Chapter Text
It had been near half a year since the ancient sea-bitten isle of Dragonstone had become Jacaerys’ home, and still he had yet to feel comfortable in its black halls or bleak grey hills. Vermax, young as he was, had been no better in the earliest days, anxious around the dragons of the castle’s pit and unfamiliar with the landscape. As Jace’s own mother and brother were a source of comfort, the presence of Syrax and Arrax had worked well to ease the transition, and Moondancer had taken quite well to her new cohabitants, becoming fast friends. The older dragons of the pits, particularly the great beast Vermithor, were less welcoming, but Rhaenyra had assured him that dragons never turned on their own kind. Perhaps in the wild they might be forced to compete, she had told him when the doubt showed on his face, but theirs were of ancient, proud lineage, well-sated and wise.
He hoped he would not fear Vermithor forever. The aged dragon was nearly as titanic as Vhagar, and every glimpse of his monstrous maw and terrible wings reminded him powerfully of Aemond and his beast in the Keep. You will die screaming in flames, just as your father did, he’d said to Luke. It was too easy to imagine what that might be like in Vermithor’s shadow.
Jace had only come close to the dragon a couple of times since settling in Dragonstone, and always under Daemon’s wing. His step-father, to Jace’s surprise, often performed the ritual of singing to Vermithor to soothe the old beast. He hadn’t expected such gentleness from Daemon or dragon alike. It had almost comforted him, had Vermithor not been rankled by his unfamiliar presence. The sound of his colossal throat gurgling with fire had haunted Jace’s dreams, and was near impossible to banish from his mind.
The most common of his nightmares was one that brought him to the tunnels of Driftmark, though the abstract geography of dreams warped its length and depth to bizarre proportions. It almost undulated around he and the hazy figures of his family, like the gullet of a dragon. Ahead was Aemond, his hand a white claw around Lucerys’ neck. Sometimes the dreams would go further than reality had, until Aemond was squeezing Luke to voicelessness, his brother’s face purpling powerlessly in the dark. Sometimes it was the same as it had been in the waking world.
In truth the most terrifying thing of the dream was never his uncle, even in the height of his fury and strength, aided by the dark ally of Jace’s dream. It was the shadow behind him, ambiguously featured yet potently sinister: a figure that had the shape of a woman, yet the darkness of carved dragonglass, faceless as the void and shrouded by a cloak as equally dark. Always she haunted the furthest reaches of his vision, just beyond the boundary of comprehension. The greatest detail he could discern was the dagger of fire she wielded in her hand, its flame white and pure as evil itself, and the mass of wild, serpentine hair its wicked edge illuminated.
Jace always woke before he could see more of the shadowy woman’s face, but he woke with the clarity that she was the Stranger, come to collect her dues.
The dreams had begun to fade with time, and Jacaerys had been free of nightmares for a full turn of the moon when Rhaenyra had summoned him, and him alone, to the Stone Drum.
⚔
The dark halls of Dragonstone were daunting to walk, even in the unspeaking company of a protective blade following—and guiding, where Jacaerys’ direction wavered—but it was hard not to walk tall beneath the many stone eyes of decorative dragons carved into the stone, their ancient stares compelling him to hide his nerves and straighten his spine. He was his mother’s heir, he often reminded himself when his shoulders slouched or his chin tucked, and when she ruled as Queen, it was he who would serve as Prince of Dragonstone, claiming the castle as his home. Like a dragon, he reasoned, the castle and its lands would not be claimed by anyone it deemed unworthy. Everyone knew you never flinched in front of a dragon. Stone or not.
Rhaenyra awaited him in the round room, much to his legs’ misery. The steps of the great tower were just large enough that the ascent burned in his knees and thighs by the time he arrived at its door, breath infuriatingly short. Most embarrassingly his accompanying knight had insisted on asking him if he was alright. His pride smarted worse than his knees. He passed through the ancient doors under an archway of stone dragons spewing fire with a frown, face dropping in surprise when he noted the absence of his siblings or cousins.
She stood at the painted table, bowed over it as she spoke to the castellan to her side. The castle’s maester was set on the other, aged face thoughtful and quiet. Daemon faced the fireplace, watching its flames over a flagon of wine. Jacaerys was the only child there. The closest to his age was a meek serving girl not three years older, who stood obediently by a platter of cups, awaiting summons. All but his family bowed in acknowledgement as the knight announced the young prince’s arrival.
His mother righted herself with a softening expression. “Jace,” she half-called, moving around the great stone map marked with all the lands in Westeros. He met her in her stride, greeting her in kind. “There’s something important I wish to tell you.”
“Where’s Luke?”
“The library, as far as I’m aware, reviewing his lessons. I wished to talk to you alone,” she elaborated at the confusion on his face. “As my heir,” she added significantly.
At that, he straightened in attention. Jace fought to keep his eyes trained on Rhaenyra’s face, even as he itched to know what the faces of everyone else were foretelling. She inhaled carefully. “Your grandsire Viserys has asked me to be the successor to Lord Lyonel—to serve the realm as the Hand of the King. And… I have accepted this responsibility.” She watched realisation dawn on his face before proceeding, her tone even and elegant. It was her dutiful voice. The cadence of a princess. Of an heir to the throne.
“We’re returning to King’s Landing?”
“Yes. We will take a ship by week’s end—”
“A week?” he interrupted despite himself, flabbergasted. “Do the others know?”
“Well, no,” Rhaenyra answered quickly, before finding her composure again. “Jacaerys.” He settled at her tone. “The others will not be accompanying us when we return to the Keep. When I speak of ‘we’, Jace, I mean Daemon, myself and you.” His expression flickered, mouth twitching with unformed questions. She continued smoothly ahead, as if rehearsed. “Arrangements have been made to send Luke to ward in Driftmark, under the tutelage of Lord Corlys; Rhaena will be joining him, fostered under the care of Princess Rhaenys. Joff—”
Jace’s mind caught up to him. Again, he interrupted her, stepping back. “Arrangements?” He did not know much about the politics of such things, it was true, but he understood enough to know it was no easy nor timely process. “Mother, how long have you known about this?”
She casted a look backwards, to Daemon, the castellan and the maester in what Jace would call helplessness, had he not known any better. Finding nothing, she met Jace’s eye again, closing the distance he put between him. Behind her, Daemon crossed the room only to get a cup of wine. He drank as he watched. Jace’s face was hot. With what precise emotion, he knew not; he was as embarrassed as he was afraid, as afraid as he was angry, and as angry as he was confused. They had only just settled in Dragonstone, or so it felt.
Rhaenyra’s gaze searched his as she found her answer. “Several moons past,” she admitted, her regal dignity failing to conceal entirely the abashed reluctance beneath it. “A month, perhaps two, after your aunt’s funeral.”
Jace fumbled for words, and tried to sound mature when he answered. He failed. “Why was I not told before?”
“These are not the considerations of a child,” Rhaenyra reminded him with infuriating gentleness. “I would not burden you with it.” Petty frustration swelled in his chest, half-quelled by a tender hand on his cheek. “I mislike this myself, though it is an honour, too. I have no desire to part from your brothers, nor do the same to you.”
Then do not, he wanted to say, but he was remembering fastly that they were not alone, growing red with the realisation of his outbursts.
Her brows knitted, her eyes keeping his on hers where they were tempted to moodily fall to the floor. She sighed, a deep sound pulled from the bottom of her lungs, and dropped her hand. Quietly, she said, “You understand that it would not be wise to bring Luke to King’s Landing, don’t you, sweetling?”
Guilt grew heavy in his chest. The hazy image of Aemond’s ruined face rose out of the water of his mind. “Yes,” he answered, sullen. It wasn’t Luke’s fault, he thought helplessly. It was I who brought the blade. But his mother did not know this, and he could not tell her, so the confession weighed heavy and unsaid in his breast.
“And your cousins…” she began, returning to her explanation, but Jace had no need of it.
“It’s because of Vhagar.” His tone was flat, lacking question. The she-dragon had been Lady Laena’s own, and Rhaena’s inheritance. It would be cruel to return them to the Keep, forced to stay silent in the face of Aemond’s status as her rider and the inevitable boasting it would bring. Crueller still for Rhaena, who had yet to claim a dragon at all, and would be the only one without among them. It had not felt unfair to tease Aemond’s for his lack, for he was so annoying about his superiority otherwise, but Rhaena was gentle and ashamed, and he would not ask her or Baela to suffer for his sake.
Rhaenyra pressed her lips into an apologetic smile. “In time, feelings will pass. But before then,” she started with political brightness, righting herself to stand proud and regal, “we must make some sacrifices of our own to maintain peace. We have a duty to the realm to protect it, and a duty to our family to protect them.” Still disquieted by his unhappiness, she continued, taking his hands in hers and running her thumbs along his fingers. “We will visit them often, as we visited your cousins before, and you can write to them of all the excitement of the Keep. And,” she added, brightening further, “when Vermax is of riding age, we will ride together. On dragonback, the journey is short and much easier than passage by ship. We will be able to go whenever you like.”
Behind them, Daemon snorted quietly to himself. Jacaerys couldn’t fathom its significance, but the sound twitched in his mother’s eye with some annoyance. He was afforded little time to study it, Rhaenyra’s mood discarding the flicker of bother. She released his hands. “There is much to be done before then. Can I trust you to perform your duties, Jacaerys, and perform them well?” Her voice was one of authority, but there was no real edge beneath it. The answer was obvious even before he gave it.
“Of course, mother.” He steeled himself, smothering his childish complaints to replace them with more mature concerns, bowing his head respectfully. “What would you have me do?”
She needed little of him beyond that for the day. He was expected to be quiet until the others had been informed of their fates, and asked to comfort any who hid their upset. Baela’s annoyance at being abandoned at Dragonstone, as she had claimed it, could be heard echoing in the halls, but it was Lucerys who had come to him first. As was wanted of him, Jace did his best to comfort his anxious younger brother. It is necessary, he’d assured him firmly, you know it is.
But more than wanting to join them, unwilling to be parted, Luke was daunted by Driftmark. I don’t belong there, and all will know. It had angered Jace more than he had expected, a rush of fury and shame turning his head hot and heavy. He bit his tongue, thinking of Rhaenyra and her words of duty, but he had wanted to spit at him, It matters not where we are. They knew in King’s Landing, they know it here, they know it in the Vale and beyond. They probably know it in Yi Ti, you fool. At least Luke would have Rhaena, and the company of allies. Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys had never made them feel unwelcome. Jace was going to be alone under the eyes of the Queen, who hated them more than anyone else.
⚔
The morning they arrived in King’s Landing was cool and clear, though the sky was still dark with predawn. A sunless gloom hung about the capital like a funeral shroud, softening its sharp edges and purpling its shadows. It looked more like a painting than a place, Jace thought, watching the waters of the bay shimmer from his position at the prow. The sea was black as jet, silver where it frothed against shore and ship. Jacaerys, having never had Luke’s weak stomach, was quite content at his seat, though shy of the sailors working tirelessly at his sides. A knight loomed close by, assigned as a protector for the fraught hours of early morning, but his company unsettled Jace’s nerves more than they comforted him. His face was unfriendly and serious, his posture defensive, and his large sword gleamed dangerously in the growing light.
Somewhere within the ship’s bulk, his mother was being dressed to her best. Jacaerys himself was in some of his newest and finest attire, to the suffering of his skin itching beneath. He was clad in the blue of House Velaryon, muted to a mourning tone in honour of his fallen father. Emblazoned on his breast was the halved crest bearing the Velaryon seahorse and the Targaryen dragon, embroidered in thread barely brighter than the velvet of his tunic, shining subtly where it caught the light. There should be another crest, he thought with a bitter guilt. I mourn two fathers, not one.
He missed his brother. The Velaryon blues were lonely when worn alone. His mother and Daemon would bear the colours of the dragon, he was certain of it, and present the pale, silver image of Old Valyria. Jace clutched his travel cloak tighter, though the chill was fading as they approached land. On the collar the twinned faces of Vermax glittered in thread of gold and green.
His dragon slept below, tended to by a tamer of Dragonstone, though Caraxes and Syrax clicked and called above. Much to Jace’s frustration. Vermax’s too, he was sure. Months at Dragonstone had been generous to Vermax, who had enjoyed the attentions of being the eldest of the young riders’ clutch, and he was well at the age to fly.
Despite this, the dragonkeepers had advised elsewise, concerned that he did not yet possess the temperament for longer journeys. It chafed. They would not know of his temperament if they would not let him show it. Even Rhaenyra had encouraged Vermax to be caged for the journey, citing Caraxes as an intimidation the young dragon might not yet be equipped to handle. He had not argued further, too conscious of his mother’s own stresses to burden her with his own. But the stone of disappointment had been tough to swallow, and sat heavy in his stomach even now.
With dragons on his mind, Jacaerys found himself scanning the slopes of hills and the brightening sky for the oldest and largest dragon in the world, the memory of her spilling down his neck like cold water. Absorbed in his search, he almost jumped when Daemon appeared beside him, slinking out of the dark. “I had forgotten this place’s stink. The mercy of a few moon turns.”
Jace tensed, wary that he had appeared craven in front of the man they called the Rogue Prince. And other, less pleasant things, he thought, keeping his eyes on the city ahead. He sniffed the air, frowning when he smelled nothing special. “I only smell the sea.”
Daemon made a quiet sound of ineffable amusement. “Suppose I should expect nothing else from a Velaryon.”
Jacaerys darkened with something like shame, saying nothing. His step-father said nothing else, silence stretching along even as the ship docked and a new excitement cast its crew and passengers into chaos. The sleepiness of the morning was forgotten as doors swung open, well-coiffed crowds coming from the doors and onto the deck. Theirs was a small party for a royal one, their family accompanied by Rhaenyra’s ladies-in-waiting, sworn knights and their squires, maids and servants, dragonkeepers and a bard whose song his mother favoured. Of the assembly only the personal staff would remain in King’s Landing, with the keepers and bard returning to the black castle on the isle that shared its name. A pity, Jace thought. He also liked the bard.
Thoroughly distracted from his fearful ideas of Vhagar, his eyes fell to the new task of seeking his mother among the clamour. It was not hard to find her. The rising sun caught in her silver hair like a beacon, catching his eye. He made to go towards her, as would be expected of him, only to falter when Daemon’s steps do not follow. Jace lingered, gaze leaping from the ominous figure of Daemon unmoving to his mother in conversation, before settling finally on his step-father with a child’s bright determination. “Are you coming, good-father?”
The other man doesn’t turn to acknowledge him, only answering obscurely. “In a moment,” he said, watching the capital. No, Jace corrected himself. Watching the castle.
Uncertain of what Daemon’s languor meant for his own responsibilities, Jace stayed in place obediently. Eventually the older man’s gaze slid to his, gloam-dark in the dim. There was little emotion that Jacaerys could read on his strange face. “Go and tell your mother that.”
He nodded quickly, almost gulping, before marching away. Stupid, he chided himself on the journey, stupid to be so scared of him. He’ll think me weak. Daemon was as good as his father now since he wed his mother, and Jacaerys had never feared Laenor, his own father. Nor Ser Harwin, added a sharp voice that didn’t quite sound like his own. Shaking the thought away, he put on a brave face. He would not have Daemon thinking he was craven. Rhaenyra had told him that Daemon intended to take him as a squire by year’s end, and Jacaerys could not disappoint. Nor have his step-father changing his mind.
Thinking of his mother, of strength and duty, he goes to her with a high chin and a straight back. The picture of a dutiful prince, even if he lacked the otherworldly features of his predecessors. He tried not to think of what Daemon said, but the words swam rebelliously in his head. I should expect nothing else from a Velaryon.
Visions of Driftmark rose out of the anxious sea of Jace’s mind; of funerals, fires and fights underground. He delivered Daemon’s word to Rhaenyra as sensibly as he can, trying to dismiss the images burning in the back of his skull. She received it with a fond roll of her eyes, tilting her head to beckon him to her side. As he obeyed, he noticed the dress beneath her heavy cloak was not black and red, but a mournful shade of Velaryon blue. Emotion swelled in his throat, chased by relief.
Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered knowingly, seeing something betray him in his expression. He deflated at how clearly she could read him despite his efforts. She put her hand on his shoulder, thumbing it unthinkingly in comforting circles. Her hand is warm against the sea-swept cool of morning. “Nothing bad is going to happen, sweet boy,” she said gently, lost in the rabble for all but him, reading the buried anxiety in his eyes. “This is our home.”
Jace fixed his most reassuring smile for her, quelling the urge to tighten his fingers. If this is our home, why don’t I feel like I belong here? Even Dragonstone had felt more welcoming.
Above, dragons dark against radiant clouds called eager songs. Beneath the boards, Jace was sure that Vermax was answering with his own restless cries. The docks and the streets beyond grew loud with the excitable shouts of the smallfolk at the dragons dancing above. Dragons , they cried. He thought of Vhagar one last time with a shiver before the bridge was lowering with a deafening creak, and Rhaenyra was nudging him forwards to descend.
A small procession of litters and carriages awaited their party, a moat of space separating them from the dirty-faced crowds that had gathered to watch the arrival of the Prince and Princess. The return of the Realm’s Delight. And her wrong-haired son.
The heat of their stares burned hard and hot on his face even as he kept his gaze level with the waiting litter. There was cheering for the beautiful heiress and her infamous husband, but Jacaerys found little welcome or glory in the sound. It was all clamour and cawing, the dreadful noise of carrion birds come to prey on rotting meat. He missed Luke again suddenly and terribly, unaccustomed to bearing the stares alone.
Luke wouldn’t help anyway, he thought bitterly, willing himself out of sadness for fear of it showing. He stepped into the litter and held his mother’s hand to help her follow him. Even with the doors shut, the cries of the crowd seemed to claw their way in. He would just start crying or something.
His younger brother had not taken the revelation of their bastardy easily. He had been too young and stupid to learn as Jacaerys had, slowly growing aware of their alienness amongst the family colouring, the court stares, and the sly implications of their estranged family and their loyalists. Above all, what betrayed it was the affection Ser Harwin had bore for his mother and them, and her own affection in return. It had been so obvious, in retrospect. But it had taken Aemond screaming it in Luke’s face for him to understand.
Rhaenyra had comforted him, but it was Jace he came to, pestering him with questions and fears, crying about their wrongness, about the dangers ahead, about their fathers burning in the dark. Jace wished he would just stop thinking of it at all, but Luke wasn’t as brave as he was, nor as strong. He repressed a flinch at the word, and followed his own advice, refusing to think of it any longer. Shoving it from his mind was made an easier task when Rhaenyra pulled him close, and the litter began its ragged journey.
Daemon and Rhaenyra talked easily of nothing important at all. It soothed him, the casual cadence of their voices making for a low babble for his thoughts to drift along. He was glad for the distraction from the noise without and within. Jace leaned his head against his mother’s side, watching the clouds turn white from dusky violet, illuminated by the rising sun. Smoke into flame, or sunlight breaking on storm-dark seas.
Vermax came to his mind, well-fed and boisterous after his time on Dragonstone. Jace wondered if his dragon would be happy to be back, or if he was confused and alone without the company of Arrax and Moondancer. He wished he could ask him. The stories said that dragons shared the hearts of their riders. Perhaps if Vermax could answer him, Jace would understand his own heart better.