Chapter Text
Jacaerys Velaryon’s last memory was the salty taste of seawater at the Battle of the Gullet, the tragic roar of his dragon Vermax sinking into the freezing depths, and countless arrows piercing his chest. He remembered dying. A painful, suffocating, and resentful death, having failed to secure the throne for his mother, Rhaenyra.
He had awaited the judgment of the Seven, or perhaps some dark realm. But no.
Instead of the underworld, Jacaerys found himself trapped in a cramped, dark space yet it was warm and pulsed with rhythmic thumps. Then one day, that space began to contract. Walls of flesh squeezed him from all sides, pushing him down a narrow, slippery tunnel. The crushing pressure was so immense he thought his skull was about to shatter.
That wasn't death, Jacaerys realized with utter shock as amniotic fluid washed over his face. I am being born. Again. Literally.
A blinding light suddenly pierced his thin eyelids, followed by freezing air hitting his wet, bare skin. Large, unfamiliar, rough hands caught him, dragging him out of the safety of the womb.
Jacaerys felt his tiny chest expand, his unused lungs taking in the burning air for the very first time. By a newborn's biological instinct, a piercing wail should have ripped from his throat to open his lungs. But the mind of a warrior, a prince who had grown up and died, controlled this body.
He remained silent.
Thousands of questions flashed through his infant brain: Where am I? Who is holding me? Are these allies or enemies? Jacaerys calmly kept his eyes shut tight, focusing entirely on his hearing to assess the situation. He heard the clinking of metal and hurried footsteps rushing around the room. He smelled the heavy stench of blood, hot water, and an overwhelmingly sweet, pungent scent of an Omega who had just survived a brush with death.
"It’s a prince! Your Grace, it’s a healthy little prince!" a middle-aged female voice, likely the midwife, exclaimed in excitement.
Jacaerys tried to crack open his still-blurry eyes. The scene was hazy, but he felt the midwife turning him upside down, preparing to slap his back. He frowned in annoyance.
His silence stretched past twenty seconds, and in childbirth, twenty seconds of a newborn's silence was a death sentence.
The joy in the room froze instantly, replaced by sheer terror. The midwife began to tremble, rubbing a towel vigorously against Jacaerys's back. He still didn't cry; he was too busy... evaluating what this old woman was trying to do to him.
"Why isn't he crying?" a voice rang out from the bed.
It was a male voice, yet high-pitched, hoarse from exhaustion but still harboring a sharp, overbearing authority. The voice carried a fear that was rapidly morphing into rage.
"Your... Your Grace... I am trying..." the midwife stammered, slapping Jacaerys's bottom harder. The reincarnated prince in an infant's body squirmed in frustration, telling himself: Stop hitting me, I'm breathing perfectly fine!
But his "mother" did not possess such patience.
"WHY HASN'T MY SON CRIED YET!?"
The scream tore through the room, carrying the oppressive aura of an enraged dragon, forcing all the servants and the midwife to their knees. The Pheromone scent exploded, sharp as daggers.
Realizing his silence was causing a crisis and that this poor midwife would very likely be beheaded, Jacaerys decided to cooperate. He opened his mouth, forcing his lungs to let out a cry. Waa... Waa... The cry wasn't overly pathetic, but loud and clear enough to prove that this little creature was alive and perfectly healthy.
The moment the cry rang out, Jacaerys felt himself being yanked from the midwife's arms.
"Give him to me!" Aerion roared, defying his own torn, bleeding, and aching body, reaching out to snatch the child himself.
Jacaerys fell into a trembling but incredibly tight embrace. He smelled blood mixed with the sharply sweet scent of dragon fruit from the person holding him.
Aerion looked down at the tiny creature nestled in his arms. His usual madness, cruelty, and hostility completely melted away, replaced by an overwhelming, almost reverent tenderness. Aerion's pale finger gently wiped away the mucus on the baby's forehead.
"My son..." Aerion whispered, his voice softening, his purple eyes sparkling with paramount pride. "My little dragon. You are perfect..."
Jacaerys blinked. Alright, he thought, at least in this life I have a mother (or an Omega father) of pure Valyrian blood. No one will ever dare question my lineage again.
But that thought hadn't even settled for three seconds before a shift occurred.
Aerion's hand, which had been stroking the top of the baby's head, suddenly stopped. The affectionate smile on his lips stiffened. The atmosphere in the delivery room, previously warm and bathed in parental love, suddenly dropped to freezing temperatures.
Jacaerys felt the arms holding him go rigid. He looked up and saw Aerion's radiant face darken as fast as an oncoming thunderstorm. The purple eyes that were once overflowing with love were now bulging, staring fixedly at the wispy locks of hair on the newborn's head.
"What... what is this?" Aerion's voice trembled, not from emotion, but from an unbelievable outrage.
He glared at the midwife, radiating murderous intent. "Why... Why doesn't he have white hair!?"
Jacaerys, in his infant form, froze. Oh no, he screamed internally. Don't tell me...
It was true. On top of Jacaerys's tiny head, the delicate tufts of natal hair that had just been wiped clean of amniotic fluid did not bear the brilliant silver-gold of House Targaryen. It was dark, brownish-black.
The Strong hair color.
The hair color that had been a curse, the root of mockery, civil war, and his death in his previous life, was now clinging to him once again in this one.
Are the gods playing a joke on me?! Jacaerys squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. How the hell did I still come out with black hair?!
In the room, the tension reached its breaking point. The midwife knelt flat on the floor, her forehead touching the cold stone, trembling like a leaf before the wrath of the notoriously cruel Royal Consort.
"Your... Your Grace..." the midwife stammered, desperately trying to find the most logical explanation to save her own head and the child's life. "Per... perhaps the baby takes after his father's genetics? Prince Valarr... he... he has the dark black hair of his Dornish mother..."
The explanation was biologically reasonable. Valarr Targaryen was known for his jet-black hair like his father, possessing only a single streak of silver. A child inheriting the dominant dark hair gene from their Alpha father was completely natural.
But to Aerion’s extreme pride, his Targaryen supremacy, and his obsession with perfection, this was an unacceptable visual insult. His firstborn son, the crystallization of his power, did not bear the hair color of the Valyrian monarchy.
Aerion stared fixedly at Jacaerys’s dark brown tuft of hair. The corner of his mouth twitched; his chest heaved.
Jacaerys held his breath. What is he going to do? Pinch my nose and kill me right here? He braced himself for the most short-lived fate in history.
But Aerion did not throw the child away. He slowly tightened his embrace around Jacaerys just a fraction, his purple eyes flashing with a cold, dictatorial, and terrifyingly stubborn light. He used his thumb to forcefully stroke the baby's dark hair, grinding out every word in a soft tone that was enough to send a chill down the spine of everyone in the room:
"His hair had better change color. If not... I will personally shave him bald every single day until he grows silver hair."
Jacaerys, using the meager strength of a newborn, strained to see the face of the one who had threatened to shave his head. But the cruel world of infant biology struck him with a devastating blow. His eyelids were glued together by the mucous membranes and the immaturity of his muscles, heavy as lead. He could feel the faint light filtering through his thin eyelids, could hear Aerion's choked, exhausted yet defiant breath, but he was utterly unable to open his eyes. A profound sense of helplessness welled up in the mind of the former heir to the Iron Throne.
"Your Grace..." a trembling old midwife's voice rang out, cutting through the thick, murderous atmosphere. "The little prince needs to be kept warm and... and drink his first milk. Please quell your anger, Your Grace, your body has just endured a life-or-death struggle..."
Aerion scoffed coldly. His attention was reluctantly dragged away from the detestable dark locks on the child's head. He leaned back against the sweat-soaked velvet pillow, but his arms still held Jacaerys tightly, having absolutely no intention of handing the baby over to anyone.
"Have the wet nurse brought in yet?" A deep, warm male voice, carrying the majesty of a monarch, echoed from the doorway. Jacaerys perked up his ears. The man who had just entered brought with him a pheromone scent of wet grass after a storm, so strong and steady that it overpowered even the smell of blood in the room.
"No wet nurse!" Aerion instantly hissed, reacting as violently as a feral cat getting its tail stepped on. "I will not let any low-born, stinking wench touch her filthy teats to my son's mouth! He is a dragon! He will only drink milk carrying the purest Valyrian blood!"
"Aerion, you are exhausted..." The other man's voice softened, carrying a patient yet distressed coaxing tone. Jacaerys felt a large, warm hand cup his cheek, then stroke Aerion's pale cheekbones.
"Don't you order me around right now, Valarr!" Aerion slapped the other's hand away, panting. "I said no, and I mean no! All you bastards, get out! Only Valarr stays!"
In the darkness of his temporary blindness, Jacaerys began to piece together the fragments of information. He was lying in the arms of his "mother" an extreme, arrogant, and seemingly purity-obsessed royal Omega named Aerion. And his father, the man who had just been scolded mercilessly but still gently indulged him, was Valarr. An Alpha. A Targaryen prince.
The servants and the midwife quietly retreated like a swarm of rats fleeing a fire. As the oak doors slammed shut, Jacaerys felt Aerion's pale hands clumsily strip away his own sweat-drenched silk robes. And then, driven by the intense survival instinct of an infant's body, his mouth was pressed against a soft, swollen breast. Despite the mind of a fifteen-year-old screaming in absolute mortification, Jacaerys's empty stomach and tiny mouth betrayed him. He latched onto the bud and began to suckle the first drops of colostrum.
"Good boy... That's right, my little dragon..." Aerion's voice suddenly melted, becoming chillingly sweet and coaxing, a complete contrast to his murderous snarls just moments prior. His hand gently stroked Jacaerys's back. "Drink. Drink in the greatness of this family..."
Jacaerys squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying to ignore this existential humiliation. He told himself this was merely for survival. That Rhaenyra, his mother from his past life, would surely understand this reluctant compromise.
.
The following month was a dark, tedious, and mentally torturous period for Jacaerys.
Aerion entered his confinement. The large room was always kept with curtains drawn, heavy with the scent of herbs, frankincense smoke, and pheromones. Jacaerys was kept in a crib carved with three-headed dragons, and every few hours, he had to face a repetitive feeding schedule. Aerion kept his vow to take the life of anyone who dared bring a wet nurse. He nursed Jacaerys himself, coddling him with an extreme possessiveness.
As his vision gradually developed and the cloudy film faded, Jacaerys finally saw the faces of the two who gave birth to him in this life.
Aerion possessed an eerie, sharp beauty steeped in the wicked traits of ancient Valyrian blood, with brilliant silver hair and purple eyes that always seemed ready to brew a storm. But what shocked Jacaerys even more was his father Valarr. This Crown Prince possessed heterochromia and jet-black hair, save for a single streak of silver crossing his temple. Looking at his father's black hair, Jacaerys secretly breathed a sigh of relief. He finally understood why he was born with dark brown hair. It was a genetic trait from Valarr. This, at the very least, would save his tiny head from the cruel gossip of being called a "bastard" , the very thing that had suffocated his life before.
Yet, a massive, chilling question constantly haunted Jacarey's mind whenever he lay silently in his crib: Whose reign am I in?
He knew Valarr. He knew Aerion. He heard the servants call Valarr the second heir to the throne and heard them mention King Daeron II.
Jacaerys ransacked the memories that Maester Gerardys had crammed into his head back on Dragonstone. Daeron ? King Daeron? Daeron Targaryen? His memories stopped at the reign of his great-grandfather Jaehaerys I and his grandfather Viserys I. He knew no king named Daeron, nor did he have any relatives named Valarr or Aerion in his memory.
The truth hit Jacaerys like a block of ice: He had reincarnated into an unfamiliar future. The Dance of the Dragons was over. His mother, Rhaenyra... What was her fate? Did Aegon II win, or did the Blacks reclaim the Iron Throne? What state was House Targaryen in? The dragons... did they still exist?
Jacaerys's tiny heart pounded in panic. He wanted to spring up, grab Valarr by the collar, and scream to ask what history had recorded about Jacaerys Velaryon. But all he could do was flail his chubby arms and let out meaningless babbles.
Being imprisoned in an infant's body was bad enough, but the most horrifying thing for a young man with a mature mind like Jacaerys was being a "reluctant audience" to his parents' marital life.
By the fourth week of confinement, the frustration of being locked in the room turned Aerion's already volatile temper toxic.
That night, Valarr returned to the room after a long Small Council meeting. He had just approached the crib to pick up Jacaerys when a silver cup thrown from Aerion's hand smashed into the wall, grazing Valarr's ear by mere centimeters.
"Don't touch my son with your hands reeking of vile politics!" Aerion hissed, sitting on the bed with his silver hair disheveled, his gaze sharp as knives. "You were just discussing how to sell out my rights to those Northern lords, weren't you? Or are you looking for a way to banish me back to Dragonstone to be rid of the burden?"
Valarr sighed patiently. He unbuckled his sword belt and approached the bed. "Aerion, don't make a scene. I was only discussing taxes. You've been in confinement for a month, your mood isn't good..."
"My mood isn't good because I have to look at your face every day!" Aerion roared, kicking off the blankets, lunging forward to shove Valarr hard in the chest. "You hateful cousin! I should never have married you! I should have married some Tyrell fool; at least he would know how to kneel and lick my boots instead of using the title of Crown Prince to lock me in this cage!"
Jacaerys lay in his crib, his dark eyes wide. Cousin. So this was a classic Targaryen incestuous marriage. In his past life, he had been betrothed to Baela, his cousin, so this was nothing new. But witnessing this scene, he only found it comical. Valarr was undeniably a majestic Alpha, a future king, yet he was currently being pointed at and cursed out mercilessly by an Omega.
"Are you done?" Valarr lowered his voice. A storm-scented pheromone began to radiate, crushing Aerion's aggression. He took a step forward, grabbing Aerion's clawing wrists and forcing them behind his back.
"Let go! You bastard Alpha..." Aerion struggled, but the strength of a recently birthed Omega could not match Valarr's.
"You can curse me, you can throw things at me. But never say you regret marrying me," Valarr growled, his fiery heterochromic eyes pinning down Aerion's lips, which were pursed in anger. "I've warned you, my little dragon. Anyone who dares lick your boots, I will take their head."
And then, instead of another bloody argument, Valarr leaned down and devoured Aerion's lips.
The curses were instantly muffled, morphing into a lewd moan that echoed through the quiet room. Aerion's resistance weakened, then melted entirely. The hands that were just punching and kicking now tangled into Valarr's black hair, pulling him deeper. The sound of silk tearing, heavy panting, and the wet sounds of lips and tongues intertwining could be heard distinctly.
Jacaerys lay in the crib, less than three yards from the bed, his entire body stiff as stone.
No. Please, Gods. Please don't do this right now. I'm right here! The mind of a fifteen-year-old screamed in despair.
But his parents had completely lost their minds. They rolled on the bed, the Alpha and Omega pheromones blending together into a dense, suffocating aphrodisiac scent. The rhythmic creaking of the bed frame began to echo, accompanied by Aerion's high, wet moans and Valarr's satisfied growls.
"Valarr... Ah... Deeper..."
"Mine... you are mine..."
Jacaerys squeezed his eyes shut tight in absolute despair. He couldn't roll over, he couldn't cover his ears, nor could he crawl out of the room. He was bound to this cruel vessel, forced to listen to the entirety of his parents' lust-drenched reconciliation.
He talked to himself, reciting the Targaryen family tree, counting the number of dragons on Dragonstone, trying to recall military tactics at the Battle of the Gullet... anything, anything to drown out the loud smacks of flesh and the obscene words of endearment pounding against his eardrums.
Mother Rhaenyra, Jacaerys cried silently in his heart. If you knew what kind of torture I am enduring in this life, you would surely burn this castle down yourself.
.
Time passed with the tedious speed of a creature whose only existence consisted of eating, sleeping, and soiling its diapers.
A few months after birth, Jacaerys could lift his head, his brown eyes could now see clearly, and his chubby hands knew how to flail and grab the gold necklaces dangling from the adults' necks. Along with his physical development, the mentality of the former Prince of Dragonstone also began to undergo a strange transformation.
At first, he considered his parents in this life to be two psychopaths: an Omega so ruthless and arrogant it was twisted, and an Alpha with a suffocatingly possessive love. But as he observed them day by day, living under their somewhat extreme care, Jacaerys gradually realized an ironically funny truth: These two... were actually quite endearing. Endearing by a warped and toxic standard reserved exclusively for House Targaryen.
The prime example was his "mother," Aerion.
Jacaerys soon realized that Aerion's mind had a few irreparable cracks. His obsession with blood purity and power seemed to have pushed the Royal Consort into a mild form of delusion. Aerion didn't just believe he carried the blood of the dragon; sometimes, he truly believed he was a dragon in human skin.
In the late afternoons, when the crimson sunset streamed through the window, Aerion would often carry Jacaerys to sit before the roaring fireplace. He wasn't afraid of the heat. On the contrary, he enjoyed holding his pale hands close to the flames, his purple eyes reflecting the flickering firelight, dreamy and fanatical.
"Look, my little dragon," Aerion whispered, holding Jacaerys with one arm while his other hand lightly brushed through the flames without flinching. "Fire cannot harm us. Because our blood is magma. This skin is just a shell. Beneath it, I have scales of gold and red. I can feel them itching to burst out..."
The first time he heard this, Jacaerys's eyes widened, cold sweat pouring down his tiny forehead. He terrifyingly thought his mother was going to throw him into the fireplace to "test the fire" in some crazy ritual.
But Aerion only held him tighter, rubbing his nose affectionately against the baby's cheek. Aerion's delusion was not aimed at destroying him. It was a defense mechanism, a way for him to delude himself about his own invulnerability after past traumas.
And the one who indulged this madness was none other than Valarr.
The majestic Crown Prince, who made the entire Small Council wary, turned into an absolute pushover the moment he crossed the threshold of the bedchamber. Valarr seemed to view Aerion's mental instability as a fatal charm. He never contradicted him, never told Aerion he was crazy, but always found a way to play along and coax his Omega.
Today was the same.
Aerion was sitting on the bed, Jacaerys lying in his lap. His elegant hands were playfully twirling the locks of hair on the child's head. Over time, Jacaerys's hair had grown thicker, and there was no denying it: it was dark, deep brown, straight, and soft.
"What an eyesore," Aerion sighed heavily, his tone full of petulance. He brushed Jacaerys's brown locks back, grimacing as if he were touching mud. "Why must it be this color? It looks like the fur of some stray hound from the outskirts."
Jacaerys, sucking his thumb, secretly rolled his eyes at this.
Mother, in my past life, this "hound" hair color of mine nearly tore the realm into five or seven pieces, Jacaerys thought to himself. They called me a "Strong," called me a bastard. In this life, at least it's a dominant gene from your lawful husband. What more do you want?
Valarr was sitting at a nearby desk, signing some parchment scrolls. Hearing the familiar complaint, he set down his quill, smiled, and approached the edge of the bed.
"Aerion, the boy's hair takes after me," Valarr said gently, sitting down next to the mother and son. He reached up and stroked his own jet-black hair. "My mother was Dornish. Their genes are very strong. There is nothing wrong with that."
Aerion shot him a sharp glare, lifting his chin. "But I gave birth to him! I had to carry him, my belly swollen, enduring that damned morning sickness to birth a Targaryen child! Yet he doesn't have a single strand of silver hair or purple eyes. It's all your fault. Your blood tainted his purity."
He looked down at Jacaerys, his tone shifting to anxious melancholy. "Has the dragon's blood in you been weakened, my little dragon? If you don't have silver hair, will the dragons bow to you? Will you be able to breathe fire?"
Jacaerys groaned internally. Gods above, Mother is starting again.
Valarr did not seem bothered by the insult to his bloodline. Instead, a tender indulgence was evident in his heterochromic eyes. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms fully around Aerion's waist from behind, pulling him back against his broad chest.
"What nonsense are you saying, my Aerion," Valarr whispered in his ear, his voice deep and magnetic. "Who says a dragon must be silver?"
Aerion paused slightly, blinking. "What do you mean?"
"Have you read so many ancient tomes that you've forgotten?" Valarr pressed a light kiss to the hollow of Aerion's neck, where scars once lay but were now smooth. "The greatest dragon in history, the dragon that helped Aegon conquer the Seven Kingdoms... Balerion the Black Dread. What color was he?"
Aerion was silent for a second, his purple eyes widening. "Black... His scales were as black as night."
"Exactly," Valarr smiled, using his rough finger to gently stroke Jacaerys's chubby cheek. "Our son is not a weak dragon. He is simply a Black Dragon. This hair color is the color of dominance, the color of Balerion. He wears black scales, but the fire inside him is still the hottest flame of the Valyrian bloodline, because he was born of you, the most brilliant and proud dragon of all."
Jacaerys, lying in Aerion's lap, dropped his jaw (though he had no teeth).
Good heavens, the fifteen-year-old youth in an infant's body bowed down in silent admiration. My father's smooth-talking skills are truly on another level. No wonder my mother is manipulated to this extent. Hitting right at Aerion's pride and dragon obsession was a flawless move.
Sure enough, Aerion's sulking and anxiety vanished entirely, like mist under the sun. His purple eyes lit up. The radiant, arrogant smile instantly returned to his red lips.
"A Black Dragon..." Aerion murmured, his gaze upon Jacaerys no longer holding disappointment but shifting to a fanatical excitement. He hugged the baby tightly, planting a loud kiss on the wispy brown forehead. "That's right! My son is Balerion reborn! When he grows up, he will ride the biggest, fiercest dragon, and anyone who dares mock his hair color, I will have him burn them to ashes!"
"Exactly. Anyone you wish," Valarr played along, his eyes overflowing with infatuation as he watched his Omega become happy again. He rested his chin on Aerion's shoulder, whispering. "Are you no longer angry now?"
Aerion turned up his nose, letting out a soft huff, but leaned fully into Valarr's embrace, his spoiled demeanor completely contradicting his prickly words. "I'll let you off for now. But you still owe me for diluting the family genes. You must compensate me tonight."
Valarr let out a low, rumbling chuckle in his throat, his arms tightening. "As you command, my Royal Consort."
Jacaerys lay sandwiched between the two of them, squished in an embrace reeking of storm and dragon fruit pheromones, only able to close his eyes in resignation. He thought to himself, if the truth of his past life that his biological father was Harwin Strong, a rugged brown-haired knight were revealed in this life, Aerion would undoubtedly go mad and strangle him with his bare hands.
But watching the way Valarr affectionately stroked Aerion's tangled hair, and how Aerion closed his eyes to enjoy that pampering, Jacaerys unexpectedly felt a strange sense of peace.
.
The first public presentation of the newborn royal grandson took place in one of the most private and heavily guarded chambers of the castle. There were no tens of thousands of covetous eyes from the lords, no clamor of the court. This ceremony was exclusively for those who held the absolute pinnacle of power in the Seven Kingdoms: King Daeron II, and the Hands of the King, Prince Maekar and Prince Baelor.
Jacaerys was swaddled tightly in thick layers of Valyrian silk bearing the blood-red and black colors of his house. He lay securely in Aerion's arms, clearly feeling the proud, graceful strides of his mother in this life. Right beside them walked Valarr, striding with the posture of a male lion escorting his mate and cub.
The oak doors carved with the three-headed dragon slowly opened. Jacaerys immediately assessed the room and its occupants.
Sitting on the carved chair was King Daeron II. He possessed a majestic, solemn demeanor that exuded a formidable wisdom. Nearby stood Jace's paternal and maternal grandfathers. Like Valarr, his paternal grandfather, Baelor, possessed dark hair, but his gaze was sharper, and he too possessed heterochromic eyes. Standing by the window was Maekar, Aerion's biological father. His face was angular, etched with the faint scars of battles, framed by short silver-gold hair and stern, dark purple eyes.
Jacaerys silently compared the king before him to his grandfather Viserys I from his past life. Both kings appeared to be gentle men, but according to what he had heard his father remark about this king, it seemed they both shared a similar ruling style, only Daeron was much more erudite and tactful than Viserys.
"We bring the heir for You to see, Your Grace," Aerion spoke up. He offered a gentle, bright, and polite smile, walking straight toward the King. The way Aerion lifted Jacaerys less like a mother holding their child, but like a victor flaunting his greatest trophy, his perfect shield, his sharpest sword to protect his power in this dynasty.
The King smiled, a rare expression that smoothed the wrinkles on his forehead. He reached out and took the child from Aerion's hands. Jacaerys lay securely in the king's large palms, maintaining the most placid expression possible.
"A beautiful creature," Daeron murmured, his finger brushing over Jacaerys's chubby cheek. "Sturdy, a good weight. Very bright eyes. He doesn't seem afraid at all."
"He is my son," Valarr spoke, his voice full of pride as he stepped up close beside Aerion, placing a hand on his mate's waist as a declaration of claim. "And Aerion's son. Fear does not exist in his veins."
Maekar stepped a few paces closer, his eyes glued to his grandson. He saw the dark brown hair on top of the child's head, but as a worldly man who well understood the genetics of House Martell, he showed no surprise or disappointment. He merely looked deep into Jacaerys's facial features, searching for reflections of Aerion within them.
"He has your chin and mouth, Aerion," Maekar said in a hoarse voice but he can’t hide his proud smile. "He will be a very handsome man in the future."
Aerion smiled demurely, gracefully. "That is obvious. Father."
Aerion's attitude made Maekar smile in satisfaction; his favored child had become even more gentle after marrying and having a child. Aerion's brothers did not seem to think so; their faces visibly stiffened in the background.
But while the adults were busy with their praises, Jacaerys was plunging into a state of sheer panic. The mind of a fifteen-year-old was screaming, his eyes sweeping across the room, searching for something incredibly important.
Where is it? Jacaerys asked himself, his dark eyes darting constantly. Where is the dragonkeeper? Where is the red velvet-lined chest?
As a prince carrying Targaryen blood, especially as the eldest son of the Crown Prince, Jacaerys understood royal protocols all too well. In his past life, from the moment he was born, a dragon egg had been carefully selected from the dragonmont on Dragonstone and placed in his cradle. A tradition, the supreme proof of his legitimacy and the dragon's blood flowing through his veins. That egg had hatched into Vermax his companion, half of his soul.
He waited. He waited for the doors to open again, waited for a septon or a dragonkeeper to bring in an egg with shimmering scales to place beside him.
But the doors remained firmly shut.
Baelor handed the baby back to Valarr, then turned to discuss the preparation of backup wet nurses, the granting of titles, and even distant calculations regarding Jacarey's future betrothals. No one, from Daeron, Baelor, Maekar, Valarr, to even Aerion, who constantly spoke of dragons mentioned choosing a dragon egg for the child.
A cold, freezing sensation ran down Jacaerys's tiny spine.
He began to piece things together. He recalled the afternoons sitting before the fireplace, when Aerion held his hands to the fire and babbled about "our blood is magma," "this skin is just a shell," and "dragon scales are itching beneath the skin." At the time, he just thought Aerion was slightly delusional due to mental instability.
But now, a horrifying, cruel, and suffocating truth crashed into Jacaerys's awareness. Aerion wasn't just delusional. He said those things, he was obsessed with deluding himself into being a dragon, because... because he had never seen a dragon of flesh and blood.
"He will need a good sword when he turns six," Baelor was saying to Valarr. "I will have a practice sword forged to fit his hand. He must become an outstanding warrior to protect this realm."
"I will be the one to train him!" Aerion bluntly declared, smoothing the silk wrapped around Jacaerys. "The master-at-arms in the palace are just a bunch of stupid amateurs. And I will have the most beautiful dragon-scale armor made for him."
"Dragons have been extinct for a long time, Aerion, perhaps armor fashioned to look like dragon scales like the one you used to own?" Maekar negotiated with his most stubborn, spoiled child.
Dragons were extinct.
Those four words fell like a giant sledgehammer, shattering Jacaerys's soul.
His infant body trembled violently. His throat felt bitterly choked. An invisible agony tore through his chest in the exact place where Vermax's heartbeat had once resonated with his own.
In his past life, even if he was mocked as a Strong bastard, even if he had brown hair, when he took to the sky with Vermax, no one dared to voice their dissent. Dragons were power, honor, the very existence of House Targaryen.
But now... he was in an era where the skies were empty. No more cloud-rending roars, no more colossal shadows blotting out the sun. The great dragons were dead. And he knew exactly why. His mother's bloody civil war, the Dance of the Dragons, was their graveyard.
What was a Targaryen without a dragon but a mortal draped in glittering silk, carrying the seeds of madness? Valarr had called him the "Black Dragon." But how could he be a Black Dragon, when there wasn't a single egg left in the world to incubate?
Despair, the terror of a mundane world stripped of magic, and an invisible sense of loss tore at Jacaerys's core. Tears welled up in his dark eyes. It was not the cry of a newborn demanding milk. It was the silent, gut-wrenching sobbing of a dragonrider who had just discovered he had lost the sky forever.
"Oh, what is wrong with my little dragon?" Aerion panicked upon seeing Jacarey's cry, hastily snatching the baby back from Valarr's arms. He paced around the room, gently patting the boy's back, his Omega pheromones radiating to soothe him. "He must be hungry. Or you frightened him."
Valarr frowned at the whimpering child, reaching out to stroke his cheek. "Take him back to our chambers, Aerion. You need to rest, too."
Jacaerys buried his face in Aerion's chest, awash in the scent of dragon fruit, letting his tears soak the silk. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to accept this harsh reality.
No dragon eggs. No riding dragon.
.
The next three years passed like a long, sweet dream, wrapped in velvet, silk, and the fragrant scent of incense.
For Jacaerys Velaryon, someone who had once borne the heavy burden of an heir, who had struggled on the battlefield and tasted betrayal, blood, and bitter seawater, this new life felt like an endless vacation bestowed by the gods. After the initial shock of the dragons being extinct, Jacaerys decided to let go. He gave up trying to act mature in a tiny body. He allowed himself to be lazy. He lived indulgently, enjoying all the privileges of the most prestigious royal grandson in the Seven Kingdoms with a serenity that surprised even himself.
His life revolved around the softest goose-down mattresses, garments woven from smooth Myrish silk that never scratched his tender skin, and feasts overflowing with lemon cakes, almond milk, and berry preserves. There were no stressful lessons on military tactics, no scrutinizing glares regarding his "bastard" status, and most importantly, no lurking assassination plots.
And at the center of that luxurious, lazy world was his mother, Aerion Targaryen.
Aerion's care was something that far exceeded the boundaries of normal maternal love. It was twisted, extreme, highly possessive, yet strangely warm.
Jacaerys always remembered Rhaenyra, his mother in his past life. Rhaenyra loved him, that was undeniable. But she was a Queen (or at least the rightful heir), constantly weighed down by prophecy, political factions, endless childbearing, and royal schemes. Rhaenyra often delegated his care to wet nurses, maesters, and sworn shields. She loved him, but she belonged to the Realm.
Aerion was different. Aerion had no realm to rule, because his realm, his world, had shrunk to the exact size of Jacaerys and Valarr.
The notoriously cruel Royal Consort, who once took the humiliation of lords as a pastime, now suffered from a sickeningly obsessive overprotectiveness toward his child. Aerion refused to let any servant, even Tomen, interfere with Jacaerys's personal routines. Aerion himself would test the temperature of his bathwater, and personally use the most expensive rose-scented soaps to scrub his chubby body. Aerion himself would select every outfit, personally feed him every spoonful of soup, and groom the dark brown hair he had once so utterly despised.
Jacaerys, with the mind of a fifteen-year-old, initially felt deeply mortified being stripped bare and bathed every day by an arrogant male Omega. But the feeble resistance of a toddler meant nothing against an Aerion who was always ready to fly into a rage if he wasn't allowed to care for his son with his own hands. Gradually, Jacaerys surrendered. He closed his eyes, lounging in the golden bathtub, obediently letting Aerion dry him off and wrap him in warm silk towels. This indulgence, after all, was astonishingly healing.
Every evening, when the candlelight in the bedchamber began to cast flickering shadows on the stone walls of Dragonstone, Aerion would gather Jacaerys into his arms. It was an unbreakable ritual.
He would set Jacaerys on his lap, wrapping his long, pale arms tightly around him, resting his chin on the top of his head. The sweet, gentle dragon fruit pheromones of an Omega in a state of motherhood wafted out, enveloping Jacaerys like an invisible cocoon. And then, Aerion would sing.
Aerion did not sing well. His voice was inherently born to command, to mock, or to utter venomous words as sharp as a razor. It was a bit thin, sometimes flat, and he frequently lost the rhythm. But he never sang silly Westerosi nursery rhymes about bears or maidens. Aerion sang in ancient High Valyrian.
"When darkness falls... my kingdom…”
Aerion's lullabies carried a tragic and bloody tone. They were songs about the Doom of Valyria, about the fourteen volcanoes erupting and swallowing the greatest civilization of mankind, about colossal dragons spreading their wings to tear through the night sky, turning enemies to ash.
Jacaerys curled up in Aerion's lap, his eyes squeezed shut. Listening to a terrible singing voice hum about the destruction of the world should have been a horrifying experience for any normal child. But Jacaerys was not a normal child. To him, the clumsiness in Aerion's singing revealed a rare, unpolished side of the arrogant Royal Consort. He sang not to show off, but out of pure devotion, wanting to pour the last legacies of the dragon's blood into his son's soul. Jacaerys often pretended to be fast asleep, but in reality, he perked his ears to listen to every breath, every vibration in the chest of the person holding him, feeling a bizarre sense of peace he had never known in his past life.
And as Jacaerys grew a little older, enough to babble and toddle around the room, the lullabies were gradually replaced by storytelling.
On rainy afternoons that blanketed the island of Dragonstone, Aerion would lay out a pristine white wolf-skin rug before the fireplace. Wearing a loose, thin silk robe, he would lean back against the armchair, pulling Jacaerys to sit between his legs. Aerion's hands were always playing with Jacarey's intricately carved wooden toys, mostly dragons that Valarr had personally commissioned the best woodcarver in the Capital to make.
"Today, I will tell you about Aegon the Conqueror and his two Queens," Aerion began, his purple eyes sparkling with fanaticism as they reflected the firelight.
Jacaerys sat still, fiddling with the tail of a black wooden dragon. I know this by heart, Mother, he thought to himself. The maesters have been cramming it into my head since I was four years old.
But history through Aerion's lens was not dry lessons on politics or diplomacy. It was a version distorted by absolute supremacy and the worship of absolute power.
"People say Aegon was great because he united the Seven Kingdoms," Aerion stroked Jacaerys's brown hair, his tone turning disdainful. "But they are wrong. He was great because he rode Balerion the Black Dread. He was great because he never asked for permission. When King Harren the Black hid in the fortress of Harrenhal, thinking that thick stone walls could protect him from dragons, do you know what Aegon did?"
"Burn it," Jacaerys babbled in a childish voice, trying to sound innocent.
"That's right, my little dragon!" Aerion beamed, leaning down to plant a loud kiss on his cheek. "He turned those arrogant towers into melting candles. Even stone must weep under our fire. That is a lesson for you, Jacaerys. In this world, there is no fortress that cannot fall, no enemy that cannot be melted. We are dragons, and dragons do not negotiate with sheep."
Jacaerys blinked. This teaching, if brought out into the court, would certainly create a cold-blooded tyrant in the future. But here, in these arms, Jacaerys understood the deeper message Aerion wanted to convey. It was his survival mechanism. Aerion was teaching him how to grow invisible scales so he would never be hurt, much like how he himself had been hurt in a dark past that Jacaerys could only vaguely guess at.
"But Mother," Jacaerys purposely used the coaxing term of address that he knew full well Aerion adored, looking up at him with wide, pitch-black eyes. "Where are our dragons? Why don't I see any dragons?"
The innocent question of a three-year-old made the atmosphere in the room sink. Aerion's hand, which was stroking Jacaerys's hair, froze. The firelight in the hearth seemed to dim for a beat. The reality of an empty sky with no dragon shadows had always been a dull, throbbing pain in the subconscious of those who bore Valyrian blood, especially for someone as obsessed as Aerion.
But instead of flying into a rage or breaking down like the day Jacaerys was born, Aerion now just smiled, a sad smile, yet one that harbored a mad stubbornness.
He cupped Jacaerys's face with both hands, lifting the child's chubby face to his eye level. Aerion's glowing purple eyes stared straight into his deep brown eyes, as if wanting to pierce through to his very soul.
"The scaled beasts that fly in the sky are all dead, little dragon," Aerion whispered, his voice dropping low, carrying a strange weight. "They killed each other because of the stupidity of those who called themselves Kings and Queens in the past."
Jacaerys felt a sharp pang in his chest. Aerion was unintentionally bringing up the Dance of the Dragons civil war, bringing up his mother Rhaenyra, bringing up the destruction that his own generation had helped create.
"But that does not mean dragons no longer exist," Aerion continued, his thumb gently brushing along Jacaerys's cheek. He placed Jacaerys's hand over his own left breast, then placed his own hand over Jacaerys's left breast. "Do you feel it beating? Our blood is boiling. We do not need those giant beasts to prove who we are."
Aerion leaned down close, pressing his forehead against Jacaerys's.
"You are my son. You carry within you my fire and the strength of your father. Even if your hair is the color of dirt, even if you lack the eyes of old Valyria, your soul is still an inextinguishable flame. If this world no longer has dragons, then you... you yourself must become the only dragon that makes them kneel. Remember that well, Jacaerys."
Those words echoed in the mind of the former Prince of Dragonstone, stronger than any knight's vow he had ever heard in his past life.
Jacaerys looked into the purple eyes blazing with fierce protectiveness and mad expectations. He realized that his mother in this life might be an arrogant, shortsighted person, perhaps even mentally unstable. He might be poison to anyone unlucky enough to cross his path. But to him, Aerion was an absolute shield. Under this twisted yet fortress-like protection, Jacaerys didn't have to grow up too fast. He didn't have to worry about securing the throne for his mother, didn't have to negotiate with treacherous lords, didn't have to die a bitter death under a rain of arrows on the freezing sea ever again.
He wrapped his short arms around Aerion's neck, hugging him tight, burying his face in the hollow of his shoulder that smelled sweetly of dragon fruit.
"Yes. I am Mother's dragon," Jacaerys babbled, and for the first time since his reincarnation, he truly believed his own words.
If in his past life he had lived for duty, then in this life, he would live for this indulgence. He would be a spoiled, lazy royal grandson, enveloped by a fanatic Omega mother and a commanding Alpha father. To hell with history, to hell with the dead dragons. Jacaerys closed his eyes, letting himself drown in the warmth of the fireplace and the off-beat High Valyrian lullaby humming above his head. The road ahead was long, but for now, the only throne he wanted to conquer was this warm embrace.
.
As the eldest son of the Crown Prince, Jacaerys could not hide forever in a chamber thick with the scent of incense and Aerion's overprotection. Festivals and state banquets demanded his appearance.
To Jacaerys, sitting on a towering velvet-cushioned chair, sandwiched between a majestic Alpha father and an arrogant Omega mother, served as an excellent observation deck. From here, he could evaluate his entire "collection" of uncles and relatives. And by the Gods, his family in this life was also a disastrous mess.
Further down the table was Aerion’s eldest brother, Daeron.
Currently, Daeron was slumped over his golden goblet, snoring softly into a puddle of spilled Dornish red wine. He hadn't even made it past the second course before passing out. Looking at him, Jacaerys suddenly recalled a particularly explosive shouting match between his parents a year ago. Aerion had hurled a heavy silver hand mirror at Valarr, screaming at the top of his lungs: "If you hadn't claimed me, my father would have forced me to marry that pathetic, impotent drunkard Daeron! You owe me for tying myself to your political mess!" Jacaerys stared at the drooling, silver-haired prince and mentally shuddered. Thank the Gods for Valarr's overbearing Alpha possessiveness, Jacaerys thought, taking another bite of his apple. Having that useless drunkard for a father would have been an absolute nightmare.
Then there was Matarys Targaryen, Valarr’s younger brother and Jacaerys’s uncle on his father's side.
Compared to the chaotic, volatile branch of Maekar's children, Matarys was almost suspiciously normal. He shared Valarr's dark brown hair and possessed a quiet, polite demeanor. He sat impeccably straight, making pleasant conversation with the nearby lords, and occasionally shot Jacaerys a friendly, albeit cautious, smile. Matarys seemed perfectly content being the "spare" to Valarr's "heir," keeping his head down and completely avoiding the toxic, swirling hurricane that was his Omega sister-in-law, Aerion. Jacaerys mentally gave Matarys a nod of approval. A smart man. He knows how to survive.
Then there was his uncle Aemon, Aerion's younger brother.
Aemon was an Omega, but in stark contrast to Aerion's radiant, prickly, and loud nature, Aemon was as faded and quiet as an old book's page. He usually wore dark clothes, always hiding himself in the obscure corners of the banquet table.
Once, Aemon timidly approached, handing Jacaerys a beautifully leather-bound picture book of the stars.
"He has very intelligent eyes," Aemon smiled gently, his voice light as air. "Perhaps he will enjoy reading when he's older."
Aerion immediately snatched the book from Jacaerys's hands, tossing it back onto the table with a disdainful tilt of his chin. "My son is a royal grandson, a future warrior. He will rule the Seven Kingdoms with a sword and spear, not bury his head in a pile of rotting scrap paper only to become pathetic, bowing his head to every Alpha like you do, Aemon."
Aemon slightly lowered his eyes, not replying, and quietly retreated to his seat. Jacaerys, sitting on Valarr's lap, chewed on a slice of apple and silently clicked his tongue. Mother, he only gave me a book. Was there a need to spit such venom? He secretly felt pity for this bookworm uncle, but of course, he would never open his mouth to defend him, lest he invite a three-hour lecture from Aerion.
Next was his youngest uncle, Aegon, who preferred to be called Egg, a weird name for a royal member.
Aegon was twelve at this time, right at his most awkward and rebellious age. The boy always glared at Aerion with daggers in his eyes, and naturally, he didn't like Jacarey either. The reason, Jacaerys knew all too well: Ser Duncan the Tall, the hedge knight whom Aegon idolized had been banned from the East Wing of the castle and had his honor publicly mocked by Aerion after a certain scandal from years ago (Jacaerys was quite curious to know the full details, but perhaps he'd find out later).
"He doesn't look like a dragon at all," Aegon propped his chin on his hand, staring fixedly at Jacaerys's dark brown hair as he toddled around the banquet table. "He looks more like those bastards in Flea Bottom."
The atmosphere around the dining table instantly plummeted to freezing temperatures. Valarr stopped slicing his meat, his cold heterochromic eyes darting toward Aegon. The heavy Alpha pressure immediately bore down, causing the twelve-year-old boy to break out in a cold sweat.
But Aerion was even faster.
He let out a piercing laugh, leisurely raising his goblet of wine. "That's right, Aegon. He has dark hair. But my son is the future King. And you? You have a full head of white-silver hair, but at the end of your life, you'll be nothing more than a squalling brat tailing after a low-born hedge knight. Your place is beneath my son's boot heel."
Aegon's face flushed bright red with anger. He was about to spring up and argue back, but his father, Maekar yanked him firmly back into his seat.
To emphasize his point, Aerion didn't even bother looking at his seething younger brother anymore. Instead, he picked up a heavy, silver-handled steak knife from the table. With a sudden, brutal force that made several nearby lords flinch, he slammed the heavy pommel of the knife down, perfectly cracking open a tough walnut.
The brutality of the action was completely at odds with the radiant, loving smile he wore. As he spoke, Aerion carelessly waved the razor-sharp blade in the air, the steel flashing terrifyingly close to his own eyes and Jacaerys's little face. All around them, courtiers held their breath in a collective cold sweat, terrified the unpredictable Omega was one wrong move away from gouging out an eye or stabbing his own heir. Jacaerys, however, just sat completely still, internally praying his mother had good hand-eye coordination.
Blissfully oblivious to the panic he had just induced, Aerion picked through the fractured shell with pale, elegant fingers. He tossed the lethal blade onto a silver platter with a loud clatter and carefully lifted the unblemished walnut meat to Jacaerys's lips. His purple eyes shining with a dark, triumphant maternal pride.
The suffocating silence that had enveloped the table after Aerion's cracking wallnut display was finally broken by a steady, deep clearing of the throat.
Baelor Targaryen, Jacaerys's own grandfather, spoke. He gently rubbed his temples, deciding to ignore his nephew's (and son-in-law's) recent madness and move on to a more practical topic to ease the tension.
"Valarr, Aerion," Baelor said in a majestic but weary voice, his gaze sweeping over the young couple. "It's been four years since you two got married, and Jacaerys is all grown up. When are you two going to move out of that gloomy tower and into the official heir's quarters?"
Aerion casually wiped the walnut crumbs from his pale fingers, raising an eyebrow slightly. "Why should I move? My childhood bedroom has the most beautiful view of Blackwater Bay in the castle. I like waking up each morning to see the storms crashing against the cliffs, not smelling the horse manure and city rubbish that Father is talking about in that room."
Baelor frowned, turning to look at his son. "Valarr? You're an Alpha, the future king. Are you going to let your Omega decide whether the family stays holed up in that old room forever?"
Valarr merely shrugged, taking a sip of Arbor wine. The smile on his lips as he looked at Aerion was full of unconditional indulgence. "Aerion likes the scenery there, Father. If she's happy and comfortable, I have no objection whatsoever. We can stay anywhere."
Baelor sighed deeply, shaking his head slightly, seemingly all too familiar with his once valiant son turning into a fool blindly submissive to his wife.
Meanwhile, Jacaerys sat on Valarr's lap, obediently chewing on a walnut, but inwardly screaming in despair.
Grandfather, please use the power of the King's Hand to force them to move! The former prince of Dragonstone cried inwardly.
The truth was, Jacaerys hated that room. Aerion's childhood bedroom was as horrifying and twisted as his own mind.
To suit the Aerion's violent tastes and fanatical obsession with dragons, the four walls of the room were covered with enormous embroidered tapestries. The embroidery techniques of the artisans of Myr were truly exquisite, down to the smallest stitch, but the content... oh my gods!
These were not scenes of peaceful hills or bewildered deer in the forest. They were scenes of bloody slaughter. On the tapestries were images of gigantic dragons with gaping mouths, spewing out seas of fiery red flames that incinerated hundreds, even thousands, of soldiers screaming in agony on the ground. The crimson and jet-black silk threads were embroidered with incredible realism to depict the bloodshed, charred corpses, and the utter devastation of war.
Imagine, for a three-year-old child in the throes of cognitive development, the last thing they saw each night before bed was the gruesome sight of people being burned alive, could that be normal?! Jacaerys had often woken up in the middle of the night, imagining he could smell the acrid scent of burning flesh, the smell of the sea, and hear the roar of the dragon Vhagar in the fjord of yesteryear.
What a wonderful environment, overflowing with love to nurture a child's soul, Jacaerys thought bitterly to himself. "If I grow up to be a bloodthirsty tyrant who enjoys burning people alive, then the gods can blame my parents."
"As you two wish," Baelor finally gave up, gesturing with a conciliatory nod to Valarr's cheerful agreement. "But at least get rid of those real swords Aerion hid under his pillow, before little Jacaerys cuts himself."
Aerion snorted dismissively, picking up a strawberry and putting it into Jacaerys's mouth. "My son is a Dragon, Uncle. He won’t get himself tangled in such stupidity."
Jacaerys chewed on a sweet strawberry, his dark eyes scanning the table, resigned to a fact: In this lifetime's Targaryen family, the most normal person was probably his poor grandfather, Baelor.