jaehaerysiitargaryen

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

If Aegon Two was his father's son then Jaehaerys' hated to know what they said of him though, in a way he already knew what they said of him. He was his father before his father truly lost all hope of being more than a king lost in his bottle. Some days he wished to be more like their grandsire but Viserys was weak, weaker than anyone cared to admit for if his grandsire had been strong then he would have done the hard thing and Aegon would be his brother instead of a cousin that frustrated him.

"Little Aegon." He greeted without mock, just a man unable to let go of those names from years ago. Perhaps meant to irk his grandmother but she was dead just like everyone else who used them to wage their wars.

"Yes. It is the fate a dragon deserves. Perhaps too many riders too late." Beyond the fighting, the squabbles that turned to blood feud Targaryens understood the pain of a dragon without it's rider and a rider without their dragon. Once again the rider had been robbed of his true death because he did what no rider should do, dismounted and let his dragon die.

When he was a boy he admired Aegon's father. Thought the man was wild and untamed but powerful, strong and confident. Everything his grandsire and father were not. Even Aemond lacked what made Daemon the Prince of Flea Bottom, the smallfolk. As he watched his cousin he thought it was the best choice for his empire, for the realm that Aegon was his heir. Because if Jaehaerys died then the Targaryen line would need to continue above all else. They shared something. They were the last true sons of a great house.

"They will keep it for now. I wish for them to grow comfortable and for the Stormlords to get angry. Soon, when none are looking, we will use their ways against them." Jaehaerys stared at the fire, his mind still reeling from the cries of Silverwing drown out the cries from men cooked by her blood.

"Stone by stone." Prone to rage, it was silence that made the spoiled prince turned King dangerous. He was not good when it came to courtly matters. It was in war where he thrived. Domination was his bread and butter, he could bend any to his will through sheer might. That wasn't learned from a single Targaryen. No. It was a Stormlander who taught him the power of power itself.

"And I must I will into the Stormlands myself and collect my banners along the way."

setting: king's landing, shortly after jaehaerys' return from the stormlands after silverwing was killed in the border wars ; @jaehaerysiitargaryen

the red keep held its breath in the orange hush of evening, the high windows casting long shadows over polished stone. outside, the city murmured beneath the weight of another day survived, distant bells, muffled footsteps, the occasional bark of laughter or pain, hard to tell the difference anymore. torchlight flickered along the walls, golden tongues licking at the silence as aegon stepped into the solar, the door groaning behind him.

he stood a moment in the threshold, fingers gloved, dark cloak falling like spilled ink from his shoulders. the warmth of the room brushed against his cheek; he didn’t move until he had taken in every corner, every drift of parchment, every shift in jaehaerys’s eyes.

“your grace,” he said, the formality carrying just enough weight to be polite. just enough sharpness to remind him he hadn’t bowed, until he gave a slight bend towards his cousin.

he walked in, unhurried, uninvited, and took the seat across from the king with the air of someone who understood the room better than most would guess. the prince removed his glove and poured himself wine, his fingers stained faintly with soot and something darker.

his gaze flicked up, something unreadable behind it. not provocation. not quite. something older, quieter. something that waited. aegon didn’t speak for a long moment. his lilac hues drifted to the nearby bay window, watching the river turn black beneath the moonlight. the faint clang of armor echoed from the courtyard below, the changing of the watch. his watch.

finally, he said, “silverwing died in battle. that’s more than most of our dragons got.” he turned slightly to meet jaehaerys’ gaze. there was something distant in his voice, but not indifferent. “not tethered. not butchered in chains like the pits. she died a tru dragon, fire in her throat and enemies below. she earned that end.” a beat. “we should all be so lucky.”

he turned back fully now, hand bringing the goblet of wine to his lips. his armor still bore flecks of dried blood, not his own, from a riot near fishmonger’s square that morning. his smile was slight, almost ironic.

“the city’s quieter than it was last moon. fewer knives in alleyways. fewer bodies in the gutters. i’ve found that fear is a steadier leash than trust, at least down here.” he gestured vaguely toward the streets. “they whisper that i’m my father’s son,” he added, “and they’re not wrong.” there was no pride in the claim. only acknowledgement.

“so what’s next?” aegon asked, not as a challenge, but as a prompt. “we lost a dragon, and a holding. i suppose you either plan to march more men down there, or let them keep it...for now? could play to our advantage one day if they truly believe nightsong is theirs."

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys listened quietly as Ben spoke, silently agreeing even if he did not immediately voice it. His eyes followed Ben’s idle motion, the tugging at a loose stitch on his sleeve—small gestures betraying hidden anxieties. The war had taken from them all in different ways, and Ben was right: perhaps different men would have been lost, different lands would have burned. It was a bitter, endless circle, yet the truth remained sharp and undeniable: the fighting had left none of them whole.

When Ben finished, mentioning the uncertainty of what came after war, Jaehaerys’ lips twitched slightly in understanding. But then Ben’s words landed on him fully—or maybe it’s different for you, since you’re the one doing the telling. rubies or not. The words stirred something deeper within him, prompting him to finally speak.

"Maybe so," Jaehaerys began, his voice quieter, more thoughtful than before. "I don’t know. A council’s whole job is to tell the king what to do. Or queen, in some realms." Oddly enough, he thought, it had never truly mattered who wore the crown. His father had cared only for hunting, whoring, and wine, while his aunt had wished to rule. She had the mind and strength for it, even if her claim had been tainted. For a brief moment, Jaehaerys found himself lingering on what could have been if ambition hadn’t gotten in the way—if the Hightowers had sought peace over power, how different their world might look now. But those thoughts he kept to himself, hidden carefully behind his steady gaze.

"And, of course," he continued, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, "a wife. No man is truly in charge once he marries. Let alone a riverwoman—fiery of hair and spirit, or so they say. Proves true." Jaehaerys’s tone softened noticeably at the mention of Niamh, a subtle warmth shining through. She challenged him, grounded him, made his reign something more than mere decree and demand. And annoyed him, very annoying.

He glanced back at Ben, the smirk deepening to something approaching genuine humor. "Perhaps they never told us what to do when the fighting ends because none of them knew what they were doing before. Blind mice or something."

ben hummed a little, considering jaehaerys' words. he might have thought it himself, might have even said something that hinted at how different things would be if they were on the same side, but to hear it out loud like that was a strange thing. as though the side they had chosen, the path both had been set upon, had meant nothing at all. in the end, maybe it hadn't, but that was not necessarily a road ben wanted to go down. it had to mean something, or all he had sacrificed meant nothing. "maybe," he said, wanting to sound neutral, and not apprehensive. "or maybe we would have lost different men, in different ways."

he did not speak what was on his mind - that if they were on the same side, it would have been because the war did not happen at all. if they were on the same side, the riverlands might not have burned. the war had been a blur of shifting alliances, and men he had known all his life had burned and bled and died for a queen who did not come to their aid, and did not take the throne in the end. he did not forget that it was the man before him that did the burning, but the night of their last meeting had been something different, the sort of evening that were far too few in his life, and now it felt like they were picking up the conversation that had been cut short years ago. his fingers caught a loose stitch on his sleeve, and he tugged it idly. "it all sorts of bleeds together in the end."

ben had spent years thinking about war, his every moment focused on the next battle and how to win it. for all its horrors, there was a clarity to it that made sense to him, a purpose he had yet to find elsewhere. there was none of that certainty here. what came after was hard to navigate. jaehaerys was no longer an enemy, nor were they expected to fight, and yet, that somehow made things all the more complicated.

"nobody ever tells you what you're supposed to do when all the fighting is over, do they?" the words came out without thinking, and his face turned a little red with the realisation he had revealed something that he probably shouldn't have. he looked at jaehaerys, and offered a lop-sided grin, trying to play it off as though the words hadn't slipped out, that he had meant to say it.

"or maybe it's different for you, since you're the one doing the telling. rubies or not."

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys regarded Morgan quietly, his violet eyes darkening with mounting frustration as the man spoke. He respected Morgan deeply—he always had—but respect did not dull the edge of suspicion that crept in now. His hand tightened around the arm of his chair, knuckles turning white with tension. When Morgan finished, the king leaned forward slightly.

“My Hand is from the Stormlands,” he said sharply, each word clipped and precise. “I have Stormlords on my council and in my court. How much more representation should I offer them?” He reached up abruptly, tweaking the edge of his spectacles, a small, irritated gesture he often used when his patience was thinning. “For men who want and wish for so much, they seem to do very little with what they are given.”

His voice rose, irritation clear beneath the careful control, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly with suppressed frustration and damaged nerves. “They have every right to fortify their keeps, to build their roads, and the crown will assist where it is needed. Yet if men choose instead to cry into their cups rather than come and stand before me to voice their needs directly, what am I to do?” His eyes flashed, the spoiled dragon rose in the petulant curl of his lip. “Am I expected to ride to their keeps myself and beg? Shall I become the beggar king?”

Internally, Jaehaerys felt a cold shadow settle over his thoughts, twisting Morgan’s calm counsel into something unsettling. Why did Morgan know so much about the murmurs of discontent within the Stormlands? Were the Stormlords openly sharing their grievances with him, their doubts and resentments whispered comfortably to this man alone? A disturbing possibility flickered to life—perhaps Morgan encouraged their defiance. Perhaps the man seated before him, so steady and sure, was not quite as loyal as Jaehaerys had always believed.

His voice lowered then, taking on a colder, more dangerous edge. “If loyalty is truly an issue, Morgan Wylde, then perhaps I must remind them of the price of disloyalty.” Jaehaerys’ gaze held Morgan’s, unblinking and piercing. His voice softened dangerously, almost a whisper. “I would prefer it not come to that.” But remembered the decisive actions of Criston Cole, gathering armies and loyalties on the march, and wondered if the Dornishman died the last true Stormlord.

morgan sat across from jaehaerys, the silence between them thick with unspoken thought. the king’s goblet rested untouched in his grasp, his fingers lax around the stem, his mind still working through the weight of their conversation. the stormlords were proud, stubborn men—morgan knew it as well as jaehaerys did. a strong hand alone would not be enough to keep them in line. it would have to be earned.

"then give them cause to stand with you," he said. "not just in war, but in rule."

he leaned forward slightly, the firelight casting deep shadows across his face. "go to them. not as a king issuing decrees from afar, but as a man who would understand those he asks to follow him. ride through the stormlands. see the men, speak to them—not just the lords in their halls, but the ones who hold the swords, the ones who keep the fields, who pay the taxes that fill your coffers."

his fingers tapped once against the arm of his chair. "you ask for loyalty, for obedience, for coin. give them something in return. opportunity. a reason to believe that what they give will not be taken for nothing."

he held jaehaerys' gaze. "open new roads, fortify their keeps, give their sons a place in your guard, their captains a voice in your war councils. let them earn the wages to pay what you ask, rather than asking for what little they have."

his voice did not rise, did not press. it was a simple truth. "you know well, a king does not rule byj words alone. he rules by the strength of those who stand behind him. show them that you do not ask for their service lightly, that you do not take their steel or their coin without cost to yourself."

a pause, firm but not unkind. "do this, and you will have more than their taxes. you will have their loyalty. and that is worth more than all the gold in your vaults."

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys caught the edge of her tone even if he did not quite grasp the depths of her resentment. He was too consumed by his own frustrations—the elusive stag, the lingering humiliation of Nightsong, the irritation of having his hunt spoiled by whispers of politics and wounded pride. But her question made him pause, his head turning sharply toward her, violet eyes narrowing into sharp, suspicious slits.

"Did they lose it for me?" he echoed bitterly, the brat prince rearing fully to the surface now. "Of course they lost it. They let it slip through their fingers like children who couldn't hold a toy. A castle of stone and steel taken by men who fight with sand in their boots." He nearly spat the words, disgusted by the thought. It had been Stormlanders who manned Nightsong, and in his eyes, it had been Stormlanders who failed. They had handed Dorne a victory he could not abide, could not forgive.

But her mention of Summerhall brought a sudden, sharp silence from him, and for just a moment he faltered visibly, his posture stiffening in the saddle. Summerhall. It still haunted him, that sunlit sanctuary Daenaerys had dangled before them like a consolation prize. Niamh had seen it as freedom, a haven away from the demands of a throne he did not yet sit. But for Jaehaerys, it had been an insult, a gilded cage dressed as a gift. He had wanted King's Landing, the Red Keep—proof that he was meant to rule more than just some crumbling summer ruin always in a state of repair. The bitterness rose fresh in his chest again, hot and stubborn, because the truth was he had loved it too—but pride and resentment had poisoned even those memories.

"Summerhall," he said, the single word a clipped retort, as though she had struck him. He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, scowling at the path ahead. "You mistake my eagerness for duty. I did not flee the Stormlands; I was called back to the capital. A king does not hide in some half-forgotten ruin."

He turned toward her abruptly, irritation clear in the stubborn tilt of his chin, his gaze challenging her defiance. He saw the glower on her face, saw the crossbow she held with such casual skill, and he realized with a fresh jolt of annoyance that she intended to challenge him even here, in the heart of his own hunt.

"Yes," he snapped, his voice sharp and petulant. "Every leaf and branch. Every stag and hare. All mine, and don't you forget it." His lips pressed into a thin line, the childish tantrum burning bright behind his eyes. "If you want the stag, Niamh, you'll have to be quicker than me. And we both know you won't be. It's hunting. Not fishing."

♧

the petulance in his voice cut through her, hot and stinging, sharper than a thorned bramble snaring her cloak which she tugged at momentarily irritated. "you are, the king." niamh's jaw tightened, the corners of her mouth curving downward as her teeth ground together behind closed lips. a king in their lands after they lost. was that all he saw in it? not the strain, not the wound still weeping from the loss of nightsong? just the spoils of a game—his, always his, no matter whose blood had wet the earth to win or lose it.

she could have throttled him then and there, as he barely bothered to even look at her - like she was a bothersome insect, something buzzing near his ear while he hunted his precious stag. his. the word clanged in her skull, mocking. it took all of her strength not to bite back with something sharp and unforgivable. she would have once—before the crown, before the weight of it, before she had learned what it meant to be a queen instead of a girl who spat fire because it was all she had. but gods, how she wanted to. her fingers curled tightly around the hunting crossbow resting at her side, the smooth, polished wood biting into her palm. the stag may be his, in his mind at least, but she would see the arrow loosed by her own hand.

it was decided - she would take the shot from him, if she could. the thought stewed in her, bitter and childish. she straightened her back and set her gaze forward, her chin lifting defiantly. "they lost?" she asked, her eyes blinking in his direction, fiery locks briefly coming into contact with her lips in the wind as she pushed it aside. "did they really lose you nightsong?" her voice feigned confusion, and yet, she she was confused. how was it their fault? they were one realm.

"you know, i don't think i was expecting your eager return, considering you were happy to leave the stormlands." summerhall, was her true home in this realm. the thought surfaced unbidden, as if conjured by her own treacherous tongue. for a heartbeat, the woods fell away—the tangled roots and shadowed trunks dissolving into sunlit gardens, the scent of wild roses heavy in the summer air. they had lived there in those two years of uneasy peace, when daenaerys had gifted the old, sun-drenched palace to jaehaerys in a gesture of trust, of love.

the only year that felt like it had belonged to them, untouched by the weight of crowns or the cloying whispers of courtiers. a castle of their own—his home, her home—uncomplicated by the pretensions of court or the bitter ache of conquest. but it had not been enough. it was never enough. the memory soured as quickly as it came, curling inward like a leaf scorched by fire. summerhall was a gift—a sanctuary from the politics of king's landing, a chance for them to live as they were before the crown. but jaehaerys had seen insult in it. insult that he had not been given the red keep, insult that his cousin had not seen him fit to rule beyond the confines of that crumbling summer palace. he had looked at summerhall and seen a cage.

and here they were, in a forest that did not welcome them, chasing a stag that would not be caught, each step sinking further into the mire of what had been left behind.

her fingers toyed with the crossbow string, testing its pull, imagining the taut release of it, the whistle of a bolt through the still air. she listened to him continue, and sucked the air in her cheeks as they momentarily hollowed as he spoke of being king. of it being his. all his. "right, then," she muttered under her breath, half to herself, half to the whispering woods. "all yours, of course. every bloody leaf and branch." her mare shifted beneath her, restless, the weight of the moment hanging heavy between them. when jaehaerys looked at her again, brief and impatient, she did not bother to hide the irritated glower etched into her face. she had never been good at hiding herself—her heart had always been a wild, untamed thing, worn on her sleeve whether she willed it or not. the urge to defy him prickled through her veins, hot and insistent.

if it was his, then he ought to catch it first.

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys barely heard Niamh as she spoke, her quiet words buzzing at the edge of his awareness like the distant murmur of bees. His gaze remained fixed upon the tangled forest, violet eyes flickering between shadowed trunks, searching eagerly for any hint of white fur or the flash of antlers. The stag. That was all that truly mattered right now. Not the politics, not the hurt pride of the Stormlands—only the chase and the thrill of finally capturing something elusive, something he had begun to suspect might be beyond his grasp.

"I'm sure they would rather I hunt here," he replied absently, his voice edged with a distracted petulance. "A king in their lands after they lost." He didn't even glance at her, the words leaving him sharply, his jaw tightening slightly. The Dornish victory at Nightsong still rankled. He blamed the Stormlords for their failures, resented them for their wounded pride and bitter murmurs—but even these frustrations faded beneath his obsession with the stag.

His grip tightened on the reins as he leaned forward, scanning deeper into the woods, his words growing sharper, more childish in their certainty. "I am the king," he stated flatly, as though it settled every question, every doubt. "The woods are mine. Here. The Crownlands. If there were woods on the Steps, then I would own those as well." His voice lowered, almost a growl of defiance, "Therefore, it is my stag. Mine."

Finally, he looked toward Niamh, though his attention still wavered, half caught in the whispering shadows beyond. "We are hunting, not worrying about salt in their wounds," he declared impatiently. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of the brat prince surfacing plainly now, raw and reckless beneath the royal poise. "They are of salt and sea. It only stings so much."

He turned away again, quickly, dismissively, as if to banish the irritations that clung to him like burrs. A king should not have his fun spoiled by petty grievances or concerns. A king should chase his stag and catch it, and let others lick their wounds.

who: @jaehaerysiitargaryen when and where: the kingswood, the hunting party of king jaehaerys targaryen continues to hunt for the white stag after hearing reported rumours of sightings since the end of the dornish war.

the scent of damp earth clung to the air, thick with pine and the musk of the hounds. the kingswood stretched endlessly before them, gnarled branches weaving a canopy overhead, the thinning winter light spilling through in fractured gold. niamh’s breath curled in the crisp air, and she adjusted her grip on the reins, feeling the warmth of her mare’s body beneath her gloved hands. her navy hunting cloak, too large for her frame, draped heavily over her shoulders, the hem dusted with dried leaves and mud. her flame-coloured hair spilled freely down her back, the copper strands catching glimmers of light as she turned her head.

it was a strange thing, being here. the stormlands were restless. in truth, they had been restless for some time, and their presence here did nothing to soothe that wound. the loss of nightsong to dorne was not something the stormlords would forget, nor forgive, and there was a keen awareness of that in the way the forests hummed with quiet. the stag had been seen—whispers of it had reached jaehaerys' ears, stirring this chase into motion. niamh, too, had felt the pull of it, for the hunt had always been a comfort to her, but she could not shake the unease.

she turned slightly in her saddle, gaze slipping over the party behind them, the glint of steel, the flashes of silver-threaded cloaks, the steady beat of hooves against the soft ground. the king led them, as he always did, and she followed, as she always must. still, she did not bite her tongue when doubt bloomed in her chest. she leaned in, the scent of his leather jerkin mixing with the clean, sharp air.

"you must know how they will see this," she murmured, her voice low enough to be lost beneath the baying of the hounds. "riding through their woods, with banners raised high, your hounds snapping at the heels of a beast they may think is theirs to hunt. there is not a stormlander alive who will think this anything other than a show of force." she did not say you, for it would do little good, but the weight of it hung between them all the same. the stormlands had fought for their cause, had knelt when they had been told to kneel, and in the end, dorne had still torn a piece from them. for all their might, for all their valyrian fire, the new valyrians had lost.

her gloved fingers curled against the reins as she exhaled. "...nightsong is not even cold, are you sure it is a good idea to be here? she did not say you, for it would do little good, but the weight of it hung between them all the same. the stormlands had fought for their cause, had knelt when they had been told to kneel, and in the end, dorne had still torn a piece from them. for all their might, for all their valyrian fire, the new valyrians had lost. she tilted her head, studying him in the dimming light, the sharp cut of his profile, the unwavering confidence in his bearing. there was something about jaehaerys that was not so different from the stag—proud, untamed, forever chased.

she wondered if he ever saw himself in the hunt. hunted, but never caught. always running. her fingers found the bow strapped to her back, the worn wood smooth beneath her touch. she had always been a keen hunter. the chase did not frighten her, nor did the kill. but there was something uneasy about this pursuit, something that coiled in her belly and made her grip the reins tighter.

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys felt his jaw tighten as Aemma spoke, her words sharp and insolent beneath their forced sweetness. It was infuriating how easily she could provoke him, digging beneath his carefully constructed veneer to the raw anger that simmered just below the surface. The king’s eyes narrowed, a flash of the Brat Prince resurfacing—petulant, dangerous, a boy whose tantrums once made the Red Keep tremble.

“Repulsive?” he repeated, voice dropping low, cold amusement cutting through the air like ice. “No, cousin, that is not quite the word. Tiresome, perhaps. Arrogant, certainly. But repulsive? You flatter yourself.” His tone was smooth but beneath it surged the hot fury of a man clinging to control, his fingers flexing involuntarily as though grasping for something intangible.

He stepped closer, violet eyes gleaming with a flicker of volatile irritation. “Hospitality is precisely what you’ll receive. Every comfort, every luxury you can dream of—save one.” He smiled coldly, cruelly, and for a moment he was no longer the king but a brat prince who had once delighted in petty torments. “Your freedom to choose."

Even as he spoke, he could feel it—control slipping through his fingers like sand, the loss of Silverwing an aching void within him. Without her, he was vulnerable, mortal; without her, he was no different from the others who mocked him behind closed doors. His dragon was gone, yet the kingdom still looked to him to be strong.

Jaehaerys drew back, fingers twitching as he clasped his hands behind him, forcing calm into his voice even as his temper spiraled. “And do try not to embarrass yourself or the crown further. Remember, your name alone does not earn you respect here—it is my goodwill that allows you even this.” She had done in truth and yet, it was easy to lash out at those he knew best.

when aemma was no more than five years of age she had learnt a very valuable lesson. that there were two ways in which to get someone to do what you want, one would be to use kindness and sweet words. appeal to either ones heart or their ego. the other was piss them off so much that they eventually acquiesced. for a five year old princess that meant crying and screaming at the top of her lungs until someone listened. at her age though of twenty and seven getting day drunk and using thinly veiled insults were more than enough.

aemma unlike her mother had not feared her duty as a prominent member of their house, rearing children having a family was something she had longed for, for at least a decade. aemma missed her mother, she missed her father and brothers and sisters. aemma missed the sounds of laughter and bickering off of stone walls. missed meals with family that had more than two people at the table. and so in a strange and private way she was truly sorry that jaehaerys lost his grandmother as vile and whorish as she was.

jaehaerys was at least in the opinion of aemma was as predictable as he was a poor king, which would be to say incredibly so. he forbids her travel, fine, she as eldest living daughter of the true heir of the iron throne, of westeros should be in king's landing. aemma trusted baelon implicitly and knew that he would take care of dragon's stone with or without her support. if anything this was an opportunity for aemma to make the presence of the true heirs felt. and it was an opportunity to further annoy her cousin which brought her great pleasure.

"your will is my duty your grace. i shall do all that i can to find a lord husband. and while you my lord may find me repulsive i promise you that is not a problem for other men. i look forward to seeing what your hospitality looks like until we are able to find a suitable match."

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys had seen that look before. Once, long ago, across a grand table where power and pretense were served alongside roasted meats and Dornish wine. He had been a boy, young but not blind, when his mother’s face had betrayed her. Just for a moment—distress flickering in her eyes, a silent plea for help in a room full of people who would offer none. His father had sat at the head of the table, slurring between bites of overcooked venison, while his grandmother steepled her fingers, watching, always watching. The Lord Commander had been silent, his expression carved from stone, and Jaehaerys had gripped his fork, calculating.

He had thought, even then, of the quickest way across the table, of how he could move like a shadow, climb like a cat, and bury the silver prongs of his utensil into his father’s throat before anyone could stop him. The thought had burned bright and real in his mind, a child's quiet rebellion against a world that had forced him to watch. But before he could move, a heavy hand had landed on his shoulder. His grandfather’s voice had boomed, sharp and unyielding, and the tension had vanished, snuffed out like a candle. The table had carried on. No one there to touch his shoulder now.

The memory passed like a phantom, leaving behind only the weight of his own silence.

For a fleeting moment, if one were watching closely, they would have seen the king falter. His expression did not change, nor did his stance waver, but there—beneath the firelight’s flicker—was a pause. Barely a breath. A crack in the iron. He had called her Nervous Nellie as a boy, laughed at the way she flinched at shadows, at her quietness. But now, looking at her, he could see through the glass dragon, through the thin layer of dignity she held onto so desperately. He saw what lay beneath, and he did not enjoy the way it felt.

And in that feeling of guilt, he felt anger.

"Stand up," he ordered, his voice carrying through the hall, sharp as Valyrian steel. "You are a Valyrian."

Jaehaerys straightened as she rose, his gaze locked onto her, unyielding. There was no softness in his expression, only command. "Do not let it happen again," he continued, each word measured, deliberate. "Times have changed since your going. Catch on."

¿

naelys’s throat felt dry, as though dust had coated her tongue. the command echoed in her skull—speak with conviction, or do not speak at all—and yet her voice withered before it could form, leaving only a fragile silence hanging between them. the stone beneath her knees bit deeper, cold seeping through silk and skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat rising behind her eyes, the desperate sting of tears she could not let fall. not here. not now.

she wanted to speak—to say something—but every word dissolved before it reached her lips, slipping through the haze of humiliation that clouded her thoughts. the weight of the hall pressed upon her, the air thick with expectation, the shuffle of boots on stone, the rasp of someone clearing their throat—all of them watching. the rush of blood pounded in her ears, so loud it drowned even jaehaerys’s voice for a moment, leaving only the hollow roar of her mortification. she dared a glance upwards, just for a heartbeat, her lashes damp as they lifted. his face was there—so close, too close—every line of it sharp and sure, nothing like the boy who had once teased her in the shadowed corners of driftmark’s gardens.

and yet, the smirk lingered. she could feel it, like a blade dragged lightly over skin. he wants me to break, she thought wildly. he’s waiting for it. “i…” the word caught, thin and useless. her throat ached with it. his eyes were still on her, heavy as iron. the throne room blurred at the edges, her shame so fierce it made her dizzy. if only he would turn away, step back—anything—but he stood, still and steady, waiting. her hands curled into fists at her sides, trembling against the velvet folds of her gown. she swallowed, hard, forcing down the knot lodged in her throat.

“i see the king,” she whispered, though the words felt hollow, drifting into the vastness of the hall. it were different to what she had said just some moments ago, and whether that was intentional was something even she did not know as the words came from the tip of her tongue the way the shores were never able to push away the embrace of the ocean. not her king. the king.

it was the best she could give him. and yet, even as they left her mouth, she hated them—how thin they sounded, how brittle. it felt as though she could feel the gaze of all those who had died for the claim of rhaenyra staring at her with those same eyes of disappointment, if she looked up she was sure she would see them stood in the hallowed halls of the red keep. she could not look at him anymore. her gaze broke away, falling to the gleam of his boots, to the cold stone, to anywhere but the face above her. the pressure in her chest swelled—she would shatter if he didn’t leave soon.

please, she begged inwardly, the word burning behind her teeth. just dismiss me. or walk away from me, even if it is in front of everyone.

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys watched his friend as he spoke, the firelight catching in Morgan’s eyes, turning them gold in the dim chamber. The words settled between them, heavy but honest. Morgan had never been one to embellish or flatter—his words always carried purpose, and that, more than anything, made Jaehaerys listen.

A slow breath left him, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “You have never been one to waste words,” he said, his voice quieter now, the edge of frustration dulling in the face of Morgan’s steadiness. “I have always valued that about you.”

His fingers loosened around the goblet, though he did not drink. Instead, he let his gaze drift, as if weighing what had been said. He knew the truth of Morgan’s words. The Stormlords were proud, stubborn men, and they would not be led like sheep. But he was not asking them to be sheep.

“I have never meant to drown them out,” Jaehaerys admitted, finally meeting Morgan’s gaze again. “Nor do I intend to now. But ruling is not a matter of listening alone—it is action, it is foresight. It is making the choices others will not.” His lips pressed together for a moment before he continued. “And there are many voices now, Morgan. You know that as well as I do. They speak of coin, of alliances, of what must be done to keep this realm from falling into the ruin my grandfather fought to prevent.”

His expression shifted then, something more familiar, something softer—though only for a breath. “But I have never forgotten who stood at my side when I had nothing but a claim and a sword.” He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “And I was always better with the sword than the claim.”

He let the moment settle, let the flicker of warmth remain before his voice turned steady once more. “I will not let them drown you out, Morgan. Or your men. The Stormlands have always been my shield, and I will not let them rust.”

A pause. A flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “But tell me, then. What would you have me do?”

morgan leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on the worn oak table between them. the fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across jaehaerys’s face—the face of a king now, but still the boy morgan had once raced through the stormlands with, drenched from summer rains.

he saw the tension in Jae’s jaw, the grip tightening on the goblet. he understood it. perhaps better than most. the weight of leadership, perhaps even one that was unexpected, was a burden few could truly comprehend. but morgan was not here to test him. he had never needed to.

“i’ve never doubted you,” morgan said, his tone low but steady, measured like the man himself. his eyes found his friend's, and there was no wavering in his gaze. “not when we were boys chasing each other through the mud, and not now when you wear that crown. i believe in you. i always have.”

the warmth in his words was subtle, but it was there—an anchor amidst the storm. still, his fingers tapped lightly against the wood, a thoughtful rhythm betraying his inner calculation.

“but belief isn’t enough. not for them.” he tilted his head, meaning the stormlords who whispered behind closed doors, their frustrations simmering just beneath the surface. “they need to know their voices are not drowned out beneath this crown's weight. they are proud men—hard men—and they do not ask for much beyond being heard.”

he paused, his dropping briefly to the flickering flames before returning to his king. “there are those in your halls now… voices eager to shape your rule. that is their nature. but ours—ours has always been to hold the line when storms rage. do not let their words drown ours.”

morgan sat back, his point made, his loyalty plain. “that is all i ask.”

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys’ laughter came soft but genuine, a fleeting thing that barely had the chance to settle before fading into the quiet hum of the room. “Gregor the Fish,” he repeated, shaking his head with a wry smirk. “I remember him now. Gods, I can still see the look on his face—like he was weighing whether to actually take the foot off or just die of shame right then and there.”

The memory sat warm in his chest, cutting through the weight that so often bore down on his shoulders. That night, that break in the fighting, had been a rare thing—a stolen moment of something simple, something almost good. Jaehaerys had held onto it longer than he cared to admit, turning it over in his mind on the darker days. The war had taken so much, carved men into things they were never meant to be. But for a few hours, when they were still boys kicking a ball in the frost and laughing over bad rations, none of it had mattered.

His gaze drifted to Ben, lingering for a beat as the warmth in his expression softened into something quieter. “It’s good to see you too,” he said, his voice lacking its usual weight of duty. “Whole. That’s not something to take for granted these days.”

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “And you’re right—we are in the same colors now. Though I’d argue you wear them better.” He gestured vaguely to the elaborate embroidery of his own tunic, red dragons twisting over black silk. “I’ve got half a kingdom that thinks I should be dripping in rubies to remind them what I am. But I think they’d listen just as well if I was wearing your old jerkin.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was brief, his amusement giving way to something more pensive. “I used to wonder, you know. What it would’ve been like if we’d been on the same side back then.” His fingers drummed idly against the arm of his chair. “Maybe we wouldn’t have lost so many.”

a smile crossed ben's face as he slid into the seat jaehaerys offered, his posture betraying an ease that did not align with the years and titles that separated them from their last meeting. his casualness was not deliberate - it just was, as though they were both still the boys they had been, and not the men they had become. he leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting upon his knees. it was strange - he could not remember the names of all the men he had ridden into battle beside, nor where half of the skirmishes took place. he did not know the names of most of the men whose lives he had taken, nor those who had swung a sword at him and missed. but the night he spent in jaehaerys' company, he remembered all too clearly. he would remember playing together, as though they were boys with little else in the world to worry about. he could recall sharing rations, and swapping stories, and talking into the night, and the kinship he had felt with a boy only a few years older than him, that was supposed to have been his enemy.

"we're in the same colours now," ben offered, gesturing to his own clothing, a simple black leather jerkin with stitching in red. he'd never noticed before how the colours of the blackwood sigil and the targaryen's were so similar. he had wondered, all those years ago whilst they kicked a ball between the two of them, how different things would be if they were on the same side. now the war was a memory, ben's feelings about it a complicated blur he tried not to think about. "and we're family now, besides." he spoke of jaehaerys' wife, ben's own cousin.

the reminder of the nets had him laughing, a warm, genuine sound. "gods, i'd almost forgotten them," he was clicking his fingers, searching for a name, and when he recalled it, he pointed. "gregor the fish." he exclaimed. "one of the tully's men. got his foot stuck and thrashed around so much the rope went tight. was stood there hollering that if we didn't free him, he'd have to take the foot off. and one of your lot just looked at him, and quick as anything handed him a knife and told him to get on with it. that soon shut gregor up."

his chuckles died out, and he fell quiet for a moment, his smile morphing into something softer. "it's good to see you like this," he said. "alive. whole. too many of those men from that night can't say the same, but i'm glad you're not one of them." he looked younger than his years then, more like the boy jaehaerys had once known for only a night.

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys regarded Wylliam in silence, his violet eyes searching the face of the man he had chosen to stand beside him in rule. He did not doubt Wylliam’s sincerity—nor his ability. That was why he was Hand of the King. A man who could walk through fire and still find his footing. But this? This felt like the Stormlords wanting their hands held when they had done nothing to earn such grace.

The king exhaled through his nose, a flicker of irritation tightening his jaw. “Prove it,” he said finally, his voice low but firm. “I want my keep back.”

Nightsong. It burned in his mind like an open wound, the seat of House Caron now clutched in Ryon Wyl’s fist. A stolen prize left unchecked while the Stormlords cried about taxes.

He took a step closer to Wylliam, studying the man, weighing his request. “Collect your data. Show me the numbers. I will not be swayed by whispers or weary hearts—I want something in writing.” His tone sharpened, but there was no true anger in it. “If the weight is too great, as you claim, then give me the proof. Not pleas. Not assumptions. Truth.”

Jaehaerys turned slightly, his gaze drifting toward the painted window before settling once more on his Hand. “You have leave, Wylliam,” he granted, his voice quieter now. “But understand this—our enemies watch, and they wait. I will not cripple the realm’s strength because the lords of the Stormlands do not wish to bear it. If you bring me something real, I will listen.”

A pause, then something almost softer—almost. “Do not fail me.”

➳

the king’s words stung, sharp as the edges of the iron throne behind him, but wylliam swann stood his ground. it were not as though he could show the inward swirl that was beginning inside of him; the confusion, whether his words were actually coming across as he intended - or did jaehaerys simply not see it? the room felt colder now, the firelight casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to close in around him. he adjusted his spectacles, an automatic gesture as he organised his thoughts, pushing past the anxiety that clawed at the edges of his mind. jaehaerys was a king who demanded composure, even under the weight of his gaze.

“your grace,” wylliam began, his voice steady but quieter now, deliberate in its restraint. he knew he could sound stubborn, too passionate about these things; and this was not norbie, or morgan, or any other individual he would happily speak flippantly to. he couldn't, for it would only serve to disadvantage them. all of them. “i do not question your gratitude. nor would i ever presume to diminish the stormlands’ duty to the crown. they are your backbone, as you say, and it’s for that very reason i speak now.” his gaze flickered to the iron throne for the briefest moment before returning to jaehaerys.

“but a backbone, no matter how strong, will crack if the weight upon it grows too great.”

he paused, studying the king’s face for any trace of receptiveness. there was none. wylliam’s chest tightened, but he pressed on. he knew what mattered: data, statistics; it was not opinion that would be enough to sway. he needed hard evidence, he needed the facts. “give me time, your grace. let me collect the data—show you the numbers, the trade figures, the dwindling yields from their ports. allow me to leave court for a time and investigate. let us not act on grumblings or assumptions, but on cold, hard truths. because i fear... no, i am sure that this tax is not achieving what lord celtigar claims. it is not strengthening the realm. it is weakening it.”

he stopped, his words hanging in the air, though he dared not look away from jaehaerys. "if you would give me leave to prove it."

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys regarded Ben with a thoughtful gaze, though the faintest glimmer of something softer flickered in his violet eyes. At Ben’s words, his lips curved into a subtle smile, an expression that felt almost foreign amidst the weight of rulership. “A shared habit, it would seem,” he said, his voice carrying a tone more reflective than regal. He paused, his thoughts drifting back to the days of the Dance. War had carved its marks into him, even at sixteen, and the memories lingered like old wounds. He remembered the late Baratheon lord—his blade so close it could’ve ended him—and the Riverlord’s knife piercing his side during that cursed night attack some time after Yule. If not for his guards, his story would’ve ended there in the mud of his fancy tent.

He exhaled, pushing those thoughts aside, focusing instead on Ben. “You don’t forget some things,” Jaehaerys admitted, his tone lighter now, as memories not so bitter began to surface. He remembered their armies stopping for the night, boys kicking a ball around while their commanders argued over maps and the freshly bled boys who told the horror stories of dragons and bragged of women they bedded. He recalled the shared rations of salt pork and hard bread, the way Ben’s laughter had broken through the cold when someone cheated at cyvasse. A strange, fleeting camaraderie born out of the hardest of circumstances.

His gaze shifted to the chair beside him, and he gestured toward it. “Sit with me,” he invited, lowering himself into his own seat with a grace that belied the weight of his black-and-red finery. The air felt easier here, away from the suffocating halls of stone and the endless expectations of the feast.

Jaehaerys leaned back slightly, the tension that often gripped his shoulders easing just a touch. “Do you remember the nets the men set up?” he asked, a faint grin pulling at his lips. “They called it a trap for stags, but I swear all it ever caught were boots and tempers. I think I spent more time helping men out of them than I did sleeping that night.” For a moment, Jaehaerys allowed himself to forget crowns and kingdoms, letting the past breathe in the present.

the nights at war tended to bleed together. often, ben found it hard to place what happened when he was twelve, and what happened when he was eight and ten, the years little more than a jumble interspersed with violence. it was difficult to order his memories, though there was some things that stuck out more than others.

a cold yule night, a chance encounter with a boy who was almost like him, but who bore banners of green instead of black. a night of conversation, an understanding that neither had seemed to find elsewhere, and ben didn't truly know if he had ever truly felt since. it was one of the rare exceptions that ben could place perfectly, the memory sharp within his mind.

and now jaehaerys targaryen stood before him, more lines on his face, older and taller and broader in the shoulder, but for ben, it was as though no time had passed at all.

ben paused mid-step, the soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots the only sound between them. there was, in the distance, a faint hum, the sounds of the feast drifting on the night's air, but to ben, it may as well have been another world. for a moment, ben looked uncertain - but then, jaehaerys spoke, his voice full of warmth ben did not expect, and his easy, boyish grin broke out across his face.

he bowed then, an acknowledgement to the position jaehaerys now found himself in. "surviving is a habit of mine, your highness," he replied, his tone light enough that it passed as a joke, though it held the edge of something quieter, and more reflective, beneath it. his dark eyes drifted over jaehaerys, taking in the finery that marked him as more than the boy ben remembered, replaced the battlefield steel he had worn last they met. ben had fought for rhaenyra targaryen. jaehaerys' crown was all he had given up his childhood to prevent. and yet, there was no stirrings of bitterness within him. "i see you've done more than survive," he said, and it was clear by the sincerity in his tone that he was glad of it.

"i wasn't sure you'd remember me," ben admitted after a pause. "thought a crown might be enough to forget the face of a boy in the snow." he wouldn't have taken it to heart if it had been the case - but jaehaerys hadn't forgotten. the night on the battlefield was a memory neither of them had let go of, it seemed.

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

A PLOT UPDATE

Jaehaerys demanded to marry Princess Guinevere Lannister, but the Prince of the Westerlands, Arron Lannister, intervened to prevent this union. Arron made it clear to Tyland Lannister, the King of the Westerlands, that allowing such a marriage was out of the question. In exchange for ensuring that Guinevere would not marry Jaehaerys, Arron promised to comply with whatever Tyland desired in all other matters. As a result, no marriage alliance between New Valyria and the Westerlands ever took place.

Queen Daenaerys accepted a significant loan from the Westerlands, which Jaehaerys is now burdened with repaying as king.

During Jaehaerys’s time as a prince, Queen Daenaerys forced him to marry Niamh Tully, a princess of the Riverlands, as a deliberate slight. The match was intended to embarrass Jaehaerys, as the Tullys had fought against his side during the Dance of the Dragons, and he considered himself above the Riverlands. The irony of this marriage was heightened by the fact that Jaehaerys had burned parts of the Riverlands during the war.

The treasonous plot of Maximus and Cella now focuses on their attempt to poison Jaehaerys after he seized the throne from Daenaerys. The finer details of this scheme are still being developed.

Lastly, the deets of the former alliance between New Valyria and the Westerlands, including its terms and eventual collapse, are also in the process of being reworked and threaded.

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys’s gaze never wavered as Rhaegar spoke, the rawness of his words settling in the space between them. There was something almost unsettling in the openness, a vulnerability that Rhaegar had never shown before. Jaehaerys recognized it for what it was: a calculated surrender. Rhaegar had laid himself bare, and while the king appreciated the honesty, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something darker stir within him.

A weapon, Rhaegar had said. A weapon who could make his enemies vanish, and Jaehaerys felt the edge of that promise touch him, but he did not allow the weight of it to stop him from speaking his mind. He leaned forward slightly, his voice colder than it had been moments before. “You’ve told me your power, Rhaegar. But power is not enough, not by itself. You must prove it. Prove that you are not simply a shadow, but the blade that will cut through our enemies. Make them think the demons have come.”

There was no target to name, no mission to assign yet. Not yet. The madness that consumed him demanded that he test this, that he push Rhaegar to prove himself, not just with words, but with actions. “The shadows can hide many things, cousin,” Jaehaerys continued, his voice now more deliberate, “but they can also betray you. Be the shadow that can never be seen, or risk being forgotten altogether.”

Rhaegar would understand—this was not just a test of skill, but a test of loyalty. The king was pushing him, but it was all for the larger game.

Rhaegar stood in silence for a moment, his heart hammering in his chest. Jaehaerys’s words hit harder than he expected. There was an edge to them, a sharpened suspicion that threatened to unravel the carefully constructed walls Rhaegar had built around himself. His cousin’s impatience, his need for clarity, was a challenge Rhaegar had expected, but not quite anticipated.

He knew Jaehaerys well enough to understand the weight of that command: Say it plainly. The very words themselves felt like a demand to expose the raw truth, to strip away the shadows Rhaegar had become so accustomed to hiding behind.

And yet, he found himself struggling with the simplicity of it. Say it plainly.

The art of silence had served him for so long. The countless faces he had worn, the men and women whose lives he had inhabited, each one a carefully crafted lie. To undo it now,to let Jaehaerys in, felt like a betrayal of everything Rhaegar had become.

But this was his cousin, and the war demanded it. The need for trust outweighed the weight of secrecy.

Finally, Rhaegar met Jaehaerys’s gaze, his voice low but steady. “I was trained by the Faceless Men, cousin. I became no one. A weapon. The shadows are where I thrive. I can walk in places you cannot, reach people who will never see me coming. And when the time is right…” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I can make them disappear. That is my power.”

The words fell from his lips, raw and real, with no artifice. Now, there was nothing left but truth.

"Name your target. I will prove it."

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys listened carefully as Morgan spoke, his gaze never wavering. The weight of his friends words settled around him like a heavy cloak. Morgan’s voice was firm, as it always had been, but it carried a weight of concern now that Jaehaerys had not heard before. He could feel the underlying tension in the air—both the unspoken frustrations of the Stormlords and the growing distance between them.

“You do not speak out of turn, Morgan,” Jaehaerys began, his voice steady, but with a hint of something deeper, “You’re my brother, and your father welcomed me in his halls as mine did you. You speak with the firmness I expect. A man should not be afraid to speak for his people.”

The words were meant to be reassuring, but they felt distant. There was a part of him that resented the underlying concern, the implication that the Stormlands might not be as loyal as they once were. His hand clenched around the goblet before him, fingers tightening against the rim, though his face remained neutral.

“I know what you’re saying,” he continued, turning his attention back to Morgan, his gaze unwavering. “Perhaps the Stormlands are not holding their weight. Yes, they are my mightiest sword—and still, we need coin.” The words left his mouth with a frustration that could not be masked. “The crown has many mouths to feed, many roads to pave. I cannot simply rely on the will of men who will not see the necessity of what must be done. They will not always see the big picture.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, his mind working through the implications of Morgan’s words. Was Morgan testing him? Did he question his rule now, after everything they had been through? The thought sent a cold wave through him, and for a moment, his face hardened with a flicker of doubt. But he quickly tamped it down, the weight of the crown always forcing him to maintain control.

Jaehaerys let out a slow breath, steadying himself. "I understand your concerns, Morgan. Truly, I do. But you must understand mine as well." His voice softened, though the edge remained. "The weight of this crown is not light, and sometimes it requires decisions that are not popular, but they are necessary."

morgan stood still as jaehaerys spoke, his expression carefully measured, though inwardly, a tangle of thoughts churned. the king’s words struck like flint against steel, igniting a spark of unease. as jaehaerys moved, his silver hair catching the firelight, the image of a friend he once knew was overlaid with the figure of a king who seemed further removed from the lands morgan called home.

“yer grace,” he began, careful to weigh his words, “forgive me if I speak out of turn, but i find myself puzzled by one thing. ye call the stormlands the sword of the crownlands, a place forged for strength and purpose. yet swords, as ye well know, must be tempered, aye, but also cared for—sharpened, polished, rewarded for their service. not burdened until their edge dulls or they break beneath the weight.”

he stepped forward, his boots echoing faintly on the stone floor, though his tone remained composed. “to tax those ye deem yer sword feels less a reward and more a punishment. and while i trust yer wisdom, it’s difficult to see how this serves the cause ye speak of. a sword does not wield itself—it requires the hand of those who believe in the one commanding it. belief, yer grace, is a fragile thing.”

morgan’s fingers brushed absently over the back of a nearby chair, though his focus stayed on the king. “if the stormlords are to carry the weight of this legacy ye envision, surely they deserve more than the burden. something to remind them that their place is beside the crownlands, not beneath them. if they’re the sword, then they must feel it’s an honor, not a penance, to be wielded.”

he paused, the faintest sigh escaping him. “i know the storms of rule are relentless, yer grace, and yer vision spans farther than most. but in this, i ask: what is the use of a sword if its bearer doesn’t trust it will hold in battle? or worse, if it begins to see itself as nothing more than the weight of the hand that wields it?”

morgan straightened, his tone even but resolute. “i don’t stand here to challenge ye, yer grace. i stand here as a friend, hopin’ ye’ll see that the storms ye’re stirrin’ can’t just be weathered. they’ve got to be understood.”

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys leaned back in his chair, the weight of Gaia’s words settling over him like a cloak. His fingers drummed once, twice, against the armrest, the sound faint in the heavy silence of the room. His gaze, piercing and unyielding, remained fixed on her, searching for any trace of doubt or exaggeration in her recounting of the dream. But he found none. He found memories of his mother, the half dreams and tales she would ramble on about.

“A warning,” he echoed, his voice low, measured, yet carrying the faintest edge of irritation. Dreams had a way of intruding where they were least welcome, muddying the waters of clear judgment. Yet he could not deny the gravity of what she had described.

“The seven-pointed star consumed by thorns.” He leaned forward now, his elbows resting on his knees, the full force of his attention locked on her. “You’re no stranger to the Faith’s reach, Aenogaia. The star may be their light, but the thorns… the thorns could mean something else entirely. Growth unchecked. Power spreading where it should not.” House Tyrell. It had to be about the dangers there. Afterall they hide away his mother.

His tone darkened as he spoke of the snakes. “And the snakes. That is no mere symbol of chaos. It is calculated. Purposeful.” His jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of frustration betraying him. “You’ve seen something—or someone—that does not belong in my world as it is.”

He rose from his chair, his long, flowing robes of black and crimson catching the light of the nearby brazier, making him look every bit the dragon of old Valyria. “Tell me this,” he said, his voice commanding yet quieter now, as though the room itself were holding its breath. “Do you believe this warning is meant for me—or for us all?” There were enemies everywhere.

Gaia stepped forward into the room, her movements sharp and decisive, despite the unease gnawing at her insides. Her eyes flicked briefly to Jaehaerys, noting the steely way he watched her, his presence all but consuming the space. He was a man who commanded attention, even in such a simple moment.

He invited her to sit, and she did. Aenogaia hesitated for only a moment, gathering her thoughts. The image from her dream lingered in her mind, twisting and curling like the serpents she had seen, yet she knew she could not allow herself to be rattled in front of him.

“The dream I had,” she began, her voice calm, but with a certain weight to it, “was not one of comfort. It was of darkness, a great hall, stone walls, vast, empty, until a light appeared, sickly, faint. Above it, a statue of a seven-pointed star. As it grew, it was consumed by thorns, spreading like wildfire.”

Gaia’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “Snakes, Your Grace. Snakes crawling through the growth. But they weren’t just crawling. They were climbing, reaching toward the star. There was one, in particular, that locked its eyes on me, its blue eyed gaze cold, deliberate. I knew… it was no ordinary snake. And before the pedestal collapsed, I felt the danger of it.”

Her words fell heavy between them. “I am not entirely sure what it means, but I know it is no small thing.” She met his gaze, her expression unwavering despite the creeping sense of dread still clinging to her. “It’s a warning.”

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

who: @benblvckwood what: an unexpected reunion when: flashback to the gathering in the westerlands. the king of new valyria spots a familiar face. where: gardens outside of a feast

The gardens of Casterly Rock were quieter than Jaehaerys Targaryen had expected. Within the walls of the great keep, the feast roared on, full of laughter, boasts, and the clash of goblets raised in Tyland Lannister’s honor. Yet out here, amidst the cold stone pathways and the fragrant bloom of late-summer roses, the night seemed softer, distant from the clamor of revelry. Jaehaerys had stepped away, a rare moment to himself, his mind turning over matters of war, treaties, and alliances.

Clad in the style of Old Valyria, his crimson and black garments gleamed beneath the moonlight, the embroidery of dragons twisting like fire along his sleeves. The mantle of his station hung heavy on his shoulders, and for a moment, he longed for the simpler days of boyhood when he was not a king but a boy riding a dragon through endless skies.

And then, as he turned a corner near a quiet fountain, he saw him.

The face was older, of course, but unmistakable. Lord Ben Blackwood struck Jaehaerys like a memory made flesh. For a moment, he froze, recalling that Yule night so many years ago. They had been boys then, crossing paths on the battlefield when the world had demanded them to fight. Yet neither had raised a sword. Instead, they had shared a rare understanding, born not of politics but of the innocence both were clinging to amidst a war they did not start.

Now, as the lord of Raventree Hall stood before him, the weight of time pressed heavily between them. Jaehaerys’s lips curled into a faint smile.

“Lord Blackwood,” he said, his voice unusually warm, “it's good to see you survived."

[jaehaerysiitargaryen]

Jaehaerys let out a low, controlled exhale as Rhaegar spoke, his expression unchanging. The words were too smooth, too careful, and his cousin's offer felt like something else entirely—a manipulation of trust wrapped in the guise of loyalty. But he had no reason to mistrust his cousin, some of the only family left in the world he had. He needed to trust him. Desperate for it.

"You were trained to be no one," he repeated, his voice edged with searching. "And yet, you seek to play a role in everything. A blade in the shadows, Rhaegar? I have no need for shadows. I have Silverwing at my command, and if the stormlords are to rise against the Dornish, I will lead them on the front lines."

Jaehaerys’s eyes narrowed slightly, his tone shifting as he leaned forward, hands pressed on the armrests of his throne. The weight of the crown settled heavier on him. “Your power, cousin, is all in your silence, but there is no silence in a war with the Dornish."

His voice softened, as though weighing his words carefully, though the searching had not left his tone. "But," he continued, a reluctant agreement forming in his mind, "if you truly believe you can do this, then prove it. If you want to play this part, you will. Show me how well you can strike unseen, Rhaegar. And then—" Jaehaerys pause briefly, something his grandfather Otto said about no one. "—you’ll see if your shadows can do what dragons cannot."

"No one..." He squinted at the other, was he saying what Jaehaerys thought he was saying?

He sat back in his chair, his gaze never leaving Rhaegar's, "say it plainly. I hate riddles." Well, he hated riddles he couldn't figure out.

Rhaegar felt the weight of Jaehaerys’s gaze, the impatience and curiosity mingling in his cousin’s eyes. He could sense the walls the King had built around himself, the fortress of youth and lineage that had shaped him. The boy was still there, buried beneath the crown, but Rhaegar had learned how to see through the facades—his own expertise in that art came from years spent mastering faces that weren’t his own.

He allowed himself a smile, a quiet flicker of the man he had been before the endless training and unending years of silence. No one was who he had been, but the man standing before Jaehaerys now was someone different. Someone useful.

“I was trained to be no one, Jaehaerys. But there is power in that. No name, no bloodlines, no ties, except those I choose to make. I walk unseen, unheard, and that is what will serve you best in this war.”

He paused, his eyes meeting his cousin’s, holding his gaze with a quiet intensity. “Dragons may soar, but the dragon on the ground… he can strike unseen. I will be your blade in the shadows. Let me show you.”

His words were measured, deliberate, a subtle promise. Jaehaerys had no idea how much weight they carried. Not yet.