ran a hand down her spine and let it rest on her hip. His thumb curved around her belly as if trying to hold the fledgling life within. “We received a raven from Driftmark. Your mother wants you to return to High Tide.”
Jacaera drew her head back and blinked at him. “Because of Myranda and the moon tea?”
“She thinks we can’t keep you safe. She threatened to fly here and take you back.” His arms tightened around her. “But you’re my wife. You belong here. With me. I don’t care what Rhaenyra thinks.”
Her breath hitched. “You want me here?”
He looked flabbergasted. “When have I ever not wanted you?”
“You’ve been…different.” She swallowed nervously. “Ever since the moon tea and the pregnancy. I thought you were displeased with me.”
Aegon gaped at her for a long moment, eyes wide and lips parted. “No. No, you could never displease me, Jace. I’ve just been…distracted. It’s no fault of yours.”
“Then we’re alright, you and I?” Her heart skipped a hopeful beat. “If I ever make a misstep, please tell me. I want to be a good wife.”
His answering smile was overcast, like clouds before the sun. “You are a good wife,” he said, resting his forehead against hers. “And I am a fool for expecting anything else.”
Notes:
See author's behind-the-scenes commentary about this chapter here. Warning: potential spoilers for future chapters, so don't read this during your first reading.
Oh look it’s plot!!
I look forward to reading conspiracy theories in the comments 🍿. I will respond with vague emojis.
Chapter 3: Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder
Summary:
Aegon is determined not to fall in love with his wife…any more than he already has, at least.
Notes:
If you are a fan of The Golds and haven't already seen it, there is now a delightful comic panel of Aegon chasing Cheeseball around the Red Keep. You can see it on Tumblr with my commentary. Please give the artist some love!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aegon went to the training yard while Jacaera had tea with his mother. Aemond was absent, which Aegon found odd until a squire informed him that Aemond, who couldn’t tell the difference between a daisy and a dandelion, had gone to the gardens instead.
“I bet twenty gold dragons that Lucera Velaryon is also in the gardens right now,” Aegon said gleefully. Wisely, the squire did not take his bet.
Amused by the mental image of Aemond awkwardly flirting with the poor girl, Aegon started his exercises with more verve than usual. Aemond never went easy on Aegon in the training yard, and Aegon looked forward to finishing a session without feeling excessively sore for once. Then again, whenever he hobbled to his wife’s chambers covered in scrapes and bruises, she was so very solicitous of his comfort…
Before marriage, he had viewed the training yard as a necessary evil. A childish part of him hoped, mayhaps, that if he at least appeared competent with a blade, his father and all the rest of them would finally approve of their future king. So, if he wasn’t horrendously ill after a night of carousing, he dragged himself out of bed and dressed for training. It wasn’t a daily occurrence. Mayhaps a few times a week at best.
Now that he was married, he discovered that his wife was a compelling incentive to regularly visit the training yard. When they were in bed, he was keenly aware of her every reaction: her eyes darkening when he disrobed, her pink tongue wetting her lips as she knelt in front of him, her soft hands roving over the muscles in his arms and back while her long legs squeezed his hips closer.
It was different from the women working on the Street of Silk. Whores could praise his face and cock to the heavens, but they said the same things to any fat old man with a fat gold purse. They were paid to make him feel good. He knew it, they knew it. Everything was transactional.
He cared very much for his wife’s opinion, however. Jacaera liked the way he looked. He wanted to keep it that way. And sometimes she wandered onto the observation balcony above the training yard, which meant he needed to remain agile enough not to embarrass himself in front of her.
Aegon was halfway through his exercises when a servant sprinted into the yard, beelining for the prince. Aegon stopped his movements, as did everyone else in the yard, curious about the news. Before Aegon could ask what was the matter, the servant blurted, “Your wife, my prince! Someone tried to poison her. She—”
Aegon was already running. Poison, poison, poison echoed repeatedly in his panic-stricken mind as he raced through the castle to the queen’s apartments. He was beset by visions of Jacaera sprawled on the ground, eyes glassy, face purple, blood dribbling from her mouth. His stomach lurched, but there was no time to be sick.
When he barreled into his mother’s solar and saw Jacaera sitting on the couch, trembling and alive, he almost collapsed from relief. He desperately touched her face, feeling the warm flush of her cheeks, proof of the blood pumping through her body. “Tell me you aren’t hurt,” he demanded, as if his mere words could ensure no harm ever came to her.
“I’m fine.” She pressed her hand to his. “I didn’t even touch the tea.”
“They said someone tried to poison you.” Now that he was holding her safely in his arms, he could afford to turn his thoughts to other matters. Who had threatened her? When Aegon found the culprit, he would force them to drink their own poison then feed them to Sunfyre.
Actually, no. He didn’t want to risk Sunfyre getting a stomachache. Aegon would skip the poison. Instead, he would dismember the culprit with his bare hands. That was more satisfying, anyway.
“It wasn’t poison. It was moon tea,” Jacaera said, remarkably patient under the circumstances. “Even if I drank it, I would have been fine. Or…well…”
Aegon tensed even more. “Or what?”
Jacaera’s hand slipped from his so she could clasp her hands together on her lap. She drew back her shoulders and said, in the same formal tone she used to address courtiers, “The Grand Maester believes I am pregnant. He advises waiting a few more weeks before making an announcement, but he is confident in his diagnosis.” She hadn’t spoken to Aegon with such impeccable formality since they married. He frowned, wondering what he had done to merit such cool, distant courtesy.
Then he realized what she actually said.
Pregnant?
The word seemed so alien, it might as well be Dothraki. In theory, he knew he was supposed to get his wife pregnant. The whole point of their marriage was to make a bunch of half-Targaryen, half-Velaryon babies who would have the dubious privilege of sitting on the Iron Throne.
But he didn’t think it would happen so soon.
After a moment of silence, she smiled tentatively. “I didn’t drink any tea, I promise. Your child is well.”
Your child is well.
The four words echoed discordantly in his ears, like off-key notes in a chorus. They were wrong. Just wrong. I don’t care about the child, he wanted to say. I didn’t even know about them until five seconds ago. You’re the reason I ran here, not some pea-sized clot inside your womb.
Those indignant thoughts teetered on his tongue. Then he looked at Jacaera again, and this time he really saw her. Her courtly mask had fallen apart. Anxiety oozed from her pores, and her knuckles were white as she clenched her fists. Her pretty eyes shone with a fear that he hadn’t seen since their wedding night.
She was afraid. Of him. Why? What did he do? Didn’t she know he would never hurt her? Everything he did was to worship her. He kissed her, he embraced her, he made her orgasm until she was on the verge of passing out. He was kind to her. He made her happy. He’d done nothing to deserve this mistrust.
He glanced at his mother across the room, where she was muttering with Criston and Orwyle over the teapot. He remembered her words from the morning he met Jacaera.
She will place her life into the hands of a man she does not know. You are her husband and future king, and she will be beholden to you in every way.
Was this what Alicent meant? Aegon was Jacaera’s husband, her master, her warden. Everything she did was to please him, because her life depended on it. Jacaera said it herself during the wedding tourney: I am to be your wife. Your reputation and behavior affect me as well. And I admit that I would prefer my husband to be sober more often than not.
A husband could handle, even manhandle, his wife as he wished. Thus far, Aegon had pampered Jacaera like a beloved pet. Of course she wanted that to continue, which meant keeping him happy. She feared that if she displeased him, he would neglect her—or worse.
So this was his crime. He was her husband, therefore she would always live in fear of his displeasure.
It wasn’t fair. For once in his life, he’d done everything right. He was a good husband. Not even Alicent and Otto could find fault in his treatment of Jacaera. But none of his efforts mattered. He could be a negligent husband, and she would fear him just the same.
Anger flared in his chest, but it was soon doused by misery. He didn’t want a fearful wife. He wanted the wife he thought he had: happy and adoring and devoted because she wanted to be, not because she had to be.
The pregnancy? She wanted him to be delighted by the news. Her own feelings, whatever they were, were subsumed by the need to bear him an heir.
It didn’t even matter that Aegon was her husband. She could be married to a Stark, a Lannister, a Tully. Whoever her husband was, she would smile prettily at him, comfort him, and welcome him in her bed. She didn’t do those things because she lo—liked Aegon. She did those things because that was her nature, and he was the lucky bastard who married her.
After Jacaera’s sisters and cousins swept her away to fuss over her, Aegon stomped to the dungeons where the poisoning culprit was held. He’d heard it was a new maid who somehow infiltrated the queen’s household. Larys Strong had not yet begun his interrogation, which gave Aegon a chance to yell at her before she was too bloodied and tongueless to respond.
When Larys showed Aegon to the cell, the maid immediately leapt to her feet. “My prince!” she cried, relieved. “Please, tell them this was all a misunderstanding. I’m no traitor!”
Her face was darkly bruised from her escape attempt, but Aegon recognized her. “Myranda?” he said, dumbfounded. He hadn’t seen or thought about her in moons.
“Do you know her, my prince?” Larys asked.
“She works on the Street of Silk.” Aegon didn’t elaborate further. Regardless, Larys nodded in understanding.
Myranda’s frantic weeping muddled her speech. “Please—it wasn’t my fault. I wouldn’t—hurt anyone. I just—wanted to see you again. I was told—this would bring you back.” She stumbled toward Aegon. Her chains stopped her just before she could reach him. “Please, my prince, I love you, have mercy, please—”
“You don’t love me, you love my coin,” Aegon snapped, inexplicably infuriated by those three words. “You tried to poison my wife and kill our child. If you want mercy, then you should pray I never lay eyes upon you again. The Lord Confessor will be kinder to you.” He ignored her despairing wails as he stormed out of the cell.
Larys limped after him. “My prince, be assured I shall uncover who allowed her into the castle. There will be no repeat attempts on the princess and your heir. I—”
“Don’t tell her.”
“Pardon?”
Panic thrummed in Aegon’s heart. “My wife. Don’t tell her about Myranda. She won’t—it’ll distress her. It’s not good for the…pregnancy.” It was well known that he’d enjoyed sowing his oats before the wedding, and he had no illusions that Jacaera was ignorant of the rumors. But he didn’t want the knowledge presented to her on a silver platter. He didn’t want to see her expression when she realized his profligacy might have caused her to lose their child.
Larys bowed his head. “As you command, my prince.”
Aegon’s thoughts raced as he ascended from the dungeon. Myranda? It couldn’t be a coincidence that she was chosen as the catspaw. Before he married, he had enjoyed the company of many brothel girls, though he supposed he preferred Myranda over the others. She was comely, witty, and eager to try new things. But he had little emotional attachment to her, and she should’ve felt the same. Instead, Myranda’s baseless jealousy almost led to his wife bleeding out the nascent life in her.
His stomach churned. He felt pulled in opposite directions, simultaneously resentful and protective of the unborn child that had taken root in his wife. Or was it Jacaera’s pain he was angry about? Did it hurt the woman to lose a child this early? He didn’t know. He didn’t know a lot of things. He didn’t know anything about pregnancy, he didn’t know who was the mastermind behind Myranda, and he didn’t know his wife.
Aegon didn’t return to Jacaera’s chambers until late that night, after she already fell asleep. She tended to retire early on the nights when he wasn’t fucking her senseless. He sat on the bed. Instead of crawling under the blankets to join her, he just stared at her in the moonlit darkness.
Now that he’d achieved the purpose in bedding his wife, would she bar her doors to him? He couldn’t make her more pregnant. He wondered if her eagerness in bed had been a pretense to encourage conception, but he dismissed the idea. His wife was no mummer. At least that was real. At least that was no figment of his imagination.
Exhaustion crashed over him. He finally lay down. He instinctively started to wrap his limbs around her, as he did most nights, then paused. Suddenly he worried that she might shake him off, repulsed by his touch even in her sleep. Unable to bear the thought of her rejection, he kept his hands at his sides and rolled away from her.
Although only a few inches of silk sheets lay between them, it felt like an insurmountable distance. He was determined not to even try crossing it. Their marriage was a political arrangement. He was never supposed to become so fond of his wife. Now he needed to rectify his carelessness, before it was too late. He refused to spend the rest of his life suffering from the agony of knowing she had far more control over him than he could ever hope to have over her.
If Aegon wanted to rid himself of his inconvenient attachment to his wife, he needed to rid himself of any delusions of her perfection. He was confident the task would be easy. He knew Jacaera well enough by now to be aware of her faults. She did have faults, difficult as it was to believe.
For starters, she was inordinately concerned with her appearance. Every morning she applied countless ointments to her skin, combed her hair until it gleamed like dragonglass, and examined her face for unsightly spots. These habits were all signs of vanity. Moreover, they were pointless. Jacaera could roll out of bed and go directly to court, and she would still be prettier than everyone else in the Red Keep. But he enjoyed how soft her skin and hair were. Sometimes he stole dollops of her rose cream and rubbed it on his own neck so he could keep her smell on him during the day.
Although he knew nothing about women’s fashion, he knew her wardrobe was eye-wateringly expensive. He once peeked into the room where her clothes were stored and was astonished to learn it wasn’t a mercer’s warehouse. Corlys Velaryon had amply armed his granddaughter for her debut at court, and the marriage contract granted her an extremely generous stipend from the Targaryen coffers. Even if Jacaera threw out every gown after wearing it once, she would still have years’ worth of outfits in reserve.
No wonder royal courtiers were derided as frivolous and extravagant. She didn’t need all those brocades and diamond necklaces. She could wear a burlap sack and outshine everyone around her. But Aegon admittedly enjoyed seeing her in pink and gold silks that reminded him of Sunfyre, and the gossamer wisps of lace she wore to bed could drive any man to madness. Half of the contents of her jewelry box were gifts from him, so he couldn’t really complain about that.
He used to eat every meal he could with Jacaera. Now he reduced the frequency to just family suppers, usually ordered by his mother. Jacaera had an even smaller appetite than before, and he was convinced that she sustained herself on perfumed air some days. When they shared meals, he watched her unenthusiastically nibble on the bland dishes that had become standard fare at her table after the poisoning attempt. She favored lighter foods like fruit and nuts, so Aegon ordered the servants to keep a steady supply in her chambers in case she felt peckish.
On a hunch, he also ordered the kitchens to bake rose and almond cakes. Although he’d never seen her eat them before, her predilection for roses made him suspect she would like them. It required him to argue with Otto about adding the necessary ingredients to Jacaera’s food supply chain, but it was worth it. Aegon was pleased to find the cake platter licked clean on Jacaera’s bedside table. It wouldn’t do for his wife to perish from hunger, even if she stubbornly denied being hungry.
Jacaera had few noteworthy interests, other than reading philosophical treatises and lewd Lysene literature. She went on strolls in the Holdfast’s courtyards, where she and her sisters and cousins flew kites if there was a good wind. She wrote letters upon letters to ladies throughout the realm, most of whom she’d only met once at the wedding, conversing about their children and households.
She embroidered, like most women. One night she stayed up late, waiting for him to come to bed. She fought back yawns as she presented him with a handkerchief.
“I started it before the wedding, but I’ve been so busy that I haven’t been able to work on it very diligently.” She nervously watched him run his fingers over the pattern, red dragons dancing with silver seahorses. “I know I’m not as talented as Helaena. She’s agreed to teach me some techniques so I can improve—”
“I like it.” He wanted to wipe the distress from her face. He never liked seeing her anything less than content. “It’s perfect. Better than anything I could sew.”
Her radiant smile made him feel warm, like there was a little sun in his stomach.
Rhaenyra’s raven arrived the same day that Larys Strong concluded his interrogation of Myranda. The letter was addressed to the king, but the Grand Maester dutifully brought it to the Hand, who in turn shared it with Aegon.
His half-sister was the epitome of cool courtesy whenever he saw her in person. In contrast, her letter was a furious scrawl of heavy ink and vitriol.
Father,
I have heard of the poisoning attempt against my daughter, your granddaughter. This catspaw should never have gotten close to her. I consented to this marriage because I was led to believe Jacaera would be safe and honored at court, but it is clear that your son and his kin are incapable of adequately protecting her. They have failed a husband’s bare minimum duty of safeguarding his wife.
I beg you to immediately send her home, where she will be safe. After you capture the culprit, she may return to court, but I must be assured she no longer faces any threat in your household. There need not be any inconvenience to you. I will come on Syrax to fetch her myself.
Your daughter,
Rhaenyra
Rhaenyra always addressed Viserys as “Your Grace,” unless she wanted something from him. Then he became “Father.” Funny how that worked.
“Princess Rhaenyra’s request must be denied, of course,” Otto said. “Jacaera is carrying your heir. She must remain in King’s Landing. She is no longer a daughter of House Velaryon but a wife of House Targaryen.”
Aegon nodded as he handed back the letter. A catspaw could breach High Tide as easily as the Red Keep, so Rhaenyra’s claim of superior safety was groundless. Aegon would keep his wife at his side, where he could ensure her well-being with his own eyes and hands.
His thoughts leapt from Rhaenyra’s demand to Larys’s earlier report about Myranda’s confession. Myranda had been paid by Mysaria, the White Worm. Mysaria convinced Myranda that if Jacaera miscarried, then Aegon would return to the Street of Silk for solace. That explained Myranda’s motivations, foolish as they were. But why did Mysaria involve herself? Aegon had never met her, nor done anything to earn her animosity.
There was Mysaria’s connection to Daemon. Otto suspected a conspiracy, but Daemon had stayed far away from Westeros in the years since Laena Velaryon’s death. It would be difficult for anyone, even the Rogue Prince, to mastermind a scheme all the way from the Disputed Lands. Daemon would have needed to set any plans in motion before the wedding even took place. Besides, Otto’s speculation about Daemon’s anger over the line of succession failed to convince Aegon. It would’ve been simpler and quicker to arrange Aegon and his siblings’ demise while they were in the cradle.
The distance from Driftmark to King’s Landing was much less cumbersome. Rhaenyra used to be close to Daemon. Mayhaps she inherited his contacts. She didn’t hide her displeasure about Jacaera and Aegon’s marriage, and she seized the first opportunity to demand her daughter’s return. Moon tea wouldn’t harm Jacaera, only the child she carried, which Rhaenyra had no attachment to. The child’s father might even count against it in her eyes.
Aegon didn’t voice his thoughts aloud. Claiming that Rhaenyra tried to harm his heir was a grievous accusation. Viserys would be infuriated by the insult to his favorite child, and so would Jacaera, especially when Aegon had no evidence whatsoever. Just a suspicion.
“Does Larys have any leads on whither Mysaria fled?” Aegon asked. If they found Mysaria, they could discover who else participated in this scheme.
“There was a report of someone matching her description boarding a ship to Sunspear, but it is unconfirmed,” Otto said.
If Mysaria ran away to Dorne, they had no chance of retrieving her. The Martells would lavish honors and feasts upon someone who facilitated an attack on the Targaryens.
Aegon went to inform Jacaera of the investigation’s updates. She was preparing for bed. She’d shed her daytime armor of cosmetics, jewels, and silk gowns. Now she wore her favorite robe as she braided her hair for sleep. She seemed less untouchable and divine this way.
She listened intently as he relayed the new information, then she responded with her own ruminations. She kept poking at the topic of Myranda’s involvement, blissfully ignorant of Aegon’s guilty discomfort, until she talked too much about her own theoretical poisoning.
He had been content without her for eighteen years. Now he couldn’t bear the prospect of being without her for even a minute. He was a man seeing the sun for the first time, and an unknown darkness threatened to take her from him. He’d tried to resist. He’d only known her for a few moons. It should’ve been simple to cool his ardor, but his attempts were for naught. She was the unknowing tyrant of his heart, and he was doomed for it. At least she was a gentle tyrant.
When she began fretting about being a bad wife, he took her into his arms. It was as natural as breathing. “You are a good wife,” he told her, “and I am a fool for expecting anything else.”
She looked puzzled. “Why do you think you’re a fool?”
A good wife was expected to give her husband heirs, run his household, and maintain her reputation. A good wife was not expected to fall in love with her husband, like heroes and maidens in a song. Aegon had known that, but he was an even bigger fool than Jonquil’s Florian, thinking himself the exception.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.
Unconvinced, she reached up to run her fingers through his hair. “You needn’t fear confiding in me. I would be honored to keep your secrets and offer you counsel.”
“Because that’s the duty of a good wife?” The words came out more bitterly than he intended.
Her eyes anxiously searched his face. Despite her nerves, she had the courage to say, “I wish to reciprocate the kindness you have given me. On our wedding night, you allowed me time to become comfortable instead of immediately claiming your rights. You trusted me to assemble an important project proposal, whose success or failure will reflect upon you. And I have noticed your arrangement with the kitchens to ensure I am fed. You have shown me more regard and tenderness than I dared hope for in any marriage. You are a good husband to me, and I care about you.”
Her little speech followed the same format as her essays. She started with her argument, then her supporting evidence, then her conclusion. Usually she read her essays aloud to him, to ensure they had the desired impact on her audience. This time he was her audience. If her desired impact was to inspire an outpouring of helpless affection throughout his body, then she succeeded.
“I care about you too,” he said, while his heart protested it was an understatement.
Peaceful amity was restored between them. Soon Jacaera succumbed to sleep, and Aegon lay in bed beside her, brooding. I care about you. Those words were so close, yet so far, from the ones he longed to hear.
Do you love me?
He dared not ask. His wife was a bad liar, and he wouldn’t like her answer. Not yet, at least. Their conversation tonight gave him hope. One day, mayhaps…
His body twitched impatiently. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted her to love him now. He was already deep in the hole. If he couldn’t climb back out, then he would have to convince her to join him. When she fell too, he would be sure to catch her.
I’m going to make my wife fall in love with me.
He was so excited by his new plan that he immediately rolled over and cuddled against Jacaera, jostling her awake. “Something wrong?” she mumbled.
“No. You’re perfect.”
Her eyes flew open. She shuffled around so she could look at him. “I’m sure that’s an exaggeration, but thank you.”
“I’m not exaggerating.” He kept his gaze on her so she would know he meant his words.
A shy smile crept over her lips. “Thank you,” she repeated before pressing a chaste kiss to his mouth.
His stomach fluttered with longing. Usually he would deepen the kiss and paw at her nightgown, but he restrained himself. Sometimes it was nice to just hold his wife and feel the reassuring beat of her heart against his chest.
As he moved his arm around her, his hand grazed her belly. He wondered how long until there would be a second heartbeat. Mayhaps the child’s heart was already beating, too precious to be detected by mere human ears just yet.
“Hel,” Aegon said, entering his sister’s solar. “Hel, Hel, Hel.”
“Hm?” Helaena, the picture of serenity, continued embroidering the blanket she had started for the baby.
“You’re a girl.”
She paused her work so she could glare at him, annoyed. “Is this a revelation to you?”
“Sorry, I never paid attention to your lectures about male and female spiders.” He dropped into a chair near hers. “If a man—”
“Have you heard of Sunderland spiders? They’re native to the Three Sisters. When their eggs hatch, the female babies immediately start eating the males. If the males want to survive, they have to run away quickly.”
Aegon narrowed his eyes. “That isn’t real. You made that up just now.”
Helaena smiled as she stabbed her needle through her embroidery.
“Anyway,” he said pointedly, “if a man tried to woo you, what would he need to do to succeed?”
Helaena’s eyes glimmered suspiciously. “Are you trying to woo a princess? Black hair, sunkissed skin, shining like gold underneath the sun?”
“That’s unnecessarily poetic, but yes.”
“Eyes like amethysts or obsidian?”
“Stop the riddles. I’m talking about Jace,” Aegon snapped.
Helaena beamed. “Oh good! Otherwise I would need to sabotage you. It’s better for everyone when you and Jace get along.”
“I’m grateful for your support,” Aegon said flatly. “So? Do you have any advice?” He’d never needed to woo a woman before. It was just business with whores, and his mother had screamed his ear off after she caught him kissing a Redwyne girl when he was fourteen. He never bothered with highborns after that. Asking his sister for help was a bit embarrassing, but his options were limited, and he wanted to do this right. He couldn’t count on having a second chance with Jacaera if he made a mistake. This was too important.
“What was your question?”
Aegon sighed and ground out again, “If a man tried to woo you, what would he need to do to succeed?”
“He wouldn’t succeed. I would rather he left me alone.” Bored, Helaena returned her attention to her embroidery.
He resisted the urge to smack his head against the nearest table. “If someone tried to woo you, what would they need to do to succeed?” He generally tried not to think about his family’s romantic endeavors (with the exception of Aemond, who was much too fun to tease), but he’d always suspected Helaena’s disinterest in men. He didn’t think she was interested in anyone until Rhaena Targaryen came to court.
Helaena looked thoughtful as she rummaged in her basket of thread. “We like talking about clothes.”
Aegon mentally noted that. As long as he had something to wear, he didn’t care about clothes, but Jacaera had all sorts of fashion rules for every occasion. She would love to tell him all about it. “Anything else?”
“Um…” Helaena chewed on her lip. “Let her cry on your shoulder when she’s sad about being abandoned by her father?”
Aegon dragged his hands down his face. “I don’t think that applies to Jace.”
“You weren’t asking about Jace, you were asking about me.”
“You know I meant—ugh. Never mind.” He stood and turned to leave. “Thanks a lot.”
“You’re very welcome,” she said cheerfully. “The Sunderland spiders are real. I’ll bring one to you sometime.”
“No, I’ll take your word for it.”
Aegon did ask Jacaera about clothes. The way her face lit up was worth his confusion during her ramble about dagging and lappets, and something called a hennin which she harbored a personal grievance against.
“It’s a very tall, conical headdress,” she explained. “It looks ridiculous. But my grandmother likes hennins, and she used to make us wear them when we were younger. Luce almost poked my eye out once.”
“Rhaenys’s hair is rather, uh, conelike, isn’t it?” Aegon observed.
“Yes. It isn’t a coincidence.”
The success of that conversation emboldened Aegon to ask more questions. One morning, he watched her apply dabs of perfume on her neck and wrists. Rose-scented, as usual. “Why do you like roses so much?”
She carefully closed the perfume bottle. It was made of delicate blue glass, and a silver seahorse coiled around it several times. “Roses are beautiful, and I am fond of beautiful things.” She batted her eyelashes as she glanced at him.
He leaned forward, enthused. His wife was rarely obvious about flirting, but he had become quite good at reading her body language. “What about all the other beautiful flowers that exist?”
“High Tide is beside the sea. Not many flowers grow well in that clime, but some hardy breeds of roses thrive there.” A wistful smile crossed her face. “I loved sitting near those roses. They smelled so sweet. When I closed my eyes, I pretended I was on the mainland, surrounded by endless gardens. That was one of the things I was excited for when I left Driftmark…” She cleared her throat and straightened. “Also, roses are useful. You can use them in cosmetics, of course, and cooking and medicine. The maesters say roses can help with stomach pain, burns, fever, and anxiety. So they’re very good plants to keep around.”
“Pretty and pragmatic,” Aegon said, carefully calculating his words. “Just like you.”
As he hoped, a very becoming blush spread across her cheeks. Her mouth curved up with pleasure.
“You looked flushed. Is it too warm in here?” he asked innocently. For some reason, that made her emit a mortified little ohh as she ducked her head. Her reaction intrigued him. “What’s the matter?”
Avoiding his gaze, she said faintly, “Nothing. I just remembered something your mother said.” She changed the topic before he could inquire further. She grabbed one of her pots of ointment, opened it, and showed him its depleted contents. “By the way, I noticed that my rose creams are being used up much faster than usual. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Not a clue,” he lied, stretching his legs out from his chair.
Pursing her lips, Jacaera stood and crossed the room to him. For a moment, she surveyed him with her hands on her hips. He smirked up at her, curious about her next move.
She sat down on his lap, purposely placing her arse near his cock. Then she pushed some of his hair back, leaned close to his neck, and sniffed delicately.
His breeches felt too tight. He gripped the armrests as he forced himself not to buck against her. On the night he decided to make his wife fall in love with him, he had also vowed, rather miserably, that he needed to stop using his favorite sword so much. It was difficult to have meaningful conversation when he was licking her pearl or fucking her into the mattress. Of course, he wasn’t planning on complete abstinence during the campaign for his wife’ heart. That was ridiculous, and an unnecessary sacrifice. But a little patience now would pay off later.
He hoped.
Her lips grazed his ear. “You smell like roses.”
“Must have rubbed off from you.” He bit his tongue to stop his next few sentences from tumbling out. You can keep rubbing me. Use your hand. Or rub that pretty cunt on my thigh. I like it either way.
She brought her finger to his neck and touched him just above his collar. Arching an eyebrow in silent accusation, she showed him the smear of rose cream clinging to her fingertip.
There was no use playing coy anymore. He shrugged and grinned shamelessly. “You caught me. I’m the thief. Punish me.” He wrapped his thumb and forefinger around her wrist, thinking of the dainty gold manacles he’d purchased for them. They didn’t survive his first time wearing them, so he commissioned another, stronger set.
Her blush deepened. He expected her to stand and gather her dignity like the lady she was. Instead, she pressed her bosom to his chest and twisted a lock of his hair around her finger, the same one smeared with rose cream. “You could have asked to use some, Aegon. I’m happy to share with you.”
“It’s more fun when I just take it,” he said hoarsely.
She adjusted her seat on his lap. Her rear brushed against his rock-hard bulge. “You Targaryens like taking what you want, don’t you?”
His grip tightened on her hips. He wanted desperately to bounce her on his cock right now, but he reminded himself of his horrible, masochistic oath of restraint. He reluctantly shifted her away so she wasn’t touching his erection anymore. “You’re supposed to meet your sisters in a few minutes.”
The teasing gleam vanished from her dark eyes. “We’re just going on a walk. They’ll understand if I cancel.” She hunched her shoulders. “Do you… Do you not want me? You haven’t touched me since Myranda and the moon tea. Is it because I’m pregnant? I asked the Grand Maester, and he said we can continue having relations if we exercise caution.”
He blinked. “You asked him?” He tried to imagine his proper, demure wife’s conversation with Orwyle. Did she use delicate euphemisms, or did she use straightforward words like copulation and coitus?
Her face was redder than the Targaryen dragon, but she held his gaze. “I did.” She rested her hands on his chest. “I would rather not abstain for nine moons. I would miss you too much. I already miss you. I know you said I didn’t do anything wrong, but it feels like I did. You always wanted me before.”
There was a concerned furrow in her brow. He reached up to run his thumb over it, smoothing out the wrinkle. Then he gently gripped her face and brought it closer to his, pausing just before their mouths could meet. “I told you, Jace, you’re perfect.”
“Then why do you not touch me anymore? I can feel your…arousal.”
He retracted his hands, spread them to his sides, and wiggled his fingers. “Even the worst knave would hesitate to lay his unclean, mortal hands on the Maiden’s perfect visage.”
“I’m not the Maiden. You saw to that on our wedding night. I don’t want to be perfect, Aegon. I want to be your wife.” She grabbed his hands and firmly laid them upon her breasts. “I want you to touch me.”
He became an oathbreaker in that moment, shattering his earlier vow of patience. It was a stupid vow anyway. She was his wife. She was his, according to the law and the gods. He could bed her and woo her at the same time. If she wanted him, who was he to deny her?
In their eagerness, they remained in the chair while they clawed at each other’s clothes. He ripped her skirts aside, and she tore off a button as she undid his breeches. She sighed in pleasure when she sank down on him, which masked the sound of creaking wood. Then she lowered her head to kiss him, and her hair formed a curtain around their faces as she began to ride him.
After a minute, a chair leg snapped. He retained just enough of his senses to detect the noise. He immediately braced himself, twisting his body. When the chair collapsed, he cushioned her from the broken wood and hard floor.
Surrounded by the chair’s debris, they stared at each other in shocked silence, still joined together beneath the cover of her skirts. “Well,” he said, rubbing his hip, “I really hope I don’t have splinters in my arse. That wouldn’t be fun to take out.”
They burst into laughter. Her giggles pattered against his chest, and his heart sped up to match her rhythm.
I’m doomed, he thought happily as she pressed mirthful kisses to his face.
At the next Small Council meeting, Otto announced that they unanimously approved Aegon’s proposal (really Jacaera’s, it just had his name on it) to construct pedestrian walkways in the city. Aegon sat in stunned silence while Jasper Wylde and Tyland Lannister congratulated him, thumping him on the back.
Just as Aegon began to smile, Otto added, his expression neutral, “However, His Grace has halved your requested budget. He says that a prince must demonstrate fiscal responsibility. You must adapt the project so you do not overspend.”
Across the table, Lord Beesbury looked apologetic. “I advised the king that the treasury could afford your entire budget, my prince, but he wished to be prudent.”
When the meeting ended, Aegon went directly to Jacaera’s chambers. After the incident with Larys, she no longer wished to eavesdrop on the Small Council, even though Aegon promised not to touch her in that room. As soon as he arrived, he recounted everything that happened.
“It’s good that we deliberately overestimated the costs. That will make up some of the difference.” Jacaera took out her copy of the proposal to review the numbers. “But we’re still lacking many thousands of gold dragons. And the construction will take years, so the cost of labor and materials could change in time.”
“Tyland privately offered me a loan from House Lannister,” Aegon said. “I’m not sure what the terms will require in return. Mayhaps our firstborn son’s hand in marriage for one of Jason’s many daughters.”
Jacaera frowned as she touched her flat belly. “Must we betroth our children while they’re still in the cradle? They might not be as fortunate in their marriages as their parents.”
“We’ll do no such thing,” Aegon promised, although part of him wondered if he had the power to make such a promise. That power belonged to the king, and Viserys had never been predisposed to please his eldest son.
Jacaera cleared her throat. “I could petition my grandfather for a loan. His terms will not be usurious.”
“Mayhaps.” Borrowing money from Corlys Velaryon was less risky than borrowing from any other house, but Aegon’s pride rankled at the prospect of depending on his good-grandfather. “Let us see what we can do by ourselves before we go begging.”
They spread their papers and books on the dining table. Jacaera laid out a map of the city that she had requested from the library. Aegon scoffed when he saw it.
“This must be several decades out of date, and it doesn’t show any of the alleys.” He took out several sheets of paper and began drawing a new, better map. “We’re not building any walkways in the alleys, but we still need to know where they are. They generate a lot of foot traffic…”
He wasn’t sure how long he bent over the papers, his pencil scratching in the otherwise silent room. When he finally looked up at Jacaera, her chin was propped on her hands as she smiled at him from across the table. Her dark eyes twinkled in the candlelight.
His stomach flipped pleasantly. “What?”
She glanced down at the papers. “It’s a very good map. You missed your calling as a cartographer.”
Pleased, he reached for some glue so he could piece the papers together. “It’s only good because I know the city so well.”
“Many people know the city well. Not everyone can draw it well, like you did.” She leaned closer. Their heads touched as they gazed down at his map. “Where should we start?”
Jacaera eventually convinced Aegon to apply for a loan from her grandfather. Several days after Aegon sent a formal raven to Driftmark, a dragon came to King’s Landing.
“My father sent me in his stead,” Laenor told Aegon after he finished embracing his daughters and nieces. “He said you and I should talk heir-to-heir. I hope I don’t disappoint.”
“Of course not. We’re happy to receive you,” Aegon said politely. All of Jacaera’s stories about her father were full of affection. For her sake, Aegon would strive to maintain good relations with Laenor. Rhaenyra was already a lost cause, but Aegon had no bad history with Laenor.
As they prepared to negotiate terms, Aegon requested that Jacaera join them at the table. Laenor looked surprised, then enthusiastically agreed and countered with his own request to have an aide of his choice in the room too. “If you get to have help, Prince Aegon, then so do I.”
Aegon and Jacaera sat on one side of the table. Laenor and Lucera sat on the other side. Jacaera and Lucera conducted most of the discussion, which occasionally devolved into sisterly bickering, while Aegon and Laenor relaxed and sipped their wine.
“How do you find marriage thus far, my prince?” Laenor asked, quietly so only Aegon could hear.
“A marvelous institution, better than I was ever led to expect.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Is this the part where you interrogate me about how I treat Jace?”
“Let’s spare ourselves that unpleasant tedium.” Laenor poured them both more wine. “If my daughter were unhappy, she would have let us know by now. Besides, she has never liked her parents interfering with what she considers her personal matters. Unless she calls me to arms, I will leave her to her own devices.”
Aegon decided he liked his good-father much more than he liked his good-mother.
“I am, however, unhappy about that moon tea business.” Laenor frowned sternly. “What are you doing about it?”
If Rhaenyra was involved with Myranda and Mysaria, would Laenor know? Aegon doubted it. “Our spies are following the White Worm to Dorne. The Hand is sending emissaries to Sunspear to try to secure the Martells’ cooperation. The queen has retained only the most trustworthy servants inside the Holdfast, and we are ensuring that nothing else slips into Jace’s food and drink.”
Laenor looked contemplatively at Aegon. “You are very well-informed.”
“Anything that concerns my wife also concerns me.” Aegon was usually content to exist in blissful ignorance of courtly affairs, but he found himself digging up every crumb of information related to Jacaera and her safety. They were lucky to catch the moon tea, and luckier that it wasn’t something lethal like sweetsleep.
Laenor glanced at his daughters, who seemed to be nearing the end of negotiations. He said to Aegon, “We were told that you would be a bad husband and worse king. I’m glad to know we were misinformed on the first count, and I hope on the second as well.”
Someone was slandering Aegon? Well, it wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“Aegon, Father,” Jacaera announced as she and Lucera turned to face them, “we have come to an accord.” She gestured proudly at the parchment where she and Lucera had written the contract.
“And with minimal arguing,” Laenor said. “I’m impressed.”
Aegon moved to stand over the contract and reached for a quill. Before he could sign the contract, Jacaera grabbed his wrist. “Aren’t you going to read it first?” she asked incredulously. “For all you know, I consented to highly unfavorable terms.”
“Did you consent to highly unfavorable terms?”
“No, but—”
Aegon hastily scribbled his signature before she could protest any further. “Done and done,” he said brightly. He poured some wax on the parchment then shoved his signet ring into it.
Laenor chortled and did the same.
As the moons passed, Mysaria was confirmed to be in Dorne, but the Martells were uncooperative. While the king’s spies worked to extract her from Sunspear’s shadow city, Jacaera remained securely ensconced inside the Holdfast. Although there were no further attempts on her or anyone else in the royal family, everyone agreed it was best to keep her in the heart of the Red Keep, especially now that her pregnancy was showing.
Aegon, however, observed his wife growing restless. She spent most of her time in the courtyards or by large windows overlooking the sea. She never complained aloud, but it was evident she longed to step outside the walls of the Holdfast. Aegon felt guilty about his own escapes into the city, so he reduced their frequency. It didn’t seem fair that he got to wander to his heart’s content while she was stuck in her cushioned cage. What if they never found Mysaria? Would Jacaera be trapped in the Holdfast forever? He wanted her safe, but he wanted her happy too.
One day, Aegon passed on an exciting morsel of news to his wife. “You and Vermax will experience the joys of motherhood together.”
Jacaera looked up, confused, from the construction report she was reading. “What do you mean?”
“Vermax is pregnant,” he clarified.
Her jaw dropped. “Vermax is a girl?” She shook her head. “I oughtn’t be surprised. The odds either way were fairly even… Do the Dragonkeepers know who the sire is?”
Aegon grinned sheepishly.
“Sunfyre? Really? Are they sure?”
“Apparently he and Vermax have been trysting for a while, but they were discreet. The Dragonkeepers didn’t catch them in the act until just the other day.”
“Dragons. Discreet,” Jacaera repeated skeptically. “While mating. I didn’t think it was possible. Does Sunfyre make a habit of clandestinely seducing female dragons?”
“I apologize for Sunfyre’s reprobacy,” Aegon said with false solemnity. “I will ensure he pays reparations for deflowering and impregnating your beloved maiden—eh, former maiden.”
Jacaera laughed. Then her hand dropped to the curve of her belly, and her expression became pensive. “I hope Vermax is enduring pregnancy half as well as I am. I haven’t seen him—her, since before the wedding. I should have visited her sooner, but it’s too late now.”
The wistful sheen in her eyes sparked an idea in Aegon. “I’ll take you to the Dragonpit.”
She jerked in surprise. “Is that allowed? I thought I was supposed to stay here until I give birth, at the earliest.”
“I’m your husband. I say you can go.” Aegon was already scheming a secret excursion. They would be denied permission to take Jacaera out, so he wouldn't bother asking. If he was caught, he would undoubtedly receive a scolding from his mother and grandfather. But Jacaera would be happy for a moment of freedom, so it was worth it.
He spent some time carefully arranging their itinerary. He wasn’t a complete fool. He knew he couldn’t drag his pregnant wife alone into the city. Aegon was decent with a sword, but he wanted better protection for Jacaera. He debated asking Arryk Cargyll, who could sometimes be convinced to bend the rules for the sake of fun, to accompany them. But Arryk talked too much to his twin, and Erryk would definitely tattle.
Instead, Aegon enlisted Aemond, who could beat either Cargyll in a spar. Aemond was the biggest tattletale of all, but he would keep his mouth shut if he got something he wanted. So Aegon invited Lucera on the excursion.
“Tisn’t appropriate,” Aemond said, strained, when he learned about this development. “She’s an unwed maiden.”
“Not appropriate? Why? What were you planning to do to her?” Aegon asked, pretending to be scandalized. “I always knew you were a scoundrel.”
On the planned evening, the four of them furtively entered the secret tunnels beneath the castle. Aegon led the way. Jacaera and Lucera, wearing plain wool gowns which Aegon had bought from a maid, excitedly walked arm in arm together. Aemond trailed behind them to ensure they weren’t followed.
A mule-cart awaited them at the end of the tunnel. At this stage of her pregnancy, Jacaera’s feet swelled and she tired easily, so she gladly allowed Aegon to help her into the cart. Lucera sat with her, and the two of them giggled in the rattling vehicle while Aegon and Aemond walked beside it.
They went directly to the Dragonpit. Afterwards, they would make their way down the Hill of Rhaenys to their other stops on their way home. The Dragonkeepers were surprised by the humble mule-cart rather than the usual ostentatious wheelhouse, but they asked no questions. Lucera immediately ran off to see Arrax. After a moment, Aemond casually walked in the same direction, even though Vhagar’s den was the other way.
When the Dragonkeepers brought out Vermax, Jacaera sprang forward with surprising nimbleness, considering her protruding belly. Vermax crooned happily as Jacaera stroked her snout and whispered endearments in High Valyrian.
Sunfyre pranced out into the main area. He glanced smugly at Vermax before slinking over to Aegon. “Some people consider it a crime when a stallion breeds someone else’s mare without permission,” Aegon muttered.
Sunfyre merely preened in response.
Aegon tensed when Vermax pressed her snout against Jacaera’s belly. Jacaera wasn’t alarmed, and Vermax was astonishingly gentle as she sniffed her rider. Then Vermax lay down on her side and presented her own abdomen, which looked rather swollen too. As Jacaera knelt to scratch her dragon’s belly, the dark green of her gown blended with the green of Vermax’s scales. Vermax’s green and orange coloring reminded Aegon of flying over the kingswood during autumn as the trees below changed colors with the seasons, summer gracefully giving way to fiery reds and golds.
Autumn was due in the next year or two. Their child would be born by then. Aegon could take them on Sunfyre to behold the radiant foliage with their own eyes. The prospect excited him more than he thought it would.
Jacaera, who was so fastidious about cleanliness, sat on the grimy ground and continued petting Vermax. Her lips moved, forming Valyrian words that Aegon couldn’t hear, and Vermax’s throat rumbled contentedly. Torchlight haloed them both with a warm glow, a princess and her dragon out of legend. Aegon had never seen Jacaera fly before. All of a sudden, he wished they could soar the night skies together. But the maesters had warned against Jacaera on dragonback, and she diligently heeded their advice.
Sunfyre swatted his tail against Aegon’s ankle, causing him to stumble. Aegon scowled at his dragon, who made a sound like laughter. “Prick. As if you’ve never been distracted by a pretty girl.”
Sunfyre grunted, then turned his calf eyes toward Vermax.
After an hour, Aegon reluctantly interrupted Jacaera and informed her they needed to move to the next location. They waited by the mule-cart for Aemond and Lucera. Eventually the other two emerged from the Dragonpit, arguing whether size or agility was more important in a dragon. Even after Lucera climbed into the cart, they continued arguing.
“Where are we going now?” Jacaera asked.
“We’re getting a snack,” Aegon said as the argument changed topics to the merits of romantic literature. Aemond called it utter drivel. Lucera said everything that came out of his mouth was drivel. “I know the little tyrant demands frequent feedings.”
Jacaera’s stomach growled. She blushed. “I’m grateful for your consideration. I didn’t eat much during supper.”
“I noticed.”
A small smile flickered across her mouth. She extended her hand over the edge of the cart. Aegon took it and kissed its back. Her fingers still clinging to his, she said, “I’m told you have an exceptionally strong bond with Sunfyre. He wasn’t a cradle egg, was he?”
“No. Sunfyre hatched on Dragonstone, and he spent a few years there, half-wild and unclaimed.” Dragonstone was dangerous for hatchlings. The Cannibal liked to snatch them up in his jaws when they wandered out of their mother’s nest. But Sunfyre was too quick and clever to meet such an ignominious end. “I was very young when Sunfyre flew across the Blackwater one day and landed in a courtyard in the Red Keep. It was utter chaos. He ate someone’s Dornish sand steed, and a lapdog that barked too much at him. Aemond and I sneaked out of the nursery to watch the Dragonkeepers try to corral him. As soon as I laid eyes on Sunfyre, I knew I was meant for him. So I ran out from my hiding spot and sprinted headlong toward him. The guards were terrified that Sunfyre would eat me too.”
Jacaera laughed softly. “Surely your mother gave you a terrible scolding afterwards.”
“And I would do it all again if I had to.”
She squeezed his hand. “Sunfyre must have grown tired of waiting for you, so he came to you first. He knew he was meant for you too.”
They arrived at the Street of Flour. Although many of the bakeries were closed for the night, the cookshops that served drunks and nighttime laborers were still bright and noisy. Aegon led the others to a shop run by a Valeman named Gyles, who made the best pies in Westeros. Gyles usually closed his shop long before now, but Aegon paid him to stay open for them.
The pies served by the Red Keep’s kitchens were richly spiced confections with crusts expertly shaped to resemble fish or fowl or the like. Gyles’s pies were the sustenance of working folk, who needed to quickly eat on the go. When Gyles apologized for the lack of forks, Jacaera smiled, wrapped her pie in a handkerchief, and held it in her hand as she took delicate bites, elegant as ever.
Her expression morphed from polite curiosity to unrestrained pleasure. “Oh, it’s wonderful!” She usually ate like a bird, tiny bites at a sedate pace, but she finished the pie in record time. Despite her speed, she didn’t drop a single crumb. When she was done, Aegon immediately handed her a second pie, which she ate much slower but with just as much alacrity. “What cheese did you put in this, Master Gyles? I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
Gyles was delighted to show them his giant wheel of cheese from the Vale, which he kept in his storeroom. He sliced a generous portion for Jacaera to take with her. She protested initially but by the time they returned to the cart, she was already nibbling on the cheese. She ate more at Gyles’s shop than she had eaten the entire week.
“Could we return to his shop sometime?” she asked hopefully as they proceeded to their next stop. “The pies were very good.”
“No need. I’m hiring him.” Aegon hadn’t spoken with Gyles at all about moving to the Red Keep, but he was sure he could persuade the pie-seller. Giant piles of money tended to be persuasive. “You can have all the pies you want.”
Jacaera’s feet gave a happy little kick. On the other side of the cart, Lucera was forcing Aemond to eat a bite of sweet berry pie. “Say it’s good,” she demanded.
“It’s palatable,” Aemond said.
They descended the Hill of Rhaenys along the Street of the Sisters, where construction was underway near the city’s great square. Building the walkways meant blocking parts of the street, and the mule-cart became stuck in the thick traffic.
Aegon helped Jacaera disembark from the cart, while Aemond did the same with Lucera. “Stay close,” Aegon told his wife as he wrapped his arm around her waist. “I don’t want to lose you.” He paid a nearby boy to watch the cart. Then the four of them approached the construction site.
Most work was done during daytime, but a master mason awaited them on the premises. He was eager to show off progress to the royals, though he was startled when Jacaera and Lucera, rather than the princes, intently asked questions about timelines and costs. While the women interrogated the mason, Aemond said to Aegon, “I never thought you would have any interest in urban planning. What’s next, the sewage system?”
“No thanks. I deal with enough shit as is.”
“Then you have the expert—” Abruptly, Aemond unsheathed his sword.
A man behind Aegon grabbed his hood and yanked it down, tearing out a few strands of his hair in the process. “Prince Aegon! Prince Aegon! Prince—” The man halted when Aemond’s sword pressed against his throat, drawing a trickle of blood.
If the man’s shouts didn’t catch passersby’s attention, the threat of violence certainly did. The crowd gaped at Aemond’s blade and Aegon’s telltale silver hair. Aegon exchanged a tense look with his brother. The smallfolk around them were relatively calm, murmuring in morbid interest, but mobs could erupt in panic and anger at the slightest provocation. Nobody seemed to have noticed Jacaera and Lucera, who stood frozen beside the mason. Aegon wanted to keep it that way.
“Evening.” Aegon casually waved at the crowd. “Sorry for the fuss. We mistook this man for a cutpurse. We’ll be on our way.”
The man should have begged for forgiveness for assaulting a prince, then slunk silently into the shadows, grateful to be forgotten. But as he backed away from Aemond’s sword, the man turned to Jacaera and cried, “Princess Jacaera, may the Mother bless you and the prince’s child!” He stretched out a hand as if to touch her.
This time, Aegon was faster than his brother. He drew his dagger and plunged it into the man’s neck. As blood sprayed Aegon’s face, the nearest onlookers cried out in alarm and hastily backed away. Before they could flee the scene, gruff shouts flew over the crowd. “There they are! Make way, you fuckers!”
Aegon whipped around to see gold cloaks raising their cudgels. Their captain spotted Aegon. “We’re coming, my prince!” The captain ordered his men forward, and they began to beat a path through the smallfolk. A woman screamed when a cudgel smashed into her head.
“Stop that,” Aegon yelled, but nobody heard him over the furor. “Stop, you fucking idiots!”
Aemond lunged forward. In the chaos, a bearded man had crept forth to grab Jacaera’s arm. When Lucera tried to fend him off, the man roughly shoved his elbow into her face. Seconds later, Aemond’s sword sliced the man almost entirely in half.
Aegon sprang toward his wife and shielded her with his body while the shrieking crowd surged around them. She clutched his doublet and buried her face against his neck. When the gold cloaks finally reached them, she refused to leave Aegon’s arms. He carried her into the wheelhouse that the gold cloaks requisitioned for the royals, and she remained in his lap the entire journey to the Red Keep, trembling like a leaf.
Despite the late hour, Viserys was arrayed in kingly regalia. His crown rested upon his brow, and he gripped Blackfyre as he sat on the Iron Throne. Usually, when he beheld his eldest son, his expression was some combination of irritation, fatigue, and apathy. Now the king was imbued with furious energy. Aegon didn’t think his father had been so interested in him since he was a child, too young to be a disappointment yet.
Aegon and Aemond were still covered in the blood of the men they killed. They stood at the foot of the Iron Throne. Jacaera and Lucera were farther back with Alicent, Otto, and the rest of the Small Council, who had been roused to witness the king castigate his eldest sons. The only other people in the throne room were the Kingsguard.
“Do you have any idea the risk you took tonight?” Spittle flew from Viserys’s mouth. Thankfully he sat too far for it to reach his sons. “You took two princesses to consort with ruffians, with nary a guard to protect you! If anyone else endangered our house in such a way, I would have them drawn and quartered without hesitation.”
Aegon wished Jacaera were closer, within his line of sight. But she was behind him, so he could only lose himself in thoughts of her. He wanted to go back to the Dragonpit and take her far away, where nobody knew the name Targaryen. They would be safe and happy in a cottage by the sea, with Sunfyre and Vermax for protection. Aegon could hire himself and Sunfyre out to defend a town or city somewhere, but otherwise their family would have no duties. Just him, Jacaera, and their child, who would grow up knowing only warm sands and crystal blue waves teeming with fish.
Viserys rose from the throne. His hand tightened on Blackfyre’s hilt as he glared down at Aegon. “I have known many fools in my life, and you are the biggest fool of them all. You led them on this harebrained scheme. You exposed them to thugs and cutthroats. You endangered your kin. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Does it matter?” Aegon said hollowly. “Nothing I say will change what you think of me.”
Viserys inhaled sharply. “How can you be so flippant? After you neglected your wife? You could have killed her!”
A burst of heat filled Aegon’s chest. “I have never neglected my wife.”
“You dragged her to your dissolute wine-sinks and dens of ill repute. You risked her reputation and her life, while she is carrying your child. You are a thoughtless boy, unfit to be a father.”
“I suppose you would be the expert on unfit fathers,” Aegon retorted, unthinking.
Several people gasped. He wasn’t sure who exactly, but one of them sounded very much like Ironrod. He could feel Otto’s eyes burning into the side of his head. Even Aemond was startled.
Aegon immediately realized it was an extraordinarily stupid thing to say. He was, indeed, the biggest fool of them all. But he refused to fall to his knees and beg for mercy like a spineless lickspittle. He held his head high, waiting for the king’s retribution.
Viserys’s face was slack with shock. Then it darkened underneath an ominous stormcloud of anger. “You will apologize for showing such disrespect to your father, Prince Aegon.”
Aegon defiantly jutted out his chin. “I will not.”
Viserys adjusted his grip on Blackfyre. Aegon wondered if the king would swing the sword at him. Viserys certainly looked like he wanted to. But then, glancing at someone over Aegon’s shoulder, the king clenched his jaw and kept the sword at rest on the ground. “Stupid, reckless boy. You are desperate to be seen as a man, yet you refuse to act like one. Very well. If you wish to be a man, then I shall give you a man’s work. ‘Tis the duty of a man to safeguard his wife. Go to Sunspear and find this White Worm who dared to offend our house. Get to the bottom of this mess that befell your wife.”
Aegon’s mind went blank.
Then, as if an afterthought, Viserys added, “And take Aemond with you, since he is so determined to follow his brother like a hapless pup.” He descended from the throne, not looking at his sons as he passed them to the exit.
When Aegon’s mouth resumed functioning, the first thing he said was, “Jace is pregnant. She’s supposed to give birth in a few moons.” As he turned to watch the king limp away, he spotted Jacaera, who looked as stricken as he felt.
“Then you had best work quickly if you wish to be here,” Viserys said, still not looking at Aegon. “Nevertheless, your part is done. She does not need you for the rest.”
Viserys’s nonchalance fomented a deep, burning anger in Aegon. He shouted after the old man, “So you think the best course is to send your two eldest sons to Dorne? Do you want another Rhaenys and Meraxes?”
The king paused, but he still did not face his son. “Certainly not. I simply wish for you to prove yourself worthy of House Targaryen. You are my heir, after all.” Then he left the throne room, with Ser Harrold escorting him while everyone else silently gaped at his departing back.
Notes:
See the author's behind-the-scenes commentary on this chapter here. Warning: potential spoilers for future chapters, so don't read this during your first reading.
In case you were wondering why the chapter count went up… 🤧
Chapter 4: With this kiss, I pledge my love
Summary:
Saying goodbye to her husband is one of the hardest things Jacaera has ever done—so far.
Notes:
If you need a humorous break from Angst Central in my current WIPs, you should read my new oneshot where Joff and Daeron ask their siblings for advice about sex.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Fingerprints bruised Jacaera’s wrist, just above where her bracelet—one of Aegon’s gifts—rested on her arm. After she scrubbed that dead man’s blood from her face, she tried to scrub away the bruises too, but they stubbornly continued staining her skin. Eventually she gave up and tossed her used rag into her wash basin. The water was tinged pink.
She sat in her bedroom, dark except for a single lit candle beside her, and waited for her husband to return. She’d tried to follow when the Hand dragged Aegon to the queen’s apartments, but Grand Maester Orwyle insisted on examining Jacaera. The door hadn’t even closed behind Otto before he started yelling at his grandson.
Her hands trembled uncontrollably in her lap. Every breath she took seemed deafening in the otherwise silent room. She yearned for company, for someone to lift the smothering solitude from her shoulders. But Lucera was having her bloody nose treated by the maesters. Joff, Baela, and Rhaena were undoubtedly asleep. Jacaera was loath to send a servant to disturb their slumber.
Morning wasn’t too far away, and surely Aegon would return soon. But Jacaera lit a few more candles, just in case he needed a while longer. The first candle was rapidly melting, and she didn’t want to sit in pitch blackness.
The baby turned in her womb, blissfully ignorant of the chaos outside. She rubbed her belly to encourage them to keep moving. The baby had quickened a few weeks ago. She zealously tracked their activity so she could alert Aegon to the first possible opportunity when he might also feel the baby’s movements. Not yet, but soon.
She jumped when the door swung open. Her heart slowed to its normal beat upon recognizing Aegon’s shadowy outline in the doorway. For a long moment, he just stood there, silent and unmoving. “Aegon?” she finally whispered, worried.
He staggered toward her. As he drew closer, the dim candlelight illuminated the despairing sheen in his eyes and the pained twist of his mouth. It was the same expression he had worn when he attended the first Small Council session after they married, and the king berated him in front of everyone. That time, she had been afraid of the animalistic emotions boiling beneath his crumbling veneer of self-restraint.
But now she knew him. Now she knew that even if he would unhesitatingly rage against anyone else in his way, he only wanted one thing from her. She gave it readily, stretching her arms toward him in a wordless offer of comfort. He collapsed to his knees in front of her chair, wrapped his arms around her legs, and buried his face in her lap.
Then he began to cry.
She bent over, awkwardly with her large belly, and made soothing hushes as she stroked his hair. “I’m sorry,” he choked out between sobs. His hot tears leaked through the layers of her skirts. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He dragged himself up her lap and pressed his mouth against the curve of her navel. “I’m sorry…”
“Everything is alright,” she murmured, even though she wasn’t sure it was true. “We are alright.”
Jacaera struggled to find sense in Viserys’s Dornish punishment. There were many other ways to punish Aegon’s carelessness, yet the king chose a path that risked both his heir and second son. This seemed like an unnecessarily perilous way to hunt for Mysaria. Other envoys could be sent rather than two of the most important men in the realm.
But the king had given orders, and despite how kindly he acted toward Jacaera, she dared not question him. If he treated his firstborn son so callously, how would he treat a mere granddaughter whom he barely knew?
Although a diplomatic mission involving two princes normally required much time to prepare, this mission demanded haste. The Crown’s spies were certain Mysaria was in Sunspear’s shadow city, but that could change as quickly as the next tide bearing a ship to Essos. Correspondence with Qoren Martell indicated he was willing to courteously receive Aegon and Aemond within his borders, but there was no guarantee his welcome would last for long.
A small contingent of guards had already departed by ship so they could meet the princes when their dragons landed at Sunspear. A larger retinue of servants would follow later. Until then, Aegon and his brother would need to carry their necessities on dragonback. As Aegon’s wife, Jacaera assumed the responsibility of ensuring he had everything he required. Keeping herself busy with packing had the additional benefit of preventing herself from dwelling on her dread about his impending absence.
The Dornish sun was blisteringly hot, but Aegon still needed to appear like a prince and heir to the Iron Throne. She scoured his wardrobe for suitable linen, cotton, and silk garments, then ordered the tailor to make anything he lacked. She also ordered clothes for Aemond. It wasn’t her duty to take care of her good-brother, but she feared his penchant for leather would cause him to perish in the heat.
Meanwhile, Aegon was constantly sequestered in the Small Council chamber, where the councilors drilled him endlessly on Dornish politics and relations. He looked utterly miserable and exhausted whenever he crawled back to her room. He usually required an hour of recovery afterward, mumbling about scorpion bolts and defenestration while she cuddled with him in bed.
“If I fuck up, Aemond and I are dead. They’ll shove us out the window and kill our dragons.”
“They will do no such thing.” Jacaera rubbed gentle circles on his forehead. “Prince Qoren is judicious and averse to conflict. He will be loath to incur the wrath of a dozen Targaryen dragons.”
“You know what they did to the first Rhaenys. They shot down her dragon, dragged her into their dungeon, and tortured her for years.”
“That is a rumor. She probably died when Meraxes fell.”
Aegon shook his head. “Deria Martell’s letter convinced the Conqueror to make peace with Dorne. There must have been a compelling reason.” His grip tightened on Jacaera’s shift, bunching the fabric. “He loved his Rhaenys. He gave up his war so the Dornish would put her out of her misery. And they didn’t even have the decency to return her bones or crown.”
Jacaera combed her fingers through his hair as his head lay on her lap. His hair was growing longer than he usually kept it. She would trim it herself before he left. “I didn’t realize you were so well-informed about this period of history.”
“Against my will,” he lamented. “The maesters insisted I know everything about my namesake, and Aemond had a phase when he wouldn’t stop yapping about the Dornish Wars. Sometimes I have nightmares of him reciting dates in the nursery.” He turned his head so he faced her protruding belly. He often instinctively fell into that position, as if to talk to the baby. His voice was a whisper when he next spoke. “I am…afraid.”
“We’re all afraid sometimes. Tisn’t shameful. But I’m certain Prince Qoren will respect guest right.”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m afraid I won’t be here.” His hands slid to her belly, cradling her bump. The baby stirred but didn’t kick. “There’s less than three moons left. Aemond and I don’t know what we’re doing in Dorne. It’s not enough time.”
She shifted uncomfortably. Husbands weren’t supposed to be in the birthing chamber, but she had thought Aegon would be nearby during her labors. If he was in Dorne, who knew when he would finally meet his child? “You could come home for a while, then resume your investigation.”
Aegon laughed bitterly. “And let my father call me a failure in front of court? He would just send me away again.”
She winced. “I never knew His Grace was so cruel.” Several moons ago, she would never have confessed such a thing to the king’s son. Now, she readily confessed it to her husband. “My grandmother always described her cousin as eager to please.”
“Eager to please whom?” Aegon muttered as he moved up to rest his head against her chest. “Not me, that’s for sure. I am the great regret of his life, and he hates me for it.”
“Your father doesn’t hate you,” Jacaera protested. No father could truly hate their child.
“On my sixteenth nameday, he invited me to have a drink with him. I was so happy. I thought that since I was finally a man, he was accepting me. When I arrived at his apartments, he was already drunk. He called me Baelon and asked where I’d been all this time, asked why I forced him to put up with ‘useless Aegon’ for so long. He said he regretted allowing the Small Council to change his mind, and he should’ve cut out all their tongues instead of disinheriting Rhaenyra. But now he had Baelon again, and he could send Aegon to a remote country estate where he wouldn’t bother anyone.” A bleak smile stretched across Aegon’s mouth. “I should’ve given up on him then, but I told myself he was just drunk, and drunk people say things they don’t mean. But really, people are most honest when they’re in their cups. Now he finally gets to send me away, like he always wanted.”
Jacaera offered no counterargument. How could she? What Viserys said to his own son was appalling. Her father would rather die than utter such verbal abuse to his children, drunk or not. Even Corlys, who was often harsh on Laenor, never spoke to his son so cruelly.
“And when I’m sent away…” Aegon’s hands twitched against her belly. “…I won’t be able to protect you.”
“I’m perfectly safe in the Red Keep, Aegon. The greatest danger I face is dying of boredom.”
He didn’t appreciate her lame joke. “You’ve heard the rumors of how Queen Aemma died, haven’t you?”
Officially, the king’s first wife was simply said to have died in childbirth. It was a common, if tragic, occurrence. But the midwives and maids who were in the room that day whispered the truth in shadowy alcoves of the castle. Rhaenyra, who bore her mother’s death like a deep scar, knew the gods were not to blame, and she told what happened to each of her daughters when they flowered.
“It was a difficult birth, and Queen Aemma was greatly weakened by her past labors,” Jacaera said quietly. “But our situations are different. The maesters assure me I am in excellent health. Women give birth all the time without issue.”
“You aren’t any woman, and this child isn’t any child.” He was paler than usual as he slipped his hands from her belly so he could cup her face. “If they think it’s a boy…I won’t be here to stop them.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She was startled, but not by the prospect of being sacrificed for a potential son. She had grimly resigned herself years ago to that potential doom. After all, her life’s purpose was to bear Aegon’s heirs.
Apparently, Aegon disagreed.
“If they have to choose, they’ll choose him. I’m the father, I could stop them. But if I’m gone, they’ll ask the king, and I don’t trust him. He’ll just—”
“You would choose me?” Her voice broke on the last word.
He stared at her in disbelief as if she’d asked something ridiculous, like whether he needed food and water to live. “Yes. Yes, I would.”
Tears welled in her eyes. She tried to hold them back. “But this child could be your son.”
“I don’t know him. I know you.”
“You’ve only known me for half a year.”
“Exactly. I’ve only just found you. I’m not ready to give you up. Not now. Not in three moons. Not ever.” Trembling, he brought her hands to his mouth and methodically kissed each of her fingers. “You said you wanted us to be happy together. Is it so hard to believe that’s come true?” Then his cheeks pinked, and he averted his gaze. It was the first time she’d ever seen him embarrassed. He was skilled at pretending he didn’t care what others thought about him. “It’s come true for me, at least. I don’t know about…you. I’m sure you would’ve preferred a husband who wasn’t an idiot.”
Jacaera couldn’t help laughing. She quickly kissed him so he knew she wasn’t laughing at him. “You aren’t an idiot, Aegon,” she said wetly.
His eyes were bright as he shrugged. “I can’t read two pages in a book without falling asleep.”
“You dislike reading. That doesn’t mean you’re an idiot. You know so many things I don’t. If I were alone in the city, I would lose my way within seconds.”
“Just walk uphill and look for the sea.”
“See, I wouldn’t have thought of that on my own. You don’t need books to be clever, Aegon.” She adjusted their hands so she could hold his properly. “To be honest, part of me is glad that you need my help with book learning. It makes me feel like I have a purpose beyond carrying your children.”
“I would let you do all of it if you wanted,” he said earnestly. “Meetings, project proposals, negotiations, petitions, everything. I hate it, but you like it. You can have my seat at the Small Council table, you can have the Iron—well, mayhaps not the throne, it’s more uncomfortable than a pile of hedgehogs. But I could sit on it, and you could sit on me, and if anyone complains, we’ll tell them to fuck off.”
She laughed again and threw her arms around his neck. “Aegon, how could I not be happy when you say things like that to me?”
His joy and relief were almost palpable when he swooped in to kiss her, a fervent mess of clashing teeth and tongues as their bodies sank onto the bed. Their clothes were ripped in their haste but once they were naked, time seemed to slow to a crawl. Usually sex between them was frenetic, as if every second they weren’t touching was torture. But now their movements were languid, fingers dragging across bare skin, mouths caressing racing pulses.
She traced the calluses on his hands, born from wielding the sword in the yard and the lute in the secrecy of his room. She kissed those calloused palms then guided them between her legs, where he strummed his fingers to coax his favorite song from her lips. He rolled onto his back and balanced her on top of him, careful of her belly, before they pressed their bodies together like perfect puzzle pieces. She stretched down to kiss a burn mark on his neck, which he received as a boy playing recklessly with Sunfyre. He responded with a satisfied groan as his hips jerked up, pushing deeper into her.
As she drew close to her peak, she had a sudden moment of clarity. After these moons of marriage, she knew his body as well as her own. She knew the story behind every scar, mark, and bruise on his body. And when she felt his lips move against her throat, when she felt herself fall with him over the edge, she knew which three words he was silently burning into her skin.
Now she knew why this act was called lovemaking.
Afterwards, as they lay sweaty and sated, he curled behind her with his hand draped over her belly. She prayed for the child to kick and greet their father, but there was only a faint, sleepy stirring, impossible for Aegon to feel.
Aegon buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. “Can I take some of your perfume with me?”
“Of course. I’ll pack a vial in your bags.”
His fingers tensed. “I don’t want to go,” he whispered. “I don’t want to leave you.”
She laid her hand over his, so they were both holding the child. “We’ll be here when you return. Both of us, safe and healthy.”
“When I am king, I’ll never let anybody separate us again.” His nose brushed her ear. “Do you ever wonder what we would be like in a different life?”
“If you weren’t the heir?”
“If I weren’t the heir, I would’ve flown to Essos years ago and spent my days gallivanting across the Free Cities. But first I would stop at Driftmark to find a pretty girl, whom I would take along and corrupt with my dissolute ways.” He nipped at her ear, and she giggled. “No, think something even more different. Imagine a life where we aren’t Targaryens or Velaryons. Just ordinary smallfolk, with no expectations or responsibilities. We could do whatever we wanted.”
She felt obligated to point out, “We wouldn’t have time to do whatever we wanted. We’d be too busy trying not to starve to death.”
“Nobody ever starves in a dream. Let’s just pretend it’s a world where it’s always summer, the crops are always ripe, and death is a distant dream for old men and women.”
She relaxed as she considered this imaginary paradise. “Mayhaps you would be a humble shepherd like our Valyrian ancestors.”
“Shepherding sounds more interesting than farming. Go on.”
“Odds are I would be a farmer’s daughter.”
“I can’t imagine the Sea Snake, even the smallfolk version of him, being content to scratch at dirt his entire life. At the very least he would be a trader.”
She grinned, enjoying this creative exercise. “Then my father and grandfather are traders from a seaside village, and I am a simple girl running their shop and household. You would stop by every few weeks to sell wool and buy supplies.”
“Every few weeks? More like every day. I would be the upstart shepherd shamelessly flirting with the alderman’s granddaughter, using my charms to get more favorable bargains.”
“You would succeed,” she said merrily. “I would give you whatever you asked for. Every time you left, I would immediately long for your return, until I convinced my grandfather to let me marry you.”
“I could seduce you to force his hand.”
“Goodness, you really are an upstart.”
He chuckled as he traced circles around her navel. “I like this dream,” he murmured. “I would be happy in any life, as long as I have you.”
The skies were clear and sunny the day Aegon and Aemond departed. Jacaera helped her husband don his riding leathers, even though he was capable on his own. She wanted to do this last thing for him before he was gone for however many moons.
When she finished tying his laces, he fell to his knees in front of her and kissed the curve of her belly. “I’ll try to return in time. But if I’m too late, whatever you do, don’t name our child after my father.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” she assured him. It would be an excellent way to curry favor with the king, but she was too resentful of how Viserys treated Aegon to give him the honor. “What would you like to name them?”
Aegon shrugged. “Pick a name that pleases you. Give them a Velaryon name if you wish. I would sooner call our son Laenor than Viserys. Mayhaps Rhaenys for a girl.” He stood and hugged her as tightly as her protruding belly allowed. “You could even call the child Mushroom. I don’t care, as long as you’re here when I come back.”
“We aren’t calling them Mushroom, but I promise I will be here.” She would not partake in any activities that might risk the child’s health. She was taking extra care to eat all her meals, even when her appetite was nonexistent. It helped that Aegon managed to find a spot for his pie-maker friend in the Holdfast’s kitchens, despite the Hand’s wariness of new cooks in the castle. Her stomach always had room for a few bites of pie.
Aegon’s hand gently encircled her wrist. The bruises from that night in the city had long since faded, but he traced his thumb where they used to mar her skin. “I asked my mother to lend you Ser Criston as your sworn shield while I’m away.”
She straightened, surprised. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’ll be lucky if I’m allowed outside the Holdfast to the rest of the Red Keep.”
“I’ll feel better knowing he’s watching over you. He won’t let any danger come near you.”
Jacaera nodded, only half-convinced. While her mother was in the capital for the wedding, an icy tension had manifested between Rhaenyra and Criston whenever their gazes accidentally met. Jacaera knew that Ser Criston had been Rhaenyra’s sworn shield before he was Alicent’s. There must be a bitter history for such antipathy to exist now. But Criston was always polite to Jacaera during their brief interactions. She trusted him to fulfill his role as protector, at the very least.
When she and Aegon left her chambers, Criston awaited them in the corridor, already prepared for his new assignment. He trailed them like a silent shadow as they walked to the Red Keep’s forecourt. Aemond was already there, grim and forbidding as his mother clutched his forearms. His eyes flickered to the side, where Lucera stood with Joff, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena. Lucera’s hair was messier than usual, and she kept ducking her head as she rubbed her mouth.
A large crowd of courtiers had gathered to farewell the princes, and it continued to grow with every minute that passed. Daeron, Otto, the Small Council, and most of the Kingsguard were there. The king was not.
Jacaera’s eyes prickled, but she refused to let her tears fall. She would not shame her husband so publicly. She allowed herself a sad smile as Aegon made his rounds, clasping hands with knights, accepting last-minute advice from the Small Council, kissing his mother and sister, tousling Daeron’s hair. Then, inevitably, he made his way back to his wife.
In front of such a crowd, the proper thing would be for Jacaera to ask the gods to bless his journey, kiss him chastely on the lips, and stoically watch him depart in the wheelhouse. As she started to speak, however, Aegon surged forward and thoroughly kissed her, shamelessly slipping his tongue into her mouth. His hands rested on her hips, teetering on the border of impropriety.
One of the watching ladies fell over in a swoon. Giggles and gasps rustled through the crowd, half of them scandalized, half of them impressed. At least two people whistled.
Jacaera’s face burned when Aegon finally drew back. He looked smug for a moment before growing somber again as he remembered where they were. She tried to say the farewell speech she had written, but the prepared words refused to emerge. Instead she said, rather pathetically, “I’ll miss you.”
Oddly, that made him beam. His smile seemed to illuminate the courtyard. “I’ll come back soon,” he vowed.
Jacaera didn’t cry when he and Aemond boarded the wheelhouse. She didn’t cry when the vehicle disappeared from view. She didn’t cry when she traversed the keep to return to her rooms, followed by her kinswomen and her new shield. She didn’t cry when she stood by her bedroom window and stared outside while Lucera helped her change clothes.
Then, in the distance, she saw brilliant golden scales soar upward from the Hill of Rhaenys, like the divine flash of a god ascending to the heavens. Sunfyre winged toward the Red Keep, coming as close as he could without knocking over any turrets. His rider lifted an arm and waved.
At that moment, the baby kicked hard, just as Lucera reached around Jacaera’s abdomen. “They kicked me!” Lucera said excitedly.
That was when Jacaera finally cried.
It took a while to adjust to her husband’s absence. Jacaera hadn’t realized how much of her time Aegon occupied until she found herself bored and bereft, waiting for him to march through the door at any moment. Her bed felt so cold and empty at night, she begged her sisters and cousins to share with her. They all took turns, but Lucera was her most frequent companion.
Jacaera felt like a girl on Driftmark again, giggling with her sister under the covers as they whispered about handsome boys and dreams of the future. Admittedly, it was harder to pretend she was an innocent maiden when a baby swelled in her womb, and their kicks became more and more active by the day. But the baby wouldn’t betray their confidences, so she and her sister unhesitatingly swapped secrets deep into the night.
“Aemond asked me, very unofficially, with much usage of ‘mayhaps’ and ‘theoretically,’ if I might be at all willing to marry him one day,” Lucera confessed.
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him he needs to return from Dorne first. Then we can discuss whether our children will be Velaryons or Targaryens.”
Lucera was equally eager to hear news about the princes. The dragonflight to Sunspear required a day and a half, and a raven required another two days to fly to King’s Landing. There was a collective sigh of relief in the Holdfast when a note arrived in Aemond’s hand, confirming their safe arrival. He gave few details, aware that the Martells would read the princes’ correspondence, but the Crown had other spies who could offer a more in-depth account. Blessedly, the spies corroborated that Aegon and Aemond had been received with due civility.
Jacaera only knew what the queen passed onto her, and she wasn’t sure Alicent was told everything either. Jacaera wished she had an ally on the Small Council who could relay important information to her. Aegon had done that, but now he was gone. If only her grandfather had accepted the king’s offer to retake his position as master of ships…
One day, she found a message that had been slipped beneath her door. The handwriting was unfamiliar.
News from Sunspear. Does the Hand enjoy quills?
She was reminded of the graffiti in the secret tunnel outside of the Small Council chamber. The Small Council was scheduled to meet this afternoon. This note implied they would discuss recent intelligence from Dorne. Was the writer hinting that she should eavesdrop?
Jacaera mulled over the trustworthiness of the writer. They remained anonymous, though she couldn’t fault them for that. If she were in their position, she would stay anonymous too. But why did they want her to spy on the meeting? Did they hope to win her favor by forewarning her about the discussion, which likely concerned Aegon and Aemond? Could this be a trap?
She summoned Lucera for a second opinion. “I highly doubt there’s a cutthroat waiting in the tunnel,” Lucera said after reading the message. “If someone wanted to assassinate or kidnap you, this is a horribly incompetent attempt.”
“I agree. I am curious about the writer’s motives.” Jacaera sighed. “No matter what, I won’t be able to go. Ser Criston might be convinced to let me visit the Red Keep proper, but he won’t let me venture down a secret tunnel alone.”
“Probably not,” Lucera agreed. “But he isn’t my sworn shield. Nobody is watching me.”
Although Jacaera fretted about the potential danger, Lucera insisted on going. While her sister was gone, Jacaera anxiously paced the length of her chambers. She almost collapsed in relief when Lucera returned, unharmed and unruffled. “What happened? Did you see anybody?”
“It was rather anticlimactic,” Lucera said, disappointed. “The tunnel was empty. No traps, no notes, unless you count some crude graffiti about Otto Hightower. Nobody in the Small Council chamber looked my way.”
“Did you at least learn something from the meeting?”
Lucera nodded enthusiastically. “The Dornish trip is going well. Aegon and Aemond have befriended Prince Qoren’s children. But the Martells watch their every move, and the Dornishmen offer their help only half-heartedly.”
The important part was that Aegon and his brother weren’t in imminent danger. Jacaera allowed herself a small measure of relief.
That was Lucera’s only opportunity to eavesdrop on the Small Council. Less than a fortnight later, a Pentoshi dish of squid and peppers was served at Jacaera’s table. There had been no further attempts to drug her food, so the cooks were resuming their usual adventurousness. The dish was too spicy for Jacaera and her sisters, but Baela and Rhaena devoured the delicacy from their childhood.
After a half-hour, Baela was laughing at something Joff said when she abruptly doubled over and puked everything she just ate. Rhaena started toward her sister but collapsed on the floor, violently sick as well.
Jacaera screamed for help. Criston instantly barged into the room. He took one look at the scene, shouted for a servant to fetch the maesters, and went to roll the twins onto their sides so they didn’t choke on their own vomit. Grand Maester Orwyle swiftly arrived and feverishly worked to purge the poison from their stomachs.
“They will live,” Orwyle said gravely. “But Lady Baela ate more of the dish, did she not? The inside of her throat will be very scarred. She may have difficulty speaking henceforth.”
Jacaera sat vigil between the twins’ beds. Lucera and Joff dozed off beside her but she remained awake, gazing at Baela and Rhaena as they twitched and sweated in their poppy-induced sleep.
“Princess.” Criston stood a respectful distance away. “Your lady cousins will not perish overnight. You should get some rest.”
She shook her head. “I apologize for keeping you from your slumber, Ser Criston. You may have another guard take your place if you wish.”
“As long as you remain awake, so shall I. It is my duty to remain at your side,” he said neutrally.
“And it is my duty to watch over my cousins. As my companions, they are part of my household. Their safety was my responsibility, yet it was my table where they consumed this poison. I will not shy away from my failure.”
Criston looked at her for a few contemplative seconds then nodded. “As you say, Princess.”
“Do you know if they have made progress on the investigation in the kitchens?”
“They found the cook who prepared the poisoned dish.” Criston paused to assess her expression. She held his gaze, and he continued, “He hanged himself in one of the larders. One of the food tasters was stuffed in a pickling vat with a slit throat.”
Jacaera frowned. “Were the cook’s wounds truly self-inflicted?”
“It seems they were,” Criston said, equally skeptical. The cook’s death was awfully convenient. The investigators could not press him for information.
“Was it the new cook? The pie-maker Aegon hired?” Jacaera asked worriedly. Aegon was fond of Gyles. She hoped, for his sake, that his friend was not a traitor.
“No. It was one of the cooks who came with your household from High Tide. I believe his name is Jorgen.”
She gaped at Criston. “That can’t be right. Jorgen has served my family for my entire life. His son is a man-at-arms at High Tide. He would never poison us. It must be a ruse, some form of distraction from the true culprit.”
“Mayhaps it is,” Criston said. “Unfortunately, Jorgen is no longer able to tell us the truth of the matter.”
Her heart broke for Jorgen, who used to sneak cakes to her and her sisters when they were little. She refused to believe he willingly participated in this scheme. He must have been tricked, or framed. And then someone killed him to cover their trail.
“Surely it was the same culprit who arranged for Myranda to bring moon tea?” Jacaera mused aloud. “Twice they infiltrated the Holdfast’s staff and slipped something into food or drink intended for me… Or was it intended for me? The dish tonight was distinctly Pentoshi, and the peppers are an acquired taste. I’ve never ordered anything like it for my table. In fact, I was surprised to see it at supper, but Baela and Rhaena were so delighted—” She suddenly remembered she was not speaking to her husband, who enjoyed listening to her talk. “Forgive me for rambling, Ser Criston. I’ll stop now.”
“These are very keen observations, Princess.” Criston wasn’t able to completely hide his surprise. “I find them quite valuable for the investigation.”
“Oh. Well, then I am glad they make sense outside of my head,” she said, pleased. “Aegon is usually the one subjected to my conspiracy theories. I shall endeavor not to make you my next victim in his absence, Ser.”
Criston, who was always stolid when she saw him, offered a small smile. “Subject me to all your conspiracy theories, Princess. The sooner we root out this threat, the better.” Then his smile faded as he blinked at her, as if remembering something. “Forgive me, Princess. I forgot myself.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Ser. You said nothing untoward,” she hurriedly assured him. “I rather enjoy conversing with you in this friendly fashion.”
He turned away. His stoic mask reappeared, and he was once again the stolid sentinel. “I am your sworn shield, Princess. Not your friend. It would be inappropriate to cross boundaries.”
The very next evening, just before sundown, Syrax, Seasmoke, and Meleys landed in King’s Landing. Corlys’s ships were not far behind.
Rhaenyra and Rhaenys immediately went to see the king. Laenor stayed with the girls, where he alternated between weakly japing with the twins and tightly hugging his daughters. Jacaera sagged into her father’s embrace, relieved her family was here. She no longer needed to bear all the responsibility. Her parents and grandparents would know what to do about the mess they were in.
Supper was an unfestive affair. Laenor took bites from all the bread and pottage before he let the girls touch it. They were almost done eating when Rhaenyra and Rhaenys joined them. As Jacaera began to invite them to eat, Rhaenys interrupted, “Girls, we are leaving for Driftmark. Now. Baela, Rhaena, get dressed.”
They acted with such haste, Jacaera didn’t even have time to grab a cloak from her chambers. She had sent Criston away to take a break, temporarily replacing him with Velaryon guards who came from Corlys’s ships. The guards surrounded the family as they hurried through the corridors. Baela and Rhaena, still weak, were half-dragged by Corlys and Laenor. Joff, who was the shortest, could barely keep up as Rhaenys gripped her hand.
Jacaera grabbed Lucera’s hand and exchanged a bewildered look with her sister. Everything was moving so fast, she scarcely had time to think. She couldn’t imagine they would be permitted to depart so quickly.
As she suspected, royal guards surrounded the Red Keep’s front entrance. “Step aside,” Corlys commanded.
“We cannot, my lord,” the captain of the guards responded. “We have orders from the king.”
“What orders?” Corlys said loudly as courtiers gathered to watch the commotion. “Is my family imprisoned in this keep?”
“Nobody is a prisoner, Corlys.” The king arrived, flanked by the queen, Otto, most of the Small Council, and several of the Kingsguard. “You are acting incautiously, and I urge you—”
Corlys barked a laugh. “I am the incautious one? When my grandchildren have nearly died under your roof? What lord here would not remove their kin from this den of peril? I am astonished that anybody remains to populate your court.”
“The guilty cook came from your household, Lord Corlys,” Otto reminded them.
Viserys nodded. “It is as Otto says, Corlys. Your hall is no safer than mine.”
“There was never an attempt on my granddaughters’ lives while they lived in my hall,” Corlys spat. “I will return there with them while you try to clean the rats from these corridors. Or will you keep us here against our will?”
Viserys sighed, glanced at Otto, glanced at someone else to the side of him, and sighed again. “I am no tyrant, Corlys. You and your family may come and go as you please.” He gestured, and the royal guards parted, clearing a path to the exit.
Corlys, with Baela, led the way through the doors, then Laenor with Rhaena. When Jacaera and Lucera tried to step through, however, the guards closed ranks again, blocking the way. “What is the meaning of this?” Rhaenyra demanded from behind her daughters.
“Princess Jacaera is no longer part of Lord Corlys’s household,” Otto said with the calmness of one discussing the weather. “She is part of the king’s household. She goes where His Grace commands.”
Laenor passed Rhaena to Corlys then stepped back through the guards. He didn’t reach for his sword, but the Velaryon guards tensed in anticipation of conflict. “She is a Velaryon, my daughter.”
“She is Prince Aegon’s wife,” Otto replied. “Her place is with her husband.”
“Her husband has run away to Dorne,” Rhaenyra snapped. “If he is not here, then she needn’t be either.”
“She carries Prince Aegon’s child, who may be the future Lord of the Seven Kingdoms,” Otto retorted. “He will be born in the Red Keep like his forefathers, and the princess will receive care from the best maesters in the realm.”
“Are we to trust the maesters will stop further poisoning attempts as well?” Rhaenyra gripped Jacaera’s shoulder. “Two attempts have already been made, perilously close to her. Do you expect us to wait for a third?”
“We are enacting security measures so there will be no repeat incident.”
“That’s what you said the first time. Now look where your incompetence has led us!”
Jacaera couldn’t remain silent. Too many hands rested on sword hilts, and she feared what might happen if the flames continued to be stoked. She said, loudly and clearly so everyone could hear, “Mother, I am deeply moved by your staunch defense. I know it is born of love and concern for me. But the Lord Hand is correct. It is my duty as Prince Aegon’s wife to tend to his household, even in his absence. I trust the protection of His Grace, my good-father, to preserve my well-being and that of my child.” She curtsied to the king.
Viserys’s face brightened. “See, Rhaenyra? Your daughter has faith in my guards and whisperers. Should the rest of us not bow to her judgment?”
Jacaera caught her mother’s eye and silently pleaded for her not to argue. Baela and Rhaena were on the verge of collapsing against Corlys. They needed to rest, not be propped up in the corridor as a spectacle for half the court. Jacaera didn’t believe the guards around them would draw steel without an explicit command, but Laenor looked ready to punch someone. She did not wish for her father to be thrown into the Black Cells.
Rhaenyra’s fingers twitched on Jacaera’s shoulder. She glanced at the king and his attendants, then Corlys and the twins, then Laenor tensing more and more by the second. Finally she looked at Rhaenys, who still clutched Joff’s hand. The two women exchanged a small nod. “Very well. Jace has always been wise for her age,” Rhaenyra relented. “But you must allow a mother to worry.”
“Of course—” Viserys started.
“It has been so long since I spent quality time with my firstborn. I shall stay here with her for the remainder of her pregnancy.” Rhaenyra flashed a false smile.
The king either failed to detect her forced cheer or deliberately ignored it. “How delightful! I look forward to spending quality time with my firstborn as well. It shall be a veritable family reunion.” Viserys enthusiastically tapped his cane on the floor. “Alicent, see that Rhaenyra’s old rooms are prepared. Corlys, Rhaenys, would you also like to—?”
“Thank you, Cousin, but our granddaughters should recuperate at High Tide,” Rhaenys said tersely. She led Joff to the door, where Corlys, Laenor, and the twins waited. Then she looked over her shoulder. “Lucera, come.”
Lucera’s hand tightened on Jacaera’s. “I’m supposed to keep Jace company. My place is here.”
“Your place is at Driftmark,” Corlys said with unusual sternness toward his granddaughter. “Your mother will stay. You must leave with us.”
Aghast, Lucera turned to her sister. “Jace…”
“You must go where Grandsire tells you.” Smiling faintly, Jacaera kissed Lucera’s cheek. “It’s fine. I’ll have Mother.”
Lucera nodded, though she was clearly unhappy about it. “I’ll try to come back for the birth,” she whispered before reluctantly joining the rest of their family at the door. With a last look at Jacaera, the Velaryons departed. Jacaera forced herself to keep her head high as she watched her family leave her behind.
“The hour is late, but mayhaps we can share a late supper,” Viserys suggested with unseemly happiness.
“My daughter should rest. Pregnancy is quite tiring. I will see you on the morrow, Father.” Rhaenyra wrapped her arm around Jacaera’s shoulders and steered her away.
After a moment, Criston followed, stony-faced.
Rhaenyra, too busy fussing over Jacaera, didn’t notice their shadow until they turned the corner. She glared at Criston. “Your presence is unasked for and unwanted, Ser.”
“I apologize for disappointing you, Princess,” Criston responded with equal warmth, which was to say, none at all. “I am sworn to protect Princess Jacaera in Prince Aegon’s absence.”
“That won’t be necessary. You may go.”
“Mother.” Jacaera frowned. “Ser Criston is one of the greatest warriors in the realm. I couldn’t ask for a better protector.”
“Your grandfather left some of his household guards at the Red Keep. They will serve.”
Jacaera rested her hands on her belly. The baby was unconcerned with the tension outside as they meandered around her womb. “Aegon chose Ser Criston for me.”
“Aegon isn’t here now, and Criston didn’t stop that poison from reaching your table.”
“Do you think Grandsire’s guards could’ve done any better?”
Rhaenyra opened her mouth but then shot a look at Criston, who was pretending not to listen to the argument. She grabbed Jacaera’s hand and hurriedly steered her the rest of the way to Jacaera’s chambers, where she loudly shut the door in front of Criston’s face. “Gods, we never should have sent you into this nest of vipers,” Rhaenyra muttered. Then she took Jacaera’s hands into her own and kissed her daughter’s forehead. “But I am here now. All will be well, I swear it.”
At first, Jacaera found comfort in her mother’s presence. Rhaenyra keenly observed the tasters for a full hour after food passed their lips, waiting to see if poison symptoms arose. Jacaera was secure in the knowledge that her mother would never allow her to consume poison, even if it meant the dishes were cold by the time Jacaera could partake. At least Gyles’s pies were delicious at any temperature, a welcome interruption to the endless stream of bean pottage and thin broth.
She missed her sisters and cousins, but Rhaenyra ensured Jacaera never felt lonely. In the mornings, Jacaera was roused when her mother came to bring a breakfast tray and lay out her clothes. During the daytime, they spent many hours chattering about what they had done in the moons they spent apart. Rhaenyra was visibly unhappy whenever they spoke of Aegon, so Jacaera avoided the topic of her husband. At night, Rhaenyra prowled around Jacaera’s bedroom as if to ensure no catspaws hid in the shadows, and she waited for Jacaera to fall asleep before departing.
In sum, Jacaera spent every waking moment with her mother. Sometimes it felt stifling, but she reminded herself Rhaenyra was here to protect her.
One morning, a servant brought a note from the queen, inviting them to dine with her, Helaena, and Daeron. Before Jacaera could accept the invitation, Rhaenyra said to the servant, “Absolutely not. We decline.”
Miffed, Jacaera stared at her mother while the servant bowed and left. “I wish to go, Mother.”
“We cannot verify that the fare at the queen’s table is untouched. Need I remind you where the first poisoning attempt took place?”
“Fine.” Jacaera opened the door, stepped past Criston in the corridor, and called for the departing servant’s attention. “Please inform Her Grace that I regretfully cannot dine at her table, but I would be glad to simply spend time with my good-family.”
Rhaenyra frowned when Jacaera returned to the room. “You needn’t grovel for the queen’s approval. If anything, it should be the other way around.”
“She is my husband’s mother. I owe her respect for that, let alone her status as queen,” Jacaera said in disbelief. “Just as you respect my grandmother.”
“They are entirely different relationships. Rhaenys and I share no animosity.”
“What animosity do the queen and I share? She has been kind and welcoming to me my entire marriage. She was the one who detected the moon tea.”
“It was her servant who tried to serve the moon tea. Alicent should have better control over her household,” Rhaenyra insisted.
“And what of Jorgen the cook? You encouraged me to bring him from High Tide, but he is suspected of poisoning Baela and Rhaena.”
“Who decided Jorgen was the culprit? The Hand’s lackeys, I presume.”
Jacaera threw her hands in the air. “Why, in the Mother’s name, would the queen and Hand want to harm their future grandchild and great-grandchild?”
Rhaenyra squeezed her eyes shut. A breath rattled in her throat. Then she conceded grudgingly, “They would not wish it. But they were responsible for the carelessness that put you at risk. Alicent should have taken better care of you.”
“Well, now that you’re here to watch over everything I do, there should be no danger at all. Who can take better care of me than mine own mother?” Jacaera’s control over her temper was slipping. She marched toward the bedroom. “I’m going to rest. I shall be ready for the engagement with the queen in a few hours.”
Later, Rhaenyra grimly walked with Jacaera to the queen’s apartments. Alicent greeted them both. “I feel obliged to offer tea, though I know you would rather not—”
“No, thank you.” Without meeting Alicent’s gaze, Rhaenyra glided to the couch, sat, and motioned for Jacaera to sit beside her.
Helaena and Daeron shared the opposite couch. Helaena stroked her brother’s head while Daeron slouched and pouted, lacking his usual cheer. Alicent nervously patted her perfectly styled hair before sitting in a chair between the two couches, as if hoping to bridge them. “Do you find your rooms suitable, Rhaenyra?”
“They are satisfactory, thank you, Your Grace.”
Alicent was usually able to smooth over awkward gaps in conversation, but now she was at a loss as she stared at Rhaenyra, her large brown eyes shining with anxiety. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Jacaera smiled at Daeron, who was still sulking, and asked, “Pray tell, what has stolen the smile from your face, Daeron?”
“My brothers went to Dorne, and Joff went back to Driftmark. Everyone left me behind,” he complained. “Nobody asked if I wanted to go too.”
Alicent turned to her youngest son. “Your brothers are representing the Crown on an important diplomatic mission. They have not gone to Dorne for pleasure.”
“Nonetheless, I hear they are enjoying themselves,” Rhaenyra said stonily.
Alicent’s hands twitched on her lap. The skin around Alicent’s fingernails was picked so raw, Jacaera flinched just looking at them. Then, drawing her shoulders back, the queen asked Jacaera, “Has Aegon written to you?”
“I’m afraid not, Your Grace.”
“Oh.” Alicent looked disappointed. “Aegon has never been diligent with correspondence, but I thought he would write to you.”
“He and Aemond must be aware that the Martells are watching any ravens they send. Mayhaps they are choosing discretion,” Jacaera suggested. It was for the best. She suspected that any letter Aegon wrote to her would contain inappropriate content. Aemond had sent a handful of letters, which she was told contained only the barest facts written in a no-nonsense tone.
As Alicent nodded in agreement, Rhaenyra muttered, “Ah yes, Aegon, the soul of discretion.”
Alicent’s relief shifted to barely masked annoyance. “Did you say something, Princess?”
“I was merely clearing my throat, Your Grace.”
“Helaena,” Jacaera said loudly, “no doubt Aemond appreciates the cotton shirt you embroidered for him. It’s much more suitable for the Dornish clime than his usual garb.”
Helaena was idly picking at tufts of Daeron’s hair so they stood messily on his head. He didn’t seem to notice or care as he continued to mope. “Yes, but I’m sure he insisted on wearing his black leathers during the first few days.” Helaena sighed. “Aemond always has to suffer before he learns.”
Jacaera tried to keep the conversation in pleasant waters, but it was like swimming against the current. Helaena was quiet by nature, Daeron was determined to sulk, and the tension in the room intensified whenever Alicent and Rhaenyra glanced at each other. After less than a half-hour, Jacaera gave up, excused herself, and returned with Rhaenyra to her chambers.
In the privacy of her rooms, Jacaera turned upon her mother. “Why must you be so rude, Mother?”
“I was not rude.”
“Don’t deny it. I heard your quip about Aegon.”
“Was I wrong?” Rhaenyra folded her arms. “I have heard disconcerting rumors about his treatment of you.”
“Aegon has treated me with nothing but kindness and respect!”
Her mother sniffed. “If that’s true, I’m relieved to hear it, because I was aghast when I heard he bedded you on the table in the Small Council chamber.”
Jacaera froze.
Rhaenyra studied her daughter’s face then sighed. “I knew he was prone to debauchery, but dragging you into his depravity is unconscionable. You are the future queen, not one of his common whores.”
Jacaera asked, in a shaky, mortified whisper, “How do you even know about that?” Aegon had been confident that Larys Strong would stay silent. Did the master of whisperers break his promise? Or were they seen by an unknown servant? If her mother heard about it all the way in Driftmark, who else knew? Was the entire court laughing about Jacaera acting like a slattern? She wouldn’t know if they were. She never spoke to anyone outside of her good-family anymore.
Rhaenyra’s lip curled. “Aegon was happy to tell the tale to his ne’er-do-well friends in his favorite brothels and taverns.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Jacaera denied immediately.
“You sound so confident.” Rhaenyra shook her head. “You have known him for seven moons.”
“I spent nearly every waking hour of all those moons in his presence. I know him better than you think. He isn’t the cruel lecher that you feared, Mother,” Jacaera said earnestly. “He was kind to me from the very beginning. He prioritizes my happiness. He consults me on matters of the Small Council. He—”
“Oh, gods.” Rhaenyra’s eyes widened as her hand flew up to her mouth. “You think you’re in love with him.”
You think you’re in love with him.
The pity in Rhaenyra’s gaze caused anger to burn in Jacaera’s belly. The baby turned, as if disturbed by the sudden heat. “Yes. I love him. And he loves me. He told me before he left for Dorne.”
“How many of his paramours did he tell he loved them as well?” Rhaenyra retorted. “That girl with the moon tea was besotted with him, and he encouraged her affections. You might be young, Jace, but you should know better.”
Jacaera managed not to flinch at her mother’s words, even though they cut her deeply. She wasn’t the same sheltered girl, fearful of her husband and marriage, whom Rhaenyra left behind after the wedding. “How do you know so much about ‘common whores’ and what Aegon does in brothels? You are the future Lady of Driftmark, Mother. Such topics should be beneath you.”
Rhaenyra drew herself to her full height, the same as Jacaera’s. “I may have been forced to leave you here when you married, but I didn’t abandon you. You were new at court, utterly unfamiliar with its machinations, irresistible prey to the serpents who infest the Red Keep. I established my own contacts in the city so I could try to keep you safe from afar.”
“And why am I such a novice at court?” Jacaera snapped. “Who insisted that I remain on Driftmark my entire life, because she couldn’t bear the thought of giving me up to Aegon any sooner than she had to?”
“It was the right decision! Look at all that has befallen you since you stepped foot in this castle. I was keeping you safe.”
“If keeping me safe was your intent, then you failed just as much as the queen and the Hand. What good have your contacts done, other than slander my husband?” A thought suddenly struck Jacaera. “Who exactly are these contacts?”
“Discretion is critical in this—”
“Mysaria?” Jacaera guessed. Rhaenyra stiffened. “I know she used to be Prince Daemon’s paramour. Now she operates brothels in the city. Have you been conspiring with a brothel madam?”
Rhaenyra scowled. “I do not appreciate being accused like some sort of criminal. I conspire with no one. I simply receive information so that I am forewarned if your husband ever dishonors you.”
“I never asked you to do that.”
“You didn’t need to. I’m your mother. I would do anything for you.”
Jacaera’s mouth went dry. “Did you—did you have anything to do with the moon tea?”
Rhaenyra’s face lost all color. “No! Absolutely not! How could you even ask that?”
“You make no secret of your loathing for Aegon and his family,” Jacaera said, suppressing her shame about her query.
“My love for you exceeds any feeling I harbor for them.” Rhaenyra took a breath, looking pained. “The daughter I raised would never doubt that.”
“It has been made abundantly clear that I am no longer just your daughter.” Jacaera’s hands reflectively went to her belly, where the baby turned anxiously. “I am now Aegon’s wife, and soon to be his child’s mother.”
Rhaenyra stared at her. “You would turn your back on your family for him?”
“I’m not choosing between anyone! You are all my family. Aegon too, even if you don’t like him.”
“He is not like us,” Rhaenyra snarled. “Your parents, your sisters, your grandparents, we are the eternal bedrock beneath your feet. But a man like Aegon? The promises of devotion he has written in the sand will wash away with the tide.”
Jacaera sputtered furiously. Her mother had never even shared a full conversation with Aegon, yet she spoke as if she knew every aspect of his character. She dismissed Jacaera’s arguments and feelings as the delusions of a naive girl. Fuming, Jacaera latched onto an old memory and hurled it back at Rhaenyra. “Not every man is destined to disappoint just because Prince Daemon didn’t love you enough to stay!”
Jacaera burned with a sense of vindictive victory—for all of five seconds, before her words sank in and Rhaenyra staggered backwards. Rhaenyra’s eyes were wide with astonishment as she stared at her daughter, like she no longer recognized her. She opened her mouth to say something, but all that emerged was a quiet, ragged gasp of pain. Tears welled in Rhaenyra’s eyes, and she hastily swept her hands over her face.
Her regal mother had not appeared so vulnerable since Prince Daemon left the twins at High Tide and disappeared to Essos. Immediately, Jacaera regretted her words. A filial daughter should not say such things to a beloved mother. “Mother, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
Rhaenyra didn’t reply straight away. Her shoulders shook as she took shallow, uneven breaths. When Jacaera stepped toward her, Rhaenyra held up a hand in a silent command to stop. Jacaera obeyed and nervously watched her mother stand in the middle of the room, silent except for the occasional sniffle. Eventually the trickle of tears dried, and Rhaenyra held her head high as she wiped her face with a handkerchief.
When Rhaenyra spoke again, she didn’t meet Jacaera’s gaze. Her voice was hoarse but frightfully calm. “You’re right, Jace. I have been hurt in the past, and now I’m overcorrecting as I try to prevent you from being hurt. It’s true, I am predisposed to think ill of Aegon. Mayhaps I am unfair to him. Mayhaps I resent him for taking everything from me. My throne, my father, my friend, now you. But I realize now there’s no point in resisting. What can I do? I have served my purpose, giving birth and raising my children. Now it is my duty to smile and look away while my daughters’ husbands do as they please with my sweet girls.” Composing her expression, Rhaenyra started toward the door.
Jacaera’s heart raced as her stomach lurched. “Where are you going, Mother?”
“Your place is with your husband—or his family, at least. My place is with mine. I will do as you wish and refrain from intruding upon your household henceforth.” Rhaenyra opened the door, paused, and sank into a polite curtsy. “If I can be of service, you need only send a raven to Driftmark. In the meantime, I trust that Her Grace will treat you like her own daughter.”
Jacaera’s tongue was heavy with shock as she watched her mother stride down the corridor. “Wait,” she croaked, barely audible. Rhaenyra didn’t hear her as she disappeared around the corner. Head swimming, Jacaera stepped forward. “Wait, Mother—”
Dizziness swept over her. Her knees wobbled. Her protruding belly unbalanced her, and she began to fall.
Armor clanked rapidly as Criston leapt from his post to catch her, just before she could crash onto the floor. “Princess, are you well?”
She threw up.
Criston shouted for a maester. He waited for her to finish emptying her stomach before carrying her to the couch, where he laid her down. “Is it poison?” he asked urgently.
“No, no,” she gasped out between sobs. The baby kicked. It made her heart hurt. “I just felt faint. Where is my mother?”
The Grand Maester quickly arrived. By the time he finished examining her, a servant returned with the news that Rhaenyra had already left for the Dragonpit. Even if they sent the king’s fastest rider after her, he wouldn’t be able to catch her before she took off on Syrax.
“I must send a raven to High Tide,” Jacaera said over Orwyle’s protests that she should rest. “I want her to come back.” She crammed as many words of apology as she could onto the small scrap of paper. Then she anxiously awaited for a response.
She spent several days staring out the window, as if she could be the first to spy the raven bearing her mother’s words, or mayhaps Syrax bearing Rhaenyra herself. But there was no word from Driftmark, nor any sign of dragons on the horizon. At last, Jacaera was forced to accept that she had deeply angered her mother, and no simple apology would make up for it. She could only pray that Rhaenyra would forgive her and return before the baby was born.
Jacaera lacked the enthusiasm to do anything other than sit in her chambers, pick at her embroidery, and eat cold pies, which remained mercifully poison-free. Alicent was a constant visitor, nervously fluttering around the room as she saw to Jacaera’s comfort. Daeron, who had probably been instructed by his mother to cheer up Jacaera, often came to do cartwheels, recite poetry, and otherwise amuse his good-sister. Jacaera appreciated their efforts, but truthfully she appreciated Helaena’s quiet presence the most. They embroidered together in comfortable silence, sometimes interrupted by Helaena’s humming or random riddles.
One afternoon, Helaena said without warning, “He comes and he goes, here dark, there light, he does as he pleases in the night.”
Jacaera thought about it for a long moment, puzzled. Then she remembered gazing out the window yesternight and spying glowing pinpricks in the courtyard below. “A firefly?”
Helaena nodded fervently and reached over to clasp Jacaera’s hand. “A firefly,” she said solemnly. “Some glow green, but others glow yellow like false gold.”
After spending an excessive number of days feeling sorry for herself, Jacaera forced herself to emerge from her chambers and take some fresh air. An ordinary household guard was posted at her door while Criston got some well-deserved rest. The guard followed Jacaera at a respectful distance to allow her the illusion of solitude, though she wasn’t fond of solitude these days.
She arrived at the courtyard with the weirwood. As she contemplated its carved, weeping face, a voice spoke from behind her. “It makes you think something might be watching you through its eyes, doesn’t it?”
Jacaera turned to see Larys Strong leaning on his cane. “My lord.” She nodded at him as she forced herself not to blush. She hadn’t seen much of him since the incident in the Small Council chamber, which she desperately wished to forget.
“There’s no heart tree on Driftmark, is there, Princess?” he inquired.
“I don’t think the Children of the Forest made it that far.” She managed a smile. “Mayhaps it’s for the best. I would have had nightmares as a girl if I saw such a thing every day.”
“The weirwood at Harrenhal is much more terrifying. It glares at you as if wishing you a painful death.”
Despite her embarrassment about the past, it was nice to converse with someone outside of the same half-dozen people she interacted with every day. “With such a description, I cannot profess to be eager to behold it myself. Have you been to your seat recently, Lord Strong?”
“I’m afraid not. My duties keep me busy here. I must say, the Small Council meetings have grown terribly dull since Prince Aegon left.”
“He would be flattered to know he is missed.”
“What a shame that he was forced to depart with such haste. He had just begun showing impressive improvement.” Larys’s grip shifted on the head of his cane, carved with the image of an insect, as he adjusted his signet ring. The sigil of House Strong winked at her, as if telling her a secret. “Whoever is responsible for the change in Prince Aegon, they deserve the gratitude of the entire realm.”
Jacaera resisted the urge to beam. “Nobody can change unless they choose to change. Others can only encourage them.”
“Wise words,” Larys praised. “You are quite intelligent and tactful, Princess. I am astonished that you aren’t infinitely more popular at court.”
She sighed. “Is it truly so surprising? Being secluded in the Holdfast isn’t conducive to popularity.”
“Regardless, you are the future queen. If you wish for a friend, you need only ask.”
The tacit offer gave her pause. Jacaera wasn’t as naive as Rhaenyra had claimed. Nothing at court was freely given. Larys would benefit simply from being on friendly terms with the future queen, but she wondered what else he might want.
“As a token of friendship…” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a slip of paper, which he extended to her.
“What is this?” she asked warily, not taking the paper.
“Are you not curious about what your husband has been doing in Dorne, Princess?”
The baby stirred in her womb. “You have news of Aegon?”
“We frequently receive news of the princes.” Larys hesitated. “We have, admittedly, been instructed not to disturb you with anything…upsetting.”
Her heart stuttered. “Are the princes injured?”
“No.” He began to retract the paper. “I apologize for importuning you, Princess. I know you are focused on your child’s health.”
“Stop.” She held out her hand. “Give it to me. I wish to know what has happened.”
Notes:
See the author's behind-the-scenes commentary about this chapter here. Warning: potential spoilers for future chapters, so don't read this during your first reading.
I hope certain eagle-eyed commenters are feeling VERY proud of themselves right now. 👀
The next time I update/post anything, S2 will be airing. 😱 I will probably be very unwell and gross-sobbing after every episode, just saying.
Chapter 5: Bring her under your protection
Summary:
Ill news comes from Dorne, but Jacaera receives hope from an unexpected source.
Notes:
I have a lot of feelings about S2E4, and posting this chapter is kinda cathartic. AHFOD-verse Aemond would never. 🥲
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Jacaera did not weep in front of Larys. She thanked him politely for his help, returned with her guard to her chambers, and waited for the door to shut. Only when she was alone did she collapse on the couch, using her hand to muffle her sobs as she reread the note.
The princes’ success in Sunspear thus far can be largely attributed to the favor that Princess Aliandra Martell has bestowed upon Prince Aegon. They are often seen sharing private counsel and venturing into the shadow city together. On more than one occasion, Princess Aliandra has declared that it is a shame the two of them cannot forge a more permanent diplomatic union. Meanwhile, Prince Aemond curries favor with the other Martells…
As her tears continued falling, she tried to remember everything she knew about Aliandra Martell. Aliandra was around Jacaera’s age. She was House Martell’s heir because it was Dornish custom to allow daughters to inherit. Her father Qoren was once considered for Rhaenyra’s hand, and Rhaenyra had mentioned that Qoren was quite handsome. Odds were Qoren’s children were comely as well.
And, Jacaera thought miserably as she rested her hands on her large belly, Aliandra probably doesn’t resemble a beached whale.
The baby kicked as if to chastise her for her thoughts. She wept even harder, no longer able to suppress the pathetic noises.
There was a knock on the door. She gurgled something incoherent, unsure if she was saying “come in” or “go away.” The person at the threshold was evidently unsure too. After a prolonged moment, they dared to crack the door open.
Criston, although freshly rested from his break, looked extremely uncomfortable. “Is something amiss, Princess? Do you require the maester?”
“No thank you, Ser,” she forced out between sniffles. “I merely thought of something upsetting.”
“As you say,” he muttered. He backed away and shut the door again.
Jacaera resumed crying in peace. Private counsel. Her mind’s eye was barraged with images of Sunspear’s sunlit bedrooms, full of diaphanous silk curtains and desert flowers surrounding a couple joined in ecstasy. Did he also call Aliandra “pretty girl”?
Her breaths came in short, frantic bursts as her mother’s voice echoed in her ear. A man like Aegon? The promises of devotion he has written in the sand will wash away with the tide. Rhaenyra was right. A half-year of Aegon’s life changed nothing. He never even said he loved her. He just said he was happy, and she assumed he meant what she wanted to hear.
Wasn’t this what she always expected? She had grown up hearing rumors of Aegon’s dissolute behavior. She had prepared herself for a marriage of mere formalities, wherein she would bear her husband’s heirs and run his household while he sought his pleasure elsewhere. She should have known better than to think she’d somehow fallen into a romance from a song.
But by the gods, it hurt even more to get a taste of what could have been. It would be less painful if Aegon had been callous from the beginning and never ensnared her at all. Now her heart was in knots, and nothing could ever untangle it again.
The door reopened. Jacaera mopped away the tears blurring her vision. She was about to tell off Ser Criston for intruding when she realized it was Helaena who stood awkwardly on the threshold. Helaena rocked on her heels and glanced out into the corridor. She nodded once, uncertainly, then tiptoed into the room. The door remained wide open behind her until Criston’s armored hand reached over and hurriedly closed it.
Jacaera helplessly groped around for a handkerchief. “I was not expecting you, Helaena. Forgive me.”
“What am I supposed to forgive you for?” Helaena’s hands came together as she absent-mindedly tugged at her fingers. “You seem sad. Do you want a snack? My brothers always feel better after a snack.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine.” Jacaera tried to gulp down her sobs so she could give Helaena her full attention. “This pregnancy is simply making me emotional.”
Helaena took that as a cue to kneel on the floor, where she was eye-level with Jacaera’s belly. Curiosity spread across her face. “How does it feel to have something alive growing inside you? It’s not like having a tick burrow into your skin, is it?”
Jacaera welcomed the distraction from her misery. She touched her middle, wondering if Helaena was thinking about her own potential children. It wouldn’t be long before Helaena was betrothed. Princesses were seldom allowed to remain unmarried. “It is a little strange. The baby is almost always moving, which is a good thing, but their kicks surprise me sometimes. Even if I’m not hungry, I know I must eat so they’re fed. And as they grow, there’s less and less room for my bladder. Overall, I tire more easily these days.” She smiled weakly.
“It sounds like a parasite,” Helaena mused blithely.
Jacaera frowned. “The child might sap my strength most days, but I certainly don’t consider them a parasite.” Even though she was sure Helaena hadn’t intentionally denigrated the baby, Jacaera couldn’t help feeling offended.
Helaena’s eyes bulged with dismay. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. Parasites play a crucial role in nature, like all the other creatures. Your child is very important. I admire you for bearing this responsibility. I would not enjoy it.” Her hands fluttered nervously. “I misspoke. Your baby is definitely not a parasite! It is a pupa waiting to spring forth from its chrysalis.”
Jacaera giggled wetly. “It’s alright, Helaena. I know you mean well.” She picked up her handkerchief again and delicately blew her nose. “In fact, I must thank you for distracting me from the source of my tears.”
“Good. I mean, it isn’t good that you’re crying. That is a bad thing.” Helaena adjusted herself so she sat cross-legged on the floor. “Are you sure you don’t want a snack? I can order some of those pies you love. Aegon got those pies just for you. The cook, Gyles, doesn’t let anyone else have a pie until you’re done eating. I think it’s unfair, but Aegon pays Gyles directly from his own coffers, so I suppose Gyles has to do what Aegon says.”
Jacaera felt her expression twist in anguish. She tried to cover it with her hands, but it was too late.
“Oh no. I didn’t mean to complain. It really isn’t that unfair. I get to eat a pie most days,” Helaena hastened to assure her.
“It isn’t the pies.”
“Then…is it Aegon? What has he done now?” Helaena’s brow furrowed. “But he can’t have done anything. He isn’t even here. Or…is that the problem?”
Jacaera wasn’t sure how to feel about confiding in her good-sister. Helaena was kind and lovely, but Aegon was her brother. Helaena would surely side with him over Jacaera.
But Jacaera was at her wits’ end. Her husband was gone, romancing another princess whose title was more than an empty courtesy granted because Viserys felt guilty about disinheriting Rhaenyra. Her sisters and cousins had been taken from her. She spurned her own mother, and despite Rhaenyra’s parting words, Alicent was no true substitute. Even the maids whom Jacaera brought from Driftmark had been replaced when the royal family became more stringent with its household after the poisoning incidents. She was horribly alone, and she longed to have even one friend here. Sometimes she was so desperate for company, she unnecessarily prolonged conversations with the pie-maker Gyles and his young son Ronnel when they delivered pies to her chambers.
Helaena’s eyes shone hopefully. It reminded Jacaera that Helaena might be lonely too. Helaena was not a social creature, but she had enjoyed sitting with Jacaera’s sisters and cousins when they were in King’s Landing. Mayhaps they could help each other.
Jacaera hesitated for another moment. Then she held out the note.
Helaena held the paper by one corner and silently read it. When she finished, she beamed. “How nice! Aegon and Aemond are making friends.”
Jacaera’s taut nerves snapped. “Is that truly your only takeaway? Aegon is wooing Aliandra Martell!”
“He is?” Helaena frowned as she reread the note. “It doesn’t say that.”
Jacaera pointed at the pertinent passages. “She bestows her favor upon him. They share private counsel and go into the city together. She wishes to forge a more permanent diplomatic union.”
“You and I are sharing private counsel right now, but we aren’t wooing each other.” Helaena paused and looked askance at Jacaera. “Are we?”
Jacaera shook her head.
“Alright, I had to make sure. Aegon says I’m bad at reading people. But you see, sharing private counsel doesn’t necessarily mean wooing. And why would Aegon woo her? You’re the only one he’s interested in wooing. He loves you.” Helaena spoke the last sentence so simply, like it was as universal a truth as the sky being blue.
Hope flickered in Jacaera’s chest, yet she whispered, “You can’t know that. He never said…”
Helaena carefully folded the note and set it down. She looked earnestly at Jacaera. “Aegon is very selfish.”
Jacaera blinked. “Is that an insult?”
“It is a statement of fact. He is selfish. When he wants something, he wants all of it, all for himself. He does not like sharing. He wants you, so he will never share you with anyone. But neither will he share his heart. He is incapable of half-measures. If he does something, he throws himself entirely into it. So I don’t believe he is wooing Aliandra Martell or any other woman. He is simply incapable of it when he has already devoted himself to wooing you.”
There was a pleasant flutter in Jacaera’s belly as the baby stirred. “Are you certain?”
“I am certain. I don’t think he could take his heart back now, even if he wanted to.”
Jacaera smiled faintly. “I thought you were bad at reading people.”
Helaena shrugged. “I don’t need to read Aegon. You can know everything about him if you just pay attention to him for an hour. He’s desperate to be seen.” She tentatively patted Jacaera’s hand. “I think that’s why he likes you so much. You’re very good at paying attention to him.”
Despite Helaena’s reassurances, Jacaera tossed and turned anxiously most nights. She was always on the verge of sleep when her insidious mind conjured an image of Aliandra Martell, perfect and beautiful, worse than any nightmare. Jacaera was generally considered comely, but Aliandra’s proximity to Aegon must be an attractive quality. And Aegon still did not write to his wife.
Jacaera shared her worries in a raven to Lucera, but her sister never responded either. None of Jacaera’s letters to Driftmark merited a reply. One of her many apology notes to Rhaenyra was immediately returned to her, seal unbroken. The sight of it made Jacaera cry. She cried a lot nowadays. All her family was angry at her for treating her mother so poorly, and she deserved their censure.
At the maesters’ advice, she tried to spend more time out of doors. The fresh air and scent of flowers cheered her, and the baby was happier too, bouncing around her womb. Passersby often paused to say hello, so she felt less alone than in her chambers. For several hours, her worries seemed less dire as she worked on her correspondence in sun-drenched courtyards filled with chirping songbirds. Ser Criston guarded her all the while. It was probably boring to stand in a garden all afternoon, but he never complained. Although he tried to accompany her whenever she ventured outside, he was only human and needed rest, so sometimes another guard escorted her instead.
One of the other guards was with her when Larys Strong approached her again. At that moment, Jacaera was reading a construction report about Aegon’s city walkways, which Daeron had kindly stolen for her from his grandfather’s desk. She surreptitiously hid the report among her other papers. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Princess.” Larys bowed his head low. “It pleases me to see you out and about. Your health and happiness are of great concern to us all. You carry the future of the Seven Kingdoms.”
She wrung her hands, twisting a gold ring with a ruby rose. Aegon had given it to her when she told him the baby quickened. “It is my duty. I am honored to bear the prince’s children.”
Larys frowned, his eyes soft and warm. “Forgive my impertinence, Princess, but I would be remiss if I did not point out that you are more than just the mother of Prince Aegon’s heirs. You are his wife. A farmer’s wife tends to her husband’s hearth and home, working the fields alongside him if need be. Your husband’s fields consist of the entire realm, and so must your responsibility be greater. The culture of the court, the hospitality shown to esteemed visitors, all this falls upon your shoulders. And while the king rules with a sword and steel fist, the queen is a font of mercy and charity. Yours is the first counsel he hears in the morn and the last he hears at night. So you see, Princess, you are much more than a mere mother of kings. One day, you will be the foremost woman in the Seven Kingdoms.”
Although Jacaera tried not to let her pride get the better of her, she was pleased by his words. She grew up watching her grandmother rule Driftmark alongside Corlys as an equal, but she had not dared to hope she might achieve something similar with Aegon. It was only after their marriage, when Aegon constantly sought her advice and elevated her ideas above his own, that such aspirations seemed within reach. “Thank you, my lord. It means a lot to hear you say such a thing.”
Larys smiled demurely. “The Lord Hand could not have chosen a better consort for his grandson. We are fortunate that he dissuaded the king from changing his mind.”
Jacaera tilted her head to the side, surprised. “His Grace changed his mind?”
“He nearly did,” Larys said solemnly. “A year ago, the king thought it might be better for his son to wed his sister, just as the Conqueror did. It would keep the royal bloodline purer. Princess Helaena also has the classical Valyrian look.”
Her hand flew self-consciously to her black hair, an inheritance from Rhaenys’s Baratheon mother. As a girl, Jacaera had occasionally envied her relatives’ moonlit hair, but it never truly bothered her. After all, she had Targaryen purple eyes, looked like her Targaryen grandmother, and rode a Targaryen dragon. But now she wondered how many people considered her iron black tresses inferior to Valyrian silver. Traditionally, Helaena would be the first choice for Aegon’s bride, but politics had required him to wed a Velaryon vassal instead of a Targaryen princess.
“Alternatively,” Larys continued, “a match with House Martell could have been the diplomatic union needed to bring Dorne into the fold. Several members of the Small Council were in favor of this proposal. But the Hand argued that the royal family could not humiliate House Velaryon again, so your betrothal remained intact. And we are all the better for it.”
Jacaera’s chest tightened. If her betrothal had been broken after fifteen years, she would have wished to die from the shame. All the effort spent training her to become the future queen, gone to waste. Her grandfather might have actually revolted against the Crown. Their family had enough dragons, ships, and coin to manage it with reasonable success. Before Jacaera’s marriage, the Velaryons had seven dragons to the royal family’s four. That fact was surely on Otto’s mind when he defended the choice of Jacaera as Aegon’s bride. “I was not informed of this.”
“It was never meant to be widespread. You can understand why the Small Council desired to keep this near-folly a secret.” Larys leaned on his cane. His expression was grim yet earnest. “If you wish for someone to be your eyes and ears in the Small Council chamber, then I am your faithful servant, Princess.”
Jacaera was reminded of the anonymous note several weeks ago, inviting her to eavesdrop on a Small Council meeting. She folded her hands over her belly, remaining calm so she didn’t give away her brewing suspicion. “As the master of whisperers, surely you know better than to betray confidential matters of state, my lord.”
“I see no betrayal, Princess. I have performed the same service for Prince Aegon in the past. He did not always attend sessions when he ought, so he required periodic updates. As his wife, you are his equal, are you not?”
A wife was never her husband’s equal, but Jacaera was glad for the platitude. “You flatter me, my lord. I will consider your offer.” As she started to dismiss him, she suddenly remembered a thought that had been weighing upon her for days. “I do have a question.”
“I shall endeavor to answer it, Princess.”
She bit her lip, thinking of how to word her query. “Have you verified whether the contents of the note you gave me are true?”
“To my knowledge, yes. It is all true.”
A lump formed in her throat, disappointed by his confirmation. “Thank you, my lord. You are dismissed.”
Larys did not immediately leave. Voice full of sympathy, he said, “If it is any consolation, I’m told that Princess Aliandra shares a certain resemblance with you.”
Shortly after Larys left the courtyard, she too departed and returned to her chambers. She sat at her desk and stared at the letter that she had started writing earlier. She had intended to send updates about the pregnancy and her daily life—nothing that would be harmful if the Martells spied upon their correspondence—in the hopes that Aegon might respond with even a few sentences written in his own hand.
A knock stirred her from her gloomy thoughts. Helaena entered the room, carrying her embroidery. “I apologize for being late. Daeron distracted me.”
As Jacaera gazed at her good-sister, she was struck by Larys’s revelation of how Helaena almost married Aegon. Tradition or not, Aegon and Helaena would have hated the match. Helaena harbored no ill will toward Jacaera for taking her place, and Jacaera knew it was futile being jealous of a hypothetical scenario. But right now, she couldn’t bear the thought of being in Helaena’s company. It only reminded her that there were innumerable women whom Aegon could’ve married instead, including Aliandra Martell and her private counsels. “I’m sorry, Helaena, but I’m not feeling well. Mayhaps another time.”
“Ah. Very well.” Helaena fidgeted with her embroidery basket. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but all she muttered was a quick farewell before disappearing, just as quickly as she arrived.
Jacaera turned back to her desk. She crumpled the half-written note and tossed it aside.
Larys did not often seek her out, which suited Jacaera. It wouldn’t be proper for her to frequently be in the company of a man who wasn’t her husband, even if a guard stood nearby. But she looked forward to the times he did visit, always when she was relaxing outside in a courtyard, nowhere near her chambers. He unfailingly addressed her with the utmost decorum, and he spoke with her rather than at her, which was a refreshing change from how some of the other lords patronized her.
The information he shared covered a range of topics. Although she eagerly listened to every tidbit, she was happiest to hear updates about the royal walkway project. Progress was slow but steady, and the smallfolk of the city were pleased that Prince Aegon unselfishly cared about building infrastructure for their benefit. Highborns usually traveled through the city in litters and wheelhouses, so the walkways mattered little to the lords in their vaunted manses.
“The overseers are over budget again?” Jacaera shook her head. “To think the king wanted Aegon to complete the project with only half the coin. We couldn’t have afforded even the concrete.”
“It was not His Grace’s wisest decision,” Larys agreed. “He was advised by several councilors to leave the prince’s numbers intact. Not even Lord Beesbury could find fault in Prince Aegon’s calculations. He was surprised and impressed, as the prince has never shown a particular astuteness for sums.”
Jacaera made a mental note to pass on the compliment to Lucera—if Lucera ever deigned to speak with her again. “And yet the king chose to halve the sum.”
“I’m sure you have observed that His Grace’s relationship with Prince Aegon is…” Larys inclined his head thoughtfully. “…fraught.”
“Aegon is his son and heir. The king should want him to succeed.”
Larys tapped his index finger on the head of his cane. His signet ring glinted in the sunlight. “Should he? Fathers and sons are enemies by nature.”
Jacaera almost laughed in disbelief. “I should believe they are the opposite. Even when there is little affection, every lord acknowledges that his heir is his legacy.”
“A middling man fears being dwarfed by a great one, and worse still if that great man is his own creation. No father wishes to stand in his son’s shadow. His legacy no longer remains his own.” Larys’s eyes briefly skimmed over the swell of Jacaera’s belly. “Daughters, however, are no threat. Men seldom feel threatened by a woman. Sons are raised to fight, while daughters are raised to serve and obey. A fearful man chooses the less challenging opponent.”
Almost every man whom Jacaera ever met preferred sons over daughters. If her mother unexpectedly gave birth to a boy, Corlys would immediately elevate that grandson over Lucera, no matter how much he loved his granddaughters. But the king was not most men, and Jacaera had witnessed how much he favored Rhaenyra over all his other children combined. And even though it felt treasonous to even think such a thing, Jacaera admitted that Viserys was definitely not a strong man.
Later that night, as she tried to fall asleep, she was struck by a terrible thought. If Larys was right about Viserys, was that why the king ordered Aegon and Aemond to Dorne? Did the king feel threatened by them? It couldn’t be. No matter how much animosity Viserys might feel for Aegon, surely he wouldn’t wish to imperil his own sons.
But Jacaera’s pregnancy was proceeding well, and all were optimistic for a healthy child. Should the worst happen, Viserys would have an heir of both Aegon and Rhaenyra’s blood. Assuming the birth went well, then the line of succession was secured no matter what happened in Dorne.
A few weeks before Jacaera was due to give birth, an uneasy tension fell upon the Holdfast. The invisible pall was darkest around the members of the Small Council and Kingsguard as they hurried through the corridors. Although Criston rebuffed Jacaera’s polite attempts to ask what he knew, he trailed her with even more diligence than usual and scarcely took any rest. She had no idea when he found the time to sleep and eat. She hoped Larys might offer information, but he was apparently too busy with the tense mystery to visit her.
Jacaera remained helplessly ignorant until the queen summoned her. She hurried to her good-mother’s apartments and found Helaena and Daeron there too. Alicent, gaunt and shaking, fixed her bleak gaze upon her children. Daeron was uncharacteristically somber, bowing his head over his mother’s copy of The Seven-Pointed Star. Slouching in her seat by the window, Helaena stared outside and repeatedly clenched her fist around a chunk of amber.
It took Alicent a moment to register Jacaera’s arrival. Her lips stretched thinly in what was presumably a smile. “Jacaera, dear. Please sit down.”
Jacaera’s stomach twisted with foreboding. The baby began kicking incessantly. “Did something happen to Aegon?” she blurted.
Alicent picked at her nail beds, which were already raw and bloody. “Nothing is confirmed, but the news is grim. I must insist you sit.” The queen waited for Jacaera to obey before resuming. Her strained voice was barely above a whisper. “There has been an…insurrection in Sunspear.”
“Mother have mercy,” Jacaera whispered. Images of blood and violence swam in her mind. Castle gates battered from their hinges, screaming women and children, bloodied silks littering the floors. “What of Aegon and Aemond?”
“My sons and some of the Martells are said to have escaped, praise the gods, though Prince Qoren has almost certainly perished. But nobody knows where they are now. Their dragons are also missing, so we can presume Aegon and Aemond have their mounts. That is a small consolation, at least.” Alicent’s throat trembled as she swallowed. “I was advised not to inform you, lest the news cause distress, but I thought…”
Jacaera took a deep breath, willing herself not to display her churning anxiety. “I appreciate you telling me, Your Grace, otherwise I would have continued wondering and worrying for weeks. I would rather know and be able to prepare myself for—for—” She couldn’t bring herself to finish her sentence. She didn’t want to even think about the worst possible outcome, but it had been days since the news arrived from Sunspear. That was plenty of time for dragonriders to traverse the same distance, or at least send word of their well-being. But there was only silence from her husband and good-brother.
“Why have you given up on them?” Daeron leapt up from his chair. His face burned with anger, and he looked ready to spit fire. “They aren’t dead! They have their dragons, and if they are on their dragons, then the Dornish should pray to their gods for mercy. Those heathen traitors will suffer a hundred times whatever harm they dared to inflict. In fact, I will take Tessarion and join my brothers. With three dragons, their campaign will soon—”
“You aren’t going anywhere, Daeron!” Alicent’s eyes blazed with panic. “I forbid it. I will allow no foolishness. You are not permitted to ride Tessarion until your brothers return home.”
Daeron screeched back in righteous eleven-year-old fury. As he and his mother argued, Jacaera heaved herself up from her chair and waddled toward Helaena, who had been silent the entire encounter. Jacaera sat near her and joined her good-sister in staring blankly out the window as she desperately combed through all the information she just received.
How did the insurrection happen? What caused it? Did it have something to do with Aegon and Aemond? The Dornish were notoriously hostile toward dragonlords. Everyone knew this before the princes ever left King’s Landing. Now the worst had happened. All they could do was pray that Sunfyre and Vhagar would soon appear in the skies with their riders upon their backs.
“Did I do something wrong?” Helaena’s question startled Jacaera. Jacaera looked at her good-sister, but Helaena continued gazing out the window. Her fist kept clenching around the piece of amber, twitching every second like a beating heart.
“Not to my knowledge, Helaena.”
“Then why are you upset with me?”
“I’m not upset with you,” Jacaera instinctively denied.
The corners of Helaena’s mouth pulled down. She still didn’t look at Jacaera. The rhythm of her clenching fist sped up. “You haven’t spoken with me at all.”
Guilt prickled at Jacaera’s nape. It was ridiculous to be upset with Helaena for possibly marrying Aegon in another life, but Jacaera’s gloomy mind was quick to latch onto distressing thoughts these days. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been feeling like myself.”
“No,” Helaena whispered. “You keep chasing pinpricks of light in your search for the sun.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Jacaera said, trying not to sound too exasperated by Helaena’s cryptic words.
Helaena’s fist froze mid-clench. Finally, her eyes flickered toward Jacaera. They were dark like a storm, heavy with judgment and disappointment. “I see much more than you think. I’m not simple.”
“I never said you were.”
“But you think so. Everyone thinks so. And no one ever listens.” Glumly, Helaena opened her palm. The amber tumbled from her limp hand onto the floor. It landed halfway between the two women, and Jacaera was able to see the insect imprisoned inside the amber, winged with antennae. When Jacaera leaned over her large belly to try to pick it up for a closer look, Helaena slammed her foot on the fallen amber, pinning it to the rug. She barely avoided smashing Jacaera’s fingers. “Leave it alone,” Helaena snapped with unusual sharpness.
As Jacaera sat back, baffled and a bit hurt, a distant roar seized everyone’s attention and interrupted Alicent’s argument with Daeron. Jacaera’s heart skipped a beat, hoping the dragon might be Sunfyre. But as the dragon neared the city, it was clearly far too large to be Aegon’s mount. Then, as the dragon’s tremendous size became apparent, she realized which dragon had finally returned home.
“Vhagar!” Daeron cried, pressing his face against the window. “Mother, it’s Aemond. Aemond came back!”
A cold frisson rippled up Jacaera’s spine. Why was Sunfyre not with Vhagar?
As Vhagar continued approaching, they realized her destination wasn’t the Dragonpit, but the Red Keep itself. Criston, who had been standing at the door, raced away to prepare for the massive beast’s arrival.
“You all stay here,” Alicent ordered before following the knight.
Daeron waited thirty seconds. Then he ran after his mother.
Jacaera and Helaena obediently remained at the window. They watched Vhagar descend toward an outer courtyard of the Red Keep. When the dragon’s wing knocked over a turret, Jacaera winced and prayed nobody was inside. Once Vhagar landed, the castle’s many walls and towers impeded their view of what was happening. Aemond must be in a terrible state for him to risk demolishing the Red Keep rather than continue onward to the Dragonpit.
Before long, a commotion arose in the corridors. Footsteps stampeded on the stone tiles, and soft-spoken Grand Maester Orwyle shouted orders in a commanding tone. Jacaera and Helaena rushed to the door. They stared at the guards carrying a pallet, upon which Aemond lay unconscious and unmoving. As he was borne into his room, the guards turned so they could fit through the door.
The new angle allowed Jacaera to see the left side of Aemond’s face. A bloodstained bandage, saturated with crimson liquid, covered his eye. Blood seeped onto his cheeks and into his long silver tresses. Jacaera and Helaena watched in horrified silence as Aemond was carried into his room, and Orwyle shut the door.
In the ensuing hours, they heard no screams from Aemond. Jacaera would’ve preferred it over the unending silence.
Aemond’s eye was lost. By all accounts, it was a miracle he didn’t also lose his life while flying home. Although the bleeding stopped, he remained worryingly feverish. The maesters watched him night and day, and his mother seldom left his bedside. Since the moment he fell from his dragon’s saddle into the panicked guards’ arms, he barely stirred except to curse the maesters when their work occasionally roused him.
Once, when Jacaera came to check on her good-mother as she sat vigil over Aemond, the queen handed her a stack of papers tied with a gold ribbon. “For you, dear. They found this in Aemond’s coat pocket.” Alicent’s cheeks were vivid pink.
Jacaera’s stomach fluttered when she recognized Aegon’s scrawl of her name on the outside of the papers. Then she blushed upon realizing the contents were the cause of the queen’s reddened face, which meant the papers must contain less than innocent words.
Alicent didn’t meet her good-daughter’s eyes. “The Small Council insisted on checking the letters in case Aegon wrote useful information. They didn’t find anything especially important. I apologize for the intrusion.”
Mortified yet hopeful, Jacaera took the papers to her chambers so she could study them in privacy. It was a mix of letters and sketches. Some of the letters included dates, ranging from the day Aegon arrived at Sunspear to the night before the insurrection. All the sketches depicted Jacaera, some in a state of half-dress, which made her blush again as she was reminded that his own mother and the Small Council saw these pictures.
The letters were even worse.
I know how much you like clothes, so I bought some Dornish gowns for you. The silk is so thin, I’ll be able to see your nipples and that lovely patch between your thighs from across the room. It’s a shame you can’t wear them outside of our rooms. If any other man saw you wearing such divine garments, I would have to pluck out his eyes and feed them to the crows. Or mayhaps I should remove his tongue so he can never describe you to anyone else. I am always the first to boast about having the most beautiful wife to have ever lived, but some things I would keep only for myself.
I have also acquired many baubles from the markets here. Chiefest among them is a monstrosity of a necklace that covers half your chest. The whole thing is made of strands of tiny white pearls, with the exception of two large pink pearls that fall over your nipples. It comes with a matching girdle that covers your cunt, but there’s a convenient slit between the pearl strands so I can fuck you without removing it from you. There is, of course, a third pink pearl down there to hide my favorite treasure.
I’m very tempted to send this letter so you can look forward to all the pretty gifts I have for you. Alas, I’m aware you would be embarrassed if all the Dornish spies and Small Council busybodies read this before it reached you. I shall simply wait until I can watch you unpack the gowns—or would “smallclothes” be a more accurate descriptor? I can already imagine your delightfully scandalized expression when you behold the jewels…
The majority of his letters were in this lewd vein. Jacaera was shocked by her own eagerness as she read them. For the first time in a long while, she felt the stirrings of desire. It was unseemly for her to be distracted by lust while the situation was so fraught, but she couldn’t entirely regret the warm flames stirring to life in her belly. She had been brooding beneath a dark cloud ever since Aegon left, and now she was stealing a glimpse of sunlight.
Her favorite letters were the ones in which Aegon’s tone grew tender. If the bawdy writings were the blazing summer sun, then these achingly heartfelt words were a homely hearth on a winter eve.
I’m told that the baby should be about the size of a cabbage now. I can’t imagine constantly carrying a cabbage between my hips, much less squeezing it out. When I return, I shall commission a giant gold statue of a cabbage to be placed in the city square. No explanations. Only you and I will know what it means.
Is the spoiled little creature still obsessed with Gyles’s cheese pies? I wouldn’t be surprised if they came out of the womb and immediately demanded to suckle upon a pie crust. Mayhaps we’ll put a gold pie statue beside the cabbage statue. The smallfolk will approve of our reverence for food.
Have you thought more about their name? Cabbagehead Targaryen has a certain ring to it. Or mayhaps Cheeseball. Gods know our family needs to stop reusing the same three names over and over again. We could name a boy Jacaerys after you, but you would blush and protest the arrogance of it. You might like Little Laenor better. Or Laenorina. You always think so much more highly of your family than yourself, even though they can’t hold a candle to you.
Truthfully, I don’t really care what the baby’s name is. You could call them Viserys or Maegora, it’s all fine by me, as long as you fulfill your promise. Both of you, safe and healthy, waiting for me.
There were so many letters and sketches, Aegon must have written or drawn one every night he was in Dorne. That meant he thought about her every night he was in Dorne. He hadn’t forgotten about her after all.
Her heart felt lighter than it had in weeks. The baby thumped inside her womb as if to inquire about the cause of her sudden elation. Jacaera smiled as she rubbed her belly. “Your father is thinking about you, darling. I don’t know where he is right now, but he’s thinking about you.”
The queen looked haggard as she hunched in her chair beside Aemond’s bed. She endlessly turned her seven-pointed star around her bloody fingers, lips moving in a silent prayer. Aemond continued to sleep. A pristine white bandage covered his eye—or where it used to be.
“You should rest, Your Grace,” Jacaera said gently.
“I cannot.” Alicent pressed her thumb hard against the edge of her seven-pointed star. It threatened to cut into her skin. “I must be here. The maesters say he breathes only by the grace of the gods and his own determination to live. Should the worst happen…”
Jacaera took Alicent’s hands in her own to stop the queen’s anxious movements. “Aemond is one of the most stubborn men I know. He would not survive an insurrection and a harrowing flight across several kingdoms, only to perish in his sickbed. He—”
A rattling gasp startled them both. They whirled toward the bed. Aemond’s remaining eye was wide open, clouded with medicine and confusion. Jacaera instinctively followed Alicent, and they bent over the bed. “What is it, Aemond?” Alicent asked fretfully. “Are you in pain? Maester! Where is the maester?”
“I shall fetch him.” Jacaera turned to go.
Aemond’s hand shot up and seized her wrist, stopping her in her tracks. His grip was unexpectedly gentle. “Lucera,” he croaked almost inaudibly.
Jacaera froze, not daring to breathe.
His eye fixed upon her face, taking in her features. Recognition eventually trickled into his expression, followed by abject disappointment as his mouth curved downward. His hand fell limply back to the mattress. He wearily closed his eye again.
Tears fell down Alicent’s face. “Sometimes I hear him say your sister’s name in his sleep. I suspect they may have formed an attachment before he left for Dorne.”
“They did,” Jacaera said quietly. “Luce told me.”
Alicent took out a handkerchief and dabbed it against her face. “Do you suppose there’s any chance your sister will be permitted to return soon? To attend you during the birth? That was the most awake he’s been since he returned. I simply wonder… Mayhaps her presence…”
Jacaera hesitated. “I wish for her to be here too. I will ask, though I fear my letter will go unanswered.”
Still mopping her tears, Alicent shook her head. “She is your sister. She will answer if you write to her. I have often been cross with my brothers, but I always replied when they wrote. I’m sure your entire family has been desperately waiting to hear from you. Especially your mother. We mothers never stop worrying about our children.”
“I have been writing to them,” Jacaera said, frustration leaking into her voice. “They haven’t responded.”
Alicent paused, sniffling. “You have? I must have heard wrong, then. I apologize. Of course you would write. You are such a dutiful girl.”
What did Alicent hear? What was she told? Why would someone lie and say Jacaera hadn’t been writing to her family?
After Jacaera returned to her room, she mulled over Alicent’s unintentional revelation. There was a basket on her desk where she left her correspondence for a servant to bring to the rookery. All her letters to Johanna Lannister and other ladies of the realm arrived at their destinations. All her other correspondents responded within a reasonable amount of time. Her family did not.
Was someone intercepting her letters to her family? To what end? The Small Council had no motives to do so. Surely they wanted Jacaera to help reconcile the Velaryons to the Crown. Or was there a spy at High Tide meddling with her letters upon arrival?
If someone was stopping her letters from arriving at Driftmark, she needed to find another way to communicate with her family.
“Daeron.” Jacaera smiled at her youngest good-brother as he entered her solar. “Thank you for coming. It is difficult for me to walk anywhere these days.”
“It’s no trouble.” Daeron grabbed a biscuit from the platter she ordered just for him. He stuffed the treat into his mouth. “I learned a new poem in High Valyrian. Would you like to hear it?”
“Of course, but mayhaps another time. I wanted to ask you for a favor.” Jacaera picked up the letter that she had carefully drafted earlier this morning. “You and Joff often write to each other, do you not?”
“At least once a week,” he chirped. “Grand Maester Orwyle says we’re exhausting the ravens, but I think they like the exercise. Birds are supposed to fly.”
Jacaera fiddled with the paper. Although she had never been good at lying, she could speak evasively around the truth without blushing too much. “I have a surprise for Luce, but I need your help hiding it from her. Could you address the exterior of this letter how you would normally address your letters to Joff? And if you could personally ensure that the raven is sent out, I would be forever in your debt.” She doubted that the spy, whoever it was, would interfere with correspondence between two children.
Daeron stopped chewing his biscuit. “This isn’t a prank, is it? You’re not trying to get me in trouble with Joff?”
“Absolutely not. When Joff reads my letter, she’ll understand everything. I promise you won’t get in any trouble.” Jacaera had laid out the most important details in the letter, along with instructions for Joff to pass it along to Lucera. She trusted both her sisters more than anyone else in the world.
Thus assured, Daeron agreed to disguise the letter as one of his own. Then Jacaera waited, hopeful that Lucera or another of their family would finally respond to her.
Three days later, Arrax descended from the sky and landed in a courtyard in the Holdfast.
Lucera allowed no one to delay her during her march to Jacaera’s chambers. Not even Criston dared to stop her. When Jacaera saw her sister standing on the threshold, clad in riding leathers with her hair in windblown disarray, she burst into tears. Lucera rushed to hug and hold up Jacaera, whose knees were giving out underneath her.
“I thought you were all angry with me for being cruel to Mother,” Jacaera blubbered as they sank onto the couch.
“Nobody is angry with you. Not even Mother. She’s been crying because she thinks you hate her.” Lucera began to peel off her boots. “I suspected there must be something amiss if you weren’t writing. Grandsire wouldn’t let me return to the Red Keep, though. Baela and Rhaena are better now, but Baela’s throat… It’ll never be the same again.”
Jacaera dragged her sleeve over her wet face. “If Grandsire forbade your return, how are you here?”
Lucera grinned sheepishly. “Joff helped me sneak away. She’s very good at distractions. They probably already discovered I’m gone. Grandsire will be furious. I just hope Joff won’t get in too much trouble.”
Jacaera nodded solemnly. “Then I will cherish your presence until Grandsire orders you back home.” She had hoped Lucera was here to stay until the birth, but Corlys would certainly demand that Laenor’s heir immediately return.
“About that.” Lucera fidgeted. Her cheeks pinked as she averted her gaze. “I have an idea so I can stay.”
She explained her idea. It was foolhardy, and Jacaera told her so. But Lucera was determined to do it with or without Jacaera’s help.
Aemond’s eye groggily creaked open. He stared at Lucera hovering above him. Then stared. Then stared some more.
Lucera smiled uncertainly. “Hello.”
He blinked, eye widening. “You usually don’t talk back,” he rasped.
“I always talk back to you. Has your memory truly faded so quickly?”
Aemond lurched up to a sitting position, startling everyone in the room. He winced and rubbed his abdomen as he surveyed the gathering. He looked at Jacaera beside her sister, then in the corner at Daeron, who stood with a confused Septon Eustace. Alicent was gone. Helaena had distracted her earlier and led her away.
“So,” Lucera said nervously, “do you remember when you asked if I might ever marry you, and I said you need to come back from Dorne first?”
Aemond frowned, confused. “Of course I remember.”
Lucera hesitated then took his hand. “Well, you’re back from Dorne.”
He stared at their joined hands. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
Septon Eustace, realizing what the plan was, began to object. “Your Highnesses, I refuse to participate in any sort of elopement. All royal marriages must have the blessing of the king—”
Daeron took out a dagger—Aemond’s dagger, which he had stolen from his brother’s bedside table—and lightly poked the septon’s belly. Eustace yelped, more from surprise than pain. “I’m sorry,” Daeron said sincerely. “But you need to do as we say. That’s an order.” He glanced eagerly at Jacaera, who nodded encouragingly even though she herself wasn’t entirely convinced they were doing the right thing.
As Aemond’s bewilderment grew, Lucera hastened to explain. “Aemond, I need to be here for Jace. The baby will come any day. But my grandfather doesn’t want me in King’s Landing. If he orders me home, I’ll be forced to go and Jace will be alone again. But if you marry me, then I can say that my husband has commanded me to remain here.”
Aemond ordinarily didn’t show his emotions easily, but he ordinarily wasn’t on his sickbed. Everyone saw the hurt flash across his face. “You want to marry me so you can use me as a tool for your convenience.” Despite his accusation, he didn’t remove his hand from hers.
Lucera huffed. “If I didn’t want to marry you, I wouldn’t propose in the first place. My grandfather will be irate about me marrying without his permission. I’m gambling my inheritance on this, and I’m trusting that you won’t abuse your power as my husband. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t even try. But since it’s you, I’m willing to take the risk.”
Aemond just stared at her again. His eye was almost perfectly round. He opened his mouth again, but again his words failed him.
Pouting, Lucera dropped his hand. “If you changed your mind, that’s fine…I suppose. I do not desire an unwilling husband.” She sighed and started to get up. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Prince Aemond. Unfortunately, I will not be here to see it. I shall probably be imprisoned at High Tide until I am old and—”
Lightning-quick, Aemond seized her hand again. “If you want me to command you to stay by your sister’s side, I will do so,” he said gruffly.
Lucera brightened and patted his knuckles. “Staying with Jace also means staying with you. You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.”
“Perish the thought. I shall never survive this ordeal.” Aemond looked at Septon Eustace and said, in a tone that brooked no argument, “You may begin the ceremony.”
Eustace, cowed by Aemond’s impatient glare, skipped the usual songs and prayers and went directly to the vows. As Lucera recited the sacred words, she glowed with nervous excitement. Aemond’s reaction was more subdued but every time he looked at Lucera, the light in his eye grew more tender, and eventually his mouth faintly curved in what might be called a smile.
It wasn’t the wedding that Jacaera had imagined for her sister. And yet, as she beheld them, she couldn’t imagine any other bridegroom for Lucera. She remembered her own wedding day, when she was so shaky with anxiety that Baela begged her to have a sip of wine before entering the sept. Jacaera managed to conduct herself respectably that day, suppressing her fear about being bound to a man with infamous appetites. If she’d had several moons to get to know Aegon, just as Lucera had time to learn Aemond’s nature, mayhaps Jacaera would have been blissfully happy on her wedding day instead of trembling with nerves.
When Lucera kissed her new husband with uncharacteristic shyness, Jacaera forced herself to tuck away her self-pitying thoughts. Despite the ceremony’s haste, it was a happy day. Lucera had chosen Aemond, and Jacaera couldn’t fault that choice. She only wished that Aegon was here too, armed with endless japes about his brother as he companionably clapped Aemond on the back.
As Aemond continued gazing at Lucera, there was a dark heat in his eye which was uncannily similar to the look in Aegon’s eyes when he was eager to lift Jacaera’s skirts. Although Jacaera knew she ought to take the others away so the newlywed couple could have privacy, she was desperate for information about Aegon. She ushered Daeron and Septon Eustace out of the room but didn’t leave with them. She would need to get answers quickly, before Eustace spread word about the new marriage.
“Congratulations, Brother,” Jacaera said. Aemond glanced at her, surprised and a bit annoyed, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “I’ll leave you two alone, but please, can you tell me what became of Aegon?”
Aemond’s annoyance vanished. Without hemming and hawing, he said, “He was alive and uninjured last I saw him. He helped haul me up into Vhagar’s saddle so I could come home. I was…unwell.” His hand drifted toward the bandage on his face.
Aegon was alive! Some of the tension in Jacaera’s chest eased, though much remained. “Why did he not come home with you?”
“I’m not sure. My memory after my eye, it’s clouded.” Aemond squeezed his remaining eye shut, concentrating. “Aegon went to the shadow city to search for Mysaria. Then he came running back to Sunspear with rioters on his heels. They broke into the castle. Prince Qoren remained behind as a distraction so his children would have time to escape with us. One of the rioters tried to kill Aegon. He nearly succeeded, but I defended Aegon. Then…” This time Aemond gingerly touched where his left eye used to be.
Jacaera inhaled sharply as the baby turned in her womb. “Thank you for saving him, Aemond.”
“He is my brother and future king,” Aemond said simply. His eye gleamed wetly, and he hurriedly continued, “Aegon killed the rioter, then we flew with the Martell children to the Planky Town. A surgeon there worked on me. Once I was stable, Aegon dragged me onto Vhagar and ordered me home. He told me…something about our father.”
“What about your father?”
“I don’t remember,” Aemond said, frustrated. “I had more milk of the poppy than blood in my veins at the time. I only know it was about our father. And Aegon was crying.” His brow furrowed in thought. “Dragonstone. He wanted me to take you and our family to Dragonstone. Urgently.”
Dragonstone was a famously stalwart fortress, and it was rumored the magic in its walls could protect it even from dragonfire. Aegon wanted her and his family behind those walls. Urgently.
He was afraid. Of what? Of whom? What exactly did he say about his father?
“I still don’t understand why Aegon didn’t return with you,” she said.
Aemond met Jacaera’s gaze. “I don’t understand why, either. He is tired of being away. He wants to come home. He has wanted to come home since the day he left. Mayhaps something changed after his stay in the shadow city.”
Jacaera ignored her treasonous little thoughts of Aliandra Martell. “What do you know of his investigation into Mysaria?”
“Very little. We agreed to split our efforts from the start. He focused on searching for Mysaria while I remained at Sunspear’s court to ensure we didn’t overstay our welcome. Most of Aegon’s progress occurred during those last few days before the insurrection. There was little time to update me.” Aemond pursed his lips. “It seems he did try to tell me at the Planky Town, but I failed to listen.”
“You suffered a severe injury, Aemond. A lapse in memory is understandable,” Jacaera said, suppressing her regret.
Aemond shook his head. “I need to remember. Aegon hates Dragonstone. If he wanted me to bring you there, he had very good reasons.”
Jacaera sighed as she rubbed her belly. “Unfortunately, I won’t be traveling anywhere until the baby is born. I could go into labor at any moment. Mayhaps afterwards I can request a sojourn to Dragonstone for some quiet away from court. Surely no one can protest my child and me going to my husband’s castle.”
Aemond’s eye was darker than usual as he stared into space. “Surely not,” he muttered.
Word rapidly spread of the marriage, as intended. That very evening, Otto Hightower visited Jacaera in her chambers. “I regret that you and I have not spoken much before now, Princess.” He settled into a chair near the couch. “I would like to rectify that.”
Jacaera let none of her nerves show as she rested her hands on her belly. “I would also like to get to know you better, my Lord Hand. You are my husband’s grandfather.”
“All is well with the child, I hope?”
“Yes, the maesters are pleased with the pregnancy’s progress. They say I could begin my labors any day.”
“How fortuitous that your sister has arrived this day. I’m sure you will find her companionship a great comfort.” Otto’s expression was inscrutable. “Let us not dance around the topic any more, Princess. You were a party to the elopement earlier today, were you not?”
Jacaera did not answer.
Otto nodded slowly. “I must confess, I always imagined their nuptials would be a more formal event sanctioned by their heads of houses. So did you, I think. You are a sensible, intelligent young woman who is well-versed in protocol. It surprises me to see you act in secrecy and haste.”
Jacaera contemplated Otto, just as he was contemplating her. She still didn’t believe Otto had a role in meddling with her correspondence, which would only infuriate her family if discovered. Otto would not antagonize House Velaryon, with its wealth of dragons and ships, for a foolish action that offered him no benefits. But she certainly wasn’t going to confide in the Hand. Even if he wasn’t the culprit, mayhaps he knew who it was, or it was someone close to him. She also was not sure if Aegon’s unexplained fear of the king extended to the Hand, his own grandfather.
“My sister has been eager to wed Aemond since he left for Dorne. She didn’t wish to delay any further,” Jacaera said. “And, selfishly, I wanted to ensure she would remain here for the childbirth. A husband’s orders supersede a grandfather’s orders, do they not?”
“Indeed.” Otto studied her for another moment. “I shall leave you to rest. You will require your strength for the child’s arrival. We will all pray for the health of you both.”
“Thank you, my Lord Hand.”
“I may send some paperwork about that walkway project for your perusal. Mayhaps you can provide insight on what Aegon’s opinions would be if he were here. You know him very well.” Otto got up, but he didn’t step toward the door. He looked down at her where he stood. “You will, of course, remain indoors these remaining days before the child’s birth.”
Jacaera frowned. “I enjoy the fresh air, and the Grand Maester says light exercise is beneficial.”
“The gardens are rife with pests that appear harmless.” Otto’s eyes flashed. “When my daughter was around your age, I had to rid her of one such pest. Do take care, Princess. It is unseemly for a queen, present or future, to consort with such nuisances.”
He had to be talking about Larys. There was no one else whom Jacaera met in the courtyards on a somewhat regular basis. Surely Otto wasn’t accusing her of impropriety? Jacaera always ensured her guard remained within sight, though not within earshot, and the courtyards were too publicly accessible to serve as a site for assignations. “Sometimes pests are more useful than one thinks.”
“Sometimes,” Otto agreed. “But the pest knows its usefulness is finite, so it latches onto whichever gardener is most hesitant to cull it. Do not be fooled by its pleasant humming, Princess. Even weeds can appear pretty.”
After Otto departed, Jacaera brooded over his thinly veiled warning. She’d always had the impression that Otto collaborated well with Larys, just as he collaborated with the other Small Council members. But it seemed Otto didn’t actually like the master of whisperers, and some long ago incident with Alicent was part of the reason.
If Otto was telling the truth, then Larys had tried getting close to Alicent once. Now Larys was trying the same with Jacaera. She could see the beginning of a pattern in his behavior, and she didn’t like it. Larys had been a useful friend, but like Otto said, his usefulness only extended so far. Jacaera would gracefully bow out of her budding acquaintance with Larys. She wouldn’t make a ruckus about it. She could simply stop talking to him, no accusations or acrimony.
Another thought flitted through her mind. Might Larys have something to do with her intercepted letters? The master of whisperers undoubtedly had connections in the rookery. But what reason did he have to interfere?
The baby grew restless in her womb, distracting her. She had too much to worry about. Her child would be born any day, her husband was missing in Dorne, and her sister’s scandalous elopement was all anyone at court could talk about. Jacaera’s attention was scattered in a hundred different places. She needed to focus on the most important things, and right now that was the baby.
Childbirth was an excruciating ordeal, yet the Grand Maester had the nerve to say it was proceeding splendidly. Jacaera shrieked several curses that she would never verbalize in her right mind. Orwyle stoically accepted the insults as he continued his work.
“Almost done,” Lucera encouraged as she held her sister. “The baby’s nearly out.”
After several more agonizing pushes, Jacaera’s baby was placed in her arms. She instantly forgave Orwyle for all his sins as he announced, “A healthy boy, Princess. Congratulations.”
“I apologize for swearing at you, Grand Maester.” Jacaera gazed down at her son’s perfect face. She carefully caressed the sprinkling of black hair on his head, soft as down. Selfishly, it pleased her to see part of herself in her child. At her touch, he cracked open his eyes. “Oh, he has Aegon’s eyes!” She hadn’t realized how much she missed her husband’s violet eyes until now.
Lucera beamed. “He’s wonderful. Do you have a name for him?”
Jacaera cradled her son closer to her chest. Her son nuzzled her bare skin. “Aegon said he wouldn’t mind naming a son after Father, but I think two Laenors would be confusing. I was thinking about the Valyrian root word for Laenor, elenar.”
“It means ‘tide,’ doesn’t it? Grandsire will love that.” Lucera forced a smile. Corlys was indeed most displeased with her elopement. He hadn’t disinherited her yet, but the unspoken threat constantly hovered above her head. “Elenar Targaryen. I like the sound of it.”
Mayhaps Jacaera ought to choose a Targaryen name for a future Targaryen king. But she couldn’t resist imbuing her son with something of his Velaryon heritage. If Aegon were here, he would encourage it. He said so before he left, and he said it again in his letters.
“Prince Elenar Targaryen,” Orwyle repeated, smiling, while the midwives cleaned up. “I shall share the news, Princess.” He went to the door. The handle rattled when he tried it. “What in the world…?” He rattled the handle again. The door didn’t budge.
Jacaera was distracted from her happy haze about her son. “Is something wrong, Grand Maester?”
There was the sound of a key in the lock, and the door swung open. Criston had been standing guard earlier, but now Steffon Darklyn stood in the corridor. Ser Steffon motioned for Orwyle to step outside. When the door closed behind them, they heard the lock again.
Jacaera’s arms trembled around her son. “Why are we locked in?”
“I don’t know,” Lucera whispered, tensing.
The most senior midwife spoke as she continued tending to Jacaera. “Just focus on the babe, Princess. If you’re upset, you’ll upset him too.”
Orwyle was gone for at least an hour, and the door remained locked. When Elenar began fussing for his first feeding, Jacaera had no choice but to do it herself. She rather enjoyed the experience, and she decided she would continue doing so even when a wet nurse became available. It was uncommon for a highborn woman to nurse her own children, but not unheard of. Queen Alysanne had done it for several of her children. Jacaera wanted to give the best of everything to her son, and surely his own mother’s milk was best for him. Elenar seemed to agree as he eagerly drank from her breast.
“Not the same as Gyles’s pies, I’m afraid,” Jacaera said in amusement, thinking of Aegon’s jape in his letter. Elenar uttered no complaint. He simply continued suckling, so long and hard that she wondered where all the milk he was drinking came from.
Elenar was contentedly dozing on her chest when Orwyle returned. The Grand Maester’s fear was almost palpable as he banished the midwives, whom Ser Steffon permitted to depart from the room.
Despite her exhaustion, Jacaera mustered her indignation and demanded, “Explain what is happening, Grand Maester.”
Orwyle’s hands trembled as he clasped them together. He took a deep breath as if to calm himself, but it didn’t work. Sweat beaded his brow, and his voice shook when he spoke. “Prince Aegon has been declared a traitor to the Crown.”
Jacaera’s heart nearly stopped. “No. That can’t be. What has he done?”
“I fear it is true, Princess. He has committed treason against the king.” Orwyle took another breath. “Everyone suspected of sympathizing with Prince Aegon has been detained. Those accused of abetting him, such as Prince Aemond, have been sent to the Black Cells.”
Lucera gasped and staggered backward.
“And,” Orwyle said ruefully, glancing at Elenar, “His Grace has chosen a name for the new prince. He is to be called Baelon.”
Notes:
See the author's behind-the-scenes commentary for this chapter here. Warning: potential spoilers for future chapters, so don't read this during your first reading.
There is a possibility I will need to divide the next chapter in half, depending on how long it goes.
As usual, I will probably ramble on Tumblr about my S2 reactions after I have time to emotionally recover from E4. 🥲 I just want my Targbros, dammit.
Chapter 6: In the sight of the Seven
Summary:
The king’s word is law.
Notes:
If you enjoyed my first HOTD fic Daemon Targaryen’s Handbook to Managing Stepdaughters, take a look at the bookbinding that I made for the fic.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sunspear’s shadow city hummed with discontent. Aegon kept his hooded head down as he hauled empty crates, pretending to be a transient laborer. Everyone he passed seemed to grumble about the Targaryens’ invasion of Sunspear and the Martells’ excessive friendliness toward dragonspawn.
The disgruntled whispers were concerning, but he refused to let them distract him from his true mission. Shortly after arriving in Dorne, Aegon had befriended a few locals who were willing to overlook his Valyrian features in exchange for drinks and coin. His new friends recently spotted a woman matching Mysaria’s description in this neighborhood. YiTish ships seldom docked in Dorne, so a solitary YiTish woman was a notable sighting.
Aegon had been slinking around the poorer area of the city for a few days. He envied Aemond, who was eating fresh oranges and listening to harp music in the castle as he mingled with the Martells. But there was no way that Aemond, with his painstakingly cultivated Valyrian tresses and innately haughty posture, could ever blend in with the smallfolk. When Aegon rubbed dirt in his hair and wore old robes nicked from Sunspear’s rag heap, he could pass for one of the fairer Dornishmen from the mountains, where Andal and First Men blood was thickest.
Aemond was useful for something, though. Aliandra Martell’s current favorite pastime was seeing how red she could make Aemond blush. With her thus distracted, Aegon was able to escape the castle without being forced to take her along, as well as a dozen guards carrying her litter through the city. She constantly found excuses to accompany Aegon on his outings. At first Aegon thought Aliandra might fancy him, but he quickly realized she loved flirting with anyone silver-haired, even lowborn Lysene sailors. Her ribald comments were mostly for show, and her father’s disapproving glare ensured she never crossed the line into impropriety.
Alone in the city, Aegon tried to remain patient as he waited for the White Worm to emerge from her hideaway. Every night, he returned to his rented room at a dingy inn. Even though the day exhausted him, he always remained awake for a while longer so he could write and draw his most recent daydreams about his wife.
On this night, as he opened the door, he immediately realized someone was waiting for him in the dim room.
“I come in peace, my prince,” said a soft, accented voice. A tallow candle was lit, allowing him to see the intruder’s face. He’d never met Mysaria before, but he presumed this was her. She matched every description he’d been given, though nobody had mentioned her gaunt cheeks or the dark bags beneath her eyes. Those were probably recent developments.
Aegon rested one hand on his sword. He was no master swordsman, but he was reasonably confident he could handle Mysaria if she attacked him. He doubted she would. As she rose from the bed, that simple movement made her tremble with fatigue. “Have you finally come to turn yourself in for your crimes?” he asked.
“Other than the occasional spying, I have committed no crimes.” Mysaria coughed wetly and wiped her mouth with a handkerchief. “I will tell you everything I can. In return, I only ask for the care of a maester or healer, whatever they have in that castle.”
“I’ll bring you to Sunspear,” Aegon readily agreed. They could spare her some medical attention before locking her in a cell. “But that is a very easy price to pay. Too easy.”
“Desperate times,” Mysaria muttered as she sat on the bed again. Aegon took the stool in the corner of the room, still prepared to draw his sword if necessary. She leaned forward earnestly. “The moon tea business with your wife. I did not do it, my prince. I have been falsely accused.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“I have no reason to harm your wife. At the time, all I knew of her was that she was a beautiful princess with a protective mother. I simply did not care about her.”
“Protective mother?” Aegon echoed. It was true, but he didn’t realize it was public knowledge. Rhaenyra mostly kept to herself at Driftmark. The Realm’s Delight no longer featured in rumors at court.
“Princess Rhaenyra wrote to me after your wedding.” Mysaria extracted a wrinkled slip of paper from her robe. It bore Rhaenyra’s elegant handwriting. “She was willing to pay handsomely for information. She wanted to know if you were continuing to patronize the Street of Silk and whether I could apprise her when you did.”
Aegon narrowed his eyes. “What did you tell her? That I’m the worst sort of reprobate, fucking my way through every whore in the city before I return to the keep to thrust into her daughter a few times?”
“I was tempted to say so. I could have wrung money out of her for many moons if I fed her the horror stories she expected.” Mysaria sighed. “But I had a moment of compassionate weakness. I replied that you had not been spotted in any brothels since you wed, and based on what I heard from the castle laundresses who wash your wife’s sheets, you were unlikely to return anytime soon. I never heard from her again.”
Aegon steepled his fingers under his chin, thinking. “So you decided not to swindle Rhaenyra. You are a paragon of virtue. And yet it was your name that Myranda gave as the true mastermind behind the moon tea.”
Mysaria’s brow wrinkled. “Who is Myranda?”
He scrutinized her, trying to determine if it was an act. “The girl who brought moon tea to my wife. She was YiTish like you.”
If Mysaria knew that Aegon was lying about Myranda’s origins, she didn’t show it. “It may shock you to hear this, but I don’t know every YiTish who lives in King’s Landing. What exactly did she say?”
“Larys Strong said you told her if my wife miscarried—”
“Larys Strong?” An unfriendly smile crept across her mouth. “And you trust him?”
“He is my father’s master of whisperers.”
“And you trust your father?”
Aegon glared, hackles rising. “Consider your next words carefully. I will not allow you to speak ill of the king.”
“You show such loyalty. One wonders if he deserves it.” Mysaria coughed again into her handkerchief. She grimaced at the fabric. “Would you like to know a secret about your father?”
“How would you know his secrets?”
“Larys Strong is not the only one who trades whispers in the shadows. Do not worry, my prince. I never sold any secrets about your pretty wife, even though many men would pay dearly to know her most intimate habits.”
“Which men?” he asked sharply, already tasting blood.
“Old men, young men, rich men, poor men, hale men, crippled men. Beautiful women have a way of tempting even the most calculating man to act unwisely.” Mysaria looked contemplatively at Aegon, whose face was burning with rage. “The king is enthralled with his ancient Valyrian tomes.”
Aegon wrenched his mind away from thoughts of the court vultures circling Jacaera in his absence. “That’s your big secret? Everyone knows my father is a slave to those dusty books.”
“But do you know his favorite book? He pores over it every single night, taking notes and muttering to himself. The book is in High Valyrian, but his notes are in the Common Tongue. He writes about you.” She took out something else from her robe: a fat journal, bound in black leather. “The king intends for you to never sit on the throne. I have all the proof in his own handwriting.”
A ball of icy dread formed in his stomach. “You’re lying.”
“Judge the truth for yourself.” She extended the journal to him.
Aegon didn’t take the journal, only gestured angrily at it. “If that is real, then why did my father send me to search for you? He would know that if I found you, the first thing you’d do is hand that over in a bid for mercy, as you are now.”
“Mayhaps he does not know that. Mayhaps he believes he has tamed a viper, and he has set that viper loose in his own house.” Mysaria held out the journal again, more forcefully. “Read it. You will learn who pours poison into his ear.”
Aegon begrudgingly tucked the journal into his satchel. “Are you accusing Larys Strong? Our master of whisperers has been ever faithful.”
“He is a man like any other. He too feels the pangs of hunger. He is simply more patient than most.” Mysaria glanced out the window. The shutters were open to let in the night breeze. “Larys Strong suspects I took the journal. He knows if you read it, he will be a head shorter as soon as you ascend the throne.”
“Then let us return to Sunspear so I can do some bedtime reading.” Aegon gathered his few belongings and stuffed those in his satchel too.
Mysaria’s knees wobbled as she stood. “There is a foul air in the city tonight. The people are angry with you and the Martells, and I do not think their anger is entirely natural. Tisn’t difficult to stir a crowd into a frenzy.”
“Then make haste.” He motioned for Mysaria to follow him out of the room. As soon as they stepped into the dark corridor, however, heated voices drifted up from the common room. Aegon halted at the top of the stairs.
“—been staying here a few days,” said the innkeeper. “Blond hair, filthy. Thought his eyes were blue, but I suppose they might be purple. Just up the stairs, second room…”
Aegon wheeled around and strode back to his room. Mysaria followed without needing to be told. He locked the door and pushed the bed in front of it. The rickety furniture wouldn’t hold back a mob for long. He dashed to the window, where he had identified an escape route during his first night at the inn, though he’d hoped to never use it.
He climbed out the window and balanced his feet on a narrow ledge. “Hurry up,” he urged Mysaria.
Her hands trembled as she gripped the sill and peered warily out the window. She shook her head. “I cannot. I will fall. If I were haler, mayhaps I could manage.”
Something rammed against the door, almost knocking it off its hinges.
“There’s no time,” Aegon snapped.
“You go. I will find my own way.” She looked him in the eyes. “You owe me, Prince Aegon. I expect to be repaid one day.”
Another thud, and the door creaked ominously. Aegon decided to trust that Mysaria could handle herself. “Good luck, then. If you live, I’ll buy you a drink. Or a manse. Whichever you prefer.”
As he clambered away, she called after him, “When you ascend the throne, remember that you are Lord Protector of the Realm. Not just Lord Protector of the Highborns.”
He saluted her and descended to the ground. By the time his feet landed, she was no longer visible at the window. Instead there was a bearded man who looked around wildly, spotted Aegon below, and pointed. “There he is!”
Aegon ran. His lungs and muscles protested in exhaustion after a long day, but he soldiered on. He didn’t relish being torn limb from limb by a swarm of Dornishmen. He could rest and breathe when he was safely sitting in Sunfyre’s saddle, burning all the rioters to ashes.
Initially, he planned to lose himself in the crowd of the nearest marketplace. Everywhere he turned, however, he met yet another furious mob braying for his blood. All he could do was sprint toward Sunspear and pray he outran his pursuers.
In the distance, Sunfyre cried as he rose from his resting spot on the shore, alerted to Aegon’s distress. The familiar sound spurred Aegon forward with a final burst of speed as Sunspear’s gates came into view. Racing through the entrance, he shouted, “Close the fucking gates!”
Then he realized none of the guards were at their stations. The gates had been left wide open and unmanned. There was a mechanism to shut the gates, but he couldn’t fathom how to operate it. He continued running deeper into the castle, shouting for help. Behind him, the mob crossed the threshold unimpeded.
He kept running until he arrived at Aemond’s door. He flung it open and was relieved to see his brother still awake at his desk. “Knock first,” Aemond grumbled, not looking up from his book.
Aegon hunched over, resting his hands on his knees. “Rioters,” he wheezed. “In castle. Kill me. Kill us. Bad.” His legs gave out. He fell to the floor, grunted, then crawled toward the side table holding Aemond’s water pitcher.
Aemond leapt up from his chair and seized his sword. “Where are they now?”
Aegon hauled himself up and grabbed the pitcher. He drank directly from the vessel, slopping half the water down the front of his clothes. “Got past the gates. No guards anywhere.”
“Treachery,” Aemond growled, unsheathing his blade. “We’ll leave through a postern gate and go to our dragons.”
“Yes. Dragons.” Aegon dumped the remaining water over his sweaty head. He forced himself back onto his feet, swaying. “Sit in the saddle. Dracarys. Very good.” Sunfyre was near the castle, circling the towers as he called for his rider. His proximity comforted Aegon, though Aegon would be even more comforted if he were actually sitting on his dragon.
Aemond didn’t bother with any of his luggage. As Aegon followed Aemond out of the room, he mourned the pretty gowns and jewels he’d bought for Jacaera. At least his most precious belongings, like the stack of letters for Jacaera and her bottle of perfume, were on his person.
The brothers were creeping through the corridors when they ran into the Martells. Aemond instantly raised his sword. Even when he recognized their hosts, he didn’t lower his blade.
“What is this clamor?” Prince Qoren demanded while his children trembled around him.
“Ask your guards if you can find them,” Aegon retorted, still breathing hard. “They’ve abandoned their posts and allowed the rabble inside.”
Qoren’s eyes widened. “No. My men are loyal. I don’t believe it.”
“Believe what you wish.” Aegon and his brother walked past the Martells. “We’re leaving now. Sorry for our sudden departure, thank you for your hospitality, so on and so forth. Should you survive this night, we will gladly host you in return.”
A bloodcurdling scream echoed from a nearby corridor. It was abruptly cut off by a wet gurgle.
Aliandra gripped her father’s sleeve. “We’ll accept your offer now.”
Aegon and Aemond exchanged a tense look. A group of six was much harder to smuggle out of the castle. But Qyle and Coryanne were only children, thirteen and ten respectively. Aegon wouldn’t want Daeron to be left to fend for himself. He relented. “Keep up or be left behind.” He and Aemond resumed moving, not slowing their strides.
When they approached the kitchens, they almost stumbled over a steward’s corpse. His belly had been sliced open, and his entrails spilled onto the floor. Coryanne let out a shriek. Qyle quickly covered his sister’s mouth, but the sound drew the attention of the rioters pillaging the kitchens.
Aegon pointed at the exit. “Run!”
As they ran, teary-eyed Coryanne tripped and sprawled on the floor. Qoren dragged his daughter back up, but the delay cost them dearly. Rioters flooded out of the kitchen and shouted in renewed fury when they spotted their quarry.
Coryanne whimpered when she put weight on her right foot. “My ankle hurts.”
Qoren stared at her, his face suffusing with dread, then resignation. He turned his beseeching gaze to Aegon. “I will implore my people to regain their senses. Take her. Take my children. Keep them safe.” Without waiting for an answer, he stepped toward the mob.
Qyle, a scrawny boy more suited for the pen than the sword, tried and failed to pick up his little sister. Impatient, Aegon scooped up Coryanne and ran after Aemond while Qyle and Aliandra flanked him. As they turned the corner, Prince Qoren screamed behind them. Coryanne flinched and buried her face against Aegon’s shoulder.
They escaped into the warm night, deceptively calm as the full moon limned everything in silver. Sunfyre’s roars were closer than ever. The dragon circled above a courtyard, calling out for his rider. Aegon led the way. Once they were in the courtyard, he set down Coryanne, stepped forward, and shouted up at his dragon, “Down here, Sunfyre! I need—”
A shadowy figure tore out of the shadows. The moonlight illuminated the assailant’s snarl, the lack of a tongue inside his open mouth, and the glint of his dagger as it arced toward Aegon. Aegon flung himself to the sandy ground just in time. The blade harmlessly cut through the ends of his hair.
Aemond lunged with his sword. The assailant could barely dodge the flurry of the prince’s blows. As Aegon picked himself up from the ground, a particularly fierce attack forced the assailant backwards on his arse, landing with a grunt. But as Aemond raised his sword for the final blow, the assailant dug his hand into the sand and flung it at Aemond’s eyes.
Aegon sprang forth, too late. While Aemond was temporarily blinded, the assailant surged up and sliced his dagger across Aemond’s face.
His brother’s pained cries rang in Aegon’s ears. Unhesitating, he drew his own dagger and drove it into the assailant’s throat, just as he’d killed the man who grabbed Jacaera several moons ago. Once Aegon was sure the assailant was dead, he hurried to Aemond, who clutched the left side of his face as he lay on the ground. “Fuck,” Aegon whispered, staring at the bloody mess seeping between Aemond’s fingers.
The ground shook as Sunfyre landed. Farther away, another dragon roared. Vhagar, the old cow, was much slower coming to her rider’s aid. They couldn’t afford to wait for her.
Aegon considered his dragon. Although Sunfyre was large for his age, his strength was finite. But it would have to suffice to get them out of immediate danger. “Everyone, in the saddle.” Aegon tried to heave Aemond onto his feet. For someone so skinny, Aemond was unexpectedly heavy. Qyle came to help, and together they dragged Aemond toward Sunfyre.
Sunfyre groaned beneath the weight of five passengers.
“Only for a moment,” Aegon soothed. “I’ll feed you lots of Dornishmen as a treat later.”
“Hey,” Aliandra said indignantly as she held Coryanne on her lap.
“I meant the Dornishmen who just chased you out of your own castle. Stop acting so precious.” Aegon gripped the reins. “Soves, Sunfyre! Find Vhagar.”
Sunfyre was slower and clumsier than usual, but he successfully took off. They weren’t airborne for long before Vhagar came into view, and Aegon ordered Sunfyre down again several miles from Sunspear. Vhagar landed with them. The old she-dragon stared at the Martells, who stared back at her with wide, apprehensive eyes.
Aegon checked on Aemond. His brother was on the verge of fainting. “We need a maester, a healer, anyone.”
“The Planky Town is closest.” Aliandra was still cowering as she gawked at Vhagar. “They’ll have surgeons.”
“Then we’ll go there.” Aegon slung Aemond’s arm over his shoulders. “Qyle, help me carry him up to Vhagar’s saddle. You’ll need to ride with him to make sure he doesn’t fall off.”
Qyle gaped at the saddle high above them, then at Vhagar herself. Vhagar was still eyeing the Martells as if imagining the best way to season and cook them. “Her? No. I’ve heard the stories. Absolutely not.”
“Well, we can’t all fit on Sunfyre, so it’s either Vhagar or you’re walking to the Planky Town.” Aegon dragged Aemond toward Vhagar. “Or you can go back to Sunspear and throw yourself upon the mercy of the rioters. I don’t really care.”
Qyle choked out a dismayed little noise. Then he glanced at his sisters, sighed, and came to assist.
They managed to get Aemond into the saddle. Aegon buckled Aemond into his harness and moved Aemond’s hands onto the reins. “Keep him alive,” Aegon told Qyle. “If something happens to him, I doubt Vhagar will take orders from you.”
The short flight to the Planky Town was uneventful. The trading harbor was still alive and bustling when they landed, even at this late hour. The chaos in Sunspear had yet to extend this far.
Town guards marched forth to meet them, wary but not overtly hostile. Aliandra leapt down from Sunfyre. “I am Princess Aliandra Martell! We require your best surgeon, immediately.”
The guards eagerly obeyed their princess and helped carry Aemond to the surgeon’s house. The surgeon, roused from sleep, complained groggily, “This better be important!”
Sunfyre, patrolling the sky above them, let out a roar. The surgeon’s eyes flew wide open, completely awake.
“Your services are required.” Aegon pointed at his brother as he was laid on a table. “If he lives, you live. If he dies, you die.”
Aegon sat in the corner and watched the surgeon perform his stomach-turning work. Once he was assured the surgeon wouldn’t try to slit Aemond’s throat, Aegon let himself brood over the night’s events. Mysaria implied she was being hunted by Larys Strong, and that the populace’s anger might have been encouraged by outside forces. There were no guards to be seen at Sunspear. A cutthroat—a tongueless cutthroat—had been waiting for Aegon in the courtyard.
He needed answers. He took out the journal from Mysaria and cracked it open. Rubbing his weary eyes, he began to read.
The handwriting looked like Viserys’s, and the words sounded like his. In the earliest entries, Viserys lamented being convinced by the Small Council to name Aegon as his new heir. He was also pissed about something Daemon did in a brothel.
Aegon skipped the entries where Viserys reminisced about his first wife, described his skin lesions, and whined about the maesters restricting sweets and red meat from his diet. Things got interesting again in the year that Lyonel Strong, his former master of laws, died.
I did not think I would ever have a master of whisperers, but Larys is so much like his father. I must find a place for him. And he has presented me with a priceless gift: a book of Daenys the Dreamer’s visions, written in her own hand. He found it in Queen Rhaena’s old quarters at Harrenhal.
There were dozens of entries speculating about the meaning of Daenys’s visions. Gradually, Viserys became obsessed with the same few lines.
Beware the mummer’s dragon.
A false Aegon, false gold, gold company, gold companion.
Mother of dragons, robbed of her throne.
He will tear the realm apart when it must be united against the darkness.
Leading strings, puppet strings, one and the same.
LyonelLarys says he will be the mouthpiece of his mother’s kin. I brought Corlys to heel years ago, but Otto has not been likewise humbled. I am the king. My word is law. They must be reminded.I should never have unnamed Rhaenyra. I have doomed us all.
Sometimes I wonder… He is my boy… But Larys says…
I must not waver, for the sake of the realm. Rhaenyra’s line can still bear the prince that was promised. There is a way.
The signs and portents are clear.
Aegon must not be king.
It was dawn when Aegon finished reading. His face was wet as he closed his eyes. His chest seemed to constrict, painfully squeezing his heart.
He wished Viserys hadn’t dated the entries. Then Aegon could pretend this was why Viserys despised his own son. It wasn’t because something was wrong with Aegon, it was because Viserys was a nutter swayed by prophetic gibberish. But Viserys had been against Aegon before he ever laid eyes upon Daenys’s vague writings.
In Aegon’s faintest memories, he could see his father smiling and chuckling at him. Viserys loved him once. Now, Viserys thought his firstborn son was divinely cursed to bring ruination to the realm. All because of an old book of questionable provenance. For all they knew, Larys Strong forged the entire thing.
Aegon laughed, and laughed, and laughed. He laughed so hard, he inadvertently roused Aemond from his poppy-induced slumber. As Aegon leaned over his brother, his tears narrowly missed dripping on Aemond’s face. “Did you know that our father is insane?”
“Father?” Aemond mumbled, turning his head to the side.
“He thinks I’m a mummer’s dragon. He thinks I’m false. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Does he believe I’m a bastard? That our mother passed off some other man’s child as his? Which other man with Valyrian coloring? Daemon?” Aegon giggled hysterically. “Imagine me as Daemon’s secret bastard. Gods, I almost wish it were true, if only to spite our father.”
Aemond’s remaining eye squinted in confusion, as if Aegon were speaking Dothraki.
“He doesn’t want me to become king. I knew that. I thought it was because I was always a disappointment compared to perfect Rhaenyra and perfect Baelon. But he’s hoping I fail. He doesn’t want anyone else to want me to become king either. He wishes I would just disappear.” Aegon dragged his hand across his wet face. “That cutthroat at Sunspear. He was trying to kill me. Father never wanted me to return from Dorne.”
He cried, and cried, and cried. Meanwhile Aemond silently stared up at him, his eye clouded with poppy and bewilderment. Every time Aegon looked at his brother and his missing eye, he cried harder. Did Viserys want Aemond gone too, or was Aemond just collateral damage? What about Daeron? Was their little brother going to have his throat slit while he slept? At least Helaena was probably safe. She was no threat to Viserys’s favorite child.
At last, Aegon paused to breathe. He used his sleeve to wipe away the tears and snot running down his face. Jacaera’s handkerchief sat in his pocket, but he didn’t want to ruin it like he ruined everything else. “Gods. What am I supposed to do?”
He didn’t expect an answer, but Aemond croaked blearily, “Go home.”
Aegon gaped at Aemond, who was already drifting back to unconsciousness. Home? The Red Keep? Where Viserys could more easily order Larys Strong to deal with Aegon and his brothers?
Home was also where his mother, Daeron, and Helaena were. Aegon didn’t want to believe they were in danger from his own father, but he never thought Viserys would send a cutthroat after him either. At the very least, Aegon needed to retrieve his family. If he showed the journal to his grandfather and mother, they could help figure out what in the Seven Hells they were supposed to do about Viserys.
More importantly, home was where his wife was. Aegon had been counting the weeks. If they flew home now, he would return in time, just barely, for his child’s birth. Jacaera could advise him too. She always had good advice. Aegon was at his wits’ end. He needed someone else to tell him what to do, how to protect his family.
He laid a hand on his sleeping brother’s shoulder. “We’re going home, Aemond.”
Aegon didn’t consult the Martells about his plans. He saw no reason for it. He and Aemond were guests, free to leave as they wished.
Aliandra disagreed. “You northerners believe in guest right, don’t you? We hosted you, and now you owe us.”
“That isn’t how it works.” Aegon was packing provisions for the flight home. “We can leave whenever we want. It’s polite to give a thank you gift, but I think saving you from the rioters counts as a decent gift.”
“Rioters that you led into the castle.”
“A castle devoid of any of your family’s guards. If you ever get your castle back, you might want to investigate that.” Aegon slung his bag over his shoulder. “I’m willing to be nice, though. If you want to leave this place, I’ll drop you off at a castle on our route home. Just let me know before Aemond and I depart at sunup.” It wasn’t ideal to put Aemond on dragonback so soon after his injury, but Aegon disliked feeling exposed in the Planky Town. When they returned home, Aemond could rest all he liked.
The next morning, Aliandra and her siblings approached Aegon. “We wish for you to take us to the castles of our most leal lords, so we may call our banners and retake our seat,” Aliandra declared. “Coryanne will go to Godsgrace, Qyle will go to Salt Shore, and I will go to our mother’s family at Hellholt.”
Aegon tried to envision a map of Dorne. Jacaera had helped him learn the most important houses and castles. “Those are west and south of here. They’re in the wrong direction. Sorry, can’t be done.”
As he turned away, Aliandra said slyly, “That journal you were reading seems very important.”
His hand flew to his satchel. Viserys’s journal was no longer inside. Aegon whirled around, glowering. “You stole from me?”
“You should be more careful with—”
Aegon took a threatening step toward Aliandra. She and Coryanne skittered backward while Qyle nervously tried to place himself in front of his sisters. “You little ingrate,” Aegon seethed. “I saved your sorry hides, and this is how you repay me?”
Aliandra flinched when Sunfyre, resting not too far away, let out a low rumble. “If you kill me, you’ll never find that journal again.”
“Fuck the journal. I don’t need it.” Without the journal, it was only Aegon’s word that Viserys was more cracked than a dropped egg, but he would figure out something else. He refused to let a brat like Aliandra hold him hostage in this forsaken desert.
“Please, Prince Aegon, forgive my sister for her rash actions.” Qyle, eminently more even-tempered than his elder sister, clasped his hands together as if in prayer. “But we need your help. Our father is rumored to be dead, and my sister is an untried girl of sixteen. Even our most loyal vassals will hesitate to obey her commands, especially if we must wage battle against the traitors. I fear some will take advantage of this tumult and seize power for themselves. If we are to retake our rightful place, we need your support. Have we not become friends with you and Prince Aemond these last few moons? Does that friendship mean nothing?”
Aegon faced Qyle, ignoring Aliandra lest she infuriate him again. “I should think my support is counterproductive. The rioters were incensed by your house becoming too cozy with mine, were they not?”
“Mayhaps they were,” Qyle conceded. “However, dragons can be persuasive even to the hottest heads.”
“A Dornishman begging for a dragon. I never thought this day would come.” The worst of Aegon’s anger had cooled, but his blood still raced furiously. “My brother is injured, my wife is about to give birth, and mine own crown is in jeopardy. A paltry journal is insufficient to keep me here when the stakes are so high.”
Aliandra straightened, daring to meet his gaze. “Then name your price. If it is within my power as the ruling princess of Dorne, I shall pay it.”
At first, Aegon didn’t think there was any price he would accept. If anyone else tried to stop him from returning to Jacaera, he just might order Sunfyre to eat them alive.
Then he remembered one of his last afternoons with his wife, lying half-naked in bed while she reviewed Dornish history with him. The Conqueror burned everyone who didn’t kneel. Dorne had never knelt. Their Rhoynish blood held an ancestral hatred of dragonlords. They withstood the Conqueror until he was forced to yield out of love for Rhaenys.
This was the opportunity, the Martells in the palm of his hand, that Aegon’s namesake had killed for, many times over. He imagined himself as the one to finally enfold Dorne within the realm, when even the Conqueror failed. Not as useless as Viserys thought.
Then he imagined what Jacaera might say. In his mind, she turned her rich purple eyes upon him and gently cupped his cheek with her slim fingers. She brought her face close to his, so their mouths were almost touching. “You aren’t a disappointment, Aegon,” she murmured. “I’m so proud of you. I believe in you.”
The vision was so vivid, he could almost taste her lips. Gods, he wanted her. He wanted to go home to his pretty girl. He wanted to hold her again. He wanted to be there when she gave birth to his child. But if Jacaera knew he let this opportunity slip through his fingers, would she be disappointed after all? She didn’t need him there. She had always been more capable than him, and childbirth was no exception.
He didn’t want to stay in Dorne. But was that the better option? The option that would secure peace and unity for generations to come? What would Jacaera say? What would be the decision that made her proud?
Finally, he returned his attention to the Martells. All three tensely stared back at him. “I have a price,” he said.
“Name it,” Aliandra replied eagerly.
Folding his arms, Aegon said casually, “Kneel.”
Rage swiftly replaced her eagerness. “Never. We do not bow, we do not bend, and we do not break.”
Aegon shrugged, secretly relieved by her refusal. Now he had every excuse to go home. “Then have fun walking to Hellholt. I shall wave while Sunfyre and I fly over you.” As he strode away, the Martells huddled together and whispered urgently. Qyle and Coryanne sounded upset with their elder sister, but that wasn’t Aegon’s problem.
Although Aemond was able to walk, it was with the grace of a baby taking his first wobbly steps. Aegon supported him as they headed to their dragons, resting just outside the borders of the Planky Town. They were about to climb Vhagar’s rope netting when the Martells rushed after them.
“I agree to your demands.” Aliandra choked out the words as if they were being wrenched from her teeth. “But I have conditions.”
Aegon leaned Aemond against Vhagar. Then he turned to Aliandra, arching an eyebrow as he waited for her to elaborate.
“I will kneel, but not to the Iron Throne, forged from dragonfire and death. I will only kneel to Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, a friend of our house who saved me and mine from certain doom.”
“If you’re hoping to prolong the inevitable, it won’t work,” Aegon said. “My father is not the healthiest man.”
“It is no trick. I am a woman of honor,” Aliandra insisted. “Your father has done nothing for our house. You are the one helping us. I swear that House Martell and all of Dorne will bend the knee on the day you become king, whether that is one year or twenty years from now.”
Aegon was torn between triumph and regret. Now he had a compelling reason to stay in Dorne, and he couldn’t backtrack without seeming foolish and noncommittal. He dipped his fingers into his satchel, feeling the pile of letters he’d hoped to personally give to Jacaera a few days from now. He held back a sigh of disappointment. “I have my own condition to add. If I have need of you, of your armies and ships before I take the throne, I expect you to heed my call. And we shall write down the terms so we have a record.” Jacaera would be pleased to know he was thinking ahead.
After they drew up several copies of the treaty, Aegon helped Aemond climb up Vhagar. There was no reason for Aemond to stay too, and Aemond would be of better use at home. Tucked in the saddlebag was Aemond’s favorite leather coat, which he had reluctantly given up wearing after two days in the Dornish heat. Aegon tugged it around Aemond’s shoulders. “It gets cold up there. It would be pathetic if you died from a sniffle.”
Aemond responded with an unintelligible mutter. He reeked of milk of the poppy.
Aegon took out his stack of letters and waved it in Aemond’s face. “This is for Jace. Give it only to her. She’ll be embarrassed if anyone else sees it.” He slipped the stack into Aemond’s coat pocket. Then he held up a copy of the treaty. “I’m putting this in the saddlebag. Give it to Grandsire. He’ll know what to do.” Aegon had faith that Otto Hightower would craft a story about Aegon being a diplomatic prodigy who succeeded where the Conqueror had failed, or some hogwash like that. Aegon wanted to rub his victories in Viserys’s face.
Then Aegon contemplated Viserys’s journal, which Aliandra had returned after they signed the treaty. It would do him little good here in Dorne. If he held onto it, he would endlessly turn its pages and absorb its words until he became as mad as his father. So he placed it in the saddlebag too. Otto didn’t believe in ridiculous things like prophecies. His grandfather would know what to do with the journal.
Finally, Aegon gripped Aemond’s chin and looked him in the eyes—or eye, rather. “I know you haven’t two thoughts in that poppy-addled brain to rub together, but you need to listen carefully. Our father is a danger to our family. You need to take Jace away. And Mother and Hel and Daeron. Dragonstone is safest. That castle can’t be taken unless—hey!” Aegon lightly smacked Aemond’s cheek when Aemond’s pupil slid away, unfocused. “I said listen, you twat.”
“Listening!” Aemond looked annoyed as he returned his attention to his brother. His words were slurred. “Jace. Dragonstone. Heard you the first time.”
Aegon sighed, praying that Aemond remembered half of what he said. There was no other choice. Aegon had to take care of the Martells, and he didn’t trust a raven to reach Otto without interference. He was wary of even writing a note for Aemond to review later, in case a servant found it in his clothes. Aegon only dared to put the treaty and journal in the saddlebag because nobody else, not even the Dragonkeepers, would be willing to climb into Vhagar’s saddle.
He tightened Aemond’s harness until Aemond grunted in complaint. “Don’t fall off,” Aegon ordered. “That would be a pitiful way for history to remember you.”
That made Aemond straighten and firmly grip the reins. Most of the haze vanished from his eye. “I won’t fall. Now get off my dragon.”
Standing on the ground, Aegon watched Vhagar bear her rider away. Aemond would be home so much sooner than he. Envy rotting in his heart, Aegon marched toward the waiting Martells. “Get ready. We’re leaving in five minutes.”
“I have affairs to conclude first,” Aliandra protested. “I need to secure—”
“I don’t care. Be ready to leave or get left behind.” The sooner Aegon finished this Dornish business, the sooner he could go home too.
One by one, Aegon deposited the Martells at their requested castles. He scarcely waited for them to wave goodbye before urging Sunfyre to the next destination. Aliandra was his last remaining passenger as they covered the long stretch to Hellholt in the west. The castle seemed too far from Sunspear to be of immediate use, but Aliandra insisted she needed the support of her mother’s house.
As they descended, a scorpion glinted on the castle ramparts. Aliandra frantically waved a Martell flag behind him, and the weapon never loosed its bolt. When they landed, Aegon remained with Sunfyre and warily watched the Uller guards, who watched him with equal suspicion. The guards were armed with bows and sword hilts made of dragonbone. Aegon was surprised by the abundance until he remembered which dragon was the source of the rare material. Meraxes’s skull had been returned to King’s Landing a century ago, but the rest of the dragon’s skeleton remained in Dorne.
Aegon didn’t understand what possessed the Conqueror to risk Rhaenys in battle. He would never risk Jacaera at all. But he understood the heartbroken wroth fueling the Conqueror’s devastation upon Dorne. Aegon would have done the same.
“Prince Aegon!” Aliandra bounded back toward him. An older man cautiously followed. “My uncle says you are welcome in his hall. Let us rest and eat.”
Aegon scowled at Lord Uller. “Where is she?”
“Who?” the man asked.
“Rhaenys. Her bones, her crown. Tell me where they are.”
Lord Uller inhaled deeply, no doubt to rebuke Aegon. Aliandra grabbed her uncle’s arm and whispered hurriedly in his ear. The man’s expression softened, and he nodded grudgingly.
An hour later, as Aegon sat inside the castle with a cup of wine he mistrusted, a lumpy bundle was brought to him. The bones were so old, there was no way to tell whether they were truly Rhaenys’s. But he recognized the crown laid atop the pile, expertly depicted in paintings of the Conqueror’s favorite queen. Whereas Visenya’s crown was wholly Targaryen, Rhaenys’s crown paid homage to their Velaryon mother. Seahorses and dragons were wrought in gold, mingling with rubies and pearls. It was a very pretty crown, suited for a queen who enjoyed holding court and listening to minstrels.
He didn’t care who watched as he dragged Rhaenys’s bones outside to Sunfyre. Wood was scarce in the desert, so he couldn’t make a pyre. He arranged the bones as best as he could then stepped back to join his dragon. “Dracarys, Sunfyre.”
After the ashes cooled, he carefully swept them into an urn that the Ullers were willing to spare. When he returned home, he would inter Rhaenys’s remains beside the Conqueror and Visenya’s. The Conqueror had waited long enough to be reunited with his beloved wife.
Although the Martells had been forced out of their home by their own people, Aliandra’s chosen lords remained loyal. They quickly sent their troops down the rivers, around the coast, and through the desert to Sunspear. Aegon wondered if they would be so loyal when they found out about Aliandra’s agreement to bend the knee. He wouldn’t be the one to tell them.
Despite their haste, it required weeks to move enough troops to retake Sunspear. Aegon glumly counted down until Jacaera was supposed to give birth, then that day came and went. He was desperate for any news, whether mother and child had even survived, but it would have to wait. The few ravens trained to fly to and from Dorne were mostly in Sunspear.
He kept himself busy with ferrying messages between commanders, using Sunfyre to intimidate recalcitrant lords, anything to speed up the reconquest. Aliandra was adamant about not wanting her homeland burned down, so Aegon refrained from the most efficient solution.
In Sunspear, the rioters, faced with countless soldiers and a dragon circling overhead, quickly surrendered. Now Aegon’s half of the treaty was complete. He would allow nothing else to keep him in Dorne, and he would be happy to never see the place again. He stopped by his former guest room, which had been looted like many of the chambers. But he’d hidden his valuables well, and he was retrieving them when Aliandra burst into the room.
“Some ravens came while we were away.” She brandished several papers in the air. “It’s bad news.”
Aegon’s heart raced. “Jace? The baby?”
“Oh, you have a son,” Aliandra said carelessly. “His name is…ah, here it is. Baelon. Mother and child are both well. Congratulations.”
“Baelon?” he whispered, disbelieving. Although Aegon had told Jacaera she could pick any name she wanted, surely she knew he would hate that one. He should be overjoyed about his wife and son’s health, but it was poisoned by the disappointment creeping through his gut.
“That isn’t the news I meant.” Aliandra shuffled the papers. “Here, read it yourself.”
His Grace King Viserys has declared his son, Aegon Targaryen, a traitor to the Crown. For the crimes of allying with an enemy state, calling banners against the Seven Kingdoms, and intent to usurp the Iron Throne…
Aegon stared blankly at the paper. “No,” he said hoarsely. “No, that’s not—that isn’t what happened. I didn’t… I’m not a traitor. I’m not.”
He reread the message several times. It yielded no further information. Jacaera and their son were alive, but where were they? What became of them? What of Aemond, their mother, the rest of their family? If Aegon was a traitor, that made them a traitor’s kin.
“I need to go.” Aegon’s hands trembled as he groped for his bags. “I need to fix this. I need to—I need to—”
“Since you have been accused of colluding with us Dornish, you might as well make it the truth.” Aliandra’s eyes blazed with vengeance. “The riot’s ringleaders confessed before their execution. They were hired by Lord Strong to instigate everything. Lord Strong is one of your father’s councilors, isn’t he? Your father is the reason mine was murdered and his corpse dragged through the streets. If you seek revenge, I will gladly do the same.”
A small voice in Aegon’s head, a voice that sounded like his wife’s, cautioned that leading Dornish soldiers in retaliation would only escalate the conflict. But what else was he to do? Aemond and their family were in King’s Landing, imprisoned or executed for all he knew. Jacaera, their son, his family, they were all hostages in the Red Keep. Aegon had no other allies.
Aegon stared helplessly at the belongings he had yet to pack, strewn on his bed. Then the crown of Rhaenys caught his eye. Its motif of seahorses dancing with dragons glimmered in the afternoon light. Hope quietly stirred in his chest as he began to plot.
Aegon and Sunfyre only stopped once on the journey home, at a barren islet in Cape Wrath. The perpetual rain that gave the Stormlands its name was utterly miserable, but at least Aegon was warm as he huddled beneath his dragon’s bulk. Sunfyre courteously draped his wing over him to keep most of the rain away.
“Vermax has probably laid her clutch by now,” Aegon said as he gnawed on an unappetizing supper of stale bread and cheese. The Dragonkeepers had said Vermax would likely lay her eggs soon after Jacaera gave birth. Aegon’s son was three weeks old today. “Does that make you a father too, or does it only count after the egg hatches?”
Sunfyre grumbled despondently. He adjusted his wing to better shield Aegon.
The unending storms provided a convenient cover for his eye-catching dragon. Aegon wanted to delay the moment that King’s Landing was alerted of his arrival. Once they crossed the border into the Crownlands and the sky stopped pissing on them, they could hide no longer. At that point, Aegon urged Sunfyre to fly at top speed across Massey’s Hook. News of his return would inevitably spread, but they would outpace any ravens.
They followed the curve of Massey’s Hook, which pointed them to Driftmark. As the island came into view, Aegon ordered Sunfyre to slow, just a tad. Sunlight bounced against Sunfyre’s golden scales, and he blazed across the sky like the wonder he was.
Moments later, a silver dragon and a red dragon rose from Driftmark. They flew directly toward Sunfyre. It was as Aegon had planned, but being the target of two dragons, both larger than his own, made him tense.
Seasmoke and Meleys did not attack. For several minutes, they simply circled like vultures around Sunfyre. Aegon was close enough to catch Laenor’s eye. He untied Jacaera’s handkerchief from his saddlehorn and waved the white silk in the air.
Another moment, then Laenor jerked his helmeted head toward the ground. He led the descent while Meleys trailed behind Sunfyre. When they landed, Aegon and Laenor dismounted, but Rhaenys stayed atop her beast.
Laenor gave his good-son a long, hard look. “We were not expecting you, Prince Aegon. Last we heard, you were raising a rebel army in Dorne.”
“I am no traitor,” Aegon said quickly. “On the contrary, I have secured the Martells’ allegiance to the Seven Kingdoms in exchange for helping them retake their seat.”
“That is certainly not the tale we heard. Are you not planning to set aside my daughter so you can wed Princess Aliandra?”
“No! Gods, no. Jace is—I would never—” As Aegon stumbled over his words, Laenor seemed unimpressed.
Rhaenys climbed down from Meleys and strode over to stand beside her son. She took Laenor’s arm. “We should bring the prince inside. Your father is waiting.”
Aegon had never visited High Tide before. He perked up as he entered Jacaera’s childhood home, but he forcefully suppressed his curiosity. Now was not the time to explore the halls where his wife grew up.
Corlys sat on his Driftwood Throne, whose sheer size made up for its simplicity and lack of adornment. Nearby stood Rhaenyra and her youngest daughter Joff, then Jacaera’s twin cousins beside them. All glared at Aegon as he approached, though Joff seemed the least hostile. Laenor and Rhaenys joined their family on the dais.
Aegon was uncomfortably aware of his bedraggled hair and the dried mud staining his clothes. He held himself tall, determined to act like a prince even though he didn’t look like one at the moment. Regardless of circumstances, he wanted to impress Jacaera’s family. As he recalled his wife’s lessons about the best way to greet people, he said evenly, “My lord, forgive me for skipping pleasantries, but I hope you’ll agree that our current situation prioritizes efficiency over courtesy.”
Corlys’s stern frown didn’t waver. “Aye. Let us skip the pretty, empty words. Tell me why you are here, Prince Aegon.”
Aegon’s heart hammered. “I recently learned that my father has branded me a traitor. This is a lie.” He tried not to stutter as he explained everything that happened in Dorne, though he rambled on a tangent once or twice. He presented another copy of the treaty with the Martells. The parchment was passed around and examined by all the Velaryons.
When Aegon finished, Rhaenys leaned over to whisper in Corlys’s ear. Corlys narrowed his eyes. “Where is Viserys’s journal now, Prince Aegon?”
“I gave it to Aemond for safekeeping.” Aegon sorely regretted that decision. He speculated somebody had taken the journal from Aemond, and that was one of the reasons for all the trouble now. “I didn’t want to risk losing it in Dorne, and I thought wiser men might know what to do with it.”
Corlys stroked his beard. “So the only supporting evidence of the king’s madness is your word, based on a journal whose whereabouts are uncertain, which you received from a woman of questionable honor. You understand why I must remain dubious of your claim.”
Aegon’s stomach curdled with dread. “But you believe I’m not a traitor, don’t you?” His voice pitched higher with anxiousness. He straightened, trying to look more confident than he felt.
Corlys glanced at Rhaenys. “In this regard, we believe you. House Velaryon will tell all who listen that Prince Aegon is loyal to the realm.” As Aegon’s heart lifted in hope, Corlys added gravely, “But we can do no more. If you were hoping for men and ships, I must disappoint you.”
Dismayed, Aegon’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly several times. “Why?” he managed.
“Is it not obvious?” Laenor interjected wearily. “My girls are in the Red Keep. His Grace offered to let them return home, but Luce won’t leave Jace and Jace won’t leave her son, whom the king has named his new heir. We cannot do anything while they remain in the king’s household.”
Aegon’s chest stung. Viserys had replaced him so quickly, with Aegon’s own son. The king finally had his Baelon. “My father wouldn’t hurt them. They’re Rhaenyra’s daughters.”
“You claim he has gone mad, and madmen are unpredictable,” Corlys retorted. “Did you ever think the king would toss his son and Hand into the Black Cells?”
“Black Cells?” Aegon stiffened, horrified. “Aemond and my grandfather?”
“They have not been harmed, merely incarcerated. But they have not even been granted the dignity of the highborns’ cells. Who can truly say what the king might do to my granddaughters?” Corlys shook his head. “As long as the girls are at risk, House Velaryon cannot act.”
Aegon wouldn’t risk Jacaera either. That was understandable. But House Velaryon’s voice alone would not help him. Viserys wouldn’t retract his accusation just because Corlys asked nicely. The king wanted his eldest son, his mummer’s dragon, gone.
“Brother.” Rhaenyra’s cool gaze bored into him. “I wonder whether you and I might have a little talk. Alone.”
Never in his life had Aegon wished to spend time with his half-sister. But he was desperate, and if there was any chance a conversation might be productive, he would take it.
Rhaenyra led him to a sunny room with high ceilings and a lovely view of the sea. Aegon wasn’t in any mood to admire it until Rhaenyra said, “This was where Jace had all her lessons.”
Now Aegon noticed the vases of roses around the room. Although Jacaera hadn’t been here in almost a year, someone ensured her favorite flowers still decorated the place. He imagined her writing at the desk by the southward window, taking a break every so often to gaze at the sea. Did she ever think about him waiting for her across the Blackwater?
“As soon as she was old enough to learn the word ‘queen,’ she was determined to be the best queen there ever was,” Rhaenyra said wistfully. “So many hours practicing courtly dances, keeping accounts, memorizing houses and their histories. Even when she heard about your reputation, she never faltered. She said she would make the marriage succeed, and she would not shame her husband or her house.”
Aegon flinched as he remembered his own uncharitable thoughts about Jacaera before their wedding. He had considered her a shackle, an inconvenience, a duty. He had thought her a Visenya, but in truth she was his Rhaenys. “She is better than I deserve.”
“On that we agree. But not even I imagined her as the wife of a traitor.”
He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Are you so intent on believing that lie?”
“I wish I believed it. It would justify my dislike of you,” she admitted. “But I know my father—our father—is more than fond of his prophecies. Did he ever tell you about the song of ice and fire?”
“The song of what?”
Rhaenyra’s eyes brightened. “The prince that was promised? Did he ever mention it in his journal?”
“Once or twice,” Aegon said. “Something about your line bearing the promised prince.”
Her excitement faded. Vulnerability that he’d never seen before flashed across her face. “Did he ever write anything else about me?”
Even now, she wanted confirmation she was Viserys’s favorite. Aegon rolled his eyes. “He called you a mother of dragons a few times, but that was all.”
Rhaenyra’s expression grew crestfallen. “I see. I am destined to always be a mother to someone else more important.”
Aegon scoffed. “Why do you insist on making everything about you?”
She drew her shoulders back, affronted. “When Father named me heir, he preached about prophecy too. I thought he saw something in me that made me worthy to sit on the throne.” She sagged in her seat. “But it was about prophecies all along. If a prophecy warned against naming me heir, he would never have done it. If a prophecy called you the prince that was promised, he would have raised you to the throne himself. Neither of us actually matters.”
“At least you’re still his favorite,” Aegon said, not feeling particularly sympathetic.
She fidgeted with her hands, twisting her rings around. Jacaera had the same habit. “Father made me an offer. Your grandfather is in the cells, so Father asked me to be his new Hand. And if Father dies before your son reaches his age of majority, I will be his regent.”
Aegon tensed. “Congratulations, Lady Hand.”
“I have not yet replied. If he made the offer ten years ago, I would have eagerly accepted. But now…” Rhaenyra looked away. “Being Hand and regent will not give me what I want. Jace would never forgive me if I stood against you. Her sisters would follow her example. Without my children, I have nothing.”
She seemed to want reassurance. Aegon couldn’t give that to her. Theirs had never been that sort of relationship. But he did make a counteroffer. “When I’m king, I’ll give you any Small Council position you want.”
Her eyes widened.
“Except Grand Maester or Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” he clarified. “I don’t think you would be allowed.”
Rhaenyra stared suspiciously at him. “What if I wish to be the Hand?”
“Then I will send my grandfather, with great honors and ceremony, back to Oldtown to peacefully enjoy his old age. This offer is obviously contingent on me becoming king in the first place, so it would behoove you to support me.”
She was quiet for a while, contemplative. She reached for the nearest vase and idly played with the rose petals. “I must think upon your offer. I quite like being free at Driftmark, unburdened by the duties of the realm.” She met his gaze. “But for my daughter’s sake, I will support you now. If you go to King’s Landing to petition our father, I will come with you and speak in your defense.”
Aegon smiled in relief. For a second, Rhaenyra’s mouth curved up too. “Will Corlys allow you to leave?” he asked.
“It won’t be difficult to persuade him. I might be a Velaryon by marriage, but I have always been and will always be a Targaryen first.” Rhaenyra’s hand drifted to her necklace, which had a pendant of Valyrian steel. “I am not so precious to him.”
They sent a raven to King’s Landing to warn of their arrival. Then Sunfyre and Syrax made the journey themselves. When they reached the city, they went directly to the Red Keep rather than the Dragonpit. Guards and bowmen watched from the battlements but did not raise their weapons. Sunfyre swerved near enough for Aegon to see Jacaera’s bedroom windows. He longed for a glimpse of his wife, but the bowmen might actually shoot him if he drew that close.
The dragons landed outside the front gates of the Red Keep. One of the Kingsguard, Ser Arryk, greeted the dragonriders. “His Grace invites you to join him in the throne room.”
“I’ll wait out here, thanks,” Aegon said.
“The king was most insistent.”
Aegon’s voice rang clearly so all the observers on the street, highborns and smallfolk, could hear him. “I have nothing to hide. Let the people witness the proceedings so everyone may know the truth. I am no traitor.” One did not simply force the king to attend to them, not even his son. But Aegon didn’t care about causing offense, and he refused to let his words and actions be twisted again.
After deliberation, a table and several cushioned chairs were brought to the threshold of the Red Keep. As Aegon and Rhaenyra sat on one side, he ignored the wine poured by a servant. When the king eventually hobbled his way over, Rhaenyra stood as was proper. Aegon waited another moment, staring beadily at his father, before slowly doing the same.
Viserys dropped into the chair on the other side of the table. His crown drooped over his brow. He gripped Blackfyre, though Aegon doubted his father could lift the sword more than a few inches. Viserys glanced warily at the onlookers, who were kept a respectable distance away by the guards. “Well, Aegon, have you come to turn yourself in?”
“Why should I? I have committed no crimes.”
Viserys nodded, and a servant placed a parchment on the table. It was the treaty that Aegon stowed in Vhagar’s saddlebag. “Explain this, then.”
Aegon’s lip curled. “I procured the Martells’ submission, something even the Conqueror never achieved. It is a victory for the realm.”
“It is a victory for you. The Martells will bend the knee to you, and no other.”
“Because I’m their friend.”
“You were my envoy. You were supposed to act for the benefit of the Crown, not your own.” Viserys jabbed his finger at the parchment. “Here, they agreed to provide soldiers and ships if you call for them. Then you went on a whirlwind tour with Princess Aliandra to solicit more allies. This reeks of an attempted usurpation with the Dornish at your back.”
“Why in the Seven Hells would I want to sit on that throne any sooner than I must?” Aegon snapped. “It never brought you any joy, did it?”
“Power tempts every man.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m as loyal to my father as he is loyal to me.”
Viserys’s eyes flashed with mistrust. Aegon smiled mockingly.
“Father,” Rhaenyra said primly, as if Viserys and Aegon weren’t on the verge of a screaming match. “I believe Aegon. He did his best in a fraught situation, and we should be glad that he secured the Martells at all, even if there are conditions.”
As always, Viserys thawed in the face of his favorite child. But it wasn’t enough. He said softly, so no one else could hear, “It does not matter. Aegon cannot be king.”
All the air flew out of Aegon’s lungs, as if his father’s words had punched him in the gut. He laughed once, a bitter noise that sounded almost like a cry. “It doesn’t matter,” he echoed. “It never mattered, any of it. I could be Jaehaerys reborn, and you still wouldn’t want me on the throne because an old book called me a mummer’s dragon.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “Did you also take the journal from Aemond? What did you do with it? Burn it so no one else will know how mad you are?”
“I am not mad,” Viserys said with more patience than he’d ever shown to Aegon. “If I thought you would understand, I would have told you years ago so we could resolve this more peacefully. I wish it did not have to be this way, truly. But kings must place the greater good above our own wants. We all must make sacrifices for the sake of the realm.”
Aegon’s eyes watered. If Viserys and Rhaenyra were embarrassed by his tears, he didn’t care. His father didn’t care about him, so why bother reciprocating? “Fine,” Aegon croaked. “Then I’ll give up my claim.”
Viserys and Rhaenyra gaped at him.
“I never wanted it. I’m happy to just laze uselessly around court. If you want my son to be your heir, I’ll be his greatest supporter. You can even let Rhaenyra be his Hand and regent. I won’t fight her for it.”
His father shook his head. “Alas, it is not so simple. As long as you remain at court, you will always have your own proponents. They will ask why they must crown a young boy when his father, a grown man, is available. I cannot allow it.”
Aegon’s voice was thick with tears. “You want me out of your sight, is that it? Fine. I’ll leave. I’ll take Jace and our son, and we’ll go to Pentos or Lys or wherever there’s room for us.” He felt Rhaenyra glaring at him. He ignored her. She had a dragon. She could visit Jacaera whenever she wished. “We can even take Aemond and Hel and Daeron. Then you can name Rhaenyra your heir again, like you always wanted.”
Viserys looked pityingly at him. “We are past the point when I could have kept Rhaenyra as my heir. There are too many claims. It must be Baelon. He stays. Jacaera may decide whether to stay or leave, but she is most attached to her son. I doubt she will choose you.”
As Aegon’s tears continued falling, a burning heat boiled inside him. He was trying so hard to compromise, but Viserys would have none of it. Viserys just wanted Aegon gone, and he wouldn’t let Aegon take anyone with him. No matter how kindly Viserys acted, no matter how gently he spoke, it couldn’t take the edge off his cruelty. Viserys tried to emulate Jaehaerys, but in this moment, Aegon thought him the very image of Maegor.
“If you hate me so much,” Aegon said quietly, “you should have just smothered me when I was a child.”
Viserys reared back. “I do not hate you. You are my son, and I am no kinslayer.”
“So you didn’t tell Larys to send a cutthroat after me in Dorne? That’s a relief,” Aegon snarked. “You won’t kill me yourself, but you’ll let other people do it.”
“I will not suffer these baseless accusations.”
“You’re happy to throw them around, but you won’t let anyone else do the same. A craven and a hypocrite.”
Viserys stood so quickly, he knocked over his chair. “Take that back.”
“After you,” Aegon retorted, standing as well.
Viserys pointed at his son, trembling with anger. “You will go to the Wall, Aegon. Give up your claim and your dragon, and actually do some good for the realm for once.”
“Or else what? You’ll execute me? Will you do it yourself with Blackfyre, or will you tell Larys Strong to do your dirty work again?” Aegon gestured at Sunfyre, who was growling behind him. “I could end this insanity right now with a single word.”
Viserys’s hand tensed around Blackfyre. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“If you dare to shit upon the laws of gods and men, then so do I.” A crazy idea struck Aegon. It poured from his lips before he gave it another thought. “The king’s justice is no justice at all. I can find no fair judgment in the courts of men, so I will take the issue before the gods themselves. I demand a trial by combat, and I name Ser Criston Cole as my champion.”
He wasn’t so delusional as to believe he himself could stand a chance against any of the Kingsguard, one of whom the king would undoubtedly name as his champion. But Criston could best any of his brothers in combat. Aegon just hoped that Criston’s time in the cells hadn’t impaired him too much. When Criston defeated Viserys’s champion, Aegon would be exonerated, regardless of the king’s desires.
Viserys’s stare hardened. A trial by combat could not easily be refused, especially not in such a public setting. As Aegon waited for a response, he tried to guess whom Viserys would choose. Lord Commander Westerling was the obvious option, old yet experienced. If the king preferred a younger warrior, mayhaps Lorent Marbrand.
Then his father said, with the gravity of one pronouncing a death sentence, “I name Prince Daemon Targaryen as my champion.”
Rhaenyra’s sharp intake of breath was audible.
Dread seeped into Aegon’s bones. “Daemon is halfway across the world.”
“Then we shall await his return. Until then, I trust you will find accommodations elsewhere.” Viserys turned to Rhaenyra. “Your old rooms will be prepared for you if you wish.”
As Viserys began to leave, Aegon yelled after him, “Will you at least release Cole, Aemond, and the others so they aren’t wasting away in the dungeons for moons on end? Or are you afraid Daemon can’t beat Cole unless Cole is half-dead?”
It was an obvious goad, and it worked. Viserys’s expression blazed indignantly. “I will order them moved to more suitable cells, but they will remain in custody. Their guilt remains in question alongside yours.”
Bullshit. Viserys knew none of them were guilty. Even though he feigned being a humble dotard, he was too proud to recant after making such a fuss about treason.
The guards and servants followed the king back into the castle, taking the chair and tables with them. Aegon was left alone with Rhaenyra, their dragons, and half a hundred onlookers. Rhaenyra looked ruefully at him. “I did not think he would choose Daemon.”
Aegon’s chest tightened. “Who do you think would win?”
“When Daemon and Cole faced each other in a tourney twenty years ago, they were evenly matched. But Daemon has been fighting his way across the Disputed Lands these past few years. I know not how his abilities have changed.”
He didn’t ask who she hoped would win. He was afraid he knew her answer.
Someone nervously cleared their throat. A grizzled man, a smallfolk laborer by the looks of his clothes, nervously twisted his hat in his hands. “Excuse me, m’prince. I just wanted to say it ain’t right what the king’s doing. I’m a father myself. Children should listen and obey, but I can’t imagine throwing them away, no matter what they’ve done. It just ain’t right.” The man bobbed his head then scurried away.
Emboldened by his example, more smallfolk approached Aegon to mutter their commiseration. Nothing could completely heal the deep gash Viserys had inflicted upon Aegon’s heart, but their clumsy words were a balm to the wound. He received more kindness from strangers than his own father.
As the smallfolk slunk away, Rhaenyra said awkwardly, “I shall go into the Holdfast and visit my daughters. I’ll bring you news about Jace and Baelon.”
Aegon was not welcome in the Red Keep, so he remained outside with Sunfyre. Syrax curled up for a nap, uncaring of the many smallfolk ogling her. As Aegon morosely scratched Sunfyre’s snout, the first smallfolk laborer returned. He was carrying an ancient stool. “Here, m’prince. I dunno how long you’re planning to wait out here. It ain’t much, but it’s all we’ve got at our worksite.”
“Thanks,” Aegon said gloomily, unable to muster more enthusiasm. The laborer seemed pleased enough when Aegon sat down. “What’s your name?”
“Pate, m’prince.”
“Thank you, Pate.”
An elderly woman shuffled forward next, clucking her tongue. “Here, dearie.” She removed her shawl and wrapped it around Aegon’s shoulders, ignoring his protest. “You look an absolute fright. Your ma wouldn’t want you catching a cold.”
Thus began a stream of paltry yet earnest offerings from the smallfolk. A threadbare cushion for the stool, a basin of clean washing water, a mug of cheap ale. Aegon was so flustered, he could only nod and thank them.
“Have you met your son yet?” a young woman asked.
Aegon shook his head. “The king won’t let me inside.”
“Well, that’s outrageous,” she cried. Other smallfolk echoed their agreement.
“I don’t believe you’re a traitor, m’prince,” said another. “You’re a prince of the people, not a turncloak.”
The woman added, “And I don’t believe those tales about that Dornish princess neither. Everyone knows you love your wife. There are songs, y’know.”
As the sun went down, a makeshift canvas tent was erected, and a strawbed was hauled from a nearby inn. Aegon had misgivings about sleeping on the street, but Sunfyre remained beside him, and a dozen young men and boys volunteered to keep watch.
Rhaenyra, accompanied by several guards, returned that evening. She gawked at Aegon’s mountain of smallfolk gifts that had accumulated in the hours she was away.
“How is Jace?” Aegon demanded. The smallfolk also eagerly waited for an answer.
Rhaenyra glanced uncertainly at the crowd. “She is well, as is your son. She will allow no one else to nurse or tend to him, so she cannot leave his side.”
“Babes do best with their mothers,” an older woman said approvingly.
Hesitating, Rhaenyra said quietly, as if hoping no one else would overhear, “Jace misses you and prays that you will return to them soon.”
The more romantic smallfolk applauded and swooned. Rhaenyra smiled, baffled, then hurried back into the castle.
Aegon caught a few snatches of sleep, occasionally interrupted when his youthful sentries became overexcited and shouted at passersby to go away. He could get better rest at the manse of one of his highborn acquaintances, or even an inn, but he had grown to like being surrounded by smallfolk so open-handed with their support.
At dawn, the castle’s front gates opened. A familiar figure pushed a heavy, aromatic cart onto the street. “Gyles!” Grateful to see a friendly face, Aegon surged up from his strawbed and leapt toward the pie-maker. “What are you doing out of the kitchens?”
Gyles peeked at the crowd, who were sniffing hopefully at the contents of his cart. “Princess Jacaera said to feed everyone out here keeping you company.”
Aegon required no further prompting to praise Jacaera to all and sundry. He hopped onto a barrel and announced with a broad grin, “My wife, in her boundless generosity, wishes to thank you all for your loyalty and goodwill. As a token of her gratitude, she is providing a hot meal to everyone in attendance.”
The smallfolk cheered and swarmed the cart, rapidly relieving Gyles of his pies. Aegon barely managed to grab one for himself. Throughout the morning, the crowd increased as more people heard about free food and royal favor. Aegon’s tent expanded to the size of a respectable house, and someone built a throne-like chair out of crates and burlap sacks. As Aegon perched on his smallfolk throne, the crowd approached him one by one, seizing the chance to speak personally to their prince.
“I was just walking on the street when Lord Celtigar’s wheelhouse knocked me over and almost killed me,” a one-legged man said. “Now I can’t work no more. But Lord Celtigar never even said sorry. He yelled at me for getting in his way.”
“Fuck Lord Celtigar,” Aegon said. “I’ll make sure he pays triple your wages every day for the rest of your life.”
Eventually, the crowd grew so large and frenzied, several dozen royal guards marched out to try dispersing them. But as the guards raised their cudgels, Sunfyre drew uncomfortably close and bellowed at them. Bits of gore from the goat he’d eaten earlier splattered the guards’ faces. The guards hastily retreated to the castle.
The festivities continued for several days. The crowds swelled until they covered half of the High Hill. Wine and ale literally flowed through the streets, but Aegon rarely partook. He vividly remembered the cutthroat who tried to kill him and took Aemond’s eye. Carelessness might mean his death. Currently, his only protection was Sunfyre’s formidable presence and being surrounded by smallfolk who lauded him as long as the drinks kept coming.
One afternoon, the castle gates opened again. Instead of Rhaenyra with her daily report, it was Alicent with the Cargylls on either side. The queen had been locked in her apartments these past few weeks, but now she was allowed outside her cage. His mother looked smaller than usual, practically drowning in her black gown. Her eyes were watery, and her bloodied fingers trembled at her sides as if torn between embracing Aegon or holding herself together.
With the help of the Cargylls, Aegon was able to shoo away the nearest smallfolk so he and his mother had relative privacy. She looked askance at his makeshift throne as she sat on the stool beside it. Then she took his hands in her own and stared at them, as if counting that all his fingers were still attached.
“Has something happened?” Aegon asked.
Alicent’s grip tensed. “The king does not wish for this chaos to continue for much longer. His message will not reach Prince Daemon for some time, and Prince Daemon will require even more time to return. His Grace has changed his mind.”
Aegon tried not to feel hopeful. He had been disappointed too many times of late.
She took a shaky breath. “Instead of a trial by combat, he has demanded a trial of seven on the morrow.”
His pessimism was vindicated. He felt only bitterness in its wake. “Seven champions on each side. Let me guess, he’ll have all the Kingsguard as his.”
“He will allow you to use Ser Criston. His seventh will be Ser Rickard’s squire, Willis Fell.” Alicent’s voice trembled with unshed tears. “Aemond and Daeron wish to be your champions too.”
“No,” Aegon said instantly. “Aemond lost an eye, and Daeron is eleven.”
“Aemond still thinks he’s a better swordsman than anyone else you could find. And Daeron—” Alicent gasped, a weak and strangled sound. “Daeron insists on fighting alongside his brothers, even to the death. Aegon, you cannot allow this to happen.”
“I’ll find other champions.” But Aegon didn’t know any other fighters who had a decent chance against the Kingsguard. Criston couldn’t defeat all their opponents alone.
Aegon would have to fight. In an ordinary trial by combat, it was expected for royal family members to name a knight of the Kingsguard as their champion. In a trial of seven, it would be shameful for him to sit out when he was able-bodied.
Alicent clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. “You cannot do this, Aegon. There must be another way.”
“The alternative is for me to falsely confess my crimes and go to the Wall.” Aegon glared tiredly at her. “Is that what you want? Sacrifice myself so Aemond and Daeron can be saved? Aemond will probably be sent to the Wall with me if Father decides it’s more convenient to get rid of all his sons at once. Daeron might get away with the Citadel or Faith. At least he’ll be warmer in Oldtown.”
She avoided his gaze. “I don’t know, Aegon. I don’t know what to do. All I know is I cannot allow all my sons to die pointlessly.”
They debated for hours as the sky darkened to dusk, but they couldn’t come up with any other viable solutions. Aegon was tempted to just let Sunfyre eat the king next time he came outside. So what if it branded him as a kinslayer and kingslayer? Viserys started it.
He and his mother were still arguing when a high-pitched voice squeaked, “Milord—I mean, my prince!” A small boy was trying to get past the Cargylls.
Aegon recognized Gyles’s young son. “Ronnel?”
The Cargylls let him through. Ronnel held up a package wrapped in clean cloth. “I brought you supper. Princess Jacaera said that you must eat while it’s hot.”
Aegon smiled wearily as he took the package, cool to the touch. It was a small gesture, but it comforted him that his wife still thought about these things.
“You have to eat,” Ronnel said, wide-eyed, as he backed away. “The princess will be very sad if you don’t.”
After ensuring that the Cargylls weren’t paying too close attention, Aegon broke off part of the pie crust and stuck his fingers inside. He prodded the cheese and sausage filling until he snagged a piece of paper. He surreptitiously extracted the flimsy scrap, tinier than his palm. He wiped off the gunk and unrolled the paper to reveal an inky, infant-sized handprint.
Aegon’s breath hitched as he tried to imagine the little hand that created it. Was it milky white, bronze, or somewhere in between? Did it have dimples? All babies had dimpled hands, didn’t they?
Crammed in the margins, swirling around the fingers, were several words in Jacaera’s handwriting:
Tell your mother the king will have hippocras tonight.
Aegon had no idea what the message meant, but he duly repeated it to his mother.
As soon as he uttered “hippocras,” Alicent turned paler than the paper the message was written on. She immediately began picking her nail beds, though there wasn’t much left to pick. When Aegon touched her shoulder, she jerked back and slapped his hand away.
“Did Jacaera really say that?” Alicent asked in disbelief. Aegon showed her the paper. His mother looked like she might be sick. She shook her head vehemently.
“What does Jace mean?” Aegon asked.
Alicent just shook her head again. “I don’t—I won’t—” Her throat convulsed. She squeezed her eyes shut as she forced herself not to vomit.
“Mother, what is the matter?” Aegon studied Jacaera’s note, trying to comprehend its secret meaning.
Alicent looked at the paper too. Her expression crumpled as she reached out and tentatively touched the inky handprint. Her breaths grew slower, steadier. “I haven’t met him. I’m not allowed anywhere near Jacaera’s chambers. Sometimes she brings him to the weirwood courtyard for fresh air, and I can glimpse him from my window. But that is all.”
Aegon traced his index finger around the handprint. “What do you think he looks like?”
“Black hair like his mother’s, from what I can tell.” Alicent sniffled. “His eyes are entirely yours, as is his appetite. The maids say it’s a wonder he hasn’t drunk his mother dry.”
Aegon smiled proudly, but the joy slipped from his face as quickly as it appeared. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever meet him either.” Aegon would probably die in the trial of seven. If the accused was slain in combat, then that ended the matter. The gods would declare him and all his compatriots guilty.
Alicent’s shoulders stiffened. As she stared into the distance, determination settled into her expression. She lifted her chin and stood. “I must return to the Holdfast.”
“Now?” Aegon said incredulously. “Mother, the trial is on the morrow. I—” I need you, he wanted to say, but the words refused to be spoken.
“I have duties elsewhere.” Alicent’s eyes softened as she beheld him. She bent and kissed his forehead, a fleeting touch of her lips. “I will see you in the morning, my son. All will be well.” Then she abandoned him, vanishing into the castle.
Aegon felt betrayed. But he couldn’t afford weeping and tantrums now. If he was to have even the faintest hope of living past tomorrow, he needed champions. First he sent messages to his friends in the city, highborn squires and young knights who used to carouse with him on the Street of Silk. But his couriers returned empty-handed, sorrowfully shaking their heads.
Fair-weather friends. Aegon cursed them as he hunched over his throne of crates and junk. If he miraculously survived the trial, he would make them regret turning their backs during his hour of need. He almost snapped when someone approached him, but he bit his tongue upon recognizing the intruder.
Pate, the laborer who had given him the first stool, stood before him with hat in hand. “I heard you needed champions, m’prince. I never learned to use a sword, but give me a pickaxe and I can crush any rock to smithereens. If you’ll have me.”
Aegon’s mouth fell open, astonished. Then he stood and clapped Pate on the shoulder. “I would rather have a single honorable man than a hundred false knights by my side. I cannot promise we’ll survive the morrow, but if we do, you will be richly rewarded.”
Three other men followed Pate’s example: a blacksmith, a carpenter, a farmer. They had no chance against the Kingsguard, and they knew it. But they volunteered anyway.
Four men plus Criston and Aegon. That was only six. He would need to use Aemond after all.
As the sun began to rise, Aemond and Criston were sent out of the castle to meet Aegon. Neither appeared mistreated, though they were clearly exhausted. Criston went to speak with the smallfolk fighters. He didn’t look very enthusiastic as he consulted them about their strengths.
A clean bandage covered Aemond’s left eye. Aegon became increasingly anxious whenever he glanced at it. “Did they feed you in that dungeon?” he asked, noticing that Aemond was even skinnier than before.
“I would rather eat glass than the slop they serve in the cells,” Aemond said as he prepared his sword. “Lucera brought us food most days.”
Anger burned through Aegon’s veins. If Viserys came out to watch the trial, Aegon would turn Sunfyre on him. He would deal with the consequences later.
As highborns began to join the crowd, excited by the impending trial, Rhaenyra emerged from the castle. She swept past Criston then stopped beside her brothers. “I regret this folly and farce,” she said solemnly. “I tried to speak with Father last night, but he would not accept any visitors.”
Aegon reached into his pocket, where he’d placed Jacaera’s note. The ink was already fading from the countless times he traced the tiny handprint. “Jace?”
Rhaenyra shook her head. “She wanted to come, but she is not allowed to bring her son outside the Holdfast. She is afraid to leave his side.”
Viserys was right about one thing. Given a choice between her husband and son, Jacaera wouldn’t choose Aegon. He couldn’t fault her for it, but it still stung.
The castle gates opened. Bile rose in Aegon’s throat. He braced himself for the arrival of the Kingsguard, clad in gleaming white armor and armed to the teeth.
Instead there was his mother again, hair disheveled and panting hard as if she’d run across the entire length of the castle. Alicent’s gown was a rich shade of emerald green. The neckline was shockingly low cut, nothing he ever expected his modest mother to wear. As she ran closer, he realized her laces were undone. The queen never appeared in public in such disarray. The sound of clanking armor followed as one of the Kingsguard pursued her.
“There will be no trial today,” Alicent cried as Harrold Westerling caught up to her, hand on his sword hilt. “The king is dead.” Then she fell to the dusty ground and wept.
Notes:
See the author's behind-the-scenes commentary for this chapter here. Warning: potential spoilers for future chapters, so don't read this during your first reading.
Can you believe I originally thought this fic would only be three chapters? 🤡
Chapter 7: One flesh, one heart, one soul
Summary:
A long-awaited reunion, and a much-anticipated meeting.
Notes:
Surprise early update! It turns out I chronically underestimate my chapter and word counts. It made way more sense to split the final chapter in two (again), and the second half is Jace’s POV anyway. Don’t worry, the next chapter (which really is the last one, I swear) will come out on either Monday or Tuesday.
For those of you who read my main Goldverse fics, check out this amazing new artwork of all the Targkids + a very cute Targbaby. 🧀
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Alicent’s announcement stunned the riotous crowd into silence. It lasted for only several heartbeats before shocked murmurs rippled across the throng. Aegon gawked at his mother, hardly daring to believe her words. She was a sobbing puddle of red hair and green velvet on the ground. Every time she drew breath, her cries grew more hysterical, interspersed with desperate gasps invoking each of the Seven in turn.
Grimly, Harrold Westerling unsheathed his sword and pointed it at her. For a second, Aegon feared the blade would slice down upon his mother’s dainty neck.
Criston was the first to charge forward in the queen’s defense. Aegon and Aemond were close behind. Despite his weeks incarcerated, Criston’s sword was as steady as ever when he positioned himself between Harrold and Alicent.
Aegon and Aemond stood on either side of Criston, just as the remaining Kingsguard rushed out of the castle and flanked their Lord Commander. From behind Aegon, his smallfolk champions scurried forth to stand with him. Although their loyalty touched him, he wanted to scream about the unfairness of it all. Viserys was dead, but they might have to fight the Kingsguard anyway. Damn you, Westerling, Aegon thought bitterly.
“You dare draw your blade upon the queen?” Criston demanded, unflinching in spite of the unfavorable odds.
“She is under suspicion for the death of the king,” Harrold said gruffly. “It is my duty to bring her to justice.”
“I thought it was your duty to stop the king from dying in the first place,” Aegon interjected, vexed with the overstepping old man. “It seems you aren’t very good at your job.”
Harrold’s scowl deepened. “We were deceived last night. I regret it. Now I will rectify our errors.”
“You will regret it even more should you harm Her Grace.” Aemond wielded his sword with an unseemly amount of confidence for someone who just lost an eye and had been sitting in a cell for a moon. “She is the mother of the new king. My brother will not look kindly upon the act.”
All eyes fell upon Aegon. Belatedly, he realized that meant him. He tried to remain standing tall, even as his knees wobbled.
King.
Gods preserve him.
Harrold shook his head. “King Viserys removed Prince Aegon as his heir. Prince Baelon is our new king.”
“My son is barely a moon old,” Aegon protested.
“It was the king’s wish. His wishes must be obeyed.” Harrold looked over Aegon’s shoulder. “Do you not agree, Princess?”
There was a faint rustle of skirts. Rhaenyra glided past Aegon then stopped halfway between Criston and Harrold. Her eyes were red but dry as she surveyed the group, pausing the longest on Alicent. Alicent was still curled in a heap on the ground, though her sobs had quieted to whimpers as she fearfully watched the proceedings around her.
“Ser Harrold,” Rhaenyra said at last, returning her gaze to the knight. “You know that I loved my father.”
Harrold nodded.
“You also know that I have never possessed much love for my brother Aegon.”
Aegon’s grip tightened around his sword. What was Rhaenyra doing? She had promised to speak in his defense, but that was before Viserys died—before Alicent supposedly killed him. Even though Rhaenyra had held her father at arm’s length, Viserys was dear to her nonetheless.
Rhaenyra lifted her chin. Her voice was as steady as the ground they stood upon. “I have every reason to heed my father over my brother. And yet, it is an open secret at court that my father was unwell of late. He cherished all his children. Were he in his right mind, he would not have disinherited his beloved eldest son for an infant who has scarcely had time to live. For years, the king wished for my brother Aegon to follow him onto the Iron Throne. I believe that remained his sincerest wish unto his death, even as his mind and health betrayed him. Let us end this lunacy and accept the facts: Aegon is our father’s true heir.”
The smallfolk murmured in agreement, blissfully unaware that Rhaenyra had just lied through her teeth. The highborns in attendance glanced meaningfully at one other, but none refuted her claim.
Ser Harrold’s stolid expression finally cracked. As he gazed at Rhaenyra, his eyes filled with sorrow and regret. The corner of Rhaenyra’s mouth twitched up, and she gave him a barely perceptible nod.
Harrold looked like he might shed a tear. But there was little emotion in his voice when he declared, “As the princess says, Aegon Targaryen is King Viserys’s true heir.” Slowly, he sank onto one knee and bowed his head. The other Kingsguard did the same, unprotesting.
Criston was the last of his brothers to kneel. First, he waited for the other knights to remove their hands from their swords. Then, as Criston dropped to his knees, he bellowed, “Aegon the king!”
In the crowd, Pate the laborer was first to raise his pickaxe and echo the cry. “Aegon the king! Long live the king!”
The smallfolk’s raucous cheers rang in Aegon’s ears. For a moment, he stopped breathing. All the faces around him blurred together.
He was the king? Great. Wonderful. Fantastic. Now what?
He wanted to throw up. But if he did that, Otto Hightower might rampage out of his cell and throttle Aegon for embarrassing himself at such a crucial moment. So opening his mouth to speak was out of the question, lest something more unsavory spill out. Nor could Aegon continue standing around dumbly for much longer, or else people would think he was an idiot. He fervently wished Jacaera were here to whisper in his ear and tell him what to do.
Just like that, he knew exactly what he was doing next. Clarity settled in like a fog lifting from the sea. “I’m going to see my wife,” he said to nobody in particular.
He turned away from the Kingsguard, from the crowd, from Aemond and Criston, from his mother as Rhaenyra helped her stand, and staggered toward the castle gates. Then, remembering at the last second, he ordered over his shoulder, “I want my grandfather and anyone else falsely imprisoned to be released. My mother is not to be harmed. And someone bring me Larys fucking Strong. Preferably alive.”
Aegon was exhausted from many nights of meager sleep, but he mustered the energy to race through the Red Keep. He ignored passersby’s surprised greetings of “Your Grace!” as he ran by, intent on the Holdfast. The prospect of finally beholding his wife called to him like a beacon in the night.
Guards stood in front of Jacaera’s chambers. They raised their weapons at his approach, then froze in surprise when they recognized him. “Prince Aegon? I mean, King Aegon! I mean—”
Aegon glowered, and the guards scrambled aside. Without further ado, he pushed open the door.
Jacaera and Lucera sat near the fireplace, their backs turned to him. When the door swung open, Lucera leapt up and reached for the poker by the fireplace. Then she recognized him and retracted her hand. “It’s Aegon!”
Jacaera was slower to stand, lumbering to her feet. When she turned around, Aegon saw she was being hindered by the infant nursing at her breast. Aegon quickly shut the door so the guards couldn’t glimpse her exposed chest. Then he stared shamelessly at his wife.
She wasn’t as perfectly put together as usual. Fatigue lined her face. Loose hairs escaped her messy plait, which hung over her shoulder as the baby dug his tiny fingers into it. Her gown was old and plain with mysterious stains on the bodice. Aegon always thought she was beautiful, whether stark naked in bed or lavishly attired for a ball. All those other times paled in comparison to now, as she beamed at him with their son in her arms.
As he ogled Jacaera, Lucera planted her hands on her hips and said sternly, “Grand Maester Orwyle said Jace can’t have carnal relations for another two weeks at minimum.”
Jacaera blushed. Aegon had missed that sight. “Luce, you didn’t need to say that!”
“I think there’s plenty of need.” Lucera glared meaningfully at Aegon.
Jacaera looked mildly annoyed. “Why don’t you let me reunite with my husband, and you can reunite with yours? Without any bars between you.”
Lucera perked up. “Ooh, yes! Where is he?”
That startled Aegon out of his daze. “Husband? Who? When did you get married?” Aemond wouldn’t like that.
Lucera sidled toward the door. “Did nobody tell you I married Aemond?”
Oh, never mind. Aemond definitely liked that. Aegon nodded with mock solemnity. “Few people have the mettle to tolerate the Royal Twat. The Crown appreciates your great sacrifice.”
Cackling, Lucera darted out of the room. At last, Aegon was alone with his wife.
With uncharacteristic clumsiness, Jacaera lowered herself to the floor, still nursing their son. “Your Grace,” she said, strained, as her knee touched the stone tiles.
Horrified, Aegon hurried toward her. “No! Don’t do that.” Trying not to disrupt the baby’s suckling—far be it from Aegon to come between a man and his meal—he grasped her by the waist and raised her to her feet again.
“Thank you.” Jacaera adjusted her grip on the baby. “May I sit? He is heavier than he looks, and I fear I am tired.”
“Sit. Please.” Feeling awkward, he watched her sit on the couch and arrange pillows on her lap, upon which she rested her arms. Their son continued suckling, unbothered by the disturbance. Aegon studied the infant’s black hair and dusky skin, just a few shades lighter than Jacaera’s.
Jacaera brushed her finger against the baby’s cheek. He finally released her nipple and gurgled. She adjusted him so Aegon could see his face. “May I present your son, Your Grace?”
His son’s eyes were a mirror of Aegon’s. Aegon eagerly tried to discern what else of himself had made it into that chubby little face. When he left four moons ago, his son had been a mere promise of life in his mother’s belly. Now his son was here, healthy and whole, with all his fingers and toes and various appendages as far as Aegon could tell.
The baby squinted back at his gawking father. Then he grunted, unimpressed, and hid his face against Jacaera’s chest. Despite her encouragement, he refused to look at Aegon again.
“He isn’t accustomed to strangers,” Jacaera admitted. “Luce and I have been his main caregivers, so he only tolerates us for long.”
Aegon stared at the back of his son’s head, trying not to feel disappointed. “Is that why you wouldn’t leave him?”
Jacaera’s fingers twitched around their son. “There was a time when the king considered sending Luce and me back to Driftmark, as our grandfather requested, regardless of our own desires. I knew they wouldn’t let me take our son. I was afraid to let him out of my sight, lest that be the last time I ever saw him.” She anxiously met Aegon’s gaze. “I am sorry I never went out to see you. I tried leaving this morning, but the guards said it was too dangerous to bring our son out of the Holdfast. So I stayed with him. I hope you can forgive me.”
An ugly, unsettling weight slithered into Aegon’s heart. He looked away from her and paced around the room, trying and failing to outrun his intrusive thoughts. He could have been slain this morning. She could have entrusted their son to Lucera while she met him for what might be the last time. If his mother hadn’t done what she did…
He halted, remembering the note in last night’s pie and Alicent’s visceral reaction. “Hippocras. What did you mean by it?” Why was the spiced wine so important that Jacaera had to smuggle the note in a pie? It seemed like an innocuous message, yet she hadn’t trusted a regular courier to deliver it.
Now it was Jacaera’s turn to look away. “His Grace enjoyed having a cup of hippocras at night sometimes.”
“Why was it so notable yesternight? Why did you go through the trouble of conveying it to my mother?”
Jacaera cast her eyes downward as she patted their son’s back. “His Grace had predictable habits when he drank hippocras. Your mother knew them well.”
Aegon’s stomach turned to ice as he recalled his mother’s loose laces and low neckline, the way she’d looked heartily sick when she heard Jacaera’s message. “What did you tell my mother to do?” he demanded, even though he already suspected why Alicent was the first to know of the king’s death. “Did you—? You didn’t tell her to sed—?” He couldn’t bring himself to finish his accusation. He was desperately trying to erase the mental image of where Alicent had gone last night, what she must have done.
Jacaera rose to her feet, lifting her chin. Their son tugged down her bodice, exposing her breast again, but she didn’t seem to care. Her next words were careful yet purposeful, like the speeches she drafted for him to present to the Small Council. “I merely reminded the queen of her husband’s customs. I didn’t tell her to do anything. Her actions were of her own volition. As a mother, I understand her perfectly. Whatever she did, it is nothing I wouldn’t do for mine own son.”
Aegon was taken aback. His gentle wife had always spoken to him so sweetly, handling him with care like a gardener tending to a fragile bloom. But now she boldly presented him with an implied threat: if he ever endangered their son, she would mercilessly tear him up by the roots just as Alicent had done to Viserys.
As he beheld Jacaera’s flashing eyes and burning cheeks, he was reminded that despite her pretty manners, despite her Velaryon name, despite her aversion to literal fire and blood, she was as much a dragon as he. Although she kept her fierceness well hidden, Valyrian steel was no less sharp just because it was wrapped in silk. Even when they first met and she feared his reputation as a drunk lecher, she did her best to tame him like she had tamed Vermax. Right now he was the target of her fury, but she would undoubtedly turn her wroth upon anyone else who even looked at their son the wrong way.
His resentment withered away, evaporating like a puddle beneath her raging sun. He loved her for her sweetness, and he loved her for her thorns. She wasn’t afraid to stand up to him, to tell him he was wrong, to tell him to do better. He didn’t want someone who surrendered at the first sign of danger. He wanted a partner, an equal in all things, someone who would staunchly defend their children against all threats—even if that threat was himself.
But he wouldn’t be like his father.
He reached for his belt and dropped his sheathed sword on the ground. Then he did the same with his dagger. Unarmed, he held up his hands, palms open, and slowly approached Jacaera. She neither tensed nor flinched as he drew closer, and she allowed him to lean in so their faces hovered within an inch of each other.
Aegon smirked. “Are you threatening your king?”
“Only if I must,” she said calmly. “I don’t think I need to.”
“Do you want to? I find it stimulating.”
Her stoic mask broke. She spluttered, glancing down at his waist. “Now? Of all times? Really?”
“Another fortnight, is it? We shall have to find other amusements—”
Smack.
Aegon grunted, startled, when a little fist struck his chest. He gaped incredulously at his son, who quickly resumed hiding his face against Jacaera. “Did he just hit me?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t intentional,” Jacaera said, poorly hiding her laughter. “He’s only one moon old. It must be his reflexes.”
Aegon peered suspiciously at his son, who was innocently drooling on Jacaera’s shoulder. “Will, uh, Baelon take a nap soon?” Aegon knew better than to disobey the maesters’ orders, but he wanted to be alone with his wife. He hadn’t seen her in four moons. There was no harm in kissing and embracing and touching her teats.
“He usually sleeps after he eats.” Jacaera wrinkled her nose. “Is Baelon an acceptable name, Your Grace?”
“I suppose,” he said grudgingly. “I did tell you to pick any name you wanted.”
She peeked up at him, suddenly looking hopeful. “It was your father who picked the name, not I.”
His heart felt much lighter at the revelation. “Did he? That makes sense.”
“I picked another name before your father changed it.”
Aegon nodded. “Whatever you picked, that will be our son’s name.”
“But you don’t even know what I chose!”
He waved his hand. “He could be Cheeseball Cabbagehead Stinkybutt Targaryen, First of His Name, and it would still be better than Baelon.”
“Rest assured, I didn’t pick anything so horrendous.” Jacaera smiled down at their son. “I would like to call him Elenar. It means ‘tide.’ It’s the root word for my father and aunt’s names.”
“Then he shall be Elenar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone,” Aegon said without hesitation.
Her answering smile, dazzling and teeming with gratitude, threatened to melt him into a puddle at her slippered feet. “Thank you, Your Grace. You honor me.”
“You keep calling me ‘Your Grace.’ I didn’t realize it was so easy to forget my name after four moons.”
“I didn’t forget anything, Aegon.” Her eyelashes fluttered, and she shyly pressed a kiss to his mouth. He hungrily kissed her back.
Before they could deepen the kiss, the newly renamed Prince of Dragonstone spat up all over Jacaera’s gown.
“Oh dear. I should change.” Jacaera carefully held Elenar so the mess didn’t smear his clothes too. She set Elenar in a padded basket on the bed then searched for a clean gown.
Aegon sat on the bed and examined Elenar. Elenar was focused on the very important task of trying to cram his fist into his mouth. Every so often, Elenar peeked up at his watching father, snorted like a piglet, then went back to ignoring Aegon. “Temperamental little beast,” Aegon mumbled, grinning.
Attired in a fresh gown, Jacaera joined him on the bed. “Do you want to hold him?” Without waiting for an answer, she arranged Aegon’s arms then carefully placed Elenar into them.
Elenar whined and flailed his limbs. His fingers scraped Aegon’s chin, and his surprisingly sharp fingernails cut a few scratches. “Drawing blood from your king is treason,” Aegon said, wincing and laughing all at once. “The penalty is having all your toys taken away.”
His son squawked indignantly. Aegon imagined what the infant would say if he were capable of speaking. Tyrant! Don’t think I won’t usurp you! I already usurped your place on my mother’s teats, and I can do it again.
When Jacaera stroked Elenar’s cheek, he finally settled, though he resumed fussing whenever Jacaera tried to remove her hand. Thumb in his mouth, Elenar stared up curiously at his father. His expression was almost meditative.
Jacaera smiled. “See? Tisn’t so bad, is it?”
Elenar cooed. Then he released a pungent fart. Aegon and Jacaera sagged against each other, giggling uncontrollably.
Aegon was roused from his nap by Jacaera’s voice, quiet but firm. “I will pass on your message to the king.”
Whoever was at the door sounded unhappy with that response.
His wife was undaunted. “His Grace is resting. If the matter is as crucial as you say, then it should be handled when his mind is sharp and clear. Good day, my lord.”
Eyes still closed, Aegon grinned into his pillow. Who needed a Kingsguard when he had Jacaera Velaryon? As he stretched, his hand bumped into Elenar’s basket. Now he opened his eyes. He rolled over, propped his chin on the edge of the basket, and studied his son.
Elenar was still asleep. Like his father, he had been freshly bathed before his nap, though Elenar received much more help with scrubbing and whatnot from Jacaera. She had declined to do the same for Aegon, insisting he was capable of washing himself.
Jacaera entered the bedroom. “Oh, I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, hushed. She checked on Elenar, who continued slumbering.
Aegon sat up and asked, equally quiet, “Who was the intruder?”
“Lord Celtigar wanted to know whether you were changing the members of the Small Council. Tisn’t truly urgent, so I wanted to let you continue to rest.”
Aegon yawned as he climbed out of bed. His old clothes were filthy from dragonriding and his nights on the street, so he’d opted to sleep nude rather than dirty Jacaera’s sheets. He was pleased to see her blush when she handed him clean clothes. “I’ll need to talk to Lord Celtigar. He owes someone a lot of money,” Aegon muttered as he dressed.
“Can it wait? We have important matters of state to address.”
He let his head droop, groaning. “Already? I’ve only been the king for four hours.”
“I’m afraid that is the price of duty.” Jacaera smiled reassuringly. “I shan’t beleaguer you with unnecessary drivel. The Small Council had many more topics they wanted to discuss with you, but I told them that unless someone is in danger of dying, it must wait until tomorrow.”
They moved to the solar. Jacaera left the bedroom door open so she could keep an eye on Elenar’s basket. A tray of food awaited them, and Aegon ravenously set upon the fresh pies and fruit.
Jacaera waited for him to finish his first pie before saying, “First, your father’s funeral.”
“Chuck him in a fireplace.” Aegon picked up another pie.
“It will strengthen the beginning of your reign if you show him infinitely more grace than he ever showed you. You will be praised as a filial son, even when your father betrayed you during his purported illness.” She took his hand and stroked his knuckles. “Others will plan the event. You only need to stand at the funeral and appear solemn. You don’t even need to order his body burned. My mother has offered to perform that task.”
“Fine,” Aegon grumbled. “I can stand and frown.”
She squeezed his hand encouragingly. “The funeral must take place soon, but your coronation can wait. It’s mostly a formality, and you can govern in the meantime. Seven moons would allow for a proper mourning period, and lords and ladies from across the realm will be able to travel here for the event. Your grandfather has already invited the Martells.”
Aegon shrugged. “Fine. We can wait. I need time to catch up on sleep.”
“I will ensure you have it.” Then Jacaera’s expression grew grave, and she averted her gaze. “Now, the matter of Larys Strong…”
He stopped eating. He sensed he was about to lose his appetite. “Where is he?”
“No one knows. There’s no sign of him anywhere. The guards were quick to seal off the secret tunnels, but mayhaps the master of whisperers knows about other ways out. On the other hand, it is possible Lord Strong is still in the castle. He had little time to flee. He was in this room when we heard your father had died. A servant ran in with the news, and Lord Strong vanished.”
Aegon frowned, perplexed. “Why was Larys here?”
Jacaera wrung her hands. She still didn’t look at him. “There was no impropriety.”
“I didn’t think there was impropriety. Why would there be?” Aegon stared at his wife. She seemed…guilty. “What was he doing with you?”
She shrank back. He could tell by the way her expression twisted that she wanted to lie. But she had never been able to lie, and they both knew it. “Aemond and your grandfather were imprisoned, so Lord Strong was my only means of acquiring information this past moon. He is the reason Luce was able to visit the prisoners in the Black Cells.”
“What did he demand in return?” Aegon jumped up so he could stomp around the room, seething.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? He did this out of the kindness of his heart? I struggle to believe it.” His mouth went dry. Mysaria’s words echoed in his ears: Old men, young men, rich men, poor men, hale men, crippled men. Many would pay dearly to know her most intimate habits. “Did he…?”
Jacaera vehemently shook her head. “I allowed him to think we were friends, but I was never alone with him. Luce was always here when he visited. He often came to have tea and share meals. He would tell me about the king’s decrees, your rumored movements, my family…”
“And he did all this for the sake of mere friendship,” Aegon said, unconvinced.
Jacaera sighed, frustrated, as she stood too. “If you suspect I was unfaithful to you—”
“I suspect nothing of you. Larys is the one—he is—” He gulped several breaths, trying to rein in his anger. “He cannot have innocent reasons for ingratiating himself with a lone princess whose only protector was her younger sister. You say there was no impropriety. But if I had been delayed in Dorne, if my impasse with my father was prolonged…what then?”
His fury faltered when Jacaera wrapped her arms around herself, and her shoulders trembled. “Luce is an indefatigable guardian. She would never have allowed him to hurt me.” Her voice faded to a whisper. “But if I had to, I would have done what was necessary to protect our son.”
Even though she radiated vulnerability, she stood tall with her head held high. Oddly, her composure reminded him of certain executions he had witnessed in the past. Most men wailed and pissed themselves on their way to the block. Few were able to face death with dignity. His wife’s poise now, despite her tremendous apprehension about his reaction, reminded him of the latter. It struck him that of all his wife’s virtues, bravery wasn’t one commonly attributed to her. She would never lift a sword or ride into battle, but she was as courageous as any knight. Even when the enemy trapped her in a corner, she persisted in fighting.
When Aegon got his hands on Larys Strong, he would use the man’s own interrogation methods on him. It didn’t matter that Larys never hurt Jacaera. Larys had wanted to, and that was an equally unforgivable crime.
But Larys wasn’t here right now. Jacaera was.
He strode toward her and swept her into a tight hug. After an initial squeak of surprise, she sagged into his embrace and coiled her arms around his waist. He buried his nose in her hair, breathing in the scent of roses. “I’m going to kill him,” he promised.
Her chest heaved against his. “You have my blessing to do so.”
“I’ll personally search the tunnels for him.”
“Don’t.” Her hands cupped his face. “I have grown to know Larys well this past moon. If he can’t win, he’ll make sure victory tastes bitter for the rest of us. I wouldn’t be surprised if he set a trap for his pursuers. You are the king. Your well-being is paramount. Please don’t risk it, Aegon. You only just came back to me, and I don’t want to lose you again.”
Aegon didn’t want to be a craven who sat back while others did his dirty work. He’d been plenty reckless as a prince. But now he was a king, and the title was like an invisible millstone hanging from his neck. He could no longer run as freely as before.
He was tempted to storm into the tunnels anyway. But he could never deny her anything. “As my queen commands.”
Jacaera exhaled in relief. Then she stepped back, the image of solemnity once more. “Speaking of queens, there is the matter of your mother.”
Aegon tensed. “What happened? I ordered that she not be harmed.”
“She hasn’t been harmed. She is confined in her apartments, but she is allowed visitors.”
“Why is she confined?”
Jacaera nervously clasped her hands together. “Aegon, she killed the previous king.”
He’d known what his mother must have done. He’d heard Ser Harrold’s accusation. But it was still dizzying to hear it spoken aloud. He shoved aside the memory of Alicent’s unkempt attire and disheveled hair. If he dwelled upon it too long, he might grow infuriated enough to hunt down Viserys’s corpse and desecrate it. “Well, I’m the new king, and I want her released.”
“Tisn’t so simple.”
He threw his hands up in the air. “What proof is there, anyway?”
“Your mother confessed. She waited for the king to fall asleep, then she suffocated him.”
Aegon’s ire, which he had just painstakingly dampened, flared to life again. “Why in the Seven Hells would she admit that? She could have just lied!”
“Lord Commander Westerling already made a formal accusation.”
“So what? I can just say she didn’t do it.” Aegon didn’t care that the Kingsguard served for life. He would dismiss Ser Harrold from his position. Disloyal, wrinkled sack of shit.
Jacaera took a deep breath. “If this went to a formal trial, everyone would know you’re lying for her. The first great legal matter of your reign would be marred by a blatant miscarriage of justice.”
“My father started it!”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right. But you understandably do not want to condemn your own mother. She knows this. So she removed the need for you to make that choice.” Jacaera moved close to him again. “I know it hurts, but she did what she thought was best. She did it for you, Aegon.”
His temper abruptly deflated. He slumped forward, dropping his head heavily on her shoulder. Silent tears slid down his face and stained her gown. “Then what now?” he asked wearily. “Must I order my mother’s execution, for a crime that she performed for my sake?”
“Nothing so severe. Your mother is the dowager queen, a gently bred woman of noble birth. At worst, she would be sent to the Silent Sisters.”
Aegon shook his head. “I’m not doing that to her.”
“Then we can find another solution. But she must be seen to be punished, or else it sets a dangerous precedent.” Jacaera hooked her finger under his chin so he was looking at her. “People would fear I might do the same as your mother, or mayhaps Elenar’s future wife will endanger him, because we know our sons will exonerate us for their fathers’ deaths.”
“I can’t execute her, I can’t send her to the Silent Sisters, I can’t acquit her.” He sighed. “What can I do?”
She pulled him in for another embrace, running her hands down the tense muscles in his back. “My mother had a suggestion, if you are amenable to it.”
Viserys’s body was laid at the foot of the Iron Throne for a seven-day vigil. At Jacaera’s urging, Aegon made a brief appearance on the first morning, though he departed as soon as he was allowed. She also supported him delegating the minutiae of ruling to the Small Council. It left him with more time for important tasks, like figuring out why his son hated him.
“He doesn’t hate you,” Jacaera said, shortly after Elenar pissed on Aegon’s doublet. “He’s just anxious while he grows accustomed to your presence.”
Aegon narrowed his eyes when Elenar, who had been changed into clean linens, draped himself across Jacaera’s chest. “I think he’s marking his territory.”
Jacaera chuckled while Elenar pawed at her bodice. “As I have ceaselessly reminded you, he is an infant.”
“He was born with instincts, wasn’t he?”
Jacaera adjusted her neckline so it properly concealed her breasts. Aegon and Elenar were equally disappointed. “We need to get going. Your mother has waited long enough to meet her grandson.”
Alicent’s apartments were guarded by Harrold Westerling. Aegon suspected that Harrold gave himself the assignment out of concern that another guard might help her escape. When they walked past Ser Harrold into Alicent’s solar, Aegon turned around to stick out his tongue at the Lord Commander’s back. He still wanted to sack Harrold. He wanted to sack all of the Kingsguard who were prepared to kill him in the trial of seven, but that would leave him with only Criston. Besides, Jacaera said it wasn’t a good idea to send the Kingsguard to the Wall just because they obeyed the previous king. It might make future knights of the Kingsguard hesitate to obey.
Alicent already had another visitor. She and Rhaenyra were deep in conversation, clutching each other’s hands. It was impossible to tell the difference between the skirts of their black mourning gowns, which bunched together on the couch. Alicent, who was almost as pale as Viserys’s corpse, brightened upon seeing her newly arrived guests.
Both Alicent and Rhaenyra cooed over their grandson. Elenar wasn’t nearly as happy to see them. He allowed them to hold him for less than a minute before whining for Jacaera.
Jacaera and Rhaenyra took him aside so Aegon could have a moment alone with his mother. Alicent gazed longingly at Elenar until Aegon spoke, drawing her attention. “After Father’s funeral tomorrow, I will formally announce what will become of you.”
Alicent let out a long, shaky breath. Then she straightened and held his gaze. “What is to be my punishment?”
Aegon’s somber demeanor shattered. “You shouldn’t be punished. You should be rewarded. You—”
“I committed the highest of treasons. I knew the consequences.” Alicent fidgeted with her hands. Her fingers weren’t bleeding. She hadn’t picked her nail beds recently.
“You didn’t need to confess. You could have just said he died in his sleep. So what if Westerling accused you? He didn’t witness the act.”
Shaking her head, Alicent touched the seven-pointed star hanging around her neck. “How would it look if the first thing you did as king was to help your mother conceal the previous king’s murder?”
“I don’t care what people think.”
“You need to care,” she said sharply. “Your father didn’t care what people thought about him disinheriting you. Now look at his legacy. History will remember him as a dotard who almost destroyed his own family.”
Defeated, Aegon hunched over in his seat. “Why did you do it?” he asked miserably.
Alicent glanced at Elenar again and smiled wanly. “I couldn’t ask you to sacrifice everything when there was still something I could do. You will soon learn, if you haven’t learned already, that we are willing to do anything for our children. Even if it means sullying our hands and souls.”
This was, bizarrely, the most peaceful he had ever seen his mother. Her expression was serene, her eyes clear, and her shoulders relaxed. He wanted to shake her for so easily accepting her fate.
Aegon raked his fingers through his hair. Then he said tearfully, “I’m not executing you.”
“I thank you for your clemency. The Silent Sisters, then?”
“A motherhouse.”
Alicent frowned. “The motherhouse in Oldtown? It is a pleasant place, more luxurious than some castles. Some might say it’s no punishment at all.”
“No. The motherhouse on Driftmark.”
She blinked, baffled. “There is no motherhouse on Driftmark.”
“There will be.” Aegon swallowed as he remembered the details of the solution that Jacaera and Rhaenyra had suggested. “Corlys has given permission for one to be built. He wants it to be just as grand as High Tide, so it may require a decade or two to complete. Until then, you will be confined to Castle Driftmark. I’m told it’s drafty and prone to flooding. Not even the most distant Velaryon relations want to live there. But the solitude means you have the freedom of the castle and surrounding beaches. Only the servants and the next Lady of Driftmark will accompany you.”
“Lady of Driftmark?” Alicent whispered. Her eyes flickered toward Rhaenyra, who was pretending not to eavesdrop.
“She is most wroth about her beloved father’s untimely demise. She has sworn to be a strict warden. If she claims you are locked in your room with only gruel to eat, no one can gainsay her.”
Alicent gaped at him. “Aegon…”
Fearing he might lose momentum, he continued hoarsely, “You can never return to court. You must spend the rest of your days in Castle Driftmark and then the future motherhouse. As the Crown, I can neither show you favor nor visit. Not for several years at least. But I am considering having Daeron fostered with Lord Corlys. Aemond and Luce wish to divide their time between King’s Landing and High Tide. Hel would like to explore Driftmark’s beaches someday soon. There’s nothing else I can do. That will have to be enough—”
She surged forward and hugged him. He fell silent, surprised by the strength in her delicate form. His mother seldom hugged him. She used to do it constantly, long ago. He remembered being small enough that she could easily pick him up and cuddle with him. But then he grew up. He had to become the future king, and kings weren’t supposed to be cuddled by their mothers.
Alicent drew back, sniffling. “Thank you, Aegon. You have given me more mercy than I ever expected.”
He shook his head instinctively. “It wasn’t me. I don’t know what I’m doing. I just do what Jace says.”
“You are listening. You’re already doing better than most.” She smiled through her tears as she laid a hand on his cheek. “You will be a fine king.”
Before Rhaenyra whisked the dowager queen away to exile in Driftmark, she formally declined Aegon’s offer of a Small Council position. “I never truly wanted to rule,” she admitted ruefully. “I always preferred to fly on my dragon and eat cake. Now I am free to do so.”
“I, too, would rather fly and eat cake,” Aegon grumbled. “Instead I’m stuck here.”
“How terrible it must be to be the king,” Rhaenyra said, only half in jest.
The other Velaryons remained in King’s Landing. Laenor wanted to spend more time with his young grandson. Corlys was sniffing around the Small Council chamber, which made Tyland Lannister, the current master of ships, rather nervous. Rhaenys was often with Jacaera, helping the new queen with all sorts of courtly and political affairs that Aegon hadn’t the patience for. Joff, Baela, and Rhaena resumed their duties as Jacaera’s companions, though Joff would return to High Tide when Daeron eventually left for his fostering. Lucera and Aemond enjoyed their newlywed bliss, now that Aemond was no longer locked in a dingy cell.
Aegon’s first Small Council sessions as king were disastrous. Otto Hightower, although frailer after his stint in the Black Cells, was as boring as ever when he droned about matters of state. Jacaera was too busy to conduct her titillating methods of making Aegon pay attention, so Otto often caught Aegon staring out the window. The sessions tended to end with the king throwing the council's ridiculous marbles at the Hand's head.
“He can’t yell at me like that anymore. He serves me now,” Aegon snapped as he paced around Jacaera’s chambers. They had yet to relocate to the king and queen’s apartments.
“He shouldn’t speak to you so rudely,” Jacaera agreed, holding Elenar. “But you need to pay attention, Aegon. Your subjects rely on you to make informed decisions. If you hadn’t heard Lord Beesbury’s comment about giving a few coins to the smallfolk who volunteered as your champions, they would never have been rewarded as they deserved.”
“Ugh.” Aegon flopped down on the floor, limbs sprawled. He would much rather go drinking with Pate and the others than listen to the councilors prattle endlessly. Smallfolk were straightforward about what they wanted. They didn’t play coy word games.
Jacaera laid Elenar belly-down on Aegon’s chest. Elenar had just been burped and changed, but Aegon was suspicious. That pudgy body was an endless font of smelly fluids. He wouldn’t let his guard down.
Elenar lifted his head a few inches and stared boldly at his father. He wasn’t as wary of Aegon anymore, although he infinitely preferred Jacaera. Aegon couldn’t blame him. Drool dribbled from Elenar’s mouth onto Aegon’s collar. It was far from the worst fluid that his son could spew from his orifices, so Aegon allowed it.
As Aegon began to do sit-ups for the amusement of the tiny tyrant, Jacaera watched them, smiling broadly. Her eyes darkened in a way he hadn’t seen since before he left for Dorne. Elenar was three moons old, so they were well past the six-week mark when the Grand Maester said Jacaera could safely resume marital relations. They’d tried on the first day that Orwyle allowed it, but Jacaera was so uncomfortable that Aegon stopped almost as soon as they started.
Aegon had vowed not to be like his father. He wasn’t good at sums, but he could count the number of moons in a pregnancy. He, Helaena, and Aemond were all born alarmingly close together. His mother must’ve been relieved to wait so long to have Daeron. Aegon wouldn’t subject his wife to the same treatment.
But if Jacaera wanted him, who was he to deny her?
Aegon prowled behind Jacaera as she rocked Elenar to sleep. Although she pretended not to notice his predatory leer, her fluttering eyelashes and pink cheeks belied her act. As soon as she placed Elenar in his cradle, he pounced. She giggled as he dragged her to the bed. He shushed her, pressing a finger to her lips. It was of utmost importance that they not wake Elenar.
They raced to strip each other naked. Aegon won. It helped that Jacaera’s wardrobe consisted of simple gowns while Elenar was in his messy phase. He greedily took her nipple in his mouth, which distracted her from trying to undo his braies. She moaned as her legs squeezed his hips. “Aegon, those are for feeding your son.”
He moved to the other breast. “Last I checked, a king takes precedence over a prince.” His fingers slipped between her thighs to tease her slit.
A thin cry shrilled from the cradle.
Exasperated, Aegon rolled off Jacaera and buried his face against a pillow, muffling his curses. “I swear he does this on purpose.” He looked over at his wife, who lay limply on the bed as she stared blankly at the ceiling. “Jace, what’s wrong?”
Her hands covered her face. “I’m a bad mother.”
He almost laughed. “Compared to whom? The Mother Above?”
“When Elenar cried, I should’ve gone to him immediately. But all I could think was ‘please, not now.’” Her body trembled. “I want one hour, just one hour, to feel like myself again. But I’m his mother. I have to put him first. I can’t be selfish. I can’t…”
Aegon helplessly watched her ramble, until her voice reached the precipice of panic. Unwilling to continue sitting around uselessly, he got up and went to the cradle. Elenar was still wailing, but no tears fell down his face. Jacaera had just nursed him, so he couldn’t be hungry. Aegon picked him up and checked the baby’s linens. They were clean. Nothing seemed wrong with him.
In conclusion, Elenar just wanted his mother’s attention.
Aegon’s theory was proven correct when Elenar, spotting Jacaera, excitedly tried to squirm out of his father’s arms. Aegon frowned. “Can we let the nursemaids watch him? They’re currently being paid to sit on their arses. You don’t have to worry about anyone trying to take Cheeseball from you. If they try, I’ll kill them myself.”
Jacaera wrung her hands. “He doesn’t know them. They’re strangers to him.”
“They won’t hurt him. They’re the best nursemaids in the realm,” he assured her, but she continued fretting. Elenar squealed, reaching for his mother again. Sighing, Aegon was ready to admit defeat, but then he remembered: “What about your sister?”
“My sister?” Jacaera echoed.
“Luce helped take care of Elenar the first moon.” Aegon was already inching toward the door. “Surely you trust her.”
Jacaera scrunched her nose. Then she nodded slowly. “I trust her.”
“Wonderful. I’ll be right back.” He flung the door open.
“Wait, Aegon, put on some clothes first!”
No time for that. Wearing only his braies, Aegon scurried through the corridors and ignored the passersby who gaped at his near-nude state. Elenar shrieked his displeasure now that he could no longer see Jacaera, but he still wasn’t crying. He would make a good mummer in another life.
Aegon skidded to a halt outside of Lucera’s quarters and hammered his fist on the door. It was Aemond who answered the frantic knocking. He scowled at Aegon. “Why aren’t you wearing clothes?”
“I could ask you the same,” Aegon said, noticing that Aemond was in just his undershirt and breeches. It seemed Aemond was also hoping to have a pleasant night with his wife. Unfortunately for Aemond, his king had an urgent assignment for him. Aegon thrust Elenar into Aemond’s arms.
Elenar and Aemond were both startled. Elenar stared up at his uncle, who stared back at him. Aegon wasn’t sure which of them was more nervous. Then Elenar, deciding that Aegon was the lesser evil, stretched out his arms and mewled beseechingly for his father to rescue him.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Aemond asked with barely suppressed panic. Somewhere inside the room behind him, Lucera snorted.
“Keep him alive. King’s orders.” Aegon slowly backed away, watching Elenar.
Elenar’s arms were still outstretched. His wide eyes tugged at Aegon’s heartstrings. No, Father, don’t leave me here with this foul avuncular beast. Take me back to the land of milk.
Aegon held up a finger. “You were inside her for nine moons. You can let me be inside her for one hour, you glutton.”
Elenar screwed his face and screeched, much louder than one would expect from his tiny lungs.
“He’s just pretending to cry.” Lucera, wearing a rumpled gown, bounded forward and took Elenar, to Aemond’s profound relief. “See? Not a single tear.”
When Elenar realized nobody was falling for his act, he fell silent. If it was possible for infants to glare, then he was certainly glaring at Aegon, accusing his father of the most heinous treachery. You abandon me! Wretched, cold-hearted sire! May your linens always be uncomfortably damp.
Aegon felt guilty as he paused at the door.
Lucera gestured for him to go. “He’ll be fine here. He loves his Aunt Lucy! You love me, don’t you, sweet boy? Yes you do. Yes you do.”
Aemond frowned as Lucera cooed at their nephew. “I don’t appreciate you ruining our evening plans, Aegon.”
“You can fuck your wife after I fuck mine,” Aegon retorted. “Oh, and he’ll probably need to shit while he’s here, so…take care of that, will you?” Then he hurried away before Elenar’s large eyes could ensorcel him again.
Jacaera was waiting in bed, twisting her rings on her fingers. She sat up when he returned, clutching the sheets to her chest. “Is he alright? He isn’t too distressed?”
“He’s fine. He loves his Uncle Aemond. Best friends already. They’ll have a great time together.” Aegon shucked his braies and crawled into the bed. He was delightfully surprised to discover she was no longer naked. “Is this…?”
Her face reddened as he skimmed his fingers across the pearls covering her torso. “I found it when I was unpacking your bags from Dorne. I hope you don’t mind.”
“What’s mine is yours, pretty girl.” His hands moved down to the matching girdle. “Did Aemond give you my letters?”
Her blush deepened. “I read them.”
“Good.” He parted the pearl strands between her legs. “Let’s see if my theory is correct.”
As he stroked her slit, her hands snaked around his shoulders. “Did you think about me in Dorne?” she asked demurely.
He hummed in confirmation, holding her gaze as he brought his damp fingers to his mouth. “Remember that perfume you gave me? Most of it is gone because I covered my hand with it every night. It was the closest I could get to fucking you.” He dipped his head to kiss her. Then he moved down to her chest, swirling his tongue between the pearls to lick her skin.
She sighed happily as she dug her fingers into his hair. “Thank you for the lovely gifts.”
“My queen deserves to be lavished with jewels.” He spread her legs, and the pearled girdle parted with them. Impatient, he positioned his cock and thrust into her heat. Her breathy moan as he buried himself almost made him come instantly. “My queen also deserved to be fucked senseless, but it’s been a while, so…”
She rolled her hips, snaring him deeper. “You aren’t permitted to stop until your queen is satisfied.”
Nearly two hours later, Jacaera was soaking in the bath while Aegon left to fetch their son. Elenar lay in the middle of Lucera’s bed, surrounded by walls of pillows to ensure he didn’t roll off the mattress. He was contemplating the ceiling as he sucked his fingers. When he registered Aegon looming over the bed, Elenar pouted and turned his head, refusing to meet Aegon’s eyes.
“He didn’t cry for a second while you were gone,” Lucera said, standing beside Aemond. “And he let Aemond bounce him for a few minutes. Aemond enjoyed it even more than Elenar did.”
Aemond grunted, but he didn’t deny the accusation.
“You have the deepest gratitude of the Crown, Nurse Aemond.” Aegon picked up his son. Elenar grumbled unhappily. Nonetheless, he snuggled into his father’s arms. Aegon’s stomach fluttered. “Alright, you two get back to making Elenar a cousin. The Prince of Dragonstone requires playmates.”
Aegon swanned away with his son. Elenar was calm now that he was no longer forced to behold Aemond’s face. Since Elenar seemed content with his father, Aegon decided to take an extended detour so Jacaera had more time in the bath.
He instinctively started toward his mother’s apartments, temporarily forgetting that Alicent no longer lived there. But he remembered well enough when his arrival was greeted by dark rooms and cold fireplaces. Standing on the threshold, Aegon cradled Elenar to his chest as he stared at the couch where he’d last sat with his mother.
Elenar peered around curiously. He had probably already forgotten his grandmother. It would be years before he met her again, when he was walking, talking, running, yelling, and far too large for his parents to pick up.
Aegon ran his hand along the dusty dining table, where he and his siblings had eaten many family meals together. He wondered if Jacaera would replace the furniture with something more to her taste when she eventually claimed the queen’s apartments. Although the rooms were ready to receive her now, Jacaera said it wouldn’t be proper for her to claim them before Aegon claimed the king’s apartments.
He was reluctant to confront his father’s ghost, but his hesitation was selfish. Their family of three was crammed into Jacaera’s chambers, which had been intended for her sole use and mayhaps a weekly visit from her reprobate husband. What would they do when Elenar outgrew his cradle and began crawling? Or if Elenar got a younger sibling? Jacaera deserved a space where she could host her family and friends without worrying that her guests might trip over Aegon’s stray shoes.
Swallowing hard, Aegon held Elenar tighter as he plodded to the king’s apartments. These rooms had been left exactly as they were on the day of Viserys’s death. None of the servants dared to disturb Viserys’s personal effects.
Aegon deliberately ignored the bed and wandered over to where Viserys’s heirloom dagger was displayed. It was at least as old as the Conqueror, made of dragonbone and Valyrian steel. Aegon used to covet it, longing for the day when Viserys deemed him worthy of carrying it. Now all it elicited was disgust and disappointment. But it was a fine dagger, and it would be a waste to let it gather dust. Mayhaps he would give it to Daeron as a very belated nameday gift.
He moved over to the model of Valyria and scowled at it. He’d always hated that thing for taking the attention his father should’ve given him. Should he order it destroyed? Or he could do it himself. Blackfyre would make quick work of hacking the plaster to pieces.
One of the miniature towers caught his eye. A crack cut across where it had been broken and repaired. As Aegon stared at it, a memory came to him: his own hand, small and chubby, eagerly grabbing the tower’s spire. After that, Viserys never let him near the model again.
Spite surged through his chest. “Want to play, Cheeseball?” He checked to make sure there was nothing sharp before setting down Elenar in the center of the model. As Elenar lay on his tummy, he blinked at the little buildings surrounding him. Aegon picked up one of Elenar’s plump legs and tapped his foot against a tower. “Oh no, the Doom of Valyria is a giant smelly baby! Ahhh! Whoosh, down falls the Anogrion. Bam, bam, bam. Valar morghulis!”
Aegon continued pantomiming death and destruction until Elenar became enamored with a domed roof that looked remarkably teat-like. He scooped up his son before Elenar could wrap his mouth around the plaster nipple. As Aegon stood, he banged his knee against the underside of the table. Wincing, he tucked Elenar in one arm then leaned down to rub his tender knee.
His movement had dislodged a hidden compartment beneath the table. Curious, he yanked out the drawer so he could examine its contents. His heart thudded when he saw a familiar black journal. Viserys hadn’t destroyed it? Apparently the doddering fool didn’t think the journal could be stolen twice.
Beneath the journal was another book, much older judging by its heavily yellowed pages. Aegon opened the cover and squinted at the Valyrian glyphs. He wished Jacaera, or even Aemond, was here to translate. Then he remembered Viserys’s journal entry about Daenys’s book of prophecies. His fingers tensed, almost tearing the corner of the page. Fuming, he tossed the book and journal aside.
Loose papers were scattered at the bottom of the drawer. Most were letters from Rhaenyra. Aegon clenched his jaw as he thumbed through them. He hadn’t needed further confirmation that Rhaenyra was Viserys’s favorite child, but here it was.
He was about to slam the drawer shut when he noticed the last piece of paper. It was a drawing, a very horrible one made by a child. It featured blobs that vaguely looked like people, colored red and black. Written in a messy scrawl above the larger blob was the word KEPA. Above the smaller blob was the word AEGON.
The drawing crinkled in his hand as he gawked at it. He didn’t remember making this. It probably wasn’t his. There had been lots of Targaryens named Aegon: Viserys’s brother, Jaehaerys’s firstborn, the Uncrowned. Someone else must’ve drawn it. Viserys must’ve kept it as a historical artifact.
Aegon continued staring at it.
A small hand poked his cheek. Elenar blinked at his father. Why aren’t you paying attention to me? I’m much more important than that old piece of paper.
“Sorry,” Aegon mumbled. He started to put away the drawer’s contents but then paused, frowning at Daenys’s book. Forgery or not, its writings had convinced Viserys that his son was a threat to the realm.
Aegon looked at Elenar, who was drooling on Aegon’s doublet. Viserys used to hold Aegon like this. Viserys used to love Aegon. But Aegon couldn’t imagine disowning Elenar, like his own father did to him, because of some ink and paper.
He grabbed Viserys’ journal, Daenys’s book, and the drawing. Rhaenyra’s letters lay abandoned in the drawer. Then he and Elenar departed from the king’s apartments. As Aegon marched down the corridor, he flung open every door he passed until he found a room with a lit fireplace. Before he could second-guess himself, he threw the journal and book into the fire. The flames eagerly devoured the accursed pages, destroying any danger that Aegon might become his father one day.
Neither Aemond nor Otto had been able to read the journal before their arrest. Only Aegon, Mysaria, and mayhaps Larys Strong knew the true extent of the king’s mind. None of them would ever tell anyone else. Mysaria would be satisfied with a rich reward when she eventually turned up, and Larys was hopefully dead in a ditch after two moons on the run.
Aegon would keep the secret to himself. No more prophecies. Prophecies had never done anyone any good.
The drawing remained in Aegon’s pocket. He wasn’t sure what to do with it, but he couldn’t bring himself to burn it too. Mayhaps he would hide it somewhere for another twenty years, and his own son would discover it one day.
He glanced at Elenar, who was growing sleepy. “I won’t be like him. I promise.”
His son yawned. Aegon was in no mood to smile, but the adorable sound made him smile anyway.
Aegon started walking back to Jacaera’s chambers. “I never had a cradle egg. But I’ll make sure you have one from Vermax’s clutch. It wouldn’t be fair to deprive Sunfyre of the joys of fatherhood.”
Elenar gurgled in approval. Assured he was in safe hands, his eyelids drooped shut as his father carried him back to his mother.
Notes:
See the author's behind-the-scenes commentary of this chapter here. Warning: potential spoilers for the next chapter, so don't read this during your first reading.
To reiterate from the beginning note, the last chapter (I promise it really is the last one, it’s completely written and just needs a little editing) will come out on either Monday or Tuesday, depending on how much time I need for a final edit. It'll be a short wait!
Chapter 8: From this day until the end of my days
Summary:
Being the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the wife of Aegon Targaryen, and the mother of an overly attached infant is like having three full-time jobs.
Notes:
Content warning (with SPOILER) in the drop-down function below. I honestly wasn’t sure whether I needed to add it, but here it is just in case.
Content warning with spoiler for this chapter.
Larys shows up in this chapter, and he’s a creep (surprise?). No physical contact but there is something that could be categorized as sexual coercion, in a similar vein to the foot thing with Alicent in canon.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
By the time Elenar turned four moons old, Jacaera had gotten better at forcing herself to be away from him for a few hours at a time in between feedings. It was agonizing to hear his plaintive wails whenever she left him with one of his many aunts, but she reminded herself it was for the benefit of them both. As queen, she had innumerable other duties that demanded her attention without an infant clinging to her breast.
And he was growing so fast. He would be in the schoolroom before she knew it. She couldn’t hover over the future king forever.
This evening, Elenar was in the care of Helaena and Rhaena while Jacaera went to the Tower of the Hand. Today’s Small Council session had apparently been a dismal experience yet again. Earlier, when Aegon slunk into Jacaera’s bedroom to change clothes for a bout in the training yard with Aemond—a bruising activity that Aegon only sought when he was in dire need of an outlet—his voice was so hoarse from shouting, she could barely understand him.
When she knocked, Otto feebly bade her enter. He sounded hoarse too. Standing upon her arrival, his movements were no longer as graceful as they used to be. Although he’d always been robust for his age, he was certainly not a young man, and the Black Cells were an insalubrious locale for anyone. “To what do I owe the honor, Your Grace?” Otto asked as they sat.
Jacaera folded her hands on her lap. “I heard that today’s Small Council session was unproductive.”
Otto sighed and wrapped his fingers around a mug of hot tea. “You heard correctly.”
She chose her next words carefully. Otto was a man of logic and reason, but he had his fair share of pride. “My Lord Hand, you know your grandson. He has never responded well to being chastised and belittled. There are more efficient ways to convince him to listen.”
He grimaced, rubbing his temples. “I’m afraid we cannot all use your particular methods, Your Grace.”
Jacaera’s cheeks warmed, but she refused to otherwise react. A queen needed to act dignified at all times. “I meant praise. Praise works far better on him than criticism.”
“Praise should only be given for correct behavior.”
“Aegon tries, sincerely.”
“Trying is not the same as succeeding.”
She frowned. “Your methods would discourage him from trying at all.”
Frowning in return, Otto leaned back in his chair. “Do you truly think we should praise a grown man for trying to sit still and be polite, abilities he should have mastered as a child? With the way he fidgets and bounces, you would think he never left the schoolroom.”
“Do you want a king who sits still, or do you want a king who listens to you?” she retorted. “So what if Aegon wants to doodle, pace around, or do handstands during a meeting? As long as he is listening, it doesn’t matter what position he does it in.”
Her good-grandfather narrowed his eyes. “You coddle him.”
“He is the king. We can spare him some coddling if it means the realm is better for it.”
Otto looked like he wanted to argue, but then he wearily shook his head and brought his mug to his lips. “Very well. We can do it your way, Your Grace. I shall not be the Hand much longer, so it will not be my concern anymore.”
Jacaera blinked, taken aback. “Did Aegon dismiss you?”
“He dearly wishes to. I shall spare us all the embarrassment and resign after his coronation.” Otto was remarkably calm for a man about to lose his position after a thirty-year tenure. “It will be a relief to leave behind the clamor and odor of King’s Landing. Oldtown is far more pleasant. I always thought the capital could benefit from Oldtown’s urban planning techniques, but I never had the time for such a vast project. Mayhaps Aegon’s interest in walkways will lead to further pursuits in this area.”
She masked her surprise at his revelation. “I admire your fortitude. Truthfully, I thought you were too fond of work and governing to ever give it up.”
“The Black Cells have a way of making a man change his priorities.” Otto drained his mug. “Advise the king to pick your own grandfather as his next Hand. Everyone will expect it, especially Corlys himself. He will probably hold the post for a decade, assuming his health allows it. That will give him enough time to assuage his pride before he retires and makes way for his successor.”
“Have you already planned so far ahead?” Jacaera asked. “Have you chosen Elenar’s future Hand as well?”
“Give me five years to assess the current generation of infant lordlings. Then I will make my recommendations.” Although Otto’s mouth was set in a dour line, his eyes glinted with amusement. “Corlys will be a good Hand to start with. Aegon has much to learn, and he wishes to impress your family. He will be willing to work with your grandfather. But once he grows comfortable on the throne, he will prefer a less rigid Hand with a smaller pride. Someone gentler and fairer.”
When Otto looked meaningfully at her, Jacaera sat up straight. “You can’t mean…”
“You know of Florence Fossoway, do you not? She was married to Martyn Tyrell, one of Jaehaerys’s masters of coin. Everyone knew Florence was responsible for the treasury’s prosperity, but she could never claim credit for it. ‘Twas her husband who officially held the position.” Otto steepled his fingers. Aegon did the same thing when he was thinking hard. “A queen already has countless duties, and there has never been a female member of the Small Council. Regardless, Aegon will one day wish to name you as Hand. I cannot say whether the realm would be ready to tolerate such a drastic change on that distant day in the future. Much will depend on how Aegon’s reign progresses in the next ten, fifteen years. It will be up to you, Your Grace, to steer him on the right course through the storms to come. Even if it means praising him every time he does all his buttons properly.”
Jacaera was brooding over her conversation with Otto when she went to retrieve Elenar from his aunts. Then she smiled, distracted and delighted, upon seeing that Rhaena had dressed him in a miniature version of the uniform that Corlys’s sailors wore.
“My darling captain!” Jacaera swept her son into her arms and lavished him with kisses. As always, Elenar burbled happily when he saw her.
While Rhaena packed away her sewing supplies, Helaena drifted to stand in front of Jacaera. Helaena had been cheered by the twins’ return to court, smiling and chatting much more than she was wont. But now her face was bloodless, and her eyes were wide with horror as she whispered, “There is a ghost haunting you.”
Jacaera uneasily looked around herself. To her relief, she saw no apparition. “The Red Keep is rife with ghost stories, isn’t it?”
“It comes and it goes.” Helaena’s hand fluttered over Elenar’s head, smoothing his curls. “Ghosts used to be men too, you know.”
Jacaera just smiled weakly. Trying to interpret Helaena’s rambling either frustrated her or gave her a headache. “I will keep it in mind. Shall we go to supper?”
They were joined by Baela, Joff, and Daeron for the meal. Lucera and Aemond were having a quiet night in their own rooms. Rhaenys and Corlys were doing the same, but Jacaera didn’t like thinking about that. Laenor was supping with his favorite companion, and she tried not to think about that either. Aegon had gone to eat in the kitchens with his smallfolk champions, whom he invited to the castle every other week. He enjoyed the respite from his kingly duties, and Jacaera deemed it beneficial for him to have direct access to any issues that the smallfolk might voice.
Daeron ignored his roast pork as he glumly toyed with the heirloom dagger he recently received from Aegon. He had been in low spirits since his mother departed. He would see her again when he went with the Velaryons to Driftmark but that was after the coronation, still four moons away.
“You’ve barely touched your meal, Daeron,” Jacaera said kindly. “Would you like something else?”
“No.” He pushed his plate away. “I want to play outside.” During the moon after Elenar’s birth, Daeron had been confined to his room almost every hour of the day. Now he sought every opportunity to run amok in the fresh air.
“It’s already dark. You shouldn’t go—”
“I don’t care! You’re not my mother.” Daeron stomped out of the dining room. Jacaera stared after him, feeling guilty even though she couldn’t pinpoint what she had done wrong.
“It isn’t your fault, Jace,” Joff assured her as she got up. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get in trouble. We won’t leave the Holdfast.” She grabbed two sweet buns from the dessert platter then dashed after Daeron.
Elenar, who had been sitting in Baela’s lap, stretched his arms toward Jacaera. When she took him, he immediately rubbed his face against her chest, which meant he wanted his nighttime feeding. “Please excuse us. You all continue eating,” Jacaera said, rising from her seat.
“I’ll come with you,” Rhaena offered. “I wanted to discuss your nameday celebration.”
“I told you, Rhaena, I don’t need anything extravagant. We have enough to worry about.”
“You’re the queen! We have to throw a banquet at least—”
“My lady?” A maid nervously shuffled forward. “The steward asked to speak with you after supper. He has an urgent matter to bring to your attention.”
Rhaena sighed. “Another time,” she threatened Jacaera before following the maid.
Jacaera bade goodnight to Baela and Helaena. Baela wordlessly smiled over her cup of honeyed wine. Jacaera was still growing accustomed to her boisterous cousin’s constant silence, now that it physically pained her to speak. Helaena didn’t speak either, though that was normal for her. As Jacaera walked away with Elenar, Helaena’s stare burned into her back as if a ghost lurked in her shadow at that very moment.
Household guards followed Jacaera and Elenar back to her chambers, then assumed their positions by the door. Ser Criston typically guarded her door, but just as when he was her shield while Aegon was away, he could only be awake for so many hours. Aegon didn’t trust the other Kingsguard to protect her and Elenar. He was still wary of them after their blind obedience to Viserys. Jacaera had yet to convince him the Kingsguard were supposed to obey the king, and now Aegon was the king.
Usually a maid arrived by this time to prepare Jacaera’s room for the night, but the candles were unlit and the warming pan wasn’t yet placed in the bed. Jacaera shook her head in disapproval, though she understood why the servants hesitated to enter the premises after dark. Ever since she and Aegon resumed their marital activities, they were occasionally interrupted during inopportune moments, which resulted in Aegon throwing the chamberpot at the unfortunate servant who stumbled upon them.
Jacaera navigated her way through the stacks of packed trunks, waiting to be brought to the queen’s apartments on the morrow. Everything in her chambers was hectic, and she was glad to move to her new accommodations. Aegon had finally agreed to take the king’s apartments. No doubt he would continue spending more time in her quarters than his own, but she liked having him around. She was just excited to have more space for her and Elenar’s belongings.
She stepped into the bedroom and set down Elenar in the cradle. He whined, reaching for her. She grinned as she reached for the laces of her gown. “Give me a minute, darling. You can eat after I change.”
Behind her, the bedroom door shut with a soft click.
Her heart leapt into her throat. She spun around. Larys Strong was turning the key in the lock. He looked her in the eyes as he tucked the key into his pocket. “Good evening, Your Grace. I was hoping we could chat.” His face was haggard, and he wore a servant’s unobtrusive livery rather than a lord’s garb. His carved cane had been swapped for a simple walking stick. His quiet poise was the same as before.
She couldn’t read his dark, impenetrable eyes, but she knew his intentions couldn’t be good. Trembling, she glanced fearfully at Elenar, who continued whining in the cradle.
Larys followed her gaze. “The young prince is developing well. I applaud your maternal abilities, Your Grace.” He limped toward the cradle. Every clack of his walking stick was an ominous thud on the tiles.
She flung herself over the cradle. As she tried to gather Elenar to her chest, cold metal bit into the side of her neck.
“I would prefer to keep this conversation civil, Your Grace. I believe you would prefer the same. Please step back,” Larys said, placid as ever.
When she didn’t move, his knife pressed harder against her throat, drawing blood. Although she was willing to die to protect her son, she couldn’t help him if she bled to death on the floor. He would be left defenseless, at Larys’s mercy.
Reluctantly, she backed away from the cradle. She immediately regretted it when Larys picked up Elenar, who squealed in complaint. “Please don’t hurt him,” she begged.
“I would never think of it.” And yet Larys didn’t put away the knife, precariously close to Elenar’s belly. Larys was only slow when his clubfoot was involved. If she shouted for help, his blade would be swifter. The bedroom door was locked, so neither Jacaera nor the guards could easily traverse it. The only other means of egress were the windows and balcony doors.
“If you let him go, I’ll do whatever you want.” It was a dangerous promise, but she gave it anyway. During the first moon of Elenar’s life, she had girded herself to do whatever was necessary. She’d thought Aegon was lost to her, and she was left to fend for herself and her son. For lack of other options, she allowed Larys to worm his way into her inner circle. Larys had known she didn’t truly like him, but it didn’t matter as long as she was willing to play his game.
“I don’t believe the young prince could even crawl anywhere, should I put him down,” Larys said while Elenar wiggled helplessly in his arms. “Now that you mention it, I do have a request, Your Grace.”
He didn’t leer at her and her clothes were intact, but she felt horribly exposed. “Do you want a royal pardon? I’ll ensure Aegon gives it to you.”
“I’m sure you would try. But His Grace does not forgive easily. If he lays hands on me, I am a dead man,” Larys lamented, though his tone was unconcerned as if he were merely griping about bad weather.
“Then why didn’t you run already?” Jacaera prayed that if she stalled long enough, a servant or a guard or even Aegon might come to check on her. But Larys was still holding Elenar. What would Larys do if he was caught? “It has been three moons since King Viserys died. You could have sailed to the Free Cities by now.”
Larys looked pointedly at his clubfoot. “I have never been good at running, Your Grace. Tell me, how long do you think a highborn cripple could survive, alone in a foreign land? I could manage it if I had access to my family’s coffers, but—well, I needn’t explain my predicament to you, do I?”
Shortly after Aegon became king, Jacaera learned from Simon Strong, the new Lord of Harrenhal, that Larys had deposited most of the house’s wealth with the Iron Bank of Braavos. She sent Tyland Lannister with Laenor, Seasmoke, and several of Corlys’s most impressive ships to visit the bank. After several friendly conversations, the bankers agreed that the contents of Larys’s account belonged to House Strong, not to him as an individual, and returned the gold to Harrenhal. If the Targaryens’ envoys also happened to broker a trade agreement between the Iron Bank and Houses Velaryon and Lannister, that was entirely coincidental.
Jacaera’s throat tightened when Elenar yowled unhappily. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for my interference. Ser Simon was in desperate need of funds, and I wished to accommodate him. The Crown will gladly compensate you.”
“You have my gratitude, Your Grace. But all the gold in the world cannot help me if I am too headless to use it. That is why the young prince shall accompany me to Essos, as security.”
She stopped breathing for a moment. “You can’t just take him! He’s only four moons old, he needs me—”
“You are welcome to join us. I enjoy your company,” Larys said mildly. “The three of us can leave the Red Keep together. I must ask you to bring some of your jewels so we can pay the captain of the ship I have chosen to bear us to Essos. Once we arrive at our destination, we will wait for His Grace to send the promised compensation. Then you have my word that when I am safe, you may return home with the prince.”
Her heart thudded unevenly. Larys’s word meant nothing to her. What would stop him from hurting her and Elenar during the crossing across the Narrow Sea? When they reached Essos, what if he changed his mind about letting them go? “My lord, surely you understand my hesitation to accept your proposal.”
“I understand perfectly. And yet…” Larys nodded at Elenar, who was so restless that he almost impaled his own hand on Larys’s knife. “Do you have any other choice, Your Grace?”
“You cannot simply sneak out of here,” Jacaera tried desperately. “There are guards at the door.”
“Are there?”
She froze as she strained to listen, through the locked doors and the solar lying between the bedroom and the corridor, for any sign of the guards. Clanking armor, shuffling feet—but nothing.
“I do not think His Grace will soon return here,” Larys continued. “He is already in his cups with his common friends. The rest of your family think you have gone to bed, so they will not disturb you tonight.”
Tears burned in her eyes. She struggled to keep them from falling. “Please, can you leave Elenar here and just take me? He cries so easily. You don’t want him making noise in the tunnels. But I promise to be quiet and do as you say.”
Larys sighed as he gazed at her, almost fondly. “It is a shame how things turned out. You and I could have worked so well together.” He leaned forward on his walking stick. “But I know you, Your Grace. Steel lies beneath your silk facade. Once you’re sure your son is safe, nothing will prevent you from slitting my throat in my sleep. He comes with us.”
Before she could respond, Elenar began to cry, very noisily. Although Larys’s expression didn’t change much, she could tell he was uncomfortable with the screeching infant.
“See? He’s so loud,” Jacaera said, wanting to cry herself. “You should leave him.”
Larys wrinkled his nose. “Make him quiet.” She reached out to take Elenar, but Larys refused to hand him over. “I shall hold onto him for a while longer, Your Grace.”
First she tried to brush her finger up and down Elenar’s nose, crooning softly. It didn’t work. Then, stomach turning, she touched Larys’s arms and moved them in the rocking motion that Elenar favored. That too was unsuccessful. Bawling, Elenar reached for his mother as she leaned over him. His hand snagged her bodice and dragged down her neckline, exposing her cleavage.
Her skin prickled as she sensed Larys’s interest. When he used to visit her, his gaze lingered whenever she said she needed to nurse Elenar. Larys always left when she politely asked, but she had feared the day when he might refuse to go.
“My lord,” she whispered, not daring to look up from Elenar’s tear-filled face. “I believe the prince is hungry.”
For several seconds, Larys neither spoke nor moved. Then he said benignly, as if he were doing her a favor, “Do what you must.”
She swallowed. “If I could just take him for a—”
“The prince remains with me, Your Grace.”
Jacaera almost took a step back from him. “My lord, this isn’t proper.”
“It is as natural an act as you and I eating our own meals. There is no shame in it.” Still, the weight of his expectant stare made shame swell in her chest.
She concentrated on Elenar, whose mewls grew increasingly anxious as his mother failed to respond to his pleas for sustenance. She needed to provide for him, but she recoiled at the thought of being watched by a man who wasn’t Aegon. Craven, she scolded herself. If she was willing to die for Elenar, then she should be willing to do anything.
Steeling herself, she peeked up at Larys. He seemed possessed by an unnatural sort of patience. No one looking at him would believe he had just demanded the queen’s humiliation so her infant son wouldn’t be gutted.
And yet, despite his ostensible serenity, his eyes darkened with lust the same way Aegon’s did. She tried not to flinch at the thought of Larys doing the same as her husband when his loins stirred. Larys might have a crippled foot, but the rest of him was hale as far as she could tell. Although she could outrun him, he could overpower her should he catch her.
She didn’t want to give him any incentive to take his demands further. But as Larys said, she had no other choice.
Shaking, she reached for the laces of her gown. As she did, the knife twitched in his hand. She paused, ever wary of the danger to Elenar. But Larys wasn’t threatening her son. His grip had loosened ever so slightly around the hilt as he watched her movements with anticipation.
Suddenly, Larys was no longer a preternatural terror controlling her like a puppeteer. He was a man just like Aegon, just like anyone who had ever looked upon her in hunger and imagined being underneath her skirts.
But Aegon and Larys weren’t the same. Aegon loved her most when she mustered the boldness to take charge. Larys seemed most intrigued when she exuded apprehension and made herself smaller. That was what she did now, bowing her head like a servant to her master. Then, bracing herself, she loosened her laces and bared one breast. Refusing to look at Larys, she focused on Elenar, who squeaked in excitement for his meal. When he stretched toward her, she refrained from reaching for him.
Larys appeared puzzled when her hands remained firmly at her sides. “Are you not nursing him?”
She continued bowing her head. “I am waiting for your permission, my lord.”
He made a strangled hum. “You may proceed.”
Slowly, she raised her hands to grasp Elenar. Larys didn’t let go of him, but he allowed her to cuddle Elenar to her chest. The movement brought Larys’s own hands, still clutching the baby, uncomfortably close to her breast.
Elenar didn’t care about permission. He impatiently latched onto her nipple and began to suckle. Now Jacaera forced herself to look up at Larys again. Larys’s eyes were intent on the spot where Elenar’s mouth met her breast, seemingly fascinated by the nursing process. As he watched, Larys’s grip loosened even more around the knife, which now dangled loosely from his fingers. But Larys still had a firm hold on Elenar.
“May I ask you a question, my lord?” The tremor in her voice was unfeigned.
“You may.” He had stopped addressing her as “Your Grace.”
“Were you ever truly my friend, or was it always a pretense?”
Larys smiled indulgently. “As I said, I do enjoy your company. I may have had ulterior motives, but my friendship was sincere.”
“What motives were those?”
Once again, his gaze settled upon Elenar at her breast. “A young, widowed dowager with a fatherless infant son of a king would be eager for comfort and counsel. I was far from the only courtier who came to this realization while your husband was in Dorne. I was simply the most efficient at acting upon it.”
Jacaera prepared herself when she felt Larys’s knuckles slacken around Elenar. “I was told that a rioter tried to kill Aegon at Sunspear. Do you know anything about that, my lord?”
Larys’s smile grew. His hands briefly lifted from Elenar.
Jacaera seized the opportunity. She viciously kicked Larys’s good ankle as hard as she could. His clubfoot couldn’t keep him upright. The knife clattered to the floor as he fell over, and she snatched Elenar away before Larys could take her son with him.
Gripping Elenar, she started toward the bedroom door but then remembered it was locked. “Help!” she screamed, in case Larys had lied about the guards abandoning their post.
Larys was already starting to get up. She ran to the balcony and slammed the double doors behind her. There was no lock. Using her free hand, she yanked off her girdle and wrapped it around the handles. The thin metal chain was a flimsy barricade, and her attempt to wrap it was clumsy. Mayhaps it would buy her a few precious seconds, but not much more.
Elenar was dislodged from her nipple in the chaos. He wailed shrilly, upset and confused. Jacaera resisted the instinct to soothe him. There was no time. She leaned over the balcony railing, desperately searching for a way to climb down.
Someone piped up in the dark courtyard below. “Jace?”
Jacaera wanted to weep when she recognized Joff’s voice. Joff and Daeron were lying on the grass. They sat up and gawked at her. When Daeron realized her breasts were hanging out of her gown, he hastily covered his eyes.
“Larys Strong is here. Get help!” Jacaera cried, still searching for an escape route. A tree stood near the balcony. One of its branches was only several feet away. But she had never been one for acrobatics, and she was terrified of dropping Elenar.
Without hesitation, Joff sprang up and ran from the courtyard, screeching at the top of her lungs. “Guards! Guards, the queen—oh, Father! Father, Jace needs…”
Daeron’s embarrassment about Jacaera’s half-dressed state evaporated. He raced to the tree near the balcony and began climbing.
There was an almighty clatter when Larys tried to force the balcony doors open. The girdle strained beneath the pressure. Jacaera doubted it could withstand another attack. When Daeron hopped onto the closest branch, she held out Elenar, who bawled and kicked his feet as he dangled in the air. “Take him, Daeron!” She could stall Larys while Daeron carried her son to safety.
Daeron didn’t obey. He leapt from the tree onto the balcony just as the doors splintered open. Larys staggered outside, brandishing his knife.
A feral snarl darkened Daeron’s sweet face as he unsheathed his own dagger. The Valyrian steel glinted in the moonlight when he swung it through the air. Larys, stumbling on his clubfoot, was too slow to twist away. The dagger sliced deeply across Larys’s belly and sprayed Daeron’s face with blood.
Larys collapsed on the ground, wheezing in pain. Daeron was still crouching in his attack position when the dark ferocity vanished from his face. Surprise shone in his eyes as he blinked at the bloody dagger in his hand. When he looked at Larys, bleeding on the ground, Daeron’s mouth fell open as if he couldn’t believe what just happened.
A loud bang at the bedroom door made Jacaera jump. She feared another attacker until Laenor’s frantic voice filtered through. “Jace! Are you in there?”
Tears of relief welled in her eyes. “Yes, we’re here, Father,” she called over Elenar’s shrieks. She brought her son to her breast, and he latched onto her again with the fervor of a starving man.
“I’m breaking down this door.”
The key was in Larys’s pocket. Jacaera didn’t want to go anywhere near him. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for Laenor to ram the door off its hinges. A dozen guards—Velaryon guards, not the ones who were supposedly protecting her earlier—spilled into the room behind her father.
Laenor gaped at Larys’s bleeding form, shook his head, and hurried over to Jacaera. He checked her and Elenar for injuries, frowning at the shallow cut on her neck which she had completely forgotten about. Then he ripped off his doublet and draped it around her to protect her modesty while Elenar suckled.
She took several deep breaths, choking back the panic threatening to erupt from her. She wanted nothing more than to hide beneath a mountain of blankets and cry into her pillows. But she couldn’t afford to right now. Elenar needed her. A traitor was dying on her bedroom floor.
Jacaera tried to rattle off instructions. “Aegon will want to interrogate Larys. We need a maester so Larys doesn’t die before—”
“Shhh.” Her father kissed the top of her head. “I’ll handle it, my girl. Just worry about yourself and your son.” He walked between her and Larys, shielding her from the man, as he led her through the bedroom and into the solar.
Thundering footsteps echoed in the corridor. Aegon quickly came into view. He ran so fast, Jacaera was afraid he might run headfirst into them. But he skidded to a halt just in time, stopping mere inches in front of them. Although he smelled faintly of wine, his eyes were clear and sober. His hands flew in a blur, cupping Jacaera’s face, then her neck, then her arms, then coming to a rest on Elenar’s back. “Did he hurt you? Gods, I’ll kill him. I’m never leaving you two again. How the fuck did this happen? Never again—”
“Some of the staff are working for him,” Jacaera said quietly. Focusing on cold, hard facts helped delay her tumult of emotions from inevitably boiling over. “My guards abandoned their post, and my maid never came tonight.”
Aegon’s expression darkened with an icy fury that, if directed at her, would frighten her a hundred times more than his usual impetuous tantrums. But right now his anger felt like a sword he was wielding in her and Elenar’s defense. “I’ll hang them all.”
“Your Grace?” a Velaryon guard interrupted. Aegon wrapped his arm around Jacaera and glared at him. The guard swallowed. “What should we do with Lord Strong? I don’t think he is long for this world.”
Frowning, Aegon looked at the dying man on the balcony, then his wife and son. Jacaera squeezed his hand and said, “Elenar and I will be fine for the nonce. My father is here. You should get answers.”
Aegon started to protest.
“Every second you waste is a question you could be asking him,” she said, sharper than intended. “I want to know who else is secretly plotting against us and threatening our son.”
That finally made him see sense. He reluctantly peeled his grip from her. Then, nostrils flaring, he stormed toward Larys’s bleeding form.
Laenor nudged Jacaera toward the door. “You don’t want to see this, Jace. Let’s go.” He also gathered Daeron, who had yet to shake off the shock of his own actions, and steered them into the corridor. Laenor dropped off Daeron at Helaena’s room, then he took Jacaera and Elenar to Aegon’s old bedroom.
Maids hastily arrived to prepare a bath and bring Elenar’s cradle. Jacaera warily watched them, wondering if any of them were in Larys’s employ too. She was relieved when her sisters and cousins, most of them dressed in sleepwear, swarmed into the room and shooed out the maids.
“I don’t want a bath,” Jacaera said when Rhaena tried to lead her toward the tub. “Save it for Aegon. I suspect he’ll need it.” She did scoop some of the warm water into a basin to wash Elenar, who was slipping into a post-feeding stupor. Like a proper Velaryon, he loved being in the water, so he perked up and splashed around while his mother cleaned him. Lucera offered to perform the task, but Jacaera was reluctant to give up her son to anyone else tonight.
Elenar was almost asleep again when Aegon trudged into the room. His hands and doublet were soaked in blood. Before Jacaera could fret, he dully announced, “Larys is dead.” Then, ignoring everyone’s reaction, he began ripping off his bloodstained clothes.
“Leave us,” Jacaera told her sisters and cousins, who were trying not to look at Aegon. They did as she bade. Only Laenor remained, practically vibrating with concern as he glanced between Jacaera and Aegon. Jacaera gathered courtesy around her like armor. “Thank you, Father. We shan’t keep you up any longer. You may go.”
“Are you sure?” Laenor asked doubtfully.
“I will take care of Aegon.” She managed a small smile. “We’ll be alright.”
Laenor gestured at Elenar. “Shall I take him to Luce for the night?”
She hugged Elenar tighter. “I would rather not be parted from my son right now.”
Once her father left, Aegon turned to her. “You don’t need to take care of me,” he said thickly. “I should be taking care of you. You’re the one who…” He motioned at the tub. “You should have it first. I’m not…”
“I don’t want a bath.” She used her foot to carefully nudge Aegon’s discarded clothes to the side. “I want to lie down with you and Elenar. So the sooner you’re clean, the better.”
After a speedy wash, the three of them piled onto the bed. Aegon’s bed was smaller than Jacaera’s, but she placed Elenar’s basket in the middle anyway. The cradle was just out of arm’s reach. Too far. She needed to keep her son close, where she could ensure he was safe.
She and Aegon curled on either side of the basket and watched Elenar sleep. Their son’s chest moved up and down in slow, even movements. She found it soothing, like the tides lapping against the shore outside her room at High Tide.
Aegon’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the basket. He took a ragged breath then met her gaze. “Did he touch you?” he asked, whisper-quiet.
“No. Not even when I…distracted him.” Jacaera wore a modest nightgown and robe, but she still felt oddly exposed. She pulled the blanket up to her chin. “I’m sorry. It was improper. I shouldn’t have done that, but I didn’t know what else—”
“Fuck propriety.” His hand flew across the bed to grasp hers. “I just need to know if I have to rip the cock off his corpse to stuff into his mouth before I put his head on a spike.”
Although Jacaera wasn’t one for violence, a streak of vindictive satisfaction flashed through her chest. She would never want to gloat over Larys’s rotting head, but she could rest easily knowing it hung from the ramparts. “And the guards?”
“Caught them trying to flee the keep. Tomorrow I’ll cut off their heads with Blackfyre. We also caught some maids, but I don’t know if you—”
“They’re traitors. It doesn’t matter if they’re women. They must be executed all the same.” Jacaera had no mercy for the soft-spoken maid who ensured her sheets always smelled of roses. There would be no clemency for anyone who endangered her son.
“We are of an accord, then,” Aegon said with grim satisfaction.
She rubbed his knuckles, trying to make him unclench his fist. “Has tonight finally convinced you to reconsider the merits of the Kingsguard? None of them would have heeded Larys.”
“I’ll let the Cargylls guard you,” he grumbled. Then his expression crumpled. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? If I just let the Kingsguard do their jobs—”
“Then Larys would have found a different opening to reach me. He knew all of our families’ routines. He knew which servants would attend us tonight.” Her breath shuddered. “The fault is his and his alone.”
“I’ll sack all the servants in the Holdfast. Anyone who ever did him any favors will be hanged,” Aegon vowed. “We’ll pick new guards and maids with unquestionable loyalty.”
Tonight’s events solidified the suspicions that Jacaera had harbored ever since Larys crept into her life. The intentionally clumsy moon tea attempt, the twins’ poisoning, her intercepted letters to Driftmark. She was sure, without ever asking Larys, that he had a hand in everything. One by one, he’d stripped her of her allies until only a friendly master of whisperers remained. “Did you get any answers before Larys died?”
Aegon squeezed his eyes shut. “Just unending word games until the only thing coming out of his mouth was blood.” He hunched his shoulders. The vengeful fire in him had dampened. “I don’t think he was entirely my father’s creature.”
She waited, sensing there was more he wanted to say.
“My father had a journal. It… Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? I burned it. My father thought Larys was his obedient servant, like Lyonel Strong before him. But in reality, my father was just another game for Larys. Someone he could play with. I thought I made my peace with it, but now I wonder how much of it was my father’s doing, and how much was…” Aegon’s head dropped onto a pillow. His eyes glimmered with unshed tears. He whispered, barely audibly, “Did he ever love me?”
“Oh, Aegon.” She got up, carefully moved around the mattress without jostling Elenar’s basket, and curled up beside her husband. She wanted to say that it didn’t matter, that Viserys’s love meant nothing, that Aegon was better off without it. But Aegon radiated desperation to know.
As she contemplated her words, she remembered Viserys’s visits during Elenar’s first few weeks of life. Viserys had certainly been proud of his grandson, but there was a certain sorrow lining his face whenever he gazed upon the infant. Mayhaps Viserys was remembering whom Elenar had replaced as heir. Mayhaps Viserys secretly rued his choices.
She could never forgive the former king for what he’d done. She would not weep for him. She regretted nothing about his demise. But she would not deny he had a heart, nor would she insist that it had been an easy decision for him to disavow his own son.
“Yes. I believe he loved you.” She kissed Aegon’s forehead and held him close. “But that isn’t enough. You deserved better.”
She felt the tension flee from his muscles. He clung to her like a lifeline. “Don’t ever leave me.”
“I won’t.”
“If I lost you and Elenar tonight—”
“You didn’t.” She stroked his back. “You should reward Daeron. He saved us.”
He turned his head so they were looking at each other. “And you.”
“What?”
“You saved yourself and Elenar too, didn’t you?” His hand hovered over her neckline, which wholly covered her chest. “I saw—that broken girdle. That was you, wasn’t it? It… You shouldn’t have needed to do all that. You’re my wife. I should’ve been—I should’ve—” He inhaled sharply and wrapped her in a tight hug. “You were brave.”
Warmth flooded her chest. “No one’s ever called me brave before.”
“You were. You are. So brave.” Tears dripped from his face onto her hair. “But I never want you to need to be brave again.”
At first, Aegon and the Small Council had difficulty rooting out everyone who abetted Larys. During his tenure as master of whisperers, Larys had been involved in hiring almost every servant and guard in the Holdfast. Aegon was tempted to hang them all, though Jacaera fortunately convinced him to resist the wrathful impulse.
Aid came from an unexpected source. A note was clandestinely delivered to Aegon with a list of names, simply signed with the letter M. “I was wondering if she was still alive,” Aegon muttered.
Mysaria’s names of accomplices proved accurate. As promised, Aegon had them all executed. Then he sacked all the other staff whom Larys hired, and he told Jacaera to hire new servants from Dragonstone and Driftmark. The royal household was strained by the temporary shortage of servants, but Jacaera would rather wait longer for her requests to be fulfilled than risk Elenar again.
At least one maid and one guard were to be stationed in the queen’s apartments at all times, even when Jacaera wasn’t there. Truthfully that should have been the protocol already, but Jacaera and Aegon had enjoyed their privacy too much. However, when Elenar’s safety was in question, Jacaera would tolerate the embarrassment of the servants knowing she was dismissing them so she could have time alone with her husband.
After dealing with the guilty servants, Aegon invited Mysaria to receive treatment from the Red Keep’s maesters. “I did promise her in Dorne. I think I might’ve promised to buy her a manse too. Either way, I can afford it.”
Jacaera was unsure how to feel about the White Worm entering the premises. Although Mysaria might have helped Aegon, it was out of spite for Larys, not out of loyalty for the new king. “Are you going to have her fill Larys’s position on the Small Council?”
“Eh. I didn’t promise her a job.” Aegon chuckled. “But it would be fun to seat a former whore between Tyland and Ironrod. Imagine the looks on their faces.”
“It might be funny,” Jacaera said cautiously. “However, we must learn our lesson from the previous master of whisperers. If she wants the position, she must prove she can be trusted with it.” To her relief, Aegon conceded the point to her. The position of master of whisperers remained unfilled for now.
Once all the urgent matters were sorted, Aegon threw a feast in Daeron’s honor. “To my little brother, slayer of traitors!” Aegon raised his cup in a toast. “Daeron the Queenshield! Protector of Cheeseballs! If you were a few years older, I would knight you. I’m tempted to knight you anyway.”
Daeron’s cup was filled with extremely watered-down wine, but his face was already bright red. His eyes widened in wonder at the thought of being a knight at the tender age of eleven. “I wasn’t planning on killing him,” he babbled. “I just remembered Ser Criston’s training. I don’t think Lord Larys had any training, ever. He didn’t even try to defend himself. So I’m probably not ready to be a knight yet, but—”
Joff, who was sitting beside Daeron, roughly elbowed him. “Stop acting modest. When you kill someone, you should accept the praise with a polite thank you.”
“Thank you, Aegon,” Daeron dutifully chirped, then drank the rest of his cup.
He was sound asleep when Aemond carried him out of the feast an hour later.
Seven moons after Viserys’s death, Aegon’s coronation finally took place. Jacaera carefully planned their outfits. Aegon’s lavish clothes were black and red to emphasize that he was the legitimate Targaryen heir.
Initially she intended to wear the same colors to match him, but Aegon disagreed. “You hate wearing black, and you should stand out, not blend into the background.” Then he told the dressmaker, “The queen will wear cloth of gold.”
When she and Aegon were left in privacy, she said exasperatedly, “Aegon, it’s your coronation.”
Aegon twiddled his thumbs as he looked sidelong at her. “You’re the new queen. You’ll receive attention too.”
“I’m sure I will. But the majority of attention will be on you, as it should.” Jacaera didn’t require much convincing to agree to wear gold, however. Aegon was showing a remarkable degree of interest in planning the coronation. She was happy to let him take the lead while she prepared the Red Keep for the influx of highborn guests.
Representatives from most houses in the realm made the journey to King’s Landing. Several days before the coronation, Rhaenyra returned from Driftmark with a note from Alicent. When Aegon read it, he cried and smiled all at once. He never told Jacaera what it said, but that was alright. Some things should remain private between a man and his mother.
On the morning of the coronation, Jacaera prepared Elenar for the occasion. She and Aegon had debated whether they ought to take Elenar at all, being only eight moons old. But after what happened with Larys, she feared being away from Elenar too long. Elenar was willing to tolerate crowds as long as he stayed with her.
She had just finished dressing their son when Aegon skipped into the room, picked up Elenar, and frowned exaggeratedly at Elenar’s clothes. “Who gave you permission to copy the king?” Elenar was wearing a smaller vision of Aegon’s outfit, complete with a little coronet of steel and rubies.
“Bah!” Elenar squirmed excitedly. His coronet fell askew over his head.
Aegon straightened the coronet. His smile was strained, and his face held an almost unhealthy pallor. Jacaera knew he didn’t consider this a day of celebration.
She stepped forward to fix Aegon’s doublet. “Everything will be fine. The crowds are no larger than during our wedding.”
“It’s not the crowds I’m worried about.” Aegon heaved a sigh before hopping around the room. The movements made Elenar burble gleefully. Aegon’s smile grew more sincere. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The three of them rode in a wheelhouse to the Dragonpit. Cheering crowds lined the streets. Jacaera positioned Elenar close to the window slats so he could marvel at the colorful banners flying outside the vehicle.
Aegon was fidgeting. This wasn’t unusual, especially when he was trapped in one place for a while. But he kept glancing at her as if he wanted to say something. “It’s alright to be nervous, Aegon,” Jacaera said patiently. “We’re all here to support you. Elenar and I will be with you on the dais.”
“About that…” Aegon’s cheeks puffed out, then he let out his breath. “I want you to walk with me.”
She frowned as she pulled Elenar onto her lap, away from the window slats. “Bahhh,” Elenar complained, disappointed.
“I’ll just be a distraction. The coronation is about you,” Jacaera said.
“It’s also about you.”
“No, I’m not—”
“I have a crown for you,” he blurted. “I found Rhaenys’s crown in Dorne. I brought it back for you. So it isn’t just my coronation.”
Her jaw dropped. “Aegon, you can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“It goes against tradition. No queen has ever been crowned alongside the king.”
Aegon’s mouth pulled down in an exaggerated frown. “Tisn’t a very old tradition. There have been only five Targaryen kings. When they were crowned, the Conqueror was about to invade the Seven Kingdoms, Aenys did whatever other people wanted, Maegor was a usurper, Jaehaerys was an unmarried boy of fourteen, and my father only got the throne because he was a man. They all lacked either the time, inclination, or both to honor their wives. And who knows? Mayhaps Jaehaerys would have crowned Alysanne with him if they were married before he ascended the throne.”
Jacaera’s mouth opened again, this time in awe. She was, admittedly, impressed with Aegon’s erudite argument.
He smirked. “Did you like that? I researched it just for you.” He leaned closer to her, covered Elenar’s ears with his hands, and said in a low voice, “We should have time for a quick fuck before we arrive. I can just lift your skirts. No one will ever know. Our son won’t tell anyone.”
“Bah?” Elenar patted Aegon’s hands around his head.
Jacaera glared. Aegon chortled as he let his hands fall from Elenar’s ears. “Aegon, I don’t appreciate being surprised like this. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“Because you would’ve tried to talk me out of it. Now it’s too late. Septon Eustace and all the others are expecting to crown both of us. We planned it so very carefully. I had Rhaenys’s crown cleaned just for the occasion. It would be a shame if our efforts were for naught.”
“Oh…fine!” She huffed as she grudgingly surrendered. It was ceremonial, anyway. It didn’t really mean anything. “I don’t want to cause a scene in public, so I’ll go along with it. But I’m not happy.”
Aegon’s expression grew serious. He slid over to sit right next to Jacaera, pressing their thighs together. “Do you know why I picked the Conqueror’s crown to wear?”
“You had no desire to wear your father’s crown.”
“I could’ve ordered a new crown made, but I didn’t. I wanted the Conqueror’s crown.” He took her hand and brushed his thumb over her royal signet ring. He’d commissioned it for her, identical to his own but sized for her smaller finger. “The Conqueror let his queens sit on the Iron Throne in his stead. No other queen ever had that privilege, not even Alysanne. But you will.”
Astonished, she stared at him, half-expecting him to say it was a joke. But he remained completely serious. Only when Elenar laid his hand on top of his parents’, as if he didn’t want to be left out of the hand-holding, did Aegon crack a smile.
“Are you sure this is wise?” she asked. “People will call you weak and led by a woman.”
Aegon grinned. “I am led by a woman, and every other man wishes he were in my position.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “So what if people don’t like it? They won’t dare to do more than complain. I have your house’s support. All the dragons in the realm are united behind us. Our coffers are full, we have an heir, and the smallfolk love us. We can do anything you want, Jace. Reforming tax policies, building canals, feeding lamb and Arbor Gold to the realm’s orphans, all the mad projects you can think of. Anything you’ve ever dreamed about doing, now is the time to try it.” He gently grasped her chin. “What’s mine is yours, pretty girl. You and I will do great things, and nobody can stop us.”
She took a tremulous breath as she imagined the future he promised. She would no longer need to write proposals for Aegon to submit on her behalf. She would no longer need to speak through him as if he were a puppet, albeit a willing puppet. She wouldn’t be a Florence Fossoway. She could claim credit for her own ideas. She could sit on the throne and mete out judgments, just as Rhaenys and Visenya did. She could be her husband’s equal.
It was a heady prospect. She was tempted to kiss him, but that might lead to him lifting her skirts despite her better judgment.
As the wheelhouse slowed in front of the Dragonpit, Aegon said slyly, “This is, of course, a ploy to trick you into doing even more of my work for me. I thank you for your cooperation.”
She couldn’t help laughing. Aegon winked before flinging open the wheelhouse door and leaping outside. The crowds screamed in delight at the sight of their new king. Their cheers grew when he helped the queen and Prince of Dragonstone down.
Carrying Elenar in one arm and grasping Aegon’s hand with the other, Jacaera wore a serene smile to hide her nerves. She could feel the tension in Aegon’s bones, but his smile settled firmly into place when he looked at her and their son. Together they walked into the Dragonpit, where the highborns of the realm awaited them. It reminded her of their wedding, though that event had occurred in the Grand Sept, and she had been walking to Aegon instead of with him. She liked it much better walking by his side.
They reached the dais where their families stood. There was also a painter in the corner, whom Otto had hired to capture the event for posterity. Jacaera took her place between her mother and Lucera.
Everyone was silent as Aegon knelt and allowed the septon to anoint him. The sun shone through the Dragonpit’s open roof, and his hair seemed to gleam like actual silver in the light. Aegon duly repeated the oaths that the septon prompted. He wasn’t especially loud. His voice could barely be heard by the first rows of the audience. But Aegon spoke clearly and firmly, and Jacaera glowed with pride as she beheld his regal demeanor. When Aegon nervously glanced in her direction, she made sure to smile at him.
Sitting in her arms, Elenar waved at his father. His excited “bah!” echoed across the dais. The corners of Aegon’s eyes crinkled. Surreptitiously, Aegon raised the fingers of one hand and wiggled them back at Elenar.
When the septon finished the blessing, Jacaera waited for him to crown Aegon. To her shock, Rhaenyra stepped forward to take the Conqueror’s crown from its cushion. As Rhaenyra stood in front of Aegon, crown hovering in the air, the two of them exchanged a long, silent look.
Then she solemnly placed the crown on her brother’s head and said, without faltering, “All hail His Grace Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name.”
The Valyrian steel crown might as well be a shackle, judging by Aegon’s reaction as it settled upon his head. His jaw tightened, and his eyes squeezed shut as if enduring a sudden heavy weight. His fingers twitched. For a moment, Jacaera feared he might hurl the crown away like an animal escaping a trap.
Then he took a breath, opened his eyes, and rose gracefully. He nodded at Rhaenyra then looked at his family and the Velaryons, acknowledging each of them in turn. At last he gazed at Jacaera. A smile broke across his face, a sun after a storm. He expectantly held out his hand to her.
Elenar squeaked when Jacaera’s arms instinctively tightened around him. She kissed him in apology. Then, forcing herself to appear calm, she transferred him to Lucera. Elenar no longer cried when he was parted from his mother, but he pouted as she stepped away.
Recalling her comportment lessons as a child, she mustered all the elegance in her body as she adjusted her skirts so she could kneel on the same cushion that Aegon just vacated. Surprised mutters rippled across the audience, who hadn’t realized there would be a second crowning.
Aegon’s smile grew as he lifted the crown of Rhaenys. A few moons ago, Aegon had shown her the crown and asked what she thought about it. When she praised the delicate metalwork and the blend of Targaryen and Velaryon symbolism, Aegon looked quite pleased. Now she realized he had been subtly investigating whether she would enjoy wearing it for the rest of her life.
The crown fit perfectly. It wasn’t as heavy as she expected. Once Aegon placed it upon her head, his hands slid down to caress her cheeks, not caring that the realm was watching. Then he proclaimed with irrepressible pride, as if hers was the true coronation of the day, “All hail Her Grace Jacaera of House Velaryon, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”
She reminded herself to breathe when the audience’s deafening applause filled the Dragonpit. Outside, the smallfolk watching through the open doors cheered too, even louder than the highborns.
Aegon helped her stand. Even when she got to her feet, he continued holding her hands as he beamed at her. “My queen,” he murmured, pressing kisses to both her palms. And then, because he was Aegon, he pulled her in for an extremely thorough kiss. She dearly hoped the painter would omit that particular scene from his final piece.
Above the audience’s scandalized gasps and giggles, Elenar squawked indignantly at his parents exchanging affection without him. He tried to squirm out of Lucera’s grasp. Grinning, Aegon gathered his son into his own arms. Then, facing the crowd, he hoisted Elenar as high as he could raise him. “The Prince of Dragonstone,” Aegon shouted, and the audience cheered again.
Elenar kicked his feet in the air, his coronet askew again. When the noise became too much for him, he whimpered. Aegon lowered Elenar and wrapped his cloak around him. Securely tucked against his father, Elenar calmed down and quietly sucked his thumb.
They were escorted back to the wheelhouse for the return journey to the Red Keep. Jacaera sighed in relief once the three of them were alone in the vehicle. “That went well.”
“You were splendid.” Aegon loudly kissed Elenar’s face. “So were you, Stinky Cheeseball. You didn’t even fart once.”
Elenar crawled across the bench to Jacaera, climbed onto her lap, and patted her chest. Although they had been steadily weaning him the past two moons, he still preferred his mother’s milk over mashed fruit and porridge.
As Jacaera prepared to nurse him, Aegon said, only partially joking, “I eagerly await the day when he’s fully weaned and stops hogging your teats.”
“He’s growing so quickly. Soon we’ll wish he could remain this little.” Jacaera smiled down at Elenar. He focused on suckling, satisfied with his reward for enduring the outing. “Mayhaps we can give him a sibling soon.”
“Not too soon. I’d like at least a year when I get to be the one hogging your teats.” Aegon leered at her exposed chest, and she chuckled. “If Cheeseball feels lonely, I’ll just order Aemond and Luce to pop out a cousin for him.”
Jacaera settled into a more comfortable position, suddenly feeling tired. “If I am to get through the rest of this day, I will require tea before we go to the throne room.” The next event was a ceremony where the lords of the realm would swear fealty to Aegon.
Aegon drummed his fingers on the bench. “There might be a surprise waiting for you in the throne room.”
She stared at him, then groaned in dismay. “Another surprise? Aegon…”
“You’ll like it. Probably.” He flashed an innocent smile. “I told the workers to make it pretty and comfortable for you.”
“Oh. Hmm. Is it a seat for me near the Iron Throne?” Jacaera relaxed. That wasn’t so bad. Alysanne also had her own little throne which was placed at the foot of the Iron Throne when she held court in Jaehaerys’s absence.
Holding up his hand, Aegon pressed his thumb and forefinger together. “Very near.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me it’s on the dais.”
He whistled and looked out the window.
“Aegon!” She envisioned the Iron Throne, melded with the dais and stairs. There wasn’t room for a second throne beside it, unless Aegon had the base of the Iron Throne sawed off so it could be moved several feet. “You can’t just desecrate such an important relic.”
“Bah. That chair was only made a century or so ago. I’ve doodled on older books.”
Jacaera considered lecturing him about why elevating her so publicly, twice in one day, might be detrimental. Change was a long, laborious process. It was better to build a house one brick at a time than to suddenly erect walls of straw and canvas. But Aegon had already given the orders, and there was no time to undo his renovations. They were better off owning his actions rather than showing regret.
Besides, she couldn’t truly be upset about it. He did it for her. She sighed fondly. “You exasperate me sometimes, Aegon, but I love you nonetheless.”
He looked dumbstruck. A watery sheen filled his widening eyes. Confused, Jacaera tried to ascertain what she’d said wrong.
Then he said, so softly she strained to hear him, “Can you say that again?”
The realization hit her belatedly. She’d never actually said “I love you” to him before. She tried to make the sentiment evident in her actions every day, but hearing the words was changing something inside him now. His eyes glittered with tears and hope, and his hands clenched the seat as if holding himself back.
“Oh, Aegon.” She scooted closer to him, careful not to disturb Elenar’s meal. She touched Aegon’s cheek, smiling as she held his gaze. “I love you. And I thank the gods every day that you’re my husband.”
An uncharacteristically bashful smile crossed his mouth. Her heart warmed at the sight. “I…love you,” he mumbled. It was the first time he’d said it aloud too.
Giddiness burst through her body. Suddenly she understood why Aegon’s world fundamentally shifted with those three words. I love you. As a girl, she hadn’t allowed herself to hope she might find love in her marriage. Now it was the thought of a loveless marriage that seemed ludicrous.
They sat in rapturous silence together as they watched Elenar finish his meal. Aegon reached out to play with Elenar’s foot. When he spoke again, his usual mischief seeped into his voice. “Is this a good time to mention that I also commissioned a tiny throne made of solid gold and rubies for our son?”
“Aegon!” Jacaera spluttered, not sure whether to chide him or laugh. “The expense!”
“Nothing is too good for the Prince of Dragonstone.” Aegon took off the Conqueror’s crown and presented it with flourish to Elenar. Elenar immediately grabbed the crown and attacked the ruby centerpiece with his four teeth. Aegon’s eyes held a faint sadness, but it was overwhelmed by affectionate joy as he ruffled Elenar’s curls. “He deserves everything I can give him.”
Notes:
See the author's behind-the-scenes commentary for this chapter here.
I am planning to do my usual behind-the-scenes writing commentary for my completed longfics, so stay tuned on my Tumblr (@presidenthades). I’m undecided if I’ll write more in this Lavender-verse, but if I do, the best way to get updates is either to check my Tumblr or subscribe to this fic’s series.
Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are always welcome, no matter when you might be reading this.
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