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howyouloveyourdragon · 2 years ago

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The Prince and His Corpse Bride (part ii)

part i

pronouns: she/her warnings: eventual infidelity? (he and Baela have no romantic connection) summary: The good news is that Jacaerys has found his grandmother’s ring. One problem. He may have accidentally gotten married to the wrong person? As he traipses through a strange new world to get it back, his not-wife isn't what she seems... disclaimers: of course i do not own the original corpse bride nor asoiaf however this is my own work and story, i do not give permission for my work to be transferred onto other platforms or translated dividers by: firefly-graphics wordcount: 3,818

“Wha-Who are you?” Jacaerys splutters, scrambling his back against the weirwood tree. The dark shadow of nightfall begins to overcast and he can distantly hear Cregan shouting for him. Your lips fold of their own accord as you snicker, you kneel down to his height. “I told you, silly,” You giggle and brush a strand of fallen hair behind his ear in a manner akin to affection. He recoils but you take no notice, smiling just as sweetly at him as if he had gifted you a thousand poetries. You lift your veil to flow down your back rather than over your face. “I’m your wife.” If Jacaerys wasn’t sure this was a dream then he certainly is now. He flinches at the words and slaps a hand to his mouth. “N-No.” He protests, breath stuttering as a nervous chuckle breaks past his dead cold–No!--just cold lips. His palms raise as if in surrender though he intends to do the opposite. “There must be some mistake for I am already betrothed to another.” Your eyes narrow, the flesh of your cheek–the half still present–flows between your teeth. His heart batters hard against his ribs. Your head tilts now, inspecting him and suddenly he feels like a little boy presented to the court again, lacking the snow white hair he is eager to possess.

You sigh at his frazzled appearance and horrified expression. “Indeed.” Your voice bellows and he sighs himself but in relief. “Send your former betrothed my regards.” You turn your back on him and even though it would be so easy for him to run away; he finds himself chasing after you. For the ring, he assures himself, for the ring. A torturous wind ensues but you don’t seem phased, your hair barely even ruffles. “No, I–” He huffs and outstretches her palm. He raises his head high. You’re a Targaryen. He reminds himself. Remember what Daemon told you. Princes do not need permission. He winces at the phrase but still pierces her eyes with his own. “I need that ring.” He demands. Again, you tilt your head but this time condescendingly. You square your shoulders and attempt to match his height. Both your and the prince’s eyes narrow. “No.” You state coolly. “You don’t.” He opens his mouth but you wag a single index finger in his face. “You don’t.” You repeat like scolding a puppy. “This is a vow of one’s devotion toward one’s wife, correct?” You ask, quick and almost as though you had thrown this out before. He nods stiffly. “And a symbol of cherished love and protection?” Again he nods, brow furrowing. “So it belongs to your wife?” He sighs but before he can speak, you interrupt his impending thoughts by wagging your finger again. He seals his lip tightly. He nods. “Yes.” He finally speaks. You nod and he has the gall to be proud of himself for once. You stop walking and spin around to face him, clapping your hands together shortly. “Then we have no problem.” His eyes widen. “Really?” “Yes. Your wife is wearing it.” Jacaerys shuts his eyes and curses himself.

“You are not my wife.” He states, trying to stay calm even as you start walking off again. He grimaces and glances behind him at the First Keep. He wrestles with himself a moment before scurrying after you again. Jacaerys Velaryon has run before and he does not like it. He hates it rather. He hates that he left for Dragonstone as a child, he hates that he left his life in King’s Landing, leaving him as a stranger in what is supposed to be his own home. He hates his brown hair but he hates the stares cursed onto him most of all. Because they’re all thinking the same thing. You do not run unless you have something to hide from. And he is done hiding. He will accept his responsibilities, marry Baela and he will get back that ring. The winds of Winterfell become all consuming, pressing against his face as if in an attempt to stop him. The roots of so many Northern trees coil before his foot, curling in attempts to trap him. The mixed messages surge through the prince’s mind. Even the Gods’ nature do not know which youngling they side with. The prince or the corpse. He is not fond of his odds and this does not cast him in the confidence he prays for.

He follows, pleading with the woman like a beggar which he supposes he is now. A shiver jolts through Jacaerys like a warning. “Whatever it is that pleases you I will consider so long as you return my ring. You will be rewarded handsomely.” “There is no need! I am quite satisfied, lord husband.” You quip, the words slithering from your tongue like a trained snake. Jacaerys calls out, trying to track your figure as you twist through the various trees when suddenly she falls. He gasps, eyes widening as he scrambles to find her, was there a bottomless pit he hadn’t heard of? “Lady?” He calls out, peering over the edge but he frowns at the mere blanket of snow and fallen leaves. A single shaking hand of his reaches out to pad it gently and he gasps when it pushes through into emptiness. He frowns as he investigates, blinking furiously. Jacaerys continues prodding at it, how perfectly it looks encased around his forearm. When he pulls it out again, he finds that it is not wet. It is as though he had never touched the snow at all but instead of further questioning it, he sighs out in relief. It must be a dream. And then he falls, or more accurately; is pulled.

Jacaerys shrieks as he plummets down below but again the snow hasn’t shifted. It appears like a tightly enclosed tunnel of moths and darkness. His breath quickens madly, A dream, this is a dream, a dream, a dream. The air whips around him, unnatural wind tosses his hair in his eyes and moths flutter to press into his clothing. His hands swat at them to no avail, squinting at the force of the wind. His nose wrinkles at a newfound smell, it is like laying in damp fabric. He hears a squeal and snaps his eyes open, head rising to see your excited form clapping. You rush to help him stand and he begrudgingly accepts it, eyes roaming the strange room. “I knew you would come,” You gush, intertwining your fingers with his reluctant and rigid ones. You take no notice. “I knew you would come for me and you would follow me down and you were absolutely wonderful! Oh you were perfect, everything that I have ever dreamed of–!” “You pulled me!” He realises and narrows his eyes. You shrug and smirk mischievously. “Would you not have come, anyway?” You tease which manages to snap his mouth shut because he would have, he knows he would have and you know he would have. He is an honourable prince and while he may not particularly care much for you right now, he was not willing to let you fall to your die over his pettiness.

He huffs as you hum sweetly and lead him through a long, night-dark passage, taking the time to glance at the various dark blue paintings surrounding you; portraits. All of them and there must be over five thousand at least. You twirl with his hand and sing sweet songs. He softens at the endearing display though disease eats at his stomach. “What are these?” He asks, pointing to one of the oil paintings. You halt and glance before grinning and skipping up to it, tugging Jacaerys as you go and making him stumble. “That,” You beam. “is her grace Princess Alyssa.” His eyes widen like those of a bird and he gapes. “My great-grandmother?” He asks and you freeze. Your brows knit. “You’re a…Targaryen?” You ask slowly, breath hitched and holding. The young prince takes in the potion of anxiety and nerves splashed upon your expression by his words. Still, Jacaerys stands proud of his ancestry and nods sharply. “Yes. I am the blood of Targaryen and Velaryon, a dragonrider and your prince. What is it you know of my line?” He musters all the strength of his blood to wrap around his bones. To firm them. Solidify his confidence and raise his chin high. He doesn’t like how you’re hesitating, how you bite your lip and nibble it like a frightened animal. “I did not realise.” You mutter quietly, almost disappointed. He deflates. Impulsively, your hand reaches out and ruffles through his brown hair and you visibly brighten again. “I thought you had been a Stark with hair so wonderful.” Suddenly, a flush creeps along his face and he almost purrs at the praise. “But no matter, you are my husband all the same.” And like that you’re walking again, leaving him to scamper after you with questions burning at you. “I am not, though I appreciate such niceties.” You ignore him. “Silly,” You chastise, voice reminiscent of scolding a young kitten. He huffs again, on the verge of snapping but then your words soothe him again with curiosity. “She was a kind madame, guided most of us here.”

“Guided you?” Jacaerys asks with an uneasy tilt, tentative. “Where do you mea–?” He’s interrupted by the resounding music, of harps, vielle, lutes all bashing strangely and out of time. Jacaerys’ orbs skim across the large room, at the intensity and swarming bodies all eager to gasp and greet him. He shivers and bats them away, close to falling. You hold him up and grin, giggling at who he assumes to be your friends, he doesn’t know what to think anymore. “Husband,” You beam. “I would like you to meet my family.” They all squeal and prod at him experimentally. “Don’t scare him!” You warn them but still smile brightly. Jacaerys stares, wild-eyed around him and clings to you like a frightened kitten. Both his arms loop around your waist but he straightens his back, still attempting to appear the regal prince of his name. A significantly older woman approaches and squishes your cheeks. “He’s cute.” She coos and winks at the both of you. Jacaerys bursts red and looks down. A man this time takes it upon himself to bump his hip and rake three fingers through his hair, only three,one on his left and two on his right. Jacaerys shudders and cringes back but the man takes no notice. You squeeze his hand and begin pointing out the various people around him but he can only find it in himself to remember four of them. “A…big family.” He chokes out and glances around. “Where are your mother and father?” Perhaps you will listen to reason if he can convince your parents that this was a mistake, your marriage is unconsummated of course. You only giggle at him.

“They are not here,” You respond in cadence. “They are still living.” Silence. Shock. Horror. Those are the only things rushing through his ears but you seem unaffected as his jaw drops and his lips stutter and stumble. “Wha-what do you mean?” He asks, moving to grasp your forearms tightly. Your brows rise. “You did not know?” You ask, swallowing around the nerves. It is not bashfulness that consumes his face in crimson this time. “Still living? You are dead?” He repeats, roaring. A few of your ‘family’ members gasp and grumble to themselves. He tenses and shoves himself away from you. You frown. “You came for me, you-you came to save–!” “I did no such thing!” His voice is boisterous. “You have taken me on a wild goose chase to follow my ring which you have stolen from me!” Your mouth opens to protest but he stretches a finger in your face. “No! You will not talk, you are a childish, naive girl who cannot accept her own death and is now dragging me through Seven Hells just to reclaim my own belonging–” “One that is sacred and worth more than some Northern girl that I have met mere minutes ago.” “Husband, are you not pleased?” You ask, suddenly your snark is gone and left in its place is a fragile teenager. He ignores you and keeps rambling. “I have a betrothed, I have a life, I have a throne to claim one day, I have–” He stops, his arms stop waving about and he looks at you again, really looks at you. He stops. He is not the only one frightened.

Your eyes fill with water, your lip trembles and your arms are wrapped so tightly around yourself. Breath lodges in his throat. He made you cry. Jacaerys waits a moment and then two more before turning gentle and softening his own eyes. He reaches out to you. “Lady, I am sorry, I–” You sniffle and bolt but as he’s about to chase after you, not for the first time, the stout woman from earlier grabs his arm stiffly, upturning her nose. “Leave her. You are lucky her heart is not as hard as her bone.” She glances up and down at him and he can tell what she’s thinking. He sighs and looks down, letting her too slip away. “He may have the bloodline but he doesn’t have the brains does he?” Jacaerys hears distantly and clenches his jaw before turning to find a resting place aways from them. He sighs as he sits at a stool, he thinks the room is very strange indeed with its various skeletal portraits and strangely human furnishing, a bar is even behind him right now. He hears a clink of glass on the said table but ignores as he feels an oncoming presence. “Hello,” A voice grunts beside him before he feels a slap across his shoulders. “A Targaryen, eh?” Jacaerys nods, already prepared to hear scepticism. “Not Rhaenyra’s kid are ye?” He frowns and finally looks up at the man with speckled face and thin hair. Jacaerys thins his own lips and glances over him. “Perhaps.” he settles on, unsure where it will land him to either confirm or deny. The man smiles. “Ah,” He nodded. “I knew I could see her in your eyes.” Jacaerys frowns and looks down, shame wrapping him like an old blanket. Old, worn and damp. You wish it would bring you the same comfort as it did when you were a child but something is wrong now. It isn’t with innocence in your ears, it is with speculation and longing. He swallows. “My eyes are brown, my Lord.” He rebuts with careful grace. The man leans forward to catch his eye. “Yes but the mischief is there,” The man grins like omniscient himself. He reaches a hand out and ruffles the boy’s hair.

“I do not suppose you remember me.” The man withers with the ghost of a smile and a sigh peeks from his lips. “A shame but not insulting.” he murmurs. Jacaerys softens, he’s disappointed someone again. The young prince looks down and sighs. “I cared for you as a child, when your mother was in council meetings and your fa-Ser Harwin was at his duties.” There’s a knowing glint in his gaze and Jacaerys looks at him again, more carefully this time before gasping and jumping to embrace him. “Ser Lorn!” He exclaims and suddenly he doesn’t feel like a scolded child, he feels like a free one. Ser Lorn chuckles and pats his back, throaty laugh more familiar than the clothes Jace wears. The man tugs away from him and motions to the bartender. He thanks him and grasps a glass full of strange yellow liquid. He slams it on the table with the roughness of a soldier. “Take a drink, dear boy, you’ll need it with these lot.” He glances around at the various peering eyes. “I’m sure this comes as a shock to ye, our Bridey tends to be a bit impulsive.” He nudges him as slushes the drink before handing it to the boy. Jacaerys looks sceptically down on it before hesitantly bringing to his lips and he gags at the strong smell, Lorn bursts into laughs, slapping his back again as Jacaerys takes a reluctant sip. It’s strange, burning and the glass is as hefty as the bar itself. He coughs as he puts it back down on the wood. He wipes his mouth. “Atta boy,” He winces and scrunches his nose at the taste.

“I want answers.” He blurts and turns, gentle-eyed, at his old friend. The man sighs and swallows, looking away. “What do you want to know?” Lorn asks. Jacaerys sits upright. “Everything!” He splurts. “Who is she? Why am I here? What’s happening, what’s going to happen? What is she?” Lorn squeezes his shoulder. “She’s our corpse bride.” He answers then drives a finger into the boy’s chest. “And how I understand it, you have wed her.” Jacaerys’ brow crinkles and he shakes his head. “That’s not true, I never, I didn’t!” He huffs in frustration. “I never would have said those vows had I known her body were there. Had I known this was even a possibility!” Lorn tightens his lips. Jacaerys looks off to were his ‘bride’ had fled away. “I didn’t mean to.” He looks like a sad puppy left out in the rain. “How did she get like this?” “It’s a long story…” “I have time.” Jacaerys’ eyes harden and suddenly his prince persona has returned full force. “It was many years ago, you yourself must have been but sixteen.” Jacaerys frowns. He had expected her to be a lot older. “A Lady in her own right and a beautiful one, many suitors and even more vying for her attention.” Jacaerys hesitates as he takes in the information. “Is…Is she…?” “Is she what, dear boy?” “Is she the Lady Y/n?” Silence takes over and then slowly Lorn nods. “A mysterious man too well known for his own good came and visited Winterfell. A man said as brutal as the hand of the Gods but as beautiful as she and our poor baby, she fell hard in fast. Her father denied the man her hand but she swore to him that she would elope. Our lovers made a promise but when it came time, when she snuck to the Godswood with only her mother’s wedding gown and as many jewels as would fit in her satchel…” Lorn pauses, sorrow making him wince. Jacaerys waits. “She was ready but she waited and waited for him to show until finally she heard rustling, turned around and–” Jacaerys leans forward, more enthralled than he could ever have imagined. “Then everything went black and when she opened her eyes? She was dead as dust.” Lorn takes a swig of his ale.

“But…” Jacaerys slowly processes the dreary tale and bites his lip. “But what about the man?” “She never told us. What she did tell us is that she made a vow lying under that tree, she’d wait for her true love to come set her free and vow in the way that was supposed to be and cloak her in his protection for all eternity. Protection.” Jacaerys sags his shoulders. “And now he has come.” Jacaerys rise in alarm with wide eyes and shakes his head, standing. “That’s-that’s not me!” He protests. “I have a betrothed!” “You made a vow, dear boy,” “No! Not to her, to Baela! It was an accident! I was practicing!” “She’s a lovely girl.” Lorn utters softly, softer than anything he’s ever heard. “She is kind and graceful, dutiful, she is–” “She is dead! Her vows shouldn’t matter!” The boy snaps and Lorn hardens. “Watch your tongue. Vows of the dead are a very serious business.” “What?” “There are seven rules,” He states calmly. “One, once a vow is made it must be fulfilled otherwise the participant dies,” Jacaerys’ eyes grow impossibly rounded. “Two, someone living can bring a deceased person back to life if they seal them with fated promise and help them fulfil their vow. Three, If someone undead makes a vow to someone living, it does not take any effect, neither participants must take it. Four, If someone makes a vow before they pass, they must spend their undead existence attempting to fulfil it, they may only pass to the afterlife once it is fulfilled, or forever live undead in the inbetween of realms. Five, the vow must be satisfied once begun within two moons time or the undead will be forced live forever in a state of unrest.” He hesitates now. “Six, the vow does not have to be completed to be satisfied by someone living and seven, it must be completed within seventy-two hours.” Jacaerys sighs in relief. “Then I am free!” “You know that would not be right.” “It was not right that I was tricked into this.” Jacaerys argues.

“No but it is not her fault.” “Then whose is it?” “Sometimes there is no one,” Lorn answers, shaking his head. “I’m supposed to marry Baela, it is my duty,” Lorn rolls his eyes, tired of the same repeated words. “Well are you in love with her?” Jacaerys tenses at the words and twitches his face. “She is my cousin, I have known her all my life, of course I love her!” “But are you in love with her?” Jacaerys grunts in frustration and stands. “No but that matters not, I swore an oath, I swore to honour her, to-to–!” “What good is a marriage without being in love?” Lorn asks, warmth threading through his words. “Your mother was miserable.” Jacaerys snaps his sights on him. Lorn waits. “This isn’t the first time that she has seen you, if you were wondering.” Lorn mentions slowly. Jacaerys knits his brows together for the hundredth time that eve. “She used to follow you around like a puppy everytime she visited King’s Landing, she used to hide behind trees and peek as you trained with your brother and uncles.” Lorn chuckles. “I didn’t know…” Jacaerys whispers and looks away. “You used to watch her too.” Silence lingers in the cold, decayed air. “I know.” The prince speaks, looking down. “She was beautiful.” “Is beautiful.” “That does not matter! She is not meant to be mine…What if…” He swallows, an idea shooting through his mind. “What if I find the man? The man she was supposed to marry? Will the vow stay true?” Lorn stays quiet in conflicting thought. “I suppose but–” “Then I will find him!” Jacaerys splutters with relief. “I will speak with my Lady, apologise and find her true love!” “You must be warned of the time limit. Do not forget, young man.” Jacaerys nods quickly and begins scrambling away again. “I won’t!”

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howyouloveyourdragon · 2 years ago

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The Prince and His Corpse Bride (part i)

pronouns: she/her warnings: infidelity? (he and baela have no romantic connection) summary: Jacaerys went to Winterfell for one reason and one reason only–the support of the only true friend he has ever had but now he needs to return regardless of his desires, and amongst his presence he must also bestow the ring of Valyrian steel so carefully curated to his betrothed. dividers: firefly-graphics disclaimers: of course do not own the original corpse bride nor asoiaf however this is my own work and story, i do not give permission for my work to be transferred onto other platforms or translated a/n: this chapter is very jace heavy wordcount: 3,529

The steel ring glimmers in the moonlight upon Jacaerys fingers as he waves goodbye within the Godswood as he prepares to take flight, Cregan and sweet young Sara reciprocating the hand gesture eagerly. Vermax grumbles beneath him, stretching his wings as if for the first time for years. A forced smile tightens on Jacaerys’ face as his lips part to take in a deep breath. It wasn’t often that Jacaerys left Dragonstone but he was to be wed in a moon’s time and he needed his best friend. No matter how hard, nor what, he tries, however, he cannot dispel his brother’s face from the front of his mind. Even Cregan saw it when the Velaryon’s irises linger too long on the brunet siblings. A sickly chartreuse dagger wedges in Jacaerys’ throat every time he tries to push the thoughts back. He didn’t think of anything once his satchel was restocked and he climbed aboard Vermax, finally mounting his dragon after ten and four nights–each more painful and lonely than the last. He was only meant to stay a mere three and yet that green dagger poked everytime he approached his companion’s scales. He doesn’t want to go back, not truly, because when he does? His own and dearest brother will not be there to toast his union. He will not be there at all. And for some reason that hurts more than any other harrowing kill he has witnessed. The Targaryen dynasty is no longer at war but that does not soothe all ills. Not his own. And for a while it was alright to drink and curse at his friend’s side but even when he couldn’t remember his own name, he could remember Lucerys. He could remember that he wasn't there.

Jacaerys closes his eyes as Vermax makes a low sound reminiscent of whining and bites his lip until he can feel a cut beginning to blossom beneath his sharp teeth. No more late night talking, mourning and horse rides until both he and Cregan reek of the night air. Bile squirms in his mouth but he buries it before Vermax finally takes off, dragging his begrudging rider with him. Jacaerys refrains from commanding because if he does, he knows he’ll tell him to turn back and he cannot do that to Baela. He cannot embarrass her like that, cannot cast shame on his family at all. He will do his duty and return to Dragonstone and marry her before The Seven. It doesn’t matter that he thinks the Sept’s altar makes him heave, that the candles never feel right in his hand, that the ring he will slip onto her finger will feel as though a condemnation. He may never love her, and she him, but he can try and create a painless union–one that is good for the family, one that will strengthen a family worthy of the Iron Throne, Baela at his side. He breathes in. He can do it. His stomach churns at the thought. His mother did it, he can too–he will. He will perform what is expected of him, he will be crowned and he will form a legacy worthy of The Seven Kingdoms. He has to and he will. His mother told him that she will create a new order and he intends to assist in any way he can to replenish it for her. The wind brushes over him in thick waves, watering his narrowed eyes. His nose twitches against the cold. He scrunches it in an attempt to warm his freezing face. The Kingdom needs their Queen and one day they will need their King too. Baela is brave, smart and holds a power within her gaze he has rarely seen before, she will make an excellent Queen. He gave her a promise worth a throne and he will keep it even if it kills him. He knows she is far more than he has yet amounted to.

Vermax shrieks, screaming the emotions that Jacaerys refuses to outlet. His rider chokes out an exhale and digs the heels of his hands into the saddle reins. Jagged pains dig through him and burn as hot as the fires of his House. He thinks of Valyrian ceremonies, of the one he will never have in case it displeases the people. They will think him a fraudulent prince until he seats the chair of iron and corruption. He curses the damned thing and its pretentious swords. He curses that he is not trueborn. He curses that his mother made him so. Did she know how this would occur? Laenor was his father but not in blood. Did the Lord truly hate him so much that he would leave them so quickly? Abandon he and his brothers to a life of condemnation without him. He curses that he would leave them but not Laenor, never him. A sob begs to claw up his throat but he buries it, slashing until he tastes the metallic blood that sears his burning veins. He curses his hair, his Strong hair. His dark eyes devoid of the enchanting lilac his mother bears. Why, oh Gods, why would they curse him so? Had he been a meandering fool in a previous life? Were such things real? He hopes that in the next life he will be curated in a life of simplicity and his parents of common blood. Jacaerys curses himself. He told his mother to send him to the Vale and Winterfell. It should have been Lucerys. His sweet brother, the one worth more than himself. He had thought the shorter journey would ensure Lucerys’ safety yet it had not. What kind of brother was he? What kind of King would he be if that golden crown lay upon his head. Jacaerys is sure he would abdicate if he had not been betrothed to Baela. If she did not deserve the throne far more than he. Cloud encircles him and he snaps back his gaze upon the familiar castle finally. He sniffles and curses the cold.

He curses.

Landing came slow and rough, Vermax had never been swift at the act though nor did he really care. Not for the first time, Jacaerys envied him. A raucous clapping sounded from the soiled ground. Jacaerys leaned over Vermax’s shimmering neck to catch the sight of Baela wearing a sly smirk. He returns to her a suitable smile and attempts to unlatch the sweltering furs adorning his neck, coursing down the length of his back and arms. His feet hesitate before bounding over one side, his left. The prince lowers himself despite Vermax’s grunts. He glides a firm hand along his scales in penance. “Cousin,” Baela greets warmly. He tries not to wince. She is as beautiful as ever; her lengthy snow coils wrap together in a collection of braids–no doubt his mother’s doing–and descend her back, her iridescent eyes glimmer in the beam of sunlight and she bears the Targaryen colours like the personification of dragon blood herself. His eyes catch the golden clasps latching her hair into neatness but stray strands still peak from behind her ears. It was unabashedly Baela Targaryen. He nods, but even he can tell it is forced, then lowers to his knee and presses a quick chaste peck to the roof of her hand. Jacaerys’ eyes look up to her and attempt to soften in the way his mother’s do at Daemon. It doesn’t work. It never works. His chapped lips part. “Beloved.” The words taste sour when pressed upon his tongue. She doesn’t comment on this if she notices his tensity. She nods and allows him to stand again but her own movements are hard. A gentle breeze embraces them but still a sizable space repels their contact. The prince swallows. “Perhaps you shall join me for a stroll next morrow?” Vermax grumbles but Baela breathes out in relief, eyes briefly shutting before she smiles. “Yes. Yes, I would be delighted.” Her brows pinch in a gentle knit, hopefully grateful for the proposal. Proposal. His stomach churns again. His heartbeat rattles through the cage enclosing his ribs, a round ball expands in his throat.

She turns her back and all but runs back to the Keep, or more likely, his mother, Queen Rhaenyra of whom has been assisting her knowledge in their rich history and the order she wishes to maintain. Jacaerys sighs and guides Vermax through the Dragon Pit. The suffocating heat smothers his skin but the comfort it bestows is something he drinks easily. He may not possess the salt of Driftmark but at least the blood of the dragon roars its presence eagerly. \he sucks it into his nose and swallows the burning warmth. His eyes linger on the familiar stone surrounding him, he reaches to press his padded fingertips to his dragon’s scales who huffs. That was something he appreciates–his companion was never angry at him for long. Never doubted their bond. His true and unquestionable friend. Through battle and Kingship he’s certain. Vermax almost purrs, unpleased with his lack of flight. Jacaerys nods. “I know, I apologise.” Jacaerys speaks through a sigh. “I will be better, I swear it to you, my friend.” Vermax hums deeply and rests his snout against Jacaerys’ palm. He almost purrs, preening at the attention as always. The prince bites back a snicker but the corners of his lips unwillingly upturn. He parts and grins. “Three times a day, I shall burn all contact in my thighs for you.” He teases to which Vermax tilts his head and squints his eyes. Jacaerys chuckles. “Fine, four.” Vermax relaxes and juts his chin in discerned triumph. Jacaerys runs a hand over his dragon’s smooth cheek before reluctantly stepping back and leaving the fiery comfort.

That night, he seats himself beside Joffrey, sending a stern expression when the boy attempts to launch his greens at young Aegon. Older Aegon groans and shoots him an absurd glance himself. He flails a flamboyant arm across the back of Helaena’s chair who makes sillious faces at their young babe. Maelor giggles. “Finally come to join us, nephew?” Aegon asks, propping a high brow and lips pulled taut. “I am afraid so.” Jace returns and then cranes his neck to smile at Baela beside him. “You look exquisite this evening.” He tells her politely before raising a fork to twirl in his grasp. “You were in Winterfell long, darling.” Rhaenyra frowns, lips sewn together as she casts concern his way. Jacaerys flushes and shrugs gently. “We lost time.” He replies in rolling lies. “I was helping Cregan assemble his swords and a few found themselves in unwanted hands.” The only sound breathes clattering silvery. Little Viserys dropped to the floor immediately in record speed to return the fallen cutlery to Princess Rhaena with pink cheeks. He has grown a crush on the older girl quite quickly although she clearly does not return the sentiment. She smiles quickly at him and tries to hide the growing frustration that teases her lips. Baela nudged Jacaerys gently and snickers. He returned the act and scooped a helping of potato upon his fork. He dips the food between the seam of his lips and lets the taste lay on his tongue. The betrothed prince and princess could at least enjoy one another’s company which is more than most had been bestowed. Still it hardly soothes his clenched heart. Alicent smiles at them from his mother’s side. “You will see him again soon for your nuptials.” She reminds him, arm entangling with Rhaenyra’s. Daemon groans. “Yes, a pack of wolves are to be invited, I hear.” It is no secret that Jacaerys’ stepfather cared deeply for a Valyrian ceremony in place of the one chosen, he does not hide it.

The remainder of night is spent with tossing and distressing thoughts. He cannot find it in him to sleep. No matter how many sweet lullabies he threads, no matter how many direwolves he recounts, no matter anything because all he can remember is the night his brother left…How they were never told why. Jacaerys sits up, a huff dropping from between his lips. He rolls them between his teeth and groans, smacking his hands to clasp behind his head. The prince weaves his fingers between strands of his hair, grasping them roughly as he huffs. He clicks his jaw and gently faces the window. What’s wrong with him? It must be the early hours of daylight and yet he stays here unable to sleep with wicked thoughts snatching at which part of his brain they wish to feast upon. He remembers a time where he slept easily and it was his brother who needed comforting. Jacaerys swallows around the cotton in his throat. He closes his eyes and leans back onto his pillow. “Jace?” The quiet voice called across the room. A yelp escaped the elder prince’s lips. His eyes shot open and shot to search for the cause. Long dark locks blocked his vision and he jumped, his hands reaching to cup his own cheeks, greeting him with familiar baby weight. He swallowed and took in a deep breath before he responded. “Yes?” He croaked, scrubbing the golden dust from his eyes. Jacaerys’ breath stopped suddenly. A six year old trembling Lucerys wobbled in on unsteady sleepy legs and sniffled. A large candle sat in his hand. Jace’s eyes widened and he bolted upright. “Hey, what are you doing? Put that down, you’ll hurt yourself. Luke just barely dodges the spilling wax, his lip trembles. “I-I-I–” He stutters. “Shh, shh.” Jace soothed and beckoned him closer as tears enraptured his little brother’s eyes. “It’s okay, take your time.” Jace whispered, tugging his head to his own chest. “It’s okay.” He ruffled his hair and let Luke’s tears flood his nightshirt. “I didn’t mean to!” Lucerys wailed, salt burning his throat. “I know,” Jace soothed, “I know. It’s not your fault.”

Screaming is the first thing Jacaerys hears when he awakens–he just doesn’t realise that it is his own until he feels the tight embrace and exotic perfumes of his mother. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Rhaenyra hums, kissing the top of his head. Jace feels the pressure of burning tears spill past his eyelashes. “I didn’t mean to!” He cries. “I thought he was safe!” Rhaenyra nods and runs threading patterns through his coarse hair. “It’s okay, take your time.” She murmurs.

The morning comes and passes, Jacaerys’ eyes swollen and red as he reluctantly makes his way toward the palace gardens. Baela is standing with antsy hands, fingers playing with one another. Jacaerys bites his lip and smiles the best he can at her. She visibly sighs in relief and approaches, arms outstretched. He frowns and says nothing, merely returning the gesture and patting her back awkwardly. He extends his arm as expectation demands once they pull away and she reluctantly accepts it, her hand sliding down his arm before settling atop his own hand and weaving their fingers together. “A shame that so long has passed since we last met.” Baela comments and he hums despite his mind being elsewhere entirely. They pass a collection of candytufts to which she plucks one into her fingers. He bites back a sharp quip. Her eyes curiously float across his features and she sighs. “You do not care for me, I take it.” It’s not a question. His head snaps to her with wide eyes. Their movements turn fluid as he takes both her hands in his now. “Of course I care for you!” He rebuts but she only chuckles at him–her laughter the sound of a bird’s song and yet still his heart does nothing but sink in panic. “But not in the way we want it to.” Baela’s sharp voice casts through his unwilling ears. He sighs. “No.” Jace concedes. His eyes lift to hers again. “But I wish them to.” She nods, a grief-inducing tilt to her lips. “I know. We will give it time and perform our duty.” She squeezes his hands.

“But we must not lie to one another. After we are wed I do not plan to take a lover and I presume neither do you. If this changes, however, we must speak of it with one another.” Jace sighs and smiles. “Yes. Yes, I couldn’t agree more but I do have one more term.” Baela nods. “No child is to be born of another union, I–” His voice cracks, his tongue darting out to lick his chapped lips. “I could not bear it.” Jace clears his throat and his dear cousin rubs a soothing pattern on his hand. Gods, he wished he loved her. “Of course.” She assures. A loud sigh of relief draws from between his plush lips. She wished she cared about them. “Good.” He clears his throat and then chuckles and he kneels before her. “I suppose this would be a good time to finally present this to you then.” He rummages through his left pocket within his breeches. Baela tilts her head. “Present what?” She asks. Jacaerys knits his brows and sighs in frustration as he tries the opposite but no matter how far he digs, his hands come up empty. Paleness pours through his face, draining the blood like a leech. In a quick haste, his hand snaps to his forehead, his fingers wrap roughly in his hair. “Oh dear…” He murmurs. Baela furrows her brows. “What is it?” She asks, worry dripping from her like the snow in Winterfell. The snow he would have to return to. Slowly he meets her gaze and groans against tight lips. “The ring.”

Jacaerys Velaryon had never travelled so many times within the same year. He can see Cregan waving him down as he draws upon a patch of land, Vermax following his direction effortlessly. He drops from the saddle and greets the man quickly. “Have you seen a ring?” Cregan frowns and freezes before shaking his head. “I have not.” Jacaerys groans and tosses his head back. He guides his hand along his face, cupping it around his mouth and chin, rubbing his jaw. “Perhaps it fell in the Godswood? You were overhead it when I saw it last.” Jace nods slowly. “How large is it?” He asks to which his friend snorts and folds his arms. He slaps a hand across his back. “Come, my friend, we will find it.”

Walking has never been harder as he russells leaves and the earth’s soil in desperation. He would not be quite so worried if it did not belong to his fiery grandmother but alas it had. And he had been so careful. He curses himself, how had he been so reckless? It had barely left his pocket the whole time and yet when it came to leaving he had let it fall so easily? Curses. He huffs before a sudden glimmer flashes on a tree branch. A gasp pierces the seam of his lips and it is with a lengthy sprint that he launches himself at it, the branch tipping to drop it onto a log. Jacaerys’ eyes widen and he clasps it between his fingers, eyes shutting in exhaustion. He breathes out in relief after carefully peeling them back open again. He breaks out in a grin and kisses the dirtied steel. “Thank the Gods, you have not yet forsaken me!” He rolls onto the ground so that his back rests against the dark bark of the tree. “Now all that is left are the vows.” He grumbles to himself. He chuckles gently and raises the ring so that it might gleam in the sun. The exercise heats his tired body. “I suppose there is no harm.” He murmurs to himself dubiously. He carefully sets slips the rings past the break of a fallen branch and unlatches the clasp of his cloak, one with the Velaryon emblem clearly patterned across the back. “With this kiss I pledge my love,” Jacaerys hums to himself. He drapes the cloak to rest atop a strange bump in the soil. He admires the ring before him and takes a deep breath. He glances about him before taking the oddly shaped bark in hand. “and take you for my lady and wife.” He presses his warm lips to the bark slowly and soft like he practised. He smiles gently, voice melting into a low thrum of noise. “We are now one flesh, one heart, one soul–” Jace doesn’t get to finish the faithless vow.

“Now and forever.” A feminine voice sings back. His eyes snap open and he shrieks at the sight before him. His back slaps against the back of a weirwood tree, hands grasping behind him and around it. His jaw drops like a fish out of water as he stares upward. Before him now stands a beautiful maiden draped in white fabrics, torn furs and his very own Velaryon cloak. Congealed blood seeps through from her side to the opposite hip but her smile is as bright as the sun. A knowing smirk spreads across his pale lips. She tilts her head.

“Hello, husband.”

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