Jacearys
The letter arrived in the dead of night, carried by a raven whose dark wings had beaten against the wind for days.
Jace and Lucera were seated behind the painted table, their small fingers tracing the intricate creases in the aged wood with rapt fascination.
They had been studying the Vale this evening, trying to memorize all the names of the castles scattered like scattered jewels across the mountains of the moon.
The task was proving difficult, the names all blurring together in a jumble of syllables that refused to stick in Jace’s memory.
He was about to suggest they take a break when Maester Gerardis entered the room, his face drawn and serious.
His father collapsed when he unfurled the parchment the aged man thrust into his hands.
The sound that escaped Ser Laenor’s lips was raw and primal, a wounded animal’s cry that made Jace’s blood run cold.
“When?” His mother was at his side in an instant, her arms wrapping around him in a desperate embrace.
The Maester lowered his gaze, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes.
Some time ago, Princess Lady Laena passed in childbed along with her babe.
The Prince, your uncle, is sailing for Driftmark with his daughters for the burial.
He is due to arrive a few days from now.
This letter was sent from Pentos the moment they departed.”
Jace exchanged glances with his twin.
Neither of them had ever met their aunt, only heard tales of her beauty and her dragon and her fierce spirit.
Nevertheless, he did his best to feign sorrow and lowered his head in what he hoped was an appropriate gesture of respect.
Their mother dismissed them to their chambers afterward, bidding the maester to prepare a sleeping draught for his lord father.
Somehow, Jace thought no amount of potion would help quell Ser Laenor’s grief.
The man’s eyes had gone hollow, his face slack with a shock that seemed to have stolen all the life from him.
Things grew worse when their mother informed them they would be sailing to Driftmark to attend their aunt’s funeral.
Jace was very displeased with this development.
He had grown to like Dragonstone, the ancient fortress of their ancestors, with its dark stone and smoking peaks.
The island was isolated and quiet, populated by fisher folk and servants who had lived there for centuries and knew how to mind their own business.
At the Red Keep, Jace could scarce go to the privy without someone informing half the court about it.
Here, he could wander about the yard unattended, with nary a glance thrown his way from the smallfolk who went about their daily business.
He did not want to sacrifice that hard-won peace for the unwelcoming waters of Driftmark.
They should not even be attending this funeral, he thought bitterly.
There was another, more important burial that took precedence over an aunt none of them had ever met.
Word of the Harrenhal fire had come to them scarcely a week after they had docked on Dragonstone.
The blaze had occurred because of a brazier a manservant had carelessly knocked over, a tragic accident to be sure.
But one that had cost the lives of both Lord Lyonel and his son Ser Harwin Strong.
Jace had gone numb after he had found out, his mind refusing to process the information.
He had already been planning to visit Harrenhal as soon as Vermax was large enough to bear his weight upon his back.
The thought would never come to pass, just as all of Ser Harwin’s vows had not.
“You promised!” Jace had screamed at him that fateful day when the knight had arrived at their mother’s apartments to inform them of his departure.
“You promised you would never leave.
In front of the old gods, you made a sacred vow!”
The knight’s face had twisted in pain, his dark eyes glistening with unshed tears.
He had knelt in front of Jace, his gloved hand coming to rest on the boy’s shoulder with a gentleness that seemed impossible for such a large man.
“And I have not broken my word,” he had announced, his voice thick with emotion.
“Just because I am not here in the flesh does not mean I am not with you.
I will always be with you.
Right there, in your heart.” He had balled his fingers into a fist and pressed it hard into Jace’s chest, over the place where his heart beat.
Jace had not thought.
Tears streaming down his cheeks, he had rushed to embrace the knight, his arms closing about him in a desperate grip.
The man had answered his touch with equal ferocity, cradling Jace in his arms with a loving tenderness that made the boy’s chest ache.
“I wish you were my father,” he had sobbed, the words torn from somewhere deep inside him.
When they had broken apart, Jace was surprised to find the same sorrow mirrored in the knight’s eyes.
“The next time we see each other,” Ser Harwin had promised, “we will talk about your father.
Alright?”
There was no next time.
There never would be a next time.
The man was gone, swallowed by fire, and Jace was left to mourn alone in silence.
He had tried seeking comfort from his mother, and while Rhaenyra was willing to cradle him and wipe away his tears, she would not acknowledge his grief, nor her own.
She spoke of Ser Harwin only in passing, her voice carefully neutral, as if discussing a servant who had been dismissed rather than a man who had meant so much to them both.
Lucera was more accommodating.
After the news, his sister had rushed over to his chambers to offer him comfort.
She did not seem distraught or saddened by it, for she had done her best to keep a distance from the knight.
But she understood his distress all the same and spent nights with him by the heartfire, reading him stories and holding his hand while he wept.
Jace wanted to scream at her to leave.
She had been miserable since they had departed the Capitol, always handwringing the Maester to send letters to their stupid half-uncle.
It was plain she had little desire to be there.
Yet, whenever the tightness in his chest came and he started hiccuping sobs, he always ended up pulling her closer instead of pushing her away.
He clung to her on the entire voyage to Driftmark, taking comfort in her steady disposition.
Her sternness never faltered, even when those pale ivory towers came into view a day later.
They had visited High Tide only once when they were babes, and Jace had forgotten how magnificent the castle was.
Gray clouds obscured the early morning sun, but the beaten silver rooftops still shone in the distance like a beacon.
Around it sprawled the bustling Spice Town, a favorite haunt of merchants, sailors, and traders from all over the known world.
They were all absent today.
As their attendants ushered them into the carriage to journey up across the moat to the castle, Jace listened for the bustle of the market, searching for the scent of spices, silks, and leather-bound tomes scoured from faraway lands.
Instead, all he got was a sharp tang of saltwater that stung his nostrils and made his eyes water.
In place of their grandsire, the castle Maester was the one who hurriedly saw them in, his face pinched with worry.
They haphazardly prepared for the midday funeral proceedings.
After dressing, Rhaenyra pulled them aside to instruct them on how best to behave and what to say.
Her efforts were wasted.
When the thing started, nobody cared much about what either of them was doing.
All their attention was affixed to Vaemond Velaryon.
Jace did not understand everything the man was saying.
He spoke too quickly, using Valyrian words that Jace had never even heard before.
But he knew enough to recognize one sentence.
“Salt courses through Velaryon blood,” Vaemond declared, his voice ringing across the assembled mourners.
“Ours runs thick.
Ours runs true.
And ours must never thin.”
He would not have thought much of it if his great uncle had not stared straight into his eyes when saying it.
The way Vaemond squinted, his lips curling into a frown of disgust, made bile rise in Jace’s throat.
It grew worse when his mother pulled him and Lucera closer to her, her chin raised defiantly at Vaemond.
His father, as was custom, seemed oblivious, making no effort to shield them from the jab.
He was gone, Jace realized.
Grief had swallowed him whole, and all he could do was stare blankly at the rocks below.
Jace ached for the protective reassurance of Ser Harwin’s presence.
Instead, aid came from the most unexpected source.
A soft giggle followed Vaemond’s hearty declaration.
All eyes in the funeral party pivoted to the left, where Daemon Targaryen stood.
His famed great uncle was smirking, his purple eyes alight with amusement.
Jace arched a brow in confusion.
It was his wife that had passed.
It stood to reason he would be the last person to laugh.
Yet nobody dared question it.
Tall and sinewy, clad all in black, his great-uncle cut the image of a fearsome warrior.
Though his face was wistful and distant, there was fire burning in his eyes, the kind of fire Jace had never seen before.
His grandsire burned like that sometimes, as did his mother.
But this blaze was different, wild and ill-tempered and unyielding.
It made Jace think that if anyone dared to ask him why he was laughing, he would cut their heads off without a second thought.
With a sharp tug of ropes, Laena Velaryon’s wooden casket was lowered into the waters, sinking below the waves with a splash.
They all lingered in silence for just a moment longer before their grandsire, the Sea Snake, bid them come to the mourning supper on the balcony.
Jace had half a mind to run off, but his sister dragged him forth, reminding him of the promise they had made to their mother about behaving themselves.
If the funeral was dreary, the supper was worse.
The food they served was bland, boiled beets and potatoes with salted cod and oysters that tasted of nothing but brine.
Jace could scarce swallow two mouthfuls before his stomach rose up in protest, and he left the table to peer over the balcony.
The cool night air was a welcome relief from the oppressive atmosphere of the hall.
His mother found him there, listlessly gazing at the dragons flying across the still waters.
“Have you seen your father?” she asked, seizing him by the shoulder.
The evening sun made the red scales on her dress shimmer like dragonhide.
“No,” he shrugged.
He had not even noticed his father was absent.
Rhaenyra sighed and gritted her teeth.
“Your little cousins have lost their mother.
They could use a kind word.”
Jace’s gaze pivoted across the terrace to where two figures in black cloaks were sitting.
Baela and Rhaena seemed almost indistinguishable from one another, small and slender and slight, with the classic Velaryon silver coils and light umber skin.
However, the way one girl was cradling the other, her hands fiercely wrapped around her sister’s shoulders, told Jace which was the elder.
Still, he could not bear to head out to them.
“I have an equal claim to sympathy.”
The pallor in his mother’s cheeks deepened.
“Jace…”
“We should be at Harrenhal right now, mourning Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin.”
Leaning forward, she pulled him closer so he could look into the depths of her purple eyes.
“We have discussed this.
It would not be appropriate.” She paused, steeling herself.
“The Velaryons are our kin.
The Strongs are not.
Do you understand?”
A scream threatened to burst from Jace’s lips, but he forced it back.
With his head bowed, he trotted over to where his cousins were seated.
Say something, he commanded himself.
His mother had listed all the proper things to say to someone in mourning.
Yet now, as he stood in front of Baela and Rhaena with a lump in his throat, the words escaped him entirely.
The silence was growing so unbearable that he had half a mind to dart back inside the castle and hide beneath the covers.
The soft brush of skin bid him pause.
Baela.
This one was Baela.
He could tell she was the elder.
Despite the sorrow pouring out of her face, the fierce scowl on her lips spoke of strength.
She would not be cowed by this loss.
She would bear it in her heart, honor it, and let it give her purpose.
Jace felt a strange warmth ravage his cheeks.
Half a breath later, it cooled when a dark figure cast a shadow on them.
“Jacaerys, go to your mother.” Princess Rhaenys curtly pushed him aside to kneel in front of her granddaughters.
The two of them leapt into her arms sobbing as she whispered words of comfort into their ears.
He wanted to protest, to tell her how he wanted to be there for his kin.
But the cold indifference his grandmother exuded told him he was not wanted there, for he was no kin.
Without a word, he withdrew.
The next foe he encountered was not as cold but was just as unpleasant.
Aemond had appeared beside a brazier to block his path, an uncertain look on his face.
Jace thought he meant to say something, his lips parted open as he nervously twiddled his thumbs.
However, the silence continued lingering between them like a living thing.
Sorrow squeezed his belly, and Jace cast his eyes to the ground.
He almost growled at the boy to leave him alone, but a hand seizing his own made him hold his tongue.
His sister sidled up to him, loose strands of hair falling into her eyes.
He had seen her exchanging words with their grandsire, the Sea Snake, previously, and whatever had been said had seemingly left her in a terribly rotten mood.
She stood clutching his hand, the pallor on her face deepening to a ghostly white.
The color was in sharp contrast to the flush on Aemond’s cheeks.
He regarded them, squinting with a most displeased frown on his face.
Jace expected Lucera to go to him, to take his hand into hers and give him reassurance the way she had always done whenever Jace had glimpsed the two of them being kind to one another.
To his relief, his sister remained at his side, a sad smile grazing her lips.
Her expression completely altered his half-uncle’s disposition.
Sucking in a breath, he looked away and gave them a slight nod of acknowledgment.
“Come on, Jace,” she whispered, gently nudging him forward.
He had no strength to protest her.
They slowly shuffled past him toward the bridge that led back into the castle.
For once, no one moved to stop them.
Later, when Lucera had excused herself to find their mother to tuck them into bed, Jace took to wandering the carved stone halls of his grandsire’s keep.
He ran his fingers across the carved scenes of sea battles, pausing to regard a large sea monster attacking a ship.
“It is a sea dragon.”
The voice made him jump, and he whirled on his feet to glimpse a figure in black regarding him from the shadows.
“They are said to be vicious things,” Baela continued, emerging into the torchlight.
“Foul and ill-tempered, fond of sinking sailing ships.”
Jace pulled his hand away and straightened his back.
“Cousin.
I did not see you there.” He sputtered, his hand slowly moving to fiddle with the buttons on his doublet.
“I am sorry for what happened.
I meant to tell you sooner, but…”
“I know,” she cut him off.
Her voice was a strange thing, sharp and crisp and full of confidence.
Jace felt the sudden urge to look away.
“You are the first person to tell me that and actually mean it.”
He pushed down a lump in his throat.
“I do not understand.”
“You have lost someone as well, have you not?”
The question made him balk, and he almost slammed back into the carved wall.
Baela’s teak eyes held his, the torchlight flames casting dancing shadows on her face.
“Yes,” he admitted, his breath quivering.
“He was a good friend.
Stood as a father to me.”
“They are never gone.” She drew closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“As long as we keep them in our hearts, they stay with us forever.
In spirit.”
Jace pondered her words, recalling Ser Harwin’s kindly smile.
I will always be with you.
Right there, in your heart.
His hand traced a circle around his chest where the man’s fist had pressed.
He could still feel the smooth leather of his riding gloves.
The burning came then, and he blinked, tears clouding his vision.
A hand gingerly brushed his, and when he chanced to glance up, he saw Baela looking at him head-on.
She did not try to hide her tears.
They streamed freely down her plump cheeks, as much a testament to her grief as they were to her strength.
Against all odds, Jace smiled.
Somewhere in the distance, the sorrowful roar of a dragon sounded across the dark waters.
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