Chapter Text
Four of her dragons died the night before the battle that would grant the Queen of Dragonstone her rightful throne. Their vibrant eyes had turned dismay with a lifeless fog, their mouths blue and engorged. 'Poison, your grace, venoms from the old Valyria.'
She fell by their pits, hands fisted in her silver hair and wailing until only desperate whimpers escaped her. Ser Lorent claimed that the queen went mad in her final hours, that she had laughed whilst she drowned herself and two of her sons in flames. The Rogue prince disappeared by the hour of nightangle, taking young Aegon and his eldest daughter with him across the Narrow Sea. Some sailors said he was relieved; some said his eyes were red, but they all agreed that Daemon Targaryen never returned to the seven kingdoms.
Their sweet victory, once so close, was now reduced to ashes as, one by one, small folk came to the castle to see the corpse of the gods.
That was when they found him, the heir that never was, kneeling by the cold skull of his dragon and quivering like a lost babe. At first, they simply watched, before one covered him in a blanket. Jacaerys didn't know the woman's name, but he would forever remember the scent of that raggedy fabric. It would be a long time until someone else showed him any kindness.
Aemond, the regent, fisted his long fingers in Jacaerys' hair. He didn't fight it. He hadn't fought any of it. Behind him was a cradle with all that remained of his little brothers, Viserys and Joffrey: burnt bones and cooked flesh. Jacaerys had no will to breathe, let alone defend himself. "A Strong boy that finally learnt his place,"
He circled Jacaerys, revelling in seeing him broken. That was what he had always craved. The eye was always his excuse to inflict the misery he always felt. And now that he had it, he was not going to stop.
"I must have your head by the gates, but I have decided to forgive you." He declared for all to hear. "My nephew is only a child, and I do not punish children for the crimes of their parents."
Liar. Liar. Liar. Jacaerys would have smirked. Whatever child that could live inside him had died when the bells of Dragonstone had tolled thrice. He was now a ghost.
"But my sister's blood is defiled by greed and vileness, and I see it as my duty to fix it."
Jacaerys didn't listen to him. But there, with his hands behind his back and his head bent, he could see them. The lords who had sworn loyalty to them. They were the ones standing closest to the disgusting piles of swords at the bottom of the bloodthirsty throne. The Freys, the Arryns, the Blackwoods, the Starks. Of course. Those who stood against the usurpers now knelt closest to them to redeem themselves in a pitiful display of compliance.
"The rest of their lot, burn them."
And they did. Jacaerys watched it. One after another, from those close to their mother to the maid who cleaned their tables to the stable boys, they were burnt with Vhagar's fire and fed to the beast, a clear display of the king's power. The dowager queen, the woman who had started it all, watched with her chin held high and the seven-winged star across her chest. She must have been happy to butcher the innocent who had not even spoken to the queen and merely served her for the coin to feed their family.
Three hundred and fifteen were dead.
He waited in his old chambers, conjuring images of Vermax and his frail frame, the coal left of his brother and faces he had seen in the throne room. He shoved optimism and its treacherous roots aside once his thoughts trailed to Daemon and Corlys, for a false hope was the most dangerous venom. He was lost at the mercy of the green dragon and the septons of the devil behind him.
"You must kill me too," was what he first said when Aemond visited him that night. Behind him stood his Otto Hightower, the golden ring of "the hand" rusty against his garment. He had grown old. Months of war wore the print of years upon his skin. It satisfied Jacaerys, and he wished he had a blade to cut through his ribs. If he wished to spill any blood, it would belong to none other than the snake of Old Town and his daughter.
"We found a few dragon eggs in the cellars of Dragon Stone. They need riders once they hatch. They're in good condition. I may not find you pleasant, but you have the blood of the dragon."
"Do as you please. Once I leave this room, I will burn this keep for good,"
Aemond didn't seem phased. He smirked in what could be called delight, his eye flickering with something sinister. "Courageous words for one at my mercy."
"I need not your anything."
"Perhaps not, not for yourself, at least," Aemond told him. "But your brother, perhaps."
Jacaerys knew it was a trap. Daemon had left with his only surviving brother; perhaps he would be the only one to survive the madness of their blood. And Essos was vast. It would take years for anyone to find them if they were clever enough to avoid anyone.
"My men have found him with my uncle, seeking shelter in one of the more reasonable Dothraki tribes. Perhaps that was their mistake; in the end, all savages are savages."
With that, he threw a toy at his feet. In the dim light of the fireplace, it could be difficult for anyone else to see it, but Jacaerys could recognise the maroon woodwork anywhere. Once upon a time, it had belonged to him and Lucerys. They had given them to their younger brothers, a token from their happy times and a promise of the future.
Jacaerys' hands trembled as he held it. It was indeed little Aegon's. One of the wings had the letters 'L+J' recklessly curved under it. It was his handwriting.
After days of stopping at bay, his tears finally threatened to fall.
He had been foolish to believe he would have a part of his family left. It was only him; what was left of the great black council was a lonely bastard with his brother's wooden toy to keep him company. He prevailed over the sobs with the last threads of will, not wishing to give Aemond anything.
"I have decided to spare his life. He will be moved to Old Town and put into the custody of my younger brother. But of course, that is if you don't disappoint me."
He thought of his mother. On a windy day, the rightful queen stood by the balconies, plotting the fall of Crown Lands. They had held each other after he learnt of his brother's death. They had argued, and his words had been harsh, like a petulant child. He had disappointed his mother gravely in her last days. She had disappointed him.
"What do you want?"
"Could it be true?" Was all that Aemond asked him. "What they said about that bastard in the brothels of Silk Street?"
"My king--" the old snake tried, but Aemond raised his hands, eyes only trained on him. He was reading him with undivided attention, ready to mark the first sign of lies.
Jacaerys knew what he was talking about. He had been but a child when the words had first reached him. At the time, slight rumours had whispered behind closed doors, merely more insults to him and his brother. It wasn't until he had held little Joffrey that words became more than that. He started to look, and there were plenty of squires who were reckless enough to leave the door open while they changed. He had looked, and he wished he never had.
"Is it?"
He nodded.
Aemond's lips twitched. "And are you one?"
There it was. The question was finally asked. The string of words had formed many tunes in his head. Who would first tell him this, how they would do it, how their eyes would look once he was truthful?
Many mouths had said the words but never by Aemond. Not him, of all people. He didn't deserve to know this.
"All those years in the Red Keep, endless sea of maids and serving boys and the prince of Dragonstone still held his innocence. No one spoke of your prowess or claimed to bear your bastards," he concluded. "Of course you are."
And he didn't deny him. He could deny and demand an apology, but nothing would change the reality about him and the curse gods had given him. He had the burden of all miseries upon his fate; this would only be another.
"Are you satisfied now that you can mock me for one more thing?"
"I am not my brother. I would not mock what could be useful."
That nauseated him, and he dared to look at his uncle again. This time, though, his gaze was truly one of terror. Useful, like a thing, an object, a property to be sold. And many would pay for it--would they not? The Targaryen prince with a cunt. When they had caught that boy-- silver hair and pale, whoring himself to the nobles for an unforgettable experience, nobody had believed it to be true. He had asked his maester and the old man had given him the most sincere answer he could. "Blood magic is prohibited for a reason, your grace. It can leave all sorts of blessings, but a curse can come with it nevertheless."
A curse. That was the first word someone had used to describe it, and he had not found any other to replace it.
"I am sending you North. I've heard you managed to tame the Northerner Wolf. Winter is coming, and I would like to keep him tame and obedient."
"He is my friend."
"He didn't protest once I bared you of your name. I doubt he will cause any trouble once I give you his."
What?
"No." Jacaerys raised his voice. The toy dropped from his grip, and his body filled with a new sort of emotion. Gods be good, he would rather die. This was beyond humiliation. 'Jacaerys Rivers', after a lifetime of being called the Strong boy stung. And Rivers they called him, not Waters, because Harwin Strong was from Riberlands. Another humiliation but it was expected of Aemond and his mother. He was still defeated, exiled and chained in the enemy's house.
But this-- they couldn't do this to him. He refused. He would not be the talk of the realm; he would not be the second 'Silk boy'.
"You can not do this,"
"It's already arranged. I had my suspicions and I was proven right. I'll have you know that your 'friend' was not unenthusiastic." Aemond's voice was vicious, so it was unlike his neutral face. Behind him, Otto Hightower smiled.
"They will sneer at us, uncle. They will mock us; no one would ever treat us with any sort of respect."
"Your mother was a whore, in fact a well-known to the realm, yet she still managed to build herself a crown,"
Jacaerys didn't even have it in him to be spiteful. He wouldn't-- he wouldn't. "No, Aemond, please, do not do this."
But his uncle left. It was only after his footsteps no longer echoed in the halls that Jacaerys felt his cheek damp with the first tear. He couldn't stop them after that.
Alicent visited him days after. Her demure façade nothing but a thin veil to cover her ecstatic mood. The dowager queen was accompanied by her own hound; Criston Cole eyed him like he was a piece of meat. They knew then.
"Your brother sent you this," she handed him a drawing. The colours were vibrant and warm, like their last days together at Dragon Stone. Jacaerys held it close to his chest, an invisible wound tearing at his heart. "I've spoken with Aemond. He has also decided to forgive your sister, Rheana." If you do as he pleases.
"Send Rhaena North." He found himself reaching to Alicent. Three hundred and fifteen innocent had burnt before her eyes, his dragons poisoned by demands of her son, his brother hidden by her orders. Yet he was asking her to save him. "You are a woman of faith; you know the gods won't approve of this,"
"The gods are understanding. We have all done things we didn't want. You will make a fine consort to Lord Stark and protect this shell of peace to help your brother." Alicent's eyes were void, two sockets empty of all love. "Many noblemen have requested you, but Lord Stark was the only one who accepted to take you under his cloak. I suggest you make him happy, to make the king happy."
Criston Cole wore his smirk when he accompanied the queen outside and when he was sent North. He found this amusing. The many lords had found it amusing and refreshing, an excitable taboo. They had requested him like he was a prized whore.
He thought of his time in North, how lord Stark had treated him like a fellow brother, an equal. Yet he had decided to cloak him like he would take a wife. How a simple night could change the course of their perception of each other. Jacaerys saw him as a craven traitor; he saw the old prince as an original experience. He had heard many times how their man spoke of their women, even their wives, the denigratory words and gestures he had heard repeatedly until they danced around in his mind by the moonlight. He had promised himself if celibacy was the only way to keep his respect, he would do it.
He was to make a 'fine consort' and keep the Warden of the North 'happy' and 'obedient', 'have his name'. What sophisticated ways to ensure that he knew he had to let the young lord fuck him, the lord who had sworn to serve his mother not long ago.
Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin. That was what the maids said about his uncle Aegon when they avoided his gaze to save themselves. He had never expected history to remember his mother as the other side of the coin, the one to share with Aegon and Aemond.
He wouldn't even be remembered as one. He didn't know if that was a relief; he hoped no one would speak of him or his ill fate after the Venomous Night, that they would declare him dead with the rest of their council.
He thought of the same thing as Cregan Stark greeted him once more. This time, he had little anticipation to find the young wolf. He was sold to him for the price of his loyalty, without a name or a family to defend him if Cregan Stark proved to be a cruel lover.
"My prince," he said, gloved hands welcoming him. Instead of a handshake, he received the fingers in his palms. It was the details of his comportment that were different. It was in the way he leaned in to greet him, guided him towards the castle, and opened his doors. Jacaerys loathed it. He was the same man-- he had not changed in a matter of weeks; if anything, he had been hardened by that harsh resolution of the war before it even started.
"My lord, do not do this." He whispered to him as their steps followed the familiar pattern to the Godswood. His last time in the North had been filled with curiosity and edge, yet he was sickly with each step he took towards the face in the tree. "This is not you."
"No, it is not." Cregan Stark replied, hands firm on his forearm while they stood before the red leaves of the willows. The lake reflected who they were, and the wind whispered to Jacaerys who they used to be.
And here he realised, he truly had nobody.