Jacearys
The smoke curled upward in lazy spirals, carrying the acrid scent of burning coal and ancient stone.
Jace extended his arm, index finger cutting through the haze to point at one of the eggs nestled among the glowing embers.
Steam hissed and popped against the shell, which gleamed with an unsettling shade of murky green, its surface dotted with tiny flecks that caught the firelight like scattered droplets of molten metal.
His sister made a sound of disapproval from somewhere behind him, her attention drifting across the rows of cradles that lined the cramped chamber.
Each one held its own treasure, some smooth and gleaming, others rough and pitted with age.
“Green?” She tilted her head, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice.
“I did not think you cared for that color at all.”
Jace felt his jaw tighten.
“I do not.
But you seem to have developed a taste for it recently.”
The barb was meant to sting, to draw blood the way her casual observations so often did to him.
But to his mounting frustration, the words seemed to slide off her like water from oiled leather.
She simply shrugged, already turning her attention elsewhere, and Jace was left grinding his teeth in the stifling heat of the Dragonpit’s hatchery.
The antechamber was small, barely large enough for the rows of braziers that kept the eggs warm.
Dragonkeepers moved between them with practiced efficiency, their faces obscured by the constant haze of smoke and sulfur that hung in the air like a physical presence.
Some of the eggs were ancient beyond measure, relics that had been passed down through generations of Targaryen kings, their colors faded and muted as the scales had slowly hardened into something resembling stone.
Yet the keepers tended to them with the same reverence they showed the newer specimens, stubbornly refusing to accept what everyone else knew to be true.
Once an egg turned to stone, it was dead.
The life within had long since faded, and no amount of heat or prayer would ever bring it back.
Jace had often thought they should simply discard them, clear away the dead weight, and make room for eggs that still held promise.
But the Dragonkeepers clung to their traditions with the tenacity of barnacles on a ship’s hull, and the King indulged their fancies.
His sister’s voice cut through his brooding thoughts.
“What about this one?”
She was pointing at an egg that seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it, its surface a deep and utter black that pulsed with veins of crimson like blood flowing through living tissue.
Jace watched as she reached out, her small hands cupping the shell with surprising gentleness.
She held it for a long moment, long enough that the heat should have become unbearable, but she did not flinch.
Only when the pain finally became too much did she release it, flexing her fingers with a wince.
“Red and black,” she said, and there was something almost reverent in her tone.
“It seems appropriate.
For a new son of House Targaryen.”
Jace felt his brow furrow.
The words sat wrong in his mouth, though he could not immediately say why.
Then it struck him, sharp and unpleasant.
It is supposed to be House Velaryon.
We are Velaryons.
At least, that is what we are meant to be.
Before he could voice the correction, the Dragonkeepers appeared, their movements brisk and purposeful as they shooed the children toward the exit.
There was cleaning to be done, they explained, and the young prince and princess could not remain underfoot.
Jace found himself being herded out into the corridor, his sister at his side, the image of that red and black egg already burned into his memory.
They had settled on it in the end, the egg with its veins of fire against darkness.
With Ser Harwin’s assistance, they arranged to have the brazier transported up to their mother’s apartments.
The knight was always helpful in matters like this, always ready with a strong arm and a reassuring word.
Jace had never thought much of it before, but something about the man’s eagerness today struck him as odd.
He pushed the thought aside as they made their way through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, their small procession drawing curious glances from the servants they passed.
The apartments were quiet when they arrived, the usual bustle of attendants strangely absent.
Jace’s mother was nowhere to be seen, and the rooms felt hollow without her presence.
“The Princess is with the Queen,” one of the handmaidens informed them, her voice carefully neutral.
Jace frowned at this news.
He did not claim to understand the intricacies of childbirth, but he knew enough to recognize that his mother should have been resting, not attending upon her stepmother.
The process of bringing a child into the world was taxing and draining, and Princess Rhaenyra had always seemed so fragile after her previous confinements.
The thought of her dragging herself through the castle while her body was still recovering made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
His suspicions were confirmed when his mother finally returned.
She shuffled through the door with none of her usual grace, her silver hair plastered to her face and neck, hanging in damp rivulets that reached all the way to her waist.
Her gown had been laced hastily, the ties at her back uneven and pulling at awkward angles, and she winced with every careful step as she lowered herself onto the settee.
Ser Harwin was at her side in an instant, offering his arm for support, and she leaned into him with a familiarity that made Jace’s stomach lurch.
Behind her came Ser Laenor, cradling a small bundle in his arms.
His smile was strained, tight around the edges, and he held himself with a stiffness that seemed out of place for a man welcoming a new child into the world.
Jace could not help but notice how different his father’s expression was from Ser Harwin’s.
The knight looked absolutely radiant, his dark eyes shining with a joy that seemed almost possessive.
“Father, may I hold him?” His sister was already moving forward, arms extended, her voice bright with excitement.
“May I please hold Joffrey?”
Ser Laenor danced away from her grasping hands, a laugh escaping his lips that did not quite reach his eyes.
“Yes, it is Joffrey.
And no, you cannot hold him.
He is far too young for that sort of handling.”
“Please,” she whined, drawing out the word, but their mother cut her off with a gesture.
“Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced,” Rhaenyra said, and there was something in her voice that made Jace’s head snap up.
The knight stood waiting, his posture expectant, his dark gaze fixed on the bundle in Ser Laenor’s arms.
Without a word, Jace’s father crossed the room and placed the infant into Harwin’s waiting grasp.
The knowing smirk that played across Laenor’s lips sent a chill down Jace’s spine, and he watched with growing unease as the knight’s mailed arms curled protectively around the squirming babe.
There was something almost reverent in the way he held the child, something that made the breath catch in Jace’s throat.
“Alright, loves,” their father said, his hand falling heavily on his sister’s shoulder.
“Off with you now.
Your mother must rest.”
His sister opened her mouth to protest, but Laenor was already steering her toward the door.
Jace followed in a daze, his feet moving of their own accord.
He caught a glimpse of Ser Harwin over his shoulder and saw the way the knight was cooing softly at the infant, bouncing him gently while Jace’s mother looked on with gleaming purple eyes.
The image burned itself into his mind, a portrait of domesticity that felt wrong somehow, like a song played in the wrong key.
Ser Harwin had always been attentive to them, always ready with a kind word or a helping hand, but the intensity of his interest in this new child seemed excessive.
It was just a baby, after all.
There was no reason for a household knight to fawn over it with such devotion.
*I must ask him about it later,* Jace decided, though a small voice in the back of his mind whispered that he already knew the answer.
The knight had sworn never to keep secrets from him, but the glances he and Jace’s mother had been exchanging certainly seemed to contain secrets of their own.
Dark secrets.
Dangerous ones.
Their father excused himself the moment they reached the serpentine steps that led to their apartments.
He mussed Jace’s hair with a quick, distracted gesture before handing him over to Ser Steffon Darklyn’s care.
Then he was off, striding away with purpose, no doubt rushing to find Ser Qarl and share the good news.
“You are not coming?” Jace heard the pitch of his own voice rise and heard the desperation that bled through despite his best efforts to contain it.
He hated it, hated how girlish and weak he sounded.
“I had hoped we could read together.
Or play civvies.
Like we used to.”
His sister’s full lips parted slightly.
“Oh, I would like that.
But…” She paused, her teeth catching her lower lip.
“I had promised Aemond we would practice our Valyrian together in the library.”
The words hit him like a physical blow.
Jace felt his jaw clench so hard that he could hear his teeth grinding against each other, the sound harsh and unpleasant in his ears.
His sister must have sensed his distress, because she stepped forward and seized his hand.
“We could do it tomorrow instead.
After supper.
I will ask Maester Orwyle if he…”
“Do not bother.” Jace marched past her, his strides long and purposeful.
All he wanted now was to reach his chambers, to bury his face in his pillows and scream until his throat was raw.
“Jace, wait,” she called after him, her voice taking on that wheedling tone that he had always found so irritating.
“I…”
“He does not even like you, you know.” The words exploded from him before he could stop them.
He spun around, suddenly in her face, his whole body trembling with a rage that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than conscious thought.
“The only reason he tolerates you is because you stroke his ego.
Oh, and the kissing.”
His sister’s expression shifted, the shy uncertainty melting away to reveal something harder beneath.
Her eyes went flat and cold.
“What?”
“Do not play coy.
I have seen you.
I have seen you kiss him when you thought no one was looking.”
He had expected her to look away, to blush and stammer and deny everything.
Instead, she simply stared at him, her gaze unblinking.
“So?” She scoffed, and there was a dismissiveness in her tone that cut deeper than any insult.
“I kiss you all the time.”
Jace balked.
“That is different.
I am your brother.”
“And he is my uncle.”
“He does not think of you as family.” The words came out sharp and bitter, and Jace felt a perverse satisfaction in them.
It incensed him that she would dare equate their bond with whatever flimsy connection she had with her uncle.
“He looks down on you.
They all do.
Him, Aegon, Simon Dondarrion, and all those stupid Dornish boys he brought with him from the swamps.
They are all envious because we are the children of the heir and they are not.”
A heavy silence descended between them.
His sister’s eyes had gone dark, her lips pressed into a scowl that seemed far too serious for a girl her age.
“Trust me, brother,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“That is not why they look down on us.”
Jace blinked, confused by the sudden turn.
But before he could ask for an explanation, she barreled past the subject.
“In any case, Aemond is not like that.
He has never teased me or laughed at anything I did.
Whatever vile thing Aegon has, it has not been passed on to him.”
Jace scoffed and turned away.
“That is what you think.
I have seen the way he comes at me with a sword in the yard.
Rest assured, sister, he is just as bad as the rest of them.
He is timid now only because he does not have a dragon.
But the moment he gets one, he will turn rotten.
You will see.”
Again, his sister stubbornly lifted her chin, her arms crossed over her chest.
“You do not know what you are talking about.
Besides, the only reason you are saying this is because you are jealous that I have a friend and you do not.”
The words struck him like a slap.
Jace felt his stomach drop, felt the world tilt slightly beneath his feet.
His sister’s face remained hard and unforgiving, her eyes boring into him with merciless intensity.
“You have no right to blame me, you know,” she continued, each word a small dagger.
“It is not my fault Aegon and that Dondarrion boy cannot stomach you.
That is your own doing.
If you had only stopped being such a vile dog, maybe they would have let you play with them.
Now you get to perish alone instead.”
Something inside him wanted to shove her, to answer her cruelty with equal ferocity.
But his strength failed him, drained away by the shock of her words.
All he could manage was a silent glare as he fought desperately to hold back the tears that burned at the corners of his eyes.
His sister seemed unmoved by his distress.
She returned his stare without flinching, her lips pressed into a thin white line.
But then, just for a moment, something softened in her expression.
“Jace,” she breathed.
“Fine.
Go then.” The words tore out of him, ragged and raw.
“Run off to the green snake.
I am glad Mother had a boy.
When he grows up, he and I will be friends, and I will never have to talk to you again.”
She called his name again, but he did not linger.
He ran past Ser Steffon, his feet pounding against the stone floor, tears streaming freely down his cheeks.
The knight made a valiant dash to catch up, but Jace was faster, driven by a desperate need to escape.
He sought the safety of the godswood, the familiar sanctuary where he had always gone to hide from the cruelties of the world.
But the garden stood empty, the ancient weirwood watching with its carved face and its unblinking red eyes.
Ser Harwin was likely still attending his mother, and it was uncertain whether he would appear to offer comfort. The source of this chapter is g.com.
Jace grabbed a fallen branch and began to lash out at the weirwood’s trunk, each blow a scream of frustration and pain.
He kept at it until his arms ached and the burning in his throat gave way to exhaustion, until there were no more tears left to shed and the rage had finally dried up.
He dropped the stick and made his way back toward the castle, wandering the corridors without purpose.
Hours seemed to pass, though he could not be sure.
Time had become a blur, the edges of his awareness softened by grief and confusion.
Then he heard it.
Laughter, low and mocking, drifting through the halls.
The voices of jesting men, careless in their cruelty.
“Little Lord Strong.”
Jace’s ears perked up, and he ground to a halt.
He was just outside the Great Hall, near the passageways that the servants used to carry food to and from the kitchens.
Peering around the corner, he glimpsed three figures seated on the steps that led up to the throne room.
Simon Dondarrion was sprawled across the stone, his long legs extended, his face twisted into a smirk.
“How can they expect anyone to believe he is Ser Laenor’s son?
Even a blind man can see that is no true Velaryon.”
His companion, a young man Jace did not recognize, nodded in agreement.
The field of nightingales embroidered on his doublet marked him as a Caron of Nightsong, a Marcher lord from the Dornish marches.
“It seems the King expects us all to pluck out our eyes.
They should just admit the truth and change his name to Jacaerys Strong.”
The Dondarrion boy snickered, his shrill laugh grating against Jace’s ears.
“Do not you mean Jacaerys Waters?
He is a bastard born out of wedlock.
Even if Ser Harwin acknowledges him, he would still not be legitimate.”
Jace’s fingers grew numb.
His breath caught in his chest, trapped behind a wall of shock and disbelief.
What were they saying?
They had both clearly gone mad.
Then a third voice joined the conversation, and Jace’s blood ran cold.
“Careful, Sy.” Aegon’s voice was low and stern, though there was no real warning in it.
“What you are saying is treason.
If the King heard you, he would have your head.”
Jace spotted his uncle’s silver hair, just visible above Simon’s burly frame.
For a moment, he allowed himself to hope that Aegon would come to his defense, would rebuke his companions for their cruel words.
Instead, his uncle laughed, the same sneer as the others twisting his handsome features.
“Fortunately for you, I am not my father.
And you are right.
He should have had them banished years ago.
But he seems intent on defending my half-sister to the death.
Three bastards she has popped out, and he still reveres her as if she is the Mother herself.”
More mocking jeers followed.
Jace felt lightheaded, his vision swimming at the edges.
“Gods, I dare not imagine what will happen when she ascends the throne and her bastard succeeds her.” The Caron boy’s weasel face twisted into a smirk.
“They will turn the Red Keep into a brothel.”
Aegon craned his head toward the speaker, and there was no hint of outrage in his expression.
No anger, no remorse.
He agreed with every word they said.
He thought it was all very amusing.
“I think I should like to see that,” he chuckled, and his friends joined in.
Jace’s fist closed around the front of his doublet, his fingers digging into the fabric.
Three buttons snapped loose and scattered across the floor, the sound sharp and sudden in the quiet corridor.
Before any of the companions could react, Jace was running, his feet carrying him back through the servants’ passageway.
He did not even make it halfway to the godswood before the breath in his lungs vanished, stolen by the force of his sobs.
He collapsed beside a water fountain near the balcony that led down to the inner gardens.
Every inch of his body burned, but it was not the exertion that caused his pain.
It was the words, the cruel and terrible words that echoed in his mind, each one a fresh wound.
They are all terrible.
They are all vile, and they should all die.
How dare they say such awful things about him?
He was no bastard.
His mother and father had been wedded before the eyes of the Seven, their union anointed by the Grand Septon himself.
He had seen the documents, the seals, and all the proper formalities.
Naturally, they were not always affectionate with one another.
But neither was the Queen with her grandsire.
Marriages were about duty, not love, no matter what the songs said.
Besides, none of that meant he was not Laenor’s son.
That is not why they look down on us.
His sister’s words rang in his mind like a funeral bell.
The serious frown on her face and the darkness in her eyes.
The way she would sometimes stare daggers at Ser Harwin while they sparred.
The lingering glances the knight had exchanged with his mother as he bounced Jace’s newborn brother.
Bile rose in his throat, bitter and burning.
He reached over to the fountain and scooped up a handful of cold water, splashing it across his face.
The shock of it cleared his head somewhat, and he stared down into the pool as the ripples slowly stilled.
His reflection greeted him, familiar and alien all at once.
Brown hair.
Brown eyes.
A small pug nose.
His father’s nose was not like that at all.
It was wide and aquiline, the nose of a seafarer.
Ser Laenor’s eyes were darker too, the color of polished teak, and his skin was only a shade lighter than the classic Velaryon umber.
Little Lord Strong.
Jace bent over to the side and retched, his body heaving with the force of it.
When he was finished, he sat back on his heels and stared at the fountain, at the face that was not quite his father’s face, at the features that belonged to someone else entirely.
And for the first time, he allowed himself to wonder.
To truly wonder.
And to fear.
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