Chapter Text
"Don't say goodbye to me, because I know it won't be the last time we see each other. So, don't say goodbye."
Jacaerys would give every last drop of his blood to have those nights back. Nights when the howling wind of the North scratched at the windows, demanding to enter, but the ancestral stones of Winterfell kept the cold outside — and the warmth inside. They were nights woven by the sweet illusion that war could still be avoided, that reason would prevail. But peace had its throat slit a long time ago.
Almost half a year later, the cold Jace felt came from within. He was sitting at the great Painted Table of Dragonstone, surrounded by four new faces he did not want to know. He didn't want to memorize their features or get attached to any of them, knowing they could turn to ashes in the first clash in the skies over Blackwater Bay.
Grand words like unity, oath, loyalty, reward, and courage echoed through the hall. Rhaenyra spoke with the posture of a true queen, thanking the bravery of the new dragonriders. Four Seeds. Four bastards. Not that Jacaerys could judge them or use the word out loud; the whispers about his own lineage and the shadow of Ser Harwin Strong had always haunted him. He and the late Ser Laenor shared no traits, much less his brothers. His brother, Lucerys.
The simple mental mention of the name finished strangling Jace's stomach.
His brother was dead. His thirteen-year-old little brother, swallowed by the storm and Vhagar's jaws. And the murderer, the Kinslayer, marched free, gathering the usurper's armies. Aemond had not only stolen Luke from Jacaerys; he had stolen Rhaenys, his grandmother. With the blood of both, any hope of a white peace had drained down the gutters of Westeros.
Daemon's revenge — ordering the assassination of Aegon's child heir — sounded like a hollow echo compared to the primal fury that consumed Jace when the news from Storm's End reached him. He was in the North, in his temporary sanctuary where he was just Jace, and not the Prince of Dragonstone. Were it not for Lord Stark's firm arms and lethally calm voice, Jacaerys would have mounted Vermax and flown straight to the Red Keep. He would have reduced King's Landing to molten glass, even if he died in the process. He was blind.
"Jace…"
The prince blinked, being pulled back to the present and the flickering light of the torches. By his side, Baela's deep violet eyes watched him, heavy with a silent worry.
"You barely touched your food," she whispered, gesturing to his untouched plate with a nod of her chin.
Half a bird listlessly shredded, potatoes mashed by the fork, and peas scattered like stones on a board. His wine goblet, on the other hand, was dry. Alcohol was the only thing that deadened the storm of swords inside his head. However, Jace missed what used to calm him without numbing him. That anchor, however, was marching south, leading the Winter Wolves and hoisting the banners of the Blacks. Jacaerys feared with all his might that the war would swallow them before he could see Cregan again. Did Cregan, on those cold camp nights, look at the southern sky and feel the same longing that was destroying him from the inside?
"I'm not hungry," Jace replied, his voice harsh and low so as not to interrupt the queen.
"We need to help the Seeds prepare in the morning. You have to eat," Baela insisted, unyielding.
Defeated, Jacaerys swept the table with his gaze. At the other end, Ulf tore a piece of meat with his teeth like a starving dog, the grease dirtying his silver hair. Hugh tried to imitate the posture of the lords, but his movements carried the raw brutality of a Flea Bottom blacksmith. Addam of Velaryon seemed out of place and frightened, eating in a reverent silence. And then there was Nettles. Skinny, agile, and dressed like a stable boy, she devoured her meal with an almost fierce enthusiasm. Jace knew part of her story: beaten countless times for stealing scraps of bread so she wouldn't starve. And there he was, the crown prince, born into privilege, playing with a feast while mourning his own lack of appetite. The guilt tasted like ashes in his mouth.
"Nyke ȳdra daor pāsagon zirȳ (I do not trust them)," Jace murmured to Baela. His High Valyrian was still slightly stiff and carried an accent, but it was clear enough.
"Kessa, yn īlon jorrāelagon zirȳ (Yes, but we need them)," Baela countered in the same language, pouring a little more wine into her cousin's goblet, and then into her own.
The movement drew attention at the head of the table. Jacaerys's gaze met his mother's. Rhaenyra looked impeccable; her black and scarlet garments contrasted with Viserys's crown resting in her silver hair. Beautiful and terribly exhausted. The look the queen gave her son was quick and sharp, conveying a clear message: No whispering in High Valyrian at the table. But that was all. A moment of maternal normalcy before the queen returned to smiling at the commoners who now rode her House's beasts.
He forced himself to swallow two more pieces of the rustic meat before being the first to excuse himself and withdraw. The walk to his chambers was silent, escorted by the heavy footsteps of one of the Queensguard knights. When the oak door finally closed, isolating him from the world, Jace leaned the back of his neck against the rough wood and let out a long sigh that scratched his throat. It wasn't just his mind roaring in agony; in the depths of the Dragonmont, Vermax shared his restlessness. The dragon clawed at the stone walls the same way the prince clawed at the walls of his own sanity. Vermax felt the absence of Arrax. Jacaerys bled for the loss of Lucerys.
With impatient movements, the prince tore off his heavy cloak, throwing it over the first chair he found. His hands, still slightly trembling, began to undo the ties of his riding clothes, letting the garments fall to the floor like dead skins. He unbuckled his leather belt with unnecessary force, throwing his sword and daggers, which muffled the sound of the impact against the worn rug of the room.
He collapsed at the foot of the canopy bed and huffed, burying his face in his hands.
"Prince Jacaerys, it is an honor to have you in my castle. I am Cregan, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Welcome to the home of winter."
The memory of that voice — thick, raspy, shaped by the biting wind and eternal snows — seemed to blow in from the open window of his chambers. Jace closed his eyes tightly. He would give his crown for just a moment, a single second, where that voice would echo beside him again, real and tangible.
He lay on his back on the bed, his arms spread like a cross over the cold sheets, breathing the damp air of Dragonstone while his mind betrayed him, dragging him back to the crypts of the North.
"Easy, my prince… we have all night."
And then, that low laugh, a complicit whisper in the gloom of the lord's bedchamber in Winterfell, where the only light came from the golden crackle of the hearth. In his memory, their bodies were tangled in a chaos of heavy blankets and wolf pelts spread on the floor; wine goblets and beer tankards knocked over, clothes scattered across the dark stone. Jacaerys yearned to be desired that way again. He wanted to be worshipped with the savage and reverent intensity that the Starks had given him almost from the first night under the winter roof.
By Cregan. And by his half-sister, Sara.
His uncles, Aegon and Aemond, were familiar figures in the brothels of Flea Bottom, but Jace had always guarded his virtue zealously. He had never looked with lust or acted without proper decorum toward any lady, be she a servant or high nobility. So, when he found himself the target of the hungry gaze of those two Northern wolves, who coveted him like a precious piece of meat, Jacaerys simply surrendered. He let himself be possessed and desired in the deepest and most feverish ways possible — separately and, sometimes, simultaneously.
He tried to convince himself that this did not make him a libertine like his usurper uncle, who had scattered miserable bastards through the alleys of the capital, let alone a monster like the Kinslayer. Jacaerys had surrendered his innocence to the North, in the arms of Sara Snow, who was not delicate at all, holding the savagery of the wolves in her touch.
It had been a unique initiation, a rite of passage of which he made sure to absorb every detail, every line of pleasure and intimacy. He repeated to himself, like a prayer of self-confidence, that all of it served a purpose so that, when the day came to take Baela as his wife, he would know exactly how to be a good husband, how to give his cousin pleasure.
Daemon had promised to take him and Lucerys to the capital's brothels when they were of age. But his stepfather's plans had turned to ashes. Daemon was now in Harrenhal, molding men into soldiers for the Blacks, and Lucerys… Luke was beneath the dark waves, beyond any lust or future.
The soft knocks on the door pulled him from his trance. He couldn't tell how much time had passed staring at the dark ceiling. With heavy limbs, Jacaerys stood up and unlocked the thick oak door. Baela was waiting for him in the corridor, wrapped in a black and scarlet silk robe, holding a small silver plate with wild berry tarts. One of her hands was occupied, and she sucked the tip of her thumb, distracted, cleaning off a drop of dark syrup.
Baela's violet eyes immediately drifted down to the prince's chest and widened for a fraction of a second. Jace had forgotten that, in his fit of frustration minutes before, he had violently undone the ties of his linen shirt, leaving a large part of his chest exposed to the cold air of the castle's drafts. Baela, however, blinked rapidly and looked up, a soft, complicit smile appearing on her lips as she showed the plate.
"You forgot dessert," she murmured, her velvety voice breaking the funereal silence of the room.
Jace let out a weak laugh through his nose and stepped aside. Baela slipped inside. Before closing the door, the prince exchanged a brief nod with Ser Glendon, who stood guard at the end of the corridor, receiving a bow in response.
"What did your clothes do to you to deserve this fate?" Baela asked, amused, staring at the mess of leather and fabric scattered across the rug.
Jacaerys bent down, picking up his doublet and cloak from the floor.
"I just... wanted to feel the weight of things on me a little less."
He adjusted the collar of his shirt, retying the knots with more decency, and accepted the plate, stealing one of the tarts with a generous bite. They walked over to the armchairs set near the balcony. Baela drew her legs up and hugged her knees under her robe, losing her gaze beyond the window. Dragonstone's sky was an abyss of black ink, dotted by the ghostly glow of the moon, while the incessant roar of the Narrow Sea's waves echoed in the background.
"What is it like there?" she broke the silence, awakening Jace from his thoughts. He swallowed the sweet, licking a drop of syrup from the corner of his mouth. "In the North."
"Cold," Jace replied immediately, a dry laugh escaping his lips. He rested the small plate on the center table. Baela rolled her eyes dramatically, drawing another laugh from the prince.
"Oh, are you going to tell me that Dorne is made of snow, then?" she mocked, raising an eyebrow. "What is the landscape like, Jace? The people. The food."
Jacaerys let out a long sigh. There was a part of his soul that yearned to scream that it was all perfect; that he had loved every second riding alongside Cregan, every northern castle that welcomed them until they reached the white immensity of the Wall. But the secret burned in his throat, sweet and lethal. He didn't trust his own voice to speak of Cregan without exposing himself.
"It's all incredibly vast," he began, measuring his words. "The valleys are of a melancholic green, which is gradually swallowed by the relentless white. The wind there doesn't blow; it cuts. It's like hundreds of glass needles against your face. And it's almost impossible to fly above the clouds in that freezing weather."
He caught Baela's attention instantly. The flickering light of the candelabras caressed his cousin's dark skin and silver curls, highlighting the stunning beauty she possessed.
"Vermax must have loved it," she joked.
"Quite the contrary," Jace laughed, an honest laugh he hadn't heard from himself in a long time. "He hated it. He hated the cold with every scale and every drop of boiling blood in his body."
The two laughed together, the sound filling the room and temporarily driving away the ghosts.
"The people... are like people anywhere else," Jace continued, his voice softening. "Except they are more rustic, stricter with duty. They are men and women who intimately understand what hunger, grief, and survival are." Jacaerys injected more feeling into those words than he intended, but it was inevitable. He had witnessed the struggle of those people, and the sense of brotherhood in the North burned hotter than any castle fire. "If there is a kingdom I intend to look at more carefully during my reign, it is the North. They have been neglected by the Iron Throne for far too long."
"We shall do that, then," Baela agreed, sitting upright. "You and Lord Stark seem to have forged a strong bond. That will be invaluable when we both are on the throne."
"If we cannot unite our Houses through ourselves... let us do it with our children. My Rickon and your first girl. A pact of ice and fire."
Cregan's rustic voice echoed in Jacaerys's mind, as vivid as if he were standing next to him. A promise whispered beneath the bleeding canopy of a weirwood tree in the Godswood, sealed only beneath the red eyes of the Old Gods.
"Yes," Jace nodded, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck, uncomfortable. "Perhaps... perhaps I should have told you earlier, but Joffrey wasn't the only one I arranged a betrothal for."
Baela frowned, her eyes half-closed in the gloom.
"Don't tell me you threw Aegon and Viserys to the dragons of matrimony too? Your mother will not be the least bit pleased with your diplomacy, Jace." When he shook his head, offering an awkward smile, Baela's confusion deepened. "Who, then? Rhaena? By the Seven, she will be much more furious than the queen and will try to slit your throat."
"Gods forbid, no! I value my life," Jace defended himself quickly, laughing at the thought of facing his cousin's fury. "Lord Cregan and I... we sealed a pact. To unite the blood of House Targaryen and House Stark. His heir... with our firstborn daughter."
Baela raised her eyebrows as high as they could go, leaning forward in her armchair.
"Jace, we do not have a daughter," she pointed out, incredulous. "By the gods, we haven't even been taken to the sept to marry yet!"
"I know, I know. But, eventually... well, it will happen," he argued, his ears burning with embarrassment.
Baela let out a genuine, astounded laugh, reaching out to give Jacaerys's forearm a loud smack, making him laugh along with her. For a brief second, they were just two young people, oblivious to the blood and death that surrounded the island.
"I would rather you had betrothed Rhaena to the Stark," she said, wiping an invisible tear from laughing so hard.
Jace's smile faltered, turning into something sweet, yet sad.
"No... she barely left for the Vale and I already miss her." He looked back out into the endless night through the window. "I want her close to us when this war is over."
"She won't be at all pleased to know that the dragons have been claimed and that her chance to fly a full-grown beast has vanished," Baela murmured, her thumb absently twisting the pearl ring on her index finger, a piece of jewelry identical to the one her twin sister wore. "Even a wild dragon. Nettles is truly extraordinary."
"All women with the blood of the dragon are, in my opinion," Jacaerys replied, reaching for the little plate to steal another bite of the tart. Baela made no effort to hide the smug smile that appeared on her lips at the compliment. "You certainly are. Chasing Cole so relentlessly through the Kingswood..."
"He deserved the scare. The imbecile was marching through the middle of an open field in all his white armored glory. It was impossible not to notice a shiny target in the middle of all that green," Baela boasted, and a light, shared laugh dispelled the tension in the room for a moment. Her smile, however, soon softened. "She seems to be a pleasant little thing, by the way."
"Criston Cole's armor?"
"No, Jace!" Baela rolled her eyes, letting out an exasperated laugh before adopting a more analytical tone. "Nettles. Addam also strikes me as a trustworthy man. But Ulf and Hugh… I still have my reservations about those two."
Jacaerys let out a nasal laugh, heavy and loaded with disdain.
"If you say so, I trust your word and your judgment."
Baela tilted her head, her gaze flashing with a mix of defiance and reprimand.
"We are going to train them tomorrow morning. How do you expect to command dragonriders you don't even care to know?"
Jacaerys licked the remaining sweet syrup from his fingers and dropped the empty plate onto the table with unnecessary force. The crack of the ceramic against the wood sounded dry and harsh.
"And who said they will even make it out alive from the very first clash they enter?" Jace retorted, his jaw tense. "They are commoners. They are riding the most formidable and magical creatures in this world. It is a desecration, things that shouldn't mix. The gods will find a way to rebalance these scales."
He leaned forward, bitterness poisoning every word.
"I regret to my very soul having suggested this damned idea to my mother. I understand we need their fire, but I will not bother to memorize their names. I am not going to waste my time trying to understand their tastes, their fears, or their dreams, only to see them crushed by Vhagar's jaws in the end."
Baela pressed her lips together. She saw through the resentment. She saw the terrified and wounded boy hiding beneath the cloak of the crown prince.
"They are not Luke, Jace…" she whispered, touching the wound that was still wide open and raw.
Jacaerys jumped up from the armchair, his breathing suddenly short.
"No, they are not!" the exclamation tore from his throat, echoing off the stone walls of the room. He began to pace back and forth, his hands gripping his own hair. "The dragons were the only undeniable proof that secured my claim as heir! Luke's too, and Joffrey's. If now Flea Bottom bastards can ride dragons, what happens to us? What sets us apart from them in the eyes of the realm?!"
He stopped suddenly, fixing his eyes on Baela. They were shining with tears he refused to let fall, reflecting the despair of an older brother drowning in guilt.
"Luke has already escaped this burden because he ended up dead," his voice faltered, breaking into a hoarse whisper. "And that, most likely, will be my fate and Joffrey's if the Greens triumph. I can already feel the icy edge of Blackfyre scratching my throat the second Aegon lays his hands on me. And by the gods, Baela... I only ask that they kill me first. That they cut off my head first, so I am not forced to watch yet another of my little brothers be killed in front of me."
Baela didn't back down in the face of his despair. Instead, she rose with the predatory grace of a dragon and gripped Jace's shoulders firmly, her fingers squeezing the linen shirt to force him to stop and face her. The pure, deep violet of her eyes — the undeniable and untamed inheritance of Daemon — clashed against Jacaerys's dark brown, where Rhaenyra's color fought a silent and almost lost war to emerge.
"You will be king because you will inherit the throne from your mother, not your father," Baela's words cut through the air like Valyrian steel. "It is undeniable that you are the queen's blood. No one has ever dared deny that; there were a dozen witnesses in the birthing room when you cried your first cry."
She didn't blink, anchoring Jace in reality.
"Not to mention that not for a single second did our grandfather entertain the idea that you and your brothers are not Velaryons. The Sea Snake loved Lucerys with his very soul, and he loves you and Joffrey the same way he loves me and Rhaena. You may not share Ser Laenor's seed, but you carry his legacy. And Corlys Velaryon values legacy above all things. King Viserys did not spare the last breath he had left, even rotting alive, to climb onto that throne and affirm to the Seven Kingdoms that you were trueborn princes. You are the heir to the Iron Throne and no one else's. These Seeds may have drops of the blood of the dragon running in their veins, but none of them is the dragon. Not like you. And not like me."
Jacaerys absorbed every syllable like a castaway breathing pure air. The invisible weight crushing his chest gave way, and he let out an exhausted sigh, letting the tension leave his shoulders under his cousin's touch.
"And if any coward dares to question in the shadows who your father once was, answer only with the truth that matters," Baela softened her tone, shrugging with a sharp half-smile. "Daemon. He was the one who taught you to wield a sword. He who corrected your posture with a bow and arrow. He was the one who gave you your first cup of strong Dornish wine, hidden from your mother and the servants..."
The memory drew a faint, yet relieved, laugh from Jace's lips.
"And in the exact same way that my father is right now in the Riverlands, gathering armies in the mud to fight for your mother," Baela continued, her voice lowering to a husky and solemn timbre, "if need be, in your reign, I will do exactly the same for you. You will be my king, Jacaerys. And I will be your queen."
"There are moments when it feels like you already are..." Jace murmured, his voice almost breaking.
His eyes traced Baela's face, noticing the exact instant her gaze drifted down, dark and dense, to rest on his lips. The prince dared to mirror the movement, his heart hammering against his ribs, but it went no further than that. The chains of honor and cordiality, which he fought so hard to maintain after what had happened in the North, paralyzed him.
But Baela wore no chains. She was the pure blood of Old Valyria, the audacious daughter of the Rogue Prince.
Baela tilted her face, closing the distance until only millimeters remained between them. The air in the room seemed to evaporate. Jacaerys raised his hands and held her arms delicately — a touch that should have been a mute plea to step back, but carried no firmness whatsoever. He swallowed hard, tilting his head fractionally to the side, a hostage to her magnetism.
"Baela..." he whispered, his hot breath brushing against the princess's skin.
"We are betrothed, are we not?" the challenge in her voice was low, almost a purr.
"But we are not married," he tried to argue, his husky voice betraying his hesitation.
She simply ignored the excuse, leaning even closer. Their breaths mingled, the heat of their bodies radiating through the thin fabric.
"Baela..."
"Jacaerys…"
Baela's hands, which had previously rested firmly on Jacaerys's shoulders, began to slide up with a torturous slowness. Her fingers traced the warm skin of his collarbone exposed by the undone shirt, sliding up the sensitive curve of his neck until they brushed the exact spot where the prince's jugular beat frantically. While one hand drifted down again to rest over his chest, feeling his racing heart, the other found the nape of his neck.
Jacaerys felt his knees threaten to buckle the instant the princess's warm, silky fingers tangled in his short curls, pulling the strands with a gentle possessiveness.
What little resistance the prince had left crumbled. His hands slipped from her arms, sliding down until they found the silk of the robe at Baela's slender waist, pulling her in instinctively to press their bodies together. Jace felt his own blood boil in his veins beneath her touch. He was hypnotized, completely surrendered to the fierce intensity of that violet gaze, feeling the heat of her body against his and knowing there was no escape route.
"This is a terrible idea," he murmured, his voice breaking in a hoarse breath, devoid of any real attempt to stop her.
"I am the daughter of the man who invented the concept of terrible ideas..." Baela whispered back, boldness overflowing in a feline and dangerous smile.
A weak, nasal laugh escaped Jacaerys, his last line of defense collapsing completely. But, before the outline of a defeated, roguish smile could even take shape on his lips, the princess dug her fingers into the back of his neck and pulled him in for good. Their mouths collided in an overwhelming encounter, urgent and hungry, like two flames colliding in the dark to consume all the air around them.
The kiss held none of the polite hesitation Jacaerys had tried to maintain moments before. It was an explosion of raw need, a bursting of the dam he had been building since the news about Storm's End had hit him. Baela's lips still held the sweet taste of wild berry tarts, but her tongue explored his with a feverish voracity that demanded an immediate response.
Jace opened his mouth with a ragged gasp, yielding entirely to that invasion. His hands squeezed the princess's waist tightly enough to crumple the slippery silk of her robe, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin layer of fabric.
If in the freezing nights of the North he had been worshipped with devotion by Cregan and Sara, here, in Dragonstone, under Baela's dominion, he was confronted as an equal. Her fire didn't envelop him to soothe him; it consumed him to forge him anew. The wet sound of the kiss filling the silence of the room, the clash of teeth, the scent of wine, sea salt, and lavender — all of it served to numb the sharp agony bleeding into his soul.
Baela stepped forward, forcing Jacaerys to retreat. His heels hit the base of the carved wooden armchair, and he had to twist his body so they wouldn't fall. In a clumsy and blind stumble, guided only by touch and mutual hunger, they moved away from the balcony. They walked toward the center of the room amidst urgent kisses, until Jace's back met one of the sturdy columns of the canopy bed.
The dull impact against the wood made him break contact, gasping for air in a hoarse pant. Both of their chests rose and fell in chaotic, rapid rhythms. Baela rested her forehead against his, her breath blowing hot and heavy against the prince's face. Her gaze had darkened, dilated pupils devouring the purple of her irises.
"If you ask me to stop right now," Baela whispered, her voice trembling with adrenaline, but vibrating with the seductive danger of a dragon about to take flight, "I swear by the gods I will turn around and walk out that door. But you will have to look into my eyes and truly ask me to, Jacaerys."
The prince stared at her, his heart hammering against his ribs with absurd violence. The fearless girl who crossed the skies on Moondancer, the heir to Daemon Targaryen's fury, the very woman who refused to let him drown in his own grief.
The bittersweet guilt over the memories of Winterfell, the crushing terror of the impending war, the specter of Lucerys's death... all of it waited like a starving wolfpack outside those doors. But inside, in that fraction of time stolen from a cruel fate, there was only the present. There was only her.
Jace's hands slid up from Baela's waist, gliding up her back until they firmly cupped her face. His thumbs caressed the delicate line of the princess's cheekbones, feeling her skin rise in goosebumps under his touch.
"Don't you dare stop," he ordered, his voice harsh and deadly serious.
And before she could smile at her victory, Jacaerys reversed their positions, pushing her gently but firmly toward the softness of the unmade sheets, taking her lips in a new kiss that promised to burn through the rest of the night.
Baela fell onto the feather mattress with a laugh muffled by the meeting of their mouths, pulling Jacaerys down along with her. The prince's weight sank her into the softness of the heavy sheets, and their legs tangled naturally, a chaotic dance neither had rehearsed, but which the instinct in their blood seemed to know by heart.
The princess's black and scarlet silk robe, its knots already loose from the clumsy walk to the bed, slipped off one of her shoulders. Baela's dark skin was exposed to the cold air of Dragonstone, but she did not shiver; her skin seemed to radiate the very heat of the castle's furnaces under the flickering candlelight.
Jace's hands left her face to follow the path the silk had laid bare. He kissed the sharp line of his cousin's jaw, moving slowly down to her neck, where he felt her racing pulse beating frantically against his lips. Every touch, every brush of their mouths tore a ragged gasp from Baela's throat, a sound that made Jacaerys's chest swell with a strength and possessiveness he didn't even know dwelt within him.
The North had taught him the beauty of surrender and the reverence of touch. But here, entwined with the fire of his own House, Jace was discovering the urgency of conquest. The desperate need to claim her, to carve his own name onto her skin before the world crumbled around them both.
Baela, however, was not a woman to let herself be passively dominated. With impatient agility, her hands grabbed the edges of Jace's linen shirt — the same one he had tried to haphazardly fix minutes ago — and roughly yanked the fabrics, undoing the knots and opening it completely. The princess's hot palms flattened against the heir's bare chest, her fingers lightly scratching his skin, sending spasms of electricity up and down the boy's spine.
With a firm tug, she forced him to lift his torso, making him face her. Her silver curls were splayed like an untidy crown across the white pillows, and her violet eyes shone with a wild, predatory intensity.
"You are mine, Jacaerys Targaryen," she whispered. It wasn't a question, nor a promise whispered in the dark. It was an absolute claim, an order given by a dragonrider.
Jace felt his throat tighten, not out of fear, but from an overwhelming devotion. He held her gaze, their breaths merging in the small space that separated them.
"Always have been," he replied, his husky voice carrying an irrefutable truth.
Jacaerys descended upon her again, capturing her lips in a kiss that was now deeper, denser, and free of any barrier. The sound of the storm and the turbulent sea crashing against the island's cliffs was completely muffled by the rustle of clothes being discarded onto the floor and the heavy, panting breaths filling the room.
"Then make me yours too," she asked, her voice now a hot, trembling thread, her eyes damp with something that went far beyond desire. "Please, Jace."
He did not answer with words.
Jacaerys tilted his head and kissed her again — slower now, as if he had all the time in the world and the war outside was just a distant nightmare. His lips glided over hers, then over her trembling chin, descending once more to the neck where Baela's pulse hammered like a war drum.
But this time he didn't stop there.
The prince's mouth moved onward, tracing a hot, wet trail down the princess's collarbone, through the valley between her breasts, descending down the center of her belly with a patience that bordered on cruelty. Baela arched her back against the sheets, her fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding him there for a moment before releasing him with a trembling sigh.
"Jace..." the name escaped her lips less like a word and more like a muffled moan, a disguised plea.
He looked up at her for a brief second. His dark brown eyes were almost black under the flickering candlelight, and there was something there that Baela had never seen before – not exactly dominance, not exactly surrender, but a silent certainty that made her catch her breath.
Jacaerys looked away and kept going down.
His fingers found the edge of the linen undergarments Baela still wore – the last barrier, thin and already undone by the agitation of their previous movements. He pulled them with deliberate slowness, the knots coming undone without resistance, the fabric sliding down the princess's legs until it was discarded somewhere on the floor along with the rest of their clothes.
Baela shivered, not from the cold, but from the raw anticipation that ran through every inch of her exposed skin. The air of Dragonstone was freezing, but Jacaerys's gaze upon her burned hotter than any hearth.
"You look so beautiful like this," he murmured, his voice hoarse, almost inaudible. It wasn't a rehearsed compliment. It was a realization, as if the weight of what he saw robbed him of any capacity for flourish.
Before Baela could respond with a tease – her usual shield against vulnerability – Jace's mouth found the inside of her thigh.
She bit her lower lip hard.
It was a soft kiss, almost chaste, on the soft, warm skin. Then another, a little higher. And another. Every touch of his lips drew a small spasm that Baela couldn't control, the muscles in her legs twitching involuntarily. Her arms, previously firm at her sides, moved up to grip the pillows above her head, her knuckles turning white against the linen.
"Jace, for the love of the gods..." she tried to sound impatient, even annoyed, but her voice came out completely ruined, trembling, high-pitched, undone.
The prince looked up at her again. The corner of his mouth curved into something that wasn't exactly a smile – it was closer to that same silent certainty, now tinged with a discreet pleasure at seeing her so disarmed.
And then he tasted her for the first time.
Jacaerys's tongue found the center of Baela's wetness with a slow, experimental movement, like someone tasting something precious and wanting to burn every detail of the flavor into memory. The sound that escaped the princess's throat was sharp and ragged, a moan she didn't have time to muffle – her hips rose from the sheets in an involuntary movement, seeking more.
He held her by the hips with both hands, his fingers firm against the curve of her bones, and pressed her back against the mattress with a gentleness that was, at the same time, an absolute claim.
"Be still," he whispered against her skin, the vibration of his voice running through every nerve ending in Baela like a tiny thunderclap. "Let me take care of you."
She didn't have the strength to argue.
Jace dove in again, and this time there was no hesitation. His mouth covered her entirely, his tongue finding the rhythm without ever having rehearsed it – sometimes pressing firmly against the spot that made Baela catch her breath, other times drawing slow circles that made her moan softly, her fingers burying themselves in his hair with a desperate urgency.
The prince learned quickly – or perhaps he always knew, as if her body spoke a language he had been born understanding. Every gasp, every twitch, every small movement of Baela's hips was a map he followed with relentless precision. When she pulled his hair harder, he increased the pressure. When she moaned his name in a high-pitched thread, he slowed down, bordering on torture, only to start again with redoubled intensity when her moans became unintelligible pleas.
"This is..." Baela gasped, her eyes rolling back beneath closed lids. Disconnected words escaped her lips alternating with moans – there, like that, please, don't stop – like a pagan prayer offered to a god who had a tongue and lips and infinite patience.
The princess's arms trembled. Her legs closed involuntarily around Jacaerys's head, and he didn't pull back – on the contrary, he wrapped his arms around her thighs, opening her even wider, pulling her closer, as if he wanted to drown there.
Baela felt the wave begin deep in her belly, a dense heat that spread like a slow fire through dry kindling. She tried to warn him – opened her mouth to say, 'Jace, I'm going to' – but what came out was a loud, ragged moan, almost a sob.
He didn't stop. Quite the opposite: Jacaerys intensified every movement, his tongue now firm and fast against the exact spot that made her legs shake uncontrollably, his lips sucking gently, his chin shining and wet in the candlelight.
When the orgasm hit Baela, it was as if the floor had given way beneath her feet.
The pleasure exploded from the inside out in concentric waves, each contraction stronger than the last, and she heard her own voice echoing through the room — a prolonged, hoarse cry that dissolved into sharp, irregular moans, muffled by her hand. Her fingers dug into Jace's shoulders, pulling him up, not to stop him, but to anchor herself to something solid as the world fell apart around her.
Jacaerys didn't pull away immediately. He rode out the climax with her through slow, gentle movements, his tongue caressing her with a gentleness that bordered on reverence, feeling every small tremor gradually subside until Baela's body finally relaxed against the sheets, completely spent.
He then moved up, sliding his body over hers until their faces were level. His stubble lightly scratched Baela's skin, and his chin was still wet; she tasted herself when he kissed her, an intimate and primitive gesture that made her moan softly against his mouth.
"Do you still want me to finish?" he asked, his voice as hoarse as hers, his dark eyes shining with a mix of desire and an unexpected vulnerability. As if, after everything, he still needed to hear the answer.
Baela laughed, a low, trembling laugh, still dizzy from the pleasure throbbing in her extremities. Her hands came up to cup his face, the same way he had done earlier, her thumbs caressing the prince's cheekbones.
"Jacaerys Targaryen," she said, her voice still fraying at the edges, "if you don't take me completely in the next ten seconds, I swear I'm going to tie you to this bed and leave you here until you learn not to ask such stupid questions."
The prince smiled, a genuine, almost boyish smile that contrasted with everything that had just happened.
"Ten seconds is a long time," he replied, lowering his hips against hers, making Baela suck in a sharp breath. "I can do it in five."
And he kept his promise. The prince pulled away, getting out of bed only for the brief moment it took to take off his trousers, which were incredibly tight due to his throbbing erection trapped inside. When the fabric fell, Baela, propped up on her elbows, saw Jacaerys's body in full, every curve illuminated by the candles and the lit hearth, and the organ she had only heard about since her first moonblood, which she had only seen engraved in books during her tutoring, and which was now truly there before her. For the first time, Baela felt insecure, but Jacaerys didn't allow the feeling to last.
Jacaerys's mouth found hers in a kiss that was both a reward and a promise—hot lips, insistent tongue, the taste of Baela still present at the corners of his mouth. She felt the weight of his body against hers, bare skin adjusting to bare skin, and something deep in the princess's chest spiked—not just desire, but a twinge of nervousness she tried to hide by biting her lower lip.
Jace felt the small tremor. Not the one that came from pleasure; this one was different, more subtle, almost hesitant. He pulled his face away just enough to look into her eyes, supporting his body weight on his forearms so as not to crush her.
"Baela," he called softly. It wasn't a question. It was an anchor.
She looked away for a brief second, something the fearless princess and rider of Moondancer rarely did. Her fingers, which moments before had buried themselves in his hair with such confidence, now toyed with the edges of the sheet beneath them.
"I know what happens now," she said, and there was a challenge in her voice that tried to mask her insecurity. "I know how... how it works. The septas explain it. When the time comes. The basics."
Jace held her gaze, moving one hand to brush a lock of silver hair from the princess's face. The gesture was so gentle that Baela held her breath.
"And what did they explain?" he asked, not with malice, but with a genuine curiosity that seemed to invite her to speak without shame.
Baela wrinkled her nose, a childish tick he had always found charming, even when they were kids.
"That a man... puts himself inside a woman. That there is blood sometimes. That it is usually painful. And that it is for the husband." She paused, her violet eyes finally meeting his with a raw frankness. "Just that, Jace. That's all they say. The basics."
The prince tilted his head, his chin almost touching her chest. For a moment, he seemed to consider something, his dark eyes scanning his cousin's face as if seeking permission for something greater than what they had already done.
"They don't tell you everything," he said, and it wasn't a question.
"They don't tell you anything," Baela countered, and a bitter laugh escaped her lips. "They say we must obey. Keep quiet. Let it happen. As if it were... a duty. A chore."
Jacaerys's expression hardened for an instant – not against her, but against the idea itself, against all the septas and all the traditions that taught princesses to endure instead of feel.
"It won't be like that with you," he said, his voice firm as an oath. "Not with me. None of that. No pain; at the slightest sign, I'll stop."
Baela blinked, her eyes shining with something she refused to name. Her hand came up to touch his face, her fingers tracing his jawline.
"How do you know so much?" the question escaped before she could contain it, and she felt her face heat up. "It's not... I'm not asking because..."
"I know because I prepared myself," he replied, and the honesty in his voice was as raw as the bare skin between them. "I read things. I asked. I didn't want to come before you like a fool who doesn't know what he's doing. You deserve more than a clumsy prince who's going to hurt you out of ignorance."
He couldn't tell her exactly what had happened in the North. But there he had learned. Read. Asked. Done it, multiple times, in the most diverse ways. Perhaps nothing compared to Cregan due to the prince's inexperience or because perhaps the Northern lord was truly incomparable, but there was also Sara, who was equally fierce. All the experience he acquired, he would use here and now.
The unspoken words floated between them like candle smoke, but Baela didn't chase them. Some secrets – especially those involving her absence – deserved to stay buried. At least for now.
"Then show me," she whispered, her fingers drifting down to his chest, feeling his racing heart beneath her palm. "Show me what they don't tell."
Jace held her gaze for another long moment, searching for something – hesitation, fear, imminent regret. He found nothing but trust and a hungry curiosity that mirrored his own.
He kissed her again. Slower this time. Softer. Like someone saying trust me without needing to form the words.
"I'm going to guide you," he murmured against her lips. "If it hurts, if it's uncomfortable, if you want to stop for any reason, any reason at all, Baela, you tell me. And we stop. No questions. No guilt."
"And if I don't want to stop?" she asked, a shy smile curving the corners of her mouth.
"Then we don't stop."
Jace went down again, but now his mouth took a different path, slow kisses trailing down her neck, her shoulder, her arm, while his free hand slipped between their bodies. He found Baela's hot, wet center, his fingers exploring with a delicacy that made the princess gasp – not from pain, but from the novelty of the sensation.
"Relax," he whispered, feeling her muscles tense under his touch. "I'm just preparing you. It'll be easier this way. Less uncomfortable."
Baela obeyed, or tried to. It was hard to relax when his every touch sent little sparks up and down her spine, when his thumb found a spot that made her hips rise on their own.
"What..." she began, but the question died in a low moan when he repeated the movement.
"You don't need to know the name of everything right now," Jace smiled against the skin of her shoulder. "You just need to feel it."
His fingers continued their slow and meticulous work, stretching, acclimating her, until Baela's body stopped offering any resistance. Every little sound that escaped her lips guided his movements — fingernails scratching his shoulder meant slower, a hoarse gasp when he slid two fingers in meant like that, exactly like that.
When he finally positioned himself over her, his body weight resting on one forearm, his other hand reaching down to align their hips, Baela felt her heart beating so hard it seemed like it wanted to jump out of her throat.
"There's still time to change your mind," he said, and his voice was strained now, his self-control visibly fraying.
Baela wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer.
"I'm not going to change my mind, Jace." She touched his face, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "I trust you. That's all that matters."
He took a deep breath. Once. Twice.
"You're going to feel pressure first. Maybe a little stinging. If it's too much..."
"I'll say so. I promise."
Jace kissed her – deeply, like a man needing to anchor himself to something before jumping – and then began to push forward.
Baela felt exactly what he had described: a strange pressure, a stretching that wasn't exactly painful, but definitely uncomfortable. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging deep into his skin, but she didn't ask him to stop. She bit her lower lip and breathed – just as he had instructed earlier with soft words against her ear – breathe in deep, let it out slowly, don't hold your breath.
He stopped the moment he felt the slightest tension. Waited. His dark eyes searched her face for any sign of suffering.
"Keep going," Baela whispered, her voice cracking in the middle.
Jace pushed forward a little more. Then more. Until her body enveloped him completely, hot and tight and so intense that he had to close his eyes for a moment so as not to lose control right then and there.
"Ready?" he asked, his voice harsh, his wrists trembling slightly with the effort of holding still.
Baela opened her eyes. They were teary — not from pain, but from an overload of sensations she had no words to name.
"Ready," she replied. And then, with a smile that was pure Targaryen defiance: "Are you going to move or will I have to do everything myself?"
Jace's laugh was muffled against her neck, and the movement of the laughter – tiny vibrations – made Baela moan softly against his ear.
"Unbearable," he mumbled, but his tone was one of adoration.
And then he moved.
At first it was slow – almost painfully slow – every thrust and retreat calculated, measured, as if he were learning the rhythm of her body the same way a musician learns a new instrument. Baela gripped the sheets, his shoulders, her own hair in moments of delicious confusion, her moans escaping in small waves that grew with each movement.
"Like this?" he asked, altering the angle slightly.
"There," she answered, or tried to, because the word kept coming out truncated by a moan. "There, Jace, there."
He found the spot and anchored himself to it, the pace increasing gradually — not out of haste, but because her body demanded it, her hips rising to meet him with every thrust, her legs squeezing his waist tighter.
Baela's initial discomfort dissolved completely, replaced by something she had never experienced — a deep heat that began where they connected and spread like live coals across every inch of her body. Her hands, previously hesitant, now roamed his back hungrily, fingernails scratching his skin, pulling him deeper, faster.
"Can you feel it?" he panted against the corner of her mouth, the rhythm now firm, steady, his hips meeting hers with a wet, repeated sound that filled the room.
"I feel it," Baela gasped, and there was wonder in her voice, an almost childlike amazement at the magnitude of what her body was capable of feeling. "I feel everything. Gods, Jace, I feel everything, this is good, so good."
He smiled – a smile drunk on pleasure and relief, and kissed her forehead, her nose, her mouth, everything he could reach while their bodies danced that ancient dance no septa had ever described.
Things started getting hotter.
The prince wrapped an arm around Baela's waist and rolled across the mattress, pulling her on top of him without breaking their connection. The princess gasped at the change in position, her silver hair falling like a curtain around their faces, and for a moment she just stayed there – straddling him, panting, her violet eyes wide with the new perspective. Jacaerys sweaty beneath her, his brown curls against the pillows, his face flushed, his lips swollen, and his eyes devout.
"You're in charge now," Jace explained, his hands resting on her hips, guiding but not forcing. "At your pace. In your time. It's more like riding a dragon than you think."
Baela bit her lip and tried an experimental movement — a hesitant slide that made them both moan at the same time. The control was in her hands now, and there was something deeply intimate about that, something no septa's lesson had ever covered.
She moved slowly at first, learning the rhythm, discovering which angles made her own fingers curl into the sheets and which made Jace grit his teeth with a hoarse groan. But gradually – as the heat between them built, as the sounds escaping them both filled the room – the princess lost her shyness.
Her hands found his chest, bracing herself as the pace quickened, her hips rising and falling with newfound confidence. Jace gripped her hips tighter, his fingers digging deep into her skin, his eyes glued to her – the loose silver hair, her breasts swaying softly with each movement, Baela's closed eyes and open mouth as she rode him as if riding Moondancer: without fear, without hesitation, with pure fire running through her veins.
"Baela," he groaned, her name coming out like a prayer. "Slow down... I'm going to..."
"No," she replied, her hips speeding up even more, a feral smile curving her lips. "Not yet. Please, this feels so good."
She leaned down and kissed him deeply, desperately, and then began to move in a new way, slower, deeper, each descent deliberate and torturous, tearing hoarse moans from the prince's throat.
Jacaerys felt the edge approaching like a galloping horse heading for a cliff – inevitable, overwhelming, and yet he didn't want to get there alone. His hands slid up from Baela's hips to her waist, squeezing hard enough to slow her pace.
"Wait," the word came out breathlessly, almost pleadingly. "Wait, Baela. I don't want to... I can't finish inside you."
The princess froze her movements, her violet eyes meeting his with a confusion that quickly morphed into understanding. Baela's face was flushed, her lips swollen from kisses, her silver hair plastered to her forehead and neck by a thin sheen of sweat. She had never been so vulnerable – and she had never been so beautiful.
"Then what do we do?" she asked, her voice a trembling thread. Her body was shaking slightly, just as close to the edge as he was.
Jace sat up on the mattress, pulling her up with him without breaking the connection. Now they were face to face, Baela straddling his lap, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her breasts pressed against his chest. The intimacy of the position was almost suffocating – there was nowhere to hide their faces, nowhere to escape from each other's eyes.
"I'll pull out before," he explained, his voice hoarse but strangely calm, like someone navigating dangerous waters with a map in hand. "When I'm close. I won't... not inside you."
Baela frowned, her confusion returning. No septa had ever mentioned this possibility.
"Can you... do that? Men, I mean?" she asked, genuinely curious, her fingers playing with the short hair at the nape of his neck.
"We can." Jace kissed the tip of her nose. "And it's safer. Let's not... I don't want you to take any risks. Not now. Not like this."
She didn't ask what risks. She didn't need to. Both knew what it meant to bear a child out of wedlock – or, worse, an heir conceived in times of war, with the succession to the throne hanging by a thread as thin as a Valyrian steel blade.
"Then take me there again," Baela whispered, her hips resuming their movement – a slow, deep glide that made Jace's eyes roll back for an instant. "And I'll meet you on the way."
He needed no further encouragement.
Jace wrapped his arms tightly around her, one hand sliding down to support the small of Baela's back, the other moving up to clasp the back of the princess's neck, his fingers tangling in her damp hair. He guided the rhythm now, not hers atop him, but his inside her, firm and deep thrusts that made the mattress creak beneath the weight of their two bodies.
Baela's mouth found his shoulder, her teeth sinking into his skin when a particularly intense wave of pleasure hit her. The moan that escaped was muffled, guttural, and Jace felt the sound vibrate against his own skin like a second heart.
"There," she groaned against his shoulder, the words coming out broken. "Keep going there, Jace, please, please, please."
He obeyed. He set the angle, maintained the rhythm, and felt her body begin to shift around his – irregular contractions, clenches that heralded the approaching storm.
"Baela," he called, his voice nothing more than a hoarse gasp. "Look at me. I want to see you."
She lifted her face from his shoulder, and what Jacaerys saw disarmed him completely.
Her violet eyes were very dark, the dilated pupils devouring almost the entire iris. The princess's face was etched with pleasure, mouth open, brows furrowed, a thin line of sweat trailing down her temple. But there was something else there, something no septa had ever mentioned because they probably didn't even know it existed.
There was trust. Surrender. A vulnerability that Baela Targaryen offered to no one, not even the gods.
"It's coming again…" she whispered, her fingers burying into his hair hard enough to hurt. "Jace..."
"Come with me," he ordered, his voice thick, and it was the last thing he managed to say before his own body gave the signal.
He felt it when the orgasm hit her — Baela's entire body arched against his, her arms squeezing his shoulders as if she were going to fall, her legs shaking uncontrollably around his waist. The cry that escaped the princess's lips was muffled against Jace's mouth, who kissed her the exact moment the climax overtook her, swallowing every moan, every sob, every little sound of collapse.
And the kiss – Gods, the kiss – was confused and clumsy and perfect, because Baela accidentally bit his lip and Jace laughed against her mouth while her body trembled around his.
It was the laugh that pushed him over the edge.
At the last possible moment – when his own body had already begun to clench, when the pleasure was becoming an almost painfully intense thing – Jace pulled his hips back with a sharp motion, breaking the connection with a wet sound that echoed in the room.
His hand moved down in a quick and almost desperate stroking motion, wrapping around his hard, wet, and throbbing cock, and the orgasm hit him like a punch to the chest – waves of pleasure so violent he had to rest his forehead on Baela's shoulder so he wouldn't fall backward. The heat splashed between their bodies, hitting the princess's belly and slowly trailing down her sweaty skin.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of breathing.
Panting. Irregular. Two people trying to remember how to return to the world after having left it together.
Baela was the first to speak, as always.
"That..." she began, her voice still trembling, her fingers trailing down Jace's sweaty back in slow, distracted strokes. "That was..."
"I know," he replied against the skin of her shoulder.
"No, you don't," she insisted, a tired laugh escaping her lips. "Because I don't know either. I don't have words for that. The septas definitely didn't tell that part."
Jace lifted his face to look at her. His hair was a complete mess, his face red, his eyes still cloudy with pleasure. He probably looked like a complete idiot.
Baela looked at him as if he were the most handsome man she had ever seen in her life.
"What is it?" he asked, noticing her stare.
"Nothing," she lied, and then smiled, that true, rare smile she saved only for him. "I'm just... thinking it was worth the wait."
Jace tilted his head, confused.
"Wait for what?"
"This." She made a vague gesture between their sweaty, clinging bodies. "You. I didn't know what it would be like. I thought it would be... I don't know. Weird. Uncomfortable. Something to endure."
"And was it?"
"No." Baela touched his face with both hands, her thumbs stroking the prince's cheekbones. "It was the only thing in this damned war that made sense."
Jace felt his throat tighten. Something hot and dangerous threatened to spill from his eyes, and he wasn't sure if he could hold it back.
"Baela..."
"Don't ruin the moment with tears, Jace," she interrupted him, but her voice was also strangely damp. "It's hot, it's sticky, and I need a bath. But first..."
She kissed him, a soft kiss, almost chaste after everything they had done.
"First, we stay here a little longer. Just a little longer."
The prince pulled her against his chest, feeling her heart beat against his, two drums in different rhythms, trying to find the same cadence.
Outside, the storm continued. The war continued. The specter of Lucerys and the threat of Aemond and the approaching dance of the dragons – everything continued.
But there, in that room, in that moment stolen from fate, Jacaerys held Baela as if the world had ended and they were the only ones left.
And for a few precious minutes, that was exactly how it felt.
[...]
When the pale dawn broke over Dragonstone, Jacaerys woke up groping empty sheets. The side of the bed where Baela had been was already growing cold, and the only testimony to the feverish night they had shared was the tangle of blankets — left behind when he helped her sneak back to her own chambers during the changing of the guard. Jace stretched, his body heavy but filled with a rare satisfaction.
However, the clarity of the morning brought with it the weight of duty. He knew the imprudence of the night before could not be repeated; not until the gods, or men, declared them husband and wife. The Throne did not tolerate bastards, and he more than anyone understood the danger of that shadow. Perhaps he could rush things. A traditional Valyrian ceremony, celebrated under blood and fire by Rhaenyra herself, before they marched to their deaths. But that would have to wait. Today demanded the prince, not the lover.
Wearing riding clothes of black and scarlet leather, with his hand resting firmly on the pommel of his sword, Jace left his chambers accompanied by the metallic echo of his sworn shield's footsteps, Ser Glendon. The destination was the great hall of volcanic stone, where he had ordered the Seeds to present themselves at the first ray of sun.
Jacaerys's task was monumental: to forge, in a matter of days, a bond of obedience and command between commoners and dragons that would normally take years of blood, sweat, and scales to build. And, as if the challenge were not enough, there was Ulf. The man's drunken arrogance irritated the prince to the bone. The bastard was always bragging in taverns about being the seed of Baelon the Brave — a grotesque lie, since the late Spring Prince had never lain with another woman other than his wife, Alyssa. If Ulf were prudent, Jace thought bitterly, he would invent a better story before coming face to face with Daemon. The Rogue Prince would not hesitate to tear out the bastard's tongue — or his head — for such an insult to his parents' memory.
"My Prince."
Jacaerys was pulled from his martial thoughts upon entering the hall and finding Hugh and Addam already at their posts. The sight was peculiar, to say the least. The castle servants had rummaged through forgotten trunks: Hugh wore the old riding tunics that once belonged to the Old King, Jaehaerys, emulating the bronze and fire of Vermithor. Addam, in turn, wore the faded doublets that the Sea Snake had provided, the silver weaves in the blue fabric mirroring Seasmoke's ghostly grace.
"My lords," the prince returned the nod, stiffly.
It was then that Nettles appeared in the opposite corridor. Instead of the practical dresses and feminine riding skirts that the queen's handmaidens had certainly offered her, the girl wore worn leather trousers, battered boots, and a simple tunic, dressed exactly like a northern lord or a mercenary.
"Those are not the appropriate clothes assigned to you, Nettles," Jace pointed out, raising an eyebrow.
"No," she agreed, without a drop of remorse. "There's no sense in riding a beast spat from hell wearing skirts. I've always worn trousers, and that's how I'm going to fly."
The foul-mouthed girl crossed her thin arms, her posture carrying an insolence so natural and focused on survival that, unlike Ulf's futile arrogance, ended up inwardly amusing Jacaerys.
"Where is Ulf?" Jace asked, the amusement quickly dying.
Before the men could answer, the prince's attention was stolen by Baela's arrival. She walked through the hall with her usual haughtiness, impeccable in her black riding clothes and a crimson cloak that fluttered lightly. Jace allowed a minimal, almost imperceptible smile to touch his lips as the memories of the night returned, and Baela returned the gesture by lowering her head as she adjusted her leather gloves.
"I couldn't say, Your Highness," Hugh answered, his rustic voice sounding slightly distressed in the face of the prince's cold silence. "The last time I saw him was after last night's feast, staggering near the kitchens."
Jacaerys let out a harsh snort through his nostrils. His jaw locked. He turned to the guards at the door with the authority of a commander who tolerated no failures.
"Search the castle. Find Ulf. If he is sleeping, drag him from his bed. If he is drunk, drown his head in a bucket of cold water until he is sober and bring him to the Dragonmont immediately," he ordered, his voice cutting the air. The guards saluted and marched away hurriedly. Jace turned his dark, severe eyes back to the three Seeds before him.
"The first thing the Crown demands of you, in exchange for the immeasurable honor bestowed upon you, is discipline. Punctuality. If a dragon arrives late to a battle, its army has already turned to ashes, its generals are in chains, and the enemy is one step closer to winning the war. The size of our beasts means nothing if their riders are negligent. Training you not to plummet from the clouds is not optional, and lateness is a treason to the Crown. Have I made myself clear?"
"Yes, My Prince," the three murmured in unison, bowing their heads before the young heir's sermon.
Soft footsteps echoed just behind Jacaerys. He turned around, his defensive posture softening slightly. From the main corridor, Rhaenyra emerged, flanked by Grand Maester Gerardys and Ser Lorent Marbrand.
"Your Grace," Jace and Baela murmured, bowing in a formal reverence.
"I came to wish you luck with the beasts this morning," Rhaenyra announced, her majestic voice filling the hall. The queen's hands rested clasped behind her back. "Especially you, Nettles. Seasmoke and Vermithor have known riders before; they can both teach and learn from Addam and Hugh. Sheepstealer, however, is a wild dragon. He has never carried the weight of a man."
The queen evaluated the girl from top to bottom. "You shall have a saddle custom-made. Just describe to the dragonkeeper how you want it, and it will be forged."
"I don't think that beast is going to tolerate a saddle strapped to him," Nettles countered with a practical wave of her hand, not very intimidated by the queen. "He barely liked it when I threw a sheepskin over his scales so I wouldn't burn my legs when I sat down."
"The saddle is for your own life, girl," Rhaenyra corrected, patient but unyielding. "You cannot rely solely on the strength of your own arms holding onto horns in the middle of a storm or a mid-air dodge. A fixed seat and reins are the line between flying and plummeting to your death."
The queen then swept the hall with her eyes and noticed the asymmetry of the group.
"Where is Ulf?"
"I sent the guards to hunt him down," Jacaerys answered, his shoulders still tense, his frustration evident.
"Certainly," Rhaenyra nodded with a soft sigh. She closed the distance to her son and raised a hand, leaving a gentle touch on the crown prince's shoulder. The mother's violet eyes met the son's brown ones, carrying a tired wisdom. "Save some of the fire of your sermons for the war, Jace. You grew up with Vermax; you had his egg warming your cradle. These four, on the other hand, survived confronting adult and nearly century-old beasts who deemed them worthy. Have patience."
Rhaenyra turned around, the sound of her footsteps and the whisper of her skirts disappearing toward the Chamber of the Painted Table. Jacaerys took the lead with a curt nod, prompting the group to follow him. They left the castle's light behind, diving into the damp, subterranean corridors that spiraled into the hot bowels of the Dragonmont.
"Any pressing questions?" the prince broke the lugubrious silence, marching at the front. Even without looking back, he could almost feel the Seeds looking at each other, their shoulders tense with anxiety and reluctance. "Your dragons will only obey you as the bond is forged with blood and time. Until that happens, it's possible the beasts will still accept commands from the Keepers, from me, or from Baela. I will teach you the basic cadence, for they answer solely to High Valyrian. Māzis is come. Sōves is fly. Likirī means calm down, and Umbās, wait. They are the pillars and, obviously, the ones you will need the most. Besides the simplest of all: Dracarys."
The words echoed off the rough stone walls as he descended the stairs, with Baela walking silent and imposing at his side.
"With all due respect, My Prince... speaking like that, you make it sound simple," Addam's voice sounded tremulous, his incredulity leaking through his nervousness. "Seasmoke hunted me through the skies as if I were prey before accepting me as a rider."
"And that is exactly why I would take the training very seriously if I were you, Addam. You ride the dragon that belonged to my father, Queen Rhaenyra's late prince consort, firstborn of the Sea Snake and the Queen Who Never Was. Seasmoke hatched in Ser Laenor's cradle and was the first dragon on whose back I flew when I was just a baby."
Jacaerys stopped in the middle of the stairs and spun on his heels, facing Addam. The boy's eyes were of a violet so dark they could easily pass for black. He did not possess the Targaryen silver, displaying dark skin and braided dark hair, but there was sea molded in his features. Addam was a Velaryon from head to toe, and a pang of bitterness poisoned Jace's chest; he found it profoundly cruel that this bastard carried more of the sea's blood in his face than he himself did.
"I understand the weight of the responsibility, my prince," Addam nodded, his posture stiffening in respect. "I met Ser Laenor. He was a great knight."
Jacaerys's chest tightened. Even knowing the truth about his blood, Laenor's memory was still his childhood safe haven. Six years had not erased how much he missed the knight.
"He was," Jacaerys reaffirmed, his voice softening for a fraction of a second. "And an excellent father." He turned around, descending the steps once again toward the volcanic heat.
"Do dragons only accept one rider at a time? I didn't quite understand that part," Nettles asked, her curiosity stripped of any formality.
"Each dragon can bond to only one rider... as long as the rider draws breath," Baela explained, her voice echoing as they crossed the deep levels of the library toward the pit. "Vhagar, for example, is already on her fourth rider, because the previous three have returned their bones to the earth."
"Vhagar is the last remaining dragon from Aegon's Conquest," Hugh murmured to the girl, with a tone of superstitious reverence.
"And who rode the old beast? Besides the one-eyed guy, I mean," Nettles inquired.
"My mother," Baela replied with a sharp cut, shooting a quick glance at the Seed.
Jacaerys immediately turned his face to his betrothed, the instinct to reach out and interlace his fingers with hers tingling in his palm. He knew how much pain and fury burned inside Baela whenever Aemond and Vhagar were mentioned in the same sentence.
"Lady Laena Velaryon," Baela continued, lifting her chin. "Before her, my paternal grandfather, Baelon the Brave. And before him, Queen Visenya herself."
"Is she the dragon with the highest number of riders in history, then?" Addam asked, trying to follow the logic. "I am Seasmoke's second. Hugh and Ulf are the seconds of Vermithor and Silverwing…"
"The only other dragon to accept four riders was Balerion, the Black Dread," Jacaerys pointed out, not slowing his pace. The smell of sulfur was beginning to get heavy in the air. "The Conqueror King; Maegor the Cruel; Princess Aerea; and finally, my grandfather, Viserys the Peaceful."
"Viserys was a good king," Hugh didn't hesitate to praise, his heavy footsteps resounding on the stone. "I'll never forget the day I went to the Red Keep for a commoner's audience. Flea Bottom's taxes were bleeding us dry because of corrupt collectors. The king and his Hand, Lord Lyonel Strong, didn't hesitate to purge them and stabilize prices. I was able to put bread and meat back on my wife and daughter's table because of those two."
Lord Lyonel.
The sound of that name hit Jacaerys's stomach like a mace blow, churning his insides. The volcanic heat of the tunnels suddenly seemed to carry the same sickening smell of burnt wood and ashes of Harrenhal. When he was younger, Jace only suspected; now, fully aware of the reality of his lineage, he could see the countless times Lyonel Strong had treated him with the devotion and silent pride of a true grandfather. And now, Lyonel was dead. Harwin was dead. All the Strongs who had loved him had turned to dust.
"Lord Lyonel was the best Hand of the King my grandfather had the fortune to appoint," Jacaerys stated, his voice thick with a secret empathy that tore at his soul. He stopped before turning the final corridor and looked at the blacksmith. "And I am sorry for your family, Hugh."
The rustic man from Flea Bottom lowered his sorrowful gaze and simply nodded.
They finally reached the vast cavern of the main platform. The heat was oppressive. Two Dragonkeepers were already waiting for them, bearing their long iron staffs and wearing the traditional scales and tunics of the order.
"Ñuha dārilaros (My prince)," the keepers bowed deeply to Jacaerys and then to Baela.
"Ivestragī zirȳ sylugon brōzagon se zaldrīzoti (Let them try to call the dragons)," Baela ordered in perfect High Valyrian. The keepers nodded, taking a step back, and she turned to the three bastards. "Call your beasts."
"But how do we do that?" Nettles blinked, instinctively shrinking back from the dark immensity of the caverns.
"Naejot māzis," Jacaerys pronounced.
He walked to the edge of the platform, facing the stone gorge full of forks sunken into the bowels of the mountain, where dozens of dragons nested. Jace closed his eyes for a second, feeling the hot, pestilent wind of the cave lick his face. When he opened them, his posture was that of a true dragonlord.
"Naejot māzis, Vermax!" Jacaerys's voice cracked like a whip of command, echoing through the cavernous depths.
The response was almost immediate. A guttural, thunderous hiss made the stones beneath their feet vibrate, followed by the terrifying sound of sword-sized claws scratching the rock. The Seeds looked at each other, their eyes wide, as a massive, lithe, and muscular silhouette tore through the darkness.
Vermax emerged from the shadows. His dazzling emerald-green scales captured the candlelight; coppery horns crowned a flat snout that exhaled trails of smoke, and his reptilian eyes, a fierce yellow, swept the surroundings.
The beast growled low, a sound that reverberated in everyone's chest, before hoisting his colossal body onto the edge of the platform. With a submission that contrasted absurdly with his deadly size, Vermax lowered his massive head and carefully bumped his snout against the prince's chest.
Jacaerys smiled, the burden of being a Strong or an heir disappearing the instant his hand met the warm scales. He offered a long caress between the animal's steaming nostrils and, his face bathed in the pale light of the torches, looked over his shoulder at the terrified riders.
"Exactly like that."