Chapter Text
Prologue
Jocelyn Baratheon died far too young, far too aggrieved, and far too lonely.
She was not even forty. She had wept endlessly over the loss of her husband. She missed her daughter, who despite living only a short flight away, spent most of her time on Driftmark with the husband Jocelyn disliked and the infant daughter she’d only met once. Laena had Aemon’s eyes. She couldn’t bear to look down at the poor girl only to drip tears onto her cheeks.
She had not visited the capital in years. Ever since her brother had passed over her daughter to give Dragonstone to Baelon (and essentially name him heir to the throne in doing so, as was precedent with all past Princes of Dragonstone), Jocelyn had no inclination to visit court. Alysanne had returned to Dragonstone with her after Aemon’s funeral, equally incensed at Jaehaerys’s insistence on having a man hold the title she believed belonged to Rhaenys. The pair had bonded in their anger and grief, but age was beginning to take its toll on Alysanne, and she still had a child in King’s Landing who she cared for deeply. Gael missed her mother and Alysanne missed her. She left Dragonstone on Silverwing before long and she did not return.
As much as she raged and toiled over Baelon being granted Dragonstone, her good-brother had been most accommodating. Aemon’s death had affected him deeply. He’d been most melancholy after Alyssa’s death and the loss of his brother only seemed to deepen it. Jocelyn remembered how he’d sobbed into her shoulder after the funeral, having found one another in a quiet corridor of Maegor’s Holdfast. She had comforted him, let her own tears fall onto his head of silver. He offered her residence on Dragonstone shortly thereafter, recognizing her discomfort within his father’s halls. Dragonstone was his but he did not frequent it. His appointment as Hand of the King kept him busy and distracted, his sons chasing his coattails. He did visit on occasion. They would say little to one another, seating themselves in the chambers that Jocelyn had once shared with Aemon, staring at the fireplace and sipping on goblets of wine or cups of tea.
It was during one of these visits that she’d giggled into her cup, startling Baelon who set his down with a raised eyebrow. “Are you sure you didn’t fill your cup with wine, aunt?” It was meant as a jest, yet his voice failed to convey the amusement that it had years ago. The loss of Alyssa, Aegon, and then Aemon had taken its toll on the Spring Prince.
The title solemned her mood. When she and Aemon had begun courting, she had him swear to never refer to her as such. Targaryens married within the family rather easily, but Baratheons did not. She’d spent most of her life at court rather than at Storm’s End, but she knew well enough even then that her elder cousins would find it odd. They did. Never once did any of them say a word of it to her though, but only because Aemon trailed her like her own shadow, even on the occasional visit to Storm’s End. She had never needed to have that conversation with Baelon because she was often nothing more than his aunt. She could have been something akin to an elder sister, but she thought he saw her as his brother’s wife, his aunt. That suited her fine.
She sighed, tracing the jeweled rim of the cup with a finger, “‘Tis amusing to think that if circumstances had been different, your father likely would have had us marry after our bereavements.”
Silence filled the room, even the fireplace seemed to sense the gloom of it all, hushing itself with a hiss as the flames continued to leap upwards. Baelon turned his head to look at her properly, some mixture of despair and amusement plastered across his face. She had witnessed his grief when Alyssa died - she’d been there when it happened. They had all known that it was coming for some time. Alyssa had always been so foolhardy and active that when she stopped being able to hold a conversation for longer than a few minutes, the entire Keep started to prepare for the worst. All except Baelon, who had convinced himself that she would get better eventually. Never had she seen a man so overcome with emotion. She was not necessarily raised a traditionalist, was not brought up to expect all men to be stonefaced when confronted with such tragedy, but she had not thought it possible for a man to cry so much. To yell, to scream, to rage, to thrash and kick and punch. Jocelyn had never seen grief cut so deep and she had doubted she ever would again. She had prayed that she would never be burdened by such a ghastly curse.
She was, of course, but she did not mourn as violently as Baelon had. Was she wrong for that? Should she have yelled and screamed and fought?
“In a rather macabre sense, I suppose it is,” He replied, voice quiet, “I don’t think I’d want the circumstances to be different.”
Jocelyn shook her head, “Nor would I.”
“I treasured her, you know.”
“I know. As did I.”
He knew she wasn’t talking about Alyssa, “I loved him too.”
Her eyes became misty, her lashes held together by a teardrop, “I know. As did I.”
He hummed, swallowing the lump in his throat as he reached for his goblet again. He did not drink to get drunk. It would be unseemly for the Prince of Dragonstone to act in such a way. It wouldn’t do his sons any good to see him in such a state either. Not that it mattered now, both Viserys and Daemon were abed and unlikely to rise again until morn. Although, he’d had to keep a guard posted outside their doors after Daemon tried to abscond in search of a dragon the last time he’d brought the boys back. They were all lucky that he’d gotten lots on his way to the dragonmount, brought back through the rain sopping wet by a merchant making his way up from the docks. He drank because it was something to do. He could think about the wine instead of the rest of it. How he’d be needed in King’s Landing by the week’s end, how there’d likely be a pile of issues to resolve, how his mother was slowly wasting away, how he had so many siblings and yet all were so distant, how he missed Aemon, how he missed Alyssa.
After a tear fell into her tea, Jocelyn tilted her head back in her chair, feeling the cushioned wood press into her scalp. There was some comfort to be found in her good-brother. They did not speak often, even in circumstances like this that would normally foster conversation. But, his presence brought her some respite from the rest of it all. To know that there was someone else who had experienced something akin to what she had was selfishly comforting. She knew that if she asked him, he would say the same. She never did and never would. It was enough to know already.
Nights like this often had them sitting in silence before the fireplace. At first, Jocelyn had been resistant to inhabiting the chambers she’d once been so familiar with. Not because it was scandalous to spend a night in the Prince’s chambers - the Prince she was not married to - but because she did not want to remember all the good that had happened within these walls. She did not want to remember him. His kindness, his smile, his hair, his eyes, his voice, his hands. The way he’d looked at her after she’d given birth to Rhaenys, the way he swayed back and forth as he serenaded their babe to sleep, the way he’d brushed her hair and soothed the knots after a particularly impassioned night together. How he almost always buttoned his tunic wrong, how passionate he was, how determined he was, how he comforted her when she despaired over being unable to give him more children, how he held her, how he held Rhaenys. She could not bear to confront it all.
It had been difficult at first. She had cried whenever she stepped through the door. Baelon had kept many of his brother’s possessions - either because he liked them or because he could not bring himself to be rid of them - and it only caused her greater despair. He had offered to move them, put them somewhere she would not see. She’d whipped around and hissed at him then, “You will do no such thing.” It was unseemly of her and had her behaviour been witnessed by anyone else it would’ve made its way to King’s Landing by whispers and parchment by the next morning. But it was only Baelon who saw her in such a way and he begrudged her little for it. He’d only nodded and averted his gaze, taking his seat by the fireplace and pouring himself a drink, offering one for her. She’d sat meekly in a chair to his side, unable to look at him, but had accepted the goblet.
It had become routine. Baelon spent much of the year at the Small Council table, but he always made an effort to spend at least a moon on Dragonstone before the year’s end. Jaehaerys could not do without him for so long, so the Prince would split his time up throughout the year. A few days here and there, a week in the cooler months if he was lucky. Jocelyn had learned not to expect him, only to know that he would arrive eventually. And when he did, they spent their evenings and nights here. In Aemon’s chambers.
This night was loud. The rain pelted down, the lightning so bright it seemed to waken the dragons in the mount whose roars and grumbles could be heard from the keep. The thunder was deep enough that even if they were not languishing in each other’s company, the pair would not be able to sleep. Even Baelon, a deep sleeper all his life, would be awakened by the latest boom that caused the stained glass windowpanes to rattle. It was likely the same rumbling that had awakened the young Prince Daemon.
The door to the chambers opened only slightly, but the weight of the door was hefty and made quite a sound when it did so. Baelon turned his head to watch whoever entered, knowing that it was likely to be one of two people. Jocelyn did not match her good-brother’s concern, her eyes dead set on the fire. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Baelon’s lips turn up slightly as he watched Daemon enter the room. He stood beside the door, his hand still on the handle.
“Father?” The young Prince called despite looking his father in the eyes already.
“Yes?”
“Does the storm keep you awake?”
Baelon rose from his seat with the quietest crack of his knee, fingers gripping the armrests as he hauled himself up. He was not old, far from it, but he’d found himself riding Vhagar less after Alyssa died. No conflict plagued the realm, no need to keep himself so active. Daemon’s escapades kept him fit enough.
“You could say that,” His footsteps echoed across the stone floor, “Does the storm keep you awake?”
Daemon didn’t reply, but Jocelyn could sense some silent response in the affirmative. Baelon chuckled, “You need not be afraid of admitting it, son. They call me Baelon the Brave but I am scared of many a thing.”
The boy muttered something Jocelyn could not hear, but it brought Baelon down to a knee. She did not wish to eavesdrop, so she took the last sip of her lukewarm tea before rising from her seat and heading for the balcony. Baelon watched her go before turning back to Daemon, finishing the brief conversation with a pat on the shoulder. He rose again, telling the boy to wait for him, and followed in his aunt’s footsteps.
“I shall accompany Daemon for a walk about the keep. You are welcome to join us if you so wish.” He offered knowing that she would say no. She’d kept her distance from his sons. She knew it was selfish of her and probably confusing for the boys. It likely did them no good to be refused by her at every point. Viserys had started to look a little too much like Aemon as he grew and Daemon had a passion that she could only compare with her husband. It was silly, really, as Viserys looked as much like his father as he did his uncle, and Daemon likely inherited his daring personality from his mother. Yet, all Jocelyn could ever think of was Aemon.
She did not turn to look at him, electing for a view of the foggy ocean instead. The wind and the rain did not dissuade her from approaching the balustrade, nights like these made her melancholy deeper than it usually would be. “I shall retire soon, good-brother, thank you for your company as always.”
Baelon acknowledged her with a hum, laid a hand on her forearm in some semblance of comfort, and left. She heard him exchange a few words with Daemon before the door closed shut behind them and all went quiet again. Jocelyn sobbed. It was brief, fleeting, but the pressure on her throat became too much and there was no other way to let it out besides slitting it. She took a deep breath, attempting to fill the space left behind, but it only left her in another queue of sobs and cries. She bent over the balustrade, her hair falling over her shoulder and out into the rain. It hurt her fingers to grip the stone so tightly, it grazed upon her skin roughly in a way that she knew would bleed if she held any tighter or for any longer. Yet, she did not relinquish. She half stood half leaned as she cried, taking comfort in the feeling of her body detaching from itself. She preferred it when she felt nothing rather than melancholy.
As she listened to the waves crash against the rocks below, she couldn’t help but think of Rhaenys. The day her daughter had come to her begging for her blessing had been difficult. Jocelyn and Rhaenys were very different people, yet they had scarcely ever argued. If they had, it had been fleeting and over something somewhat ridiculous. It would be Aemon who’d point out the absurdity of it all. But when Corlys Velaryon came to their home asking for their daughter’s hand, it had been Aemon who had spoken against it first. Much like his mother and his wife, Aemon wanted Rhaenys to succeed him. Whenever Jocelyn had profusely apologized for her inability to provide him with a son, Aemon had hushed her, called her daft, and held her close whilst whispering of how their daughter would be twice the monarch any son could ever be.
Had Corlys Velaryon not been so much older than Rhaenys, perhaps the royal pair would have been more amenable to the arrangement. But, he was much older. Aemon had refused to give his ascent to the match, sending Rhaenys into a fury neither of them had seen. She’d flown from Dragonstone afterwards, presumably to cool off. It was only when they’d not seen her for days and had sent a missive to King’s Landing asking after her that Alysanne wrote back informing them that their daughter had accompanied the King on his royal progress to the Shield Islands. She returned from that trip as happy as could be, informing her parents that her royal grandsire had given his permission for the marriage.
Aemon was a calm man. Very serious, very cautious, very diplomatic. He was skilled with the sword, but his tongue was his greatest weapon. Jocelyn had never seen him truly angry before that night. He’d gripped his throne so hard he’d almost cut himself on the metal. He’d thrown himself up from it, face stern and jaw set. He’d looked down at his daughter, only sixteen, and thought about what he was about to say. Then, he yelled. Truly, properly. Jocelyn remembered how shocked she’d been that her husband could raise his voice into such a bellow. It had filled the room which was a feat in itself, for Dragonstone’s receiving chamber was like to be the largest on the island.
“He is MY elder, Rhaenys!” He’d thrown his hands up in the air, landing on the top of his head and almost knocking his circlet askew, “He is what, almost twenty years your senior? The man has spent more time aboard his ship than he has on the island he’s supposed to be defending! He will wed you, bed you, and leave you.”
Rhaenys had been incensed at the accusation, “He will do no such thing. He loves me, father!”
Aemon laughed incredulously, “Is that what he told you? The man is rich beyond his wildest dreams and yet still hungers for more. How much do you think he’ll demand from me for your dowry? Shall he stand by when you make proclamations that go against his best interests? Will he want your children to bear his name? Have the Velaryons sit the Iron Throne instead of Targaryens? You shall be Queen one day, Rhaenys, you need a husband who is wise and content, not foolhardy and ambitious!”
The two went back and forth for what felt like hours but was realistically only fifteen minutes or so. It had ended when Aemon had swore that Corlys would not be welcome on Dragonstone, so Rhaenys replied spitefully that she would not be welcome either. Before her father could amend his assertion, Rhaenys had stormed off. They heard Meleys overhead as she flew away, likely for Driftmark, and Aemon’s shoulders finally slackened. His head bowed forward and he brought the heels of his palms to his eyes, pressing just enough to release the pressure building in his head.
Jocelyn rose from her seat then, placing a hand to his cheek. At once, he removed his hands to look upon her, placing one over her own and guiding the other to clutch at her free hand.
“Was I wrong for it?” He’d asked, voice barely above a whisper.
She smiled but her eyes grieved, “Your words were harsh, my love, but I think your intent was true.”
He groaned, pitching forward so his head fit snug in the space between her shoulder and neck. Her husband was a compassionate man, full of love for his daughter. She knew that he would never mean to hurt her, would never mean to prevent her from marrying a man she truly loved. She liked to think that Rhaenys knew that too. But they all had very different opinions on Corlys Velaryon and Jocelyn was more inclined to agree with her husband.
“She will come right, do not fret,” She brought a hand to the back of his neck, stroking the hair that he’d always keenly cut so short, “Our daughter is no fool. Should it come to it, she will rein him in.”
Aemon had mumbled something into her skin, but Jocelyn had already been thinking forward to the likely impending wedding. They went the next moon thinking that perhaps the issue would resolve itself, but they received wedding invitations promptly thereafter, and the fate of their daughter was sealed. They did not see her again until the wedding. Rhaenys had sat next to her father at the head table during the wedding feast, but the two did not say much to one another. Even Jocelyn, who’d tried to stay out of the quarrel, was met with disregard by her daughter. It soured the mood of both couples, even with the Queen’s attempts to bolster morale with musicians and dancing.
The Stranger laughed upon them that day, for Rhaenys would not see her father again after her wedding. As compassionate and cautious as he was, Aemon was stubborn. Jocelyn sent letters to Rhaenys on Driftmark, not wanting to push her luck with an actual visit, relaying that her father never intended for her to feel exiled from her own home and that she would always be welcome. Rhaenys would write back, but never made clear her intentions. After a year or so, Jocelyn stopped with the letters knowing she was getting nowhere. The next letter she received from Driftmark informed her of her daughter’s pregnancy, the letter she sent back informed her daughter of her father’s death.
Rhaenys had flown to Dragonstone as soon as she’d received the news. Despite her pregnancy, she had thrown herself at her mother’s feet, much to Jocelyn’s disbelief. She cried and sobbed and despaired, begging to see him. Jocelyn had to tell her that Aemon was not there. He was being ferried back to King’s Landing.
“We will go to him together, my love,” She hoisted Rhaenys to her feet, stroking her hair much the same way she’d stroked Aemon’s, “He would like to see you, I think.”
She had not said it to be mean-spirited, had not meant for it to hurt, but it fractured something in Rhaenys that sent her into a grief-stricken wail. She clung to her mother’s arms, to her skirts, much like she had when she was a child. Jocelyn had tried to comfort her, saying that it would do no good for the babe to be distressed in such a way. The knowledge seemed to sober Rhaenys, but her sorrow did not waver. She confided in her mother that night that she regretted so much. She regretted not visiting more often, she regretted not speaking to her father, she regretted arguing with him, she regretted how she treated them at the wedding. It was not said, but she did not regret marrying Corlys.
They had gone to him together. Rhaenys had insisted on carrying her mother across the bay on Meleys. Jocelyn was not all that keen on dragons, even less so after Aemon died, but she allowed her daughter this one request. The two of them had both sobbed over Aemon’s lifeless body. Jocelyn had practically thrown herself across him at one point, tears falling onto his chest. Rhaenys held his hand the entire time, her grasp so tight that she could barely tell that his was so loose. They had sat together at the funeral, veiled as a widow and daughter were expected to be. It hid Jocelyn’s tears. It hid Rhaenys’s regret.
When they parted at the docks, Jocelyn promised that she would visit Driftmark to help prepare for the birth. She held true to this promise, but only arrived in the last moon of Rhaenys’s pregnancy. She was there for the birth, through blood and sweat and tears. She cried when Laena was born. She cried even more when the girl was placed in her arms. She cried so harshly that she could scarcely see the child. Rhaenys did not request her mother visit again. Jocelyn was grateful for it.
Now she found herself looking out across the narrow strait between Dragonstone and Driftmark. The great window and paned door out onto the balcony had been a comfort in the evenings, the setting sun shining in at just the right angle. It eased Aemon’s headaches after stints on the Small Council. He always aimed to return just before the sun set to ensure he would be able to absorb as much sunlight as possible once he returned to his chambers. He’d said that Jocelyn’s skin looked like honey in that light, he’d almost regretted having to block it out when he climbed atop her.
Jocelyn had not ever inhabited those chambers anywhere close to that time of day since she lost him. She never would. As the wind whipped across her like a slap to the face, she sniffed and tried to halt her tears with a tilt of the head. It was hopeless, of course. She didn’t quite know why she forced herself to keep living like this. The septa had said that the grief would ease eventually, it would become easier to live without thinking of him so often. She didn’t want to stop thinking about him so often. She wanted to think about him so much that she’d awaken from her dreams to find him beside her again.
There was one way to ensure that.
In a moment that could only be described as a frenzied madness, Jocelyn pulled herself upright only to swing one leg after the other over the balustrade. The rain was heavy and it soaked her dress through. Perhaps the added weight would quicken her fall. She could only hope. With one last look behind her at the chambers she had loved in, birthed in, died in, and grieved in, she resolved to her moment of madness and pushed herself off the balustrade.
Thankfully, the fall was quick. The rocks had not made it a painless one, but they’d made it quick and that was all she’d wanted.
Jocelyn Baratheon died far too young, far too aggrieved, and far too lonely. But she died as she wanted, perhaps that counted for something.